Golem

Tomorrow night is Halloween, and the traditional time for spectres and spooks to venture forth from their graves to indulge in a spot of haunting. Also, I thought it would be a good excuse to have a go at writing a ghostly tale. This writing was inspired by a visit to the old Jewish synagogue and cemetery at Krakow. I thought the cemetery was an eerie place and could imagine what it must feel like to be there on a cold winters night....

Dieter huddled into his greatcoat - another three hours in this god forsaken place. He blew on his fingers and stamped his feet, as flakes of snow drifted down to settle amongst the tombstones of the old Jewish cemetery. He hitched his rifle over his shoulder and lit a cigarette, grateful for the taste of the harsh smoke.

   To the side of the cemetery, the old synagogue stood brooding and silent; he finished his smoke and started his lonely circuit of the burial ground. Just beyond the town, up on the hill, he could see the dark outline of the castle. 'That's where I should be,' he thought miserably, 'drinking schnaps and playing cards in the barracks, not stuck here freezing, with only the dead for company!'

    As if in answer to his thoughts, the small windows of the synagogue were suddenly lit up with a dim flickering light. Dieters heart quickened, the building was locked and secured by orders of Major Schultz, nothing or nobody should be in there. The young soldier unslung his rifle and picked his way through the crumbling gravestones towards the synagogue.

  'Who is there?' his voice echoed mockingly around the cemetery

   The front door was still locked and barred, but a low chanting could be heard within. Dieter raised his rifle butt and thumped hard on the door, the dim light flickered out and the chanting ceased - all was dark and silent.

  'Dieter! Dieter!' an icy voice seemed to whisper in his ear.

   He spun around rifle levelled, 'Who is this - show yourselves!' But there was nothing - just him and the silent stones, he was alone - or was he?

   In the middle of the cemetery was an unmarked mound, and in its dank soil something stirred, wormlike fingers scratched their way to the surface, and like some scrabbling spider, a clay brown hand appeared clutching at the cold earth...

Pick Your Poison

As a teenager, I certainly made some unusual choices of beverage when it came to the demon drink. I think it all started in the New Year of 88, when a mate and I decided to sample the contents of my parents' Christmas drinks cabinet. After sampling the usual 80s seasonal tipples such as Cinzano and Advocaat we decided to mix some novelty cocktails, I forget the actual recipe (if there ever was one) but I'm pretty sure there was a generous dash of Port, probably followed by Malibu and topped off with a 'healthy' slosh of brandy.

   The brandy was the problem - it went down too well; all too soon the brandy level was heading dangerously near the bottom of the bottle. Not wishing to face the wrath of my Dad when he discovered his favourite nightcap had been necked, we wracked our (sozzled) brains for a solution. Obviously buying a bottle of brandy was beyond our limited funds so what could we do? The answer was simple; add a bit of H20 from the kitchen tap and he'll never know. It would have been better if we'd left it alone - at least dad could have salvaged a miniscule measure of brandy; as it was, he was left with an unusual concotion that resembled the contents of a catheter bag.  Dad was not impressed, there were probably some choice phrases such as 'Little sods, what have they done! and the drinks were removed and well hidden.

   At that age, buying booze became something of an art form. Not flushed with cash, the trick was to look in the off-licence for the beverages that packed a punch in alcohol but were also dirt cheap. Naturally, this combination didn't lend itself to quality and included classics such as Thunderbird (the Rolls Royce of rotgut wine) Old Country Cider (popular tipple at bus stations) and QC 'sherry' (not intended to be quaffed in a pint pot).

   I once stumbled across a bygone relic of Dad's brief flirt with wine making. It was a dusty old bottle at the back of a cupboard and labelled 'Beetroot Port 1976'. Back in the 70s, before all the cheap supermarket plonk, many people dabbled in making home made wine (I think Dad's wine production came to an end after an Elderberry creation exploded amongst the white sheets of the airing cupboard). I'm not sure 76 was a vintage year for Beetroot Port but the bottle was subsequently opened and its 12 year old contents drunk by myself and a mate. I dont know what Oz Clarke would have made of it, but it certainly had an 'interesting' bouquet - Bottoms Up!!

Swing Low...

Courtesy of my light sleeping son, I was up with the larks at 5am on Sunday morning. There was nothing for it but to stick the kettle on, make a bacon butty and settle in an armchair to watch some World Cup rugby. The match was Wales verses Fiji - a one sided affair where a strong young Welsh team  ripped into the poor Fijians and banged in try after try to finish with a score of 66-0. I felt a twinge of nostalgia watching the match and thought back to own (albeit very brief) experience of playing rugger.

  At school, I was never much good at football. Unlike many kids my age the 'beautiful game' never interested me and I found myself looking forward to soccer sessions with all the enthusiasm of a Roman slave in the coliseum. Even if you were up for a footie match, the would be Kevin Keegans and Brian Robsons ensured you never got a sniff of the ball. When I moved up to High School things changed - soccer was still there but so was rugby.

 I'm not sure why rugby hooked me so much. Was it the way you could (sometimes) bang a try in over the touchline, and the satisfaction of sending an opposing kid crashing to the mud in a 'crunching tackle' ( as our games teacher gleefully described them)? Or was it that you could admire the collection of bruises you generally aquired after a rugger session? One thing was for certain - I enjoyed playing rugger and for the first time actually looked forward to games lessons. To my long regret I never took my rugby any further at school and stopped playing when I left at sixteen. As part of my OU course I wrote about my school experiences and included a rugby scene as part of the story. Here's an extract from the story featuring that scene. Hope it brings back memories of freezing playing fields for some of you guys.

An icy wind knifed across the playing fields from the direction of the old colliery mound. The group of lads stood huddled at the edge of the pitch, waiting to learn the basics of rugby. I hoped we’d do something soon as my legs had started to turn shivery blue; as blue as the tinged collar of my football shirt, where it’d had been washed on the wrong setting.

    I knew a bit about rugby as I’d seen Bill Beaumont and Gareth Edwards on A Question of Sport; my dad also told me our local vet had played rugby for England. Those guys certainly seemed a different breed to glamorous footballers such as Gary Linacre. The tall, track-suited figure of Mr Jones the games teacher, paced down the line of lads.

  ‘Today we’re going to start practicing some passing and tackling,’ his battered face scanned around for ‘volunteers’. ‘Let’s have Rob and Gavin for starters.’

  It was a pity he hadn’t picked Jamie as his extra size could have been useful. Gavin was like me – a half pint.

  Jones grinned wickedly, ‘Let’s make it interesting. Against Rob and Gavin we’ll have Mick and Jason.’

    I glanced towards Gavin and rolled my eyes as the two heavyweights stepped forward. Mick ‘Tank’ Haines and Jason ‘Chopper’ Everard. Interesting? You sadistic sod Jonesy!

   ‘Rob and Gavin are going to try and get past Mick and Jason and score.’

   Some of the class exchanged grins - this was going to be fun they thought.

    We began a tentative run towards the heavier lads who came out to meet us. Tank Haines moved to intercept Gavin who quickly passed the ball over to me. I made to dodge around Everard and reach the touch line. Nearly - but not quite. Two bear like arms grabbed me and I slammed into the boot-churned pitch.

   ‘Crunching tackle!’ called out Jones from the sideline. ‘Good effort though Rob!’

‘Are you all right?’ Everard held his large paw out to help me up.

 ‘Fine,’ I replied, feeling strangely elated.

   Next came the turn of the other lads, and they lumbered forward with surprising speed. I managed to bring down Everard, just before Haines, living up to his nickname, battered through Gavin’s slender defence.

 ‘Not bad at all lads,’ called out Jones encouragingly.

  The rest of the class were paired off, and we carried on this friendly, albeit slightly rough game of two on two. The final whistle blew - and a couple of titches had held their own and banged in a couple of tries. I was tattooed in mud and sported a potato coloured bruise on my thigh; but as we headed back to the changing rooms I felt contented - I had actually enjoyed a games lesson

Conkers & Pineapple Chunks

I wonder why the year doesn't start in September, as so many different things begin at that time - like school or college terms. I remember as a kid, the endless summer break coming to an end and a new classroom beckoning for a new term.

   At Junior School a regular September fixture was the Harvest Festival where we were asked to donate to the church harvest. I would scour the cupboards at home, looking for any stray tins of corned beef or fruit chunks lurking at the back. Along with the rest of the school our class would walk down to the Abbey in 'crocodile' where the 'harvest' would be displayed. I looked in vain for my tin of pineapple chunks amongst the mountain of cans and fresh produce. The vicar (later Canon) was a cheery chappy and usually read a suitable food themed sermon, emphasising the abscence of it in some countries. One year, as a sort of filler slot, one musically minded lad gave us a rendition of the 'Chariots of  Fire' theme - no connection with the Harvest Festival, but diverting stuff none the less.

   Of course, September was also the conker season. Like marbles they seemed to be a sort of unofficial currency at school and like the real thing I never seemed to have a lot - maybe I looked in the wrong places. There were a few horse chestnut trees in the Abbey churchyard though, and myself and a mate decided upon a conker hunting expedition there one evening. One tree had some lovely specimens hanging high in the branches. After some fruitless attempts to dislodge them by lobbing up sticks, my mate decided to scale the tree. The spiky prizes were almost in his grasp when there was a sudden shout of 'OI!!' Some ratty old fellow (there seemed to be a lot of them around in the 80s) had appeared from nowhere, and in no uncertain terms told us to bugger off out of the churchyard.

   So for me, September has always seemed like a time of change, transition and a little uncertainty. In the meantime, my daughter's nursery is having a food collection for Harvest Festival, and I'm sure if I look hard enough I'll find a tin of fruit chunks hiding in the cupboard somewhere!

And all that Jazz...

Lurking in the depths of our loft is a case - a very shopworn case, looking not unlike Gladstone's battered brief  previously used for the budget statement. However, this case is home to a trumpet which once belonged to my dad.

  When my parents moved, a few years ago, the trumpet was passed on to me and it was housed in the loft, where it sits to this day - patiently waiting for somebody brave enough to play it. Come to think of it, that trumpet has spent most of it's life in lofts, occasionally seeing the light of day as a curio for us kids, where, with puffing cheeks and sprays of spittle we would gamely attempt to coax some sounds from it.

   The trumpet's story goes back to the late 1950s. Dad and his mates were keen bikers, but rather than listening to the latest Rock and Roll tunes they preferred the bygone sounds of the Jazz Age. Dad's mates had formed their own jazz group and he often volunteered his services as a sort of roadie. Indeed, this group had even reached the dizzy heights of regional television, appearing on a daytime show called Lunchbox presented by the esteemed Noel Gordon of future Crossroads fame.
Not content with being merely a helping hand, Dad wished to emulate his Jazz heroes such as Louie Armstrong and Dizzy Gillespie - so the next step was to buy a trumpet to practice with.

  The details have been lost in the fog of history, but I gather that Dad, who was still living at home then, was persuaded by my Grandma to put the practice sessions on hold - permanently. Apparently, the neighbours weren't too sympathetic to the needs of a fledgling jazz trumpeter. The sessions stopped and the trumpet was returned to its case.

  When my parents moved into their new home, the trumpet, together with numerous model planes, was consigned into the dark tomb of the loft. Forty four years later, it's still waiting in a (albeit different) loft. Maybe one day my son or daughter will get the urge to play - and it's golden hour will finally arrive.

A Gothic Evening

This is the title of a short story I'm working on at the moment - now I've finished my OU studies, (big cheer!) I can start catching up on some writing. The 'gothic' in the title refers to goth culture and music, with the story's setting (and some events)  loosely based on a gig I went to as a spotty teenager back in 1988 - the characters are all fictional.

  The 'Queen Caroline' pub was inspired by a watering hole in Leicester called the 'The Princess Charlotte'. This later became 'The Charlotte' a celebrated venue on the indie 'toilet circuit', playing host to such future legends  as Pulp, Radiohead and Blur.  I never got the chance to revisit The Charlotte and never will either, as it sadly closed its doors for the last time in 2010 to be 'developed' into student flats.

  Anyway, hope you enjoy this short extract from the story. It's a first draft and needs a lot of editing -  but see what you think.

    Leyford on a Monday evening was like a Wild West ghost town, with October leaves and crisp bags that drifted sadly about. The Art Centre was closed and silent, but a skewed poster on the door informed us that ‘Soul Scream’ would be playing live at the Queen Caroline in Stafford – coach leaves at 7.00pm. We sat down on the wall and Ant chucked us each a fag, he made a grand gesture of lighting them with his new Zippo lighter, and nearly burnt his fingers for his efforts. Matt looked thoughtful as he took a drag of his ciggy, then he turned to me with a wry smile.

    ‘Hope you don’t mind, Jamie mate, but as you and Emily are no longer an item – you don’t mind if I have a crack at her.’
     I felt a sharp wrench inside. Yes I mind, and well you bloody know it .
     ‘Not at all, good luck to you.’
    ‘That’s cool, cause I’ve already asked her out!’
    Ant must have noticed my lack of enthusiasm, as he added his own eloquent two penn’orth, ‘Jamie’s just miffed that he never got the chance to get into her knickers.’
    A four letter retort sprang to mind but I said nothing.
   ‘Never mind Jamie, perhaps you’ll have more luck with these Goth chicks.’
    I’d recently listened to a new Bon Jovi song called ‘Blood on Blood’ about kids being friends for ever and all that. I thought it could have been written about me, Ant and Matt, only now I wasn’t so sure - we’d turned sixteen and something had changed.

Song of a Baker

Continuing with a Saxon theme (vaguely), when it comes to burning food I could give Alfred the Great a few tips. One work lunchtime, I once decided that as a change from cheese buttys I'd toast a few crumpets. The elderly office toaster struggled with this and decided to cremate the crumpets instead. This is in turn set off the alarm and was the signal for the Fire Brigade to arrive with helmets and hatchets all set to tackle the raging inferno (que cheap jokes about hot crumpet etc).  I can only be thankful we don't have an office sprinkler system.
  
 Recently I thought I'd have a dabble at baking, and what better choice to start with than a few rock cakes. Baking in our house isn't as straight forward as one would seen. First of all, my wife Sue, is a coeliac, which means that any food stuffs which have a trace of wheat in them, from cereals to sauces, are a no-go. Fortunately, there is a range of excellent gluten-free recipes available, including one for rock cakes. My three year old daughter Jodie, also offered to 'help'. Jodie, although brimming with enthusiasm, still needs to learn a little finesse, and an extra large mixing bowl is required to prevent  the walls and surfaces being decorated with flying cake mix. After a while, she decided that watching 'Grandpa in my Pocket' was more interesting than helping Dad make cakes, so she skipped off and left me to finish . Twenty minutes later (and no King Alfred style burnt offerings) the smell of baking filled the kitchen and a tray of rock cakes lay cooling on the side.

 And there they are - a little rustic looking perhaps - but not bad with a cup of English Breakfast tea. Somehow I don't think I'll be entering the Great British Bake off just yet though!