Saturday, May 24, 2008

AS ONE DOOR SHUTS, ANOTHER DOOR CLOSES

Well, you will, I am sure, be as surprised as I was to see Norah’s comment.

Just as I was about to plunge into the abyss of despair, up pops a face from the past, with a possible solution to my immediate problem.

Actually, I hardly know the lady; she was, as she has intimated, a friend of my ex wife: the lesbian. It appears, however, that she has broken free of that demon’s clutches, and so it is time for me to put my mouth where the money is – so to speak.

I am, therefore, taking up her father’s offer for Wynorrin. This will kill several birds with one, well aimed, stone. Sir Charles Sponce (or Charlie, as I am sure I will soon be calling him) has appointed me resident caretaker/administrator of the Wynorrin Conference Centre. This means free board and lodgings for the foreseeable future – plus a generous salary.

So I shall be back in my old home, and I am sure the comfort and security thus afforded will now enable me to concentrate on my autobiography. I have not mentioned this before, but my literary and media agent (Walter Greenbaum, of Greenbaum Associates) has been badgering me for months to “Get the old finger out, Georgie love, I got three National Dailies fighting for serialisation rights.”

So you may not be hearing from me for a while. I am, however, taking the unusual step (having cleared it with Walter) to give my readers here in Blogland, little ‘taster’ of what promises to be a bestseller on both sides of the Atlantic.


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THE BOY’S STORY

Chapter I


“My mother groaned, my father wept,
Into the dangerous world I leapt:”


I don’t know if William Blake’s words accurately describe my entry into this “dangerous world.” But I was later informed by my mother “I nearly died having you.” Now if I were a psychotherapist – which I am – I would say that that might have had some bearing on my subsequent “guilt” problems.

Anyway, I was born during one of the worst thunderstorms Yorkshire had ever seen. My mother was living in Lancashire at time, so it didn’t really affect us; but it was in all the papers.

A little mining village called Haydock, (in what was then Lancashire, but is now Merseyside) had the privilege of welcoming me into the world. Alas, no plaque adorns the outside wall of the “two up, two down”, in whose front bedroom I first made my appearance. The day may yet come.

All my family were miners, except my mother: she was a spot-welder. No, she wasn’t really – I don’t know why I said that. My dad used to be a miner but - as he told me later - one day he saw a collier get crushed by a runaway tub. And he made a promise to himself that if he ever saw the light of day, he would never again go back down a mine; he never did. He became an insurance agent.

When I was five years old the Second World War started. As I said, I had a fully developed ‘guilt complex’ at an early age, but I don’t think I saw the start of hostilities as being my fault. But my dad seemed to think it was his business to do something about it. He joined the Air Force; apparently telling my mother before he went “I could lay on Hitler wi mi cap”. Actually, it took him until 1945 to do it, so I did not see him again for the next five years.

In those five years a lot happened in my little life. Events, which – I was to learn later, when I studied psychology – helped shape my malleable personality.


The Little House Slightly Off The Prairie

I lived in a house with three women. (something I have never since been able to replicate)

The three women were: my mother, her mother (my grandmother) and a female cousin who was ten years older than me. I slept in the front bedroom with my mother, and Winnie (my cousin) slept in the back, with my grandmother.

Such a sleeping arrangements would be frowned upon today, and I have no doubt they were less than healthy – mentally or physically. Incidentally we did not have a bathroom: we had a lavatory at the end of the yard (my family was posh compared to the people across the road: our lavatory actually flushed – whilst the houses across the road had a privy midden which was emptied every so often by a man with a horse and cart).

Having a bath was an event rather than a routine. Water was heated in something called a copper and then laboriously ladled into a zinc bath, dragged in from the shed. You bathed in front of the fire (which also heated the copper – being a mining village, coal was plentiful).

I can’t really remember, but I suppose you must have been given some privacy in your ablutions. Although I do recall visiting my friend across the road, being invited in, and there was his mother having a bath in front of the fire. It was the first time I had seen breasts: hairy ones, at that!

The house must have had elastic walls, the number of people it could contain. I dimly remember ‘uncle Jack’; he was my grandma’s brother (don’t ask me where he slept!) and he had a ‘bag’ (I still have a picture in my mind of this strange, and rather sinister contraption being taken off, or put on – in the kitchen). I don’t know how old I would have been – two or three maybe – and I was not given any explanation. I realise now that ‘uncle Jack’ must have had a colostomy.

I never knew my grandfather. He worked in the pit, and it killed him – slowly. My mother used to tell that, as he grew older, when he came home he was so exhausted that she would have to wash him. This was in the days before ‘pit-head’ baths.
Strange then, that years later, she was heard to remark to her one of her sons, ‘Evan, hard work never killed anyone’. My uncle, quick as a flash, retorted ‘No, mother, but it’s made some a queer bloody shape.’ That’s working-class humour, for you.

We had a tiny room called a ‘pantry’, where all the food was kept – and prepared. Nobody had a fridge: we had a ‘meat-ssafe’. This was a sort of cupboard, the doors of which had panels of zinc mesh, to allow air to circulate and, at the same time, keep out the flies. I can also remember sides of bacon being hung in this place. Later on, when I took up photography (aged about twelve) the pantry was also my ‘darkroom’ – until a kind man (more of him later) built me a proper one, in the shed.

Yes, we had a shed – and a coal shed, too. The coal shed didn’t have a door, and the cats (my grandma had three) used it as a lavatory. The smell of cat shit comes wafting back, over the years, as I type this.


(to be continued)

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

MY COVER IS BLOWN

When I got home the following note had been pushed through my letterbox:


We know were you live – you English plinker and we will be calling agen and when we do you had been better to having the merchandises ready for our collecting less you wanting to look like jagsaw pizzle what has got few pieces missing – a well wisher.

I am not a timid person, but although I put on a brave face to Sydney, I have no wish to have my physiognomy tampered with by these oafs. And as for the ‘merchandises’ to which they refer, these items are no longer in my possession. I threw them overboard, just before we docked. I had ‘cold feet’ at the last minute. If customs had found them that would have been me booked for a longish stay at her Majesty’s pleasure. And prison, for a good looking fellow like myself, would be no laughing matter.

Of course the turnip-heads won’t believe me. And even if they did, Sven would still want recompensing – and I don’t have that sort of money. In fact I don’t have any sort of money.

I don’t understand how they found out where I am. Gupta said that this was a ‘no questions asked and no information given’ house.
What do I do now?

Saturday, May 17, 2008

ADVENTURES IN ASDA

ADVENTURES IN ASDA

Yesterday, I told the girl on the ASDA checkout that I had just been released into the community.

She had asked me if I needed help with my packing. I had replied ‘No thanks’. I only had three items: a large roll of cotton wool, a tub of Vaseline and a packet of disposable rubber gloves (more on that story later).

Anyway I took one of those plastic carrier bags but I couldn’t find the opening. I tried rubbing it between my fingers – like I had seen other people do - but no go. I thought I had perhaps got a faulty one, where the machine that makes them had sealed both ends, by mistake.

So I took another. That was the same.

Meanwhile, the conveyor belt behind me was groaning under the weight of the next customer’s shopping - a woman, of course - who looked like she had had prior warning of an imminent famine. She was glaring at me in a most unfriendly manner.

And that was when I said it.

It just came out. The assistant (they do employ some nice looking girls in ASDA) smiled encouragingly, and the plastic film suddenly unsealed itself.

I thrust my purchases into the bag and made for the exit. Janice, a large lady who was ‘Here to help’ as it said on her badge, smiled at me as I left the store.

I retain a certain ambivalence vis a vis supermarkets. On the one hand I enjoy wandering up and down the aisles, looking at all the wondrous merchandise, in the air-conditioned atmosphere. But I also feel sickened by the great trolley-loads of food being pushed by grim faced shoppers; their single-minded search only relaxing as they pause to cuff a screaming infant.

And I think – what about the Third World? I expect they have much smaller trolleys in their supermarkets.



As I turned the corner of my street, I saw a blue Volvo, cruising slowly by the kerb. I am sure it was a ‘left-hand drive’. I darted quickly into the ‘Frog and Strumpet’. I felt my legs shaking as I walked up to the bar to order a large ‘scotch’.

Friday, May 16, 2008

RELIGION: A dying trade?

When I was in town the other day I saw a man wearing one of those huge plastic aprons, with “Repent, for the day of Judgement is at hand.

And across the road, a man with a sign saying “Darwin was right. Repent all you Creationists before Natural Selection snuffs you out”

No, there wasn’t – but it was a nice idea.

And it got me thinking about Religion

When you think about it, if people were not afraid of dying there would be no religion. Religion deals in death – even though it sells ‘eternal life’.
Some people are so afraid of facing this great leap into the unknown that they will clutch at any bent straw; swallow any old load of nonsense, if it promises them ‘eternal life’.

I am afraid of dying – but I am trying to get along without religion.
I find it hard to conceive of a time when I will not exist. In fact, I consider it a damn shame if I cease to exist; what a waste of talent.

But I have to consider that if I can survive death then so can my cat; and so can all the other animals, and the worms in my garden, and all the insects and the fishes. And, I mean, where are they going to put us all?

This is not a trivial question. And here is another important question: suppose I have been married three times, my first two spouses having died, then to whom shall I be wed in the afterlife?

Ah, but – say the clerics – there is no ‘marriage’ in heaven (I am not so sure about Hell).
Oh, so it’s ‘free love’ then? ‘Fraid not – they tell me – you won’t need sex because you won’t have a body; bodies are only for this earthly plane. Fair enough. But my friend, Gervaise, says he lives for sex – so he’s going to be disappointed then. Best take Andrew Marvel’s advice to his Coy Mistress, and get it on while you can.

Also if you have no body then you can’t drink beer, or wine or whisky – so Come landlord fill the flowing bowl/Until it doth run over.

And you can’t ride a horse or a motor-bike, or swim or skate or play tennis. Then what exactly are we going to do? Sing hymns all day? Sounds bloody boring to me.

So you need to think carefully about the eternal life package they are selling you: read the small print, get a second opinion.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Wise words

“Always try to turn a disadvantage into an advantage.”

That is what my old commanding officer used to say. I never saw him again after his court marshal, but his words will remain with me always: a stirring precept by which to live one’s life.

And here I am, doing just that.

As you know, I am stuck in this place (which shall remain nameless) but I have discovered there is an ice rink in the town. So what have I done? I’ll tell you what I’ve done: I have enrolled for some skating lessons.

I have a great coach: Sam. She encouraged me, at the start, to take “little penguin steps”, and later showed me how to adopt the correct posture: “Imagine you have a spoon clenched between the cheeks of your arse”, she told me.

I have had a couple of nasty falls. It has shaken my confidence but I hope to get this back by keeping at it – the skating, that is.

Oh, and I am on a course of antibiotics – no, it isn’t for some sexually transmitted disease: a gum infection. I can’t drink alcohol whilst on these tablets but I have only got one more day to go. Anyway, I am feeling much better.

I have a lot more to say but will leave it at this for tonight.

Thursday, May 08, 2008

FOR SYDNEY

(This post is for my son Sydney. It is the only way we can communicate during these troubled times. So if you are not my son Sydney – don’t read it. Thank you.)

Hello son. Good to see you have your Dad’s interests at heart. But hey – don’t be so downbeat: it will take more than a bunch of fading porn actors to put the frighteners on me.

I’d best not ring though –even from a pay phone. You never know with these Scandinavian buggers: they might have one of their illegal immigrants working for British Telecoms.

No, this is by far the best way to communicate, for the time being.

Anyway, Syd, let us apply our minds to more filial matters: how are you keeping? You must remember to take your vitamin capsules, even though it is May – especially having to exist on that diet of herrings.

And I feel the need to touch upon a rather delicate matter: SEX. I do hope you are practising the safe variety. I fear you may be in some danger, living as you do, in a hotbed of vice and corruption. Just remember everything your dad has told you – and you won’t go far wrong. (if you do go wrong… well there are plenty of clinics over there)

There is not a day goes by that I don’t think about you. Only this afternoon, I was recalling the night you were conceived: New Year’s Eve, it was – and the condom machine in the pub toilets had run out.

Still, as they say, “It’s an ill wind…”



Look after yourself – and “chin up”.

Wednesday, May 07, 2008

Do you remember Ghandi?

You know - that bloke in India? He used to go round burying other people’s shit, in the hope that they would catch on and bury their own - and so reduce the amount of typhoid, dysentery and other diseases in that plague- ridden land.

They shot him.

I sometimes think I am like Ghandi: taking responsibility for other people’s shit.

But I have had enough, I can tell you. From now on it’s ‘Looking out for Number One’.

I am still travelling by public transport whenever possible in order to preserve the life of the car (the noise from the differential is getting louder with every journey). I know you think it is a bit of a come-down for a man of my social standing, but there are bonuses: I am getting more exercise by walking to and from bus stops, and although it’s a bit knackering, I intend to stick at it because I want to lose some weight. Not that I am obese or anything - I just want to be lean and fit.
Also, as I have previously mentioned, you get to meet the public – and I like ‘people-watching’. I try to imagine what someone’s life is like. What they might be going home to: a night of passion? a domestic fight? soap operas on the telly? the bottle and oblivion? a lonely, empty house?

Bus drivers too. Now they vary enormously. Some are pleasant, with a smile and a word of greeting; others are surly, resentful – as if you – the passenger - have intruded on what would have otherwise been a quiet drive out in the country.

I sometimes wonder if a person’s life can be read in their face. Hang on, I’ll have a look in the mirror –
Yes, it definitely can!

Tuesday, May 06, 2008

I WONDER...

I wonder if it’s because I’ve reduced the meds? Why I am feeling so glum, I mean. I just decided to do it off my own bat – I thought, I don’t want a brain marinated in fluoxetine.

But I may have made a mistake: some say that when you reach a certain age and you have been on Prozac for years, you need to stay on it – forever.

I have noticed a marked increase in libido since I have halved the dose. I have also noticed increased irritability and mood swings.

I could go to see one of those people… what are they called? … Doctors! But I don’t want to go down that road again.

I’ll see how this road bends.

It’s difficult to know whether it is the reduction in the meds or the traumatic events in my life that have led to this dip in mood. Well it is more than a dip – much more. It is a sort of permanent state of realization of how things really are. And don’t tell me we can never know how things really are – I studied metaphysics too: I know it is ‘all down to one’s perspective’. I wonder whether that’s what they said on the Somme in 1916?

This glumness, now; this state of realization. I am not just talking about the fact that some Swedish nutter is out to get me. That was all a misunderstanding, which can soon be straightened out – if they don’t straighten me out first.

I’ll go to the police. That’s what I’ll do. Demand police protection.

But wait a minute – would that be wise? They would start asking questions. Poking around. And there are some things that are best left undisturbed, so to speak. Some stones best left unturned.

I’ll do nothing for the moment. I’m not afraid of Sven and his gang of turnip heads – anyway, they don’t know where I am.


(exit singing: 'Always look on the bright side of life...'

Sunday, May 04, 2008

MADE IN CHINA

Isn’t public transport wonderful? I mean you just get on a bus, sit down and it takes you where you want to go.
You can look out the window, daydream, you can even doze if you want to. You don’t have to concentrate, like you do when you are driving a car or riding a motorbike.

And – you get to meet the public: the great unwashed, as someone unkindly called them.

Take yesterday, for instance: a chap came and sat by me and immediately started a conversation. Now I like that. I know that some people hate to have their personal space – as they like to call it – invaded. Not me, mate; you can invade my personal space any time.

Anyway, he began by talking about the local elections, and from there we got on to the economy, and the threat of China, as the new ‘economic superpower’

‘Of course, everything is made in China, now’ he said. He paused. ‘Except my wife: she was made in Oldham’. He seemed to reflect for a minute or so, then, ‘Come to think of it, I wish she had been made in China – I’ve always fancied a Chinese bird.’

He got off at the next stop – which was lucky because I couldn’t think of a suitable reply.


I am exceeding glum tonight. I won’t bore you with the details, but if one could be ‘clinically fed up’ then that is what I would be.

I once said to a psychiatrist (I met him down the off-licence) ‘Surely you should be able to think your way out of depression?’
‘Ah,’ he replied, ‘but you can just as easily think your way into depression.’

I think I could have been a psychiatrist – trouble is, you have to be a doctor first. And I couldn’t manage that. All that peering at people’s bits and stuff. And then, the ones that come to see you with nasty diseases, and breathe all over you. Oh no, I wouldn’t fancy that.

There is so much bothering me tonight. A lot has to do with money – or the lack of it. It is more than that, though – much more. But nobody wants to listen to your problems – unless you pay them forty quid an hour.

So I will take myself off to bed, and see what the morrow brings.

Saturday, May 03, 2008

Armageddon

Just had a 'pop up' warning me that my modem had been started outside a re-boot!
I didn't know what this meant so I just clicked 'ok'.

I could have caused untold trouble - I might get cut off from the Internet, loose all my files, whatever... I don't know.

I think it is time to go travelling - on a bus. We don't have a 'Greyhound' like in America - ours is called a 'Whippet'.

I need to get away from people.

I shall be leaving as soon as I close the laptop lid. I haven't got time to pack anything, so I shall have to return before midnight. Unless I find someone to put me up.

When you gotta go, you gotta go.

George

Friday, May 02, 2008

I CAN PUT IT BEHIND ME NOW

You may be wondering why I don’t mention some of the characters whose doings have featured in these pages over the years.
The reason is I want to put all of that behind me and start anew.

They say everyone comes with baggage – well now I am travelling light.

Yes, I have been disrespected, mistreated, abused. But I hold no grudges (though I still bear the scars – hopefully these will heal over time).

Unfortunately, there are certain others who are not prepared to ‘bury the past’ - that is why I am unable to reveal my exact location at this juncture. But I am hoping that soon I shall be able to step out of the shadows and into the spotlight.

Meanwhile, I am turning my mind to more serious subjects than I have in the past. This is all part of the new life I am forging out of the flames of the old.

It is the local elections in this place (which shall – for the moment – be nameless) and I am going to put my cross in the appropriate box. I have given the matter some consideration, and I am going to vote for the woman. She looks the most attractive of the bunch.

I predict that the Conservatives will get nearly 50% of the vote.