COVID-19 NOTE: Hope all well and keeping our spirits up. We may be 'social distancing' but need to keep in touch in other ways. This pandemic will pass but it will have changed us all - in some ways, let's hope, for the better.
Here's this week's column:
Here's this week's column:
I EXPECTED, with greater freedom on our Covid roadmap to recovery, we would soon return to a more sociable spring. Drinks with friends outside a local pub or at the sports club came to mind, while She Who Knows busily arranged hairdressing or health and beauty appointments – for herself.
She's also booked me in for one – not the haircut, my local barber took care of that in several minutes (valuing his labour at over a pound a minute, not bad). No, she's lined us up for blood tests – rightly concerned at my increased wine drinking during lockdown.
But it seems sensible to be cautious in our comeback to 'normal life' (as we considered it). A beer in our pleasantly flowering garden feels preferable to joining noisy crowds, ordering on 'apps' in pub car parks.
It's peaceful for a start, though I can hear distant murmurs of pub conversation get louder as sunny afternoons wear on, until there's inane chanting or ugly rows. That old saying, 'empty vessels make most noise', still sadly rings true!
However, I'm not a curmudgeon - well, not all the time. As She Who wisely advised, “There's bound to be exuberance in first weeks.” Fair enough but so often a few spoil life for the many and must we accept rowdies, drunkenness and foul language? Let the young play, yes, but there are also lessons to learn and others to consider.
Cutting back recently on that Covid wine has proved beneficial, while it pays handsomely in the bank balance to stay at home more. It's just social contact with friends or family we miss. Still, thankfully, if we're cautious that should come.
Anyway, it was our second jab this week and I'm keeping my head down until I hear the all-clear. Even then, I dare say, many habits will have changed - possibly for the better.
* * *
EMERGING further from Lockdown this week, on Boris's roadplan to recovery, seemed like staggering from dark days of the 1950s or 60s into a modern, swinging world.
Shopping, or drinking, are no longer forbidden for long periods; you don't have to wander aimlessly in parks or amuse yourself quietly at home. There was something else, too - pets. We're no longer dependent on them for company.
Lockdown saw a surge in pet ownership, let's hope we don't desert them now we're free to roam. I thought of this the other day, as a family cat died. When younger and we lived in quiet, suburban avenues, I knew everyone down our road and also their pets. The one of my own I always remember was Topsy, who was given me as a tiny kitten. She followed me everywhere, meowing, even to school.
Sadly though - and unlike She Who Knows, I was never allowed a dog. There's true
devotion for you in a loving dog. Back in the 1970s and even 80s, this newspaper used to carry occasional feature articles on its leader page by editor-in-chief Sir Harold Grime – about his pet dogs.
There was one, he recalled, who used to visit him in our town-centre offices. As dogs also roamed free then, it would hop on the tram – then running along Whitegate Drive – and get off down Church Street. All the conductors knew the devoted creature. Then, after visiting, it would return the same way.
When these nostalgic stories appeared on his desk, our rather cynical features editor of the time (the late, lamented Peter Baxter) used to groan in dismay. He wanted something more up to date and racy. But Sir Harold knew his public.
After the article duly appeared, our postbag would be full from appreciative readers – nearly as full as when we published the wrong crossword clues!
* * *
FORTUNATELY, on Boris's roadmap to Covid recovery, non-essential shopping can resume next week. We've missed hairdressing, also a drink or meal outside, but time, too, is fast running out.
No, I'm not ill and, thankfully again, should have my second anti-virus jab in a further week. It's just that the battery in my last timepiece is now dodgy too. The other day it faltered but, after a short rest and severe talking-to, it staggered onward. Not bad for a £5 watch bought years ago.
When its battery does stop it will be the third and last of my wristwatches to grind to a halt in Lockdown. Soon I'll just have my late father's gold retirement watch, a Smith's Empire I think, to rely upon – and will need to remember to wind it, though not too tightly.
I long ago gave up on expensive wristwatches, after a couple got damaged accidentally. I also got fed up of worrying about them – when, for example, I went for a swim or otherwise had reason to take them off and expose them to theft.
“Not worth repairing!” was the brutal response of modern-day watch 'repairers', upon viewing cracked glass or some other minor fault, “Cost as much as it's probably now worth.”
The best ever watch I got or, at least, the most useful, was an early digital one that was very clear to read, simple to operate and had a handy alarm. It was free in a petrol station offer. Since, though, they've become far too complicated.
Instead, I buy cheap copies of expensive classic brands. These, admittedly, fade in appearance but are reliable, reasonably fashionable and aren't missed too greatly when occasionally mislaid – a bit like myself these days. Still, they rarely let one down - like me too.
Let's just hope that, at long last, time is on our side!
* * *
ALTHOUGH in my 70s I'm launching a new career, as general handyman and builder. This startling move has been inspired by all the house renovation programmes She Who Knows now watches on TV - where pensioned-off Brits do up French châteaux, or start new ventures in Spain.
But, of course, I'm only April-fooling you!
My idea of a 'project' has been limited of late to investing in a cordless vacuum cleaner, or sewing buttons on to favourite trousers. I did sewing in the first year of 'senior' school and it's been highly useful. So much so, I wish us boys had done domestic science too. Whereas woodwork, which I did, seems redundant now - thanks to super glues.
However, I've always been 'thorough and doggedly determined', so they say. As a result, Lockdown has led me recently to getting out ladders and combating guttering problems in rain; also refitting hinges to back gates, then restoring a collapsed garden table.
I wouldn't say they matched professional standards but it's amazing how Gorilla Glue simplifies such tasks. I once used it on a four-poster that was wobbly in the joints (like me now). It worked, although anyone wanting to remove that bed would now have to take an axe to it.
My efforts at such practical tasks during Lockdown brought a sense of achievement far exceeding the quality of their results. However, I don't brag. It's sufficient that She Who Knows no longer notices gates or table are leaning. Silence and peace are a good husband's rewards. Besides, if I were to over-do self-congratulations, it would only bring more work.
There you are, some more lifelong wisdom for you. What's more, even as a keen journalist, I felt uncomfortable receiving rare public praise, preferring to observe from sidelines. They didn't teach humility at school, either, but then our motto offered a clue – 'Manners Makyth Man'.
* * *
SPRING is in the air and I hear the soft patter of tennis balls, like welcome footsteps of an old friend returning.
Tennis is one of those outdoor activities now reappearing in our lives with the sunshine. At Blackpool's largest, oldest club there's a welcome for newcomers seeking exercise and fresh friends in a safe family atmosphere.
Because of lockdowns and limitations through Covid, South Shore Lawn Tennis Club is offering membership fees and courses at special reasonable rates.
A spokesman said, “We'll be opening again from Monday, March 29, and looking to welcome new members. We will also run a six-week programme to introduce children from age four upwards to tennis, organised by the nationwide 'We Do Tennis' team.”
There is coaching, too, for adults from beginner status upwards. More details are on the club's website as well as at its friendly Midgeland Road centre on Marton Moss.
There are also plans for re-opening tennis next week at other clubs, in Lytham, St. Annes, Poulton and elsewhere on the coast. It's a great way to socialise as well as keeping fit, with welcoming clubhouses and lots going on. I met my wife through playing and we're still enjoying tennis – our final score's set at love-all!
One of my most popular novels, a light-thriller and romance entitled 'A Brush With Murder', is set at a fictional Fylde tennis club and partly dedicated to late friend Howard Sunderland, South Shore's much-loved former coach.
We'll also be seeing some uplifting cricket locally, after some disappointing matches on the worldwide TV circuit. Blackpool's picturesque ground by Stanley Park is almost renovated for the new season, with arrangements for county and club games.
All that sporting fun, along with a thorough tidy up and planting session in gardens, should make for a fine, long summer – let's hope. Even the blackbirds are bursting into song again!
* * *
ONE of the pleasures which lift Lockdown is music. A downpour the other day had me stuck inside again, but rediscovering old favourites among our dvds. That soon put my mind in the clouds - of the past – relishing good times, then and now.
The poignant ballad Homeward Bound, by Simon and Garfunkel, whisked me back to my 21st birthday, half a century ago. We held a party at home for my friends and I vividly recalled some most welcome, oven-baked sausage rolls, which had lifted an otherwise cold buffet.
The Bridge Over Troubled Water album had just been released and I played it almost continually. That reminded me of a live concert by the American duo in Manchester, around the same time. It was at the former Free Trade Hall, of Hallé Orchestra fame. That talented twosome gelled perfectly, just as on record.
Next up at home was a Rod Stewart version of classic Blue Moon. How evocative those wistful lyrics and melody are, withstanding the many years. They unexpectedly transported me to Vietnam, 30-odd years before, when I was travelling with a pal – now sadly deceased.
Blackpool tennis coach Howard Sunderland was guiding us down the beautiful coastline to Saigon, where he settled for several years. In return, I'd introduced him to Hong Kong, where I'd worked on an English newspaper.
It was in a cosy bar in Hanoi that an ageing jazz quartet had played a haunting Blue Moon, with alto-sax leading. That recollection, in turn, took me back to an excursion into Red China as it opened to westerners around the 70s.
In a then dimly lit and low-rise Shanghai, I found a hotel jazz bar where an even older band had played – leaning their precious push-bikes against its walls.
Ah, but there we'll have to halt this musical memory ride – for it's stopped raining at last.
* * *
IT'S good children are getting back to school – as long as their teachers are vaccinated. But, for most of us, Lockdown lethargy continues.
We've been following friends on Facebook, but they're not getting up to much. One live-alone mate posts pictures of his latest culinary efforts, though they're hard to identify under all the gravy. Another chap concentrates on cake baking – but will need a bigger wardrobe of clothes come summer.
A female friend managed to train a garden robin to eat from her hand, displaying admirable patience. But our general apathy was summed up by another's comment, 'Think I'll re-arrange my socks drawer, this weekend'.
Still, it's funny they should say that. It just happens that – most unusually - I've some new fashion accessories to exhibit. They came at Christmas, but I'm only now daring to sport them on occasional sunny walks.
They're my new socks – in a 'luxury stripe, cotton-rich six-pack' from Pierre Calvini. She Who Knows bought them, without joking they're the only six-pack I'm likely to get. (Well, gyms are closed.)
Now she's getting envious. One pair of pink-striped socks has already disappeared from our shared laundry basket. Still, I'm flaunting the others shamelessly. They brighten up my day!
It's surprising how a flash of colour can lift you. I take back previous complaints about frivolous female purchases . . . well some of them.
Now I select my clothing around which socks I fancy. I'm becoming a popinjay – at least from the ankles down. Jumpers, trousers or shirts have to fit in with the chosen stripe of the day, where possible. At this rate I may have to replenish my entire wardrobe, just to match everything up. Once you become a fashionista there's no shirking from it . . .
If I see you around, then I'll give you a quick flash - of my ankles.
* * *
SO, we're March-ing back into life again – on Boris's road map to recovery. It feels like spring, too, as summer and something akin to normal life appear on our horizon.
Wouldn't it be wonderful to enjoy as good weather this year as last – the only redeeming aspect of 2020?
I look forward to a pint with friends again, sitting outside or in, preferably watching some action at Blackpool's refurbished cricket club by lovely Stanley Park. But I shall also be spending more time now, as we did last year, in our garden.
If anything good has come from all the suffering in lockdown and pandemic, it's a healthier appreciation of nature and our place within it. Hopefully, we have learned to respect our environment more, as well as how small and closely linked our world is – what happens elsewhere affects us all.
I admired Boris's 'building back better' optimism and hope that is possible, on a personal as well as national or even worldwide front. But don't let's get overly ambitious here, caution must still be our byword.
That inclination is echoed in what I say to She Who Knows, when we observe our bank balance has never looked better. Let's keep it that way, I suggest but, as she's likely to say, we have to re-energise our economy and start to spend again.
Yes, the first reunions will be great, then the greater gatherings – with theatres and cinemas opening and more events taking place. Let's just hope there's sunshine too, with time to spend being quietly grateful.
As for vacations, it's so long since travelling any distance at all that exploring our own holiday coast again is an exciting prospect.
Let's keep that pollution down. Don't just see 'staying at home' as an enforced condition, but rather as a passport to a happier, healthier life.
I'll see you around!
* * *
LIKE Boris, I'm cautiously optimistic for 2021 and our coming spring into summer.
But it wasn't just the prime minister's 'road map to recovery' which inspired me. It's because I'm an Ox and this is my year!
When working in Hong Kong I developed a wary respect for ancient Chinese culture and learned from their almanac I was an Ox.
This meant I was 'courageous, reliable and resolute, steady and thorough to the point of stubbornness'. I also had a robust appetite although inclined to 'over-feed and water' myself. Beware, though, we're ferocious once our placid nature gives way to anger.
It's good to know oneself and this difficult last year (of the Rat) has been a learning curve for all; leaving us more appreciative and, hopefully, respectful of nature and what matters.
If you're not convinced then at least heed Boris's birth sign – the Dragon! Accordingly, our PM is 'born to energetically lead and full of knowledge, power and capability'. Dragons are also 'adventurous and ambitious', with 'a strong drive to realise their dreams'.
What's more, like me, Boris is a Gemini. Apparently we're social butterflies and – says Google - 'quick-witted twins who can talk to anyone about anything' while 'buzzing between happy hours, dinner parties and dance floors'. Well, I'm sure Boris does anyway.
So, there you are, almost time to celebrate folks!
By the way, Rats have attributes too - my wife's one, really! They're 'quick-witted, lively and artistic' as well as 'natural home-makers' - while also getting on splendidly with Oxen.
Incidentally, 2020 was her year and its horoscope told us it would bring 'beneficial situations, opportunities and meetings with special people' – hmm. It would also, said the almanac, 'balance situations, dilemmas and changes that can push us out of our comfort zone'.
Much to contemplate there, I'd say, but we've time - while still in Lockdown.
* * *
I DON'T believe it – when I think of my advanced age. Being over 70 is shocking when, most days upon waking, I feel half that – well, almost.
Fortunately, it means I don't have to work except doing what I want to (apart from occasional DIY bodges).
This month my age also meant getting a Covid vaccination at our magnificent Winter Gardens. They make me proud of our resort and coast's heritage - as well as our 'Progress' (as is the town's motto) in conserving and, where possible, redeveloping it.
But it's hard during Lockdown languor, not to fall back into my Victor Meldrew syndrome. Like the grumpy, old hero of TV sitcom 'One Foot In The Grave', I find myself pursuing curious campaigns and, as aged fictional knight Don Quixote did, 'tilting at windmills'.
I even mutter that famous catchphrase of Richard Wilson, the sitcom star (pictured). Another old pal and former colleague on this paper – we'll call him Trevor – emailed with similar afflictions.
Trev wrote: 'The only activity locally this week was the laying down of a new pavement. Well I say pavement, what actually happened was that the old flagstones have been pulled up and replaced with – tarmacadam!'
He continued, 'When it comes to swapping new for old we seem to be going backwards, with regard to material quality and aesthetics, but I guess councils can't run to the expense of decent stone paths these days. By the time of the next replacement this 'tarmac' will probably be replaced by a dirt track.'
He confessed to 'obsessing' over this, while sitting forlornly in his front room, noting also that a curtain rail and bathroom shower support had collapsed - 'Everything's falling apart, just like the pavement!'
In return, I admitted my hobbies were now reporting fly-tipping and erratic burglar alarms at empty shops and pubs – I don't believe it!
* * *
IT'LL be a quiet Valentine's Day, this weekend, perhaps with me cooking a treat after thoughtful gifts for her Ladyship. We buy each other cards, too.
Still, in the quiet of lockdown, it doesn't take much to get us excited at Edmonds Towers. Even trying a new marmalade can thrill us! That, on toast, is breakfast most days and enjoyed in bed. We try different breads as well or, occasionally, go wild with hot-cross buns – though rather over-dosed when finding some with chocolate.
Anyway back to marmalades, the Scottish brands mostly went down well; then we liked Oxford and, finally, settled for Tiptree of Essex. I've gone through their range now and this week relished orange with malt whisky – a bit rich but as heart-warming as a wee dram.
Essex, incidentally, was where I first reported for newspapers - the only northerner in our office. Whenever I appeared with a story my Cockney boss would shout out, “Hey up! Eck-ee-thump! Is't trouble at mill, lad?”
This got tiresome but he consoled me with a whelk or mussel from the paper bag he kept cool on an outside window-ledge, beside his news-desk.
I had a boss later who lectured us on not only work but also life choices – like marmalade. Observing my shopping one day, he informed me the best brand was Stute. It was sugar-free and organic but, afterwards, avoided on principle.
Besides, bring on the sugar I say, specially first thing – and now with a whisky shot too!
Sadly, I'd fail at being a consumer guru, despite She Who Knows' thoughtful health advice. The old adage of 'a bit of what you fancy', three square meals a day and 'everything in moderation' make sense to me.
Well, perhaps not the last bit, She Who Knows comments, but thankfully - come Sunday - I'll still be her Valentine.
* * *
SO, phew, we've had our Covid vaccination this week – the British one from Oxford too. Good show, I say, though we had to join a patient queue with war-time spirit for deliverance.
The NHS invite came by post, while we were waiting to hear from our surgery. So, She Who Knows swept into online action.
It rather worried me when she confidently announced, “I've fixed up our appointments. The first jab's this Monday afternoon.”
What was more, I got a special mission - not covert but a Covid role. I was invited to be a Yellow Card Monitor, advising NHS of side-effects. I've not felt so important since appointing myself house virus sanitiser.
On vaccination day we went to town for the first time since last April – when I bravely searched for lamb chops at the big Sainsbury's, following local panic buying.
This time we both queued outside the Winter Gardens for 45 minutes, then again once inside. But all officials were efficient, pleasant and polite. However, while waiting, She Who Knows was still envious of my special role.
“Why didn't they pick me?” she asked, wounded, so I explained, “It's purely random, dear.”
However, I made sure officials saw my Yellow Card form. I'd dressed specially too, in a short-sleeved shirt and gilet for ease of vaccinating. At my flu jab last year I had to unbutton a shirt and so expose an old vest beneath, much to She Who's embarrassment.
“How do I look?” I asked on Monday, before an Army captain woman vetted us.
“Like someone with an important Covid job,” she answered, clearly still miffed.
Then we were through, all done and dusted thanks to our troops – after two hours in all. But I've already started my special reports . . .
No signs of any side-effects yet, just a swelling head.
* * *
ALMOST forgot to write and send this column to Gazette Towers this week. So little is happening in life at the moment and every day seems similar. Our routines are all mixed up.
Take today, here in mid-week we're having our Sunday-lunch roast – but at tea-time, as we call it here, or 'dinner' - as the southerners would say. The only encouraging day-by-day development (apart from vaccine promises) is it's getting lighter earlier and staying so later.
But, ever the optimist, there are other good things to seize upon. Long-gone friends are now getting in touch again, stirred by Covid lockdown inertia.
At the weekend I heard from a former squash opponent – that's going back many decades – who emigrated to the big country, chilly Canada. He sounded just the same and offered to Zoom in on us; but now has a house number over 1,000 and laughs at what we call winter.
Then, yesterday, a former colleague who went off to a Euro newspaper in Brussels - and never looked back - emailed me. With Brexit upon us, he's wisely retiring and saying adieu to the Eurocrats.
Funnily, they both went on about curious little things in our past which I'd all but forgotten, but now came flooding back. The one in Belgium couldn't get over me as a bachelor, in a small flat with fold-down double bed in a disguised wall cupboard.
He'd retained this image of me entertaining girlfriends then, when supper (a posh, southern concept) and wine were finished, casually dropping the bed into action . . .
Of course, it never happened like that – but the notion made me smile. The only trouble was, all this nostalgia had got me lost in time again.
Let's just hope the magic jabs, when they come, return us all to the present. Or will that be a 'new normal'?
* * *
THERE'S a new hero in our Lockdown lives, though he's neither new nor heroic. It's Columbo, the down-at-heel LAPD homicide lieutenant; the only man who always wears a raincoat in Los Angeles.
We've tapped into a vast store of his inimitable murder investigations, after She Who Knows discovered the 5USA channel. Do you know, the scruffy detective of Italian heritage has been exposing killers for 50 years? No wonder he's good!
Even if we've previously seen an episode, it's worth watching for all you missed first time, or to be reminded of the show's many attributes.
To start it's relaxing, as the only murder drama where you know whodunnit from the start. But it's fascinating to see how a ruthlessly clever, meticulous killer will be caught, as they surely will, by our hero.
As She Who Knows points out, there are always beautiful, luxury homes to admire and wonderful scenery to go with them. It's a reminder, too, how far ahead of us America has been. They had kitchens and bathrooms – as well as teeth and wigs – half a century ago better than ours today.
Everyone's dressed smartly, except for our 'Lootenant' – who, with his shabby raincoat and ash-dropping cigars, fearlessly stalks the most exclusive haunts. But, at heart, he's an icon of unassuming virtues for our troubled times.
While appreciating the finer material acquisitions of others, along with their skills and achievements, Columbo drives the most run-down vehicle on the programme and happily accepts his lot. He is respectful of all equally, whoever they are, but humble within himself.
Besides, he always has 'Mrs Columbo' to consider, though we never see his formidable partner in life.
Columbo is eagerly observant, patient and, however powerful, famous or wealthy they are, brings criminals to justice and avenges innocent lives callously ruined.
A brave new world? No, it's been there all the time.
* * *
LIKE most people, we're exploring fresh frontiers in home entertainment at the moment – on TV, at least.
Friends are fans of Netflix, with one couple glued to Indonesian mystery thrillers and another pair enjoying a series in a Tokyo late-night bar – a Japanese 'Cheers', though a bit darker. Still, foreign dramas can't be more bizarre than recent BBC ones. Hopefully they'll spread international understanding, from this strange Covid era.
At Edmonds Towers we turn increasingly backward – into archive channel Talking Pictures. Stage-trained actors on old films enunciate clearly; there's no gratuitous violence nor foul language, only 'politically incorrect, outdated attitudes' - which suit us.
Even street scenes, with little traffic and few people, now seem oddly up to date – although in black and white. We record to view later, or She Who Knows does – pouring over TV schedules and zipping through channels on her remote, it's awesome to behold.
Who said watching telly is a mindless activity? Not in our home; you have to work at it. She Who Knows is in such a hurry it often freezes the controls. As a result odd things occur but, to us, they are now quite normal.
Recordings can be incomplete – jumping boring early scenes or halting abruptly before the finale. Episodes might be missing or – an inspired touch this – in the wrong order for the series.
The best example was my all-time favourite film, The World Of Suzy Wong (my treasured book of which is pictured left). Excited with anticipation,I had my drink and snack ready and got seated. Those colourful opening scenes from my youth appeared, with the lovely Suzy by Victoria Harbour – then ended suddenly, after a few minutes.
Still, as She Who Knows says, this all helps deter dementia – having to work out plots for ourselves; fill in those problem gaps and, what's more, we get to bed earlier too!
* * *
SO, we emerge from subdued festive celebrations with, yet more restrained times ahead. Still, staying home's not unusual this time of year.
At Edmonds Towers it went well. Shopping was efficient, too; mostly online for convenience and safety – with thoughtful presents, thanks to extra time to consider and bank balance fattened by staying in more.
This time I only made one error, or two-in-one to be exact. Unlike last year, when mixing up health and glamour products for She Who Knows. I 'd mistakenly bought her anti-wrinkle creams for ageing skin, rather than 'toning' ones. Still, I found them handy.
(Not as disastrous a present as one mate's to his wife – an ironing board.)
Towards this Christmas a big parcel arrived addressed, unusually, to me. I recognised it as a festive hamper my nephew and wife kindly send annually. When I mentioned it to She Who she said, “That's nice but they shouldn't, not now their children are adults.” (We used to give them birthday money.) Anyway, when sending their greetings card, I wrote, 'Thanks again for the hamper!'
One disappointment with my online orders was a gift box of Belgium chocolates, for She Who Knows, which was quite costly but hadn't arrived.
On the big day, imagine our surprise when opening that 'hamper' box. The relatives hadn't sent one after all. It was my box of chox, but not just the dark ones she liked; also a mixed collection, a separate box of truffles, another of 'cookies', plus a big tin of biscuits. No wonder it was expensive! Her disappointment, at not receiving the usual, much adored Hotel Chocolat selection, seemed rather unreasonable to me.
There's so much to munch it'll take us all year to get through them. By then, hopefully, my nephew and wife might have forgiven me, for what they must have thought a very sarcastic card!
* * *
'HUBBIES' in my traditional-minded family are reluctant when it comes to DIY. Dad, while tackling most things, also advised, “Never do today what you can put off 'til tomorrow.”
My older brother, Mike, would rather move house than redecorate.
Regarding 'little jobs' at home, my credo is - if it offends the eye or conscience, hide it! Out of sight is out of mind.
However, She Who Knows still says airily at quiet moments in Edmonds Towers, “I was thinking, what we
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need to do . . .” The 'we', of course, isn't royal but refers to me. Like her late mother, Wynne, she believes I'm able to fix anything.
Although flattered, I try to stay one step ahead. If spotting a potential problem or blemish upon our comfort and well-being, I 'bodge' it.
With New Year resolutions pending, here are tips for a happier life to all DIY dodgers.
When wallpaper is coming apart, put a chair in front of it . If it's in a higher position, hang a picture there.
Small things, like tiles, are most easily repaired with a spot of plasticine or glue.
Signs of damp about the house? Just leave a window open slightly overnight; if double-glazed, you can even lock it open.
Recent inspired bodges have avoided the expense and disruption of calling in both a tiler and the plumber.
When the border of a bathroom plastic floor tile crumbled, leaving an ugly gap, a strip of masking tape perfectly matched its colour and settled the eye. Then, even better, a hot water tap's worrying dripping was neatly halted – with a discreetly applied elastic band. Being blue it even matched the porcelain!
Finally, as this difficult year ends, my overall winning tip is - make sure neither of you wear reading glasses, when walking about your home. That will only show up more work.
* * *
WITH lockdown conditions continuing or even intensifying, we're watching still more TV at home – goggling at the box which, of course, is showing more and more repeats.
We're not Netflix people, more Talking Pictures - the British classic film and drama archive channel.
But today I'll particularly enjoy the Carols From King's, which kick-starts our Christmas while savouring some pâté, relish and toast with a glass of red wine.
It's an honour to be sharing Christmas Eve with you all in this column! Perhaps this could be the start of wider friendships and recognition . . .
“We could be one of those 'Gogglebox' couples,” She Who Knows has suggested, when we're commenting on our diet of telly in Edmonds Towers' cosy, festively decorated living room. There we are - drinks to hand and feet up on what were once called pouffes, if that's not now politically incorrect.
“You'd attract too much hate mail and proles,” I warned.
“You mean trolls!” she corrected.
I've long since given up trying to follow the news or other weighty issues which crop up on the screen. It's always interrupted by comments like, “That's a wig, you know,” or, “I can't believe she's wearing that dress again!”
Apparently, I always complain loudly about audience 'whooping' and certain personalities, like Jonathan Ross, who get on my nerves. “You've told me before, ssh!” She Who Knows will rebuke.
Her latest outburst was to call out to me, “There's some slip of a girl on TV, who's supposedly a professor!”
It's true, though, since Covid there appears to be an endless succession of young professors warning about health issues and the state of our planet (along with good, old David). It's all very worrying . . .
Anyway, don't let it spoil your 'holidays', as 2021 should be better.
Merry Christmas to you all!
* * *
IT was sad to hear of another fine Blackpool character passing away this dreadful year. John Moore, aged 86, was landlord of the resort's oldest pub The Saddle on Whitegate Drive, from 1982-92.
I first met John, an imposing but friendly former policeman, halfway through his tenure. However, I'd long enjoyed the cosy inn's fire-lit rooms and old-fashioned style. He also started the 'Seagull Division' of the Manchester-based Honourable Order of Bass Drinkers, of which I'm proud to belong.
(The 17th Century inn is illustrated here in a sketch by Peter Hughes.)
Back in those days, pubs closed for a couple of hours in afternoons and longer on Sundays. When it opened again the welcoming fires were crackling and brass and glassware sparkling.
Come evening, Mister Moore – a traditional landlord - would adopt his position on the public side of the bar, near stairs up to where his large family lived. He'd greet regulars while enjoying a Draught Bass and one of his favourite King Edward cigars.
John also showed me why he stood there. Thanks to ingenious mirrors on the bar, walls and doors, he could see into rooms and also his bar and till. Then he'd roll up his sleeves and descend through a trap door to the cellar, as the popular Bass or Special Bitter barrels ran dry.
You didn't hear shouting or music or TV (but for special sporting occasions). If some got carried away, John need only mutter, “Watch your language, please lads.”
Sunday afternoons he would sit with family and friends in the 'Lords' room, where my naïve, younger self was introduced one day and cheerily seated among his bevy of daughters. John shook my hand at his crowded table, then quietly informed me, “It's your round.”
He also gave me sage, Liverpudlian advice when moving into a nearby house. “Always leave some jobs to do – or they'll keep piling up!”
Top man, he'll be missed.
* * *
SHE Who Knows and myself made an outing to Lytham over last weekend; She Who being in dire need of retail therapy.
It was a shock to see such crowds, with cafés and restaurants open, too; serving takeaway drinks with even a few outside bars, where folk gathered chatting through the busy afternoon.
After quiet Great Marton it seemed decidedly hedonistic. We even had to don our face masks, just to feel safe, though few others on the crowded pavements bothered.
Still, it was good to see people enjoying themselves and a high street thriving.
Then, driving away at dusk, we spotted a huge flying saucer landed opposite Lowther Gardens, glowing in the darkness. Fortunately, that turned out to be a floodlit tennis dome now at Lytham Cricket & Sports Club - most impressive!
Also escaping leafy Lytham's vibrant social life is my local hero Sam Stone. The freelance reporter come investigator, a good-looking son of a gun often in trouble, is now in an eighth, stand-alone book of the popular series.
Happily, in fiction you can escape lockdown into even more exotic places than Lytham. So you may join Sam on an idyllic Greek island, with his new loves but also dangers. The novel is available in paperback or on Kindle.
This latest thriller/romance is entitled The Golden Door. I tell you this not out of commercial greed but because it's good to share feelings and hopes with others, specially at this time. Our light-literary website was started by retired journalists fed up of all the bad news. It's intended to be uplifting and, besides, is non-profit-making – at least so far!
This story also focuses on the plight of today's refugees, as well as our pandemic. We should think of them, too, as we prepare to pamper ourselves and feast; so everyone might share hopes of a better New Year to come.
* * *
AH, some good news at last. Covid infections are finally down by a third or more, locally and nationally, thanks to lockdown and your efforts! Also, the New Year promises to be brighter for Blackpool and our holiday coast.
It was heartening to read of two uplifting projects. The popular Mirror Ball, on South Promenade, is to have its 40,000-plus tiles restored, by our Illuminations team and Blackpool and The Fylde College students.
That stretch of Prom is a favourite walk and the four-ton, 18-year-old artwork is a shining landmark by a great viewing spot. However, the biggest facelift in town goes to a still grander, much older attraction, the Tower Ballroom.
A £760,000 grant from the government's Culture Fund will see the 126-year-old plasterwork ceiling of this world-famous ballroom restored to full glory.
While the Mirror Ball would brighten my spirits during lunch-time strolls when working nearby, the best of our resort's grand ballrooms always struck me with wonder – and my father before me.
When a bachelor, he was one of thousands who regularly got a steam-train return ticket from Manchester on Saturdays, which included Tower entrance and the promise of a romantic, if only brief, encounter. What's more, its famous organist, Reginald Dixon, was a cousin of mine.
I well remember trying out my own dance steps on that vast, sprung dance floor – and running out of moves halfway along. It was as demanding as a length in the old Derby Baths further up the Prom.
There's just one thing I'm wondering. Will anyone think to again open the ballroom's once sliding roof? I know of it because an older friend, who worked at the Tower as a youngster, mischievously operated its rooftop winding gear – to let in a downpour of rainwater puddles.
Still, how fabulous it would be to dance there, when dry - and under the stars!
* * *
'GET fit in 15 minutes a day', invited the newspaper column. I didn't see the exercises, as She Who Knows turned over the page. We were enjoying breakfast in bed.
“I got fit doing just six minutes a day,” I bragged, but she'd become engrossed in beauty tips. (Besides, I'd told her it all before.)
The memory took me back to late teens, when living at home and desperate to attract the opposite sex with a six-pack and beefy biceps.
It was called the Royal Canadian Air Force Workout and those telling minutes got increasingly demanding every day.
“What are you doing up there?” demanded my dad, when I'd just finished the six minutes in my bedroom. “Well,” I explained proudly, “there are press-ups where you have to clap hands, full body bends, then running on the spot with scissor jumps.”
“Well, stop it!” he said, “You're bringing down the lounge ceiling's plaster.”
Back then I was just under 13-stone, now I'm half a stone over it, but I have been 15 stone-plus in my 40s. That was a warning curve, when your waist size matches your age.
Keeping fit now seems all the rage in lockdown rather than, as usual, just following Christmas. Therefore, I offer you the following lifetime's advice.
Firstly, don't believe 'no gain without pain'. If it hurts then you're doing yourself harm.
Secondly, enjoy it! However beneficial, you won't keep up a routine if it's a continual trial; instead you'll slump into a deep malaise. We want happy, not miserable!
Find something you enjoy – walking (not sauntering), gentle stretches like yoga or tai-chi to music, and try to find a balance which fits in with you and is even fun.
Finally, don't stuff yourself later, or sink too many drinks, as you ponder the pandemic.
Consider this your chance to improve yourself!
* * *
MANY of us have taken up country walking during lockdown. The other day we wandered out on tracks by Marton Mere.
It reminded me of past rural outings before we'd hung up our boots and riding gear. Exploring rural Fylde brought the reward of meals in country pubs. Trouble was, our guidebook was out of date. Often paths were neglected, muddy and snared by brambles; or large threatening creatures, like boisterous bullocks, hindered our way. I have a healthy respect for anything bigger than myself.
Our most memorable outing was on Taffy, an ageing cob now at peace. He was a friend's horse we exercised weekly round rustic lanes. I'd cycle or walk part way, while She Who Knows rode, then we'd swap over halfway, just by a farm with a ferocious dog.
“Don't worry,” his owner assured us, as the Rottweiler barked and strained on his heavy chain, “if he got loose he wouldn't know what to do!” I wasn't convinced.
This day I'd cycled ahead and saw an impressive black bull at the farm, safely preoccupied with cows in the field. However, as She Who and Taff approached round a bend, the beast's nostrils twitched and he lumbered purposefully toward the fence.
By the time they'd arrived it was clear from his snorting the bull was steaming with desire, not for Taffy but She Who Knows!
I never discovered what scent she was wearing as, just then, the barking-mad dog's chain broke.
We all stared, She Who, Taffy and me, fearing the worst. But the farmer had been right. His dog halted in its tracks, dumbfounded, then quietly retreated into a kennel.
Wary of a gleam still in the bull's eyes, I urged She Who onward - not pushing our luck any further. It was time to head for comfort and safety, by the snug fireside of a village pub.
* * *
IN lockdown I've been reading much more; mainly novels, which capture the imagination and divert the most.
When younger I read books to learn about life, from Lady Chatterley's Lover to Hermann Hesse's Glass Bead Game. Now I'm content with a whodunnit, preferably without too much violence and gore.
Peter Robinson pens favourite thrillers or, more lightly, Yorkshire-Mysteries maestro Roger Silverwood. I've also enjoyed espionage novelists Eric Ambler and Alan Furst, while Raymond Chandler remains the private-eye master. Among other contemporary writers, William Boyd and Douglas Kennedy are amazingly varied, well-researched and rarely disappoint.
But what continually dismays me, especially in so-called police procedurals, is the image of my profession, the media. We journos and hacks get a terrible press!
Over years, I've worked for many newspapers here and abroad; big and small, high-brow and red-top; also agencies, TV and radio. Most journalists (not all, admittedly) want to right injustice, to ease rather than cause suffering and, as best they can under pressure, maintain a professional sense of ethics.
They take pride in doing their work competently but also responsibly. Headlines are sought, yes, but not at the expense of truth or another person's well-being (unless justly deserved).
I've been personally maligned; once called 'carrion', then even 'not fit to eat out of a newspaper, let alone work on one'! On both those occasions, I – and colleagues - were righting wrongs in high places. Corruption is only painfully winkled out, for all to see then deplore.
Happily, I've also been cheerily applauded, both at work and otherwise in public, for articles some admired or were popularly appreciated. Those occasions I found embarrassing, while the insults surprised, hurt but, eventually, amused me.
These days I'm privileged to write this column, but also my own fiction. Freelance reporter Sam Stone, has romanced and thrilled us through several books now. He's my local hero, so there!
* * *
IT'S surprising how you can manage without items others find essential; or discover you really need something never previously known to you.
I'm of that generation who survived happily without television, at least for several years. At Edmonds Towers, She Who Knows routinely switches on telly just 'to brighten the room'; while I turn it to mute or sub-titles - old misery! However, we're both glad to have not used an iron for years and there's no wrinkles on us, our clothes anyway.
But Covid changes all. Just lately the internet's our best friend, from catching up with news to online shopping or emailing this column; we're both on laptops from breakfast onwards.
Now I'm wondering about 'smart' phones. We've had mobiles, cheap pay-as-you-go ones, for ages but don't often use them. They were handy when driving distances, in case of breakdowns; also to find out where each of us were, when separated.
When I first got a call, playing tennis, I had to ask a 10-year-old on the next court how to open my inbox. Even when I lost my mobile near our home, youngsters found and returned it, rather disdainfully. It was clearly of no value to them.
But in Lockdown we don't drive long distances and there's nowhere open to sneak off to on your own. So, maybe it's time to get 'smart'.
“I'm told they can cost up to three figures,” I muttered to old mate Tom.
“Well, mine was £400,” he revealed, casually swiping its touchscreen, “some are over £1,000.”
“But do you understand it?” I politely inquired.
“Do I 'eck as like!” he confessed.
With so many unknown 'apps' awaiting us, I'm taking a cautious first step – buying an idiot's guide to the diverse range of tablets and smartphones . . .
At least it's something to read, until the pub opens again.
* * *
BLIMEY, it's almost November! Still, for once at Edmonds Towers, we made the transition to British Winter Time with seasoned smoothness.
I should explain. We have copious clocks and timing devices at home, almost as many as She Who Knows has mirrors.
Perhaps it was because her old family house faced a jeweller's shop with a large clock in its window. They relied on that to check the time, letting their own timepieces stop or go wrong - odd, I know, but there you are.
To avoid the laborious winding forward over 11 hours of our own chronometer collection, I made the lazy mistake in the past of just turning them all back one hour.
Afterwards our cuckoo clock called out at unexpected intervals instead of on the quarter hour. Also, a wall clock in our hall with a different birdsong for each hour began playing them at different times – causing great confusion.
Instead of a blackbird's cheerful wake-up call at 8am, came an alarming barn owl's screech. These disturbing shrieks also startled visitors or callers at our door, like the postman, even people just phoning us.
Ah, but this year I out-foxed those birds. Instead of doing any winding or altering timing dials on various immersion and radiator controls, I stopped the clocks for an hour; halting the cuckoo's pendulum, taking out the birdsong clock's battery – along with the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom ones – then switching off plugs of relevant electrical devices.
My Operation Winter-Time began promptly at 2200 hours - much to She Who Knows' consternation. Then, at precisely 2300 (when going to bed), I ran round replacing batteries, switching on plugs and getting the cuckoo swinging again – all with perfect timing!
Happily, readers, spring isn't so far away. Hopefully, by then we'll just move clocks forward one hour – and be enjoying sunshine and better times again!
* * *
EVERY morning when I draw back our curtains I smile. It's the trees, a couple of sycamores and even taller poplar, also the lovely lilac and delicate laburnum. They're so majestic and, well, natural!
The 'back-street' behind our Victorian houses, now thankfully gated, is what's called unadopted. Consequently, saplings sprung up and were allowed to grow. They're an early sign of the seasons, as well as instant weather forecasters. Also, of course, they're a boon to wildlife, from squirrels and birds to insects that feed them and help fruit and flowers germinate and flourish.
They also remind me of my childhood. In our Manchester suburbs there were trees lining every road, avenue and street. We kids and our roaming dogs knew them all! We recognised the leaves, barks, sizes and fruits – specially 'conker' trees – and enjoyed climbing them, too. So much for health, if not safety.
The latest survey on our changing landscape reveals a welcome upsurge in tree planting. It's not only hot countries which gain from their shade and succulents. They help us breathe clean air in polluted cities and that is where the growth has come – in our busy suburbs. If anything, the 'countryside' – especially the intensely farmed part – is to blame for clearing forests.
Now salubrious districts of the South-East are leading the way with trees; while hallowed landscapes like the Lakes or Dales are short on woodland. The breezy Fylde lags behind, too, but we're catching up. Years ago the Clifton family made Lytham leafy, to improve their hall's outlook. Today councils and volunteers, like the Friends of Stanley Park and Salisbury Woodland, are doing the same wherever possible.
Householders, also, have been won over. With the pandemic lockdowns the joy of a garden is the new 'must have' for homes - and why not? Nature costs so little but gives us so much.
* * *
SO, it's change but no change – at least for Lancashire. I'm talking, of course, of the coronavirus which still hangs over us.
Remember when Corona used to make 'pop' and a virus only lasted several days? How the world can change – and yet doesn't, essentially. For while nature has its seasons there is a pattern. We've had pandemics before, far worse ones and 'plagues', yet survived.
As bouncy Boris told us Brits, yet again but with determination, the people will overcome this. What's more, here on our Irish Sea coast – for the moment - we can still go outdoors or enjoy a drink or meal. We'll just have to be a little more 'distant' and guarded than usual, like southerners!
Soon it will be British Winter Time and our days still shorter, but with brighter mornings. Probably Covid restrictions will tighten further too. It's time to settle in and settle down; to be thankful for what we have and hopeful for the future. After all, spring and next summer aren't far away - tempus fugit, especially for us old 'uns!
At the beginning of this week, during rain, I stayed inside and tidied up remote corners of Edmonds Towers. We last thoroughly spring-cleaned back in March, when all this started. The gardens will be next, for a severe sort-out before winter.
However, as I surveyed the job ahead - from behind the kitchen's glazed door with coffee in hand - I saw our little robin had returned to winter with us. The red breast is a sign of the seasons and always lifts my spirits. It speaks of cosiness and quiet cheer, amid homely winter scenes.
As Wordsworth said, we should let Nature be our teacher. Perhaps we wouldn't be in this mess, if we'd shown more respect for 'her' in the past.
Prime Minister Boris Johnson also said we had a narrow 'path' to walk. Let's do so together, wherever we may live in the world; in good faith and, of course, with some civilised care - and sensible compromise.
Note: Since posting the above, further restrictions have been placed upon Lancashire until Covid cases recede again. What's more, the forecast is for rain! Time, my friends, to start a new book.
* * *
AN unusual event this week, we got a dental appointment! It's several months since last being at the nearby practice, before Lockdown. They were kind enough to phone us and offer a joint check-up. Spouses are in the same 'bubble', so can be seen one after the other without a surgery needing 'deep-cleaning'.
Our dentist is highly qualified and senior but looks pleasantly youthful, with a cheerful, ready manner and, of course, perfect smile. Thanks to an insurance plan, it doesn't cost an arm and a leg for the latest treatment and technology – just, in my case, the odd tooth over years.
Still, this was only a check-up.
“If we were spraying or drilling we'd be in full, protective gear and hardly able to talk,” he explained. All I had to remember was not to touch my mouth, or my hands would need sanitising again.
He said they'd been in the surgery every day of lockdown, furloughing or altering staff rotas, dealing with emergency calls, implementing all that Covid clinical guidance.
“It now amounts to 172 pages,” the dentist groaned.
By this time I'd managed to inadvertently touch my mouth three times and had to be repeatedly resprayed. (“You're always doing that,” said She Who Knows after we left.)
What had shocked and clearly interested the dentist, from a professional point of view, was how routine problems could degenerate into horrors if left untreated too long.
“Instead of an average one emergency a day for surgery, I returned to something like 190,” he revealed. “There were broken teeth, cracked crowns and split bridges along with ulceration and boils – it was positively medieval!”
That showed the importance of regular check-ups; to treat small problems before they worsened, or detect mouth cancers. Thankfully, we have both taken dental care over the years.
We were able to leave with a relieved smile.
* * *
SO, October is here already and it feels like autumn too. What a year we've had! As a writer of novels as well as this weekly column, I'd agree that reality is stranger than fiction.
Meanwhile, the story of the pandemic is unfinished and still playing out. We're all aware of its worst results, as well as the destabilising conditions 'Lockdown' brings.
Along with this scary, science-fiction-like scenario, Covid brought new expressions into everyday life. 'Social distancing', 'shielding' and 'isolation' reflect the tone of a strained 'new normal' best represented by the face mask.
However, it isn't all grim. Lockdown came and, perhaps, sustained a long spell of good weather. It reminded us how therapeutic nature is, even if just sitting in our gardens. The air was cleared of much pollution, if not all the virus; while most homes got a thorough spring cleaning, as we had time on hands to tidy up our lives.
We might even have begun to truly appreciate those nearest and dearest, along with some simple but free pleasures – like time for quiet relaxation.
'Going forward', as politicians now say (to cover obfuscation – I've learned a few other words), what can we look forward to?
Well, for a start, many have saved money by not going on foreign holidays, or even a 'stay-cation'. Christmas, too, should be less costly or stressed than usual, though quieter or lonelier. Still, autumn and winter are natural times to hibernate in our homes; while government, through us taxpayers, has been generous assisting many unable to work or run businesses as before.
After this shared experience, it's time to take stock of what good things remain in our lives, as we look toward a New Year and more freedom and improvements.
Let's keep our heads down but also stay firm, with fresh resolution and those priceless qualities of hope and good faith.
* * *
WE were sitting in the beer garden of a popular Poulton-le-Fylde pub, me and a couple of old mates who live nearby. They had wanted to meet before stricter restrictions came in for socialising, throughout Lancashire - except Blackpool.
It seems extraordinary sleepy Knott End, for example, is in comparative lockdown (for private gatherings at home, inside or in gardens) while bustling, bawdy Blackpool isn't. However, our resort is doubly fortunate, being both a unitary local authority while, also, recording relatively low levels of Covid cases (though now rising).
I revealed to my former Gazette colleagues that not only was I lucky to live in the Blackpool district of Great Marton but, at Edmonds Towers, we also have a magic wand to wave away all those nasty virus-carrying bugs.
The ironic thing is that our battery-operated 'wand', called a 'Foldable Sterilization Wand', was - like most things today - made in China. Of course, this pandemic famously started there. However, I'm prepared to accept any compensations or deterrents they may offer. It was purchased, for £20 or so, by She Who Knows, who is also my health adviser and chief shopper.
You just open the wand and wave it closely over dodgy deliveries and so on; although not, unfortunately, upon our biggest risk – people. Its safely adapted UV-C light then zaps 99.9% of bacteria, viruses, mould and dust mites in seconds. I think it only works on hard surfaces but, there again, perhaps I could wave it at any 'hard cases' down our local pub.
Well, it all helps and I wanted to share this benefit with those unlucky to live beyond Blackpool's famous fresh air and fun. It also makes far less mess of our deliveries than previous gels, sprays and even hand wipes.
So, readers, I wave it, too, over you. May you all stay safe and happy, wherever you reside!
* * *
“I'VE gotten three A-levels!” the schoolgirl told BBC News, amid that fuss over result algorithms. Hopefully, one wasn't English. Her Americanism rather undermined outrage at under-marking pupils.
Then I heard it again from a radio announcer who'd, 'Gotten a spider bite' in her garden. Only a squirrel digging up flowers disturbed the peace of ours, in months of Lockdown which made us appreciate nature. So much so, I looked up a poem learned at school (see 'Leisure' on this website's Poem page).
'What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare; no time to stand beneath the boughs, and stare as long as sheep or cows . . .'
I even looked up its author, W.H. Davies (pictured), as is so easy now on Google. Well, what a character he was!
I'd assumed he'd be another well-bred poet of independent means, who loafed around composing dreamy verses beneath the boughs, but not a bit of it.
Welsh William (1871-1940) was brought up in a Newport pub by his oddly clashing grandparents, a retired sea captain and his chapel-crazed Missus. Young Will was a tearaway; messing up at school after 'stealing handbags', then not knuckling down to a trade. In fact, he became a tramp – or 'supertramp', also working his Atlantic passage (several times) to north America and becoming a 'hobo' then gold 'pan-handler'.
What brought him back and set him to writing poems again was a rail accident alongside another reckless vagrant, named 'Three-Fingers' Jack, which cost our Bill a leg.
He returned to London where, now aged 52, he married a girl 30 years younger in a registry office. Then he became a hit with the arty set, living in a Cotswolds cottage and with a statue of himself erected in Monmouthshire.
Why didn't they teach me all that adventurous stuff back in school? I'd have gotten more interested in literature much earlier!
* * *
THIS week saw the dramatic exit of world number one tennis player Novak Djokovic from the American Open, with automatic disqualification for dangerous hitting of the ball.
The moody Serb had casually hit the ball behind him after a point had finished, with him losing, as he struggled in the first set of a match against dignified Spanish opponent Pablo Carreno Busta. The ball hit a female line judge in her throat, making her collapse.
There was a lengthy discussion with officials but the rule held fast; only later did Djokovic apologise earnestly. Earlier he had hit a ball violently against a side boarding, but not received a warning. You wouldn't get Roger doing that!
Hopefully, this sensational incident might make a few more humble tennis players think of something I’ve often complained about on court, what I call 'ball etiquette'. It's a regular sight on our park or club courts, a thoughtlessly hit ball between points hitting a distracted player or bystander.
When this is done in anger and the ball hit hard, it can obviously be dangerous. Many's the time such a ball has narrowly missed my head or, occasionally, connected. I even managed to hit my wife on her head with a service, when we first partnered each other. But that's another story, with a happier ending.
Watch and play that ball carefully, aware of where others are on the court, while either playing a point or just walking around. It's a good lesson in life, too!
Also, another long-term grouse, don't return balls for playing until they're needed. Wait until a player wants a ball then send them one, while they're watching and with a gentle bounce, so they can catch it. Otherwise, it's a waste of everyone's time and energy.
That's simple enough, surely? Yet even the greatest fall foul of safety-first sometimes – then must pay the price.
* * *
BIG chicks are taking over our garden. Not the flirty, short-skirted sort from back in my 20s. These are of the feathered variety, though getting bolder. We've spent so long in our garden over Lockdown, they're becoming used to us.
I can imagine a chirpy conversation in our giant ivy hedge (everything's growing wildly, with this sunshine then rain). “Those two big birds are out again! Still, they seem harmless.” Meaning me and She Who Knows, once more spending a stay-safe afternoon in the sustaining sunshine; feet up after much dead-heading, reading, drinking and snacking.
Yes, Lockdown has been very much back-to-nature with our mean streets off-limits, certainly at night - except to those restless, Virus-fearless youngsters. Our garden's been a life saver, but it's grown so much into my imagination that I'm now having dreams about it – and not all pleasant.
The other night, as I told She Who, I had a nightmare about the blackbirds. These, with the smaller species of sparrows, blue-tits, wrens and robins, all share our garden refuge.
I'd been putting out yet more fast-disappearing bird food (though their only thanks is to leave white stains all over garden furniture), when yet another cheeky, chubby blackbird chick appeared.
They're so accustomed to us now, they practically feed about our feet like park pigeons. I knocked and gestured, trying to get its attention from our kitchen-door's window, pointing out the freshly hung fat balls.
However, its watching parent misread my attentions. No doubt protecting his chick, the 'father' flew at me fiercely. I knew he hadn't realised double glazing separated us. His beak rammed into our closed door so forcefully it then began to slowly open - with madly flapping bird attached. Then I awoke, rather shaken. What does it all mean, dear readers?
Is Hichcock's Birds chiller coming to reality, or maybe Covid Trauma's setting in?
* * *
COVID has made most of us feel more vulnerable in many ways. Things taken for granted aren't there anymore. Then this week we lost our best friend in this 'new normal' – the internet.
How would we get the weather, news or catch up with friends – even email in this column, all once at the touch of a finger?
I tried the usual remedies, re-plugging cables and network connections, even the old slap on the top, but not a glimmer from our devices. There was only one thing remaining, our web master - time to reach for the Sky.
After an anxious vigil of recorded music and apologies our deliverance came, a real person from 'technical support' - Clare. She listened patiently, made remote checks, then solemnly judged, “Your hub needs replacing.”
This wasn't a surprise. As I told Clare,“My hip and knee are going the same way.” She laughed sympathetically, noting also that I was an MP.
“Well, no,” I confessed. “My shaky handwriting when originally filling in the form made my 'title' look more like MP than Mr. Ever since, you've addressed me as a Member of Parliament. My wife was delighted, thinking it got us better service.”
“Not really,” Clare assured, though clearly amused, then added gently, “I'll have to demote you, sorry.”
“I'm used to that,” I told her. “So what happens next, with wifi?”
“We'll send a new router in the post,” she promised, “won't cost you anything, despite demotion.”
Trouble was, we would have to wait up to five working days! But, no, dear readers, you have your column on time. Our hub was delivered next day and, in the blinking of an electronic eye, we're up and running again . . .
Perhaps that bit of humour with Clare helped – even more than being an MP!
* * *
THE summer's not over yet, so why not make more of our beautiful coast and its facilities?
You can also discover what first attracted She Who Knows to become my partner . . .
Blackpool's biggest tennis club is offering a one-day free pass to try out the sport, or renew your acquaintance with it. It's a great way for all the family to get healthier and make new friends. I know, I grew up with tennis, enjoyed some of the best times of my life through it and even 'courted' my wife playing it. What's more, we're still in the game and meeting new people.
Committee member Helen Ashworth explained, “The aim is to open our doors to locals who may be interested in looking at the facilities and, hopefully, having a game of tennis. Visitors may enjoy a game and also chat with members. Racquets and balls will be provided.”
Families are welcome at an open day for the club on Midgeland Road just by Progress Way from 1-4pm on Saturday, but visitors can also come tomorrow evening between 6-8pm, weather permitting.
Helen added, “They can get a one-day free-tennis coupon and discover just how easy it is to pick up a racquet and have fun on court! Refreshments will be available.”
The club will also be offering new members a late-season discounted membership rate.
The long-established site, where there is also croquet, has grass, shale and floodlit all-weather surfaces as well as the coast's only purpose-made indoor court – recently upgraded; along with a tennis pavilion and spacious clubhouse offering regular social and music events. Come along!
* * *
IT'S not often I queue for the barber's, being more or less retired and also follically challenged. I just pop in at quiet times. Of course, after Lockdown, even I was desperate for 'a trim and tidy-up' - as my local gent's hairdresser calls my routine cut.
So, there I was, mask on after gelling hands, writing down name and contact details while also, impressively, getting my temperature read; then waiting with others, all 'socially-distanced'. As one teen had his head partly shaved, Mohican-style, it gave me time to think how barbers have changed since I was a lad.
The pair, one bald but with a stylish beard and moustache, the other swarthy and hirsute, were Greek-Cypriots and the first foreigners to open a business locally, before the Chinese and long before Indians.
Suddenly, the 'barber's' had a continental feel, they even had pictures of 'styles' you could have and I remember people asking for 'a Tony Curtis' with a well-greased quiff. They also brought the trendy 'square-neck' look.
Later came fashionable city-centre cutters, with eye-watering prices to match.
Now, I'm afraid, I've reverted to the trim and tidy-up. The last time I tried anything different was overseas, when a very camp Chinese hairdresser asked me how I'd like it.
“Thicker would be nice,” I quipped, but he took me literally and back-combed it all. I was horrified and looked like an ageing drag artist. Across the road I rushed into a public lavatory and stuck my head in the washbasin.
Now I'm just happy to emerge clean cut and 'tidied up' (eyebrows or other unwanted hair). What's more, even She Who Knows approves.
* * *
IT was like a stroll back into halcyon times at the weekend, as we enjoyed a sunny start to August.
I'd wandered along the side of lovely Stanley Park and found a match in full swing at Blackpool Cricket Club (pictured).
What's more, two of my favourite club teams were competing, the home first XI and Lytham's finest too. On the grand clubhouse terrace, with its panoramic view, I found familiar faces, many old friends from both clubs not seen from before Lockdown.
Some had put on weight, others lost it; some had longer hair, others a fresh look; most were in good spirits although, sadly, there was disturbing news of others who weren't.
The sun shone, while the ale and menu lived up to the award-winning reputation, now with government sponsorship mid-week too.
Our lads were skittling out the opposition, I thought, then realised in the absence of my glasses I'd mixed up the teams.
Time to move on, for recent months have changed everything. Almost outside the gate, a bus was just arriving. There was only one other passenger aboard and both of us were masked,
Then, before home, came a socially distanced, quick shop around the neighbourhood supermarket, but I was still in the garden by mid-afternoon.
We've come to savour its quiet retreat, specially at weekends; relaxing under a parasol far from the madding crowd. Those simpler home pleasures of a more restful past have been rediscovered. Now we've done up both house and garden we appreciate them even more.
Hopefully, our world's still on track to a fuller recovery but, in this indefinite meantime, let's appreciate just what we do have – here at home, on our wonderful, diverse coast.
* * *
IT was nice to have a pint again in our
traditional neighbourhood pub, here in Great Marton. Since Lockdown,
though, it's now a different atmosphere.
Worse still, was our casualty list.
There were several reported 'missing' at the Saddle Inn –
Blackpool's oldest pub - by leading barmaid Lou. They were popular
characters who'd passed away, though not necessarily from the virus.
It added to an air of solemnity. They will be remembered and missed.
Prominent among those absent was
Sailor Jack, otherwise known as Miner Jack and Oldham or more
accurately Tyldesley Jack. He and his retirement shipmate Little Paul
had skippered the inn's 'Commons' room for a decade or two. Their
doorway booth faced the TV, permanently tuned to racing. They were an
institution, even getting personal service off Lou and young
Ash-Leigh.
You could name any port in the world
and one or both of the old salts had been there, with a stock of
enjoyable tales to tell. Jack's favourite was Hong Kong, where I'd
worked, so we had much to talk about, with Paul chipping in too.
Now former ex-ship's cook Paul is in
hospital getting his old land legs rehabilitated; but Jack slipped
away quietly at home several days ago. We never talked about his coal
mining background, where he'd been severely injured in a pit
collapse, but rather his proud, action-packed years before with the
Royal Navy.
In those halcyon times he had clearly
been Jack The Lad and he retained that charming twinkle in his eyes.
We'll miss him and send our sympathy to widow Jean and their family.
* * *
NEWS of the blaze at Central Pier reminded me of enjoyable visits hobnobbing with – and even entertaining – some popular showbiz stars on our piers.
From
first days here as a reporter for this paper in the 1970s, I thought
it wonderful to stroll out on a pier. Usually it was North Pier,
near our Victoria Street offices. I'd eat my lunchtime sandwiches
amid the crash of waves and revitalising tang of sea - all enjoyed
without even getting my feet wet!
The
evening shows were uplifting, too, and I recall meeting the charming
Linda Nolan at hers on Central Pier.
Of
course, it was a different experience approaching winter.
When
my parents came to visit, sometime during the Illuminations, I took
them to see Cannon & Ball at the North Pier on Saturday night.
We
had a bracing walk along the pier in the rain and dark, during which
Mum got her high heel caught between the boards while struggling to
protect her 'hair-do'. Even once inside the famed theatre, everyone
in the audience kept on their overcoats as a howling 'draft' rattled
round the old timber rafters.
More
recently, I visited there with She Who Knows, for an end-of-pier
show. Afterwards she challenged me to ride one of the carousel
horses. We were the only two daft enough in late evening. However,
the operator kindly started it up then, at her encouragement, racked
up its speed.
As
I clung on desperately, we earned some late-night applause. It came
from no less than stars Hale & Pace, who'd emerged from the
closed theatre to witness our 'show'.
* * *
UP in our loft there's a dusty cardboard box containing my past. There are childhood and family pictures, then photo albums from later working overseas. Their covers bear the logo, 'The Times Of Our Lives'.
But my best times weren't then.
They're now, at 70-plus!
Yes, those early years were exciting
with new horizons. But, upon reflection, I've never felt as free or
fulfilled as now. There have been four months to think this over,
while keeping a Covid diary – just published - with observations
from this lifetime's experience.
The pandemic brought untold tragedy
and will long have a devastating worldwide impact. We are fortunate
to have a home with garden, pensions and each other, so this sunniest
of springs was spent peacefully with those closest to us.
There was less noise and air
pollution, which encouraged wildlife. We were grateful for those
working, but sorry for those alone, unable to earn or otherwise
suffering. It made most of us more neighbourly and caring.
'Borrowed Times', sub-titled 'Beyond
Three Score Years And Ten' is, hopefully, a humorous and uplifting
memoir, even within this coronavirus crisis. It celebrates the
treasures of life through a cartoon-illustrated collection of
anecdotes, confessions and revelations. There might even be some
useful advice!
The publisher's blurb reads, 'At
the sunset of years life is not black. The
view is glorious, with a glimmer of light upon the horizon. A veteran
newspaper columnist turns his back
on bad news and paints a brighter picture.' (I'll try, anyway.)
'Borrowed Times' is on Kindle or in paperbacks sponsored by the British Arts Council. It also includes some favourite columns from The Gazette (with thanks to the editor).
I hope it helps you, too, make the most of life, even in these troubled times.
* * *
“IF you want to know the weather, stick your head out the window!” advises our no-nonsense friend Margery. But we like to plan ahead, specially my wife.
“Tuesday looks fine for tennis,”
She Who Knows will assert, while I'll warn, “There could be
showers, also high wind.”
Of course this will be familiar to
most married couples, learning over years that husband and wife have
different recollections of the same conversation or event. No wonder
courts frown upon testimony from spouses, even the defence!
It's like a pal of mine pulled over
for speeding. He'd just been reprimanded by the officer, acted
contritely and seemed about to be pardoned for his singular offence.
Then his wife popped her head into the squad car eager to join in the
conversation, adding, “I'm always telling him he drives too fast!”
But that's another story. This one,
however, also ends with the man in the wrong. She Who Knows once
again proved she deserves that title.
The other day we were both eagerly
awaiting the TV forecast, as nowadays weather interests us far more
than news, when our regional map appeared with symbols.
“Oh dear, rain!” she exclaimed.
“But not for us,” I objected.
“Where do you think we are on this
map?” she demanded, rising and approaching the screen.
“Just above Liverpool,” I
declared, offended.
“No, we're up here!” she cried
triumphantly, pointing closer to Lancaster. It was a good inch higher
than where I've always looked.
“Here's the Ribble at Lytham, just
south of us,” she went on, finger tapping screen.
Who could deny it? I'd been wrong all
these years!
Now I wonder about those other
conversations she always remembered wrongly . . .
* * *
“I'VE got a hairdresser's appointment!” She Who Knows exclaimed, bursting joyously into my quiet study at Edmonds Towers the other day.
It had been rare rainy weather during
our usually sunny Lockdown, so we were both busy inside.
Now she could look forward to a
professional makeover on her 'barnet', which has grown bounteously.
(Though She Who's done a grand job home-coiffuring – while saving
money too!)
My feeble locks have also grown, but
more like fluff down the back of my neck. Neither am I sure when the
barber's here might open again, probably the same time as the pub
opposite, Blackpool's oldest, the Saddle Inn.
Must we order drinks via mobile
phones? Oldies find them fiddly to operate, specially when wearing
Covid rubber gloves. Sitting outside might be okay – or inside
within metre-wide 'bubbles', but that sounds rather unsociable.
Besides, you just know the weather will put a dampener upon us. It's
called Sod's Law.
Gone are the old days when we shouted
at the bar in our locals' code – “A chicken, a tiger and a couple
of hamsters, luv!” (Translates as, a pint of Speckled Hen, one of
Everards' Tiger and two Hamlet cigars.) Probably we mustn't say 'luv'
either.
Neither should I joke with the barber
if asked, “How do you want it?”, by answering, “Thicker would
be nice!” The last time I tried that, a camp city hairdresser
back-combed it and I looked like an ageing drag act. Sorry, that all
sounds very un-PC too.
She Who Knows suggests a permanent
face mask could be my 'new normal'.
* * *
IT was midsummer yesterday but our blackbird was still singing from dawn 'til dusk. He's also helped four fledglings grow and spread their wings from Edmonds Towers.
Nearby trees have spread and our
garden flourished. We've also sparrows, blue-tits and a wren; even
the robin stayed.
Then there's a curly beaked toucan,
even a golden eagle – but they're plastic. Also in the menagerie
are geese, ducks, a giant toad and red squirrel – all stone.
After ruthless spring-cleaning, She
Who Knows is re-floating the economy by spending Sunak-style at the
nearby (and dearest) garden centre. We boast a bountiful hanging
basket and have potted our new annuals and re-homed bushes into giant
pots – our Lavatera's recovering from manhandling by its roots.
There's a new trellis planter with
yellow and pink roses; honeysuckle hanging with bluish-purple
wisteria (artificial) round our new arch; then exotic crimson
climbers (plastic) among our oleander.
It's like a South Sea Island paradise,
this little corner of Eden; most pleasant to sit and read, or enjoy
snacks, drinks, even ice-lollies.
Friends are doing the same. One former
editor from this paper emailed to say, as they're now unable to visit
National Trust gardens, his wife is busily turning their own into
one.
When everyone's back working or at
school, for the remaining summer we now less vulnerable 'oldies' can
turn over a new leaf. As well as welcoming 'open' signs at
restaurants, theatres and pubs, we'll admire each others' gardens.
Amid
abundant nature, we can share afternoon teas and revive those
nostalgic, sunny days of Lockdown. Then, as evening shadows gather,
raise a toast to everyone enjoying life fully once more, safely
together.
* * *
OH MAMMA! As this newspaper rightly said, it felt like the end of an era to hear at the weekend Blackpool's most popular Italian restaurant was up for sale.
Mamma's
was an institution on Topping Street, the road regarded as the last
frontier for locals before entering tourist-land central in the
resort's nightlife.
Those
ebullient Italian waiters also helped, of course, with their lively,
dramatic manner, flattery and flirting; also the relaxing background
music – and, naturally, those reasonable prices.
How
often She Who Knows and I walked expectantly along its aromatic
entrance corridor, where the owner received all-comers at his cashier
command post.
From that dais he overlooked both the cosy bar come waiting area then also the spacious, split-level dining room. It worked like a treat, always buzzing but also reliable. Thinking of Mamma's reminded me of other nearby eateries we favoured over the years. Da Vinci, close by in King Street, regarded itself as a cut above other Italians, with its white linen tablecloths and murals of Venice and Florence.
From that dais he overlooked both the cosy bar come waiting area then also the spacious, split-level dining room. It worked like a treat, always buzzing but also reliable. Thinking of Mamma's reminded me of other nearby eateries we favoured over the years. Da Vinci, close by in King Street, regarded itself as a cut above other Italians, with its white linen tablecloths and murals of Venice and Florence.
“What
competition?” its owner once asked me, bemoaning the rise of the
pizzeria, “the others are all bread factories!”
She
Who Knows and myself came to favour another Topping Street landmark,
Casanova's, as it was usually less busy than Mamma's and genial owner
Paulo flambéed us up tasty Crêpes
Suzette for post-theatre suppers.
Paulo
still has a home in Blackpool and is often seen strolling amiably
through Great Marton, or crown-green bowling nearby. He used to draw
the theatrical stars to his cosy ristorante, after their shows, and
fondly remembers those good times.
So
do we – and thank them all - Grazzie!
* * *
THE window cleaner looked impressed. “Off to play tennis?” he inquired, when I answered his knock and paid for our regular clean. I was wearing tell-tale shorts and sports top, plus he knew we'd been keen players – before 'lockdown'.
I
encouraged him with a few veteran tips: watch the ball, move your
feet and start your swing before it bounces; keep your head still and
down, or up when serving and smashing. There are plenty more, but
he'll enjoy learning.
Thankfully,
we got out in the sunshine ourselves, now restrictions are being
eased. At South Shore Lawn Tennis Club there was also the clunk of
croquet balls and it was cheering to see newly mown grass courts
proving popular. Our long dry spell has hardened the turf, though it
is still springy underfoot, so providing better bounce while still
being gentler on aged joints than unforgiving, man-made surfaces.
Usually,
at this time of year, we'd be visiting Ilkley, where there's an
excellent pro-tournament week in the build-up to Wimbledon. Those
events are, of course, sadly lost in 2020 – like so much else –
but we were happy to stay local and 'groove' our shots with a gentle
practice.
We
also took along chairs and drinks, to relax from time to time in the
rural Marton Moss setting - while watching others build up a sweat.
Soon we'll be doing the same at leafy Lytham, with its many grass and
carpet courts – another favourite Fylde-coast amenity.
Why
don't you come along? Soon even the club bars may open again!
* * *
ON my birthday last week, while considering breakfast, I was reminded of some bizarre early-morning feasts during an extraordinary holiday tour, almost 40 years ago to the day.
All Chinese wore blue or green denim
'Mao suits' with rubber shoes. When daring to approach us, they would
closely study our leather-ware, clothing and touch our lighter hair.
The most memorable experiences came in
Shanghai. In 1980 there was little high-rise redevelopment and the
town-centre, or Bund, and Yangtze reminded me of Manchester and the
Mersey. The crowds were huge and their friendliness humbling,
specially as our Soviet-style hotel was by the city's former British
park - once bearing that infamous sign, 'No dogs or Chinese'.
Our hotel, however, didn't know what
to give us for breakfast, when Chinese simply ate rice porridge.
Imagine our surprise, on the first morning, when silver platters
revealed sausage, mash and gravy. Very tasty, even at 8am! Next
morning our anticipation for more surprises wasn't disappointed –
with a platter of jam and cream cakes to start the day.
The orchestra was warming up for a
classical concert but halted as we took our seats. Everyone turned
and stared at us. Then the conductor struck up his musicians – to
play Roll Out The Barrel, Pack Up Your Troubles and other wartime
British hits, which we were encouraged to sing along to loudly, then
enthusiastically applauded.
What
a hearty welcome! It's uplifting to remember - even in today's changed
world.
* * *
IT'S my birthday today but this column was written before then. At the time, I'd been glancing over BBC's internet news on a sunny morning hoping for something uplifting - and there it was!
PM
Boris nominated the honour and described honorary colonel and now
Captain Sir Thomas Moore as, “A beacon of light in the fog of
coronavirus.”
Reading
this in our Great Marton lockdown bunker, I brought a cuppa to She
Who Knows and said cheerily, “There's some good news at last!”
After
hearing what it was, she complained, “Oh, I thought you were going
to say, 'Hairdressers are being allowed to open'.”
I
praised her home coiffuring and longer hair, to reassure her, then
wandered off to think of others be-knighted. Lots of us may consider
certain pop singers and relatively young sports stars haven't really
earned that high honour, just doing what they get well paid for. Sir
Cliff, of course, is an exception - being another 'beacon' and
national treasure.
Then
I remembered the 1967 news footage of ageing, round-the-world sailor
Francis Chichester, staggering up Greenwich harbour steps from tiny
Gypsy Moth. He was knighted with a sword there by Her Majesty, before
cheering crowds. That made us proud!
Back
to my birthday and there's still no news of even modest personal
honours for moi, despite these upbeat despatches every week and a
shelf-full of inspiring books too! Still, I'm not down-hearted; who
knows, in another decade or two?
Meanwhile,
I'll remain a beacon for family and friends and, of course, you dear
readers.
Let's
just hope our meeting places will be safe to re-open soon, so we can
all spread some cheer there too!
* * *
THE strange quiet of Covid life reminds me of walking down Fleet Street, years ago, then turning into sheltered cloisters of the Inns of Court; stepping from noise and congestion into landscaped peace and birdsong.
Back
then, No.10 Downing Street wasn't the gated fortress where today's
Coronavirus briefings are televised. (Notice, too, how their carpet
looks like the virus, with clusters of red balls sprouting blue
spikes!)
Experts
there field questions and repeatedly use today's buzz phrase “going
forward”. One adviser used it twice in one sentence of his
uncertain assurances. The persistent media questioning and criticism
can seem equally trying, when we're all much in the dark, struggling
on for the best.
Of
course, sadly the consequences have been tragic and ruinous for many
- but also unifying. Now we're more hopeful and can see some light
ahead.
In
some ways, it'll seem a shame for roads to be packed with cars and
less wildlife abounding. Even the sky has been clearer at night and
bluer during the day while, of course, making the air we breathe
healthier. Perhaps we can recover down a Greener route.
Let's
hope, too, our over-stretched hospitals, care homes and valiant staff
get the best possible support in future – as many of us will need
them again.
Going
forward, I might impishly suggest reversing recent well-meaning but
clearly ageist rules, by limiting gatherings for all aged under
70. Give our restless young an hour's brisk exercise daily or to shop
for necessities, other than fashion, electronics or drugs.
After
all, those below retirement age should be working longer and harder,
to get our poor country – and pension investments – back on
track.
Such
a healthy regime would be beneficial for both them and their young
families so, going forward, they can all reach retirement age
themselves . . .
Then
do just what they fancy!
* * *
BELIEVE it or not, there have been some extremely exciting times during our long 'Lockdown', here in Great Marton.
I've
narrowly evaded ruthless enemy agents, while journeying across Europe
from exotic Istanbul; then I escaped from a sex-maniac wife deep in
Australia's roasting Outback, while later enjoying the high - and low
- life of Hollywood's heyday.
The
Hollywood scenes came from 'The Ragman's Son', a full-on, bravely
revealing but also amusing autobiography by Kirk Douglas.
It
was detective-mystery author Peter Robinson (in one of his books) who
helped me discover '40s thriller writer Eric Ambler, whom I've just
finished two excellent books by. Then She Who Knows put me on to more
recent author Douglas Kennedy (Outback odyssey in 'The Dead Heart').
Ambler
(who wrote screenplay for 'The Cruel Sea') was a Londoner, while
Kennedy is an American but also a well-travelled Anglophile. However,
my most regular reads have come from Peter Robinson (DCI Banks
series) and, a recent discovery, Roger Silverwood (Yorkshire murder
mysteries). They're both based in Yorkshire but, at least, the TV
version of DCI Banks is Lytham-born actor Stephen Tompkinson.
I'm
trying to redress this Pennines imbalance by my own handsome but
dangerous, Fylde-based investigator of murder and mystery Sam Stone
(seventh book on the way). Just published though, is another novel of
mine on Kindle and in paperback, about a St Annes bookseller ensnared
in sensational global affairs – and risky romance.
What's
the title, I hear
you demand! It's 'The Lost Hero' and could help you find your own
hero in these
troubled times. In a period when we all look deeper into ourselves
than usual, it's beneficial to share fictional drama, romance and
adventure, while also 'staying safe' at home.
Happy
reading to you all!
* * *
AH, the darling buds of May and my birthday month – although not so merry with our continuing lockdown. But we're still here and okay, so let's not mope!
I'm writing this
in my de-cluttered 'study', our over-flow back bedroom. It's the
morning of – well, in Covid-times it doesn't matter but at least
the sun's shining.
Great thing about
working from home is I can write on a laptop upstairs wearing
pyjamas and dressing gown then, around 9.30am-ish, nip back into bed
with She Who and our breakfast tray of toast (or rolls or hot-cross
buns), marmalade (occasionally peanut butter) and tea.
Afterwards I
return to writing, broken by mid-morning exercises to uplifting
music, and She Who Knows to her hallowed Daily Mail. After elevenses'
biscuits, lunch-times edge towards 1.30pm: with a sandwich or
'some-ut on toast', often eggs, then a cake slice “just to change
the taste”, as She Who says.
Afternoons are
spent sitting in the garden after any remaining spring-cleaning
indoors and assuming it's clement. Our spruced-up garden's flowering
with bluebells and poppies (plus a few dandelions for further
'colour'), but patio pots and wall-hangers remain empty of annuals -
still yet to emerge in-store.
I'm reading the
inspiring life story of Kirk Douglas, 'The Ragman's Son'; while She
Who Knows is into her fourth Douglas Kennedy novel.
After
mid-afternoon iced lollies, my 'beer o'clock' is 4.30, with a pint of
canned Speckled Hen. Then She Who Knows takes charge of the kitchen
and, also now inside, I pour the first red wine – then it's Talking
Pictures on telly.
Well,
it gets us by . . . cheers to you all!
* * *
MANY readers will recall mentions here of my mother-in-law Wynne. Sadly she has passed away from pneumonia but, mercifully, while asleep in the care of family.
To me, Wynne
Booker was also an interesting older friend who, though 96, remained
bright. “How are you?” I'd ask, entering her home for a
wide-ranging afternoon chat.
“Awful,” Wynne
would confess but add, “Still, I mustn't be a moaning Minnie,”
then she'd smile and inquire, “Is it too early, do you think, for a
glass of wine?”
If I complimented
her appearance, she'd wryly respond, “Thank you, dear, it just
takes longer these days.”
Her mind remained
sharp and she was supportive, with shrewd observations on my books
(she wrote an award-winning TV play herself). Above all, she was fun!
Even at bridge she injected humour, to the relief of an inexperienced
partner (me).
If reminiscing
upon her colourful travels, Wynne rarely name-dropped but might
recall remote places where she and Jack motored out to and then
picnicked. It gave a charming picture of happy years in a quieter
world, although she still took an intense interest in today's events.
Wynne always
proudly championed her adopted home of Blackpool. She supported its
Grand Theatre, nearby Stanley Park and helped conserve the resort's
history.
Sadly, under
emergency laws and health guidelines, there cannot be the send-off
Wynne deserved; no packed funeral nor service, not even condolence
cards - please.
(Ironically, Wynne was often anxious about funeral arrangements and pressures they'd place on her daughters, so perhaps might not have minded so much. She even considered leaving her body to medical science, but found that was more complicated than you'd expect.)
(Ironically, Wynne was often anxious about funeral arrangements and pressures they'd place on her daughters, so perhaps might not have minded so much. She even considered leaving her body to medical science, but found that was more complicated than you'd expect.)
Family and friends
will celebrate her 'long life well lived' at a later date.
For now, we raise
a glass at home, salute Wynne and pray she rests in peace - although,
more likely, she's making sweet music with long-missed Jack.
* * *
LOTS of time to ponder these days, while contemplating spring-cleaning, weeding or painting garden furniture in the sunshine, or later while sipping a pint of Speckled Hen.
By then I'm
usually sat opposite our little 'shed', once also my wine/beer
'cellar' but currently full of implements and cushions for our now
much-used cottage-style garden. (I only tend to drink red wine these
days, so that's better kept in our dining-room rack; while She Who
Knows likes her rosé fridge-chilled.)
Anyway, there's a
small hole in the bottom of my shed door and quite a story to that .
. . as you're going nowhere.
But then, to my
horror, the vole morphed into a rodent of several inches length –
quite alarming, specially if seen by She Who!
I learned it was,
hopefully, a fully fledged field mouse, then managed to trap it –
humanely – and 'rehome' the rascal in neighbouring wasteland, a
suitable distance away.
That was months
ago. However now, during this long virus-shutdown, I've spotted
something else using the hole – bumble bees.
Yes, it seems we
may have a nest somewhere in there. Still, I read that this should
make us feel lucky rather than anxious. Apparently, bees don't swarm.
In fact, most are males without a sting and the nest is abandoned
after a few months.
So, She Who
reluctantly agreed, it's staying for now. Our first inclination had
been to disinfect then block up hole. However, I'm learning to
respect the natural world and our place in it, as I now observe,
consider and learn.
What's more, if
everyone did that, then I doubt we'd be in this fearful mess!
* * *
DURING 'shutdown' in our Blackpool bunker, there's plenty of time to mull over life and our current affair – for there's only one in the news. It's interesting how diverse nations handle this dire dilemma, but their leaders only reflect their history and culture.
It made me think
through our prime ministers. I've lived under perhaps a dozen but
only a handful made a lasting impression.
The first was
Winston Churchill, old warrior seen on black and white telly through
the eyes of a child: bald, bent codger in dressing gown on his
birthday, smoking a cigar – extraordinary!
Next 'great man'
was peaceful Harold Macmillan, dignified and calm. In a crisis he
might raise a thick, grey eyebrow but, most likely, be going to the
races. What reassuring style and aplomb.
But this isn't
party politics, just those I instinctively trusted, admired or, at
least, rather liked.
The next coming to
mind would be Harold Wilson, canny Yorkshireman smoking pipe
(although really preferring cigars). As my Labour-voting father
observed, “You can knock him down but he just bounces up again!”
More recently, I'd
warm to John Major who seemed more 'ordinary' and intrinsically
decent, though probably - being from a circus family - used to
turning somersaults and quite different to how he appeared. At least
he didn't step from a privileged background or Oxbridge brains trust.
We could relate to him.
Of course, events
may make a disaster of the best, well-meaning men, or women. Mrs
Thatcher appeared soundly sensible at first but that hairstyle and
manner warned of unshakeable sternness to come. I'd probably not get
along with any of them, even those admired.
Much to my
surprise, if pressed to pick one as temporary companion, my vote
would be for boisterous Boris. He's got some bounce! May his
salvation prove to be our own.
* * *
LAST week I compared our present social 'shutdown' with the far worse war years of our forebears, which reminded me of boyhood days. Although a child of the post-war 1950s, there was still rationing, bomb-sites and a stronger sense of community than now. I'd like to share some vague, very early memories before even school years.
We moved into a new council house, in
Valley Road, Flixton, nowadays part of Trafford but then a leafy
suburb of Manchester. I can't remember where our family – Mum, Dad,
older brother Mike and little me – had been before, but somewhere
rented and problematic I think. My mother was excited about the new
house's modern conveniences and heating, with gardens front and back.
At night and in the regular fogs we
had then, I would hear their funnel hoots from my bedroom,
especially at New Year when I was awoken at midnight by their
celebratory tooting. It made me feel that all the world was close and
friendly. I still do, for the most part.
We were there only a couple of years
before taking over grandmother's house in nearby Urmston – which we
all loved. But when, many years later, I returned to Valley Road it
stunned me that its green where I'd played was so small and the ship
canal deserted.
Still, those plaintive hoots and
kindly waves stay with me, sustaining hope and faith in our future.
(All the best to you on this eerily quiet yet poignant Good Friday.)
* * *
WE'RE all going through a historic disaster which has shaken our domestic, social and working lives to the core. Yet, there have been much worse in living memory, so let's not panic or over-dramatise.
Our grandparents and, in many cases,
parents faced going to war, not just staying at home; also it was for
years rather than, as we fear, months. They, too, queued for food but
for far longer in terms of numbers and time, with rationing going
beyond war years. No, they didn't have to 'social distance', but they
had the nightly blackout we can scarcely imagine. Also, those staying
at home were bombed!
Let's hope our shared dilemma creates
a similar sense of communal unity, responsibility and awareness.
That, certainly, wouldn't do us any harm and goes for nations too.
Even after the war, my own parents
didn't get out at night much for almost 20 years. After feeding and
clothing us children they didn't have any money. By comparison, we
post-war generations have enjoyed charmed lives. There is time on our
hands now to ponder that and be grateful.
I also felt historic upon hearing
Manchester Central, formerly G-Mex, was to be a coronavirus hospital,
remembering it still earlier when a rail station. From Urmston I
commuted daily to the city in a packed guard's van. Still earlier, I
remember steam trains filling the vaulted, glazed roof with their
clouds, the noise, the excitement . . then there was the music.
As a teen I saw greats such as Count
Basie, Simon & Garfunkle and Bob Dylan at the neighbouring Free
Trade Hall. Afterwards came a pint at Cox's Bar, opposite Central,
much used by railway workers and the Hallé Orchestra in work
intervals. There was also a mynah bird there which mimicked patrons'
calls.
“Keep
your peckers up!” I hear it now caw.
* * *
AS the dark cloud of pandemic remains over us all, at least our weather has improved. The sun is shining and British summertime arrives.
There's been hardship for all with
this dramatic, even disastrous change in daily lives. She Who Knows
was suffering an arthritis flare-up and so very vulnerable.
Fortunately her trusty, old retainer (me) remains in reasonable
health, thanks to a homely diet, in-house exercise and drinking less
since nearby pubs closed.
Apart from my grocery shopping we've
stayed at home, while sending best wishes to indomitable
mother-in-law Wynne, recovering from pneumonia in a respite centre.
'Social distancing' needn't mean being
out of touch with everyone. Social media helps, plus phone calls and
notes, even occasional chats to neighbours over fences. Most
importantly, we needn't be distanced spiritually. This is a time to
unite us, perhaps rediscovering what's at the heart of our lives.
I've been reading more and enjoyed a
poem which advocated remembering all our good things in the day, as
we go to sleep at night – so as to hold on to and awaken to them.
In my case this would be watching someone loved at last recovering
from ill health; but also smaller triumphs, like seeing the garden,
or a corner of our home, looking more cared for after a tidy up.
Then there's the joy of reading
others' stories, biography or fiction - which isn't just 'made up',
by the way. Instead these come from another's experience, thoughts
and sentiments, bringing us all closer together – across the world
and even through time.
All these good
things remind us we're fortunate and never truly alone.
* * *
DON'T despair, it was the first day of spring on Friday (March 20); the season of fresh beginnings. Even our weather now feels like spring!
Yes,
these are worrying times; some are panicking, adding to shortages,
and most of us have fears or concerns. That's only natural but let's
hold on to common sense and keep the faith.
For
what better season to be at home, in your garden in spring sunshine? As
the poet said, 'We're nearer God's heart in a garden than anywhere
else on earth.'
Nature holds the key to our health and happiness; the food we eat; the way we live, how we treat ourselves. Mankind has advanced dramatically, life is easier and better for most, but we must respect that balance with the natural world around us - or pay a terrible price. What we sow we reap, it was said, and that goes for planting too.
Nature holds the key to our health and happiness; the food we eat; the way we live, how we treat ourselves. Mankind has advanced dramatically, life is easier and better for most, but we must respect that balance with the natural world around us - or pay a terrible price. What we sow we reap, it was said, and that goes for planting too.
I read in a magazine that the 20,000 leaves of a mature oak release enough oxygen into our atmosphere for the needs of half a dozen people. Trees also lessen storm disasters, preventing ground saturation. A large tree can suck up 500 litres of water a day, through roots to leaves, enriching and binding the soil while drying land and offsetting floods.
Reforestation
in the Sahara has apparently rehabilitated five million hectares of
desert, now producing 500,000 tons of food a year. There's nature at
work for you; also offering shelter, shade, sweet fruits and lifting
our spirits too! With the end of winter our blossoming trees are a
sign of hope.
The
good book had another tip for us too, as told to that multitude on
the mount: 'Think not of tomorrow, for tomorrow shall bring thoughts
for all its own things.' We must be patient.
* * *
AT the weekend we took a short drive to the theatre and a long ride back in time.
We
were visiting the Lowther at Lytham. (Please, don't change this cosy
theatre, we love it as it is - and the café!)
Again
it was packed, with a mostly grey-haired audience but also exuberant
younger 'uns. (Must they stand up, wave phones and whoop?) We were
happy sitting, after toasted meal and with plastic wine glass in
hand, to relive 'The Magic of Motown'.
Standing
In The Shadows Of Love, Tears Of A Clown, Dancing In The Street, The
Grapevine, Baby Love . . . it was all there from this tribute band.
Instead
we had played those hit singles on record players in suburban-home
bedrooms; wearing waisted shirts and flared trousers, while
practising dance moves. Come weekend, I'd splash on my Brut body
lotion (and still do) then, with an equally spruced-up mate, catch a
bus into town.
There
we'd join the 'cattle market' of males, standing by a dance-floor
trying to look 'cool', watching mini-skirted girls gyrate round their
handbags - studiously ignoring us.
When
we finally built up courage to ask for a dance they'd politely
oblige, shrugging at our shouted jokes and questions drowned by disco
music. Then, with a discreet nod to their friend, they'd tell us,
“Thank you,” and depart. (Most of us met eventual girlfriends at
work, or local youth clubs.)
At
the Lowther we relived those wistful days. How thrilling it all
seemed! Still, the party's not over yet. Tonight 'Tina Turner' is
there. We'll be pushing back the city limits of Nutbush - wherever
that was!
* * *
THERE'S a spring in my step, lifted by our emergence from what seems the warmest winter yet. Yes, I know we've had gales, sleet and, for many unfortunates, desperate flooding, but I've barely got to wear my chunkier sweaters, let alone heavy boots.
Being
retired, except for this column and occasional books, I was hoping
for snow – always delightfully picturesque, when you don't have to
work! Oh to sit, warm drink to hand, watching a plucky robin in your
Christmas-scene garden.
One
book on the way is a look at life after 70. In dark humour it's
entitled 'Borrowed Times'. But, thankfully, we're now pushing back
those allotted biblical boundaries of three score years and 10. As I
write this I'm in a tracksuit after a brisk walk, while my personal
health adviser – She Who Knows – is at her yoga class. Later
we're heading out to an afternoon dance . . . yes, it's all go, here
at Edmonds Towers!
In
my head, you see, I'm barely past 40. It's just those caring comments
from others which can surprise and unsettle me.
“Would
you like my seat?” offered a polite schoolgirl on a bus the other
day. I obliged, simply to encourage her good manners.
Similarly,
my dentist always asks nowadays if my medication has changed . (No, I
don't take any!) Then they solicitously inquire if it's all right to
slowly lower the chair backwards worried, no doubt, I'll get a dizzy
spell . . .
They
mean well, of course, but don't they know - I'm still a youngster at
heart!
* * *
Meet another colourful personality from Blackpool, jovial barmaid Jess . . .
FANCY a lively night out? Perhaps some city 'gig' appeals, or trendy Lytham wine bars, even a wild revel round Blackpool's clubland?
I
asked the barmaid at Blackpool's award-winning micro-pub, the Number
10 Ale House, where she went for an adventurous evening out.
The
lively blonde adores its diverse entertainment spots, while also a
loyal patron of local beauty and tattoo parlours.
How
times change! When I returned to Blackpool in the 80s, the Gazette
accommodated me above a Bond Street newsagent's. Unfortunately, it
was after the season finished and most of South Shore closed - for
the locals' own holidays in Spain. My first night in this then
run-down area, I visited a pub in York Street. It was aptly named The
Gauntlet, now also closed, but after a tired pie I left immediately -
when a fight broke out.
More
recently, we've enjoyed restaurants and café bars around Highfield
Road, but Jess can't get enough of South Shore's bright lights. She
exudes the holiday-coast spirit and believes in having fun.
“Forget
'Dry January',” she encouraged a moping customer last month. “it's
too cold and miserable as it is! New year resolutions are better left
'til later.”
Thankfully,
her appetite for life shows no sign of flagging. “I enjoyed a bacon
barm for lunch” she confessed the other day, “but fancied a cake
to finish. Unfortunately, they only had family-sized. Still, I only
ate half of it.”
May
kindly Jess long enjoy having her cake and eating it. With an
all-year tan and matching sunny disposition, ready smile and
vivacious style, she's a cheery champion for this holiday coast.
What's
more, have you heard which town offers the freshest air in England?
Yes, it's official - South Shore, of course.
* * *
This week's column in The Gazette was pulled just before publication to make way for an interesting 'vox pop' of public views on new attractions to our diverse holiday coast. I'd written about a popular barmaid at a local hostelry, here in Great Marton, who always supported her own district of Blackpool and the Fylde, as Lancashire's Irish Sea coast is named. Anyway, that or similar might appear in next week's paper. In the meantime, it inspired me to write about the coast we both love.
WHEN I first came to Blackpool, back in the late 1970s, I thought it all like outsiders see it - a brash, seven-mile stretch of seaside entertainments, some as saucy as those old seaside postcards, all 'close to the knuckle' so to speak and also quick to grab your hard-earned money.
Soon I learned all of its districts and neighbouring towns were very different, although many of these became wealthy off Blackpool's plump, fun-loving back. In those days, there was fishing town Fleetwood; sleepy shrimping port Lytham; sedate St. Annes and in-between suburbs like Ansdell, Fairhaven, Thornton and busy Cleveleys - all with their special charm and market towns and villages in the rolling countryside.
What more could you ask for, with the Lakes on your doorstep too? Many couldn't believe it when I later chose to return, then marry and stay here, after living first in London, then Hong Kong and later Sydney.
I couldn't forget that first surprise drive to work at the Gazette, then sited just in the shadow of Blackpool's famous Tower, and seeing a line of elephants trunk-to-tail crossing the Promenade dual carriageway and tram tracks to go on the beach. You were closer to the wildlife than in Africa! They were from the Tower Circus and if you walked behind the Tower in Bank Hey Street you could have been in Rome, ancient Rome that is. The intensely acrid smell of lion urine came up from the cages below, rather as they must have in the old Coliseum to worried Christians.
Everyone who was anyone came to Blackpool and, even away from the Prom or 'Golden Mile' of seaside entertainment and attractions, there is still the same alluring mix of stardust, sawdust and, of course, sand. It always attracted a great diversity of characters to live here, too. I touched upon all this in my humorous memoir 'Bright Lights & Pig Rustling', then in the popular 'Sam Stone investigates' series of thrillers.
Personally, I enjoy the coast's oldest district of Great Marton, where we have some of the oldest and newest hostelries and, still, a lively village atmosphere. I tried to express that in a Victorian period mystery entitled '50 Shades of Bass', while also capturing some of its characters in my dedication to my 'local' and Blackpool's oldest pub in 'Saddle Up!'.
But at our newest hostelry in Great Marton, the Number 10 Ale House micro-pub, barmaid Jess is a champion of Blackpool's South Shore district. This area has all the old seaside sauciness, just like Jess herself. But with her extravagent eyelashes, all-year-round tan, stunning blonde hair and vivacious personality, she also reflects it latest bright lights too.
And, what's more important, like most of us here on this friendly coast, she's a fun-loving person with as big an appetite for life as she has for cakes. Jess does have her cake - and eats it!
Hopefully, you'll hear more about South Shore's blonde bombshell in next week's Gazette column.
* * *
February might still be very chilly, and stormy here, but Valentine's Day adds a warming touch . . .
COME
on, you romantics, it's Valentine's Day! That's a date all women
should enjoy and She Who Knows (“I'm only a girl,” she says) is
no exception.
Back
on our first Valentine's evening together, many years ago but still
fondly remembered, I was impressed by a whole row of cards she had on
display. Only later did I learn these had been saved over years -
then put out to keep me keen.
Rightly,
these days, every effort is made for equal rights to the sexes.
However, that doesn't mean we're just the same. Vive la différence,
I say.
Busy
young mums or any lady (and I use the term deliberately) appreciate
being treated, well, like a lady. Also, what warm-blooded male
doesn't get a buzz out of showing some chivalry in that direction?
The
other day I was just fixing new light-bulbs for my aged mother-in-law
and basked in the glow of her heartfelt thanks. What's more, I
complimented her on some tartan slacks she was wearing and she
simpered like a flattered, young thing.
'Manners
makyth man' was my school motto, while some harmless flirting also
helps the world go round.
Incidentally,
we don't tend to go out for meals now on Valentine's – I take on
the job myself. These days my dinner suit is a bit too tight to wear
but, then, it is only the two of us dining.
What's
the meal? Well, you can't beat that old, winning recipe to cheer the
heart: prawn cocktail, fillet steak (with rich sauce) and something
darkly delicious and sweet to follow . . . with some bubbly, of
course, to add that sparkle!
* * *
“WE'VE been reminiscing and might go back to playing squash,” one of two old pals informed me over drinks at the weekend. “We've got the gear, I just need shorts,” he added, “36 inch waist.”
Even
lads earwigging on the next table laughed. He might wear that size
trousers, under his paunch, but his waist past 36 the same year he
had.
Still,
they were trying to get fitter. I advised against a slow
'yellow-spot' ball, as they'd get knackered just warming up. A
beginners' blue, or a red one were preferable.
He
added, “My surgery's full of old squash players.”
Yet
it was at that club I witnessed our dynamic coach (Stuart Baron, I
think) thrashed in a match by a portly, elderly Indian. Stuart had to
lie down afterwards, while his veteran opponent just strolled to the
bar.
My
favourite ageing squash-man tale comes from the flight to Hong Kong
when going there to work in the 80s. A group of players had boarded,
storing racquets above their heads. One seemed familiar so, when
going to the loo, I halted and asked, “'Scuse me, but aren't you
Phil Kenyon?” (An upcoming Blackpool star I'd watched days before.)
“No,”
said the grinning chap, though his wife looked daggers at me, “but
I know him, how do you know Phil?”
We
chatted then, before leaving, I asked, “Sorry, what is your name
anyway?”
“Jonah
Barrington,” he said.
The
six-time world champion (pictured above) saw my embarrassment and kindly added,
“Thanks, anyway, Phil's years younger than me.”
* * *
OUR meals and nights out have changed gradually since retirement. It's isn't just being on a fixed income. We have more time for cooking at home and to enjoy different activities during daylight hours.
Neither
do we still seek fashionable places but, rather, somewhere relaxing
to spend longer over a meal, drinks or just chatting and reading.
Last
weekend I was savouring an afternoon beer or two with pals inside our
cricket club, when our ears and nerves were assaulted by a barrage of
excited shrieking from tiny but healthy lungs. We couldn't hear
ourselves think and stared at the offending family in reproach, as
did others until then enjoying a pleasant meal overlooking the
surrounding greenery. The parents, however, seemed completely unaware
and clearly indifferent to this high-decibel mayhem.
It
used to be heavy smokers or drunks we avoided when dining out
previously; now it's uncontrolled children. Complain and you are met
with disbelief, contempt or even abuse – from those selfish
parents.
“Couldn't
you possibly put a dummy in their mouth?” we appealed to one such
mother, when our special evening at a favourite restaurant was ruined
by screaming.
“He's
only a baby!” (he wasn't) she protested, looking outraged. But
isn't that just the time to start behaviour training?
Of
course, the real dummies are these anti-social 'grown-ups'. I'm
afraid they deserve all the unruly disruption and chaos they're
nurturing, which will blight their family lives for years to come.
However,
please, allow the rest of us some peace and consideration!
* * *
It used to hearten me to see savings grow but today we're lucky to have any . . .
I
RECEIVED a letter from my bank the other day. No, it wasn't a dire
warning. We manage to keep out of penury, thank God.
Not
that the banks mind you getting behind these days; they actively
encourage us into debt – for the fat fees on overdrafts. My wife
was even asked, down at the branch before it closed, if she fancied a
mortgage. It had taken a lifetime to get rid of the last one!
No,
this note was on friendly, first-name terms - to inform me our humble
savings account was to have its interest rate 'reduced'. I didn't
think it could get smaller, without disappearing! This was,
apparently, in line with what other banks were doing.
When
I checked details, our interest was being halved – from a poultry
0.20% to a risible 0.10%. Looking over the ('non-payment') accounts
listed, only one approached a full 1% and had to have £50,000
invested.
We're
with the NatWest. I'm glad they've dropped the 'caring bank' title
after closing their busy, well staffed branches. But they're all the
same, it seems. They want us to pay monthly fees for keeping our
money and making profits from it.
Older
readers and savers might recall those fulfilling days of 5% on such
sensible saving; then tax-friendly ISAs. Interest rates even rose
once to 15% when, unfortunately, our mortgages were hammered.
I
even fondly remember my first account, at our friendly Trustees
Savings Bank, when proudly taking in my piggy bank as a child.
Perhaps
reliably run community credit unions are the answer, to help
struggling families get by safely. Otherwise, the young are
encouraged to borrow, borrow, borrow . . .
It
sounds like that first big Pools winner, who was going to “spend,
spend, spend”. She ended up tragically, as I recall.
* * *
This week found us in Great Marton all of a twitter . . .
THE
big fella, with the long hair and beard, looked like he'd just strode
out of the Coen Brothers' remake of True Grit. He ambled into the
Number 10 Ale House bar on Whitegate Drive and sidled up to me, his
glinting eyes never deviating from mine.
“I've
been counting the score,” he muttered, with a deadly calculating
look as he towered over me, where I rested against a welcome warm
radiator beside the bar. “There were at least 20 goldfinches in my
garden, on a special fat-ball I've hung up there.”
“Good
heavens!” I exclaimed. “We've only had one in mine. Mind you, I
reckon it was a bullfinch; beautiful thing, dazzling blue, black and
red.”
The
others nearby, Colin the barman – always an avid bird fancier;
owner genial George and the manager dashing David, as fast moving as
his vapour trail, all looked impressed.
“Glad
to see my first robins,” said Irish Tom, bristling into the
conversation.
Yes,
we men were discussing garden birds.
“You
know,” I said to Big Mick, the one with those finches, “when I
retired from the Gazette, the first thing I did was get a book on
birds and another on trees.” (In fact, the first thing really was
to enjoy some Draught Bass at the nearby Saddle Inn, Great Marton,
Blackpool's oldest inn).
“We
put out a smorgasbord of bird treats, but my neighbour gets flocks of
starlings,” Mick told us. “He's got Rowan berries they adore.”
His eyes narrowed. “My cats just love it!”
Yes,
folks, raw nature's still an amazing and exciting thing, even among
us macho northern men. It's vital to get the youngsters interested
too!
The
important thing is keeping the wild in our west, on this beautiful
coast of ours.
* * *
We didn't exactly whoop it up at New Year but it was a fine time. Now life returns to more normal it's worth remembering that mood.
THE festive period
just past drew me to our C. of E. church. All was warm and friendly
and it was good to see hymns included old favourites Hills Of The
North Rejoice and Hark The Herald Angels Sing, or so I thought at
first.
In fact, Herald
Angels turned out to be another, less hearty hymn most people didn't
know and only murmured beneath the choir's soaring tones. Even worse,
old school favourite Hills of the North seemed slower and less
rousing. Had I remembered it wrongly? Then I spotted a note in the
new-style hymn book – it had been 'amended'.
Was this the same
kill-joy revision trying to ban the triumphal singing of Jerusalem
and Land Of Hope And Glory on the Last Night Of The Proms?
Fortunately, the hearty audiences still insist upon them.
Even the Lord's
Prayer is revised, though I still chant the traditional version which
has sinners 'trespassing' and 'power and glory for ever and ever'.
The heart of the
matter is that, despite all our feasting and celebrating, true joy
springs from within; not from amended hymns or new-style prayers
either. Let's continue to sing out loudly for that spiritual
gleefulness which makes us glad to be alive.
Such fulfilment
doesn't depend upon owning more things; nor by being at the top of
the pile; not even from such pleasures as eating or drinking; but
upon our soul.
I'm
not one to preach but, throughout this uncertain New Year, let's
remember what really counts and keep our mood bright. Goodwill
needn't end with the season, let's share that sentiment right
through!
* * *
Tis the season of goodwill . . . let's share those sentiments still!
IT'S
the thought that counts, they say. In the case of gifts, however,
that isn't true if foolishly leaving on a lowly price tag.
Over
past days we've been appreciating what Santa brought last week, while
savouring a stay-at-home New Year celebration.
“You
bought me a book costing just £2!” she accused me, quite wrongly
as it turned out. That price label I'd overlooked, even though on its
front cover, actually read, '£2 off'. It cost me a lot more than
that.
Still,
it took us back to a distant birthday when I procured her a
fur-lined, suede jacket – from a charity shop.
I've
perked up my act since then so, this year, felt unfairly accused over
that book. Still, her other presents from me – fancy (expensive)
cream, special (luxury) chocolates and cosy (embroidered) slippers
then, ahem, a diamond necklace, left her joyful and, eventually,
honest with me too.
“Actually,”
she coyly admitted, after I'd opened many thoughtful gifts – books
on poetry, cricket and grammar – plus classy wine, along with some
manly cosmetics to repair over-indulgence, “that cosy woollen hat I
got you, which you like so much, was from Poundstretchers.”
So,
never mind a so-called £2 book, she'd spent only half of that on one
of my prezzies!
Still,
after a slap-up steak meal cooked, for once, by me on New Year's Eve,
yesterday we were out and about and able to laugh it all off . . .
Both
her £2 discounted book and, sported proudly and widely admired, my
even cheaper woolly cap.
* * *
Boxing Day, as we call the day after Christmas here in UK, brought some touching memories and grateful thoughts . . .
BOXING
Day in Victorian times was when toffs 'boxed up' a hamper of festive
goodies for servants who'd worked hard to make their employers'
Christmas Day jolly.
Nowadays
it's more about the family getting out and working off Christmas
calories with a walk, or to watch sport in the fresh air (and on big
screens at the pub).
Back
in the 50s and 60s, when I was growing up, it was a dull, non-event
sort of day when nothing happened and everywhere was shut. All you
had to look forward to was cold turkey and chips - delicious too!
It
was great, though Fred was rather old-fashioned and disapproved of us
lads having festive shandies, as Dad suggested. He also caught me
smoking an old cigar I found behind their piano, which made me sick.
However, when I trapped my hand in a train door before returning to
Manchester, stuffy Fred seemed very concerned.
Then
we grew into our teens and our elderly Gran came to stay with us,
though we had less space than other relatives. Also, Daisy died - so
we didn't visit so much. However, when Fred too passed on he
surprised the whole family – who'd gathered for his considerable
spoils.
Fred
had left the lot to my parents – for kindly taking in Gran when
others wouldn't. It was a case of kindness returned and also allowed
my hard-working Dad to finally retire.
So,
that's what Boxing Day still means to me – a time to be thankful,
for kindness and our blessings.
* * *
Here's my Christmas message come column, from Thursday's Gazette.
THANKFULLY,
it's all done now, apart from some Christmas gift wrapping and, of
course, those last-minute panic buys. At last, the main festive
shopping is sorted, cards sent and arrangements complete – we hope!
Families
do get separated nowadays and some of ours are as far as one can go,
baking in New Zealand's summer. Also, we're none of us getting
younger or as inclined to travel. So, as we do finally put up our
feet and relax, let's also think of those who aren't at their
healthiest or best and wish them well.
The
same rather goes for that bad-tempered and rushed General Election
just past – and now resolved. Like Christmas festivities, it's a
leap of good faith in humanity, welfare and trust. Nothing we do is
perfect and none of us know what's best all the time. We're entitled
to our opinions and should respect others' rights too.
Let's
accept how events have settled; commiserate with those who lost but,
also, support those now burdened with honouring pledges and
promises; try to forget old differences so keenly felt and fought
over.
As
with Christmas, let's show tolerance and share goodwill. It's only by
pulling together we will progress and share in the plentiful benefits
of these times. Let's light up these chilly but warm-hearted seasonal
days with hope; keep the faith and do our best – together; then our
New Year truly will be better, for all.
Merry
Christmas!
* * *
It was all about the UK's General Election on this Thursday and today, of course, we know Boris has won with a national landslide while, here in Great Marton, Labour has also lost to the Tories too. At least it means someone has a working majority in Parliament and can get on with governing. Now it's over to him to deliver all those promises. We'll see!
SO,
it's our big Election Day; the start of a new era, but with whom at
the helm? I can't make up my mind but feel a civil duty and debt to
those who fought for our freedom and right to vote.
Politicians
all sound so convincing. No sooner has some election broadcast
impressed, then a campaign leaflet sways me again. She Who Knows is
of firmer mind and we often agree on our course but, afterwards, my
doubts return. The heart pulls one way, the head the other; then vice
versa.
So
our views and votes do matter, at least to us. However, as a teenager
I joined the Young Socialists to 'save the world' but, also, because
their hall had a pool table. Later I regretted it, noticing Young
Conservative discos attracted more girls.
Do
we still plough on with Brexit? The nation's bitterly divided and
we're stuck in a dithering stale-mate. Also, it seems, you can read
anything you like into all those immigration, economic and other
statistics, depending on how optimistic or pessimistic your mood.
I've looked and listened and, frankly, it's anyone's guess how it all
adds up.
Then
there's the flagging NHS, social priorities, our security and
inequality. I've experienced both privilege but also the lack of it –
and now despise both. Perhaps, sadly, it comes down to self-interest
but, then, will I still be here for those distant promises?
What
a dilemma! Still, today, it's a cross we should all bear – and
make.
* * *
This week's column had a certain sartorial smugness - or should that really be snugness!
RECENTLY
this column achieved more elevated status in our favourite local
paper, by being raised to the top of its page (if only to make room
for an advert).
Another
change in its appearance last week was an unexpected photo of me
wearing “the famous green jumper”.
This
is what She Who Knows calls my aged garment as, after retiring from
full Gazette employment, I was infamously pictured wearing it with
the first of my published books.
As
I write this I've again got it on. There's frost outside and hardy
gardener Joe, renowned from the nearby Saddle Inn, is battling our
overgrown hedge in bobble-cap and scarf. He has also just inquired if
we've had a power cut, since the kettle isn't yet on!
Next
week will see a Yuletide gathering of retired male colleagues at
Poulton's cosy Thatched House pub – with many old jumpers on view.
I'll be in a colourful one even more ancient than the famous green
one, while still wondering to whom it belonged. You see, I found the
multi-coloured woolly discarded in a corner of the office years ago,
tried it on and, as no one seemed to miss it, kept it. I often wear
this at winter reunions but the original owner hasn't yet come
forward. (“Too ashamed,” says She Who.)
I
have favourite old trousers, too, along with worn-out tartan shirts
which I hide from She Who Knows' clear-outs. A man gets attached to
such togs and they're also useful for gardening, which reminds me . .
.
Joe
says he wouldn't mind having the famous green jumper, should I ever
tire of wearing it.
* * *
A heavy frost outside, as I add this week's Gazette column, but we're warm and cosy within . . .
THERE'S
a chill in the air but something else, warming the heart upon
entering Edmonds Towers – that timeless aroma of home baking.
With
mouth-watering Christmas recipes in the glossy magazines, She Who
Knows has been inspired back into her kitchen apron - with, of
course, my encouragement.
After
both Hunter's Chicken on Saturday, then roast pork Sunday, we enjoyed
her filo apple pie, densely rich in fruit with mixed spice beneath
the most flaky pastry, sprinkled with icing sugar – yum!
This
was where my considerable contribution came in – I pealed the
apples. No, don't scoff at my efforts! There were two big cooking
apples and a pair of sweet, green ones. Since I'd forgotten we had a
peeler and corker in a bottom drawer, it took almost half an hour.
There was a time we could all peel efficiently, specially spuds, but
today the chips come in frozen packets.
As
a child I'd 'help' mother on baking day for, like washing day, every
household had one. She let me make small, open-topped tarts riddled
with pastry borders around different jams – what a mess! Still, it
was fun. Nowadays some retired mates even boast of their cake-baking
prowess.
The
kitchen truly is the heart of the house on such days and, with Jack
Frost breathing down our necks, I'll be encouraging She Who to repeat
previous winter triumphs – like seafood and spinach pie or a
macaroni,tomato and potato one . . . bring it on, I say!
* * *
Sorry, I'm a day late posting this as we had a busy time yesterday and, come evening, went to see Elton John. (Well, a tribute act where, of course, everyone whooped but, rather romantically, the backing group's drummer came off stage and proposed on one knee to a girl in the row behind us, who accepted him - they did know each other, we presumed!)
EDMONDS
Towers is still a whoop-free zone – until, that is, we switch on
the telly.
This
I rarely do, loving peace and quiet. However, She Who Knows turns it
on if only passing through our living room into the kitchen.
If
you look up 'whoop' – as in 'to holler' - you'll learn both these
came from the States. Whooping was originally used by cowboys to
startle cattle into moseying on, which it makes me do – usually to
the sanctuary of my upstairs so-called study. 'Red Indians' (sorry,
not very P.C. I know) also famously made whooping chants to instil
terror into early settlers.
The
answer is that whooping makes over-excitable, childish and selfish
people feel important and, as they desperately want, draws others'
attention toward them. It's the call of someone who can't contain
themselves, especially in public auditoriums.
Probably
these hyped-up whoopers have been over-doing those unhealthy sugary
drinks (also mostly American) - or other, less legal substances.
Whatever
the cause, as soon as She Who Knows is out of earshot I turn the
telly to mute – or, once she goes back upstairs, switch it off.
Last
weekend we saw whooping reach new heights as Strictly Come Dancing
came to Blackpool Tower Ballroom. TV previously used 'warm-up
comics' before variety shows, now they must have whooper-uppers -
waving placards to stir up everyone. By contrast, if I murmur any
remarks while we await the results, I'm immediately shushed!
Fortunately,
I'd already anaesthetised myself with dinner wine.
* * *
This week's column might help you ease the strain of Christmas shopping and electioneering fatigue!
IT'S
a typical retirement day as I write this. Although not yet 10am,
we've breakfasted (lightly) and I've seen off She Who Knows to her
yoga class. That and some other similar stretching exercises at home
keep her remarkably supple.
Despite
jogging around the block and doing vigorous press-ups and sit-ups for
years, my knees were shot and neck so stiff I had to turn round
inside the car to glance backwards. I should have learned from those
surprisingly fit orientals I used to work alongside in the colonies:
gently does it for physical and spiritual well-being, especially as
you age.
Now
instead of knackering myself trying to stay youthful, I enjoy a
routine of what used to be called Chinese shadow-boxing but which is
much more graceful - even from me. It's all about flowing stretches,
steady balance and proper posture. It may not leave me sweating and
breathless but all my body seems to benefit and I feel more wholesome
too!
Other
easy and enjoyable fitness tips, we've found, are dancing (not disco
or break-dance) and, of course, some regular walking, cycling or
swimming.
As
one who savours life's pleasures, I would add the proviso, 'Just
don't over do it!' Enjoying your routine is also part of staying well
and happy.
Take
that ballroom routine, we might not be as exciting as BBC's hit show
Strictly, but our afternoon tea dances attract couples aged up to
their 90s – who are still free of walking sticks.
Oh,
and lastly comes my favourite tip. As a hospital consultant once
advised, “Keep drinking Draught Bass (or other cask ale), it's the
best medicine for your great bowel.”
* * *
Politics is hard to get passionate about but people used to . . .
THE
blackboard sign outside some joker's shop said it all: 'Electile
Dysfunction – occurs when none of the parties appeal in a general
election'.
Even
the most ardent party activist must feel confused, betrayed or worn
out by now. Isn't it stressful enough to have Christmas approaching
without also dropping a general election upon the weary British
public?
Of
course, all candidates are putting on their best party hats under the
camera lights, while bearing gifts and goodwill to all. How will we
ever pay for it all? What's more, how long will that goodwill last
once the long winter chill sets in?
I'm
not greatly excited about independence from Westminster for the UK's
member nations, but note that they would deny it to us from Brussels
- despite that poll three years ago.
But
if we look instead to leading personalities in the main debate, I
must say that Boris and Nigel seem the jollier contenders to be our
December 12 Father Christmas. Jeremy just appears so grumpy and dull.
On the other hand, are BoJo and Nige really laughing at us, we ever
hopeful, conscientious voters?
Are
there answers from abroad? Many dismiss Trump as a dangerous clown
but we also wrote off Ronald Reagan as a Hollywood cowboy – and he
rode off into the sunset as a popular, successful president of eight
years. Perhaps, like those tough-talking, go-getting Americans, we
should put our own self-interests first . . .
Or
ought we to do the Christian thing at this time of year – and save
the planet with the Lib-Dems and Greens? Beats me.
* * *
A salutary tale this week, plumbing the depths . . .
THEY'VE
started calling me Golden Balls at my local pub though, unlike David
Beckham, it's got nothing to do with soccer skills . . .
Well,
I've not been completely honest there. The new moniker, in full, is
actually Golden Ballcock.
It
amuses builders, who drink there in late afternoon, that I paid
almost £100 to have the ballcock valve replaced in our WC at home.
“Must
be gold!” they jest. On the internet you can get a replacement
floating ball, arm and inlet valve for £10-20, while the plumber in
question was barely in our loo half an hour.
At
least it stopped me bending the ballcock arm and flooding our
bathroom. It's just as well he didn't add a call-out charge,
otherwise I might now be Platinum Balls. Next time I'll ask for OAP
rates – not that I'll be phoning him again.
The
last ballcock fitted in our Victorian cottage was for a water tank in
our roof space and a plumber called Brian, sadly now long gone,
scaled the heights then battled with our dusty old pipework for
hours.
“What
do I owe you?” I asked the cheery ex-Londoner who revelled in
rhyming slang.
“Oh,
give us a cock and hen,” Brian said reluctantly, when pressed,
meaning a tenner.
If
I'd offered £100 he would have fallen out the loft.
Ah,
those were the days, when trusty tradesmen imbibing at our 'local'
would pop round for the price of a few beers.
But,
then, the price of today's pint would have stunned Brian too.
* * *
Not sure I have the right 'nose' for wine anymore . . .
HERE'S the latest report on my snoring. (Sadly, I come from a family of snorters.)
My
wife keeps coming up with so-called cures, all increasingly
uncomfortable, for this blip in our otherwise marital harmony;
particularly after the guilty party – me - has been imbibing red
wine.
Next
came a nose clip to supplement that plastic lump now irritatingly
referred to as 'Roy's teeth'. Thankfully this clip was tiny, so I
hardly noticed it. However, I've lost three of them already – can't
imagine where they've gone!
Then
She Who Knows returned from shopping with a weird-shaped pillow
supposed to promise silent nights. I now sleep on this as well as
wearing my other snore zappers. However, I'm not convinced it's worth
the crick I'm getting in my neck.
Finally,
there's the latest suggestion, a battery-powered gadget worn on the
forehead which, can you believe, vibrates with increasing intensity
if the wearer rolls on to their back? The newspaper article about it
also referred worryingly to 'continuous positive airway pressure',
which involved wearing a 'face mask'. However, the report added,
'some people give up on this device, as they find it difficult to
sleep.'
Other
helpful suggestions in the Daily Mail included sewing a tennis ball
into the back of nightwear, though again it warned, 'This can also
interfere with sleep.'
“No
more,” I exclaimed, “a man can only take so much!” However,
it's notoriously chilly and lonely in the spare bedroom . . .
Perhaps
white wine might be the answer!
* * *
This week's column was a tribute to an old friend, used to harder times. I'll do more on this in next month's Home post, plus a tribute to another great character, a Mossag called Eric.
IN
the midst of life we are in death, as the Book of Common Prayer
informs us, and I can confirm that after 70 you attend many more
funerals than weddings or christenings.
Last
week we saluted old pal John Harrison (pictured), who got a fine
send-off just as he would have liked and deserved.
The
proud former Mancunian was a man to stand his ground and walk tall
but, equally, joiner John's greatest pride was his family and
workmanship. Also, he would do anything to help others and was a
friend to always rely upon.
In
celebrating another's life we often see our own reflected through
past years. A curious, abridged poem - or ballad - at the back of his
order of service was The Shooting of Dan McGrew. If you don't know
it, look it up. It's from the late 1890s and Yukon Gold Rush days in
Canada, when desperate men got by as best they could.
It
always reminded John of early years working on our first motorway,
now the M6, when billeted in rough timber cabins at remote, icy Shap
- with only wood burners and Irish navvies for company. One man could
recite the entire ballad and John took the trouble to learn it too.
Nowadays
such working conditions would be an outrage and those men up in arms
protesting. But, today, how many of us could still have raised a
smile and simply carried on manfully . . . when given such a harsh
death sentence?
* * *
It makes you want to grit your teeth - dentistry! Ah, it's all done now, why did I feel nervous at all?
BY
the time you read this, relaxing in comfort somewhere, I shall have
endured an hour in the dentist's chair.
Apparently
my molars are crumbling away with age and over-use, probably like the
rest of me. But I consider myself fortunate; I'm in good hands.
With
mouth wide open and conversation silenced by all the instruments in
it, the highly professional surgeon and nurse peer down at me
intently – leaving ample time to think of past dental nightmares.
Michael
must have had gum disease which, nowadays, would have probably been
spotted much earlier and suitably treated. Instead, aged only in
early teens, he was heading for dentures.
Mike
was duly gassed then, while the unconscious patient drooled blood, an
ageing dentist propped one knee up on my brother's lap and
frantically yanked out teeth before the poor lad came round.
After
witnessing that I brushed my own more eagerly! That was back in days
of yore, when dentists had belt-driven drills which sounded like
angle grinders and pain was only to be expected. Nowadays I don't
even feel the needle's soothing pinprick.
Working
overseas wasn't much better. In the Far East it was only sensible, if
you could afford it, to go private – though they tended to line
their pockets by filling any available cavity. Dentists drilled into
me with rapacious ruthlessness. It was a wonder I didn't set off
metal detectors at the airport.
We're
no longer dependent on NHS and a private insurance scheme permits me
the latest high-tech UK dentistry at reasonable costs. Hopefully, by
the time you finish this newspaper, I'll be sporting two new crowns -
and a relieved smile.
* * *
Bit of 'local' history in this week's column. You can get in Saddle mood, too, on our Books page, reading '50 Shades of Bass', 'Bright Lights & Pig Rustling' or 'Saddle Up!'
IT was a boisterous
session in the 'bear-pit' of the Commons and even lively, too, in the
Lords. No, this wasn't another Brexit debate. We were in my local,
Blackpool's oldest, the Saddle Inn.
Many think of this
as a man's pub but there was a marquee party for departing assistant
manager Bev, leaving for easier hours and less daily woes and drama –
working in a hospital!
Bev was a popular
lady, as shown by the good-hearted party extending to a beer-garden
marquee - all largely organised by other enthusiastic Saddle ladies.
In that, things haven't changed so much in our quaint hostelry.
“This
House of Lords is a room in one of the Fylde's oldest inns, The
Saddle, Whitegate-drive, Marton. The inn, which is over 100 years
old, possesses also a House of Commons, but the Lords is far
superior, because in here no women are allowed.
“That,
however, doesn't make it any quieter. There's just as much talk. And
if discussions on things like devaluation and atom bombs usually work
round to Stanley Mortensen and Stanley Matthews who will blame them?
“Over
the doorway of each is a sign - 'House of Lords' on one, 'House of
Commons' on the other. The Saddle has the oldest inn tenant in the
Fylde, Mrs Eliza Leigh, who has been there for 57 years.”
So,
you see, while those 'superior' men drank and 'discussed', the real
work and organisation was being done by women. Perhaps that's the
answer, too, for our current problems.
* * *
Remembering some old rough and tumbles . . . amongst the cow pats!
WITH the rugby
world cup under way in Japan, this is a good time to remind readers
how much it takes to play the historic game so well.
My only asset to
the Welsh Borders team which took me under its wing was the thickness
of my skull, that they utilised as a battering ram in scrums.
“Try to avoid
any contact with the ball,” was the anxious advice of Welshpool
coach Howard, after watching me enthusiastically training. I'd joined
for something to do while in a dead-end job in nearby sleepy
Shropshire.
However, my
skull-attack potential became clear upon my first visit, after I'd
left the first-team captain concussed from a scrum encounter.
The only other
place I excelled was in the clubhouse booze-up afterwards. But I
still managed to lose weight and get fit, such was the rigour of
their grim training nights.
When playing other
rural Welsh clubs, usually upon sloping fields made further hazardous
by frozen cow pats, the running, side-stepping and passing talents of
fellow team-mates was stunningly impressive, particularly witnessed
close up.
Most were humble
hill farmers but they brought a passion and courage to the game that
was matched only by their glorious singing afterwards.
Of course, the big
brutes we see on the telly are all professionals and trained to
perfection, but the fears, pain and challenges they face are equally
awesome.
No doubt medieval
battles in those Welsh hills were far more blood-curdling and
terrifying than my breezy weekly encounters. But, believe me, those
team endeavours took all you could offer and more while, afterwards,
I felt 10-feet tall - even though my head was aching!
* * *
Celebrating a large piece of civic pride this week, but there may be changes afoot . . .
IT makes you proud!
Blackpool's Stanley Park has again been voted UK's best – for the
second time.
The Friends of
Stanley Park & Salisbury Woodland do a tremendous job, aided by
dedicated gardeners. They run a Visitors' Centre by the popular
art-deco café and promote and maintain the largest green
recreational area outside London.
Chairman Elaine
Smith MBE is a Local Hero, as awarded by the Gazette at the Tower
this week – along with three worthy park Friends.
Elaine, who made a
profound mark, too, chairing the Civic Society, helped start the
Friends 17 years ago. However, she is grateful to council staff for
enduring support and particularly thanks the public who voted for our
park.
The £45m plan is
for 250 holiday chalets and 'Adrenalin World', a big games centre,
with investors led by entrepreneur David Lloyd. It has outraged many
at public meetings, while the golf club along with other sporting
organisations wish to take over the lease and continue as present.
Well, I recall
exciting plans for a David Lloyd-style tennis centre at South Shore
Lawn Tennis Club over a decade ago, followed by similar proposals at
Whitehills near the M55 – which, like an indoor ski-run, all
floundered.
Our resort needs
attractions but most residents also want to protect our scarce
greenery and would only countenance building on this land if
necessary for the adjoining, even more precious hospital.
Many regret a
carving off of parkland further along, for a single hotel
development, instead of a race course to boost our airport and coast.
Let's not see more treasures slip away, without due deliberation.
* * *
Last week's column dwelt upon the drinks side of life, this week's focussed on the way to a man's heart . . . food - about which I'm becoming increasingly less adventurous.
IT leaves a bad
taste in the mouth – having an expensive but disappointing meal in
a restaurant. Mind you, it has to be really revolting for me to
complain - because of my upbringing.
As a boy in the
'50s we rarely dined out and then only at cafés. In post-war years
everyone was grateful for what they got and bred upon Spam and
sandwich paste. The one time I heard anyone complain – about his
steak – my Dad muttered, “Must be a Yank!”
Perhaps it was
authentic, to a penniless peasant somewhere, but to me it tasted like
cardboard in grey paste. There was no discernible sausage, though we
did spot one raisin. Still, our dessert - a first taste of cannoli -
made up for this pasta disaster and my wife let me finish her lasagne
(creamy but, sadly, without enough meat). We'll be giving that place
a miss for a while.
It reminded me of
other culinary setbacks. The worst European one was in a small
Spanish resort where I ordered crayfish paella. It came topped with a
crustacean I attacked spiritedly but from which my efforts failed to
extract one ounce of flesh.
Then there was the
time I mistakenly ordered a 12-person banquet in Hong Kong, when
alone.
However, the
grimmest experience was in earlier years at an Indian, ordering what
seemed a bargain treat – Bombay Duck. It was a sliver of extremely
smelly 'lizardfish' a starving cat would have bolted from, later to
be EU-banned for bacterial contamination – very fowl indeed!
* * *
AS the summer sporting season nears its end, last weekend our spirits were lifted by the annual beer festival at Blackpool Cricket Club.
I was delighted
upon entering the hallowed marquee to see, in pride of place at the
centre of a score of hand-pumps, the familiar red triangle of Draught
Bass (incidentally, the first trade mark to be registered in Britain - in 1877).
This honour fell
to me not simply because I drink this king of ales regularly at my
local, Blackpool's oldest pub the Saddle Inn at Great Marton, but
also as a long-standing member of the Honourable Order of Bass
Drinkers. The order meets monthly in Manchester, on the Fylde and,
when the mood takes them, elsewhere.
Bass, of course,
was once the main brew on this coast and part of our history. I
remember Carl Swarbrick, late of the Catterall & Swarbrick
brewing family, who when younger helped Bass take over the resort's
pubs.
“The bloke from
their head office kept drawing up graphs of sales and order
projections while taking little notice of me,” Carl recalled. “You
should have seen his face when I finally managed to inform him, most
of the Promenade pubs closed over winter.”
The 'expert' was
probably as stunned as a would-be author I met by chance at a pub in
Wimbledon. He was writing a history of Bass and it was at last ready
for publication. Sadly, he was woefully ignorant of the Saddle still
stocking Bass or even of the existence of the HOBD.
I had to put him
right, as I also had to inform the expectant Alan and Ray in their
beer tent.
“Yes, lads, the
Bass is as grand as ever!”
* * *
This week's column took a comic turn - but it's never all about laughs . . .
WE went to the
pictures the other afternoon, although it wasn't a cinema. Instead it
was the Lowther Theatre in Lytham and a really memorable theatrical
experience!
Starring Steve
Coogan and American actor John C. Reilly, it was inspired casting
(as pictured),with excellent performances from the heart, amid superb settings
vividly evoking those struggling 1950s.
Their story was
deeply moving too. It made us laugh out loud but also cry. I also
found myself at times on the edge of my seat, as outstanding drama
should make you.
But, then, I've
always felt the toughest and loneliest role in entertainment is the
stand-up comedian.
Years ago, when
the Gazette was in Blackpool town centre at Victoria Street, the
Grand Theatre ran live auditions for aspiring comics. Anyone could
have a go and, if promising, perform live in front of a matinee
audience of holidaymakers.
One of my late
colleagues, features editor Peter Baxter, tried it. He was nervous
beforehand but devastated when he actually walked out in front of a
packed audience. Peter had previously scrawled a few punchlines in
chalk on the stage floor as prompts, only to discover cleaners had
erased them.
“It was the
longest 20 minutes of my life,” he confided afterwards, thoroughly
drained and humbled.
You can read still
worse traumas in the autobiography of Fylde funnyman Les Dawson,
about his early years on the club circuit. It was Les who partly
inspired my mystery series of romantic thrillers, Sam Stone
investigates, starting with A Cut Above about a comic's death (see front cover image).
Comedy demands
profound experience of life's depths. It is the reverse face of
tragedy and disaster - but the tears taste just the same.
* * *
Couple of strange events in the past week gave me pause for thought and undermined my usual cheerful confidence. First was a fall, outlined below, then I nearly had a collision while 'running' a red light behind other impatient drivers - except I hadn't even noticed it was on red, my mind being entirely elsewhere . Happily, I can report that - since then - my driving has been as careful and correct as usual and I'm now back to stylish, winning tennis . . . or losing with sporting dignity.
THEY say pride
comes before a fall and so it was for me the other day. There I was,
strutting my stuff with younger men on a tennis court, closely
watched by an encouraging She Who Knows. Then, suddenly, my footing
deserted me and I sprawled inelegantly upon the ground.
“Anyway, your
last serve – after falling – was an ace!” Ed, my young doubles partner,
kindly reminded me as I sloped off court for the bar.
“What were you
doing - leaping about like that?” demanded She Who Knows.
“Well,” I
explained while still feeling crestfallen, “by jumping forward into
a serve you get more power. Frankly, I was struggling to match those
lads' bigger hitting.”
“I'm not
surprised, they're 40 years younger than you!” she pointed out.
At least I could
still hold my pint, even if my fist looked as though I'd been in a
bare-knuckle fight. Still, that's sport for you – and life.
Ups and downs over
the years are a great leveller and teach you to respect your fellow
man's (or woman's) abilities, whatever age. My late experience
playing rugby – not until my 20s - taught me so. I couldn't
out-shove bigger blokes but neither could I catch those
side-stepping smaller ones!
This time my fall
from grace did little damage but it could have been so much worse, as
She Who Knows warned. The lesson was clear: act your age or, at
least, bear it in mind.
When next taking
on those young'uns I'll resort to my natural advantages - through a
lifetime's experience - and employ craft and stealth.
Hopefully, they'll
see me through a few more years!
* * *
This week's column is close to home but may ring a bell for couples everywhere. Thankfully, my wife found it funny, which always brings a warm feeling . . .
ANYONE depressed by
the recent unseasonably drab weather should take heart, because I've
just put our heating back on at Edmonds Towers.
“It's still 72
degrees!” I reasoned with She Who Knows, indicating the thermometer
and humidity measure I bought her at Christmas (for which she seemed
surprising ungrateful).
“That
may be, but it feels
cold,” she insisted, adding, “and put more lights on will you? It
brightens everywhere up, when there's no sunshine coming in.”
I say take heart,
you weather watchers, as now our heating is cranked up again the
sunshine will probably return. When it does, She Who Knows will be
wanting her bedroom fan turning back on. This had to be bought in
July, when it was hot at night if you remember.
Personally, I
prefer to have windows open rather than using up more energy with a
state-of-the-art, 'silent' electric fan but, admittedly, we do then
get traffic noise here in popular Great Marton.
Still, I'm a
reasonable man (anything for a bit of peace) so don't insist on
nailing open windows, or putting locks on our radiators, like some
chauvinistic hubbies I've known.
One male used to
also like using his exercise bike last thing, to build up a sweat
before going to bed, along with a late supper of cheese and pickled
onion sandwiches . . .
You'd
need a strong fan and
windows open with him in your bedroom.
* * *
C'mon sports! Seeing the funnier side of the Ashes . . . and Australia, currently suffering 75mph winds and storm damage from Sydney to Melbourne - but they do call it the Lucky Country.
WITH four tests
still remaining in the Ashes series, a skittled England team at least
has the elements on its side. School-holiday weather brings rain and
wind to mix with our summer sunshine. Such a variety will hopefully
confuse our Down-Under opponents, who aren't used to contrasts.
Upon arrival in
Sydney, towards the end of summer, I learned they don't really
experience seasons. Instead it bucketed down to mark their 'autumn'.
Afterwards the ground steamed like an overly hot sauna then those
endless blue skies returned.
Speaking of
showers, I soon learned of the Aussie's long-held view that we were
both unwashed and penny pinching. This stems from war years, when
colonial troops were billeted in British households. Back in the
fighting 40s we did only bathe once a week and also sought to
conserve what little money we had.
'Where does a
Pommy hide his fivers?' the Aussies like to ask, then reply, 'Under
his bath mat.' (Or, 'Under his soap,' is another one.)
Living so far from
western civilisation, your 'Ocker' Aussie has a confused notion of
history, while the only well-balanced one has a chip on each
shoulder.
So desperate are
they to assume some valued tradition they even claim to have invented
the meat pie! But what can you expect when their few national
monuments are rarely older than a century, and their only culinary
achievement Vegemite?
However, we should
never under-estimate the Aussies' sense of rivalry – especially
with ourselves. When leaving the airport on that first day, my bus
followed a car with a large sticker in its back window.
The sign read,
'Grow your own dope – plant a Pom.'
* * *
This week's Gazette column led some to accuse me of being a 'Nimby'. However, 'issues' which affect our homes make us passionately concerned. Besides, there is more here at stake - as I explained . . .
SHE Who Knows
rightly scoffed at the phrasing of a news item on Radio Smooth, as we
cruised in our MPV (multi-purpose vehicle, or more accurately a
1,200cc hatchback - if you're not up with the abbreviations of
today's talk).
“A fallen tree
has raised issues,” said the traffic reporter. “As though a tree
has 'issues'!” she exclaimed, “Why does no one today dare say
'problem'.”
It's like when
sales assistants greet customers with, “You all right there, guys?”
when they really mean, “Can I help you?”
A resort firm
wants to erect houses where its disused warehouse stands along the
gated alleyway behind us, at the historic end of Preston Old Road
near the Saddle Inn.
Apart from
disruption, noise nuisance, drainage worries and more parking
problems, we fear mature trees which have sprouted in the little-used
alley may be cut down.
As I look out my window, it strikes me how
much wildlife these towering wonders of nature support - and how
treasured they've become to us and neighbours.
Did you know
Blackpool has fewer trees than any other town of similar size in the
country? I read that somewhere, along with plans to plant many more
here – though where I don't know, as we see ever fewer, only new
homes everywhere.
Nimbys we might be
but, at least, we have flowers, birds, butterflies and untold other
wildlife in our 'back yard', rather than more tarmacadam for parking
cars upon.
What's more we
love it that way and, over years, have learned life is more peaceful
when getting closer to nature in our surroundings.
It's an 'issue' we
should all be campaigning about – before there's only concrete and
bricks remaining.
* * *
With this week's column, we can all sleep more easily in our beds . . .
PEOPLE are so
easily offended these days, don't you find? What with sexism, racism,
ageism and size-ism – and that's just for starters. You have to be
wary of verbal slips – even when asleep!
The other week She
Who Knows returned from shopping with her sister, bearing a large box
which would make any husband's heart sink. No, it wasn't an expensive
new dress, nor thankfully a flat-pack I'd have to assemble (sexist
that, sorry – but true).
Just to make it
more insulting, there was an offensive picture of an unshaven,
open-mouthed man sleeping alongside a fed-up looking, goggle-eyed
woman. Sexist or what? But such strictures don't apparently apply the
other way around.
Admittedly, I come
from a long line of notorious snorters. My mother could be heard all
over our house and also talked in her sleep while having vivid
dreams. Dad told me she once leapt from their bed and looked under
the mattress, exclaiming, “Where's that tiger?”
Apparently I snore
like a trooper, too, specially after a glass or two of wine on a
Sunday night. But I've already taken precautions. Years ago at She
Who's suggestion I got an anti-snore device which fits in my mouth
like a plastic gum-shield. It makes me look as though I'm grinning
stupidly all the time but works – till I spit it out when asleep.
And the new
pillow? Well, pretty good actually. I've certainly been sleeping
better myself – till she wakes me with her own snoring. However,
I'm not allowed to mention that . . .
* * *
Sport not only gets us fitter and offers exciting, shared activity in (mostly) safe surroundings; it also diverts our aggression, creates friendships and teaches us respect for others. In fact sports provide profound lessons for life - if we're willing to learn them!
GOOD
to see Blackpool's biggest tennis club serving up a post-Wimbledon
mid-summer treat, with an open day this Saturday offering free
coaching and games for all.
You don't need to
bring a racquet or balls, just a pair of trainers to South Shore Lawn
Tennis Club, on Midgeland Road by Progress Way.
It all starts from
1pm with games and free coaching for toddlers, then older ages and
adults through the afternoon and other activities – details from
the club (tel.767753).
At senior school I
remember watching sixth-form girls playing doubles and thinking how
much I'd like to join in, when old enough. Here was a sport we could
play together, unlike cricket or soccer in those days. Now gender
mixing is almost compulsory. Well so be it, love-all I say!
As adolescents
then young men, we showed off our power and prowess by playing
singles and healthily using up excess energy.
Only later did I
discover the fascination and satisfaction of team play in doubles.
You learn to work as a partnership, helping each other to win,
joining together at the net in attack, or back on the baseline in
defence, never getting too far apart from one another . . .
Reading that, it's
rather like a master class in real life, too, don't you think?
Follow the rules,
experience and guidance built up over generations and we can all get
the most from taking part and, hopefully, even end up winning - game,
set and match!
* * *
The column has a highly localised flavour this week, pleasing for me as I can simply stroll around the various attractions outlined. My apologies to others less fortunate . . .
IT'S great to see a
neighbourhood coming alive again. That's happening in Great Marton,
up Whitegate Drive, Blackpool's earliest district.
It already boasts
the coast's oldest public house. The much-loved Saddle Inn has won
awards for its fine ales, food and flower displays, as well as being
a forerunner with local beer festivals.
Great Marton also
attracted Blackpool's first micro pub a year ago. This was the
rapidly popular Number 10 Ale House, with its similarly named sister
hostelry in St. Annes, and now doing Thai food.
Happily, I can now
report that what was once Blackpool's most popular locals' pub, the
Boar's Head up Preston Old Road - a stone's throw from the Saddle -
is in apparently safe hands and reviving under encouraging new
management.
Landlord and lady
Chris and Karen are offering up an interesting selection or real ales
at currently unreal prices (£1.95 a pint), with a wholesome
selection of traditional food at equally appealing rates. What's
more, I can vouch for the quality of the beer, after popping into the
comfortable, tastefully decorated lounge a few days ago.
Chris is ex-Army
but also an experienced hand behind the bar, with long experience at
the redoubtable Victoria pub, of Sam Smith's beer fame, in Cleveleys.
“We're also dog
friendly and child friendly,” confirmed a cheerful Karen, as I
stepped over their dozing long-haired retriever. “With sports
screens then live entertainment at weekends,” added Chris.
From their
confident attitude this seems an addition which will benefit the
whole of once-proud Great Marton. It may even bring back memories of
golden days in the Boar's 'Fylde Lounge', once beloved of Seasider
soccer heroes.
* * *
This week's colum took a rather morbid tone but, as in the Bonnie Raitt song ‘Nick of Time’, life grows more precious, the less you have left . . .
“SO,
at what age would you like to die, or be content to depart this
life?”
Thankfully, the
question wasn't posed by a doctor, nor a priest or, as sprang to
mind, a crazed serial killer addressing his next victim in a crime
thriller.
He always liked to
put you on the spot, in an entertaining sort of way, even when
previously editing this newspaper.
We'd been
discussing ailments as retired folk do and then feeling, particularly
in his case, lucky to be alive. Tom has won two battles with cancer,
although he says the war is never over . . .
I've
been reading a memoir by veteran journalist Hunter Davies, about life
at 83 after the death of his dearly missed author wife. It's not
maudlin but humorously self-mocking and surprisingly practical at
times. The title is Happy Old Me and it was a gift from She Who Knows
for my recent 70th.
“Well,” I
mulled my answer along with a Number 10 Blonde from Blackpool's first
micro pub on Whitegate Drive, “I suppose mid-80s would be
acceptable, provided you'd been enjoying reasonable health.”
We had both been
moaning earlier about intrusive advertising for funeral plans, along
with being nagged over cholesterol, diet and lifestyle choices.
“At least,” I
added gamely, “if you're a drinker someone can always wheel you out
for a pint. At that age I might even start smoking again!”
Tom, now vaping,
agreed but sadly announced, “Yes, I thought about 80, too. Trouble
is,” he added with good-natured sang-froid, “that only gives me
seven years – I'm 73.”
That concentrated
our minds.
“Best get
another drink in then,” I offered, “let's make the most of it
all!”
* * *
A rare journey out of Great Marton found me locked out with nowhere to go . . .
WHILE Andy Murray
restored his tennis career at Queen's, I got inspired at Ilkley's
grass-court tournament – a sort of poor man's equivalent.
We were staying in
a riverside pub minutes walk from the picturesque grounds (pictured below) and, as
with Andy, all was going well – easy drive, nice double room and,
by Yorkshire standards, fine weather.
We had front-row
seats to marvel at the pros just feet away, while on-site food and
drink was good and affordable. What could go wrong?
Trouble is,
mechanical things sometimes defeat She Who and, in the small hours,
she rattled the door handle of our en-suite loo annoyingly. Then
still later, when I had to go, I found the bathroom door now firmly
locked - from the inside – while She Who Knows slept cosily back in
bed.
Giving up, I crept
downstairs in pyjamas only to find the bar toilets also locked. What
to do?So it was, at 5am, dawn found me standing in the front garden
of our hotel, self-consciously finding relief while warily watching
for early-morning dog walkers - then grimly realising I was being
filmed on CCTV cameras.
At least I'd
provide hotel staff with a laugh at their Christmas party.
Still, any further
fears over 'spending a penny' were relieved later that day, simply by
inserting a coin in a slot of the twisted door handle, then freeing
its lock.
Easy when you know
how . . . unlike tennis.
* * *
This week's column is posted a day later than usual as we didn't get back from a grand few days at Ilkley Tennis Tournament until yesterday evening . . .
WE'RE no longer
keen on adventurous travel but might soon brave once more the border
into Yorkshire.
We'll need
suitable clothes, of course, as it's always colder there and those
bitter, easterly winds carry heavy downpours. The climate accounts
for the stone buildings and the similarly granite-like nature of
locals.
The last time we
took our passports and language guide over the Pennines was to stay
in Ilkley, which was picturesque, if expensive, but we acclimatised.
“Good morning!”
I called out cheerfully to the men in flat caps watching me warily.
There faces stayed
set, neither did I get any answer – friendly indeed!
“The were nicer
later, though,” She Who Knows always kindly chimes in whenever I
relate this tale. “When they'd got to know us a bit better.”
And when they'd
established we'd be spending some money locally. Most had relatives
who could happily serve our needs, for the right money. They were
soon keen to recommend suitable places to dine out, shop or even take
a horse ride, adding, “Just mention my name, 'owd lad.” (Or words
to that effect).
Just to show we're
not small-minded Lancastrians (is there such a thing?), we're
considering returning for a visit if the weather picks up. I'll let
you know how we get on.
In fact, I did
find the Tykes slightly less depressing company than a Scottish
friend, named Paddy oddly enough, who invariably sees the dour side
of things.
Paddy's finally
found a day-out destination he really enjoys, to Skipton, North
Yorkshire.
It just goes to
show that, as we say hereabouts, there's nowt so strange as folk!
* * *
I must have been feeling good and full of love for all mankind when penning this week's column (see below), then it started raining again . . .
IT'S good to
befriend different people or attempt something new. The other day,
during a break in our June rainfall, we were playing tennis – mixed
doubles with a freshly retired policeman and his ex-teacher wife.
They'd just got
back from their first sailing holiday, round the Greek isles, and
were clearly empowered and uplifted by it. Previously they had only
sailed a dinghy at Fairhaven Lake, not a three-berth yacht!
Perhaps the most
inspiring change or adventure I've undertaken was to travel widely
abroad. You see amazing sights and, of course, broaden your horizons.
Looking back though, it wasn't the travelling - that I tired of -
which stayed with me. Instead, it was the diverse people and
unexpected associates of different colours, culture and creeds who
helped or befriended me along the way.
Some simply
assisted a lonely traveller with his needs, like getting the right
bus or service; even, just as importantly, being friendly. Others I
shared an office with for some years, to discover working overseas
among such different people was a delightful learning curve.
They all helped
mature and improve me, just as a new challenge enthused that former
policeman. But the abiding lesson left for me was to offer a cheery
smile and encouraging word to those among us who are strangers, or in
the minority, or alone.
Don't be held back
by shyness or a sense of interfering, even fear of rejection or of
the unfamiliar. It's always worth that extra effort. Like giving
something freely, it can make you feel even better than receiving!
* * *
Don't feel down if your summer weather isn't all it should ideally be, storms can be uplifting too!
SWEET June's
finally here but, on our Fylde holiday coast, the weather's hardly
fitting. At least we have plenty of it to enjoy – what with
sunshine, rain and winds!
The feeling of
exhilaration reminded me of being a child growing up in the
Manchester suburbs. Our home back then, a new council house at Valley
Road in Davyhulme, Urmston, had a long back garden which ended
alongside the still busy Manchester Ship Canal.
Imagine the thrill
for me, as an infant, seeing mighty ships from all around the world
passing like giant phantoms at the foot of our garden! It wasn't
frightening. Any sailors on deck would wave cheerily down to me. I
marvelled at their varied flags and exotic countries of origin.
Perhaps it instilled in me a wander lust too.
Fast forward to my
30s and, as a worldly newspaperman, I'd taken a year off to write a
first novel while staying with my retired parents, by then in
Prestatyn, North Wales. On a wild, windy night I was walking back
from a village pub – this time with lots of hair blowing and
equally high spirits.
My book was
finished and both an agent and top publisher interested. It seemed my
life was about to change forever.
Well, nothing came
of that but, 40 years later, I've had many more published – and
they still haven't changed my life!
However,
I have no regrets. You see, it's still wonderful to feel those
invigorating sea winds and be alive and happy, here on our wonderful
Lancashire coast.
* * *
This week's column, in the Gazette on Thursday, reads like a fogey's rant - but why not? We oldies have earned the right - and time's running out for our wise observations . . .
WITH so many
elections of late, there's pressure all round for progress and change
– as well as growing self-interest for some.
But we should also
conserve traditions born of long experience and, not least, our
British good humour.
My opinions
changed as I aged, becoming less idealistic and more conservative
with a small 'c' but also, I hope, tolerant of others. It doesn't do
to get too serious either.
My public
experience is now mainly in the pub or restaurant, at sports events
or the theatre. These are all changing, though not always for the
better.
Take Lowther
Theatre, a little gem doing nicely now as it is relatively cheap,
customer-friendly and convenient. So what do they do? They push to
redevelop and make it bigger, just as Lytham also changed its
pleasant, one-day charity concert on the Green into a money-making
festival bringing week-long disruption.
Well, many of us
like this little theatre as it is - complete with popular café which
would, doubtless, be replaced by a national-chain franchise.
Similarly, the cricket and sports ground opposite has ambitious plans
- yet many users just want simple improvements and maintenance which
preserve existing charm.
It's the same at
our Fylde pubs. Beer festivals become rock festivals in an attempt to
pull in the young, only to lose older patrons. Many theatre-goers now
selfishly stand and 'whoop', while pub patrons swear and shout,
thoughtless of others also there.
Bigger and newer
isn't always better. Let's pause and consider before recklessly
discarding our past.
We should leave
something for the young to grow into and then cherish . . . their
heritage.
* * *
When not writing columns I used to edit pages and coming up with headlines could be a funny old game, as this week's Gazette column recalls.
WOMEN'S sports
continue to push back boundaries with impressive professionalism.
Mind you, She Who Knows bemoans girls' enthusiasm today for rugby
and soccer, championing hockey and netball as more feminine.
Having said that,
my late mother was captain of Cheadle-Hulme Girls' First-11 cricket
team back in the 1930s.
It reminded me of
one of the unintentionally funniest headlines I've seen in a
newspaper, this paper in fact, when highland games were planned at
Stanley Park.
We sub-editors
kept a rogues' gallery of double-entendre headings which had been
spotted or, even better, had escaped notice and been published.
These often
involved serious news stories, court reports or even tragedies when a
hard-pushed editor was trying to devise an eye-catching headline to
fit an awkward space with deadlines approaching. There were
double-checks, of course, but gaffes can slip through.
One court headline
with a rather perverse sexual twist, involved a would-be car thief
who'd been caught acting suspiciously but who also, according to his
defence lawyer, had been behaving out of character following a
romantic upset.
It read, 'Man
unhappy in love tried card doors'. Well, it paints an odd picture,
doesn't it?
More grimly, there
was the notorious headline on a suicide/accident story, 'Man hit by
train was depressed'.
Ah, but, back to
those cabers. Organisers were short of entries for their Scottish
Games in Blackpool and a sub-editor, perhaps too innocent (or bravely
impish) for the job, devised the news-page main heading, 'Search is
on for tartan tosser'.
“Very funny,”
commented an observant senior editor passing by, who instructed,
“Change it!”
So the
young, rather coy sub-editor did so, to, 'Search is on for Scottish
tosser'.
* * *
HERE's this week's column published in Thursday's Gazette, so let's rock on!
ELVIS has entered
the building . . . at least it looked like him, in close-fitting,
tasselled leathers, and sounded like 'the King' too, with rocking
12-man (and women) backing band.
We've attended
other tributes to pop legends, like Roy Orbison or Abba (even better
looking than the stars), and not been let down once. Some nostalgia
shows were the real thing, like Tony Christie or The Searchers (two
of the originals anyway). Their musicianship is even better now and
gallows humour flows in winning style.
It's also
refreshing to be entertained by pop 'stars' who don't take themselves
too seriously, nor cost an arm and a leg to see.
“This reminds me
of my favourite cake,” quipped Chris Connor, before singing 'In The
Ghetto'.
It reminded me of
teddy boys and being allowed up to watch Bill Haley and the Comets
sing 'Rock Around The Clock' on our black-and-white TV.
I wasn't into
Elvis; my first '45s' being Cliff Richard's 'Living Doll' then Adam
Faith's 'What Do You Want?' – before even having a record player (I
went to friends). Another frustration, apart from girls, was my hair
having a smaller 'quiff' than older brother's – though we both used
pots of Brylcreem.
For any too young
to remember, or others seeking nostalgia, catch up with the heady
days of the 50s and early 60s on Talking Pictures archive film and TV
channel.
Nowadays, I've
grown into Elvis - so croon again, Chris! In the meantime a Rod
Stewart tribute is heading to town . . .
Speaking of
ageing, he wears it well too!
* * *
IT was sad to hear of the famous Waterloo crown-green bowling ground (pictured artfully below), in South Shore, being at risk. I hope its supporters win their campaign for more control and funds.
However,
this did prompt happy memories from when Blackpool led the way in
many sports and recreation – from its enormous Derby Baths, at
North Shore, to the world renowned Tower and Empress Ballrooms on the
Prom.
On
summer Saturday afternoons we had a reporter in the score-box at
Blackpool Cricket Club and other league matches. There was also the
international junior tennis tournament at South Shore. In winter
there was the Seasiders' soccer, of course, plus Fylde rugby and many
other fixtures including Borough rugby league on Sundays.
It was
great to be out the office and watching some good-class sport.
Reporters were also often fed for free and, when the bar was open, it
was similarly complimentary. Not a bad day out, when you're being
paid!
At the
Waterloo they were particularly accommodating. A sheltered VIP
balcony caught the sun and also offered free bar and buffet for
tournament guests, sponsors and Press.
I
recall one Blackpool mayor enjoying himself there – then having to
be helped back to the civic limousine by a burly town-hall attendant.
Back in those genial days, of course, we would never report such an
unedifying spectacle.
Finally,
we news reporters pitched in on late Saturday afternoons to assemble
final reports and phoned in results, all compiled and sent down to
our basement Press as vans waited outside - for the popular sporting
Green newspaper.
Somehow
there's just not the same excitement today . . . simply switching on
a smart phone.
* * *
NEWS used to be so important to me. There again, I was a newsman for 40-odd years, odd often being the operative word.
However,
with retirement and ageing (this month heralds my three score years
and 10), I realise news rarely makes much difference.
What
matters most is enjoying yourself while, hopefully, helping others do
the same.
What a
relief it was when I finally cancelled my 'heavy' Sunday newspaper.
It was a weekly battle to read through before the next hefty tome
came through the door.
How
refreshing, too, not to hear the diatribe of conflicting politicians,
or depressing details of disasters or dire deeds suffered by others
then broadcast on TV and radio bulletins. When there are events which
affect us, others bring it to our attention soon enough.
These
liberating views have not arisen simply from my fast approaching
70th,
but because our newsagent can't get any children to deliver his
newspapers. The poor man now has to personally bring round ours every
morning, along with 120 others.
Often
it doesn't arrive until well after breakfast time, so She Who Knows –
who loves to read her Daily over toast and marmalade – now keeps
them a day late. What's more, us both now being 24 hours behind
hasn't mattered at all. In fact, we've come to rather like it.
By the
time some warned-of calamity or panic is due to occur, it's already
safely passed us by.
The
vital news you see, dear reader, is that life is to be enjoyed here
and now - while remembering always that, thankfully, hope springs
eternal in the human spirit.
* * *
ANYONE for tennis – even in the rain or a gale?
The
Fylde's only purpose-built indoor tennis court will have a public
airing this Saturday following repainting, when South Shore Lawn
Tennis Club holds its annual open day.
The
club is one of the coast's oldest and most successful over years,
once famed for an international annual junior tournament and for
producing Stanley Matthews Junior, who won junior Wimbledon; not to
mention discos and barbecue parties on sultry summer evenings!
There
are 'hard', shale and grass courts at the spacious club, on lower
Midgeland Road at Marton Moss, while the impressive indoor is carpet
– these days an increasingly popular surface. There is also a
flourishing croquet club on the rural site, as well as recently
refurbished clubhouse with bar, changing facilities and function
room.
Tennis
has always been popular on the coast, despite our windy weather, and
now other clubs are pursuing indoor playing facilities. There are
plans for a purpose-built court at St. Annes and hopes of a temporary
'bubble' in winter over two outdoor carpet courts at Lytham.
Still,
hopefully this weekend the sun will shine and prospects be good for
outdoors as our sporting coast comes to life for the summer season.
For
those who would like to learn tennis, or refresh their game, there
are coaching sessions at most of the popular and friendly clubs.
At
South Shore on Saturday's open day, running from 1pm-5pm, there is
free coaching, starting with sessions for children: 1-1.30pm, ages
four to eight; 1.30-2pm, ages eight to 10; 2-2.45pm, ages 11-16; then
adults, from 2.45pm onwards and, as the club (tel. Blackpool 767753)
promises, fun for all the family.
There
are also membership offers and all equipment is provided, say the
organisers. All you have to remember is to bring trainers – and
don't forget your children either!
* * *
This week's Thursday column from the Gazette calls for a clean-up on our streets and, as posted here, has a twist of controversy in its tail . . .
LOCAL
elections are on the way, so it's time to talk rubbish! What I notice
most about our once proud resort neighbourhoods is the litter – and
lack of bins to put it in.
Blackpool
bin collections are bad enough, with the majority of residents -
especially tenants - ignorant about recycling or bin 'presentation'
and collection times.
“Got
to make some effort!” he explained to me, when I congratulated him
on his public spiritedness, “It looks a disgrace otherwise.”
What's
more, he knew the reason why – and it wasn't just untrained
youngsters and ignorant adults dropping litter without conscience.
“Trouble
is,” Bag Man continued, “Blackpool Council introduced those small
street sweeping vehicles and got rid of all their former road-sweeping staff. However, those things aren't much use with all the parked
cars blocking their way!” Bring back the street sweepers with their
carts, was his clarion call.
My own
would be bring back our bins, as the few litter bins which were
around the area have now mostly gone – to avoid employing people to
empty them. The result of all this is plain to see and, as Bag Man
commented, “It's very depressing. I go out three times a day with
the dog and have never seen any street cleaners.”
Fylde
and Wyre fare better, this is Blackpool's shame. So, I say, vote
accordingly and let's clear up this rubbish!
The
other concern is speeding, along with police on the streets to
enforce our laws.
(Personally, I've given up on Brexit and will be voting Green every opportunity. Call it a protest vote, a plea for genuine ideals, or concern for our beautiful world . . . I might even glue myself to a bar stool.)
(Personally, I've given up on Brexit and will be voting Green every opportunity. Call it a protest vote, a plea for genuine ideals, or concern for our beautiful world . . . I might even glue myself to a bar stool.)
* * *
WHAT a wonderful week! Did winter pass us by? It seems like that late cold-snap forgot to hit us this year – fingers crossed!
Here in
Great Marton, Blackpool's premier suburban high street of Whitegate
Drive is setting out its stall for the welcome sunshine and days of
outdoor leisure ahead.
Our
resort town may have fewer trees than any comparable town in England
(so I'm told), but those mature sycamores and horse-chestnuts are
budding along 'the Drive' – just as are services and businesses
here.
Just
nearby, the coast's oldest hostelry, the Saddle Inn, will be offering
a new outdoors bar in its popular beer garden, as well as the
award-winning range of cask ales and inexpensive food.
But
it's not just about indulging ourselves, with Easter approaching our
St. Paul's Church will be marking the most important Christian
festival and there will also be a fair outside on the holiday
weekend.
There's
even a brighter look to Devonshire Square with the renovated Number 3
sports pub and wine bar, as well as new restaurants along the Drive.
Other high streets, such as South Shore's Highfield Road, are also
bucking the downward trend, with lots on offer for residents as well
as the changing face of the town-centre and Promenade attractions.
Then,
when the bustle gets too much, I'll join others enjoying a stroll
across beautiful Stanley Park to its excellent café, perhaps with a
cool one later while watching cricket nearby.
Why
holiday elsewhere? The only driving we shall be doing this summer is
up to friendly Fleetwood, across to picturesque Poulton or down the
free-rolling Fylde to leafy Lytham.
How
fortunate we are!
* * *
THIS week's column was a bit of a plug for the latest book, but also thoughtful of those among us who suffer from invisible 'demons' which haunt them. We should all try to show more understanding and care.
HE was a
sad sight, the haunted looking man wearily carrying a suitcase. It
was as though he didn't notice others on his lonely forced march –
seemingly going nowhere.
I'd
seen him some times before around our area of the Fylde; always
well-dressed and clearly cared for, but displaying no pleasure in his
apparently aimless perambulations.
'Not
quite all there!' as they used to say, or, 'One sandwich short of a
picnic'. But in reality it wasn't funny. Neither was he a danger to
anyone else, only to his own well-being – like those other
distressed souls adrift or at the coast's new Harbour Hospital for
mental sufferers. There, but for the grace of God . . .
Typical
scribe that I am, I didn't offer to help or cheer him, but his
unknown story intrigued me and inspired my latest novel.
It's
the fifth thriller/romance in my Fylde-based 'Sam Stone investigates'
series, just published on Kindle and in paperbacks sponsored by the
Arts Council. 'The Mystery of Mister Blues' also features scenes from
Paris night-life.
The Sam
Stone stories, like my other novels or humorous memoir, aim to be
entertaining but also, most importantly, uplifting. I hope in that
way to spread some joy and, in this case, perhaps make up a little
for this disturbed man's suffering.
His
plight made me grateful for my own good health and happiness, here on
our wonderful Lancashire coast. This unsung hero, who really does
tramp its byways, may never know of my fictional tribute to him but
others will and, hopefully, find it uplifting too . . .
So
thanks, then, from us to him, poor man.
* * *
WE seem to have a new, all-consuming hobby these days – attending medical appointments. If it's not me with some ailment then it's She Who Knows. I won't go into details, except to say we've had our share, thanks for nothing, of viruses plus unpleasant surprises.
For me the biggest
shock was that, according to a nurse doing my annual check, I'd now
lost two inches in height – or had I really been deluded for years
before?
Still, there are
pluses to it all. “You're almost living here these days,”
observed a cheerful caterer in the health-centre café, “Still,”
she added wryly, “you've paid in enough, over years.”
There's a gallows
humour which triumphs, with occasional treats to keep up spirits –
like bacon butties or oozing rounds of cheese on toast with creamy
coffees in staff canteens – we know all the right places now.
The health service
is our biggest employer and its diverse working staff deserve all our
thanks and respect. They're wonderful, despite unrelenting pressure,
outrageously long hours and no staff parking. A book I read by a
veteran NHS medic, while waiting in A&E, had the right
prescription: get rid of management and return control to matrons and
doctors.
There's even one
lot of pen-pushers now 'dumbing down' NHS leaflet information, as
though we're all children. There won't be references to urine, for
example, but 'wee' instead. It's rather like those tiresome BBC
attempts to be everybody's cosy buddy – with news bulletins always
referring to 'Mums and Dads', rather than parents, and needless
from-the-scene reporting.
I'm all
in favour of a friendly approach and cheerfulness, as well as not
standing upon ceremony, but we deserve respect too. So, treat us like
adults – those hard-pushed staff always do!
* * *
WE may have been battered by gales and rain recently but there's a freshness of spring in the air on the Fylde these days and Easter, with its uplifting spirit of new life and hope, is now just a few weeks away.
In the winter we
keep our spirits and health up with afternoon tea dances which,
fortunately, abound on our holiday coast, along with a weekly dip in
a swimming pool – in my case at the nearby Village Hotel.
We've just paid
our subs for South Shore Tennis Club, where we use the coast's best
indoor court, and will soon be paying similar to Lytham Sports Club,
where we enjoy outdoor carpet and grass courts. There's also
Blackpool Cricket Club, with its wonderful facilities and
surroundings, then, last nut not least, the Friends of Stanley Park -
who do so much for our greatest public attraction away from the
Promenade and, incidentally, the biggest green recreational space
outside of London.
These places are
perfect for families to enjoy outdoor activities and social life
together, in a friendly, safe and healthy environment where you can
meet friends and make new ones. If you haven't tried such clubs, then
you're missing out!
These great
facilities, run mainly by volunteers, are residents' true treasures
on our diverse coast, away from better-know seafront attractions.
Once paid up, it's
time to restore my old strings, so to speak, check out my shorts and
T-shirts, then look forward to sunshine bringing a spring to my step.
As for fitness,
that's already taken care of for this veteran . . . under the
watchful eye of She Who Knows!
* * *
GOOD news for local sports fans and a boost for our popular holiday coast (see pic below) . . .
IT was
good to see thousands of Blackpool Football Club fans back on our
streets going to the home game last Saturday. We could hear the
Seasiders' cheers and chants from Great Marton, carried to us on a
briny breeze. The fans also set tills ringing merrily in hostelries,
eating places and many stores around town.
It
was a great turnout at a Bloomfield Road stadium now free from the
Oyston family's unpopular grip. There was even a last-minute
equaliser to add a fairytale finish of sorts.
It
wasn't just the soccer legends either, I witnessed the Borough rugby
team top its league while, down the coast at Ansdell, Bill Beaumont
(now Sir Bill) represented union, rugby's other code. Blackpool
Cricket Club also topped the Northern League.
What
town of similar size could compete with our wonderful sporting
facilities; let alone the theatres, restaurants and general
entertainment? The place was a winner from all angles and, along its
diverse coast, offered everything from fishing port to luxurious
gentility.
The
contrasts could be staggering. Just a mile or two inland from a
buzzing Golden Mile with its razzmatazz, was elegant Stanley Park and
homes more like mansions stretching down the verdant Fylde between
golf courses. Equally, within a few minutes a train took you from
South Shore's cosy cafés to bijou bistros in upmarket Lytham.
We even
have our own motorway and international airport, or used to have. If
council plans for it ever get off the ground, we're all queueing up
to fly from aptly named Squires Gate.
So,
let's cheer on our team once more – and revive our pride in this
wonderful holiday coast.
* * *
SORRY, readers, a day late posting the column this week when the Cambridges, Kate and William, visited Blackpool. Sadly, it poured down but, as the Gazette proudly said, that didn't dampen high spirits on the day and Kate vowed to return - for a royal family holiday! Pictured below is the Comedy Carpet of comedians' catch phrases from the Promenade which the Duke and Duchess enjoyed.
THE
Royal visit to Blackpool yesterday set me thinking about my own
regal-style encounters.
Perhaps
the most impressive happened without me being aware, not that I can
remember; possibly I slept through it.
My
parents had taken a ferry to the Isle of Man when the Queen and
Prince Philip were also visiting. Douglas was packed, so Dad decided
we should wander into nearby countryside and enjoy the sunny day away
from crowds. (Not sure Mum agreed but all worked out well.)
When
older I met Princess Alexandria opening a day centre named after her
here. It was funny as her hubby Angus Ogilvy was lagging behind,
chatting, and got mistaken by a dinner lady for just another
hanger-on.
“Hurry
up,” she chided the royal, “or all your food will be gone.” He
thanked her and did so.
I have
also dined and chatted with a couple of governors of Hong Kong, when
a colony, but they're not in the same top bracket of course. Still,
whatever you think of VIP higher-ups, I always found them
refreshingly pleasant and, oddly enough, full of down-to-earth good
sense.
Here
our royal family are a huge tourist attraction and cause of
fascination and envy throughout the world. There's a lot of loyalty
and tradition in distant places inspired by them.
What's
more I think they're worthy of respect. In our sovereign and her
consort's case, they've lived long, met everyone important and been
everywhere.
I'd
certainly trust their experienced view far above any of our
increasingly disloyal MPs, let alone – God forbid – a President
Blair instead!
* * *
THE subject of this week's column is still ringing in my ears . . .
BON JOVI
– by Jove! It was to be a laid-back evening at Lytham's Lowther
Theatre, snacking in the café, enjoying a drink in the bar then
relaxing with live musical entertainment.
It
didn't matter they were a tribute band; we've seen many and enjoyed
them – Elvis, Roy Orbison, even Abba (better looking than the
Swedes).
Sometimes
they've been the original bands, like Showaddywaddy, and very
professional – often being as long-in-the-tooth as their
grey-haired audience.
I
thought people gave me odd looks when I mentioned going to 'Bon Jovi
Forever', but put it down to ignorance. However, it was I who didn't
realise they were a hard-rock band – my youthful wife books these
things!
Soon I
had my head bowed low with my fingers pressing in my ears, but was
still grimacing in decibel discomfort. Also, the seemingly normal
audience appeared to have gone crazy too, standing up and waving
their arms around like loons.
“It's
too much for him - the noise,” She Who Knows shouted to a concerned
woman on my other side, who looked fearful that I might be having a
heart attack.
I made
my excuses and left before the intermission, receiving tutting noises
of sympathy from caring female volunteers manning the doors.
I sat
in the bar, shaking along with the furniture, until the orgy of noise
finished and She Who rejoined me.
“Like
sitting next to an old fogey!” she complained. However, she also
declined to return for the second half.
No more
of the hard stuff for me, thanks. It's The Searchers next time –
soothing us with Needles and Pins.
* * *
A SPORTING memory of the Welsh 'dragon' took me back to the mid-1970s and my own mid-20s, partly spent languishing in rural Shropshire on the England/Wales border - as recalled in this week's column.
THE
Wales and England 'Six Nations' fixture, this coming Saturday at
Cardiff, reminds me of my own gallant days playing Welsh rugby.
Of
course, it wasn't for the national squad. For one thing I'm English
to the core; for another I was new to the game and lacking any
natural flair. But I joined a club in a Welsh market town, while
working on newspapers in the Borders, just for something to do at
weekends.
Colleague
and fellow Lancastrian Big Dave, from Bolton, was the only other
English member of Welshpool RUFC, otherwise made up of hill farmers.
However, they were good sports and mostly county players.
“Mind
you,” an unassuming team-mate explained, “our counties here are
tiny, with more sheep than folk.”
Still,
they got me fit and used me as a sort of battering ram in scrums
against remote village teams. We played on sloping fields with frozen
cowpats and had to ask local farmers to make up team numbers. They'd
gamely leave their watching families and get changed into our spare
kit on the sidelines.
Dave
and I even toured with the club, going by coach to London when Wales
were at Twickenham, then Cardiff for the return match. However we
sat, of course, among Welsh fans, where we'd join in their singing
and proudly admire that legendary national side of the 70s.
I
wasn't much of a singer either but memorably got applauded at
Watford motorway services, when we dozen or so harmonised
enthusiastically utilising their gents' toilets' fine acoustics.
Finally,
my finest Welsh rugby moment was on the field, playing against
Ealing. Amid gasps of disbelief from team-mates, I managed to neatly
catch the opening kick then hand it out to the 'backs', just as I'd
been taught.
After
that, I stuck firmly to our coach's advice to me – carefully
avoiding any contact with the ball.
* * *
THIS week's column welcomes the new year . . . you'll see what I mean. Incidentally, outside the sun is shining here - just three weeks after writing our Home page about snow. Still, by March who knows?
I'M
married to a rat - which is fortunate, on this Valentine's Day, with
me being an ox.
I'm
referring, of course, to Chinese astrology, which goes by year and
month of birth. We supposedly make a natural pair, though sometimes
our serenity is tested.
Rats,
like all animals representing Chinese calender characters, are much
admired – in their case for creativity, quick intelligence and
activeness.
My own
lumbering attributes are dependability, strength and endurance, with
a dogged independence (or stubbornness).
While
She Who Knows impressed teachers by being so bright, quick and agile,
my embarrassing school reports spoke of “wallowing in the sloth”.
Still, I got to where I wanted in the end.
I think
of one 'pig' in particular, an old pal I travelled widely with
overseas. Having hated all proper jobs, Howard was a tennis coach.
However, he was usually to be seen leaning lazily on a net post,
encouraging his students – mostly attractive females who adored
him.
We saw
a good deal of the Far East together, accepting our respective
calender characteristics, relishing banquets and a few beers. He was
good, easy company but it was hard getting him out of his bed each
day; while 'sleep' would stay encrusted in his eyes until
mid-morning, like a child's. He would also be nodding off most
evenings by 10pm.
What's
your sign? Well, it couldn't be easier to look up these days, on the
internet. Descriptions of each animal, or personality, I've checked
have been uncannily accurate.
This
also brings a welcome reminder at the start of the year – none of
us are perfect, nor all wrong. That's consoling for us all!
* * *
MY Gazette column this week offers a personal but heartfelt viewpoint on our biggest political poser of the moment, delivered in a robust, sporting spirit . . .
AGE puts
life into perspective. When young I observed the world through
rose-tinted glasses and was inspired by idealistic songs like
'Blowing In The Wind' or 'Universal Soldier'.
However,
wistful hopes of changing the status quo floundered as working
realities got in the way.
I was
also a 'townie', eager to see the world and its leading cities. I
even campaigned to join the 'Common Market' for peaceful, profitable
unity among nations.
Now
I wear prescription glasses and see my neighbourhood clearly, while
avoiding town centres and travel. Entering my 70th
year, I'm aware of the frailties of mankind, doubt political promises
and mistrust all grand solutions.
The
truth is, we think mostly of ourselves and care about what's closest
to us.
I was
struck, too, by a couple of other televised events: watching
ex-politico Michael Portillo being welcomed across booming Canada;
then, here at home, hearing English farmers and industrialists
bravely welcoming independence and wider opportunities when we quit a
now fractious Europe.
Whatever
your view on so-called Brexit, it seems Commonwealth blood has proved
thicker than European water - we even have a common language! Also,
our politicians while espousing efficiency and profit have, in
reality, been asset stripping the UK by auctioning off our industry
and utilities.
In
local terms on the Fylde, manufacturers and entrepreneurs receive
only token support and we have witnessed the sale of our finest
agricultural land, at Marton Moss, for new housing dictated by
distant policy-makers.
As an
oldie, it seems clear to me this isn't joined-up thinking if we are
ultimately to feed, clothe and look after ourselves.
Like
the England rugby team, it's time to proudly flex our muscles!
* * *
THIS week's newspaper column was a bit of a rant. It also, incidentally, reminded me of some meals I ordered rather hopefully in Hong Kong canteens and restaurants when missing the taste of home. Sadly, I got only what I ordered back then, rather than what I expected: boiled eggs with toast came out as two cold, hard-boiled eggs and a slice of cold, unbuttered toast; roast chicken with vegetables turned out to be a whole roast chicken, with a few diced carrots and peas squeezed around the edge of my plate. Ah, the joys of travel!
A
TAKEAWAY meal the other night gave me much food for thought. We'd
ordered Chinese, fancying exotic spices, assorted rice and lighter
food. I was also indulging She Who Knows' sweet tooth, with sweet and
sour main course rather than my preferred curry or peppery Szechuan,
along with old favourite of Chinese catering here – banana
fritters.
What
was delivered was a disgrace: spare ribs with rich sauce but barely
any flesh; 'special' rice with little of the promised pork, chicken
or prawn; then a sweet and sour which would mystify Chinese anywhere
else in the world.
The
dish was full of 'water chestnuts', another tasteless oddity of
English-style 'Chinese' food. For only single portions of all, our
bill was £20. That would have bought a feast in Hong Kong - I know,
after living there years. Their only bad meals were attempts at
British cuisine.
We
might laugh at foreign mistakes over our traditional fayre; such as
'roast lamp' or 'vile chops' (i.e. lamb or veal) which I've memorably
been offered. But Chinese cuisine is the finest and most versatile in
the world. The spiciest meals I've enjoyed were in their restaurants,
yet also the most subtle and delicate sauces with, for example,
seafood.; also the most varied and exciting starters, then
innumerable styles for every meat, fish and vegetable under the sun.
(Even the tastiest cabbage, savoured on its own in cheesy cream
sauce.)
Why
won't these expatriate chefs proudly cook us superb, authentic food?
As for
fast food, Cantonese shallow frying is the freshest and tastiest
you'll find anywhere – while only requiring cheap ingredients. That
is, of course, everywhere but here!
* * *
HELLO readers, my apologies yet again - for posting this week's column a day late on Saturday. However, we're still suffering with colds here and I'm busy doing all our shopping, cooking, cleaning - and, of course, the writing. Anyway, here is this week's column - a starry-eyed, local yarn!
I RECALL
the proud declaration of a local years ago in our oldest pub, The
Saddle Inn. “I'm not from Blackpool,” he insisted, “I'm from
Great Marton!”
After
30 years, I share his affectionate loyalty. What's more, this
one-time village is becoming more distinctive – and colourful! You
might see leading residents sporting outrageous suits – in
tangerine or with stars, flamingoes or other garishness. But I should
explain.
While
our council busily flattens popular, old town-centre haunts,
Blackpool's main suburban thoroughfare of Whitegate Drive has quietly
redeveloped to current tastes. There are homely restaurants,
welcoming cafés, handy takeaways and bright renovations to landmark
pubs (thankfully not the period Saddle).
A
real-ale renaissance has also brought our resort's first micro pub,
the Number 10 Alehouse. Snug cask-ale 'shops' sell other drinks or
food and are replacing former post offices, bank branches and corner
greengrocers as neighbourhood meeting places.
Yes,
we're a colourful bunch but none more so than No. 10 owner George
White (pictured),
whose swashbuckling style brought us this popular new attraction. It
was George's 60th
last week, celebrated firstly in his St Annes alehouse then here in
Great Marton, where he sported his flash novelty suit of stars. I can
reveal this startling attire was inspired by retired local teacher
Tom, who sensationally wore one ablaze with flamingoes on New Year's
Eve.
Fortunately,
then, all those depressing downward trends are being reversed here in
friendly Great Marton, where neighbourliness and fun are still the
stars – like George in his micro empire.
* * *
MY apologies to readers for posting this a couple of days late on Sunday. I've been struggling with the lurgi (my usual winter heavy cold at this time), which She Who Knows has kindly passed on to me. I hope to be fit for the funeral 'wake' mentioned below and to see other members of the Honourable Order (read on!).
THE passing of a life is
only natural yet it makes a profound mark on us who remain, bringing
back special moments, places and shared experiences which shaped
ourselves.
It was sad to hear of a
veteran local who died last week, but whose spirit lives on in
memories which left deep impressions. Richard Brigg, 84, was a strong
man; a haulier who thought little of attending one of his heavy goods
vehicles for major roadside repairs, even somewhere as grim as Shap
on a stormy winter's night.
But he was also a sparkling
character, full of life and fun; while deeply respected by those he
met socially, or through his work and other businesses he helped run
later in life.
He was the straight-backed
man in a smart leather overcoat, with a glint in his eye if
challenged but who, in an instant, would change that to a twinkle of
humour and good fellowship which made him fine company.
Richard and wife Ruth had a
well-deserved retirement in Spain but returned recently to Great
Marton. “Where else would you rather be?” he asked me, eyes
sparkling, on a recent visit to his favourite local.
It was
only in his ninth decade that Richard's health faltered. Ruth and
sons John and Martin can give thanks for a life full-lived, at his
funeral from 12.30 on Tuesday, January 22, at Lytham Crematorium. His
spirit will be with us again in a wake afterwards, at the Saddle from
1.30, where all friends are welcome.
* * *
I'M posting this week's column a day early, as we have an early start to our morning tomorrow . . .
I WAS reading of an old chap
living alone in a big house who tried not to make friends of wild
animals sharing his garden, like birds or a young hare he was tempted
to treat like his children.
He hardened himself against
them because, nature being harsh, some got killed and that pained
him. Yes, love can hurt.
Not only do I talk to
garden birds, I even chat to inanimate things too. When rising first
thing, as She Who Knows sleeps on, I make a brew and greet her old
teddy bear on the rocking chair while drawing our blinds, then the
cuckoo clock should it call – which it does now at odd times.
Like most people in
friendly Lancashire, I greet anyone who cheerfully does the same –
or not. Rebuffs I shrug off, as they're few.
Over festivities last week
I greeted other parishioners during a rare church attendance. On a
rainy day it cheered us all. The sermon was about trusting the
Almighty and being open to all - very inspiring if, like me, you take
an optimistic approach to life.
Then I read about that
lonely, old man protecting his tender feelings by trying not to care
for other living things. That's why it seemed sad, to be hardening
oneself and one's life.
How much better to keep the
faith, however testing it proves at times, and to trust that, like
goodness itself, this brings us its own reward.
In fact, that's seems a
fine New Year resolution.
* * *
ONE of the joys of Christmas has been getting together with old friends and former collleagues . . .
“YOU should write a column
of memories on working with printers,” suggested Gazette former
production chief Dave Earl. We were at our annual reunion for retired
newshounds and compositors in Poulton's Thatched House.
No women, I'm afraid, they
had more sense. Perhaps they'll join us next year.
Later, when sub-editing, I
worked closely with highly skilled compositors who changed our
typewritten stories, headlines, photographs and sketchy page designs
into a newspaper; first in hot metal on Linotype machines. To edit
anything 'on the stone' as their basement workshop was called, we
read print upside-down and back-to-front.
You couldn't touch
metal-framed pages for the Press, that was their province. But we
worked proudly together with – usually - mutual respect, plus many
laughs to ease daily deadline pressure. Even during occasional
strikes – usually national ones – there was understanding. How
could you not warm to a management, in the form of spat and fedora
wearing Sir Harold Grime – who sent us out hot soup and 'chairs for
the lady pickets' one snowy Christmas?
Dave Earl himself recalled
another amiable character – only a lowly messenger girl but with
lots of loveable cheekiness. “Hello,” she'd shouted, seeing an
80-year-old Sir Harold at the top of stairs she was about to climb,
“come on down Tiger!”
Today
the Gazette is still entertaining you, but in ever-changing ways.
Here's hoping you enjoy it for many years to come!
* * *
SORRY, a day late posting this week's column for you - pressure of Christmas parties and giftwrapping!
IS there anyone left in
Blackpool, outside of its town hall, who still believes the new
tramway works are a good idea? Will our council please remind us
again why we are spending all this money while undergoing years of
civic misery?
The disruption to provide a
tram link from Blackpool North rail station to the Prom has been
going on so long most people have forgotten how to get around their
once-busy resort.
No, it's all hopeless and
chaotic. Last week I huddled across a deserted St. John's Square in a
freezing gale, to visit our indoor market and a couple of popular
real-ale pubs – all trying to be festive but, for the most part,
unseasonably quiet.
These days we don't even
like travelling elsewhere. We've only driven once on a motorway in
the last three years, then found the congestion and - when we did get
moving - speed both terrifying. What's more, everyone drives far too
close to each other – as there's not enough space for them all.
Just as well we were crawling along.
How much better if we all
left our cars at home and used efficient, plentiful and cheap public
transport!
But,
hang
* * *
BIT of a rant, this week's Gazette column by yours truly. However, at the risk of sounding a fogey, I wanted to give a respectful cheer for that traditional British manner of reasonable reserve . . .
WE'VE
been enjoying Strictly Come Dancing on BBC1, but there's an annoying
factor which increasingly jars with me. Why is everyone whooping?
It's
especially bad on the weekday show, compèred by lively and likeable
Zoe Ball. They only have to announce the start of the show, or
mention who a guest is and it starts up – wild whooping. Whoever
was mentioned hasn't even appeared yet!
Or,
possibly, he simply whoops himself. If you listen closely, it sounds
like the same man; obviously young, very highly strung and wildly
elated - as though high on mind-altering drugs.
Alternatively,
this uncontrollable urge to shout above everyone else's enthusiastic
but polite applause is some malady akin to Tourette's Syndrome, which
should be pitied and medically treated.
Once
you've noticed this irritating, anti-social behaviour you start
hearing it on other programmes, rather like that annoying and false
“canned laughter” they used to play in the background for telly
sit-coms, specially American ones. Now it's wild whooping which
accompanies most live-chat programmes, such as The One Show or Loose
Women. It's even creeping into our theatres, like the Grand or
Lowther.
Of
course, this unseemly outburst stems from the States. The British,
however deeply moved or excited, have traditionally simply clapped,
cheered or, among down-to-earth types, perhaps whistled.
According
to my online 'urban dictionary', whooping is, “The act of
screaming in adoration, generally accompanied by a revolving
fist-shake and prevalent in the United States, Australia and other
former colonies settled by pioneering herdsmen.' It also supplies a
literary reference, quoting, “The buffoons were screaming like
idiots!” and finally adds, see
also 'Screaming banshees'.
Well quite - and on the
Beeb too! Anyway, it's strictly off limits for me.
* * *
THIS week's column saw me wearing my civic awareness hat, supporting our local high streets. However, man doesn't live by bread alone . . .
WE'RE
backing our high-street stores by shopping in them, as this newspaper
and council are campaigning. However, I know red tape has made some
business plans near us flounder.
The
micro-pub round the corner had a struggle with officials to establish
itself, but is now highly popular. The owners of a new takeaway
sandwich and lunch shop, equally well received by the public, gave up
plans for a further business grooming pets because of 'council
problems'.
This
may be the result of others' rules, of course, but let's try and make
it easier, not harder, for local ventures to get going and succeed.
For
example, church halls - being public places – face many health and
safety or planning constraints and expense. Our local one ended up
being sold off, while the private entrepreneur taking it over didn't
seem to confront such problems.
Can the
good, old Church of England really expect working couples with young
families to attend 'worship' at 10am on Sundays, as our local church
does? For many, it's their one day off work and free of other
commitments. What's wrong with opening in the afternoon?
Also,
what happened to our church social clubs and afternoon Sunday
schools? Their discos and sports events were often youngsters' first
chance to socialise and make friends, or even to find future spouses. (My first kiss was at a church disco and I remember it still!)
Dancing
and table tennis, yoga and afternoon-tea groups can still be popular,
but also supplemented by electronic attractions and wider pursuits,
such as team sports, rambling, the arts and music nights.
These
grand public buildings were built for our enjoyment and advancement,
let's put them back into use at the centre of our lives!
* * *
A DAY late posting this week's column, my apologies - but I've been busy ordering Christmas gifts online. Next, though, I'll look round the high-street stores. We want to support our local shops.
BLIMEY,
it's nearly December! Christmas cheer, or stress, is breathing down
our necks. I've already had invites – and arguments – over
festive party dates.
Nowadays,
I'm content to meet up with a few former colleagues and friends for a
mid-week afternoon in the pub, a week before the big day.
My idea
of an evening 'do' would start at around 5pm and end a couple of
hours later, leaving time for a TV dinner and snooze at home before
retiring to bed. The notion of meeting at eight and going on till
late just makes me shudder – with all those loud, boozy crowds
filling the bar!
Later,
when employed on newspapers around the country, I often worked up to
the last minute before rushing about stores buying late presents -
then heading off to railway stations, or motorways, to reach family
festivities. It was the worst time of year to travel and the anxious,
over-crowded experience very exhausting.
However,
I still enjoy a reunion - preferably somewhere handy, quiet and
conducive to conversation, like a fireside room in an old pub.
Such
cosy get-togethers put life – both our present and the past –
into perspective. They round off our experience of others, while
inspiring good fellowship. These are also celebrations of our many
blessings, so often taken for granted.
With
all the care that is lavished upon Christmas, then the hope and
energy invested into New Year, this time brings a warmth we need
during the coldest season of the year.
So,
let's enjoy it all!
* * *
BIRTHDAYS, ah, they're not what they used to be - and come round too quickly!
IT was
my venerable mother-in-law's birthday again this week. I say 'again'
as these celebrations seem to come round ever more quickly. The years
probably pass even faster for her. Tired of fuss over her longevity,
Wynne now chooses to age backwards, losing a year annually.
Like
Prince Charles, I'm facing my Biblical three score years and 10 (in
2019). Oh, you wouldn't think so? That's very kind! What hurts is
when people just nod after you've revealed your age.
Glamorous
She Who Knows, on the other hand, looks great and has been mistaken
as my daughter. Her sprightly gait and fresh complexion owe much to
that clean living she attempts to teach me. I, sadly, courted my
well-seasoned looks: enjoying a pint, or savouring wine; always
clearing my plate, while never known to rush anywhere.
Anyway,
I shall share with you my lifetime's sagacity about the ironies of
ageing. (Also see my 'Growing Older Book'.)
We're
in such a hurry when young to be older that children telling people
their age add, “and a half”, or even “a quarter”. Only later
- in my case when I ceased to be a teen - do we anxiously wish to
slow down time.
In the
end, you only get the opportunity to make the most of life when
you're considered past it. Also, just as you do acquire that
long-dreamed-of free time to indulge yourself, you're warned to cut
back on everything.
Still,
as veteran entertainer Maurice Chevalier (of 'Thank Heaven' fame)
once wisely observed, “Growing older is not so bad . . . if you
consider the alternative.”
* * *
THIS week's column had a refreshing air of nostalgia but also reflected what's often sadly missing in modern, busy lifestyles - peace and quiet in natural surroundings.
AT home
during these dark evenings we're enjoying old films on the Talking
Pictures channel.
I like
their detective series, being gentler and more down-to-earth than
modern equivalents. There's Gideon's Way, saluting Scotland Yard;
then Public Eye, featuring down-at-heel private investigator Frank
Markham.
Before
the start of programmes – some going back to the '30s – there is
often a warning they may contain scenes or language which could
offend. Yet there is none of the violence or swearing of current
dramas and films. They mean, of course, these classics are not – to
use today's disinfected parlance – politically correct. We're
certainly not offended!
Instead
they're a delight: tightly scripted and with no gratuitous gore;
acted by theatre-trained professionals and, generally, optimistic and
uplifting, while also being full of social history.
The
films are a reminder of how towns and suburbs once were (like this old picture of Blackpool Tower and Promenade). How
wonderful to see mainly pedestrians, a few cycles, possibly a horse
and cart – then the odd car; but no double-parking, motorway
congestion or road rage. There are even trees lining avenues; gardens
and parks, instead of tarmacadam. Trains, buses and trams are packed
and fully staffed; they run regularly and are cheap. Those were the
days!
Now
many young people, with others old enough to know better, care more
about their treasured car and its 'image' than their own appearance
or, sadly, behaviour to others. I wonder if, in less than a lifetime
from now, viewers might look back and laugh, amazed by our selfish,
senseless attachment to cars, with their high pollution and costs.
I fear,
however, there might by then only be a 'virtual' world remaining.
* * *
MY recollections in this week's Gazette column were of past local attractions recently restored - always good to see. It's so tragic to witness our past being bulldozed for little gain.
IT'S
good to see a former landmark attraction in our resort again
attracting investment and crowds.
I'm
talking about the Number Three, known previously as the Crown or the
Didsbury, but – to locals - always the No.3. Historically, it was
the third coaching stop out of Blackpool; the Clifton Hotel being the
first, the former Grosvenor Hotel the second.
When I
came to Blackpool in the 70s, the No.3 was Number One with locals and
hopping at weekends, with lines of taxis waiting to take revellers on
to town-centre clubs. The lounge bar was a great meeting place,
though many of the girls preferred the exclusive atmosphere of its
wine bar. There was also a cosy vaults.
(I've been reliably informed, since the article was published yesterday, that Roy Cogdell was the landlord from 1975 to 1980, with wife Barbara, whereupon a Tom Dover took over. The wine bar was called Le Bouchon , with the food bar adjacent, and the long bar was at the back of the
wine bar with an old street lamp as a feature, however - says my contemporary source - the vaults were not really 'cosy'.)
wine bar with an old street lamp as a feature, however - says my contemporary source - the vaults were not really 'cosy'.)
Later
in the 80s, I recall the main landlord as Alan Ball – a Scouser
with dashing, dark eyebrows beneath a mane of grey hair. He certainly
knew his stuff and wife Barbara was an excellent cook and graceful
addition to the scene.
Now the
Ma Kelly's group has taken over this historic location and re-opened
last weekend. This pub/entertainment company has proved a real boon
to the resort, taking over many flagging locations and turning them
into popular success stories. Its head man, Paul Kelly, came from a
catering family who owned the busy Tower Diner on the Prom. Paul
deserves lots of credit. Let's wish him the same good fortune with
his race horses.
Whitegate
Drive is now looking like a great investment opportunity again, with
the No.3 reopened, the Belle Vue pub revamped, Blackpool's latest
micro pub the No.10 soon offering tapas and, of course, the
traditional Saddle Inn, our resort's oldest hostelry. There's even a
new Italian, Sotto, opened to popular acclaim.
We
lucky locals are again being spoiled for choice!
* * *
THIS week's column springs from the same warm pool of thought and feeling which inspired our November post on this website's Home page. Here, the celebrations have only just begun . . . we say cheers to you, reader, too!
TODAY is
a big day for birthdays and anniversaries at Edmonds Towers, Great
Marton. So, although November's chill is setting in outside, there's
a cosy glow warming us at home.
Celebrations
are more muted these days, although still gratefully savoured: a box
of superior chocolates, lovingly wrapped; a beautiful bunch of
flowers, along with a thoughtful and attractive or amusing card –
we especially like those.
Today's
card has a fetching portrait on its cover of a cute terrier, which
even got sales assistants cooing in delight when I chose it. That
should stand the test of time. Those cards we most like remain on
display, perhaps around the fireplace or alongside photographs on
shelves. They're a reminder of the pleasant things in life to share –
and much cheaper than an original painting.
Of
course, birthdays and anniversaries come round quicker these days.
It's rather like these columns, this weekly 'chat' I enjoy with
readers. If they spread a little joy; inspire some local pride, or
hope where there was little, then it's a job worth doing. The reward,
as with personal presents, is in the giving.
Perhaps
there's someone whose mood you could lift today. Go on, give it a go!
It'll make you feel better too.
* * *
BIT of a rant from me, this week's Gazette column, but it made me feel better . . .
I'M
turning green but not with envy – more like the Incredible Hulk. My
shirt-busting fury stems from frustration at faceless council
officials ruling our lives.
The
other Monday I had an anxious, early-morning appointment at the
dentist's – to have a front tooth pulled out. What could be worse
to start one's week?
Well,
I'll tell you - getting back to the car minutes later and finding a
£70 fixed penalty ticket. This was just before parking would be
permitted for up to two hours. Some blighter had been skulking, ready
to pounce!
Round
the corner, by Stanley Park, She Who (usually) Knows was also done.
Although only parked the short time it took to collect me from a
crowded cricket club, she failed to notice a tiny residents-only sign
on the far side of the pavement. The air wasn't green but blue! (From
me, of course, not She Who.)
The
answer, I've decided, is to walk. It's healthier, you see more and
meet interesting people. But, then, my anger sprouted again. The
final straw – or privet clipping - was my green bin not being
emptied.
I've
left it out before, full of hedge cuttings and where you couldn't
miss it, but – when ringing to complain - been told it wasn't
'properly presented'. No wonder neighbours don't pay for green
recycling.
Still,
just as I'd penned this and ranted on the council's website, lo and
behold! My bin was finally emptied.
Thanks,
in the end, council. But then, when I weigh it up, we've still paid
£30 for only one collection – and more than double that in
parking fines . . .
I'm off
again – walking, of course.
* * *
THIS week's Gazette column carried a similar message to this website's latest Home page post for October - a plug for the latest book.
I ALWAYS
thought it grand to be a newspaper columnist, rather than doing
proper work – even on a newspaper. Of course, the reality is
different.
On
local papers, columnists tend to write their stuff in rare free
moments and often just before deadline, while having other duties
like reporting or editing.
Now
semi-retired, I'm typing this in pyjamas after breakfast in my
'study' (really the storage and laundry room). It's second nature now
and I would miss these weekly chats with you.
Since then I've written for papers in cities as diverse as Hong Kong
and Salt Lake City - yes, for the Mormons who were generous payers!
Mainly,
though, I've written about life on the Fylde for this paper - over
four decades.
I tell
you all this as my latest book is a collection of columns illustrated
with occasional cartoons and updates, entitled 'Wish You Were Here'.
I hoped
it might entertain, rather than these shared muses, observations and
confessions just being chucked out with the fish-and-chip shop
wrappings.
It
might even make a healthy gift. According to reports, books are good
for mental well-being. They take readers outside their daily
problems, offer another view of the world and teach us that we're not
all so different after all.
However,
I prefer to think of it as a fun stroll in good company down the
promenade of life.
It's
published at this time, with thanks to the Gazette, as autumn is
setting in, temperatures dropping and darker nights approaching.
When better, then, to settle down beside a cosy fire and escape our
everyday concerns?
What's
more, if its blurb reads true, you can dip in and out of this book
like a warm Irish Sea – and that's a rare treat indeed!
* * *
THE political conference season has just drawn to a close in Britain but, in the future, there's a move to bring back the big party gatherings to Blackpool, where much investment is being undertaken. That all prompted a few vivid memories of the resort's glory days . . .
I'M
obliged to well-informed Lytham pal Nick, for spotting an opinion
column from the New Statesman magazine. This called for a return to
Blackpool for political conferences.
In it,
Patrick Maguire bemoaned the trend for big-city conferences by
'urban-professional' politicians only comfortable 'in posh hotels
behind a ring of steel' - keeping the general public at bay.
Mr
Maguire applauded quality hotels now being built in the resort and
£25m invested in Winter Gardens improvements. He concluded, 'If
Corbyn and May are serious about people who voted for Brexit, they
should have their 2020 conferences in Blackpool.'
Who can
forget Margaret Thatcher's visits and our streets lined with police
sharpshooters? While, previously, Ted Heath had sojourned leisurely
at the gourmet River House hotel, at Skippool Creek.
Labour's
James Callaghan appealed privately to striking firemen in our town
hall, then mistook me for his minders who were also waiting outside
the committee-room door.
“Got
the car? Shall we go then?” Big Jim asked me. My surprise was such
I gaped wordlessly as detectives escorted the PM away.
I
remember another Labour leader, Neil Kinnock, falling downstairs at
Carriages restaurant, Talbot Square. What a bumbler the unfortunate
man was! Little wonder he became a European commissioner.
Then
there was grinning Tony Blair posing on breezy Prom, as John Prescott
took a limousine to the conference - because his wife had 'just had
her hair done'.
Finally,
there was the Gazette photographer's story of Harold Wilson. When
about to be pictured dining with his Labour Cabinet at the Winter
Gardens, the wily PM had them pose with pints - rather than the
cognacs they were really drinking. He also swapped a pipe for his
cigar.
Oh for
such craftiness now, for sorting out Brexit!
* * *
A MOBILE phone proved handy while away in North Wales (see Home page) but I'm still a texting novice, as admitted in this week's Gazette column.
I HAVE a
confession to make. I've only texted once and under close
instruction. Our Gazette car park attendant was the only other
employee at a seminar on our new phone system who was equally
ignorant, so we were taught to text 'Hi!' to each other.
I've
tried texting since but failed. However, nowadays many services are
provided online and there is pressure to learn.
I tell
you this as a new book by author/actor Gyles Brandreth, entitled
'Have You Eaten Grandma?', bemoans 'the use and misuse of English in
our time'.
It made
me LOL, as they say. You no doubt know that acronym – Laugh Out
Loud (as opposed to lower case lol – Lots Of Love). But, OMG (Oh My
God), I didn't know 'Wig' was an expression of delight for something
so exciting it would, if wearing one, blow off your wig.
Closely
kept codes of the young really Wigged me, such as: CTN – Can't Talk
Now; KPC – Keeping Parents Clueless; POS – Parent Over Shoulder.
Other shortened expressions seemed good ideas. For example, B3 –
Blah, Blah, Blah; SLAP – Sounds Like A Plan; and, to B3 texters,
TLDR – Too Long, Didn't Read.
The
good news is there are now acronyms for oldies to use when texting.
How about: ATD – At The Doctors; BTW – Bring The Wheelchair;
FWIW – Forgot Where I Was; GGPBL – Gotta Go Pacemaker Battery
Low; IMHO – Is My Hearing-Aid On? Then, my favourite, since the
last stressful dental appointment, LMDO – Laughed My Dentures Out.
So
there you are, proper English readers, all that remains is to say in
text speak . . .
CU lol.
* * *
NOW the kids have gone back to school, the weather has picked up and it's sunny outside. This is only right and just, since it gives all us adults, especially retired 'oldies', a chance to relax and enjoy outdoors again - without the clamour of children, bless 'em! Here's this week's column:
WE had
our flu jabs at the health centre this week, marking another year
gone while still, thankfully, remaining fit. It was a reminder, too,
of the changing seasons, just as in spring I undergo a blood-sample
check – hoping for sunny results!
Unfortunately,
our busy and ever-expanding hospitals rarely have time or space to
develop tranquil places of beauty with healing environments. However,
some charities now maintain gardens by medical centres to give them a
salubrious setting.
On the
Fylde we're fortunate to have many parks and public gardens as well
as the coastline to walk and cycle, or to simply sit and breathe that
fresh air so prized by our forebears.
There's
something of a celebration of all this beginning next week at Stanley
Park, last year voted the best in the UK. Former Gazette journalist
Elizabeth Gomm has an exhibition of pictures and words involving
diverse visitors, centred upon her memorial bench by the boating lake
to her late partner, former Gazette chief photographer Mike Foster.
The exhibition is free and at the Visitor Centre run by The Friends
of Stanley Park, beside its welcoming art-deco café Parks.
Of
course, there are many memorial benches, as well as dedicated trees,
around our park - the largest recreational green space outside
London. Each tells a different story but all reflect that deep
pleasure and contentment from relaxing in an uplifting natural
environment.
Let's
wish Elizabeth well – and all others who enjoy a park visit. I'll
look out for you there!
* * *
BRRR! Autumn is here, with gales whistling around Edmonds Towers and temperatures plummeting. But are we down at heart? Never! Here's why . . .
Also,
last weekend I watched the last game of the season at Blackpool
Cricket Club which, incidentally, topped the Northern Premier
League's first and second divisions and the Palace Shield's Sunday
one. Well done lads – and lasses! Teams are blossoming in the
Lancashire Cricket Board's Women & Girls Cricket League.
ALL that glitters is not gold and that's certainly true today when so much is false. What dazzles us most, it seems, is a mix of celebrity and glamour propped up, of course, by wealth.
On
Saturday we watched the preview for this winter's glitzy series and,
well, were sadly disappointed. Who were these 'celebrities' anyway?
There were no truly household names, famous politicians, sporting
legends or top-billing entertainers – emerging from their comfort
zones to tackle ballroom dancing in front of millions.
This week's Gazette column was an echo of my latest Home page post of this website, though with a little different slant to each. It's food for thought, whatever you're taste is for . . .
A
chippy-come-restaurant outside York (Scotts, at Bilbrough Top on the
A64) is attracting more than 100 Chinese diners a week. The influx
began after its manager introduced Chinese menus, along with a
website and messaging 'app' on one of China's most popular social
media platforms.
JUST time before the summer season ends to squeeze in another tennis tale. Last week I commented on sepia pictures in this paper showing the game played on the Fylde during the last century. How smart everyone looked, fresh and sporting in 'whites'!
MY
Panama hat is now hanging on the back of our so-called 'study' door,
removed from the kitchen where I'd take it out to sunbathe in Edmonds
Towers' garden.
This
week we shall also be playing our last outdoor tennis – at Lytham
Sports Club. Fortunately, there's a refurbished indoor court at South
Shore Lawn Tennis Club, on the Moss, so we can play there over
winter and autumn (which starts tomorrow).
How
lucky we are on the Fylde coast to have so much entertainment and
diverse activities for all seasons! We keep hearing of new
restaurants, particularly in suburbs and aimed at locals not
tourists, as well as cosy micro-pubs and craft beer houses appearing
in different neighbourhoods. Here in Great Marton we recently
welcomed the No.10 Alehouse, a mouth-watering addition to our
existing popular pubs, Blackpool's oldest – The Saddle Inn – and
the Boars (sic) Head with its exotic Thai menu.
Only
the other day, while dining at Lowther Gardens' café
before a rock concert, I spotted another possible winter hobby –
the 'Tuneless Choir'. It's 'for those who can't sing but just love
doing so anyway'. This choir, at St. Annes Parish Church Hall,
follows an earlier one still making a glorious noise in Thornton.
My
music master told me never to sing in public but mime (after
repeatedly hitting me on the head with his wooden recorder), so it
might suit me. However, we also have those afternoon tea dances to
attend . . .
See
what I mean? We're just spoiled for choice!
See also our Poem page - to inspire some autumn awe!
* * *
ALL that glitters is not gold and that's certainly true today when so much is false. What dazzles us most, it seems, is a mix of celebrity and glamour propped up, of course, by wealth.
These
are the ingredients making Strictly Come Dancing such a hit for the
BBC. It was always top viewing at Edmonds Towers but, of late, has
waned in appeal.
Then
there's the superficial glamour. We don't mind sequins, they're fun,
but this lavish show was produced Hollywood-style. Film cameras
glossed over any imperfections and air-brushed out all wrinkles,
unlike those unforgiving high-definition television lenses usually
employed. Whitened teeth dazzled like toothpaste adverts while waxed,
spray-tanned torsos flashed in the strobe lighting - as professional
dancers met contestants and embraced in over-the-top, theatrical
jubilation.
The
once inspired show formula all started going downhill when producers
began interfering and 'glamming up' the excellent mix of experienced
and opinionated judges. Arlene Phillips was axed and we missed her
sharper edge; then chief judge Len Goodman retired to “pickle his
walnuts” in Cockney-land, probably tiring of everything now going
so smoothly. Soon, I fear, judges will be as tame and politically
correct as those in the anodyne American version of this worldwide
hit.
Besides,
what will they now really have to judge? Most contestants were young
or, at least, fit and agile, while also obviously taught dance at
stage schools. It all seemed as plastic as that tatty Glitterball
Trophy.
Let's
just hope the Beeb still brings the show up north to Blackpool's
Golden-Mile Tower, where real life still shines.
* * *
This week's Gazette column was an echo of my latest Home page post of this website, though with a little different slant to each. It's food for thought, whatever you're taste is for . . .
OUR
holiday coast was booming last weekend with the Lights Switch-On and
Britney on Blackpool Prom; while St. Annes held its International
Kite Festival and Lytham, well, leafy and now trendy Lytham is always
full at weekends!
The
Illuminations and pier firework displays will continue to draw
visitors this month but, with Brexit looming, there's some British
customs which could attract cultural tourists from further afield.
The
Chinese already know Blackpool from its world ballroom dance
championships paired with Shanghai, a more exciting link-up than our
old friend and 'twin' Bottrop, in Germany. However, our coast is also
rightly renowned for fish and chips – a traditional treat fast
becoming a 'must-have experience' on tours from China.
Chinese
tour operators now add the 'fish and chips experience' after their
President, Xi Jinping, famously shared such a supper with then prime
minister David Cameron on a visit to the UK three years ago.
Staff
at the Yorkshire chippy cheerfully pose for pictures with Chinese
visitors, whom they report are “very friendly, smiley and happy”.
Of
course, our coast's award-winning chippies could offer much more to
savour than on sale over the dark, colder side of the Pennines. After
trawling nautical history at Fleetwood, there's diverse piscatorial
catering along the Fylde or, of course, cultural curiosities like
deep-fried haggis – or even Mars bars – thanks to Blackpool's
Glaswegian associations.
Sometimes,
in our Victorian resorts, we can feel we're living in a museum.
Well, we might have missed out on World Heritage status, but the
sea's blessings might still bring a fresh tide of seaside
attractions.
* * *
JUST time before the summer season ends to squeeze in another tennis tale. Last week I commented on sepia pictures in this paper showing the game played on the Fylde during the last century. How smart everyone looked, fresh and sporting in 'whites'!
Now,
apart from at Wimbledon, anything goes as regards sports outfits.
However, it seems some notables have gone too far. Serena Williams, a
favourite TV performer for us at Edmonds Towers, has been banned from
again wearing her black catsuit at the French Open. The tournament is
to introduce a stricter dress code.
Serena
herself said the outfit gave her confidence so soon after childbirth
and made her feel like a 'superhero', particularly easing her worries
about blood clots which had troubled her. Mind you, we vividly recall
her wearing an even more sensational catsuit years before.
Perhaps
it's time that local clubs should rule along similar lines – and,
for example, ban leggings. These, no doubt, keep the limbs warm in
cold weather (as tracksuits do) but, unless worn with accompanying
skirts, are skin-tight and revealing.
We've
also seen some younger girl players in shorts so tiny many onlookers
wondered if they had forgotten their skirts, being reduced to
exposing themselves in underwear. After all, tennis isn't competing
with beach volley ball to attract more male spectators!
How
would those older ladies, who feel the cold most, react if us veteran
men started wearing such leggings too? Anyone remember comedian Max
Wall? We shudder at the thought!
Then we
could also rule that men should not wear floppy shorts – also
unpleasantly revealing when sitting down. Or, indeed, skirts
shouldn't be so short as to expose knickers when serving or picking
up balls . . .
Well,
it would be a brave committee member who proposed such, so I better
finish there – at Love All.
* * *
As the tennis season nears its end, the local paper took a trip down Memory Lane with pictures of veteran players from their hey days. What a pity they can't be coloured in, as is possible today, but remain black and white - unlike our rich memories . . .
IT'S a
shock, though also delightful, when black-and-white archive pictures
from this newspaper's Memory Lane section show people you know now –
as they were 40-odd years ago.
So it
was last Friday for me and other keen players, as The Gazette served
up sporting memories from the last century of Fylde's proud tradition
of tennis clubs.
The
front cover showed half-a-dozen young lady members of Poulton's
Moorland club, in 1974, all dressed charmingly in fashionably short,
white tennis skirts or shorts, holding wooden Dunlop-Maxply racquets
and ready at the net for a fresh season.
Inside
was a spread of sepia memories from Thornton, Blackpool, South Shore,
St. Annes and Lytham clubs, along with a professional exhibition in
the 1950s at Blackpool Cricket Club, featuring world number-one Jack
Kramer of the States.
I'll be
carrying the archive pictures around in my tennis bag for a while,
should any veteran players have missed their publication. In my head
I also hold memories of many happy years playing tennis here on the
coast.
The
game brought me together with my wife and also still gives me many
friendships and healthy, happy outings. You should try it if you
haven't already! Our local sports clubs are still great places to
socialise and for families to enjoy together.
I also
remember the last time I wielded a wooden racquet – when winning
St. Annes' Club's centennial tournament at the Millennium. (It was a
handicap event and they'd been generous with me!)
Perhaps
there will be pictures of that, too, in another 50 years.
* * *
I must have had a 'senior moment' last Friday, as I forgot entirely to put on that week's column to this page. Happily, I can now, therefore, offer this week's then last week's for your consideration. Both make reference to mother-in-law Wynne, who remains a remarkable conversationalist even as she attains great age.
ONE mellows in older age. It helps us
live with life's ups and downs. Even what appeared past disasters
have, it seems, become triumphs.
Venerable mother-in-law Wynne pointed
this out. “People don't think much of journalists,” she told me
frankly, during a chat. “But I always tell them of you and that
young sportsman you let off – in Hong Kong.” When I frowned, she
added, “He was a football player, who drank a lot.”
Ah, yes, Georgie Best, one of my
missed 'exclusives'. George – whom many believe was the best - was
on a world tour, telling how he beat the booze.
I worked in Hong Kong and heard him on
its breakfast radio. Then, coming home late afternoon from our
newspaper office, I dropped into a quiet bar owned by a Scottish
ex-soccer player. There was a sad George alone in a corner, supping
alcohol.
“It was so kind not to take
advantage of that poor man's addiction,” Wynne explained. “It
does you great credit, you see.”
Well, perhaps. I never was tough
enough for Fleet Street.
My second encounter with a sporting
superstar was with snooker player Alex Higgins, another black sheep.
After some rumpus he had jumped from a girlfriend's bedroom window to
evade the Press, breaking a leg but escaping.
“Where is Alex Higgins?” screamed
a Sunday tabloid's front page next morning. Well, as it happened, he
hobbled into a pub where I was – in Ramsbottom.
The broken man looked terrible and I
felt sorry for him. Although it would be a lucrative scoop, I
couldn't betray him. Alex even limped over on crutches and asked to
borrow my paper.
“Mum's the word,” I told him, with
a wink. His nod of thanks was my only reward – along, of course,
with mother-in-law's congratulations.
EVER
feel your world is crumbling around you? The other day was like that.
I'd been to a reunion, had a hangover and didn't sleep well - so
neither had She Who Knows. It all cast a pall over the morning.
This
rather messed up our plans for the day but, then, how often do those
work out as expected? Even the good book says, 'Don't think of
tomorrow'.
What's
more, in such a dark cast of mind, you notice all the other things
going wrong – rather like spotting more dust around, or worry lines
on yourself, when walking about wearing reading spectacles.
There
was a crack, I noticed, in the bathroom floor tiles; then many more,
once I got down to examine it more carefully. Next I accidentally
knocked a wonky shelf in my study (our overflow room) and it
collapsed, tearing wallpaper and making a mess.
Everything
was going wrong but, ever the optimist, I muttered a silent prayer.
Also, I remembered those stern admonishments favoured by
mother-in-law Wynne and her generation – 'Pull yourself together
and snap out of it!'
Within
a short while I'd fixed the cracked floor tile, restored the shelf
(still wonky), covered up torn wallpaper and felt better about
myself. Also, She Who Knows had indulged in a restorative nap.
Then we
went out up the coast; giving ourselves a rest from playing tennis
but watching friends instead; even treating ourselves to a late roast
dinner at a friendly café - OAP portions please!
Life
wasn't so bad after all, you see. It struck me that having a little
faith – in yourself, others, life's good side and, dare I suggest,
even God Himself – was like lighting a welcoming fire in a chill
home; it turns your life aglow.
So much
so, I decided to share that good news with you.
* * *
This week's Gazette column was something of an update on last month's Home page post for this website and of a literary mode . . . with a frustrated dig all round at TV book adaptations!
AROUND mid-day and in mid-week, I felt
rather as though on the set of a Midsomer Murders episode – the ITV
detective series based on novels by Caroline Graham.
I was, in fact, at a stylish
restaurant book-launch in Lytham for top crime writer Peter Robinson (pictured from You-Tube).
Thankfully, Peter was a down-to-earth, likeable northerner, both
approachable and unassuming.
There were lots of mainly lady diners
– all smartly turned out - and my table companions were 'singles'
who, like me, had come without spouses or friends. These were a
retired wholesale book dealer from Wrea Green; a charming, retired
teacher who'd driven from Bolton, then a lovely New Zealand woman who
lived on a cattle and sheep farm when not visiting family in the
Fylde.
Fiction reflects life and how
enlightening it all was! Peter, we learned, often didn't know himself
whom his murderer was until deep into his stories. What we all love,
you see, is a bit of a mystery and stepping into others' worlds.
I told them my characters often
determined the plots and surprised me, too. Minor ones sometimes
proved more interesting and supplanted original heroes. It's stranger
than fiction, this writing business!
Peter also revealed a degree of
ambivalence about the TV face of his books' hero DCI Banks, the
Fylde-reared actor Stephen Tompkinson; as well as having little
involvement - or profit - himself in the series. Programmes are
apparently put together by “a committee” of executives.
This all confirmed my own suspicions
about why telly crime is now – to me - so politically correct,
over-dramatised, often confusing and, well, unrealistic . . .
Without the authors, you see, they've
lost the plot.
(P.S. Peter used to write a lot of poetry and I've included a lovely line from his latest thriller, Careless Love, just to show his occasional descriptive gems. See our Poem page.)
* * *
This week's column seems a bit grumpy and fogey-like upon reading it again - my arthritis must be playing up!
I FEAR we're becoming a nation of
uncouth slobs; taking our plentiful life for granted and, as a school
report once reprimanded me, 'wallowing in the sloth'.
My father was a working man; mother a
housewife who also did odd jobs. Back in those grey 1950s and early
60s, people were grateful for what little they had and learned to
cope. But they still taught children manners, some pride in
appearances and inspired a will to improve. Streets were clean, kids
obedient and my school motto was Manners Maketh Man.
As children, we were once shocked by a
diner at a seaside café who complained his steak was small, then
sliced it up and eat with a fork.
“Must be a Yank!” said Dad.
Americans were wealthy but lacked our manners from generations of
culture.
Abroad, we admire the dexterity of
chopstick users – with their own codes, such as not eating
left-handed as it nudges a neighbour's elbow. Many rice-based
cultures favour a practical spoon and fork, but no one eats as badly
as Brits now do.
We're also usually the worst dressed –
either 'grungy' or 'flash', while often hideously obese. Why is it
those fattest favour the tightest leggings? We're even lazy in
speech, picking up clumsy American expressions and 'like' text-speak.
People eat far in excess of what's
needed, wasting much. We're building up medical problems, while
losing respect around the world. At our health centres the fittest
specimens are the babies.
Hopefully, they'll do better than ourselves . . .
Hopefully, they'll do better than ourselves . . .
But who will teach them?
* * *
A sporting theme to the column this week . . .
WITH an eventful Wimbledon – and
World Cup – just past, it's rewarding to reflect on that sage
advice from Rudyard Kipling's 'If', once voted our nation's favourite
poem.
Engraved above the players' entrance
to Centre Court are his much quoted words: 'Meet with Triumph and
Disaster and treat those two impostors both the same'.
A similar sentiment echoes, too, in
former champion Boris Becker's comment after losing on the hallowed
turf. “I didn't lose a war,” he told the world's media. “No one
died. I lost a tennis match.”
I've played tennis for 60-odd years
and observed how it is often the worst players who are most fiercely
competitive; the least able who impatiently cut short a friendly
practice to play a game for points; the most ill-prepared who rush on
court late, announcing, 'I don't need a warm-up'.
Odd, indeed, but that's life; which
sport merely reflects. Those in a rush to win usually miss the true
joys of taking part. Experience, time spent learning, increases the
satisfaction. After a good match I often can't immediately recall,
and don't particularly care, who finally won.
These days youngsters are coached and
have all the gear, which we never did. Sadly, however, those teaching
them rarely impart more than how to hit winning shots. They don't
explain tactics for doubles, which most clubs play: where to move
and why; how to set up your partner, rather than just play for
oneself.
Come to think of it, many would
benefit from similar lessons about everyday life – on our roads, in
the business place, wherever other people are involved.
If only . . . as Kipling said.
Incidentally, if you wish to read more of 'If' by Kipling, currently causing some controversy among British students - presumably as being 'sexist', there is an abridged version at item 28 on our Poem page.
Incidentally, if you wish to read more of 'If' by Kipling, currently causing some controversy among British students - presumably as being 'sexist', there is an abridged version at item 28 on our Poem page.
* * *
This week we're welcoming a cheering development in our nation's high streets . . .
WITH so many pubs, post office and bank
branches closing on our high streets, it's cheering to welcome a new
attraction and meeting place.
The No.10 Alehouse Blackpool, on
Whitegate Drive, is opening tonight, from 5-7pm by invitation and
then onward. In fact, it's actually at property numbers 258/260, once
a chiropodist's, but is named after the popular similar operation at
10 Park Road, St. Annes.
Both concerns are headed up by
landlord and owner George White, a local man who cares passionately
about his project. For George it's not just about real-ale traditions
but also this neighbourhood of Great Marton. He hopes his success
will encourage others back into our high streets, with cafés,
bistros, stores and other communal hubs.
“It's a great 'village' area and
I've many friends here. We should do well,” said the genial George.
His eager team, including stylish, musical barista Colin, will be a
welcome force for local fellowship.
I've also enjoyed visits to the
alehouse in St. Annes, or the welcoming Lytham Craft House in Clifton
Street. The appeal of 'beer houses' is their cosiness and friendly
owner-service. Despite the name, there is more on offer than real
cask ales dispensed by hand-pumps. There are usually craft lagers,
ciders and the increasingly popular perries; as well as wine and
non-alcoholic drinks, including hot beverages and home-made snacks.
But what is specially attractive to
most patrons, is the cheerful personal atmosphere. Thankfully, we may
still get this in some traditional public houses and even new
bistros. However, 'beer houses' tend to be small enough for anyone to
join a conversation or, of course, be left in peace with a newspaper
or friend.
Let's wish George well and support
another promising attraction to our diverse resort coast, so long
renowned for its friendly entertainment of visitors and locals alike.
* * *
I AM a bit late putting this week's column on the page, sorry. Still, it is also rather similar to this month's post on our Home page. Forgive the plugs and I shall, of course, report back upon meeting Mister R.
DETECTIVE fiction fans on the Fylde
have a red-letter date this month, to meet DCI Alan Banks, the
Yorkshire sleuth played on television by locally raised actor Stephen
Tompkinson.
Well, it's not DCI Banks himself, of
course, but his creator, top-selling author Peter Robinson. On July
25 he's coming to a lunch-time book-signing event, organised by
innovative Lytham bookseller Plackitt & Booth.
The day will, as it happens, launch
the 25th Banks novel, Careless Love. I'll be there, books
in hand, to meet my writing hero Peter.
The Yorkshireman, who splits his time
between Richmond and Toronto, has been an academic and taught
creative writing. His books, including other novels and many short
stories, have entertained, inspired and delighted millions – while
also attracting top awards and sales.
However, the books in my hand will not
only be a copy of Careless Love, a double-mystery set on the wild,
North Yorkshire moors Peter loves to remember when home in Canada.
Rather cheekily, perhaps, I'll be
giving him a copy of my latest light thriller, the fourth in my
series on Fylde's daring and dashing reporter-come-investigator, Sam
Stone.
Waiting For The Ferryman, as it's
entitled, also has a wonderful setting close to my heart – Conway
near Snowdonia and then County Cork's Sheep's Head Peninsula.
I hope Peter won't be offended by my
initiative and enjoys his visit to our friendly coast. There are so
many diverse readers who are thrilled and engaged by his writing. I
also hope that, perhaps on that long journey back to Canada from this
busy book tour, the amiable Northerner might look over my own humble
offering and even, later, offer some advice.
It's wonderful and inspiring when our
heroes come to life in front of us. On the other hand, what DCI Banks
will make of Sam Stone I'm not sure.
* * *
We take our hearing and other senses much for granted - until we lose them, if only temporarily. At the moment I'm still taking ear drops and half-deaf. It truly hinders one's social pleasures.
“WELL, doctor,” I began, feeling
rather unworthy, “I'm fine really. But, every few months, I use
drops to clear my ears of wax. I know it doesn't completely clear
them and have had them syringed a couple of times in past years.”
The young doctor nodded patiently.
“Well, last week I used some drops
and, afterwards, lost my hearing completely for the day. Since then,
it's returned almost - except that my ears are still blocked first
thing in the morning, while my left one remains less clear than the
right.”
“Unfortunately,” I added to my
shame, “those drops were three years out of date.” (We really
must clear out our cupboards!)
What I didn't tell the doc, whom the
surgery receptionist had made an appointment for me with, rather than
the nurse, was my frustration, fear and humility while 'deaf'.
Others, apart from my nearest and
dearest, tended to laugh off my predicament – or, rather
disconcertingly, put it down to advancing years.
What was more, we were booked into a
concert the evening following my temporary deafness. Fortunately, I
got a reprieve and Tony Christie at the Lowther Theatre was great.
But I can assure you deafness is a
lonely, strange and silent world which leaves you unsure of your
surroundings and what's happening. It's like walking on cotton wool
without a vital sense to guide you. Also, you have to guess what is
being said and can offend others by not hearing.
The deaf or 'hard-of hearing' will
always have my sympathy from now, rather than causing me occasional
irritation as in the past.
As it happened, the doctor simply
suggested a week of olive-oil-based drops at night secured with
cotton wool.
But he also offered healthy advice:
always check medicines before using. Believe me, that's a lesson
worth listening to!
* * *
'ONE is nearer God's heart in a garden than anywhere else of earth', so the popular adage goes. The poem was originally found written in a visitor's book at a stately home.
Our humbler back garden, here in Great
Marton, has been a delight of late. This was thanks not only to the
'kiss of the sun', or the mirthful 'song of the birds', but to their
bumbling chicks too.
Even our garden arch blowing over in
last week's gales, bringing down honeysuckle and roses, hasn't
interrupted daily sightings of the blackbird chicks, nor our pair of
robins clearly reluctant to disappear as usual for summer.
Perhaps there's not enough forest
around any more, or my garden is getting wilder, but our robins are
welcome to stay as long as they wish.
Also, the blackbirds will soon lack
any energy for singing, so demanding are those fluffy chicks
currently bumbling about our garden
wearing worried countenances upon unsure wings.
Thanks to our
huge ivy hedge, battled annually by itinerant gardener Joe, we also
have darting, dazzling blue-tits nesting with us, chirpy sparrows and
reclusive wrens. I shoo away pigeons, wood-cocks and magpies, but not
too fiercely – live and let live we say.
While the madding
crowds jeer and cheer over soccer's Russian roulette, we're content
in a natural haven here on our lovely Fylde coast.
For, after all
that feverish sporting clamour is over, it is in a comforting garden
where, as poet Dorothy Frances Gurney rightly observed, 'The soul of
the world found ease'.
* * *
Late again putting this week's column on the website - must be another senior moment, though I have been busy tidying up the gardens after a freak gale. As promised, this week I was putting the boot in - to the World Cup. Just joking, of course, for you real fans . . .
EVEN I know today is the start of the
World Cup in Russia. I say that as football isn't my thing.
Also, we live between two pubs with
big-screen-sport coverage. From fans' cheers, or silence, we know
who's winning without turning on our telly – at least when
England's playing.
As a lad I practised footy against the
invitingly high wall of a neighbour, who would puncture my ball when
it went over. I also played soccer and cricket games on the local
park, though with soft rubber balls.
At school it was a different story and
hard learning curve: facing a bruising 'corkie' at cricket, then a
brain-damaging, leather football on water-logged pitches, with
goal-mouths a muddy quagmire. It was miserable, specially as I showed
no natural talent – except for physically knocking over those
flashy, big-headed forwards.
Tennis became my sport, with soft
balls, grass courts and, later on, attractive female co-players.
Rugby was all right in practice but brutal at adult club-level.
Squash, however, was just the thing to work up a sweat during our
cold, rainy months.
As for watching football, well, when I
first went to see glamorous United at Old Trafford (supported purely
in rivalry to my older brother's enthusiasm for Manchester City), all
you could see was fog. The next time there I lost a slip-on shoe at
the Stretford End then had to hop to the bus stop. Even on telly, the
excitable commentators get on my nerves and most players, well,
they're grossly over-paid, mostly foreign and cheat, at least by our
old-school standards.
Still, I'm not a spoil sport - may the
rest of you enjoy it!
* * *
This week's column is appearing here a day late, with my apologies. I was savouring a cup of tea yesterday in the garden. Next week we'll be kicking around the World Cup, not a particularly welcome event at Edmonds Towers!
AT Edmonds Towers we've some grand
notions but decidedly aren't royals. We use some so-called 'received
pronunciation', saying “thenk-you” - but that's a personal joke
prompted by old films where stars all speak very 'properly'.
Like the Queen, we leave some
Christmas decorations up until late February. That's to cheer up our
little palace during dull winter weeks. We also avoid the word
'toilet', since reading Dame Barbara Cartland on etiquette. It should
be 'lavatory' or 'end of the passage', though we prefer 'bathroom' or
'loo'.
They always use a teapot, of course,
but then - he claimed - added milk after pouring and never stirred
the pot in a circular motion.
This seems all wrong. As She Who Knows
points out, if using bone china cups a drop of milk first prevents
cracks. Also, it indicates how strong the brew is. As for spooning
motion, I suspect he was deliberately stirring up things. No wonder
he's an ex-employee. (You can't get decent staff these days!)
Then a Balmoral butler, on a TV
programme about how the other half live, discussed serving red wine
at the dining table. Apparently, royals never show the bottle but
always decant first.
At Edmonds Towers I like to be
reminded what I'm drinking, since we may keep a bottle for another
day. Only our worst wine goes in a decanter to air (or hide) and,
hopefully, encourage mellowness. Anyway, like the late Queen Mother,
She Who Knows prefers champagne.
Finally, I keep a bottle or two of
beer cool on the Towers' back step. We've yet to learn where Philip
keeps his.
* * *
In this week's column we salute a real Lancashireman, proud of the county where 'women die for love' - though that's another story!
EEE, lads and lasses, there's more to
our grand county of Lancashire than those Whitehall bureaucrats and
soft, southern politicians would have us believe.
A Mancunian myself, I proudly remember
our old postal address being in Lancashire, just as it was for
Scousers too! Forget that so-called 'God's county', on the cold side
of the Pennines; they've all tried to diminish us cheerier people
over here, but never will!
Philip's ancestors here go back
generations and played a leading part in building our world-famous
resort and delightfully varied holiday coast.
Only last Saturday, She Who Knows and
myself joined the irrepressible former mounted policeman, operatic
singer and church warden on a guided stroll around what had been
Marton 'village'. He brought to life its colourful characters and
ground-breaking clergy and patrons. In fact, they're still breaking
the ground at St Paul's, fronting Whitegate Drive, where ancient but
often pristine gravestones are being unearthed, thanks to Philip and
volunteers. Why not join them?
Philip's chairman of Friends of Real
Lancashire, as well as local history group Marton Past. You can
follow their interests and his month-long walk on Facebook or the
Gazette.
“We hope to make the media and
everyone aware there is more to Lancashire than the 'admin bit' in
the middle,” said Philip.
He is also raising money for North
West Air Ambulance.The easiest way to donate is via his internet page
- justgiving.com/fundraising/forl-philipwalsh. Contributions go
straight to the NWAA. Also, follow him on Twitter @ FORLancashire and
@ Welcome2Lancs.
Otherwise, you could simply leave
donations to him at the church.
* * *
TRIALS are under way at Manchester
University on a baldness cure, following promising laboratory tests
on 40 men. This took me back to being a teenager, working in that
city and worried about hair loss.
He must have been pulling my leg,
rather than my hair, as the only outcome was a whiffy odour which
ruined my romantic life.
Finally, my dad – also follically
challenged - offered a sensible observation. “If there really was a
cure, son, why wouldn't the royals use it?” He had a point and
still has.
In my 40s, as part of a series for The
Gazette, I tried the latest 'wonder drug' minoxidil, but that didn't
help either. Such treatments aren't available on the NHS and can have
side-effects or disappointing results. That's why men undergo
expensive transplantation surgery – or just have their heads shaved
at the barber's.
For those still hopeful, the
Manchester project is led by Dr Nathan Hawkshaw who says it could
“make a real difference to people who suffer from hair loss".
Clinical trials will continue to test effectiveness and safety . . .
Still, in the meantime, eggs and
onions are cheap.
* * *
I'M going to write this week about 'Wills' but, don't worry, this has nothing to do with Saturday's royal wedding.
She Who Knows recently went on holiday
with her sister to sun-kissed Cyprus. Before she left I alerted them
to the dangers – and not just of skin cancer.
“You're travelling into a potential
war zone,” I warned. “It's where our jets flew from to bomb
neighbouring Syria.”
Then I added, somewhat selfishly,
“You'd best make a will.” You see, we mostly share our funds and
even the house ownership. What's more, I'm told probate can be
long-winded and uncertain when “intestate”.
She agreed and went to the post office
for a form, while I planned for afternoons lingering in beer gardens
and al fresco meals watching cricket - between brief spells of
gardening - while they were away. She Who lashed out £10 on a 'will
kit', then arranged for it all to be properly witnessed.
Afterwards, I was putting her will
away in our fire-safe document holder when it occurred to me to check
it. (During a recent spat over some trifle she'd threatened to leave
everything to the dogs' home.)
Moments later I was back, full of
outrage. “I don't mind you leaving jewellery to your sister,” I
fumed, “but you've left me nothing!”
“You're the joint executor,” she
protested. “I thought it all automatically went to you, as the
husband.”
Not so, you have to spell it all out
in legal terms. Finally, she confirmed in writing to leaving me all
her “remaining estate”, apart from that 'modest' jewellery horde.
Thankfully, the ladies returned
unscathed, except for a return flight delayed hours and diverted to
Birmingham. “Never again!” was her conclusion.
As for my own plans for the week she
was away . . .
Needless to say, it rained.
* * *
WHAT a sunny bank-holiday we enjoyed! With the garden at Edmonds Towers tidied, its furniture set up and annuals planted, we've also enjoyed some outdoor events. At least, we did when people stopped rudely getting in our way!
Driving anywhere on the Fylde now
involves traffic snarl- ups for road and sewer works. Walking to the
cricket club, with a 20-20 local-derby by Stanley Park, seemed a
better prospect. But there were still annoying obstacles.
“Would you mind sitting down?”
called the old regular sitting near us on the club terrace, for the
second time in minutes. Younger men, many with backs turned to the
match, were standing and blocking our view.
The lads were obliging enough, even
making jokes about their strapping size then settling into seats.
However, only minutes later, another would carelessly obstruct the
view – usually as a wicket fell. (You miss those TV replays!)
It's the same when we watch a tennis
match. Someone will stroll along and thoughtlessly stand in front of
us, oblivious to the annoyance caused. When we attend a pop music
concert, within minutes of us settling into expensive seats selfish
people stand in front taking phone photos, then waving arms inanely.
Are they mad, or on drugs?
We're all used to the gentle chatter
in a bus, train or restaurant being shattered by those who shout into
phones – telling everyone what they're doing. Apparently, it's
similarly annoying nowadays for those paid to speak in public.
Weakest-Link star Anne Robinson,
writing in The Oldie magazine, said at a recent event where she was
chief speaker a woman in the front row began furiously texting within
minutes of her opening remarks.
The formidable quiz mistress stopped
then announced to the audience, “We'll all wait, shall we, until
she stops texting, then carry on?”
That got the phone shut - and
everyone's full attention!
* * *
A case of momento mori here, as spring heralds new life - but don't be downhearted . . .
THE Saints came marching in at
Carleton, led by a jazz band. It was the funeral of drummer Tony
Tolley, who'd played with big names of popular music, particularly
The Bachelors back in those 'Swinging 60s'.
Tony, who with wife Alma was a family
friend and near neighbour, also helped found the still popular Bill
Barrow Band. It was Bill and fellow Blackpool musicians who gave the
musical send-off Tony so deserved.
For me, it was the first time hearing
a band lead a funeral procession since the early 80s, when in
Singapore. I was a travelling journalist back then and, being a poor
freelance, was staying in a Chinese guest-house round the corner
from famous Raffles Hotel. Still, I would entertain at Raffles over
'Singapore Slings' after tiffin lunches with a palm-court quartet on
the lawn.
Later I was roused from my afternoon
siesta by a traditional Chinese band, striking up a cacophony while
leading a funeral down the market street below. I opened my shutters
to watch and a cockatoo, in a cage across the alleyway, also chirped
up.
The Chinese would even employ
professional mourners, to grieve loudly for days, but it's heartening
to also celebrate a loved one's happiness in life. Music helps that
process. I know it did at my mother's service, in the same Carleton
Crematorium chapel. By chance they played Beethoven's Moonlight
Sonata, which was her favourite.
Our condolences go to Alma, her family
and all others who grieve for recently lost loved ones. But let us
remember such times should also be a celebration of their lives.
What's more, it's not all sad news. My
Oldie magazine reports funerals are becoming cheaper, thanks to the
internet offering comparison sites and more choice.
Perhaps we'll even adopt another
Chinese tradition - keeping our own coffin in a corner of the
bedroom, polished and all prepared.
* * *
Rather late putting this column on this page - I've been waiting for the sunshine to return to our coast!
WITH sunnier weather we've been
enjoying meals outdoors, usually in popular people-watching
locations.
Just like many new flats now having
balconies, café-bistro dining seems a reflection of global warming
or a culture shift in the British social make-up. Over recent years
the range of food, opening times and service have also generally
improved enormously.
What does stick in my throat, however,
is the outrageous mark-up on drinks. It's bad enough being charged
almost £3 for a cup of tea or a coffee (let alone the cost of a cake
slice!), but on beers (mostly water) it's an affront, while with
glasses of wine it's daylight robbery!
We suffer already from being the most
taxed country in Europe and so, possibly, the world regarding
alcoholic drinks. (Although I hear good, old Down-Under has now gone
the same way.) However, it makes me splutter in my shiraz to find
cafés and restaurants charging the same amount for my 'standard'
glass as they've probably paid for their bottle. A six-fold mark-up
is sobering.
One recent mid-week, early evening,
for example, we dined happily at a bistro pub by Lytham's Green
promenade. The food and service were excellent, as were our
surroundings, but my beer (£4 a pint) was not, in my considerable
experience, up to best cask condition and She Who Knows' 1.75ml glass
of rosé cost £5.20. When she was, nonetheless, tempted into a
second glass and asked for small (1.25ml) the charge only fell to £5.
The current trend for mixed gins and
cocktails costing almost a tenner is also an outrageous profit
bandwagon. We all know there are service costs to consider, but I'm
reminded of that annoying French ruse of charging more for sitting
outdoors, or sitting at all in cafés.
I'll just have to do what I did there
– shrug at the bill then mutter, “Non-comprendez!”
* * *
SINCE my April post (see Home page) the weather has at last picked up, along with our spirits . . .
AH, the darling buds of – well -
April, but soon May. Spring sunshine is finally smiling upon the
Fylde. I've got out my shorts, gardening hat and sun-tan lotion.
The birds are singing by Edmonds
Towers and I've been struggling from the shed with garden furniture,
compost and flowering seeds.
What a difference good weather brings
to our holiday coast! She Who Knows and myself have cheerfully
survived our winter hibernation at Great Marton. We're now treading
the tennis courts of leafy Lytham, then lounging over drinks and
snacks outside cafés, people-watching. We've a favourite place on
the high street there, where quality is good and prices right, but I
only mention it to you in 'Whispers'.
Should the rain re-appear we'll head
as usual up the other end of the coast, to friendly Fleetwood's
historic North Euston Hotel and its elegant ballroom tea dances. What
a host of facilities we have to enjoy on our diverse coast! Soon
we'll even be running trains again – and trams – from Blackpool
North.
Come this Saturday I'll hopefully be
languishing back in the sunshine, sinking a cold one or two at our
resort's nearby cricket club, as this season's sporting fixtures get
under way. The facilities there are top notch and, like Lytham, St
Annes or our other summer sports clubs, a great place for all the
family to relax in safe but uplifting surroundings.
Yes, the tourists have much to enjoy
along our Promenades and busy side-streets but, inland, there is even
more for we fortunate locals. What's not to enjoy?
I'll see you there!
* * *
IN a recent episode of BBC's Endeavour,
DCI Thursby (a much more interesting character than hero 'young
Morse') won a tango contest dancing with his wife.
They maintained dramatic posture and
impressive manner but, for me, it didn't ring true. There was gaucho
menace, yes, but what about hissed complaints from wife to husband,
then his gritted responses?
“You're gripping me too tight!”
she'll complain, shaking our clasped hands, “and please, keep your
left arm lower.”
Then she makes her own arm a dead
weight during twirls and my hand accidentally brushes her freshly
coiffured hair as she swings underneath. This prompts an exasperated
sigh and wifely glare.
“You're making my shoulder ache!”
I protest.
However, none of these setbacks occur
with other male 'leads' – especially tutors, whom she occasionally
partners. “Oh, he supported me so firmly,” she'll enthuse
afterwards, adding, “You should feel the muscles on his arms!”
She Who's a natural, also, at that
unflinching eye-contact in steamy Latin numbers. But this is not
necessarily inspired by passion.
“You've got two hairs sticking out
of your left nostril,” she complained recently, adding with
dismay, “What's more, they're grey!”
This all helps build an atmosphere of
drama and emotion as we join other couples manoeuvring each other
around the ballroom to quicksteps and foxtrots.
Perhaps Thursby keeps his lips
buttoned until next day, when sharing a pint at the local with young
Morse and eating his sandwiches. However, that scene doesn't ring
true either.
Try munching on your home-made butties
in a pub at lunchtime, you'll soon get your collar felt!
* * *
NOT long ago an old friend asked why I sometimes attended church. His own life is now marred by ill health, but it didn't seem the time or place for religious debate. I just said, "Because I'd rather believe in something rather than nothing." However, afterwards, it occurred to me a more honest answer would be simply, "It makes life happier." Of course, it can also encourage good intentions. Besides, is there an alternative explanation nearly as uplifting?
HOW did your Easter go? Well, of
course, dreary weather didn't lift our spirits much but, as always,
one did try to be good.
This didn't just extend to not wolfing
down Easter eggs. From around Lent, I've attempted to lose a few
pounds by cutting back on beer, fry-ups and chips etc. She Who Knows
has helped me, by her example of moderation, while also washing my
favourite trousers which now, as a reminder, feel too tight.
But I confess that, within only a few
days, my best intentions rather floundered. So much so that, as we
neared the Easter weekend last week, there was more a sense of
failure than triumph. Neither could I even sit through the Easter
service on telly from Kings College, let alone make it to my local
church (as I managed last year).
It made me feel more guilty at my
personal failures and easy indulgence through the holidays. But then,
by Monday, that torn red cloak was replaced by a beautiful golden one
of splendid material, no longer hanging forlornly but carefully
folded about that cross.
This perked me up surprisingly, along
with the cheering colours of crocuses, daffodils and other spring
flowers outside the church I so often pass by.
Then the words of a sermon, at a rare
Sunday attendance, came back to me – about how saints had been
sinners, too, and even apostles being only human.
It dawned on me, at last, that it
wasn't all about becoming righteous somehow; it was the day-to-day
trying which mattered. That's what spurs us onward!
* * *
This week's column took a mixed view of so-called smart phones and their use . . .
IF you're reading all this, well done!
Today not many, I'm told, have the attention span for newspapers.
Instead, they get news 'bites' through social media on smart phones
and tablets.
Unfortunately, such titbits are often
wrong, sometimes deliberately. Fake news is a growing problem and,
besides, a short 'bite' can only tell part of the story.
I was also amazed, when working in a
newspaper office, how few young people read books.
We're all familiar, too, with the sad
spectacle of couples entering restaurants then each talking to
someone else on mobile phones. Even babes in high chairs scroll
through online pages with electronic games. It keeps them quiet but
what about engaging with the real world?
Similarly, families at meals – a
precious time to share - are often separately occupied with
electronic gadgets while picking absently through food with a fork,
American style.
At a recent classical concert I was
stunned to see an orchestra percussionist slide a mobile phone from
behind her music sheets, then reply to a text. She did it twice,
while still drumming, and didn't miss a beat!
Don't get me wrong. I'm writing this
at home on a laptop and will email it to the office. How much easier
than typewriters and phoning in stories to 'copy-takers'.
Mobile phones are great for personal
safety and keeping in touch wherever we may be. The electronic age
brings easier lifestyles and better communication. However, as always
with progress, it comes at a price.
We shouldn't lose sight of human
aspects of everyday life which are essential to our happiness. There
may be someone at the end of that phone text, media message or email,
but it's that person who matters, not the gadget itself.
Still, I'm told more young people are
now reading books - thanks to discovering literature on Kindles. You
can even read me online!
* * *
A LOOK back this week to nostalgia days of some landmark, local pubs - and curry houses for afters.
FEW, I suspect, will mourn
the passing of The Star pub, recently demolished at Blackpool
Pleasure Beach. However, its late landlord Barry Eastwood was a
popular resort character.
When he later took over the
old Wheatsheaf, also now demolished on Talbot Road near Blackpool
North station, I admired his subtle, traditional style of management.
“Don't give old Harry any
more, looks about to fall off his stool,” Barry might whisper to a
barman, as he emerged late afternoon in a smart suit to start another
long evening. Then he'd glance around at regulars, waving cheerily or
perhaps adding to the staff, “Oh, and how many has Lenny had? Don't
want him fighting again!”
He'd also find some excuse
to chat to any newcomers, perhaps building up the log fire near them,
to check out any unknowns. There was also an upright 'joanna' on
which, as they say, many a good tune was still played.
But times change; people
too. It was decades ago that we lads would finish off a night-out in
the resort at the basement Galleon Club, then share a taxi to the
Everest on Central Drive, or stagger to Church Street's notorious,
late-night Shahi Grill.
I wouldn't care to return,
instead now appreciating comfortable modern additions to our
bistro-bar cultural scene. Traditional boozers have also had a
facelift, with stylish refits such as Blackpool's Brew Room (formerly
the 'Blue Room' or Stanley Arms). Craft beer and real-ale 'shops',
offering cosy, convivial service, are also springing up along our
coast.
I'm sure Barry – along
with the resort's other colourful past landlords - would have
approved. Cheers to all, I say!
* * *
Dining out can be a hit and miss experience, as this week's column indicated - with apologies to all stressed-out, young mums . . .
HOPEFULLY, many of you
enjoyed Mother's Day meals out last Sunday – as long as everyone
got along.
When I was a lad, a
lifetime ago, we couldn't afford restaurants - of which there were
few anyway. Even in cafés, which were then places serving
'businessmen's lunches' or afternoon teas, we had to sit up straight
and be quiet. What's more, no one dared complain about anything.
Now, for many, anything
goes. As a child I would have approved of such a free and easy
atmosphere but now frown, look grumpy and even complain about noise
and children dodging about the premises.
The best dining places to
avoid family disruption and undisciplined behaviour are dearer
restaurants. Pubs no longer bar children and may proclaim, 'Kids eat
free!' However, some do have adult-only areas offering escape.
At a favourite Italian, our
evening meal was disrupted by two young mothers with children and a
baby selecting the table beside ours. Once in his high chair, the tot
held court - shrieking then screaming while being generally ignored,
except by us.
The Italians hardly
noticed, but then their chats are as loud as disputes. Hot countries
encourage hot-bloodedness, but cooler climes nurture calmer natures.
“Would you mind
quietening your baby?” we finally requested, nerves frayed. The
nearest mum looked aghast. “But he is a baby!” she protested.
“That's what they do!”
We suggested a dummy and
one, finally produced, did the job. However, mutterings of discontent
rumbled from their table.
Finally, all stood and
grimly informed us they were moving – all because of us. “I've
just ordered my pizza too!” complained one little lad, being led to
a far table.
It all left a bad taste in
the mouth but, at least, peace was regained.
I suppose it's just a
culture clash. No longer of different races, but of young and old.
* * *
THIS week's column gave a plug to a couple of local musicians. We all knew rock stars liked a drink, along with sex and drugs, but it was a surprise to learn how boozy proper musicians were - those who wear dinner suits and play in orchestras. I remember a session on Boddingtons with a couple of them one lunchtime in Wilmslow, Cheshire, with a rugby mate. We downed 10 pints each in under two hours, before meeting girlfriends. Also, in infamous Cox's Bar, formerly by Manchester's old Free Trade Hall, you couldn't get served in mid-evening although the place was empty except for its braying mynah bird. Two barmaids were fully occupied pulling pints of ale. Then double doors from a back street connecting with the hall would fly open, as a thirsty Halle Orchestra burst in for their interval refreshment. Here's the column . . .
YOU may sometimes wonder what goes on
behind net curtains at roadside cottages, such as Edmonds Towers in
Great Marton.
Passers-by on sunnier days, when
windows are ajar, try to glance inside after hearing grunts of
exertion. I am, of course, just exercising.
Jogging knackers your joints and gyms
bore me. I don't like that macho showing off on weights equipment -
and that's just the girls!
Instead, I do gentle stretching to
suitable music. At present I'm finding tai chi beneficial. Mine is
the Sung type, ideal for arthritis sufferers. I'd practise it outside
in the open, but tried that in Stanley Park and got pilloried. A
passing father with family noticed me skulking around bushes and
assumed the worst.
“Hey!” he yelled, making others
turn, “What're you up to there?” I was in a clearing, seeking
some privacy. When informed I was merely performing tai chi, he
frowned and clearly thought it something offensive to public taste and
community spirit.
I could, of course, do it in the back
garden but neighbours still think me odd from practising ballroom
dancing there with a long-handled brush in my arms, as recommended in
a text book to improve posture.
So, it's indoors for me, with gentle
music from Dav-Gar. These are specially timed instrumentals, aimed at
pilates and other exercise sessions, by Blackpool musicians Dave Alty
and Gary Wright (the Fylde's answer to Gary Barlow), who drinks at my
local and gave me the CDs.
Meanwhile, She Who Knows is upstairs
doing her more trendy qigong exercises, to Chinese music played on
her laptop. Fortunately, only a window cleaner is likely to spot her.
Any grunting, by the way, is from my
physiotherapy exercises for hips, involving rolling around on the
floor. These are also demonstrated on the internet – so you can
have a go too!
All you need, then, are the net
curtains.
* * *
AS I began writing this column earlier in the week there was a late fall of snow, giving everywhere a winter charm. It came as signs of spring were also appearing, with snowdrops and crocuses, bringing two seasons in one!
Life's full of surprises, most of them
nice ones as long as we don't take it, or ourselves, too seriously.
Last Sunday we celebrated Mother's
Day. Yes, we were early but all felt like it. Besides, the restaurant
was less crowded than on the real date and, well, Blackpool was built
on celebration and fun – so let's have some!
We can get too set in our ways and kid
ourselves we know everything. Well, I was in for a lesson, from an
elder.
“You know your books,” said
mother-in-law Wynne, “well, they're very good but I think the
titles should more reflect their contents, also the places where
they're set.”
I was a bit taken aback but later saw
her point. Consequently, my latest novel, still under wraps, has a
new title.
It's about a man awaiting his final
ferry home, from North Wales to Ireland, and how his mysterious
demise uncovers a scandal and atrocities at the highest levels. The
working title, rather poetic I thought, was 'The Wings To Fly'.
Now it's called 'The Conwy Ferry Man'.
Conwy being the Welsh for that beautiful medieval town Conway. See,
we've got you interested already!
So it was good that we had celebrated
early, as I'd learned a timely lesson - as well as having a good
time.
Our chosen restaurant, The White Tower
at the Pleasure Beach, also stood the test of time. It goes to show,
don't ever underestimate this old town of fun, or its long-term
residents.
They're still going strong and, with
the civic motto of 'Progress', keeping up with the times – just
like Wynne herself.
* * *
This is a bit of a rant over modern trends which, my friend Harry says, will pass - but I'm not so sure.
ORDERING a coffee used to be simple:
you asked for white or black. There was also what we called
'expresso': coffee frothed up with hot milk, usually mixed half and
half.
Then we became sophisticated, with
filter coffee from freshly ground beans. More recently there were
cafetieres. However, tiny grains pressed to the bottom somehow got
into your drink.
Now there are cappuccinos, lattes,
mochas, flat whites and more – all dispensed by an irritatingly
noisy machine. An expresso now is a shot of continental-style strong
coffee.
“I'd like half coffee, half hot
milk,” She Who Knows insists to me, when I'm about to order our
drinks.
If I say this to the young person
serving, often also a foreigner, they stare, mystified.
“Like a latte, you mean?” some
say, “Or a flat white, maybe?” No, we've tried those. She wants a
coffee, half full then topped up with hot milk and, preferably, also
a bit frothy.
If you ask them to leave it half empty
and give us some hot milk, they usually serve it two-thirds full.
Then I have to take a mouthful of boiling black coffee for her to get
the mix right.
Sometimes we ask for a 'one-shot
americano', sounding like a desperate gun-slinger, with uncertain
results.
Best solution, though, is simply 'a
pot of coffee for two, with jug of warm milk' . . .
We'll mix it quietly ourselves, thank
you.
* * *
IN the 'old days' of my younger years, sorting out your bins was easy. You just tipped the stuff in, whatever it was you didn't want and couldn't sell or even give away, then the 'bin men' would come along and empty it. You didn't have to even put them out on the street yourself, though the bin men would also appear at your door close to Christmas and woe betide you if they didn't get a tip. Nowadays we are obliged to recycle our waste and, I suppose, rightly so. However, it can lead to tedious procedures . . .
IT'S time to talk rubbish. By that, I
mean our household waste collection and council recycling. Is it
working? Look around and see the answer.
Festive times like Christmas or Easter
store up problems, or even chilly winter weekends, when we enjoy
heartier home meals with more drinks than when out and about in
summer.
The powers that be are determined we
learn the lesson of recycling, with one grey wheely bin per home –
however crowded. For green bins and garden waste, we now face hefty
charges, so that gets hidden amid the 'grey' trash.
Then there is cardboard. Home
deliveries come in ever bigger boxes, which will not fit in those
canvas bags provided to Blackpool households for newspaper and
cardboard. We and neighbours fold up such items and leave them by
newspaper bags, but they're still there days later, in bits and
pieces blowing about our neighbourhood.
The same fate awaits black bin bags
filled with giant, plastic coke bottles that would overflow if added
to blue bins loaded with glass, metal and plastic. Those bags, too,
are ignored by our fortnightly collection. Not surprisingly, they end
up chucked down alleys, filling roadside 'litter bins' or fly-tipped
on open land.
Builders, too, fill any handy bins
with waste they would be charged for dumping at official sites;
leaving a heavyweight problem for householders. We want to encourage
people to use council tips, not drive them out to rural lanes or old
industrial sites to fly-tip.
Let's have more common sense and fewer
rules! Help responsible householders - and put the lid safely on this
recurring rubbish rant.
* * *
EVERTYTHING in the garden is rosy and there's a hint of spring in the air.
Before you warn I'm getting ahead of
myself, let's remember we're in the last month of winter. What's
more, at Edmonds Towers the snowdrops are emerging bringing a promise
of new life and sunnier days.
To an untrained eye the Towers' back
garden might look bare at present. This is because of local hero Joe,
our gardener. He really was a hero once, before retiring as a
fireman. Now he crops our great hedge once a year and, just
recently, restored our flower bed which had been over-run by ivy.
With the right equipment and at a
bargain price, he cleared in two hours what would have taken me two
days. Mind you, the bacon and egg barm cake we gave him helped too.
The robin, my favourite of many birds
nesting in our ivy hedge, was first out to investigate the freshly
revealed soil bed. Now there are signs of my forgotten clump of
daffodils sprouting up too, inspiring me to horticultural endeavours.
Despite being named so grandly, the
'Towers' is really a humble artisan's cottage – though of historic
age and cosy character. What I thought wise, following Joe's tidy-up,
was to replant flowering bushes which have outgrown their patio pots.
However, what I'd really like would be a cottage garden.
“Easy,” the confident Joe told me,
“just scatter seeds around then put on some top soil.”
Watching the robin hopping about,
before being chased away by a touchy female blackbird, I decided on a
compromise: replant those bushes, then scatter seeds around them, so
we get the best show from both.
Mind you, it is of course still winter
- with snowfalls and frost threatening. I'll just have to have
another mug of tea and bacon barm . . . while thinking about sunnier
days coming.
* * *
(Note: I include below two weeks columns about my amusing dancing acquaitance named Harry, since the earlier one humbles the ego of columnists. Harry, incidentally, is surnamed Crooks and is a retired council bricklayer, who turned his hands to many other things. These were all legal, though it seems a shame there was never a family firm, such as Crooks Ltd. or Crooks & Sons. Curiously, Harry's dad, who also sounded a real character and, as far as I know, was also reasonably law-abiding and a joker, once told Harry when he was approaching adulthood, "I'll tell you something now, son, which could make you rich. You just have to remember three little words and you'll always have money - 'Stick 'em up!'")
“I LOST my shirt playing cards,”
confessed Harry, “also my suit - had to borrow clothes to walk
home. She wasn't pleased,” he added, glancing at wife Barbara.
We laughed at our friend's
recollection of younger days, playing three-card brag.
I wasn't lucky at cards either. “Your
face gives you away,” Dad later counselled, when I'd lost my
spending money trying out poker.
On my one visit to the races, a
Gazette outing to Haydock, I followed a regular punter's advice and
only bet what I could afford to lose – which I duly did. My £1 'on
the nose' for each race failed to win, except in the last – when my
horse romped home first. Then its jockey was disqualified for 'abuse
of the whip'. It was an expensive lesson.
Neither did those old betting shops
tempt me, except for Grand National days. They looked seedy, with
blanked-out exteriors and no advertising allowed.
I found casinos unappealing, too, with
desperate gamblers risking more than they could afford to lose, then
looking miserable. Their best attraction was the food, often with
free drinks.
However, mobile phone gaming now
sponsors most televised sport, using the longest, most lavish and
cleverly cast adverts. Worldly men hint of shrewd knowledge and a
club-like camaraderie, as they bestride exotic destinations while
“betting responsibly”. Or glamorous, young couples pop the
Prosecco after free and easy phone bets on latest football scores.
It's all a long way from when dads
would check their soccer pools and, on Sundays, we'd read of the
latest to become millionaires – only for their world to be ruined
by it.
No wonder two out of three teenagers
now complain of being bombarded by gambling advertising. They should
think instead of Harry - and his reception from wife Barbara, after
'losing his shirt'.
In the end, only the bookies win.
* * *
“I DON'T understand all this,” said
Harry, reading this column last week in a lull at our Fleetwood tea
dance.
Now good-humoured Harry knows his way
round the dance-floor of life; always on his toes, so to speak, but
otherwise with feet firmly on the ground.
“Perhaps I was rambling,” I
admitted, “promoting my latest book.”
“Thought so!” he grinned.
Yes, we columnists get carried away at
times, but our public brings us down to earth.
There was that visitor to our cricket
club who exclaimed, “I've seen your articles! You do the gardening,
don't you?” We went on to discuss his roses.
Then a regular in the pub announced,
“Always read your column; get the paper specially - every Tuesday.”
Mind you, a dog owner named Peter once
accosted me at a Preston New Road crossing with, “Aren't you that
feller from the newspaper?” I confessed to so being and, urging on
pet Lucky, Peter graciously added, “It's not bad, some of that
stuff you write.”
A former colleague on our sister
paper, the Fleetwood Weekly News, was recognised when queueing at a
Chinese takeaway. His turn came and the woman serving announced,
“I've seen your picture in the paper!”
“Yes, every week,” John told her
proudly, aware of others listening.
To general amusement, she concluded,
“You much older than picture in paper!”
My proudest accolade was for these
shared pieces to be popular in the Fylde's Newspaper for the Blind.
However, our vicar also had welcome praise.
“We really enjoy your writing,”
she said, as we parted and I thanked her after a Sunday service. “I
always read them to father. (Not our Father.) You usually find an
uplifting ending too!”
Well we try, so today's lesson must
be: Stay humble and be grateful - for whatever you receive.
* * *
