(Thursday 21st December '06) – 'How To Win Euro 2008 On The Cheap'
Although not personally bothered whether the England manager is from Yorkshire, Sweden or Neverland I do think that the amount of cash thrown at the position is disproportionate to the rewards. Apparently, it cost about £15,000,000 over five years for Sven GE to transform a Top 8 national side into a…er…Top 8 side. Up and down the country millions of would be managers ground their teeth as Sven made unpopular decisions. To a man they all thought they could do a better job. Well, I humbly suggest, their time has come.
Here’s my revolutionary proposal:
All squads for the qualifiers are to be picked by phone voting. For £1, armchair supremos can phone in and, via a variety of option keys, pick their team and formation. Example: Key 1 for 4-4-2, Key 2 for 3-5-2, Key 3 for Diamond Formation with hard bastard with blood-soaked bandage round his head in the holding role. Key 4 to continue with selection. Then – Key 1 for Goalkeeper etc etc. You get the idea?
I anticipate that around 20 million calls would be made for each match. With the expansion of qualifying groups due to the splitting up of Eastern Europe we have 12 games before the 2008 tournament so this would raise a whacking £240,000,000!
Some of this money would be put aside to pay necessary FA employees such as the Kit Man, Team Doctor, Mystic Guru etc but the remainder would be given to charity.
The players, already rich beyond their wildest dreams, would have to make their own way to games by way of a Team-Building exercise. No more treating them like children. Before the away match in Estonia, new captain John Terry, would have to get onto the Easy Jet web-site and work out how to get there independently – like the supporters do. Not only would this help the squad gel it would give Terry something to do in the afternoon.
What, you may ask, would Steve McClaren have to do if someone else picked the team? Well, he’d put the cones out, make sure that all the bibs got handed back in and handle substitutions. McClaren’s main task would be during the Tournament itself. It has been acknowledged in the past that it’s how you react to changes during a tournament that brings out your true management skills. The six weeks away from home, holed up in a hotel somewhere with the squad is where the Boss earns his corn. Ruddy-faced Steve would be there at the hotel with the Kitman, Doctor, Guru and others awaiting the arrival of the squad. Maybe Aarron Lennon and Ledley King would turn up in a Volkswagon camper van after nights sitting round a campfire on the drive down? John Terry and the back-four could fly/drive whilst bonding over coffees at motorway services and develop a trench-like bond which would serve us well during extra-time against Portugal (cos we all know it’ll happen again). I see Peter Crouch deciding to hitch his way to the tournament – who could possibly leave The Crouchster at the side of the road, thumb stuck out?
Of course, there are one or two loop-holes in my idea. The first is that unscrupulous Scots could phone in and vote for David James and hit the re-dial key so many times that the flapping-prone keeper could get into the squad. Some people might get confused and we could end up with Jade Goody at centre-half. Luckily for the FA, I’ve written a software programme, which will iron out these bugs, which I will offer to them for a small percentage of the £240,000,000.
See you at the Final!
(Thursday 23rd September ‘04) – "Imitating Katherine Walker"
This was my entry in the BBC’s ‘End Of Story' competition. Alexei Sayle started it – I finished it (along with thousands of others). I didn’t make it onto the shortlist.
"Imitating Katherine Walker" - Part 1 – Alexei Sayle
RORY SUDDENLY REALISED it had been over a month and Katherine Walker hadn't had
her period yet, so obviously he needed to buy some Tampax for her. At lunchtime he got the
bus right across to West London and bought an overpriced box in a Korean supermarket.
When he got back to Katherine's room he opened the box and left it open on her bedside table:
she would not be the sort of girl who’d hide such things away. Then the thought struck him,
“Why would she leave a full box open on her bedside table?” So he had to take some out; but
then immediately another thought struck him, “How many of these things did women get
through in a…what would you call it, ‘a session’?”
In the end, after much thought, he removed four of the things from the box then rode another
bus right across to East London and left them in four separate litter bins. This took a
considerable time since litter bins – unlike massive piles of litter – were few and far between
right across East London.
When Rory got back to his flat it was late, he hadn’tgot any work done and he’d spent most of
the day carrying sanitary towels around on public transport. Rory sat on the couch, put his
head in his hands and wondered how he’d got into this situation. Where could you say it had
started to go wrong? Six weeks ago he certainly hadn’t felt like this, a month and a half ago
he’d been optimistic and happy with a feeling that he was finally getting back on his feet after
so many hard times.
From 1984 to the mid 90s he’d been a wealthy man, often appearing on ‘The Money
Programme,’ or ‘Channel 4 News’, being interviewed about the massively successful business
that he owned called ‘The Classic Car Phone Company’. At the time when he’d had the idea
for it he’d been a small-time publisher and the owner of one of the very first carphones, its
bulky works built into the boot of his MG Montego. It had occurred to Rory one day that
people who owned classic cars like E-Type Jaguars, Gullwing Mercedes SLs, Bentley
Coupes, Porsche 356s, were forced to have the same mobile phones as everyone else, their
angular modern 80s plastic lines clashing with the more curvaceous, leather and woodclad
interiors of their vehicles. Rory’s inspiration was to begin manufacturing a range of car
phones that matched the insides of these classic cars: Bakelite handsets in place of plastic,
chromed dials in place of push buttons, cloth wire in place of black cable. Soon the business
expanded and he was making all kinds of things that didn’t look like themselves: personal
computers disguised as spindly Regency writing desks, CCTV cameras built into wrought
iron lanterns to guard the gateways of converted Victorian warehouses and gilt rococo
microwave cookers for the kitchens of Jewish homes in North London.
All was well until the internet boom of the late 90s. Making the mistake of thinking (as many
powerful people do) that because he was good at one thing he was good at every thing, Rory
invested all his money and some that wasn’t his in a web site called ‘mybums.com’. Now
when he reflected on it he couldn’t properly recall exactly what service ‘mybum.com’
purported to offer the internet user. Indeed now he wasn’t entirely sure that anybody involved
had the slightest idea what it was the site was supposed to do, apart from produce money like
a mountain spring just by dint of its being a website. This supposition turned out not to be
true.
His partner Jenny had taken the bankruptcy and the loss of their home quite hard but she had
never openly blamed him for his idiotic greed and he was grateful for that. When they
managed to obtain the tiny two bedroomed housing association flat on a quiet street south of
Kings Cross she stopped crying all the time and occasionally even managed a shy smile.
This tranquil period lasted until Byron and Danuta came to stay. Byron had been Rory’s
closest friend at University but while Rory had gone into business Byron never settled. Rory
liked to think of the other man as his wilder alter ego, travelling the world, living with the
Mud Men of Papua New Guinea, getting into fights in a bar in Vietnam, being the gigolo of
an aged poetess in Helsinki. For the last four years, according to the occasional curt email, he
had been working in Somalia for a Spanish medical charity called ‘Medicos Sin Sombreros’
(Doctors Without Hats) but over a fizzing phone line from Mogadishu Byron had yelled,
“Rory mate I’m coming back to London, OK to crash for a while at your place?”
“Of course mate,” replied Rory. “You know we don’t have the money we once had, I mean
the spare room is pretty small but yeah sure...”
“Don’t worry. The old lady’ll be cool?”
“The old lady’ll be well cool.”
“Great mate, see you next Tuesday then.”
During the intervening period between the phone call and Byron’s arrival Rory spent many
hours daydreaming about what it would be like to have his closest friend living with him.
When they greeted Byron at the arrivals gate at Heathrow carrying a big funny sign saying
‘Lord Byron’ they found he had brought back with him from Somalia, a tropical disease
which made him a ghastly yellow colour, six very big suitcases and an extremely badtempered
Croatian woman called Danuta.
As Rory’s battered Volvo estate turned into their street they passed on the left a little petting
zoo attached to a children’s playground, behind whose iron railings overindulged sheep
grazed.
“What sort of sheep are those?” asked Danuta, who’d been silent the whole length of the A40,
from the passenger seat.
“Ooh, I don’t really know,” said Jenny.
Danuta swore in Croatian then said mockingly, “Dey don’t know what sheep it is dat live
round de corner from dem… dey are idiots not to know what kind of sheep it is.”
“So what kind are they Danuta?” asked Rory in a friendly, enquiring voice.
“I don’t fucking know!” she shouted, “but then they aren’t my fucking sheep are they you
cretin?”
“I was only…” stuttered Rory before Byron cut across him, “Hey just lay off her mate alright?
She’s had a tough time OK?”
“Yeah, sure, I’m sorry,” said Rory, aware that Jenny in the back seat was giving him a look
which implied he was a weak-willed weasel even though he could only see one of her eyes
under the enormous suitcase that was slowly crushing her.
As soon as they arrived Byron and Danuta immediately went to bed in the spare room where
they had a noisy argument followed by very noisy sex while Rory and Jenny hauled their
suitcases up the four flights of stairs.
The two travellers emerged at one in the morning, woke their hosts up and forced them to
cook a huge meal which they ate without stopping smoking. Byron and Danuta had brought
with them twenty cartons of a brand of Somalian cigarettes called ‘Monkey Priest’ which they
smoked constantly, so that acrid grey clouds soon hung in the kitchen like low mist over a
swamp.
Over the meal Byron told them, food spilling from his mouth, how everything was better in
Somalia and how the lives of Rory and Jenny lacked spirituality, then he read them extracts
from his poetry and showed them drawings he’d done of Danuta seen from the back, kneeling
exposed and naked with her behind up in the air.
During the next couple of weeks Rory and Jenny endured strange smells in their toilet, violent
arguments between their guests followed by even more violent making-up and a deluge of
insults from Danuta concerning their ignorance of different types of sheep until one day Jenny
suddenly said, “Rory I can’t take any more of this.”
“I know darling,” he replied “I’ll see to it.”
“Byron mate,” Rory said when the couple got back from the swimming baths, “sorry but we
need the spare room back. Katherine Walker, Jenny’s best mate from school’s coming to stay,
she’s just split up with her boyfriend so you know...”
Rory had been expecting some strong resistance from Byron but rather sweetly his best friend
said, “Sure mate, if the chick’s in trouble. Me and Danu will check into one of those Bed and
Breakfast places in Argyle Square. Only thing is I’ll have to leave our suitcases in the spare
room ‘cos I’ll need to get at my poems and notebooks, change of clothes and stuff.”
Rory was so relieved at Byron’s easy acquiescence that he readily agreed to him leaving his
luggage behind. It took him a while to realise that if Byron was going to be visiting the spare
room often then he would have to fake Katherine Walker’s presence in that room.
At first he approached this task with enthusiasm: he got some Prada shoes Jenny had bought
at Milan airport that were far too small for her and threw them on the floor, he got the two red
silk Agent Provocateur bra and pants sets his partner had always refused to have anything to
do with and lay them on a chair, he found a small stylish leather suitcase left over from their
wealthy days at the back of their wardrobe and put in it other T shirts, jeans and tops that
Jenny had grown too fat to wear. Then he happily stood back to look at his work and felt
immediately deflated; he realised it was surprisingly difficult to get a sense of somebody’s
absent presence. At the moment it was just an empty room with some stuff in it, there was no
hint of Katherine Walker’s personality.
He went into the living room and took down ‘Anna Karenina’ (a book he’d always meant to
read) from the bookshelf and laid it open at Page 49 on the table beside the bed. Next he
picked up a glass and half-filled it with water, got some old scarlet lipstick of Jen’s from her
makeup box and with a strange tingling sensation in his calves smeared it on his own lips then
took a sip and placed the glass also on the bedside table next to the book. Finally he sprayed
the last of Jenny’s ‘Very Valentino’ in the air. Again he stepped back and felt, with a deep
sense of satisfaction that now Katherine Walker’s personality was beginning to emerge. You
could see that here was a bright, intelligent woman who wasn’t afraid to look good; she liked
sexy shoes, saucy underwear and vibrant lipstick. As he closed the door Rory felt a strong
pang of regret that Katherine Walker wasn’t really staying in their spare room.
“I see the chick’s reading Tolstoy,” said Byron after his first visit to his luggage.
“That’s right,” replied Rory, “she’s a really clever woman, good-looking too.”
“I’d love to know what she thinks about Anna.”
“I’ll ask her mate.”
So Rory read the book lying in Katherine’s bed wearing the cute pin-striped men’s pyjamas
that Katherine wore to sleep in and a few days later he went down to Leather Lane Market
and bought Katherine some stylish designer knock-offs: three skimpy spaghetti-strap T shirts
and a tight leather skirt that would show off her lovely little firm bottom.
Rory felt a sudden stab of annoyance at Jenny. “Why wasn’t she more like Katherine,” he
thought to himself, “why didn’t she wear sexy clothes and work out at the gym three times a
week like the other woman did. Jenny really needed to pull herself together.”
“She appreciates Tolstoy’s ability in bringing Anna so vividly to life,” he told Byron on his
second visit “… but ultimately she says she despises her for falling so hysterically in love
with such a transparent bastard as Vronsky when her husband is actually a better more moral
man. She says she’d never do anything like that, she’s got too much self-respect.”
They then went on to discuss Katherine’s sparkling academic record, the martial arts black
belt she possessed and the affair she’d had with Lenny Kravitz. As the two old friends talked
on into the evening it dawned on Rory that the awkwardness which had existed since Byron’s
return from Somalia vanished when they talked about Katherine Walker.
About a week later Byron suddenly asked. “Do you think she’s ever had sex with another
woman?”
“Who Katherine?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll ask her,” said Rory, “that’s the thing - she’s so upfront you can talk easily to her about
stuff like that.”
“Yes she has,” Rory told Byron on his fifth visit. “We had a bottle of wine together late the
other night and she told me all about it. She likes men most – her exact words were ‘she’s got
to have a regular supply of dick’ – but a couple of times she’s had crushes on women and you
know… once or twice it’s led to, well sex… kissing and fondling and rubbing and stuff… but
no sex toys. She thinks that’s unnatural.”
“Wow,” exhaled Byron with a far-away look in his eyes.
“Yeah wow,” said Rory. “She told me the thing she noticed when you’re like, kissing a
woman is how small their mouths are, compared to men’s.”
“Oh God,” said Byron, “I have simply got to meet this woman.”
"Imitating Katherine Walker" - Part 2 – John Glover
Over the next few weeks Byron returned frequently to the flat but Rory suspected it was more in hope
of persuading Katherine into a menage a trios with himself and Danuta than a need to find an old
notebook. On one of these visits Byron was sorting through his luggage, when he stood up brandishing
an empty box.
“Hey, what’s this? A pregnancy test kit! What’s all that about then mate?”
He turned it over in his hands and threw it across the room to Rory. Byron zipped up his suitcase and
stuffed a battered notebook into the back pocket of his jeans.
“So that’s why I can’t meet the elusive Katherine. You haven’t been taking the rent in kind, have you?”
he grinned.
“Don’t be ridiculous” stammered Rory. “Look…It’s been a bad time for her. She was late with her
period and thought it’d be best to check. She’s just split from her boyfriend so she needs to
…y’know…check, so she can sort it.”
Rory had become paranoid after forgetting Katherine’s period and before going out on his Tampax run
had borrowed the pregnancy test kit from a girl in the downstairs flat. Rory and Jenny had long since
given up on the idea of children as they’d tried for years without success. Although he knew planting
the kit was taking things to a new level of surrealism, he hadn’t put it beyond Byron to have actually
calculated the dates between periods and worked out the deception. He’d even given the contents of the
kit to Jenny to take back to the girl downstairs.
“So, when’s the lovely lady due back, mate?” enquired Byron glancing at his watch. “I’ve got a couple
of hours before Danuta gets back from her English lesson.”
“Er…she’s at the doctors…getting confirmation…you can’t always believe these things can you?”
replied Rory, raising an eyebrow and nodding at the pregnancy test kit. “In fact, I’ve got to get along to
pick her up in ten minutes, so I’ll have to nip off.”
“Oh, right mate. Did Jen go down to the docs with Kathy?” Byron’s interest in Rory’s lodger had
become obsessive and he’d recently taken to an affectionate shortening of her name.
“Nah” replied Rory. “Jenny’s running a course today in Essex. ‘The 7 synergies of collaborative
counter-staff’ or some such shite. She’s got to persuade about twenty bored council workers that they
really do like their jobs.”
“Sounds interesting,” said Byron sarcastically.
“Yeah, apparently, they’ve hired an area that’s usually reserved for paintball but they’re going to dress
up in combat gear and run through the forest hurling insults at each other and they’ve got to take it all
without getting upset.”
“So, is it ok if I come with you?” asked Byron hopefully.
“No problem mate. Just let me make a quick call.”
Rory punched some numbers into his mobile and moved through to the kitchen knowing that he’d have
enough time to make a call while Byron went through Katherine’s knicker draw. He called a doctor
friend, Declan, and filled him in on what was happening. Declan had used Rory’s old company when
he’d kitted his office out with items of retro furniture. After making sure that Declan knew exactly
what was expected of him he dragged Byron away from Jenny’s old g-strings and they drove round to
the surgery.
Declan slid out of his consulting room and ushered Rory in, leaving Byron to wander the corridors
staring at posters of fat pouring from the ends of cigarettes.
“So, you’ve got yourself in a spot this time mate,” laughed Declan, pouring coffee from an espresso
machine that looked suspiciously like a Victorian wash-bowl and bending down to take a carton of
milk from an oak writing bureau. After five minutes chatting about Rory’s dilemma there was a knock
on the door and Byron’s head appeared.
“Alright in here?” he asked brightly.
Rory and Declan turned quickly and gave each other a stare. Declan shuffled some papers officiously
and spoke to Rory, ignoring Byron, whose head was still, Jack Nicholson-style, in the doorway.
“Er…yes…Mr Casey. Your friend Miss Walker was here but the blood tests showed an abnormality
and she was taken to hospital.”
“Really?” replied Rory, confused at this strange turn of events and actually becoming quite worried
about her, although if he really thought about it, he needn’t.
“Which hospital?” shouted Byron from the doorway. “Poor cow. She needs you Rory.”
“Yes, yes, of course you’re right,” replied Rory. “Doctor – which hospital has she been taken to?”
“University College” said a bemused Declan. “She should be there by now” he added, trying to control a smirk.
After battling through the traffic Rory and Byron crashed through the door of A & E.
The receptionist looked up from her computer. “Name?”
“I’m looking for Katherine Walker.”
‘I’ll just have a look then Mr Walker” replied the receptionist tapping on a keyboard.
“No, I’m not Mr Walker. I’m Mr Casey”
“That’s strange”, said the receptionist, “We had a Mrs Casey in earlier. Mrs Jenny Casey.”
Byron slid up to the reception desk and tapped Rory on the shoulder. “What’s going on mate?”
Rory removed Byron’s hand firmly and glared at him. “Look - fuck off Byron and take your sixth-form
poetry and pictures of Danuta’s arse and sit over there. Not only am I worried about Katherine but it
seems like Jenny’s fallen out of a tree or something.” Byron sloped off towards a row of vending
machines while Rory leaned over the counter and whispered to the receptionist.
“Where is Mrs Casey?”
Rory glanced down the corridor to see Byron kicking a chocolate machine and arguing with a porter.
Upon finding Ward C6 he looked through the porthole window and saw Jenny sitting up in bed at the
far end of the ward. He approached her bed quietly and reached out for her hand.
“What the hell’s going on Jen? I thought you were in Hatfield bloody forest. What’s all this about?’
Jenny squeezed his hand tightly.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Rory. The trip out today was an just an excuse. I knew something was
wrong so I went for some tests. Y’know that pregnancy kit? Well, I was a couple of weeks late myself
so I used it. I’ve only known myself for a few days. I didn’t want to worry you.”
The doctor spoke. “No need to be alarmed Mr Casey. It was only a scare. There’s nothing wrong with
the baby.”
Rory gulped. “Baby?”
Jenny nodded. “Yeah – a baby.”
The swing doors crashed open and a wild-eyed Byron stood in the doorway clutching a cup of coffee, a
bag of prawn cocktail flavoured crisps and a bunch of battered flowers that he’d snatched from a
pensioner’s bedside table.
He spotted Rory and Jenny and shouted, “So, where the hell is my Kathy!”
(Thursday 15th July ‘04) – Ely Folk Weekend Review
This, the 19th Ely Folk Weekend, was the fourth to be held at the Outdoor Centre and was, quite literally, the biggest yet. The main tent was wider than in previous years after the problems of overcrowding on the Saturday night last year. Also, another performance Marquee was added for ‘meet the band’ sessions to free up the beer tent for drinkers and impromptu jams.
As ever, the Ely On-Line brief was to capture the spirit of the weekend through our non-folkie eyes, pens and Karl’s high-tech camera.
With a pint of Sparkling Wit in hand we traversed the site. Although having moved a touch further down the road onto the football club ground the set up was reassuringly familiar: 3 performance Marquees, kids area, traders stalls, a couple of excellent grub huts and, for the first time a coffee stall.
After spending some time listening to Little Johnny England in the ‘meet’ Marquee it was over to the main stage for Mooncoin, a 4 piece from Norwich. As well as playing English traditional folk, they also feature Irish, Swedish and eastern European songs – in particular a Bulgarian dance number, which had people up dancing at the back of the marquee. Excellent stuff. As well as displaying fine musical ability the ‘Coins have an excellent website (www.mooncoin.org.uk) and whilse doing a spot of research in the week leading up to the festival I spent an absorbing 10 minutes reading all about Uli’s bathroom renovation!
After taking some more ale on board from the well-stocked Beer Tent, it was back to the music and Sally Barker. As we approached the tent, Karl made the comment that Sally sounded more like a soul singer and her set bore out the fact that she covers a variety of styles: rock, blues, jazz, country as well as more traditional fayre. Strooth, she even did a Genesis song! Sally has a new album out, ‘Maid In England’ and, finding myself drawn further into this music, I may well buy a copy. However, I won’t be getting out the credit card just yet as another piece of platter is currently hogging my CD player. Yup, after 4 years of attending the Folk Weekend with a cynically raised eyebrow, I bought my first ever Folk CD by the band that blew me away during the weekend: Last Night’s Fun. The 3 piece are a passionate mix of humour and musical excellence. With Chris keeping us entertained during Denny’s extended tune up I was then unprepared for the musical onslaught. Their album, ‘Dubh’, which I bought, was described by Living Tradition as ‘stupendous, both a landmark release and a seriously important contribution to the modern presentation of Irish traditional music’. Well, I don’t know enough about Folk to comment on that but I do know that with 4 pints inside you that when Chris Sherburne gets into stride, riffing on his concertina and shouting ‘and again!’ I get the chills. Magnificent.
Having already seen a bit of Little Johnny England it was time for more beer, a beef chilli from one of the food stalls and a wander round the site to soak up the twilight atmosphere. With the band warming up for the ceilidh in the dance marquee, kids still out playing football, a jam session rockin’ away in the beer tent and the cathedral lit up in the distance the Ely Folk Weekend was off and running.
Saturday Morning
After a calorie-lite sausage and egg bap, 2 paracetemols and some industrial strength coffee I was ready for the Grand Procession in the City Centre. With 20 morris and molly dance sides descending on Ely the city was transformed into a riot of colour and noise. When the Saor Patrol drummers came along the High Street I was glad I’d taken the pills. They were loud. The procession is an opportunity to take the festival out to the people of Ely and many of them dallied awhile to take in the performances before heading back into the shops and cafes. Let’s hope some of them were intrigued enough to come down to the site next year. As the teams passed by in a whirl of hankies, sticks, drums, whoops and hollers it certainly livened up the city centre. This was definitely a highlight of the weekend.
Sunday Morning
After watching the procession on Saturday morning, my eldest (14 year old Holly) dragged me to a Morris Workshop in Marquee 2, where a willing band of volunteers were put through their paces by the Ely & Littleport Riot and The Witchmen. The Rioting ladies dance in a light border style, which I managed to reproduce in a heavy clumping style, frequently dancing in the wrong direction, stopping for sips of coffee and generally getting hot and bothered. The workshopees were patiently dealt with by the ladies and at the end of the hour-long session we gave a passable rendition of one of their dances.
As the sweat dripped and I feigned injury, the Witchmen appeared and Holly handed me a stick. ‘You’re joining in’, she said sternly. Things were about to become more aggressive. It was down with hankies and up with sticks. Gathered into groups of 8 we bashed, danced, span each other round and shouted something about monkeys sticking bananas up their bums. Two hours previously I’d been a reluctant left footed dancer but with the aid of these two fine teams I’d thoroughly enjoyed myself and added another string to my folk bow.
Sunday Evening
The highlight of Sunday evening, for me, was Adam Brown (of The Brown Family) and his Bodhran solo during the Family’s set in Marquee 2. Playing Celtic ballads and tunes the 4-piece have been playing since the children, Erin and Adam, were old enough to hold their instruments and the experience has paid off. Adam is the current ‘All Ireland’ under 15 Bodhran champion and helped with the Bodhran workshop last year at the Ely folk weekend. With sister, Erin, treating us to a tap solo, this was a slot that should have been seen by more. Committee! Get them on the main stage next year.
Although trying to sample all the ales on offer, by this time on Sunday evening my choices had narrowed – someone had drunk nearly all the beer. So, I had to take on my old nemesis, Dragonslayer. Beer in hand it was back to the main stage for Vin Garbutt. Although having been gigging since 1969, I hadn’t heard of him before but I was soon engrossed in his witty story-telling and the quality of his songs. His thought provoking self-penned material coupled with the warmth of his vocals means that I’ll be shelling out some more money for CD’s.
Taking more Dragonslayer on board we came to the final session of the evening, The Mrs Ackroyd Band. The band, mainly a vehicle for Les Barker’s insane poetry is ably backed up by Chris harbey on keyboards and the vocal skills of Alison Younger and Hilary Spencer. There were tales of lemming suicides, some excellent reditions of Les’s serious songs and a finale which featured the whole audience swaying to the strains of ‘Here We Go’ with toilet roll above their heads. An appropriately triumphal ending to a fantastic weekend.
On a personal note, I’d like to thank Dave Wolfe and the rest of the committee for giving us non-folkies the chance to experience the festival. If the aim of the festival is promote Folk music to a wider audience then let me leave you with this:
…as I climbed the stairs on Monday evening, still jaded from the weekend, I could hear music coming from my daughter’s bedroom. Normally, it’d be Madonna or Miss Dynamite or any of that ilk but on Monday it was the sound of ‘The Innkeepers Daughter’ from Last Night’s Fun’s ‘Dubh’ CD that I bought… If you like what you've seen here, try my other internet offering: Cauliflower Drove . It's a 100 episode web-soap that's been featured on Radio Four, BBC tv, The Guardian and The Sunday Times. Described by the Sunday Times as, "real ale, death, rock, tractors, beef burgers, cake and love in the Fens at the arse end of the 20th
century". It's a damn good read; but then I would say that. However, 24 rejections letters later, the great and good literary agents of London would beg to differ so it's on the net to read for free. If you fancy a paper copy I can print one off and send it to you. E-mail me if you're interested.
(Friday 6th February ‘04) – Twice Into The River
Clunch Parsons spat on his fingers, stuck out an unsteady arm and snubbed out the candle that stood on his bedside table. “Hev you tied us up for the night, bor?” he shouted up to Hummer Thompson. “Yis”, replied Hummer, “course I hev. We’re as safe as a church tied to a hedge”. Hummer waited until he heard a steady snoring from the bunk below and climbed unsteadily down, before dressing and placing a note beside the candlestick.
*
It was a drunken end to a difficult week for the both of them. On the Monday Clunch had told Hummer that he would be letting him go in a fortnight’s time, as there wasn’t enough work for the two of them any more. Clunch was one of a dying breed of lightermen that worked the river, carrying a cargo of coal, fish and salt on his two barges down from Kings Lynn to Cambridge and beyond. The irony was that with the river and the railway running parallel at certain points on the journey they were passed by the very trains that were doing them out of work. Things weren’t helped on the Tuesday as they travelled up river past Denver when Star, their horse, had stumbled on the bank, fallen in the river and drowned. It wasn’t surprising as Star had been working with Parsons for the past eight years and had already put in many years on the river before he’d bought her. They secured the horse’s head up onto the stern of the rearmost lighter to keep it above the water, and made slow progress to The Ship at Brandon Creek. After promising a free beer to a few of the regulars in the pub they managed to drag the horse up the bank and left it covered it up in the yard. As Clunch got the drinks in he left instructions with the landlord to make arrangements for old Josh Fordham, the knacker man, to pick the horse up the next day.
While Hummer settled down for a pint and a pie after the business was done, Clunch slunk out behind the back of the pub and walked a hundred yards down the bank before ducking down among the reeds. As a supplement to his earnings from the lighter business, he set a few eel traps down as he made his way down to Cambridge, emptying them out on the return journeys. In fact, his sideline was becoming almost more lucrative than the scant rewards to be made from the lighter trade. Although Clunch thought it was secret, in fact most people knew about his eel trapping and a story had done the rounds about the time he’d found a dead body stuck among some weeds at Littleport. According to locals, the body must have been there for weeks. Riddled with eels that swarmed in and out of every available orifice, the bloated corpse was the best bait Clunch had ever used, albeit unintentionally. They pulled the body up onto the bank as Clunch grabbed at the slippery gifts while his partner held the net open for him. Hummer had turned to Clunch forlornly and said, 'I 'spose yew'll be getting a’hold of the Constabulary or somethin'?' Clunch looked at the bulging net of eels, glanced down at the body and said, 'No I in’t! I’m gunner chuck the bugger back in for a few more days'.
Hummer was distraught at the horse’s death. “Oh shut your trap’ moaned Clunch, ‘or I’ll chuck you in an all. I don’t know why I’ve bothered to keep you on for this long’. Hummer knew why. Although not exactly the sharpest hoe in the shed, Hummer was one of the last horsemen working the river and he knew that Clunch would have a problem replacing him. Now in his late 60’s though, Hummer was finding the hard work a struggle. He’d suffered with arthritis for a while and with his fingers beginning to curl up into claws he could barely tie a knot any more.
After leaving Brandon Creek they carried on down to Ely and went to the Cutter for a drink. The place was heaving with farm labourers and railwaymen anxious to slake their thirst. Hummer took himself off into a corner with his pint while Clunch joined in a card school with a gang of railwaymen. It was always the same when they got into the Cutter. After losing most of his money playing cards, Clunch would get settled in a chair near the fire and entertain the locals with his stories, most of which he’d either made up or heard from someone else and taken as his own. They left the pub after the landlord had finally called time on the evening and staggered along the towpath to collapse into their bunks, Hummer first checking that they were secured for the night.
*
Clunch awoke the following morning, opened a gummy eye and surveyed the cabin around him, swivelling his eye through 360 degrees. “Not too bad”, he thought, “…at least the cabin’s not spinnin’”. He slowly raised the other eye-lid and waited for the world to come into focus. He raised his head from his pillow, which was, in fact, his spare pair of trousers, and sat upright on his bunk. When the nausea began to subside, he reached up and banged on the top bunk with his boot. “Hummer! c’mon bor! Are you getting up this mornin’, you lazy old sod?” he moaned. As Clunch bashed away with his boot on the bunk above he began to think how Hummer had been remarkably quiet during the night as a stomach full of beer normally guaranteed a night of snoring. Clunch rose unsteadily and leaned against the top bunk to find an empty bed. With another curse fresh on his lips, he noticed the letter lying on the table. The hastily scrawled note said that Hummer couldn’t wait another week to leave and that he was going to stay with his old sister at Grunty Fen. Clunch folded up the note and placed it inside his jacket pocket. He stepped down from the lighter onto the towpath and noticed a familiar shape bobbing in the water. Holding onto the barge rail for support, he leaned out over the river and grabbed the body by a trailing foot. His worst fears were confirmed. Whether by accident or design, Hummer had ended his days as a lighterman a week earlier than intended. While Clunch was dragging his friend out onto the bank he hesitated when he noticed a couple of eels; one disappearing up a trouser leg and a pair of eyes staring at him from a gap in Hummer’s shirt. Glancing over his shoulder, checking that no one was around, he slipped a rope around Hummer’s leg and tied it off to the tailboard. “He was a good old bor and a mate” thought Clunch, “…but he’d understand”. And he threw Hummer back into the water.
(Wednesday 21st January ‘04) – Some Football Strangeness
I love it when managers exaggerate. After Kevin Keegan's hasty exit from the England manager’s job he said, 'You'd have to go back to the Doomsday Book for the last time I played a defensive line-up'. Barry Fry also stretched the limits of credulity when interviewed about his Wembley memories. Admittedly, it did sound as if Barry had been to an awful lot of games at the old beast, but his claim that, 'I must have sat on almost every seat in the place' had me reaching for a calculator. With the final game at Wembley against Germany having an attendance figure of 76,377 as a starting point I reckon that Barry must be about 1,500 years old - and that's if he'd been to a game every week. Sorry to be picky; I can't help myself.
Here’s something I read on the Times letters page. A correspondent suggested that the FA should award a ‘Sir Stanley Matthews Award for Gentlemanly Conduct’ every year, to be presented at the Cup Final. Fine sentiments, but I can imagine the two Cup Final combatants (Hmm, let’s say Manchester United and Arsenal) snickering behind their hands as the angelic left back from Buckingham Town (for instance) is led forward to be presented with the award. What’s that old
saying ?- ‘Nice guys don’t win’. In the past that may have been open to dispute, but in the twenty first century I’d say it’s the truth. Unfortunately.
Is there any truth in the rumour that a group of linguists from Cambridge University have started up a five a side team with the name 'Acronym Stanley' ? No? Thought not.
Here's a little snippet I found in the paper a couple of years ago. Apparently, a team of Vegans taking part in a football match in Taunton, Somerset, decided to quit the game because the ball was made of leather. Which begs the question; what were their boots made of ? Wood ?
Remember the wet weather we had about three seasons ago when the country was flooded? I heard a story on Talksport that made my frustration pale into insignificance. An 18 year old lad, with ambitions of becoming a FIFA list referee, passed his refs exams in the October. After that he was allocated 18 games to officiate at. They were ALL postponed!
Although I can't condone foul language on the pitch (or off it, for that matter), this snippet from the net caught my eye: 'Cross Farm Park Celtic striker Lee Todd was sent off after just 2 seconds for muttering “F*** me, that was loud” after the referee had blown his whistle to start a game in the Taunton Sunday League. Lee was given a £27 fine and a 7 game ban. One consolation was that CPF Celtic went on to beat Taunton East Reach Wanderers 11-2, even without their star striker. Referee Peter Kearle would only say that the matter was in the hands of the FA'. As my daughter would say, 'Oi! There are kids here you know!'
Here’s an old chestnut I snaffled from the Times Football Handbook Monthly. After Paul Ince’s performance for Wolves against his old team last week it seems relevant again. Ince ‘The Guvnor’ was full of bluster a couple of years ago when asked about Middlesborough’s chances of avoiding relegation: 'It's another challenge. It's not a challenge that I would have liked. I'd rather have had the challenge of getting into Europe - but it's another challenge and it's a challenge that I relish. it's a challenge and I'm up for that challenge'.
(Thursday 8th January ‘04)
Check out Heads In A Bucket :a new episodic story which went on-line on Tuesday 6th January. I've already written the first 30 episodes of this murderous tale of ouzo, mucky nappies, cheesy disco music, death and ice-cream. Yup, it's another Yaxley Farcett story.
(Monday 29th December ‘03) – The Wretch – Part Four - "Christmas, Carol?" - (Click here for Part 1)
London - England 2043
It was late November as a square jawed, floppy fringed, be-suited politician sat behind a desk in an office deep inside the bowels of Westminster. Closer examination of the framed photograph on the wall behind him would reveal that the grinning cricketer third from the left in the back row went by the name of JC Stebbington. He sighed, placed a bundle of documents into the battered red box on the desk and looked at his watch. ‘Carol’ he barked, ‘If anyone calls tell them I’m off to my constituency to hold my weekend surgery’. A harassed looking middle-aged woman, sitting across the office from him, wedged a telephone handset between her ear and shoulder and raised an eyebrow. ‘…but Mr Stebbington, it’s only Wednesday! I thought we were going to arrange your Christmas itinerary this afternoon’. The man drew a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket, gave a rattling cough and spat a mouthful of phlegm into it, making the woman wince. ‘But it’s November’, he replied. ‘Far too early to be talking about Christmas, Carol!’
Cambridge - England – 4 weeks Later:
I played dumb as the ward sister came into the day room with her clipboard. Another year - another Christmas. This would be my fifth season of goodwill in the Ivy Lodge Nursing Home and I was still trying to get out of the damn place. I threw a slipper at the sister’s head and thrust a hopeful hand towards the pert bottom of a passing nurse. One of the benefits of senility is that you can get away with that kind of behaviour. Of course, as you can see, inwardly my mind is as sharp as a Tack…no, hang on, lets make that a knife. Outwardly, I’m playing to the gallery. They want a nutty old sod, they’ll get a nutty old sod. A little grey haired chap in front of me started to whinge and the sister had to stare him out. Ever since he’d arrived he’d been moaning about the lack of storage space for the zimmer frames and generally making a nuisance of himself. I wondered what he was doing in The Ivy as I’d heard that he owned about forty houses in Cambridge and must have been worth a bob or two. Anyway, I threw a boxed jigsaw puzzle at him and the corner of the box hit the back of his head with a satisfying crack and a thousand pieces of Sandringham House and Gardens tipped all over him.
By the time the sister had finished her little briefing we had discovered that we were to be visited by a Tory junior minister, JC Stebbington, on Christmas Eve. There’d been rumours that the Tory Government were about to cut the budget for the aged by 20% and had decided to initiate a charm offensive to put people at ease. From what I’d heard of this Stebbington, he was certainly offensive. The sister wound up her speech and disappeared into her office to fill out some forms to work out how they could fit ten more wrinklies into the home without building any new rooms.
The door swung open – visiting time! Once a week an old couple came to see me: The Harveys. Although in their nineties they bounced in through the door, bubbly as you like. Apparently, they’d been brought up in a village in Norfolk whose water supply was sourced from an ancient spring, which had been found to have special properties. Paul said they could only stay an hour as he had to go to circuit training and his wife was about to go off to a Yoga session. I was feeling curmudgeonly so as they went out the door I threw a puzzle at them as well. Paul, with surprisingly good reflexes for a ninety two year old, caught the puzzle and placed it carefully on a coffee table.
The next day arrived and we were given breakfast early and shaved so as to look as presentable as possible for this JC Stebbington fellow. He arrived on the dot with a couple of assistants in tow and proceeded to trot out the party line - There’d be no cuts in funding while he had a breath in his body…blah blah blah. He took the opportunity to promote himself by saying he was a local man and he knew what our concerns were. He been educated at a private school in Cambridge and had emigrated to America as a ten year old when his father had got a job over there. I stared again at the fringe, the eyes, the square jaw and paid attention to the way he interrupted his speech with frequent coughs, snorts and vigorous nose-blowing. It couldn’t be – could it?
Pulling my zimmer closer to me, I pulled myself up and both knees gave a crack. Stebbington broke from his notes and looked up. ‘Could you wait to go to the toilet until I’ve finished please’ he barked. I lifted my pyjama trouser leg to reveal a full catheter bag and shouted back, ‘I’ve just been!’ and giggled. He remained silent as I shuffled forward towards him until our faces were a foot apart. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ I muttered. There was a loud creaking noise as all the crusties in the room leaned forward in unison to hear the conversation. ‘Should I?’ he replied.
‘The summer of 2003’ I whispered. ‘That £5 note, the tarpaulin, your mother being put away in that home, your dad abandoning you…have you forgotten it all?’
Jordan’s eyes narrowed, and a small breath escaped followed by a vigorous clearing of his throat. He threw his arms around me as the memories came flooding back. His bear-hug lifted me off my feet and I could feel the liquid bobbling around in my catheter bag – it was an emotionally charged moment. Jordan finally released me from his grasp and shouted to everyone in the room, ‘This old man has reminded me that we need to care for people whatever their circumstances!’ He wiped a tear from his eye and bellowed, ‘This place will NEVER close. You can all stay here until you die!’ which, although reassuring, didn’t exactly come across as he intended. His pronouncement was greeted with wild applause and as he stood there beaming a group of local schoolchildren appeared from nowhere and began to sing ‘Silent Night’ and…it started to snow. Jordan threw his arms wide and said, ‘Have a Very Merry Christmas everyone’. And then he coughed…and sneezed…and cleared his throat.
THE END
(Monday 3rd November ‘03) – Here’s an extract from Cauliflower Drove – ‘Bull Shaving’
"There's an 'ol Fenland custom I'll tell yew about: Bull Shaving ! It were very popular in the Parish of Barnham in the late nineteenth century. Legend hes it that the pastime began after the traditional Plough Monday festival had turned into nothin' more than an excuse for drunken local ol' bors to demand money from villagers. "Bull Shaving" were normally held at Whitsun and involved picking the hairiest ol' bull in the village and six of the strongest 'ol bors to do the job. The bull were dressed in ribbons and finery and led through the village by the Rector; the 'ol bors running ahead, door to door, collecting money for the poor of the parish. Once the party had reached the green opposite The Skaters, the bull would be tethered to four stakes with leather straps so as not to cause too much discomfort to the animal. The half dozen ol bors would then gently divest the bull of it's outer coat, using cut throat razors; a skill they were taught by Amos Woodbridge of Main Street. Once the bull were clean shaven, it were covered up in the colourful "Bull Monday" waistcoat which were knitted by the W.I in Ealham. Unfortunately, "Bull Shaving" became unpopular when modern ways took hold and it were thought to be demeaning to the animals. However, people in the village yewst to point out that it were never done in winter, 'cos that woulder bin cruel"
(Thursday 30th October ‘03) – Here’s a book review I wrote for Anne DeBondt’s ‘Suddenly’ (Anne also writes a weekly column for The Ely Standard)
The heart-strings have the unique ability to go 'Zing', but just as importantly they are apt to go 'Zong', like the doomy elongated chord of an especially slack bass string. And Kate, the heroine of Anne deBondt's novel 'Suddenly', has her heart-strings played with gusto by a trio of men. After her first setback (a messy divorce) she girded her twenty something loins together and made the decision to relocate her youthful (and almost undoubtedly) handsome butt to Cambridge, England. Not looking to change the world, not looking for a new England...just looking for another bloke.
Now, in these days of Argos style, money back if not satisfied marriages, do you know anyone who’s been married more than ten years? I remember someone warning me; 'marry in haste, repent at your leisure', and although in my case I’m happy to report this is not proving to be the case, it is in Anne deBondt’s closely observed account of her heroine Kate’s struggle to recover from a failed marriage. We see her desolation and inability to comprehend how badly things had gone for her.
As Kate tiptoed through the minefield of her emotions I was reminded of an old public service advert. Remember those old British Gas safety adverts about what to do if you smell gas? As the lady returned home, laden down with shopping, you just knew there’d been a gas leak. And as, in super slo-mo, she reached for the light switch you saw her husband shout, ’Noooooooo!!!’ in an effort to avoid the inevitable 'Kaboom!' Parts of Suddenly are like this. Just as Kate is approaching a stable part of her life she contrives her very own gas leak and finds a naked flame - just to keep things interesting. During a particularly bad decision involving Steve (the third of the trio and my favourite - I liked Steve) I found myself shouting 'Nooooooo!!' at the book, but she still went and made an unwise decision that ranks alongside the miners going on strike in the summer. Bad.
'Suddenly' drinks greedily from the Lexicon of Love (if you can drink from a dictionary) and I found myself captivated by the scenes of 'tenderness'. The late Auberon Waugh who presided over the ’Bad Sex’ award would have had little to complain about in the scenes that follow Kate’s rejuvenation as she teams up with new colleague Brian. Their lovemaking more than meets expectations and she begins to realise the truth; herself and Michael had obviously not been compatible. She's experiencing fulfilment for the first time. How many fleeting marriages come to grief for the same reason; why do people not realise that the person that they have met is Mr or Mrs Right? Why do fools fall in love?
With emotions tearing Kate apart, she struggles to recover from a failed marriage, find love, cope with tragedy and acclimatise to her new surroundings when...Suddenly. Well, you'll have to read it to find out. I did.
(Wednesday 22nd October ‘03) – Here’s something I wrote about my musical state of mind a couple of years ago – ‘Into The Music’
So what is ‘credibility’ in music? I can remember arguing, as a 14 year old, the merits of The Electric Light Orchestra versus The Stranglers. ‘Yeah’ I squeaked, but nobody will be listening to The Stranglers in twenty years - will they?’ And I probably said, ‘Nurr’ after that.
You see, I thought ELO were classic rock. I probably even thought they were ‘classical’, seduced by the pretentious name. At that point, I had yet to be taken by Punk/New Wave. I was the typical spotty little kid listening to his big brother's record collection and my own pitiful selection. I start to go scarlet at the thought; early Status Quo, most of Queen’s early stuff, a couple of ELP albums and of course all the recorded output of the hairy pseudo orchestra from Birmingham.
And then, one day while we were eating our sarnies out behind the Deputy Head’s office, I saw (or rather, heard) the light. I heard a tape of ‘New Boots and Panties’, a bit the Clash’s first album and a couple of Ramones tracks. I was hooked - out went John Miles (remember him? - ‘Music Was My First Love’) and in came The Jam, Ian Dury, Elvis Costello, The Clash and The Damned. The Sex Pistols were a bit off-limits. The venerable Audrey would have throttled me if she saw the cover. Whereas, the filth on the Ian Dury album could be listened to furtively with headphones on.
But I stray from my main point - credibility in ‘pop’. That argument I had? Hell, I listen to the Bee Gees and Simon and Garfunkel more now than I do The ELO or The Stranglers. From the age of 14 through to about 27, I 'saw the light' with a few bands. They came along at intervals like new best friends and drew me in; XTC, The Jam, The Smiths, The Housemartins, Primal Scream, Dodgy. They, as my bud Laurie says, ’grabbed me by the groin and shook me’. Like John Miles, music was my first love, but unlike the Geordie tunesmith it won’t be my last. I think that’ll be a toss up between the wife and kids, Hobgoblin beer and crispy asthmatic duck.
In 1983, I thought music was so bloody important that I could talk shite about it for hours ( and still can). The NME was a permanent fixture in front of my spotty face and I bought the records they told me to buy; Magazine, ABC, Carter The Unstoppable Sex Machine and the rest. Some were life altering experiences - most were cak. Me, Lee, Ralph and Keith would have long Greene King fuelled arguments about what and what wasn’t ‘rock n roll‘. The Tube used to show a video featuring a band called The Snakes of Shake and in it the singer (sporting one of those long black ‘Echo and the Bunnymen coats) would thrash away on a pair of maracas and spin round at the point the song sped towards the end. Leaping across the floor to the pause button I would stop the tape and shout; ‘THAT my friends is rock n roll - a combination the bestest music, groovy clothes and maximum pop sensibility. Yes, I was drunk and a spotty stupid little git. They were rubbish.
Where is this all leading us? Well, musically, nothing has grabbed me by the groin and shaken me for about eight years. I think ‘Staying Out For The Summer’ by Dodgy was the last record I had to buy. You know what I mean don’t you? So, in the hope of finding a new ’best friend’ I turned to the classical section of the record shop. Once you pass thirty you realise the most pop lyrics are rubbish and I wanted to listen to music sans words and shouting. The only problem being; how can I, ‘lil’ Johnny’, with only 2 GCSE’s and 2 grade 1 CSE’s listen to something as grand as classical music? Cos it’s a class thang ain't it. This is classical music for classical people - there’s nothing for you here! I can’t play the violin or the oboe so why should I be so cocky as to think I could listen to the stuff? But then after a couple of years of dabbling with The Planets and Beethoven (yeah I know - but it’s a middle class person equivalent of having Tina Turner & Eric Clapton albums and thinking they are bona fide rock fans isn’t it - you’ve got to start somewhere) I began to think, so bloody what if I can’t play the tuba? I don't know how to play a guitar or the drums and it’s never stopped me listening to Yes before has it? So with renewed confidence I began to listen to a bit more and have now been to a few concerts and I find them every bit as fulfilling as a rock gig- moreso in fact, because I can sit down and let myself be carried away by the music. Better than listening to some afro-haired git shout 'I luv u Cambridge'.
To a classical fan in the know, the mention of The Planets and Classic FM has probably sent them running for the gun cabinet and if I was honest I'd have to agree but I will continue my search for that new best friend even if he turns out to have been dead for about three hundred years. I suspect that classical fans fan be split into two camps. There are genteel couples that live in a world of tweed, flowers and books that smile at each other and silently mouth ’Aah Beethoven’ when they hear a snatch of music in the background during a costume drama and there are the others (me) that hear the same piece of music and say ’Ooh Hovis’. Hell, they even cater for the latter with the ‘Best Advert Album In The World - Ever‘.
I hate to jump to the defence of Popsters like Mel C, but I like her singles, I like The Bee Gees and The Stranglers, Simon and Garfunkel, Beethoven, Van Morrison, S Club 7 and Michael Nyman- they’re all my musical friends.
Westlife, however, are bloody rubbish. Most definitely not rock n roll.
(Tuesday 21st October ‘03) – A little footy piece I wrote – ‘Horizontal Hold’
With the collapse of the ITV2 deal and the resultant problems for Nationwide league clubs, football's corporate money men have been left crying into their laptops. Some pundits have suggested that the bubble has burst - it was a deal too far. Over the past few years, with the advent of extra-terrestrial television, armchair fans have gradually gained access to seven nights of football on telly a week from this country and around the world. Countless programmes are devoted to discussion of the game and even Andrew Lloyd Webber got in on the act a couple of years ago with musical in the West End. It's hard to remember a time when it wasn't like this...
The first football match I can remember watching on the telly was 1970 FA Cup final – Leeds v Chelsea. Well, I say watched, but due to the terminal condition of our old set, I suspect my eyes were glaring through the snow that blighted every programme from Dixon Of Dock Green to Stars On Sunday. We really should have had windscreen wipers fitted. The Bush set was a cantankerous old sod and objected to having to continue showing us what televisual delights the corporation beamed out in those days. I suspect it felt that after the Coronation was over it should have been left to graze in some equivalent of a retirement home for tellies, just quietly screening the test card until it's tube went pop!
In those days my role as the youngest of four kids was the same as that of Anthony in The Royle Family. When the Bush decided to go all curmudgeonly on us, I was called in to do the necessary. 'Johnny !' went the cry to wherever I was in the house, and I had to give the set the required thump on the side (or top if that didn't work) to stop the picture 'going round'. It was years before I knew the technical term for the problem was a knackered Horizontal Hold. Whack! I would go and for a few minutes the rolling would stop. It was 1974 before we got rid of the temperamental old telly and dad wheeled in a shiny new Sony colour set - just in time for the World Cup in Germany.
So, for the rest of the decade, football was beamed to the Fens by way of Match of the Day (and Match of the Week - with Gerry Harrison!) and Sports Night with Harry Carpenter. Harry became my old bespectacled Uncle on the box as I was allowed to stay up late watching Leeds United storm through to the European Cup final in 1975. And all of it in glorious colour!
By the early eighties I was living in a flat and had decided that telly was destroying people's brains and I didn't even own a set. I sat around stroking my fluffy new beard wisely; reading books I didn't understand and discussing them with people who'd pretended they had read them. Football was a nasty game played by men who spat and swore. The major events in football that paved the way for the revolution that followed, such as Heysel and the Bradford fire were seen on the news - I'd lost interest. Music had entered my life; Morrissey and The Smiths had replaced the Eddie Gray and Leeds United posters on the wall. Then I realised that the 1986 World Cup was about to start. Something began to stir deep within me. The World Cup! A month of footy; wallcharts, exotic players, En-gur-land and David Coleman's crackly commentary. The years of reading Shoot and the smell of leather football boots and deep heat crept their way through into my 23-year-old brain and thick head of curly hair. Thirty minutes before the opening ceremony I ran along Broad Street in Ely, paid sixty quid for a second hand telly and ran all the way back with this big beast of a box in my arms and got it rigged up just as the tournament got underway. I was back where I belonged; "Football! I'm Home!"
Over the following ten years most of the famous footballing moments were seen through the tube, such as England losing to Argentina watched on a 2" portable telly in a tent at Glastonbury. We couldn't see Maradona's handball; we could hardly see the players. Another highlight was Arsenal's famous Championship decider victory over Liverpool during the hey day of ITV coverage. Remember those days? Liverpool every week, no European football and Elton Wellesby looking like he'd stepped out of a Freeman's catalogue. And then it all changed; the Premier League was born. Pretty soon I'd had enough of 'showbizz' football with every game described a classic according to the pundits. The most mind-numbing 0-0 draw is now a ‘fascinating contest’ – yeah, right. I felt a strange primeval pull back to local football and could smell the burgers, the hot dogs, the coffee in cracked mugs and hear the bone crunching tackles. I asked my daughter if she wanted to go to a football match - she nodded, expecting Old Trafford. She got the Unwin Ground, Ely and a bar of chocolate.
And in the future when they start selling virtual reality headsets so we can actually experience being at the game from our armchair, watching Manchester Nike FC against Juventus Fiat Sporting, I'd hazard a guess that most of us Ridgeon League supporters will still be found, frozen toed, leaning against a rail at match like Ely City v Needham Market or Soham Town Rangers v Mildenhall. I know which I prefer. You see, no one asks me to bash the side of the telly if I'm out at a game...we're having a bit of trouble with the old Hitachi at the moment.
(Thursday 16th October ‘03) - I wrote this a couple of years ago and had forgotten all about it. It's called "!PELH".
Colin's tartan flask was jammed between the dashboard and the windscreen, the heat from the coffee producing a circle of steam above the rim. He stuck his finger into the moisture and wrote DEPPART M'I ! PELH. After considering his handiwork for a few seconds he rubbed it away with a grubby sleeve and picked up his newspaper. This was about the twelfth time he'd flicked though it that morning. Nothing had caught his eye so far - unrest in Israel, some footballer demanding a two hundred per cent pay rise and another little kiddie gone missing. He rolled it up, wedged it into the glove compartment and poured out another coffee. This would be his fourth cup already and it was only half-past ten. Sadie would be surprised if he went for a refill before dinnertime.
If he leaned to one side and peered past his circle of steam he could almost see Sadie at the kitchen window. She'd been working at the Big Bite almost as long as he'd been working as a break-down driver for ‘Rescue and Recovery’ - both loners, both married to the road and the constant stream of traffic that battered its way down the A1 morning, noon and night. He could see her reaching up, trying to get the styro-foam cups off the top shelf, on the tips of her toes. Colin had long since given up hope of any romance with Sadie: he'd missed that boat years ago. No doubt there had been a point when he could've asked her out but that was long gone. You can't suddenly ask someone out when you've been treating them like a mate for years, can you?
Colin checked the messages on his mobile – two from Davver. They’d met up the previous night for ‘breakfast’ at the services near York. He’d had to take a family up to Ripon and Davver had been on his way back from Newcastle. They’d chatted to each other after dropping off their families and agreed to meet for burgers and coffee at midnight. Davver was Colin’s best mate. They didn’t meet socially outside of work but whilst on duty they phoned, texted and kept in touch to ease the loneliness of the job. Davver had a wife and a couple of kids and did loads of overtime for the extra money. Colin didn’t need the money particularly. His one bed-roomed flat in the city didn’t cost much to run and he didn’t have expensive tastes. His only indulgence was satellite TV for the footy. He did it for company as much as anything. It wasn’t really a job for a married man, as he always told Davver when they were sitting in a café on the A17 or the M1 and Colin was winding Davver up about who was keeping Mrs Davver warm. He loved to see the faces of families when he arrived to pick up their stricken cars and load it onto the back of his truck. They were always pleased to see him. There are not many jobs you can say that about.
He'd started working for R & R twenty years previously after spending his first few years after leaving school working in a garage. Then the owner had decided to ditch British cars and Colin had left, expecting to fall into another job within days. He didn't and ended up applying for a job with R & R - not exactly the fourth emergency service; probably about a hundred and fourth if truth be known, but he made a living, what with call outs and his standby allowance. They weren't the AA, but were reasonably well known in the Nottingham area and their adverts were on telly quite a lot with that comedian who used to introduce 'Ey Oop Missus' on Sunday nights. After going on the R & R induction course they'd sent him out to the A1- the accident black spot of the area. While his contemporaries had completed their training and gone on to management and eventually running their own, smaller versions of R & R, Nigel had remained in his lay-by. He hardly ever went to the HQ. There was no point. Every time he did they just called him back to another dead starter motor, flat tyre or someone who'd locked their keys in the car while taking a leak at the side of the road.
Sadie had started working at the Big Bite about two years after Colin had been farmed out to the lay-by. Although that wasn't strictly true. She had originally had a burger van in the lay-by, which she ran with her ex-husband. They made a fair trade for a few years as the lorries pulled in constantly for Sadie's bacon butties and mugs of tea. But then they'd extended the lay-by and gave permission for Big Bite to build their 75th English outlet and the Burger Van ended up propped up on bricks in Sadie’s back yard. Over the years Big Bite had tried a variety of themes to entice travellers in to sample their version of fried delights – which of course were identical to all the other roadside diners. In her time Sadie had been forced to dress as a Victorian serving wench, an American cheerleader and she now struggled into an environmentally friendly green tunic with the Big Bite logo emblazoned across her ample breasts. The company had received criticism for the amount of waste they generated and had made the revolutionary decision to serve their food on plates which they then washed up and used again. This had won them an award from the Environmental Agency. In the future they planned to reintroduce knives and forks. However, the committee appointed to rubber-stamp the decision had already spent the £40,000 allocated to the consultative budget. The cutlery would have to wait.
The irony was that another burger van had started up in the lay-by recently. Big Bite had increased their prices so much (to pay for the plates and dish-washers) that things had gone full circle. As the Big Bite had expanded, so they had priced the van and lorry drivers out. So, a new burger van had turned up a month before and was doing a roaring trade. Sometimes Colin could see Sadie gazing out of the Big Bite's window watching the lorry drivers as they cradled steaming cups of tea in their hands. He liked to imagine that she was looking out for him but he suspected she was thinking about the days when she and her ex, Brian, had started out. It had been inevitable that someone would buy them out. As the volume of traffic increased so did the profit margin. Big Bite had recently published plans for a 35-room motel that they were going to build behind the restaurant. £39 a night, increasing to £55 on Bank Holidays. Satellite TV in every room and breakfast at the Big Bite. Instead of making Colin breakfast, which he had often fantasised about, she was serving up coffee and croissants to pasty faced gits with laptops leant up against their cereal bowls.
And was he bitter...yes he was. In a couple of hours he was expecting Darren, his new area manager to come out to present him with his long service award. Twenty five years in a Lay-By. He hadn't expected much, no civic reception, no buffet at HQ, in fact he hadn't wanted a fuss, but when Darren had phoned him on his mobile and said, 'I'll bring it out to you...yeah?' he had been slightly let down. The lack of ceremony wasn't totally unexpected as Darren had been on Colin's back since he took over the A1 patch six months previously. He had originally told Colin that he should report to the depot every morning to sign on before heading out to the Lay-By but Colin had refused as it took him fifteen miles out of his way. It was pointless as all he did was sign the list and then go straight out to his van. So, Darren had called his bluff and left him in exile out there. He never even saw his old colleagues now, such as Dave the Escort, who he had done his induction training with.
Eleven o'clock...it'd be quiet in Big Bite now. Even the laptop boys would be long gone; off to shoot the breeze, talk turkey, touch base or whatever old bollocks passed off as sales talk nowadays. It was still all 'foot in the door' stuff, whether they had a clipboard or a computer. Still, it was one of the things that had kept Colin in a job out here all these years. Two or three times a month he got a call to the Big Bite car park to show some spotty oik how to get a hire car into reverse. He always called in for a word with Sadie then as he was allowed about an hour for a job like that and it gave him a legitimate reason to spend some time with her.
Colin glanced at his watch...11:05. Time enough. He screwed the top on his flask, climbed down from his cab and headed towards Sadie and a fresh flask of coffee. A lorry flashed past and a fine mist sprayed over his face. As he wiped away the moisture he heard a car pull to a stop behind him. A quick look over his shoulder confirmed that it was Darren Goodenough. ‘Fuck 'im’, thought Colin and carried on walking.
(Wednesday 15th October ‘03)
On days like today when I have nothing to say I think of the words of my personal guru Salvator Rosa, who said, “Be quiet, unless your speech be better than silence”. Actually, as you’ve probably guessed, that chap isn’t my guru at all - I read that quote in an Inspector Morse novel.
Also, whilst surfing the news pages I came across this strange crime story:
A German man is to appear in court charged with teaching his dog to give the Hitler salute.
The black sheepdog-mix, named Adolf, has been taught to lift his right front paw up straight in the salute on command.
Police were called to the scene in Berlin when Roland T, 54, shouted at passers-by last year.
When a patrol arrived, he allegedly showed them the trick he had taught his dog, gave the salute along with Adolf, and shouted: "Sieg Heil."
Now he has been charged with using symbols of unconstitutional organisations. If found guilty, he faces up to three years in prison.
Adolf will probably be brought to a pet shelter, the Berliner Kurier reports.
Carola Ruff, of the local animal protection organisation, says the dog shouldn't be judged for what its owner taught it.
"It makes me sick to think someone's using his dog as an instrument of his deranged brain," she told the paper....I’m off home to teach our goldfish how to give a high five.
(Tuesday 14th October ‘03) – 'Waiting For The Love Train' by Jean Volger. (This is my pathetic attempt to write one of those 'coffee time' stories that appear in Women's magazines).
Jayne glanced at her watch for the third time in as many minutes and sighed. The scenery hadn't improved since yesterday when she was stuck at the exact same spot on the railway line, waiting for a platform to become free at the next station. She lay her book down on her lap and tuned into the hubbub going on around her in the carriage. The seat in front of her was taken by two middle aged ladies who chatted, to her left was the young man who didn't shave much, three seats in front and to the left was the executive who barked orders into his mobile phone and always wore flamboyant braces. With one or two exceptions she could have gone round the whole carriage identifying her regular travelling companions by their most obvious characteristics. She often wondered what the ladies who chatted referred to her as. If she was on a day off did they comment on the absence of 'the girl with the ginger hair', 'the girl who's always got her head stuck in a book' or, even worse, did they even notice when she wasn't on the train?
The driver, trying to make amends for the delay, made a couple of announcements: 'please remember to take all your luggage with you', 'please remember to stay in your seats until the train has come to a complete stop' being the most memorable. Jayne always laughed at that one for even as they pulled into the station people were lurching along the aisle trying to get to the doors or dragging heavy luggage down from the rack above their heads. This normally provoked outrage from 'the woman who complains a lot' who usually sat behind Jayne with a friend who nodded in agreement at her friend's comments. It had been an identical journey for the past two years since Andrew had walked out on her. Before that they had driven into work together but after they broke up Jayne had bought herself a one bedroom flat in town which was only five minutes walk from the train station. It had been a novelty for a few months, stretching her legs out and reading a book but now she felt quite nostalgic for when she could put on a tape and sing along as she drove to work. Her reminiscing was probably prompted by the fact that the man squeezed in the seat next to her was about three stone over weight, sweating heavily and determined not to give away an inch of his space.
Jayne was relieved when the sweaty man got off at the next stop and she was again distracted from her book by a passenger who got on and sat opposite 'the ladies who chatted'. Tall, well dressed and immaculately groomed, Jayne shifted in her seat to get a better look. No sooner had he sat down than his mobile phone rang. Normally this would have irritated Jayne and cause her to re-read a sentence in her book but, strangely enough, she didn't mind this interruption . He answered the phone with a flourish and spoke in a deep baritone that caused Jayne to miss the next couple of sentences entirely. 'Of course I'll be there' he asserted with a smile on his face. 'You don't have to remind me - don't be silly'. With a quick and, slightly embarrassed (thought Jayne) 'I love you', he snapped the phone shut and stared out of the window. 'That's a lucky woman' thought Jayne to herself as she gave up all thoughts of reading her book and she settled down for the remainder of the journey, watching the countryside rush by and snatching quick glances across at the handsome fellow traveller.
The following day he got on at the same stop and took a seat in front of Jayne. She nodded approvingly at his choice of after-shave and regretted the fact the seat next to her had again been taken by the sweating businessman. Although she knew that she was taking far too much interest in him she listened in again as he answered the phone. 'Yes, it was on time.' he said, 'Don't fret so much. I'll get there on time. Bye.' Again he flustered a 'love you' before settling back in his seat for the journey.
It was that evening that Jayne became engrossed in the continuing story of this handsome fellow passenger as he climbed aboard the train carrying a huge gift wrapped arrangement of lilies and carnations which she'd seen him quickly buying from the station flower seller before the train pulled out. He jumped on the train just as the doors were about to close and looked around for a seat. Jayne quickly pulled her bag from the seat next to her and hoped that he would notice it before any other. She had taken to 'blocking' the adjacent seat to deter the sweaty businessman. To Jayne's delight he sat down next to her, without making eye contact, and laid the flowers across his lap. For the remaining thirty minutes of the journey home, Jayne read her book intently, far too shy to pass the time of day with her neighbour. Like a good deal of other commuters Jayne rarely spoke on the train - it was normally delays, snow or breakdowns which forced a conversation to spring up.
They pulled into the station and he got off. Jayne shifted in her seat to get a better view. He walked along the platform to be greeted by an elderly lady who embraced him warmly as her face lit up in delight at the flowers. As the train began to pull away and drew level with them, Jayne could see his left hand around the old ladies back and noted, with delight, the absence of a wedding ring, something she had failed to notice before.
The next morning, as the 'man who sweats too much' approached her seat, she swiftly dragged her bag up onto the seat next to her. 'Sorry, that's taken' she said and he moved on along the carriage. As they pulled in to the next stop, her mystery man got on and Jayne quickly removed her bag. As he gave her a look that says 'Is this seat taken?' she beamed her largest grin and beckoned for him to join her. Now this was better than travelling alone in the car.
(Monday 13th October ‘03) - "The First Cut Is The Deepest" - A short extract from 'Heads In A Bucket'.
With his vasectomy only three days away, Yaxley decided to have a read of the advice sheet he'd been given. Twenty minutes later he was standing in the bath with an array of mirrors positioned at strategic angles so that he could shave his testicles with the precision of George Michael tidying up his goatee.
Being extremely careful not to lose his footing, Yaxley rested one foot at the tap end and began the job in hand. It was a matter of minutes before he could see, reflected from eight different surfaces, his own shiny, pink, mirror ball. He had to admit that he'd done a better job than he had on his face that morning. In a few short hours he'd shaved five days worth of stubble from his face and twenty-eight years worth of stubble from his bollocks.
When the day arrived Yaxley was considerably less nervous than he imagined he would be. He suspected he'd been lied to by the ten or so ex-vasectomy veterans that he'd canvassed for pain level estimates, possible shrinkage caused by pre-op nerves and what the chances were of him walking again. The consensus of opinion seemed to be that it would be a better experience than going to the dentist. The obvious flaw in that appeared to be that there aren't any teeth within around three and a half feet of your genitals.
With a two o'clock appointment, Yaxley was to be the first in after lunch and as he sat in the waiting room with Fiona she fed him a constant supply of comforting words, much the same as he had through the labour and births of their two daughters. It was then that he realised the value of those soothing words - zero. The only words which would have lessened his white knuckled grip on the chair-arm would have been, 'Oh, let's not bother. Let's go home'. As this particular calming phrase was not forthcoming, Yaxley continued to watch the slow progress of the NHS clock as it made its way towards the hour. Nurses began to return after their lunch break and he tried to guess which one would be assigned to his bedside with the task of inspecting the quality of his shaving and moving his member around like a wobbly subbuteo player. A couple of younger looking nurses strolled past enjoying a joke and a feeling of paranoia swept over him. 'They're laughing at me', he thought as he was the only patient in the waiting room that didn't qualify for a bus-pass. He dismissed this as childish; surely they do this kind of thing every day. However, Yaxley knew what shrinkage levels he was capable of. After swimming in the sea he was capable of becoming literally, sexless, and he resembled an Action Man with a strangely smooth area in the groin department which would only return, phoenix like, when normal temperature was reached. No, he decided he didn't want a young nurse. He wanted a old matronly like figure to be in attendance at this most sensitive of days for him.
The time came and he and Fiona, trailing behind, were called. The Doctor, standing in the doorway to his consulting room, shook his hand and led them through. As the Doctor showed Yaxley a diagram he had fervently hoped he would never see outside a biology lesson, he realised that there was to be no turning back. Life wasn't like a bad sit-com. You couldn't rush out of the door with your trousers round your ankles whilst the nurse yelled 'Come back Mr.Farcett!' in an unnaturally high voice. No. This was it. V-Day.
With vivid descriptions of possible side effects rattling around his head and Fiona looking more concerned as time moved on, the door to the operating room was opened. To call it a theatre would be an exaggeration of the same magnitude as when you're sitting in a poky old cinema as an the American voice-over proclaims that a new film is 'Coming to a movie theatre near you!' No, this was a room. Yaxley was directed behind a screen and took off his clothes as instructed. As he pulled his sweater up over his head he was relieved to see a fifity-ish year old looking nurse walk into the room. At least one of his prayers had been answered. With only his t-shirt left on, Yaxley tentatively emerged from behind the screen and could almost hear Fiona mouth, 'Oh, bless' at the pathetic figure he struck in the harsh light of the angle-poise lamp which pointed down from the ceiling like an extra from 'War Of The Worlds'. He swung himself up onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. The Doctor re-appeared from a walk-in cupboard carrying the tools of his trade and, bizarrely, a cassette tape. He encouraged Yaxley to loosen up and walked across the room to slot the tape into a large cassette player which stood atop a pile of medical journals. All of which, Yaxley suddenly realised with rising panic, looked in pristine condition, their spines undamaged. As the Doctor began to brush liberal amounts of red iodine back and forth across Yaxley's upper thighs and scrotum the tape gradually spooled around to the opening song on the tape. It was an old Rod Stewart compilation. Yaxley raised his head fractionally off the bed and caught a glimpse of the Doctor's grinning face as 'The First Cut Is The Deepest' began.
As Rod continued to growl lustily of his hurt at being dumped, Yaxley eyed the Doctor nervously as he produced a syringe from his kidney shaped dish. Now, Yaxley didn't even like to hear people talking about cash injections, two-litre injections or, truth be told, 'tions' of any kind. The prospect of a needle piercing his skin made his...er...skin crawl. In comedy programmes it was a fact that at this point in the proceedings the Doctor would smile, shoot a small amount of liquid into the air, and murmur, 'Don't worry you'll only feel a little prick'. Yaxley was horrified that in this case the Doctor actually said it. All his worrying suddenly became justified. To allow easy access to the veins necessary to numb the vital organ (and what a vital organ. Possibly more important than the Wurlitzer at the Tower Ballroom, Blackpool) the Doctor had to move Yaxley's scrotum to one side with one thumb whilst homing in with the other hand which contained the syringe. He shut his eyes tightly (Yaxley, not the Doctor, imagine what could have happened if the Doc hadn't been looking) and held his breath. He did, indeed, feel a little prick followed by a 'needle sliding into your nuts' sensation which, he would have to admit later, was about the same as having an injection in your gum. The main difference being that when the Dentist injects your gum he isn't ramming his thumb into your nuts at the same time. Well, not his Dentist.
After easing the needle out the Doctor got down to business. The nurse advised Yaxley to continue staring at the ceiling whilst the cutting, pulling, cauterising and stitching went on. Although not hurting the tugging sensation was extremely uncomfortable and had Yaxley clasping and unclasping his hands behind his head and furiously wiggling his toes which was the most movement he was allowed to make short of leaping from the bed and running down the corridor. Not even Stephen King would write a chapter about a man with a sliced scrotum running amok through a Hospital. Still, there's always time.
(Friday 10th October ‘03) - Here's a footy article I wrote for the Green Un a couple of years ago...slightly updated.
I support Ely City. When people ask me why, I say; because I’m a glory-hunter.
No, it's because they are only ten minutes down the road and I've lived in the Isle Of Ely since I was an egg .
My interest in the game is strictly local; the Eastern Counties League. I tend to get a bit claustrophobic at a ‘real’ match. Going to watch Kings Lynn is what I consider being in a big crowd. Part of the ‘fun’ of non-league football is the pain (and the solitude). Let’s face it, we must all be mad. We’ll stand there for two hours in sub-zero temperatures watching a vitally important game (East Anglian Cup 1st Round!) and your side are 2-1 down. And then, just as the Siberian winds are about to freeze your grimace into a permanent feature, your top striker scores and extra time follows. Damn ! Although you're frozen to the core and dreaming of getting home to snuggle up with the wife in front of the biscuits, you stay. Let's face it; you might miss a goal.
At this point I must confess to being a bit of a Johnny come lately to non-league football. I haven't spent thirty years man and boy standing frozen on the touch-line, cheering on Ely City. I was absent for the first hundred years of the Robins existence. For the first few years I was a fair weather supporter; a good frost normally saw me off until the following Easter. It was a return to the game after suffering from burn out as a curly-haired youngster. After playing four games a week as a bushy tailed schoolboy for various teams, I had a couple of years watching Cambridge United on a regular basis. In fact, I was standing on the pitch next to Big Ron, marvelling at his gold bracelets, on the night that The U's won promotion to the Third Division for the first time. Playing on Saturday's then intervened as I gambolled up and down the wings of village pitches around Cambridgeshire. At this point my watching was confined to occasional visits to The Abbey or to Downham Road.
Why, I hear you ask, support a team so low down the pyramid that we can’t even see the top? My reply would be: Why support anyone ? Old Trafford regulars would probably hold the view that it's pointless supporting anyone else...you're not going to win anything that matters are you ?
The football may not be pretty to watch a lot of the time but I defy anyone to question the professionalism and commitment of anyone involved in football at that level. Around a hundred regulars turn out to watch The Robins as the Rugby Club grunt and grapple in the adjacent field and the distant Cathedral quietly flutters its ancient eyelids to attract passing tourists. There may be a lack of star names in the Ely team but in the last few years ex-pro's such as Martin Hayes, Paul Allen, Gregg Downs, Dale Gordon, Robert Fleck, John Wark and Graham Kelly have shown up at The Unwin Ground.
Graham Kelly ! I hear you complain. Well, fair enough, but the ex- Big Cheese of the FA did pay a visit to The Fens to watch us in an FA Vase tie a few seasons ago. In fact, and I felt some grudging respect for him for this, it was the last match he watched before flying off to Italy for the World Cup Qualifier in Rome where we so heroically fought out that famous nil - nil draw. It did provide an illustration that the FA is still there for ALL clubs, not just the ones in the top four divisions.
Although a staunch defender of the Ridgeon League I can't deny that we have our fair share of bizarre moments you wouldn't get in the Premiership. During a particularly muddy match against March Town the other year one of the March players sustained a nasty knee injury and the stretcher was called for. Now, the old Ely stretcher had seen better days; it had M*A*S*H stencilled on the underside and is covered in blood - I think it was donated by RAF Lakenheath after the Vietnam War. Anyway, the stricken player was lowered gently onto the stretcher and Gary Grogan (the legend!) and Vinnie the Physio lifted him away from the muddy war zone. A loud crack rent the air as the handle broke and the injured player hit the ground with a 'plop' to the cheers and laughter of the assembled crowd. But it's all good natured fun; the nearest thing to crowd violence I've seen at the Unwin Ground is when my two daughters got into a fight over ownership of a curly-wurly. So until a sugar-daddy decides to buy the club and merge us with Arsenal I'll be happy to stand at the bottom of the pyramid and look up. After all, it's the journey that's important - not the destination.
(Thursday 9th October ‘03)
Whilst writing Cauliflower Drove, we set up an email address for people to send in their comments to: ewan@ely.org. I’d decided to ‘cast’ Ewan McGregor as Yaxley Farcett in Colly just to allow us to put up some pictures on the site to break up the text. Now, Ewan has some dedicated fans out there and upon seeing what might be his personal email they decided to send a message. We got about five in all but most are too embarrassing to print. Here is one of them:
Ewan -
Sorry to take so long to see Moulin Rouge. Finally watched it last nite. Your f**king incredible!Your style is classic Gene Kelly/Donald O'Connor style. I cried my eyes out! Such talent you have! Your "Total" vulnerability in front of the camera! Man, I could see your soul! Thank you for giving soooo much to this incredible work of art! It's true that love is all there is! Even when it doesn't look like it, look again, it's all there is!
If they do this on Broadway, I hope you play in it! I'll come and see you! Continued blessings!
Thank you for making the world a better place!
St. Louis, MO, USA
I've removed the name to save blushes should they ever return to this site!
(Monday October 6th): "The Wretch" - Part 3 (Click here for Part 1)
I knew something was awry the moment I entered the house. Having chained Bender, my hinged cycle, to a 19kg gas bottle as usual, I stepped over the threshold and gave a breezy shout of, ‘Alright my friends!’ and waited for the usual reply of ‘Good evening daddy!’ Since Jordan had been in the house my family’s cry had been followed by a wheezy, ‘Evenin’ Sir!’ followed by a cough and a phlegmy rattle emanating from deep within the child’s throat. On this particular evening, however, there was nary a sound from my nearest and dearest. Instead, they sat solemnly around the dining table: tissues pressed to runny noses. ‘Where is he?’ I asked anxiously, noting Jordan’s empty chair: frightening images already running through my mind. My wife, wiping cake crumbs from her mouth, rushed to my side. ‘John, John’ she yelped, ‘It were awful. They came and took ‘im away from us!’ After calming her down with a few glasses of chardonnay, I dragged the truth out of her. Jordan’s father had returned from his trip to Brussels and had tracked his son down: it wasn’t difficult, as I’d put a poster up on a telegraph pole outside Larkinson’s offering a reward for information.
The next evening as I stoked the fire and lit the gas lamps there came a knock at the door. Presently, my wife appeared. ‘There’s a gennelman to see you, John…and he’s got Master Jordan with ‘im’. I gasped and dropped the poker onto my be-slippered foot, which bloody hurt, I can tell you. The boy, pale-faced and asthmatic, was ushered into the parlour, along with his father. They sipped the Dr Peppers I fetched from the pantry and told me their story - Jordan’s father had returned from Brussels and after a couple of days had realised his son was no longer at home. The day after that he went to look for his wife. Eventually they’d dragged the sorry story of the past few days events from the boy and had gone down to Larkinson’s Yard to look for the five pound note that the boy had lost. It was there they saw my poster and the trail had led to Littleport. They had taken Jordan away but returned to pick up his tattered clothes and medication and to drop a bombshell - they were moving.
‘Moving?’ I stammered, ‘…but to where?’ Jordan rubbed at a rash that had recently erupted on the side of his face and moved closer to his father, who was expensively shod and showed all signs of having bought his clothes from Austin Reed or possibly somewhere even more stylish…Matalan, perhaps. ‘I’ve been appointed Sales Director for the Eastern Seaboard of the States’ he announced smugly. ‘They head-hunted me’. ‘But what will become of the wretch?’ I cried. He ran a hand through Jordan’s greasy, tick-ridden thatch and laughed, ‘Oh, the boy will be ok. There’s an English school over there that the company pay the fees for as part of my relocation package. You don’t have to worry’. Worry! I’d done nothing but worry about this lad since I first saw him grovelling in the dirt near the railway station. Sniffling into a ‘kerchief I humbly asked if I would be able to keep in touch with the boy. ‘No chance’ snapped the boy’s father, ‘We’re off in the morning and will probably never come back to England’. He grabbed Jordan’s arm and pulled him roughly through the door. They strode down the driveway and climbed into a Porche Boxter which still had plastic sheeting over the seats and just thirty two miles on the odometer. As the car reversed away, spraying dirt over me, the boy weakly raised a hand and gave me a pathetic wave with a mittened hand before succumbing to another coughing attack.I fell upon my knees onto the driveway, fists beating at the gravel . My wife appeared and pulled at the sleeve of my cardigan. ‘What ails you John!?’ she screamed, almost spilling her wine. I wiped snot and tears from my face with a cuff and turned to her. ‘He’s gone, wife…Jordan’s gone!’
(Friday 3rd October ‘03): "The Wretch" - Part 2
It was whilst cycling along Brooklands Avenue on a wet, chilly evening that
I spied a child that bore a strong resemblance to a lad that I had had
occasion to meet before. As I was about to cross the road adjacent to the
Botanical Gardens the wretch appeared upon the top step that leads up from
the Beck to the street. His clothes were ripped, his hair badly groomed and
his ill-shod feet let the water in. Braking sharply I realised to my horror
that the child was none other than Jordan, the waif I had met previously,
scrabbling in the dirt near a scrap metal merchants. 'Yo Jordan!' I shouted
in the modern 'street' vernacular that I've heard on the train spoken by the
more ill-bred students. 'How's it going dude?' I added, hoping to gain the
lad's confidence.
Lifting his head, he cast a rheumy eye towards me and I could see that he
didn't recognise me. 'Sir?' he asked quizzically, 'Should I know you?' As I
was about to relate the story of the missing five pound note, the boy was
taken with a racking cough and descended into a severe consumptive attack,
spitting large globs of phlegm upon the pavement and wheezing like a pair of
cracked bellows. He shook with the cold and drew his black and red striped
blazer around his bony shoulders for warmth. He picked nervously at a loose
thread on the St Faiths motto on the breast of his jacket and looked at me
through narrowed eyes, wiping snot from his top lip.
'Sir' he asked, 'you haven't seen a bag around these parts have you? Only it
contains a tarpaulin sheet which just recently I have had reason to call
home'. Shocked that such poverty could exist in Cambridge at the dawn of a
new century I urged the lad to give me more information. 'Spill, Jordan' I
said and the lad told me his sorry tale. His father had been rushed away on
business: something about a power-point presentation he had to give to some
managers in Brussels and his mother had been committed to the Cambridgeshire
County Council home for "Whores and Ne'redo'wells" at Shire Hall. Jordan had
been forced onto the streets and had fell in with the wrong crowd. Finally,
he'd raised enough money begging on the streets of St Barnabas Road to buy a
tarpaulin sheet to erect a crude home in amongst the trees off Brooklands
Avenue. And now, even that had gone.
'Sir' he cried, 'why has life taken agin me so? Neither money nor shelter
have I been able to keep within my grasp. I feel that my life is hopeless.
The waters of the beck look more enticing than the future that awaits me'. I
looked down at the waters and doubted that a seven stone lad would be able
to commit suicide in the beck but humoured him anyway. 'You shouldn't think
like that Jordan' I replied. 'Your cup is half full', I added, without
really believing it. 'Soon enough your mum will be released and your dad
will be back from his conference'. He coughed and wiggled a toe which
protruded through his footwear. 'As true as that may be Sir, I'd still like
to know why the scales are weighed so heavily agin me. To lose five pounds I
can understand but the sheet was stowed safely away under a bench.' I could
stand to see the boy suffer no longer. Remounting my hinged cycle, Bender,
once more, I bade the boy to balance on the luggage rack thingy on the back
and headed for the station and the comfort of my own home.
That evening there were five of us around the family table and as we cracked
open a box of Chardonnay I introduced a visibly shocked household to Jordan.
"Let us break bread and cakes and hope that fortune once more smiles upon
this poor little bastard" I shouted...and the feasting began. Jordan, wiping
away a tear with a greying 'kerchief', smiled broadly, his face split
asunder by a grin as wide as the River Ouse. 'Thank you Sir! he shouted...'
Thank You!'
(Thursday 2nd October ‘03): "The Wretch" - Part 1
Note: 'The Wretch' is a work 'in-joke' intended to amuse my colleagues so it may seem a little strange to anyone who's arrived on this page. It all stems from when Paul found a five pound and felt so guilty about it that he bought a cake for us all to share...
Yesterday evening, as I cycled to the railway station, a small, dishevelled child appeared from behind an old fridge that lay discarded by the entrance to Larkinson’s scrap metal dealers. I had cause to slow down as the child began to scrabble around in the dirt on its knees and appeared to be in some great distress. Although conscious of the time and the longer period of length between the 5:38 train and the 6:14, I stopped, turned around and went to see what ills had befallen the youngster.
Approaching cautiously, so as not to scare the child, I enquired as to why he should be on all fours. ‘Sir’ he replied, ‘I was travelling through these parts on my way to school this morning when a great misfortune befell me. The five pounds me mother did give me for lunchtime sustenance was lost in a manner I cannot comprehend. One minute it was there, the next, I was bereft and looking at a full day without the means to break my fast’. I pulled a ‘kerchief from a pocket and wiped dust and snot from the child’s face. ‘What name do you go by?’ I asked. ‘Jordan, Sir’ he sniffled, scratching at an open sore that was plain to see through a hole in his ill-fitting sweater. ‘And where do they teach you, you poor wretch?’ I replied. ‘St Faiths’ the boy mumbled, and it was all I could do to stop from shedding a tear myself.
It was but a matter of seconds before I had extracted a five pound note from my own wallet and presented it to the child. ‘Sir, I don’t think I can ever thank you enough, for I will now have the means to buy my chips and Dr Pepper at lunchtime. Without your generous donation I feel sure I would have starved’. ‘That’s ok’ I said and moved off in the direction of Bender, my hinged cycle. ‘Oi - Sir!’ shouted the lad from behind my back. ‘There is some way I can repay my thanks’. He dug a mittened hand into his battered leather satchel and produced a solitary iced-bun. ‘Me old mum made this for me pudding - just the one like, cos we’re low on flour…but you can have it.’ He passed the cake to me and I accepted it with a smile. ‘Thank you Jordan’ I said and carefully stowed the cake away. Later that evening, I broke the cake into four pieces and my family and I said grace and marvelled at a small act of kindness that had occurred in our cruel, dishonest world.
(Thursday 30th May to Monday 22nd July '02)
Remember when I wrote about this 'groove' I get into whilst diary writing? I suspect that I driven into a groove rather than ridden one. Let's face it, the World Cup got in the way. A month of heads down no nonsense footy. I watched games in a Log Cabin in Yorkshire, the pub, at home (bleary eyed on the couch, in a caravan and, best of all, got to watch England beat Argentina whilst at a theme park.
There hasn't really been a break from the game this year. I've already watched one friendly - Kings Lynn v Norwich:
Kings Lynn 0 Norwich City 4 (att: 1,600)
The Canaries third goal had breezed into the net when a mobile phone began to ring. The middle aged owner frantically poked his finger at the trilling in vain. I suspect he'd recently been bought the thing as a present and it was the first time he'd ever had to answer it (I know - the same thing happened to me). Until the end of the game the phone beeped out a Classic FM Favourite every thirty seconds or so. 'Whoy doontcha arnser it?' his companion asked him after the fourth ring. He flustered a bit and replied, 'Thas all roight. I know who it is. I'll ring 'im later'. His discomfort grew as the caller refused to give in. His solution to the problem was to stick the phone in an inside pocket and fold his arms tightly across his lap to dampen the sound. He looked like a inept weight-lifter desperately trying to hold in an erupting hernia. Eventually, he got up and left to answer the damn thing in privacy. I hope it was something trivial.
Yep, it was the first friendly of the season. Although a committed Ely City fan I do like to visit other clubs in the vicinity. It's good to drag your feet across that Hideous Fen Of Huge Bigness. At this point the reader may be thinking, 'Hmm, isn't this a bit like that Harry Pearson book about footy in the North East? Well, yes, it is. But I'm prepared to live with it if you are.
As a friendly it was a reasonably competitive game. The Kings Lynn number eight, Paul Raynor, even decided to spice up proceedings by attempting to swing a heel into Phil Mulryne's nuts and then swung a handbag at him when Mulryne had the temerity to 'mix-it' a bit in a follow up challenge. As Raynor cussed and gnashed his teeth, Peter Morris, the dome-headed boss of The Linnets produced a crooked stick from inside his anorak and withdrew him from play. This was the one spark of excitement in an otherwise fraternal work-out. Kings Lynn will be pleased with the attendance and from the amount of chubby lads I saw clutching burgers it will have been a good earner.
While lacking the glamour of the dear departed World Cup, it was good to squeeze through the turnstile again and watch a game without a commentator saying, 'Trevor?' after every shot. This is number one in a series of...ooh...lots. So much for footy. Last weekend was the Ely Folk Weekend:
My Folk Weekend experience began on Saturday morning with the fearsome sight of the Witchmen morris men side bangin' and boppin' their way down the High Street. As regular visitors to Ely, The Witchmen are instantly recognisable in their black and amber ragged jackets looking rather like an ancient version of Cambridge United. As well as The Witchmen, 13 other Molly 'sides' descended on the City. Among them: Ely and Littleport riot, the Iron Men, Full Moon and, my favourites, Heartsease. They're a women's dance team from Bedfordshire and had that look of the Stepford Wives about them. Entertaining but a little bit...disturbing. This storm of noise and colour brightened up a Saturday morning in the city and made the council approved 'street entertainers' look like corporate 'fun' in comparison. It was spontaneous, raucous and just a little bit sexy.
Fast forward to Saturday evening and the Ely On-Line revellers donned green wrist bands and joined the many folksters already well into their second day of the festival. Now, obviously, tradition is a big part of the Folk world and I'm pleased to report that the organisers don't try to fix what 'ain't broke. So, a real ale, delicately named, 'Dragon Slayer' played a large (and foaming) part of my evening. The other day I re-read my review of the last Folk Weekend and remembered that my badly spelt, badly thought out meanderings had been written while still held in the grips of a Dragon Slayer hangover. However, as a traditionalist myself, I succumbed to its pleasures again.
First band up, in the Dance Tent, was Xim, a quintet from Norfolk who specialise in French music. They combine bagpipes, hurdy-gurdy, melodeon, flutes and clarinet to produce a distinctive dance rhythm. Judging from the faces of the dancers they were going down a storm as this was line dancing for people with something in their trousers and skirts. Waheyy!
Secondly, from the main stage, was a duo, Brian Peters and Gordon Tyrall, two solo artists who regularly team up to play events such as this. Brian is a leading exponent of the melodeon while Gordon is a guitarist/flute player. They squeezed, strummed and sang contemporary tales about things such as the joy of having a teenage fan of Slipknot living in the house. Luckily, no Slipknot at the Folk Weekend.
As the beer began to soak through we took in the fine entertainment on offer in the beer tent. In some ways I'd say I prefer these impromptu jams to the more formal sessions in the main tent. These jigs and reels appear to have no beginning or end as they set your foot a 'tappin and, strangely enough, make you feel very thirsty. Like eating peanuts.
Next, Firebrand, a quintet of celtic harp, fiddle, flute, cittern, double bass and vocals. Kicking up a veritable storm, I could hear jazz, classical and even funk in their musical brew. Well, I couldn't, to be honest, but it says that in the programme. I'm tone deaf.
By this time, as darkness fell, a strange kind of Homer Simpson like moaning began to emanate from the EOL trio...Fooood. Foood. Feed me now! A vegetable curry later from one of the excellent food stalls and we were ready for Waterson:Carthy. However, we decided we were still hungry and had a cheeseburger as well. There's something about the catering at these do's that I love. Burp.
Happy and full we ventured forth to watch the headliners (although not the last band on), Waterson: Carthy, who will need no introduction for folkies. The, by now packed, main tent was in awe as Norma Waterson told her tales and they were every bit the cream of Britsh Folk Music that I'd been told of.
My own personal favourites, The Bushburys, were last on. Their mix of rock, folk and blues played with the foot hard down on the accelerator was reminiscent of The Pogues in their hey-day and they attracted a few dancers to the front of the stage. A right old Saturday night knees-up in the Isle of Eels. As I wobbled off on my bike I was already looking forward to next years folk weekend which will be on 11th - 13th July 2003. I'll see you there.
(Monday 7th January to Wednesday 29th May '02)
In the first entry of this diary I said that all diarists are liars. So am I: as the gap between January 6th and today testifies. Plans are there to be unravelled and my plan lies in a large tangle of red wool on the floor. Truth is; I've been busy. Mostly busy doin' nothin' but mostly busy not doing this. Y'see, I got caught with a bug in January and it's taken four months to shake off. The bug? Decorating. Not 'nailing bamboo to the wall' or 'throwing pale blue paint at antique furniture' type decorating but good old fashioned matt emulsion. Well, not really that old-fashioned. You can't but paint that is named after a colour any more can you. The youngest's bedroom is now adorned with 'Sunset over the plains orange' and me and the missus's 'wild room' is 'sunrise over Burnley canal'. It grows on you; and at £12 a tin it's going to have to. And that's all a lie as well. I've spent about six days decorating which leaves about 136 days when I haven't been decorating. So, why the reluctance to type? I'm just not the type.
(Sunday 6th January '02)
The internet is a strange old buzzard isn't it? In the four years since I first put pen to paper (html to file) I've got myself on the telly, been interviewed by the farming dept of the BBC, woken up the Culture feature writer of the Sunday Times (I don't think they rise very early), been asked if I can supply a spinning bow-tie to a girl from Hong Kong (don't ask) and, most recently, been asked if Viva Las Vagueness is a registered trade mark. A lounge singer from the States with the wonderful name of Richard Cheese (www.richardcheese.com) wants to call his new live album - "Viva Las Vagueness". I'm honoured.
(Saturday 5th January '02)
It could be either a result of therapy or the vast quantities of 4-star coffee I've drunk this morning, but I'm ready to confess to something. The facts of this anecdote have lain dormant for well over twenty years and, like the time limit on official secrets, I feel that it's safe to speak out.
As a spotty youth I used to congregate with the other spotty youths of the village in the old (wooden) cricket pavilion. It wasn't a current cricket pavilion as it had been replaced by a brick built version at the other end of the field. However, it didn't need a big bad wolf to destroy the wooden hut - just me. Before you get any ideas that I'm a reformed arsonist; read on.
On a sultry summer's evening I wandered down to the old pavilion to see who was about. It wasn't a regular occurrence as I wasn't much of a hanger about (I'd make a lousy bat). Anyway, I wandered into the gloom and quickly realised that the shiny youngsters of the village were elsewhere. Just before leaving, my eyes caught a red glow in the corner of one of the changing rooms. Upon investigation, I discovered that one of the smoking fraternity had tried to use a cricket pad as an ashtray. Bad idea. Now, being an impractical kind of guy (this ain't called Viva Las Vagueness without good reason) I didn't do the sensible thing and chuck the pad out onto the grass. No, I ground my heel into the glowing embers until I'd thought I'd made it safe. I left. The pavilion burnt down that night. There, I've 'fessed up.
(Friday 4th January '02)
Am I the only person in the land that didn't enjoy 'Lord of the Rings?' Ignoring the fact that one of the Hobbits (be-permed geeks) was Hetty Waintropp's spotty side-kick and Sean Bean's ability to take 3 (three) arrows in the chest; I just didn't care whether they got there or not (wherever the hell it is they're trying to get to). Also, the constant close up of an outstretched palm opening and closing over the ring made me as numb as my bum-cheeks became over the 3 (three) hours. And they haven't even got there yet. 'Oh, but you haven't read the book' people say to me. No, I read the bloody Hobbit - that's why I didn't read LotR.
(Thursday 3rd January '02)
Whilst musing over my museli this morning, this thought crawled (not popped) into my mind: Is semi-colonic irrigation just a half-arsed attempt at getting your bowels washed out with a hose-pipe?
As predicted I'm already way behind with this web-journal. It's now Tuesday the 22nd and the muse has stayed firmly in the museli.
(Wednesday 2nd January '02)
Mrs Dixon and I enjoyed the televisual feast that was Christmas. Whilst half way through our third tin of Cadbury's Mini Heroes we had the pleasure of catching 'The Strongest Bastard in The Whole World'. Filmed on location in Milton Keynes, twenty four steroid fuelled blond men called Stig were put through their paces in a variety of ingenious tasks. My favourite was the Genital Pull. The object of the game was to pull a lorry laden with oil drums for four hundred metres along a muddy track. To spice up the competition they had to tether the rope to their testicles and walk backwards. You can get bored with that kind of thing pretty quickly and Mrs Dixon flourished the remote control so we could return to the safety of films featuring collie dogs, railway stations and kindly uncles.
Due to holiday excess I've got rid of more dodgy stools than Ikea over the past few days. This lunch time I was to be found in the diet book section of Waterstones poring over the myriad of tomes that aim to get rid of my Vol au Vent gut and restore my body to its previous, temple like, condition. I trust that Weight Watchers will soon be advertising on the telly, shortly before the Easter Eggs are put out on display. If things don't change they'll stay the same.
Already mentioned in the past but well worth repeating as the book it came from [Last Orders] is now out as a film: According to Graham Swift, there are 13 levels of intoxication: (1) Pleasure (2) Satisfaction (3) Well Being
(4) Elation (5) Light Headedness (6) Hot Headedness (7) Befuddlement (8) Distraction (9) Delirium (10) Irascibility (11) Pugnaciousness (12)
Imbalance (13) Incapacity. I would have to add to that list as there seems to be a glaring omission: (14) Puking.
(Tuesday 1st January '02)
All diaries are lies. This is no different. I‘ve got twenty years worth of journal sitting on a shelf that are chock-full of lies. Some are white, some black; most are grey. These web diaries are also full of whoppers. This is what would have happened if I’d had the nerve to speak my mind, follow a different fork in the road, think up a witty retort in time, drunk too much, drunk too little, been in the right/wrong place or followed my heart and not my head.
All diarists want to be read. That‘s why they do it. Some are lucky. Their lives are considered interesting enough to be published for the nourishment of the masses. For most, they scribble out stuff on a daily basis and hope that the baby-sitter might sneak a guilty peak once the coast is clear. This is my open book - the diary sits on the shelf and you can have a gander - it’s an illicit coffee break read. You won’t learn anything about me, life or much besides but like Big Brother it’s easy to get drawn in.
So, a tentative New Year’s Day opening (like all diaries) but I‘ll find a groove...I usually do. Welcome to the World of Dixon and Viva Las Vagueness!
And the other good thing about the internet is that if I'm embarrassed by something I can go back and delete it. Cushty.
