Lowlife No 21 - The Poor Old Pilchards

The Poor Old Pilchards

Excuse me for yawning dear reader but today finds me quite exhausted on account of me sleeping very poorly last night. At times I am a terrible insomniac. In fact what I mean is, at times I am a very good insomniac as if I were a terrible insomniac I would be able to sleep at will quite easily. At times ideas for this column come to me in the sleepless wee small hours and I feel compelled to make notes, for fear of losing the material in the meandering maze of my addled mind. The note taking of course makes the insomnia worse as just as I am about to nod off another idea might appear, too precious to not record. Invariably, by morning time I cannot read my own appalling handwriting anyway and the idea is lost, or my scribble is legible but I have no idea what I meant in the first place.

What I should explain is suitable ideas I have for content for this column are valuable as I am very limited in what I can realistically write, as it needs to be in keeping with the spirit of the thing, so it cannot be too gloomy and I cannot disclose many of the intimate details of mine or other people's lives or offend anybody (well, not too much at any rate). "Hang on a minute," I can hear a throng of readers say in indignation, "you have offended me in these pages and last week you disclosed that Willy Mantitt was suffering from the Nobby Stiles, how much more intimate can you get." Fair cop governor, I hereby concede that point but it remains the case that at least 80% of the things that I see and hear in the Flagon & Gorses, for example, I am unable, for reasons of taste, decency and fear of litigation, able to publish in this column. You would probably fail to believe half of it anyway. This all means that the highly inconvenient 0300 hrs note taking is an absolute necessity as things that fall within the limited parameters of what I can describe in Lowlife are very restricted.

Last night, prior to the compulsion to write down illegible and mildly bizarre notes in the early hours, the nightmares came. I have had the same reoccurring nightmare now for the past twenty odd years and I have come to view it as an old friend, one of the constants in my life. The repeat nightmare always surprises me with its enduring ability to terrify me even though at a conservative estimate I must have experienced it over 2,000 times. As much as I love the wonderful Ken Loach film Kes its ability to entertain me after 2,000 viewings would wear a little thin I would imagine. Incidentally, the title of the Barry Hines book that the film was based on was A Kestrel for a Knave, which is a romantic and evocative title for a film that I can imagine, so it puzzles me why on earth the film title was shortened to the infinitely less attractive Kes.  

I used to live by the Fairfield public house many years ago and my whimsical cohort Gusty Monsoon used to occupy the bedroom that adjoined mine.  My routine nightmare always used to end in fiasco as on hearing me scream in terror Gusty, in the neighbouring bedroom, used to start giggling which made me quickly follow suit once I had come round, so I farcically went from terror to uncontrollable tittering within a matter of seconds. My faithful teddy Alfie now comforts me during black nights of beastly dreams and I comfort him through his, which the poor bear is prone to have as a consequence of having to live with me.

One of the things I often do in order to reach a state of slumber is to think of what delicious food I would like to eat such as juicy cuts of sirloin steak, cooked rare and served with English mustard, or a fresh and inviting Greek salad. Sadly, the actuality of my oft gruesome diet is a far cry from such delicious delights. My diet is largely dictated by the meagre amount of funds I have to expend on foodstuffs, so one has to make do. Francine Jacks brought a nostalgic wartime cook book into the Flagon & Gorses last week, full of recipes to cope with rationing, and casually flicking through the book I realised that I couldn't afford to cook most of the meals in there.

Only I could further deteriorate an already grim batch of tomato and pilchard soup that I concocted last week.  Not wanting to waste some couscous that my son Kenteke had left on his plate (which is highly unusual for him, with him having the appetite of Big Bill Broonzy) I foolishly tipped it into the saucepan and this had the effect of enstodging the soup to such a degree that it turned to the consistency of play dough.  To make matters worse with it being the wrong side of pay day I had to chew my way through the rubbery soup over the course of three evenings to finish it off.  Those poor pilchards, they once swam gaily and freely in carefree fashion in the North Sea never thinking they would end up in an almost indigestible soup in the kitchen of Codger Mansions in the West Midlands.      

At least now my diet is a slight improvement on my early Fairfield days when Still-in-Fjord, who also lived at the property, used to look in disdain and horror at the vats of gruel that I used to make with cheap vegetarian substitute mince.  What I saved in money by using the inexpensive meatless mince I gained in flatulence, much to the disgust of my nose pinching house mates.  Save for the tomato and pilchard soup calamity the only meal that represents such a culinary low (due to fiscal embarrassment) since my Fairfield days is the paltry one egg omelette I cooked, which was a most unsatisfying meal but which at least gave the Phantom something to chortle about. 

Some of Gusty Monsoon’s culinary performances were even more abysmal than mine.  Monsoon used to buy fresh vegetables with the express intention of cooking them in their newly purchased state to form a healthy, tasty meal.  However, the days passed and Gusty would eat all sorts of stodge and convenient nonsense and ignore the vegetables, which festered away in the refrigerator until they reached a mouldy, shrivelled state just beyond the point of edibility, representing the exact juxtaposition of a caterpillar transforming into a beautiful butterfly.    At this point, not wanting to waste the decaying produce Monsoon would frolic around the kitchen in frivolous fashion cooking a foul gumbo.  He would normally do this when hung over on a Monday, so the rank vegetable concoction was the last thing he needed.

After pay day I thought I would lord it a bit so I bought a fresh chicken and on the way back from the butchers I thought about all the tasty things I could make with the deceased, weighty bird, resting in peace in my shopping bag. I decided to make a curry, save a portion for salads for the week and cut some decent chicken breast sandwiches.  I duly followed the cooking instructions to the letter but on taking the cooked chicken out of the oven I discovered to my dismay that it had shrivelled up to about the size of a sparrow.  The poor bird must have been so laden with water that she had simply evaporated.

The price of food is spiralling out of control.  I bought a packet of half a dozen bog standard tomatoes from Tesco in the week for a pound, so by my calculations that is extortionately nearly 17 new pence per tomato.   I have now cut back to using half a tomato on each salad and I have devised a cunning new method of chopping the semi-tomato up to make it look like there is a whole tomato on the plate.  It comes to something when you have to deploy psychological warfare on yourself in order to economise on dietary budget.  

It is no wonder that, according to the Metro, that half a million people are going hungry in Britain struggling to feed themselves in the light of unemployment, rising food prices and benefit cutbacks.  The Metro reported on Thursday that 350,000 people (126,000 of them children) had received at least three days help from the Trussell Trust, which runs nationwide food banks, a scandal in a country with such wealth, which sadly seems to be so inequitably distributed.

I hope the tin openers of such impoverished people do not break, as happened to me this week.  A trip to the supermarket revealed that tin openers were retailing for an exorbitant £6.  Needless to say I did not make a purchase.  At least without a tin opener I will save money on food as I will not be able to access the contents of tins.  Such tricks are needed in these times of austerity.    Though I bet in the Cameron household a full tomato is present on the salads. 

Postscript

All the very best of luck to two of my Australia based associates.  Firstly, best wishes to Dustin Scoffman, who has now arrived in the Antipodes to live a life of mostly leisure whilst half-heartedly looking for gainful employment and living off the earnings of the lovely Mrs Scoffman.  Secondly, good luck to my shambling, Dudley-bred cohort D G Depardieu who has quit his job as a teacher to become a full time writer of children’s books (or barman, depending on how things go). I highly recommend the books he has had published so far (being My Hamster is a Genius and My Hamster is an Astronaut), which you can easily purchase via internet retailers such as Amazon.

I doubt I will be in the desirable position of resigning from my job any time soon to become a full time writer as the only thing I seem capable of writing is the nonsense that fills this column and no self respecting publication is remotely interested in it - I even got turned down by The Oldie.

© Dominic Horton, 31^st May, 2013.