Lowlife 72 – Bring out the Bunting

Bring out the Bunting

By Dominic Horton

In order to diagnose the nature of my on-going mild-graines illness I had an MRI brain scan on Thursday to see if they could locate a brain in my cranium and to see if there is anything neurologically wrong with my ailing person.    I was greeted by an extremely friendly radiologist at the hospital and after I had left the waiting room and entered the scanning room he reassured me, “well done, you are doing really well.” By that stage I had only removed my belt and shoes and taken the small change out of my pockets so given the radiologist’s reaction I assume that some patients must struggle to affect even these simply manoeuvres.  Well done to me indeed, especially as I was wearing lace up shoes, which are trickier to take off than slip-ons.

The radiologist asked if I have had an MRI scan before and I replied in the affirmative but disregarding my answer he still tediously proceeded to explain at length what the scan entails.   Every effort was made by the radiologist to ensure my comfort, including a pillow under my knees and after I was then asked what radio station I would like to listen to via headphones (I requested BBC Radio 4, for the record.)  Then I was slowly slid into the small, person sized tube of the scanner like a coffin preparing for cremation. 

The cover to Headhunters, by Herbie Hancock

I was warned that I might find it a bit claustrophobic in the confines of the scanner but not a bit of it, I actually felt the most relaxed I have been for a while given that I was forced to lie still on a comfortable bed and do nothing.  Mind you, I was eternally grateful that I did not attend the leaving do I was supposed to go to the preceding evening (due to ill health – it was actually my leaving do, more of which next week) as lying in the cramped scanner with booze terrors, sweating and dehydrated, would have been ghastly beyond belief not to mention the risk of choking on my own real ale induced flatulence in the incommodious space of the tube.

           

I perversely found that the loud noises of the MRI machine were very restful and calming and in fact I discovered that the experience was more relaxing than the gong baths that I have been to recently (previous discussed in these pages), especially given that I was alone and not in a room full of people, which can make me twitchy.   

The first set of noises from the scanner reminded me of the heavy synthesiser bass sounds that are heard at the beginning of the track Chameleon on Herbie Hancock’s 1973 album Headhunters; maybe at the next gong bath I should suggest to the gongmaster, Phil the Gong, that instead of subjecting us to the gentle, ambient sounds of his oriental gongs that he instead plays Hancock’s ground-breaking jazz funk masterpiece at full speaker shaking volume.   I suspect I would be in a minority of one in preferring that Phil the G employs this tactic so I might as well just put the CD on in my Codger Mansion’s living room and divert the gong bath fee of a tenner from Phil’s palm into my welcoming coffers.   Thinking about it, for £10 I could buy three pints of bitter and half a scrumpy cider in the Flagon & Gorses, which would act as a further relaxant to unwind me even more after the Headhunters session.

Norman Collier, by request of Toby In-Tents

Due to the deafening sounds of the scanner I could only snatch the odd word of Radio 4 so it was like listening to the 1970’s Northern comedian Normal Collier.   (Incidentally it is to my mind a popular misconception that Collier was a one trick pony with his faulty microphone routine as he also masterfully performed chicken impressions and had a hilarious skit based around winding up a car window.  Indeed none other than the legendary Jimmy Tarbuck dubbed Collier as “the comedian’s comedian.”)   The heavy bass sounds eventually gave way to a series of high pitched beeps and I thought to myself that I can’t remember there being such sounds when I have had MRI scans in the past but I then realised the beeps signalled the start on The World at One on Radio 4.

I reached such a state of serenity that I imagined that I was lying on a sun lounger in the warm sun of a Caribbean beach and I felt myself slowly drifting off into a blissful impromptu sleep but I was suddenly startled by the voice of the radiologist via the headphones asking me, “How are you doing in there Dominic?”   As I was in the adjacent room to the radiologist, with him overlooking me via a window in the wall, I momentarily had no idea how I would communicate back to him, especially as you are supposed to remain perfectly still during the procedure.  In a panic I decided that the only option was to wiggle my toes to signal that I was fine but this was to no avail as again the radiologist asked if I was ok, this time in a more urgent manner.  To try to signal that I was fine I considered pressing the panic button that I had been given but I thought that the radiologist might erroneously interpret that as a sign that I was in dismay, which was certainly not the case. I then had the dawning realisation that there must be a microphone in the scanner so I quickly verbalised my agreeable state before the radiologist rushed in attend to me.

Beautiful bunting made by the talented women of
Cradley Heath

One I had settled down again I felt an increasing pool of saliva gathering in my throat, blocking my windpipe and I knew that I needed to swallow but I was petrified of disturbing my stillness and resultantly bringing the scan to a halt.  As the urge eventually became overbearing I swallowed hard as I was becoming increasingly fearful of drowning in my own bodily fluid which would have been a ludicrous way to meet one’s end; I could just imagine people asking, “where did he meet his demise, was it sailing the high seas in a daring yachting expedition across the Atlantic Ocean?” only to be informed that, “No, he was on dry land in the West Midlands as far from the sea as he possibly could be, having a standard and apparently risk free medical procedure whilst lying in an oversized Smarties tube.” 

On Saturday, being in a state of anticipation of my MRI scan results, I decided to divert my mind away from the matter by popping along to St Luke’s Church to do my bit in helping to make bunting for the forthcoming Women Chainmakers’ Festival in Cradley Heath on 6^th & 7^th June (http://womenchainmakersfestival.blogspot.co.uk/).  The bunting is made out of fabric onto which attractive and colourful designs have been printed by the talented women of the working party.   As I have no flair whatsoever for creating visual art I asked if I could be given the most menial job in the operation, so I was assigned the task of cutting out bunting sized triangle shapes from fabric sheets, which was something I could just about manage in the nervous, anxiety-riddled way I have of doing things, terrified of making a hash of it.  

I realised that I was in a room full of accomplished, skilled artists and I had never been in such a situation before, except I suppose in the public bar of the Flagon & Gorses where all hands present are usually p*ss artists.   All of the women there made me feel extremely welcome and chatting to them I felt becalmed and slowly the underlying and pervading feeling of sadness that colours most of my life started to fade away.  

I couldn’t place the accent of one of the women, Mhairun’, so I asked her where she is from.  She explained that she is from Bremen, Germany and that she originally came to the West Midlands as an exchange student as Bremen is twinned with Dudley but that was twenty five years ago and she has remained here ever since.  I imagine that there are a great number of  Dudlonians still knocking about Bremen after realising that they were onto a good thing and refused to go back home, like Scotland fans who can still be found in Spain as a consequence of the 1982 World Cup.

Sitting in the church, ham-fistedly cutting out the fabric, I witnessed a warming atmosphere of cooperation amongst the members of the party and I was enlightened by the thought that the world would most probably be a better place if it was predominantly run by women.  I carried the thought to Drew Monkey’s wonderful brewing shop on Cradley Heath High Street (http://www.brewmonkey.co.uk/) to reward myself by buying some bottled beer and on the way I picked up a metal teapot from a charity shop for a mere £1.  But when I put the kettle on at Codger Mansions later in the day I found that the teapot, like a conference of a far right-wing fascist political party, was full of scum.  The teapot cleaned up quite easily though; if only it was as easy to get rid of xenophobic bigots.

© Dominic Horton, May 2014.

* EMAIL: lordhofr@gmail.com.

Lowlife 71 - Let Them Eat Steak

Let Them Eat Steak

By Dominic Horton

This week has seen the latest chapter in my sorry mild-graines illness odyssey as I visited the consulting rooms of an ear, nose and throat specialist, Mr R. On the night before my appointment Fudgkins was in a typically frivolous mood in the Flagon & Gorses and he explained that if he were the consultant he would quickly cure my illness by saying to me, “please look at the ceiling Mr Horton” and while I unsuspectingly stood there awaiting further doctoral instruction he would swiftly administer a forceful right hook to my chin (Fudgkins – “bosher!!!!!!”) and after that I would be right as rain. The Fudgey remedy is akin to giving a smack to an old fashioned black and white television set in order to correct an errant rolling picture. Fudgkins followed the description of his recalibration method with hysterical and lengthy cackling. Like Queen Victoria I was not amused.

Mr R, by request of Toby In-Tents

My work colleague the Mexican previewed my consultant appointment by stating that when he visited a specialist in relation to a similar complaint many years ago the doctor instructed him to stand up straight and to extend his hands out in front of him and to march up and down on the spot with his eyes closed. This seemed like a very antiquated (and capering) way of diagnosing any illness and the image of Mex lumbering blindly around the consulting room bumping into the doc’s skeleton, like a novice zombie, made me chuckle.

The ENT man, Mr R, greeted me warmly when he invited me into his spacious and airy surgery and I instantly took to him and his affable nature, noting that he is a dead ringer for BBC News 24’s Chris Eakin. Mind you, disappointingly I spotted that Mr R was wearing a light beige trouser accompanied by a black belt; surely a man in his position, which boasts such a handsome remuneration, could afford to acquire a tan belt in order to be dressed properly. After a detailed interrogation Mr R chirped, “right, it’s time for a few tests. First off I want you to stand up straight and to extend your hands out in front of you and march up and down on the spot with your eyes closed.” It was reassuring to find that like Banks’s beer the ear, nose and throat game is unspoilt by progress.

After prodding various implements up my nose and down my ears Mr R then put one of those rounded, cardboard nail file type thingies on my tongue and asked me to say “arrrggh”, which hitherto I did not think was a bona fide medical procedure but one only used when a character in a 1970’s sitcom is examined by a doctor (for example, the first episode of series 1 of Porridge [entitled New Faces, Old Hands]). Following this I was asked to step inside a glass booth so I thought we were going to have an impromptu game of Mr & Mrs and I half expected Derek Batey to appear from stage left. But Mr R explained that the booth is intended to cut out all background noise for my impending ear test.

BBC News 24's Chris Eakin,.

At the end of the appointment Mr R explained that all seemed normal with my ears, nose and throat and that the only thing left to examine was my brain, so he booked me in for an MRI scan on my loaf stating that he had no reason to be alarmed but we’d best be on the safe side. I fully expect the doc to give me a call after the test to tell me that, “You have a perfectly normal brain Mr Horton ……………. for a field mouse.”

I have been concerned by my illness this week but a news headline that I came across was even more disturbing as it read, “Ping wins Masterchef title”. I thought to myself, how on earth can the workmanlike chef of the undistinguished Rhareli Peking Chinese takeaway win such a prestigious award? To my great relief I learnt that the headline was not referring to Mr Ping but to a certain Ping Coombes who sealed the award with a delicious Malaysian pork and liver soup. The Baby Faced Assassin at the Rhareli could do worse than invite Coombes along to tutor Mr Ping in the art of making curry sauce that actually has a liquescent quality and is not just a homogeneous gelatinous lump.

At least the Rhareli Peking has overcome its past sanitary difficulties and it no longer has a zero rating for food hygiene which is not something that can be said about Marco Pierre White’s expensive four star Steakhouse restaurant in Birmingham which was condemned by environmental health officers, it was disclosed this week. Buying beef fried rice and curry sauce from an undistinguished local takeaway after a gallon of beer in the Flagon is one thing but when you are paying £50 for a steak in a top notch restaurant you at least expect the kitchen to be cleaner than Cliff Richard’s underpants. The news of White’s restaurant’s indiscretions came a week after it was revealed that Jamie Oliver’s upmarket butcher, Barbecoa, in the City of London, was forced to close after failing a health inspection. Mouldy cow carcasses were found in addition to out of date steaks and mouse droppings: at least the droppings indicated that the mice, unlike the cows, were fresh.

Derek Batey

There were no issues with the food on Monday evening in the Flagon & Gorses where Tomachezki, Pat Debilder, Mother Teresa and I gathered for steak cooked by Chilli Willy’s unfair hand to celebrate Tomachezki’s 72^nd birthday; we all had a jolly pleasant time, enhanced by Willy’s world class gravy. Unbeknown to each other, Pat and Teresa, Chilli and I had all procured birthday cake for the occasion so it was a case of Marie Antoinette, “let them eat cake” but given the main course of the evening it would have been equally suitable for Chilli Willy to declare, “let them eat steak.” We all scoffed the steak with relish. Well, actually we ate the steak with vegetables and gravy but we enjoyed it nonetheless.

Earlier in the week Pat Debilder, Fudgkins and I were lining our stomachs not with steak and cake but with with the delectable house beer in Ma Pardoe’s in Netherton prior to a visit to the Arts Centre to see the Dudley Little Theatre’s (DLT – unfortunate acronym) satisfying production of Blackadder, which they put on to mark the 100^th anniversary of the start of the First World War in 1914.

Given the fiascos of trying to get tickets for previous performances we turned up at the theatre on the hop this time hoping there was room in the house and luckily there was. Usually DLT states that tickets are available at the local butchers but when you make an enquiry there they always say, “we don’t know anything about any theatre tickets mate but while you are here do you want to buy a pound of pork sausages?” The butcher directs you to Netherton Arts Centre box office which is always ticketless so they re-direct you to Dudley Council. When you call the Council the member of staff who answers the call is temporarily thrown by your query as he was expecting you to lodge a complaint that your dustbins have not been emptied on the due date again. The confused council official denies any knowledge of theatre tickets and refuses thereafter to tell you anything other than his name, rank and serial number in line with the dictate of the Geneva Convention. So all in all it is no wonder that DLT rarely get a full house. The whispers are that due to local authority cuts that Netherton Arts Centre is under threat so if you can make it to a show there please do because of course the more people that use the place the more chance it has of remaining open (http://www.dudleylittletheatre.org/).

One place that is definitely still open is the Aston Hotel pub on Witton Lane in Aston, which cropped up in conversation the other day with Willy Mantitt as his firm is trying to flog it off. This gave me chance to relay the following story to Willy.

When my my elder brother, Albino Duxbury, and I were boys our Uncle Albert used to take us to watch Aston Villa and we used to go in the Aston Hotel for the pre-match drinks but as they wouldn’t let kids in the pub we used to stand in the entrance hall, which was fine as it was enclosed and heated. Uncle Albert use to have a pint with his friend, so as it was in the days before hand held video games the Albino and I had to make our own fun so we developed a game whereby we would throw pennies into a glass lampshade hanging from the ceiling. The lampshade had a glass bottom to it and was only open on the top, so it would collect the pennies that were on target.  Anyway, we did this for a couple of seasons but of course it started to get full of pennies.  One pre-match we threw a penny into the lampshade but it was the straw that broke the camel’s back; the lampshade finally gave way and smashed releasing hundreds of pennies onto the floor of the entrance hall.  Sensing the impending commotion Uncle Alb said, “quick, neck your drinks we’re off” and we swiftly hot trotted it, laughing our socks off all the way to Villa Park.

© Dominic Horton, May 2014.

* EMAIL: lordhofr@gmail.com.

Lowlife 70 – For Whom the Bell Tolls

For Whom the Bell Tolls

By Dominic Horton

My second appearance at the gong bath on Friday was an unmitigated disaster.  (For the uninitiated and for those of you who didn't read edition 66 of this column a gong bath involves people lying still on the floor of a hall, eyes shut, while the gongmaster makes relaxing noises with his Oriental gongs.)  I kept feeling myself nodding off which wasn't ideal; given that I suffer from nightmares I was fearful of having one and causing a disturbance.  I was up at 0500 hours on Friday morning and when I am very tired there is every chance I will have a nightmare and they usually occur within seconds of me falling asleep.  If I had screamed in terror at the top of my voice it would have shattered the prevailing tranquil Eastern atmosphere and it would have given everyone the woollies. 

As I had to fight to stay awake it turned out to be a torturous hour.  To make matters worse I had the fidgets in my legs, which I often get when I am very tired.  Only I could transform what is supposed to be a deeply relaxing experience into a highly stressful one.    So I am unsure after this harrowing episode whether I will attend another gong bath but if I do not the two that I have been to will stay long in my memory, for different reasons.   All of the other attendees seemed to be suitably serene at the end of the session so Phil the G had worked his magic and the responsibility for me being in such an agitated state rested entirely with me.

Kenteke in the Tower at St John the Baptist Church, Halesowen

I explained in Lowlife No 66 that the last first time I attended the gong bath the gongmaster, Phil the Gong, shaped up to hug me and I warded off his over familiar and un-British attempted bodily contact by hastily thrusting out my hand for a handshake.   This time I knew that the attempted hug from Phil the G was in the post so I shaped up to hug him but simultaneously he comically thrust out his hand.   Phil explained that he knew that I preferred the handshake last time so he assumed that would be the case again.  It is like a long drawn out game of paper-scissors-stone. 

I have no issues with man to man hugs as I have had to get used to them, like it or not, as my crony the Pirate, the inimitable landlord of the Flagon & Gorses, usually hugs me in full view of the other inmates in the public bar.  Being a reserved Englishman I used to be mildly embarrassed by the Pirate’s hugs but I have grown to love and cherish them as they are laden with genuine warmth (emotional warmth that is not physical, though the Pirate’s body temperate can rise once he’s had a few Nottingham Don’s Pale Ales.) 

Anyway, Phil the G and I eventually had a hug but it was a bit restrained and forced and not like an unbridled bear hug from the Pirate.   But I realise that I barely know Phil so it is to be expected and it was our only début hug.  And I would much rather Phil hug me than punch me in the face or smack me over the head with one of his gongs.

Luckily my activities on the following day were a little more uplifting and both my mood and physical person reached greater heights, as my dear son Kenteke and I went on a short tour of the bell tower of St John the Baptist Church, Halesowen, which had long been an ambition of mine.   I naively thought that the bell ringers would stand on the ground floor with the bells hanging above their heads and there would be an uninterrupted spiral staircase up to the battlements, but not a bit of it.   There were three fascinating rooms at various stages up the extremely narrow and steep spiral staircase: the bell ringing room, the clock room and the bell room.  

St John the Baptist Church, Halesowen, by request of Toby In-Tents

Illuminating talks were given by the bell ringers in each of the three rooms and after the talk in the bell ringing room the campanologist in question handed me a leaflet (Bell Ringing: The Ultimate Team Activity) but I noticed that he didn’t hand leaflets to the other two adults in the party, being a punk rocker with a platinum blonde Mohican and jovial, talkative pensioner.  This struck me as a bit discriminatory especially as I myself had a platinum blonde Mohican haircut only a few years ago.  As for the coffin dodger the bell ringers obviously didn’t want to run the risk of having a fatality on their hands in the bell room as getting a body down that spiral staircase must be a logistical nightmare.   The ringer must have thought that I was suitable material, in my sports jacket and collar, to be indoctrinated into his cult but little did he know that I am an unshakable atheist, I have no musical ability whatsoever and on their practice night I am busy dealing with bell ends of a different variety in the Flagon & Gorses, as I pitch up on a Tuesday to muse on life with the Pirate and Harry Stottle.

Anyway, the bells would not be a good idea at the moment anyway as I am suffering from constant tinnitus as part of my on-going mild-graines condition.    My quest to seek a diagnosis for the condition entered a new chapter this week when I had an appointment with a specialist, a rheumatologist, named Mr G.  As rheumatologists deal with arthritis and other rheumatic diseases, given my symptoms (dizziness, tinnitus, fatigue, flashing lights in my eyes, dehydration) I queried with my GP whether Mr G was the right man for the job but he was adamant that he was. 

A Bell Ringing Funny

After asking me a series of questions about the sorry saga of the illness Mr G quickly ruled out a number of possible conditions such as lupus, fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue syndrome and he stated that it would have been more suitable if I had been referred to an ear, nose and throat specialist.   As by this point only ten minutes or so of the appointment had elapsed Mr G realised that he would have to fill a bit more time in order to justify his fee so he embarked on a series of seemingly pointless tests, using a box of various medical gadgetry as props.  After a few ear and eye routines and the obligatory blood pressure test Mr G rummaged through the box and found one of those surgical hammer things and he comically he hit my knee to test my reflexes, which he declared perfectly normal.   It is a shame that my GP was not standing in front of me as it would have been a good excuse to kick him.   So it is back to the waiting game to see an ENT specialist but knowing my GP he will probably refer me to a gynaecologist.

And the week’s fun didn’t end there.  On Monday, I attended a group called Cradley Heath Creative after learning about their existence in the Halesowen News.    As the name suggests the group is a collective of creative persons in the locale and it transpired that they seemed to be mostly visual artists.  The meeting started at 1700 hours but as I didn't leave work until that time when I turned up proceedings were well under way so all hands around the table looked at me with curiosity when I entered the room.   The Chair of the meeting invited me to introduce myself so I explained that I am a local writer but as it is Mental Health Awareness Week (http://www.mentalhealth.org.uk/our-work/mentalhealthawarenessweek/) I also stated that I suffer from anxiety disorder.   Most of the attendees were probably thinking (but were too polite to say), “this is not an anxiety self-help group mate, you are in the wrong place so kindly p*ss off.” 

The group were actually very welcoming towards me and after the meeting Chris Self showed me around the building, in which he runs The Oaks Project (http://www.theoaksproject.com/), which is a community based design studio for small groups of adults with disabilities, who produce multi-media artworks.   I was so impressed with the Project that I thought I might offer my services there as a volunteer.  The only problem would be that I am so bad at art that if I created something it would look so sorry and shameful alongside the wonderful and professional artworks of the talented students that they would most likely say, “Can we get rid of this bloke please as he is lowering the tone of the place.”  Well, it wouldn't be the first time and it almost certainly won’t be the last.

Film & Boat Launch Events this Weekend – Transition Stourbridge:-

http://transitionstourbridge.co.uk/2014/05/07/film-occupy-love-saturday-17th-may/

http://transitionstourbridge.co.uk/2014/05/09/river-stour-boat-launch-and-next-event/

© Dominic Horton, May 2014.

* EMAIL: lordhofr@gmail.com.

Lowlife 69 – A Great Sporting Moment

A Great Sporting Moment

By Dominic Horton

Being a writer I like to get involved in literary matters and to that end on Tuesday I attended an entertaining and informative talk by local writer Tom Bryson.  The first thing I noticed about Tom was that he was wearing a sports jacket over a white shirt, smart trousers and brown brogues which happened to be the very same outfit in which I was clad; it was almost as if we were both issued with an Acme writer’s uniform as part of our commitments to the written word.   As the event was not as well attended as it deserved to be I had the chance to chat to Tom, who was very helpful, and as he gave me his business card to publicise his work I reciprocated with my Lowlife equivalent.   If Tom did not despatch my card straight into the bin and he actually subsequently read an online edition of this column he was most probably completely perplexed within two minutes flat, leaving him in need of a reassuring drink. 

My dear son Kenteke

Tom seemed very interested in the whereabouts of the Flagon & Gorses so I reckon he likes a pint and he was probably choking for one after the talk and if I had suggested going for a drink he might have jumped at the chance.  But I was desperate for an alcohol free night after effectively having had two boozy Sundays on consecutive days (i.e. the normal Sabbath followed by Bank holiday Monday).

On Sunday No 2 our vivacious landlord at the Flagon & Gorses, being the Pirate, meandered back into the pub, after his weekend junket to Lyme Regis, sporting a dazzling pair of salmon pink trousers and carrying an Indian takeaway big enough to feed a small hamlet in Worcestershire.   I thought I had been transported to a fancy dress food night.  The Pirate explained that the zip had broken on his other trousers and the flamboyant salmon pink britches were his only alternative: on the incredulous sight of the Pirate’s luminous and ludicrous strides I decided that I must be drinking too much was so it was time to tentatively retreat to the uninviting lands of sobriety on Tuesday.

The result of Tuesday being the first dry day of the week was that sleep was hard to come by, as is usually the case on the first booze-less day after the weekend.  The sometimes elusive mistress of sleep flirted with me and we even had a little foreplay but she didn’t want to engage in full intercourse.   At least this meant that I did not have my regular weekly nightmare.  So the phantasm that usually visits and terrorises me was kept waiting all night for me to go to sleep, which he was less than pleased about, reading Scream (the UK’s No 1 horror magazine) to pass the time.  It would have been ironic if through boredom he had nodded off whilst waiting at the top of the stairs and I had snuck up on him and menaced him for a change to get my own back, which would have been sweet revenge after all these years. 

If I had not been so depleted of energy I would have got out of bed and popped my head around the bedroom door to the stairwell and invited the phantasm to help himself to light refreshments and to bung the tele on to while the night away; there was bound to be a decent documentary on PBS America though he would most probably have preferred to watch the Horror channel to give him a few ideas for next week’s visit, which will probably be more vindictive than usual in retribution for this week’s lack of opportunity for him to petrify me.

Scream Magazine

The phantasm might well catch me off guard and come to Codger Mansions tonight when I least expect him but that said he must have other people to terrify as I can’t be the only person on Furnace Hill that has a regular, reoccurring nightmare.   Come to think of it, as he has been visiting me regularly now for over a quarter of a century he must be knocking on a bit so he could well be semi-retired, which may mean that he no longer works every night, so he could be free later to scare the living daylights out of me after all.   

I guess that the phantasm must be older than me as when he first started to appear in my nightmares in my teenage years he must have spent a certain amount of time in training and as he has frightened me witless from day one he must have been an experienced ghoul even back then.   I sincerely hope that before he retires that he has the courtesy to let me know as I would at least like the opportunity to wish him well and maybe even buy him a pint up the Flagon & Gorses, where he would be in good company as there are plenty of characters there who could easily be mistaken for zombies.  I would also like to think that the phantasm will introduce me to his successor, so that there will be a seamless transition.  

I wonder if the phantasm will suggest to his successor that he goes easy on me to give me a break as I have been a long term sufferer of his menaces or whether he’ll say to him, “I’ve been visiting this bloke for years so he is desensitised to it.  You are going to have to pull out all of the stops to make him scream, so make sure you are firing on all cylinders when you turn up and scare the living sh*t out of him.”   If I know the phantasm it will be the latter.

At least I didn’t have a nightmare at Villa Park on Saturday after my beloved Aston Villa finally secured safety in the Premier League in what has been another difficult season. With it being the final home game the players were due to give the the usual lap of disgrace after the match and I wasn’t very keen on it given that we have been generally rubbish at Villa Park this term and I was eager to get back to Codger Mansions.   After the game I asked my dear son Kenteke if he wanted to stay to see the players come back out but he said, “to be honest dad can we go as I need a poo.”  Which just about sums up the season.

The Author Tom Bryson, by request of Toby In-Tents

But it was earlier in the day on Saturday that I witnessed what for me was a great sporting moment.  It was Kenteke’s final football game of the season for his team and as is usual all the players were focussed on scoring a goal to round the season off.  Kenteke had a few good efforts saved and I could see that he was getting desperate to score but as the clock ran down it was looking increasingly unlikely.  Then in the very last seconds of the contest he went clean through on goal and from an angle he shot in textbook striker’s style low and hard across the keeper and the ball went in the bottom corner of the goal, after which the referee immediately blew the whistle for full time. Thank you and good night.   At that moment I knew that later that day Villa was going to win.

Late on Saturday for the remains of the day I watched the film The Remains of the Day, starring Sir Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson.  I borrowed the DVD of the film from my Mom many months ago but I kept putting off watching it as I feared that it might be a little bit depressing as I erroneously believed that it was a slow film about a blind man (played by Hopkins); such belief was borne out of me remembering seeing a clip of the film in the early nineties (when it was released) with Hopkins dancing with Thompson with his eyes shut and me subsequently casually glancing at the dust jacket years later and reading the word “blind”. 

The main character Stevens (a butler, expertly played by Hopkins) seemed to enjoy the full benefit of sight at the start of the movie so I thought that a horrendous accident would happen during the course of the film, shaking the axis of the story; I waited with baited breath for such an incident to occur.   As the film progressed I began to get so anxious and tense at the thought of the impending accident which robs Stevens of his vision that I thought about switching the film off.  But I bravely ploughed on but with only minutes of the film remaining Stevens could see perfectly well so I thought to myself “any minute now the calamity will surely be upon the poor chap” but to no avail.  At the conclusion of the picture Stevens’s mince pies were still in fine fettle.  Perplexed I read the blurb on the DVD’s box which read, “……an extraordinary and moving story of blind devotion and repressed love.”   I, of course, felt like a fool.  As they say, there are none so blind as those that cannot see.

© Dominic Horton, May 2014.

* EMAIL: lordhofr@gmail.com.

Lowlife 68 – The Call of the Porcelain

The Call of the Porcelain

By Dominic Horton

Apologies if the standard of this week's edition is even worse than usual but I am ill with my ongoing mild-graine difficulties and associated issues so I feel more drained than the Pirate's glass shortly after opening time. The illness is getting me down now due to its enduring (yet fluctuating) nature and also due to the fact that the doctors (I use the plural as I have consulted more than one GP) have yet to properly diagnose what it is. As previously discussed Dr Mangolatta seems to think that I have post-viral fatigue, which may well be true but it sounds a bit vague to me; I would be a little more convinced if he had diagnosed post-Flagon fatigue. To extend my gloominess I also have diarrhea, not the verbal sort as found in this column but your actual.

A Kindle (all pictures by request of Toby In-Tents)

On my insistence Mangolatta has finally referred me to a consultant but on investigation I have discovered that he is primarily a rheumatologist, dealing with conditions such as arthritis and inflammatory rheumatic disorders. Given the consultant's specialism I strongly challenged the doctor on the referral but he was adamant that a rheumatologist was the right consultant to see and he did not waiver from this view on further questioning from me. I envisage visiting the consultant only for him to state, “unfortunately I cannot help you with your illness Mr Horton as I do not advise on such complaints. But while you are here I might as well tell you that on first sight of your hands it seems to be the case that you have the beginnings of rheumatoid arthritis in your fingers.”

To compound my woe there has been another defeat in the romance wars this week when I suffered heavy casualties at the Battle of Bartons Arms, where I took a young lady to dinner. She is an auditor by profession and she obviously quickly audited me and was not impressed with my Lowlifian drollery and later that evening after she had retreated back to her trench she sent an expertly aimed shell to finish me off. And who can blame her. So as 1930's football commentators used to say on the radio it is back to square one. At least to soften the blow it is two courses for a tenner at the Bartons Arms on a Tuesday evening; if I had paid the normal menu price for the meal I would have had to instigate a steward's enquiry into the whole sorry affair. Although the auditor seemed to enjoy the evening I knew that the writing was on the wall when I dropped her off at her house as she was out of the car in the blink of an eyelid and dashed homeward quicker than Usain Bolt with a rocket up his ar*e, without so much as a peck on the cheek or a “thanks for the memories.”

A Greek Adonis

The dating game is thoroughly demoralising and depressing, especially when you try to meet someone via the internet. Although I know I am no Robert Redford in his pomp I at least possess the basic requirements of adequate boyfriend material of not being fat, having my own hair and teeth (despite a few being in absentia and most of the remaining hosting metal), being able to string a sentence together (whilst sober) or not being bankrupt or impotent (though things seem to be slowly going south in that regard or more accurately not going north as quickly and as frequently as they used to – Nottingham is an achievement most times and Barrow-in-Furness is a bleeding miracle). As a suitable date for a lady, in Premier League terms I would say that I am Swansea City or Hull at the very least; I am not going to qualify for Europe but at least I am not going to get relegated.

There must be an army of Greek Adonis supermen infiltrating internet dating sites snapping up all the ladies in their wake, as despite me sending potential suitors tasteful, thoughtful, attentive and mildly amusing messages I am lucky if they have the decency to reply to tell me to f*ck off and crawl back under the stone from whence I came. I might be better off giving internet dating the cold shoulder and reverting to more traditional and organic methods of meeting a lady in the flesh, as used to happen in the days when knights were bold and women were happy if you bought them a drink prior to a bit of slap and tickle. The only issue with this tack is that there is more chance of the Pirate becoming teetotal than me meeting a suitable young lady in the places that I commonly frequent, being the Flagon & Gorses and the Rhareli Peking Chinese takeaway.

Being on my own is one of the reasons that summer is my least favourite season as when the sun comes out and the weather turns clement there is such a big expectation that everyone gets out and about to have what is universally perceived as fun. But as I am alone I much prefer the winter where you can hide in the dark and retreat from the cold and hibernate, whether that be in my Codger Mansions dwelling or in the Flagon & Gorses. Anyway summertime can lead to hay fever, feeling clammy, being bitten by midges and other beasties and having a headache caused by the heat, so it is often not all what it is cracked up to be. And the price of sun lotion makes the “free” pastime of sun bathing almost prohibitive, and I need at least a factor 50 with my pasty, Nordic skin. Give me a crisp day in January any day of the week.

The Antithesis of a Greek Adonis - DG Depardieu 

One of my jobs for this summer is to lock myself away from all the oppressive fun and move my writing on a bit. I found out about the success that some authors have had publishing work strictly for the Kindle market via Amazon self publishing, whereby no advance is paid but the author receives a royalty from “books” sold. Like a lot of artistic people I am happy to do the creative bit but I am fairly oblivious to all of the other considerations of actually getting work out in the public domain and all that it entails. To that end I wrote to my writing crony DG Depardieu (writer of rodent based children's literature) to ask his expert opinion on the Amazon publishing lark.

DG posed me a number of questions, such as: a) How will you publicise the work? My answer: I will put up a notice in the Flagon & Gorses of course. b) Who will professionally edit the book? My answer: I am sure that Willy Mantitt would edit the work as long as I buy him a bottle of his favourite tipple, the superlative Sicilian spirit Limoncello; in practice he will get one of his Polish underlings at work to undertake the task, who can barely speak English let alone read it; c) Would your current readers (and would prospective readers of the kind of things you write) be amenable to downloading books onto a Kindle or would they prefer traditional paper books? My answer: My first thought was to challenge such an assumption and state that I have a cosmopolitan and modern readership who are more than au fait with modern technology such as Kindles. But in actuality most of my readers think that a Kindle is a chocolate egg with a surprise gift in the middle which can be purchased from most reputable newsagents. I do know for a fact that Jolly D has a Kindle as his missus bought him one for Christmas. I am not sure that he has ever actually used it though. The height of technology in the Flagon (where my readership base is) is a little word device that looks like a calculator that the Pirate uses to cheat at crosswords.

One bloke (I forget his name) uploaded a book onto Amazon and sold 200,000 copies and this lead to a proper publishing deal and he is now a full time writer.  That said the main difference is that the author in question's work is well written and popular and not amateurish vignettes on misery and pub life in a small Midlands town.

Together with my dear son, Kenteke, I have started to read DG's latest book, My Hamster is a Spy, which is part of his excellent ongoing Stinky & Jinks Hamster series. As DG must be getting bored of writing the Hamster books I have offered to ghost write his next offering which I will entitle My Hamster is a Borderline Alcoholic; an adult theme I know but after all DG's readers are not going to be kids forever and they will need to be introduced to the harsh realities of life sooner or later. And that brings to a close another edition of this incongruous missive which is just as well as with some urgency the porcelain calls ….......

© Dominic Horton, May 2014.

(See http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Dave%20lowe%20hamster  if you are interested in DG Depardieu's books .)

* EMAIL: lordhofr@gmail.com.