Lowlife No 8 - Goodbye the Yellow Brick Road

Goodbye the Yellow Brick Road

By Dominic Horton

I did not know quite what to expect.  On the one hand he was a wonderfully talented writer, but on the other he was not that well known.  But in the end the turnout to Jonathan Rendall’s funeral was about what one would have expected.  The chapel was full, but no one had to stand.

On the night before the funeral I met the inimitable Colly Coren, who is always good value for money, in the Flagon. Coren is a teacher and it was half term, so you can work the rest out for yourself.  As a consequence the plans I had for the morning of the funeral went out of the window, especially as my train to Oxford was due to leave Birmingham New Street at 1034, so I couldn’t drag my heels anyway.  

Jonathan Rendall

If I had to I would have gone to the funeral alone but I was very glad that my good friend Bartholomew Hook accompanied me, meeting me in Oxford from London.  Hook’s train was late so having an hour to spare I hot trotted into the town to visit some of the pubs I had researched in The Good Beer Guide.  Me included, there were only three punters in the Royal Blenheim (the White Horse brewery tap), the other two both being elderly gentlemen.  The first kept himself to himself, reading The Sporting Life and strangely eating chips out of a pint mug. The other made it his immediate and pressing business to stare me out, which I thought was especially off of him considering I was dressed in standard funeral attire (Hook made the perceptive comment later that the more posh the funeral the worse dressed the mourners are.)  I  stared back determined not to break his soulless gaze but broke off in the end reminding myself that getting into bother on the day of a funeral would not be the best idea. I wouldn’t mind but the bloke was only eight stone wet through and though I am by no means a fighter I could have had him with my right hand while not spilling the pint in my left.  Even my long time associate Dustin Scoffman would have given him a run for his money. 

I departed for the next pub, not on account of the starer in the Royal Blenheim but due the melancholic piped music which was lowering my already lugubrious mood to unacceptable levels. To my mind Jookies and live music are perfectly acceptable in a pub, but there is no place for piped music, especially when it is of the soul sapping variety of the Carpenters, or even worse Coldplay.

Collis P Huntington

In the Chequers a fella bearing an uncanny resemblance to the late wrestler and actor Pat Roach befriended me and we talked about beer, us both drinking the highly quaffable porter.  I liked him immediately.  He was ruddy faced and didn’t finish his sentences.  He was proper Oxford, that is not a student or pseudo Oxford or an Antipodean barmaid.  Things were going swimmingly until Roach asked me if I had got home safely last night after I left him.  I explained that I am from Halesowen and had never met him before in my life.  He was undeterred by this and insisted on buying me a 7.4% real cider and I had to use powers of persuasion that Collis P Huntington would have been proud of to stop him buying me the drink. 

Back at the station I hooked up with Hook.  As we were crossing the road in busy Oxford a stranger appeared out of the blue and asked Hook and I if we were going to Jonathan Rendall’s funeral.  Neither of us was unnerved by this strange incident and after introductory pleasantries (fella named Mark, friend and sometime colleague of Rendall’s) we realised that we had to work quickly if we were to have a drink before going to the crem.  There was an instant connection between Mark and Hooky and I of the type that can only be borne out of a shared deep affection for something or someone.   After going into a hotel that reprehensively had no bar we hurriedly found a pub whose name I forget, which is fitting as the place was utterly forgettable.  Given the time constraints we decided on a short and I did the decent thing and offered to pay while secretly thinking I was about to be stung with us being in Oxford and all.  Luckily it was double up for a quid and the bill came in at only just a shade over a tenner.

Arriving at the funeral Hook and I went into a waiting room where I spotted the former world featherweight champion Colin McMillan, who looked in good fettle.  The atmosphere in the room was far too intimate and claustrophobic and feeling a little out of place we went outside and I saw a bald man with glasses and I instantly knew that he was Rendall’s brother Andrew.  I just knew, even though there is no facial resemblance as they were both adopted.  Observer journalists Will Buckley and Kevin Mitchell walked past and the odd thing is that I always imagined Mitchell to be tall and Buckley to be short.  The odd thing is that in both cases the opposite is true, which threw me a bit.  I wanted to say hello to them both and say how much I admired their writing (and Buckley’s appearances on the riotous BBC Radio 5 show Fighting Talk) but it didn’t seem right given the occasion.

Colin McMillan

As we entered the chapel Robert Wyatt’s Shipbuilding was playing, and although it is one of my favourite songs I never play it as even in everyday life it is just too sad, so to hear it in the circumstances I did well not to cry.  Scanning around the mourners I speculated that Barty Hook and I appeared to be the only people there who did not have a personal connection to Rendall, who are simply admirers of his writing, though there was a young, attractive girl in her 20’s in front of us, who appeared to be French, who was alone so she might have been in the same boat as us.  She played with her mobile quite a bit during the ceremony but I think it was more through nervousness than anything else so I didn’t see it as disrespectful. 

The non-religious ceremony was the most tasteful I have ever attended.  Rendall’s grief stricken brother Andrew read a very touching tribute as did his friend Marek Walisiewicz, who took the photograph of Rendall that was on the front of the programme of the service.  In the photograph, which is from the dust jacket of his first book This Bloody Mary is the Last Thing I Own, Rendall looks youthful and bright, radiant almost.  It is a wonderful photographic portrait that perfectly captures a person in an immortal moment in time.

After the service we decided not to join the family and friends at The Victoria Arms in Old Marston as it somehow seemed wrong.  I regretted it later. 

Back at the Chequers in Oxford I had a real ale victory, which is something that gives me a great deal of pleasure.  Barty asked for a Guinness and being a good member of the Campaign for Real Ale I dutifully pointed out there was a nice porter to be had, which would be a far superior drink to the Guinness.  I could tell that Hook was fearful of the porter through ignorance so I played a trick that I have had success with before.  I said to Hook that as a compromise I would but him half a pint of the porter and half of Guinness, so if he didn’t like the porter he still had the Guinness to fall back on and he duly agreed to this.  When the barman asked me what I wanted I sneakily bought him a full pint of the porter anyway and on tasting it he was happy with my decision and he told me so.   In the next breathe Hook disappointingly told me he had taken up wine tasting.  You win some you lose some.

After a couple more pubs and a good few more pints we returned to the station at 1930 hours to catch our respective trains.  As soon as Hook departed I felt overwhelmed with sadness and to divert my mind to a pleasanter place I started to talk to a good looking woman, who I guessed was about my age, on the platform.  I told her I might be slightly incoherent due to being drunk, but she didn’t seem to mind.  She said she was travelling to Manchester.  On boarding the train we sat next to each other and continued the conversation.  In a lull in the chatter I must have nodded off and when I awoke I found that the woman had gone, she must have simply moved seats (and carriages for that matter) as we were nowhere near Manchester.

On return to the Midlands I was feeling dreadfully mournful and didn’t want to go home so I repaired to the Flagon and on arrival the Abdul was standing outside smoking a roll up.  I have never been so pleased to see a friendly face, even though it was the leathery features of the Abdul.  In a temporary lapse into derangement I told Liam Redwood that he could have my Aston Villa mod badge that he has converted for some while.  But I don’t regret it.

Much to the surprise of Charl, the consummate professional barman, I ordered an Hornitos tequila, which the peerless Alexander Sutcliffe had introduced me to a few days earlier.  I sipped it as I don’t believe in slammers and the like preferring to savour the spirit.  I sat with Keith the Black Country ex-roadie and before I knew it I had a pint of mild, his favoured tipple, to compliment the Hornitos.  I then mused that it is highly unlikely that anyone has ever previously drank an Hornitos with a Dirty Rat Mild chaser and in many ways it felt like a fitting end to the day.

© Dominic Horton, 25^th February, 2013.

Lowlife No 7 - House In the Country

House In the Country

No matter how hard I try, and regardless of what tactics I employ, I find it almost impossible to avoid a hangover on a Monday morning.  The plain fact of the matter is that the Sabbath is by far and a way the best day in the week for drinking. The next best day of the week to imbibe, Thursday, does not even run Sundays a close second.    Whereas for years the enduringly intellectual broadcaster Melvyn Bragg started the week with his BBC Radio 4 show cunningly entitled Start the Week, my week starts in a drink tainted fashion.  The hangovers are not debilitating, far from it, and are generally no more than a minor irritation and in all earnestness I cannot imagine Monday mornings without them, it simply would not be right and moreover I most probably would not function properly.   

My traditional Sunday routine is to venture up the Flaggon with Fudgkins at about 2030 hours to meet the inimitable Colly Coren and fellow 50 +er Richie Ramone (and Toby in Tents, if he is not indulging in his favourite hobby of spinning plates.)  Incidentally, I have noticed a strange phenomenon with gentlemen who attain the age of 50 in as much as they either switch their mobile phone off or simply cease taking it out with them at all, making contact and communication difficult – I am not sure if this is also true of women in their 50’s, so any correspondence on this matter would be useful.   

I have decided of late to saunter up the Flagon on a Sunday at an earlier hour, usually with Toby in Tents in toe, in order to return back to my Codger Mansion’s dwelling at a decent hour.   The tea time meet also means I will most probably bump into the Pirate, which is fitting on the Sabbath with him being the High Priest of Beer standing at the alter of my principal place of worship, being the Flagon & Horses.   The first part of the plan, namely arriving at the Flagon at 1700 hours, is executed with chilling and exact precision.  The second step in the plan, arriving home by 2100 hours in time for Miss Marple  (or whatever nonsense is currently showing on the BBC at that time), has proved more difficult.   The BBC have of course used the approach on a Sunday night of broadcasting light hearted programmes (the best example being The Last of the Summer Wine) in order to distract the viewers from the awful and nagging thought of having to go back to work in the morning.  Of course the only successful way to take the edge off the impending return to work is to go to a decent public house and have a drink.  Which effectively brings us full circle.

Talking of light hearted BBC broadcasts, I hear as I write that dear old Richard Briers, who got a mention in this column a couple of weeks ago, has sadly passed away. It was probably being associated with this column that killed him off.  His circles have finally decreased to nothing.  In reference to The Good Life many gentleman often pronounced their affection and fondness for Felicity Kendal but to my mind Penelope Keith was always the more attractive of the two, being posh, horsey and dominant.

This Monday morning’s hangover was considerably soothed when on switching on the television at breakfast time a re-run of one of my favourite BBC programmes, Let’s F*ck off to the Country and Buy a Whacking Great House, was being broadcast.  As I am sure you are aware there have been a number of presenters of the show, all toffs, but the one this morning was Jules Hudson, the bloke who looks like my cohort Doctor Powerless, (who now inhabits the Emerald Isle).  In his gentle and friendly tones he asked the potential purchasers of the country mansion such things as, “Is this kitchen big enough for your needs?” or “do you like the look of that karzy?” but all I want him to ask is “where the f*ck did you get the dosh from to buy a place like this?” or “if you are so stinking rich why do you dress so appallingly badly.”  The fella on the show today was wearing a round neck T-Shirt under a sports blazer and not even in a Miami Vice sort of way.  Shocking.

I do not know how Hudson puts up with the whingeing nit picking guests on Let’s F*ck off to the Country and Buy a Whacking Great House, I really don’t.  He must have a few stiff ones before he goes on camera just to get through it.  After great effort and research Hudson presents to the guests three magnificent rural properties that are tailored to suit their every need and requirement and often all the ungrateful guests can think to say are things like, “I am sure that is not going to be big enough for our little Melissa to ride her pony” when they view the resplendent three acre garden.  To this Hudson should of course reply, “go and find your own house then you faultfinding, unappreciative b*stards.”  But he doesn’t because he’s a true pro. 

I am not sure that I would be an ideal guest on the show.  In every gaff Hudson showed me around I would comment, “that’s absolutely cracking Jules, a much better house than Codger Mansions but between me and you I haven’t got a pot to p*ss in.”  And that, as they say, would be that. 

© Dominic Horton, 18^th February, 2013.

Lowlife No 6 - Don’t Let the Teardrops Fall

Don’t Let the Teardrops Fall

It is a bad ticket being a prison lifer, a rougher deal being on death row but it is arguably even worse than both of these being a Lowlifer, that is a regular reader of this column.   It is puzzling in many respects that people are avid followers of anything, most of all football clubs, which have an uncanny way of providing on balance at most clubs a lot more disappointment than gratification.   My long time acquaintance Chompa Babbee recently attended an Aston Villa game at the invitation of the Imp.  He lamented that he followed no particular club but wished that he did, so that he could feel the enthusiasm and passion of the partisan supporter.  On the dismal journey home after a crushing 4-0 defeat, when the mood of the Imp, Alfie C and I was lower than a limbo dancer’s underpants, Chompa no doubt retracted his wishes and was glad to remain as the impartial, unexcitable neutral. 

Talking of being an avid follower, that describes my interest in the blues band Magic Slim & the Teardrops, who I have revered for nearly a quarter of a century now after first seeing them at the Redcar Blues Festival in the 1980’s.  Soon after Redcar I met Slim (real name Morris Holt), his late bass player brother Nick Holt (lovely man) and the rest of the band (including the infectiously enthusiastic and idiosyncratic showman, the late Lefty Dizz) at a gig at the Bear Tavern, Bearwood, Birmingham.  I was smoking a cigarette and Slim, needing a light, came out with the immortal words, “stick your red end on my dead end”, which as a doe-eyed teenager I found highly impressive.

Anyway,  I have heard distressing reports via the Zoo Bar, Lincoln, Nebraska (where the Teardrops have a residency) that Magic Slim is currently unwell and in hospital.  One of the problems with the internet age is that information is almost instant and that can be unwelcome when the information being relayed is disappointing or upsetting.  In the past the main way I had of knowing about the welfare of Slim was via the excellent quarterly magazine Juke Blues.  On delivery of the magazine I would morbidly turn first to the obituaries page and breathe a sigh of relief when Slim did not make an appearance. Next, to Dick Shurman’s column on the Chicago blues scene which produced a beaming smile on my face when I read reports on Slim’s recent gigs.  In this way I could relax about Slim’s welfare until the next issue of the magazine in 3 months time.

All of which made it even more chilling when on Sunday evening in the Flagon I learnt about the sad and upsetting news of the death of my favourite writer, Jonathan Rendall, via the traditional method of newsprint.  

I was on cloud 9 (or at least on cloud 7 1/2 ) after my beloved Aston Villa procured a much needed 3 points in their ongoing relegation struggle by seeing off West Ham 2-1 at Villa Park.   I had a few minutes to spare after my early evening drinking cohort Toby in Tents had departed and I awaited the arrival in the Flagon of regular Sunday nighters Colly Coren and Richie Ramone (Fudgkins was AWOL for reasons unknown).   I causally picked up a copy of the Observer Sport supplement from the table next to me and read the Scottish football results, as I tend to do on a Sunday evening. In the Scottish Third Division East Stirlingshire lost at home to Peterhead in front of 278 hardy souls and with Stirling beating Montrose, it leaves the Shire with only a two point advantage with Stirling having two games in hand, so the perennial losers of the Shire may well at long last haplessly fall out of the Scottish Football

League with automatic relegation from that division being enforced next season. Tense times at Firs Park.  In the words of the diminutive Ronnie Corbett, I digress.  In the bottom right hand corner of the page a small notice read, “JONATHAN RENDALL – read online Kevin Mitchell’s tribute to the former Observer writer whose death was announced last week.”    I was, to say the least, devastated.   

Such are the cruel twists of life.  Rendall was only 48. It is rumoured his body lay alone in his residence in Ipswich for two weeks before it was discovered. The coroner recorded a verdict of death by natural causes.  In addition to his (mostly boxing) journalism and his wonderfully entertaining Drink - Last Chance Saloon column for the Observer he only had three books published but they represent a concise and fine body of work: This Bloody Mary is the Last Thing I own, about boxing, Twelve Grand, which is about gambling and Garden Hopping about his adoption, parts of which represent some of the bravest writing I have had the painful pleasure to read.

Following the Publication of Garden Hopping in 2006 I would intermittently search on the internet for news of Rendall or in the vain hope that a new book would be published.  Tantalisingly it was mooted that a new book, Scream, a biography of boxer Mike Tyson, would be published in 2007 but Amazon’s entry for the book has always read “currently unavailable”.  The book was never published and now, I sorrowfully surmise, it never will be.

With the disturbing news of Magic Slim’s hospitalisation, Villa’s ongoing and acutely real relegation threat and the body blow of Jonathan Rendall’s untimely demise, it has been a less than satisfactory week.  It might be a wise idea for the Pirate, the Landlord at the helm of the good ship the Flagon, to be wrapped in cotton wool as if the Flagon’s doors were to close it would be too much to bear, especially as its welcomingly peaceful sanctuary is immeasurably needed at this difficult and testing time.

© Dominic Horton, 12^th February, 2013. 

Lowlife No 5 - Pottering About the Med

Pottering About the Med

Our good friends at the BBC have just announced that water bills are to go up by 3.5% in the spring; in my dire financial circumstances I think I need a spring (like the fabled Peckham Spring) to spout forth from the garden with free water.  The price rise is all well and good but all other commodities and utilities are increasingly more expensive whereas my wages (like many others) will either remain static or rise minimally, which will barely cover the cost of the price rise in prescriptions or pickled egg expenses in the Flagon.  And on Fungus Hill it is a flat fee bill so I cannot have a water meter – mind you if they gave me a meter they would probably take a furlong.  The most galling thing about the provision of water in particular is that is it privatised but I have no choice as to who supplies it, they have got you both ways.  The only alternative is to utilise the murky looking shopping trolley laden water running through the river Stour at the bottom of Fungus Hill (which hardly deserves the grandiose title of “river” with it being little more than a glorified stream.)   Water is an absolute necessity of life and people are making profit out of us being provided with it which, like my associate the Frymaster General, is immoral and obscene. 

We are all in such a rush in life of course that we barely notice the price of things going up faster than Guy Fawkes on bonfire night.   I read my revised water bill and knew it had gone up but it failed to tell me what I had paid before, so without researching the matter I was ignorant to the extent of the price rise.   I know that one should not stereotype, but one of the endearing and attractive qualities of the Greeks is their innate ability not to rush.  Leisurely pottering is almost a national pastime for which they should receive warm and heartfelt recognition.   At the wedding of my good friend Dustin Scoffman at the beautiful Greek Orthodox church in Pylos, a gentleman official of the church, who I surmised was the verger, proceeded throughout the length of the ceremony to display a world class performance in pottering.  Unlike the tense and edgy verger  Mr Yeatman in the beloved World War II comedy Dad’s Army, his Greek counterpart could not have been more relaxed, dusting, adjusting the sacred paintings that adorned the walls, watering plants and even gently and quietly chatting with the congregation.  He even engaged me in polite conversation at one point, asking where I derived from, and I did not want to disrespect the ceremony by talking but equally I didn’t want to disappoint the genial, smiling verger.  

Thankfully the one person who did rush was the Greek Orthodox priest, who was typically adorned with a big, thick, black beard. If he had been freshly clean shaven I would have been grossly disappointed.  The priest managed to condense a ceremony that should rightfully last over 2 ½ hours into a credible 60 minutes by talking faster than the late BBC horse racing commentator Lord Oaksey at the exciting culmination of the Cheltenham Gold Cup.  For this I was eternally thankful to the lightning tongued priest as it accelerated our ability to get our dry lips round the champagne generously supplied by the newly wed Mr & Mrs Scoffman at the wedding reception, which was much needed, given that in the time honoured tradition of the British abroad, my travelling companions (my long time drinking accomplice the Little German and his lovely wife Mrs Still-in-Fjord) and I were mortally drunk, on Ouzo, the night before the wedding.

A famous night ensued, and despite our reservations about Scoffman’s oratory skills he gave a speech that Anthony Wedgewood Benn would have been proud of.   The only slight issue came when the band (fronted by a Greek style Alvin Stardust) shot its bolt far too early by playing Zorba the Greek (the Greek wedding equivalent of Madness’s One Step Beyond) while we were still consuming the impressive and delicious meal.  With the drummer translating I managed to make Stardust understand the error of his ways and the band replayed Zorba later in the evening to the ecstatic delight of the merrily drunken audience.  Early the next morning when the party finished a difficulty arose after we brushed past a drunken man on a stool, snoozing against the hotel front desk.  We asked the hotelier to order us a taxi to which he replied, “there are no taxis at the present time as he is the taxi driver” pointing to the man on the stool.   Undeterred, the Little German and I commandeered two sofas in an L shape in the lobby and we both duly fell into a blissful sleep on our respective sofas, leaving Mrs Still-in-Fjord sitting on a hard chair in between us.

If the water rates went up in Greece they would simply refuse to pay the bill.  That said they didn’t pay the bills prior to any price rises, which is why the country became bankrupt.  When the government insisted the good Greek citizens paid the bills the usually placid, peace loving population rioted in the streets.  I say riot, but it was apparently more like a mass potter with the odd outbreak of excitement.

© Dominic Horton, 6^th February, 2013.

Lowlife No 4 - La Dolca Vita

La Dolca Vita

Work wise, like stags fighting, clashing with their magnificence and majestic antlers, I’m in a rut.

It doesn’t feel like my place of employment is a bank anymore and the people here are not bankers, or not bankers as we know them.  Bluffers, crawlers, project types and buzz word spouting irritants prevail and the ones that know the least about banking are the most highly regarded.  Which in terms of my value in the pecking order, like my beloved Aston Villa, puts me firmly in the relegation zone. 

In the 1979 Francis Ford Coppola film Apocalypse Now the main character, Captain Benjamin L Willard (wonderfully played by Martin Sheen), memorably comments, “the bullsh*t piled up so fast in Vietnam, you needed wings to stay above it.”  The same can be equally applied to my work place.  The bluffers and crawlers circle around, and plot and whisper and avoid anything that constitutes real work and do anything they can, and swallow pride, abandoning all sense of personal integrity, just to remain in the inner circle.  Meantime, the foot soldiers like me shoulder the important business of ensuring the cogs of the bank turn round.

“Get another job” I hear you sensibly saying.  But like the elderly convict and the prison librarian Brooks Hatlen in the famous and ever popular film The Shawshank Redemption, I feel somewhat institutionalised.  At least I am not being subjected to the dreadful treatment that Tim Robbin’s character, Andy Dufresne, had to endure, but metaphorically speaking it does feel like my pants are being pulled down on a regular basis.

The popular misconception is that all bankers are rolling in wads of money and are paid handsome, fat bonuses for doing relatively little.  As I am sure that previous editions of this column have highlighted that certainly is not the case in relation to me or indeed many of my colleagues.  In the dire personal financial month of January, deciding whether to order a much needed prescription or have an overdue haircut can hardly be construed as La Dolca Vita. As I am sure you know dear reader, the translation of La Dolca Vita is “the good life,” which  is ironic really as I feel like the character Tom Good (played by the affable Richard Briers) in the enduring 1970’s BBC sitcom, The Good Life, scrabbling around for pennies to pay his electricity bill.  I can’t even satisfy creditors by paying entirely in coppers like Tom Good as prior to payday, I already played the last desperate trump card of converting the contents of my pennies jar into hard cash, which to my pleasant surprise yielded a handsome £23, which I pondered on later that day investing some of that windfall behind the bar in the Flagon.

In the week my friend Mrs Still-in-Fjord, the Little German’s wife, posted that she had just cracked open a bottle of champagne to celebrate a work promotion, good on her and she has my warmest congratulations and sincere wishes.  At that very time, to my eternal shame as a member of the Campaign for Real Ale, due to fiscal necessity, I was sipping out of a can of Tesco’s own cider.  All of which begs the question, how did I end up like this?  This conjures up the image of the late legendary footballer George Best lying on the bed of his luxurious penthouse suite, sipping champagne with Miss World and a fortune in casino winnings both lying tastefully arranged on his bed and the on looking young hotel waiter infamously and poignantly asked Mr Best, “where did it all go wrong?”

© Dominic Horton, 1^st February, 2013. 

Lowlife No 3 - Postman Pat Rides Again?

Postman Pat Rides Again?

I fear the worst for her; although she keeps going in impressively stoic fashion, defying the ravages of time, ignoring the wear and tear that she bravely endures and overcomes, it could be the end of the road for her shortly.  I have treated her with love and respect and looked after her as best as I can but I know that she cannot go on forever.   My dear old red Fiat Seicento, 1999 model, labelled affectionately as the Postman Pat mobile by my erstwhile friend Alfie C, is due for her annual MOT.  (As a footnote, before I proceed, I mused one day that Alfie C is the only person I know [i.e. I know personally, therefore not including television and radio personalities] that has a catch phrase, being “That’s it, that’s unlucky.” However, I then realised that another associate of mine, Colly Coren, also has the inimitable catchphrase, “Fair play to the c*nt, that’s what I say”, which to Coren’s eternal credit can be sensibly amended to “Fair play to him, that’s what I say” in polite or feminine company.)

MOT time is only surpassed by Christmas in terms of tension and anxiety in facing up to unpredictable and unquantifiable expense.  The one overwhelming certainty is that the Postman Pat mobile, like dear old Eddie the Eagle Edwards at the Winter Olympics, is going to fail.  The question which I nervously ponder each year is, how badly is she going to fail by?   After carrying out his explorations, which I fear this time round will be more like a post-mortem, the mechanic calls me with the list of failures, none of which I understand not being the slightest mechanically minded (for all know he could be playfully making up the car parts in question.)  While the man-with-spanner works through the list I pepper him periodically with the burning question, “How much will it cost?”  Eventually, the mechanic, after a blowing out a deep breath, delivers the damning verdict.  Even over the telephone, the spanner man must be able to hear the melancholy sound of my heart sinking.  And then, just when you feel the customary relief after hearing expected bad news, like the master executioner the mechanic issues the killer blow “………… plus VAT.” 

The fretfulness and worriment of Christmas expenditure and the cost of fixing dear old Pat merged into one shortly before the festive season this year when on starting her ignition Pat coughed, spluttered, juddered and died, like a hammy amateur actor in a provincial production of Hamlet.  After looking under Pat’s bonnet, the RAC man, after much head scratching and mild farm yard noises, diagnosed that Pat had not died but was simply in a coma.  “When was the last time you had her serviced?” he quizzed.  “I’ve never had her serviced” I replied.  He explained that Pat, who only commands 899cc anyway, was running off only 3 of her 4 cylinders and had spark plugs in a worse condition than Albert Steptoe’s cardigan. A service was needed.  Then, as a parting shot, the RAC man pointed at my improvised wing mirror and exclaimed in great dismay and bewilderment, “what the f*ck is that!?”  Vandals on Fungus Hill had again mindlessly ruined Pat’s wing mirror so, showing what I thought was great ingenuity, I sellotaped a shaving mirror to the remnants of the fitting.  It worked for me and Pat, not being vane, did not seem to mind.

So be you Buddhist, Calvinist, Taoist, Celtic Pagan, Rastafarian, Israelite, a member of any other religion, denomination or cult, or plain atheist like me, please pray for the health and welfare of my beloved Pat, in the hope that after the day of MOT reckoning Postman Pat rides again.

© Dominic Horton, 24^th January, 2013.

Lowlife No 2 - Sobriety is not the Spice of Life

Sobriety is not the Spice of Life

I was mildly offended that my good friend the Imp described me as a “downtrodden bachelor” after he had read my last column but the more I think about it, and the more I honestly and frankly critique myself, the description is wholly and unnervingly accurate.   There was some discussion amongst the pair of us as to whether a divorcee could be a bachelor but it transpires after research that a bachelor (within the relevant meaning of the word) is simply “an unmarried man.”  I admit that it is not really in question that I am downtrodden, so the Imp’s description of me is hereby duly upheld.

As a counterbalancing comment, which I am sure he intended to be consoling and assuaging, the Imp asserted that although I could be seen as a downtrodden bachelor in my working life, in the context of me being a patron of my characterful local, the Flagon & Gorses (a beacon of real ale goodness), compared to other drinkers there I am something of a style icon.  I think that “style icon” is stretching everybody’s imagination a little bit too far but I appreciate the Imp’s backhanded complement nonetheless.

I received complimentary comments from some quarters about the debut of this column last week, for which I am eternally and wholeheartedly grateful.  I should make it clear that the content of last week’s column (i.e. my finances being in the same perilous and precarious state as the Premier League status of my beloved Aston Villa) was not intended to elicit the charity of any reader but I am nonetheless highly thankful for the offers of assistance in order to obtain new work trousers.  One reader even alluded to setting up a fully fledged charitable organisation with the sole aim of obtaining decent britches for me (I suggest such charity could be called Strides.)

Other reactions to last week’s column were mixed.  My associate Toby in Tents outright accused me of being a pessimist – I countered that with suggesting that my younger brother, Roger, is a pessimist (which is acknowledged and agreed by all and sundry), my elder brother, the Albino, is an optimist but I am a realist.  Fortunately in the debate that ensued Toby in Tents failed to issue the killer blow to me by quoting the following directly from last week’s column, “my glass tends to be half empty.”  Ironically at the time we were in the Flagon and my glass was indeed half empty (or half full, depending on your standpoint.)

The Imp asserted that if I did not part with so much cash in the Flagon that this would free up sufficient funds to finance the acquisition of a suitable pair of trousers. On the face of it the Imp has a valid argument but it misses the point entirely, which is that money spent by me in the Flagon is a sound and wise investment.  Whilst in the Flagon I am peaceful, relaxed and happy; by investing monies behind the bar, as do other patrons of the house, I am helping to continue the existence of the fine and welcoming establishment.  It can be seen as a mutual investment scheme, with us regular attendees and drinkers as members.  If you can divorce oneself from the concept of life being about no more than financial and material gain for a second, such enriching concepts as I have just described can be seen as worthy endowment.

Which brings me untidily onto people who choose not to drink in January in order to “de-tox”.  The immediate post Christmas period is the very time when pubs and their landlords need the support and attendance of its brethren as trade tends to be quiet enough as it is; I would imagine that my colourful friend the Pirate, the landlord of the Flagon & Gorses, would support this view. Although it could be said that my judgement is clouded and warped by drink, to my mind sobriety is not the spice of life.

© Dominic Horton, 15^th January, 2013.

Lowlife No 1 - Walking in a Dead Man’s Trousers

Walking in a Dead Man’s Trousers

Despite living an increasingly frugal and spendthrift existence I must be doing something drastically wrong in the fiscal stakes. 

Looking round the office even the temporary staff, who are probably not getting paid a great deal more than the statutory minimum wage, are substantially better dressed than me. I discarded the shoes I am wearing and abandoned them under my desk a few years ago after they developed a leak – I am now back to wearing them as they are in a better condition than the ones that were hitherto donning my feet.  My trousers have long since reached their expiry date and are at least a size too big after I shifted excess timber after breaking my ankle February last. 

All of my work shirts bear immovable stains to one degree or another (nothing sordid if you are wondering – mostly coffee) and a £5 digital watch that I bought for exercise purposes has now become my work and all purpose time piece after my other, smarter one, broke (one cheeky impertinent young work colleague said, in all seriousness, “I like your retro watch”).   My work glasses, which cost a few quid 10 odd years ago, still look the part, or leastways I still think so, but they tend to fall off if I look down as they are now a little loose on my head.  By the way, how is it possible to get a stain out of a shirt? Women generally tend to have the magical, unfathomable gift of stain removal but even with the aid of the most up to date and expensive associated products it is still a skill that eludes me.

I still just about retain a thin veneer of office attire respectability and if I needed to up my game for a one off occasion I could embellish myself in a respectable suit and Crombie style overcoat, with decent cufflinks and tie (matching) and with a brief case as an accessory (purely an accessory as there would be nothing important or of use in it); currently shoes would pose a problem.  However, since my old housemate the Phantom moved on to bigger and better things, as he was right to do, (deciding to share the responsibility of household bills and rent with his lovely girlfriend) my ability to purchase the luxury of clothes has been severely diminished. 

My financial projections show that the urgent need for new work trousers and shoes is unlikely to be remedied before August and that could be put back until October if I have to incur the expense of me and my 8 year old son, the Cannonball, going to the League Cup Final at Wembley next month – a trip that is highly unlikely now, given my beloved Aston Villa lost 3-1 away at Bradford in the first leg of the semi-final last night.   I do not look at the loss to Bradford as a silver lining in the new work trousers stakes, as my glass tends to be half empty. I would not want silver lined work trousers anyway, as they sound too uncomfortable. Comfort is my first priority with work attire (after cost of course) given that I have to spend an inordinate amount of time in such attire, mostly chained to a desk.  The comfort-over-style preference is also probably symptomatic of me now being in my 40’s.

I am afraid that the same fate most probably awaits my work trousers as demise of the Little German’s trousers a few years ago (Nb. the Little German is not German but he is little.)  The Little German never took to the practice of wearing underpants and this proved to be a source of embarrassment as he walked up the office after his threadbare work trousers finally developed a flesh-revealing hole in the seat of the trouser, much to the amusement of his tittering work colleagues.

It could all culminate in a visit to the many charity shops in my homely little Black Country, provincial home town in order to find suitable cheap trousers that are in better condition than my own.   This will not transform me into a dead man walking but I will thereafter be walking in a dead man’s trousers.

© Dominic Horton, 9^th January, 2013.