Lowlife 130 – Bring Out Your Dead

Bring Out Your Dead

By Dominic Horton

How is the world? Is it alright? I haven't been out in it for a while as I have been struck down and I am bed bound. The world might have disappeared completely for all I know, with my Codger Mansions home standing alone as the only sign of its existence. Having a nasty ailment is enough to make you ill. All the inactivity, television watching and lack of stimulation is tiresome. I haven't even been able to have a drink for well over a week and I have not been to the Flagon & Gorses for even longer. I am surprised that they haven't sent out a search party or listed me as a missing person on Police Five. That said all of the regular inmates up there will be too busy getting p*ssed to spare any time and effort to search for me. One must get one's priorities right in life after all.

Revellers having a good time despite the fact that they

have got the Black Death - a good effort.

Lying in bed for the last few days, being quite unwell, with a wide variety of odd symptoms - including mouth ulcers, swollen gums, swollen glands, sharp headaches and disjointed thoughts (no change there then) – all sorts of wild possibilities went through my mind: glandular fever, irreversible gum disease, yellow fever, scarlet fever, cup fever, purple f*cking fever, whatever …...... even the dreaded Bengal Lancer. Once the weekend was out of the way things had not improved one jot so it was off to the doctor on Monday morning after the Herculean effort of getting out of bed and dressed etc. The doctor was quick to reach a diagnosis: “You've got the 'flu.”

Typical. I was due to have my 'flu jab on Saturday but had to cancel due to the illness. “The 'flu? But I haven't had a runny nose or a sore throat doctor, neither have I had a cough.” “It doesn't matter Mr Horton, you still have the 'flu. Go to bed, drink plenty of water and have some paracetamol.” After waiting to see the doctor for over an hour he had dispatched me within a few seconds like a short ball through the covers. I didn't think anyone got the actual 'flu anymore, not since the 'flu jab became widely available. I thought that the 'flu was now as rare as contracting the black death, which is another illness that I suspected I might have before I sought counsel from the doctor. A touch of the bubonic would be a complete and utter disaster because if The Pirate found out he wouldn't let me into the Flagon & Gorses.

I don't think anything noteworthy has happened at the Flagon while I've been in absentia but it may not be a bad thing that I am temporarily divorced from the warm and welcoming clutches of my second home. It is the worst kept secret since it was revealed that Rock Hudson was gay that The Pirate has shook hands with a buyer to sell the pub and if my sources are correct – which is unlikely – the sale is due to complete any week soon, once formalities are finalised. So putting a bit of distance between me and the establishment (metaphorically speaking, as I only live half a mile down the road) could be beneficial as it will leave me less mournful once the inevitable happens.

A Bengal Lancer, by request of Toby In-Tents.

I haven't seen The Pirate properly in quite a while, not by design, but I have generally not frequented the pub as much recently and when I do it is normally later in the evening, when The Pirate tends to be upstairs in his quarters. I've had a a tin of Polish sardines for him for at least 3 weeks and if I don't see him soon I will probably eat them myself, which is something I might regret.

The silver lining to the cloud of the Flagon's sale is that it will remain as a pub and a real ale pub to boot. But no one knows the finer details of what the buyer plans to do with the place and whether he will shut the pub for refurbishment or he will keep it open. If it is the former there will be a lot of refugees wondering around Halesowen looking for shelter and some of the more institutionalised pub inmates won't know what to do with themselves. Dudley Metropolitan Borough Council will have to call in the UN to set up emergency real ale tents where Flagoners can sit supping bitter, wrapped in silver blankets, eating freeze dried scratchings from special CAMRA ration packs.

Many drinkers will easily be re-homed by other drinking establishments because some pub goes are fickle and see no further than the price of a pint and have no time for the bonhomie or romance of a pub. Many others, who have made a sport of moaning about The Flagon, will miss the way it was when the place finally changes hands. They will have a new regime to moan about and they will look at the way the Waggon used to be through highly polished rose tinted spectacles.

Shaw Taylor on Police 5

But for the most institutionalised player in the game it will truly be what pop psychologists call “a life changing event.” At this time I do not know what will become of The Pirate, where he will end up or what his plans are, whether he will retire disgracefully, go back into business, continue to loiter around the West Midlands or make the pilgrimage back to Hampshire, where he is from. The Flagon & Gorses has been The Pirate's life for well over a quarter of a century, so whatever he ends up doing it will be a complete sea change. It is one thing to work in the same place for over twenty five years but to work there, live there, run the business, that is another. Let us hope that The Pirate doesn't end up like Brooks Hatlen in The Shawshank Redemption.

It is not clear at present whether any of Chilli Willy, Carla Von Trowel, Clawdia, Toni Tulips, Chloe Tulips, Donny Darkeye and the rest of the staff will be re-employed by the new owners but it could be unlikely. They are cherished fixtures and fittings of the place and I only hope that they are included in the sale inventory, if they want to carry on working at the place that is.

But there is no point being sentimental about these things. Life moves on, things change, sometimes for the better, sometimes not. At least The Flagon is not being turned into a Dixy Chicken or the like, with The Pirate and Chilli Willy flipping burgers for the minimum wage. That would take the biscuit, or the chicken drumstick to be precise.

Chloe Tulips & Toni Tulips behind the bar in

the Flagon & Gorses.

Though things are sure to be different, The Flagon will still be a pub and I suppose for that we should all be thankful. If the place was to cease to be a public house then Flagoners would disperse to various drinking holes far and wide and our little community would be lost, which would be a crying shame. One of the beauties of popping into the Flagon is not so much seeing one's regular cronies but bumping into a familiar face that you haven't seen for a while and having a pleasant time. In many ways the epitome of this for me is hazarding across Dick the Hook, who is always unfailingly jocular and frivolous pub company in whose presence it is almost impossible to be miserable – the tonic of laughter and companionship is the very reason why we go to the pub in the first place.

People are being urged to go sober for October to raise money for Macmillian. I do not understand why people are being encouraged to abstain completely as it is a well known fact that on average moderate drinkers live longer than teetotalers. I know that the phrase Drink Moderately for October is not as catchy as Go Sober for October but the health of people should be valued more than a natty slogan. Anyway, due to my illness I have by default been virtually sober for October. If we want to raise money for charity before The Flagon changes hands we should avoid the world's biggest coffee morning but wholeheartedly support the world's biggest p*ss up. 

© Dominic Horton, October 2015.

* Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Lowlife 129 - Snap Happy

 Snap Happy

By Dominic Horton

Like so many people these days my girlfriend, the lovely Babushka, is snap happy and is forever taking photographs on her mobile telephone, which would be better described as a mobile camera in her case. Incidentally, I am not sure that I am wholly comfortable with the use of the word “girlfriend” in relation to middle aged people but I am not sure what word would better take its place. In my book a partner is someone you are in business with and ladyfriend makes a relationship sound like two coffin dodgers who meet for tea and companionship but have a purely platonic arrangement. “Bird” is a bit too Terry McCann/ Timmy Lea. Suggestions on a post card please. Or by text via a mobile camera.

Kenteke, mid-air.

Anyway, the upside of Babushka being quick on the draw to take photographs is that occasionally she bags a gem of a picture. For example she recently snapped my dear son Kenteke jumping off the wall in my back garden, he's mid-air in gay abandon, and it is a magical image that seems to capture the carefree joyfulness of childhood – if only it could be bottled, it could then be administered on prescription to some of the acerbic berks I see down the town centre whose sole method of communication with their children is barking at them like an agitated dog. Persons who lose their sense of childishness are dead people walking.

My sense of childishness never seems to be too far away but it has been enhanced recently as I have unwittingly started to play harmonica in public with other musicians (as a harmonica player I am merely an accompanist so I pretty much have to play with others – I sound bad enough hiding behind a guitar or two and percussion without exposing just me and my instrument. So to speak.) I let the proper musicians do all of the hard work and I just dip in and out when I feel like it, which used to be the philosophy of some of my colleagues in my former life as a banker.

As a group of musicians (better described as a group of musicians plus me) we just turn up and see where things lead, we don't rehearse or plan songs etc., I suppose we jam to use the colloquialism (the word jam – in this context – doesn't seem to rest easy when used in reference to white Englishmen, it seems more at home when applied to Jamaican reggae musicians or bluesman in Chicago. Given the way we play it would more appropriately be described as shamming.) Jolly D sings and chips in with guitar, D's brother Fingers Freddie Fry plays lead, Johnny Toobad plays guitar and sings vocals too (when he can remember the lyrics), Marky Heat plays the cajón (drum box) for percussion and Neddy La Chouffe fiddles with our knobs (in other words he's the sound man.) Viv Aldi always starts us off with a pleasant folk-ish set, which we are always grateful for, as the rest of us are not brave enough to open proceedings.

Johnny Toobad at the Flagon & Gorses.

We have started to play together by accident really. The Flagon & Gorses recently began an open mic night and at the first one regular Flagon inmate Johnny Toobad bought his guitar down but as he was struggling to remember all the lyrics to songs Jolly D stepped in on vocals – I drunkenly jumped in on harmonica and that was the start of it. While we play the child in us is very much in evidence.   We are having fun while being creative and using our imaginations, to one extent or another, and smiles and laughter are very much in evidence.  When the child in you comes out for that brief time you are free of the troubles and stresses of life and just living in the moment.  A kind of magic is created. 

When we are playing in my mind we are every bit as good as The Rolling Stones but we can't be very good at all as a rolling stone gathers no moss but we gather no listeners. In fairness the other chaps can play but as we don't rehearse or meet up in between times the first few numbers can be a bit of a shambles with feedback on the amp and me playing harmonica in the wrong key. I am used to striking bum notes by writing this column but now I am actually doing it musically too. But we eventually seem to get into our stride, just shortly after the last customer has left The Flagon & Gorses in disgust.

My new musical life was actually captured on video by Neddy La Chouffe when I played an impromptu duo with the wonderful Richard Adey on accordion at the house of infamy that is The Holly Bush in Cradley Heath, run by the force of nature that is Davey Duke, a man of many talents but few morals. Unfortunately by the time I unexpectedly took the stage with Richard I was on the back end of 8 odd pints of the world class Fixed Wheel pale ale, so my performance was a little loose to say the least – thankfully Richard skilfully and tactfully carried me through it.

The Spratt, by request of Toby In-Tents.

My performance with Richard was not the first time that I had graced the Bush stage as I acted in play there (Two Men in a Pub) starring alongside Davey Duke and our friend the lovely Vicki, who are both members of the arts group that I am involved in, Cradley Heath Creative. Harry Stottle, who has a vast back catalogue of treading the boards, gave me a sensible bit of advice for my acting debut – don't drink before the performance, so I didn't. But every time I looked at Duke and Vicki during the day they had a pint in there hands so I had grave concerns come show time. But everything was all right on the night and we seemed to carry things off at least adequately.

We decided to buy an 'oss box (a horse box for those of you not familiar with Black Country dialect) for Cradley Heath Creative, as a portable performance space. We got it on the cheap for a few hundred sovs as it is ancient and needs a bit of work doing to it. Some people realise a dream of being part owner of a race horse but it is typical of me that I have part share in a dilapidated 1970's 'oss box. It won't make me a millionaire so I only hope that it doesn't bankrupt me.

The esteemed sculptor Tim Tolkien – one of our creative troupe – is tasked with renovating the 'oss box, if we ever raise the funding that is. To that end he bought a toy 'oss box which he claimed he would use to map out the renovations. But if I was a betting man I would wager all of my beer money for next month that he just wanted a toy 'oss box, pure and simple. It's not hard to see the child in Tim, which is part of the reason why I like him. It's probably no co-incidence that his occupation is a creative one that demands the use of imagination.

Davey Duke, in a former life as a bingo caller.

I haven't got a toy 'oss box but I have got a novelty toy harmonica, it's about an inch long and it only has three reeds and I used to like playing When the Saints go Marching In on it. I dug the novelty harmonica out the other day when I was rooting through my music box trying to find an odd Chinese harmonica that I bought many years ago, that sounds like an accordion when you play it. But the reeds of the small mouth organ must have rusted or the wooden comb warped as it made a strange sound.

I started to play the Chinese harmonica instead but I had to quickly stop as The Spratt – Babushka's lively Jack Russell dog, who was staying with me at Codger Mansions – took exception to the instrument's sound and he started to bark at me. When our little band of minstrels play at the Flagon we always do Willie Dixon's Little Red Rooster (popularised by The Rolling Stones in the 1960's) and the lyrics go “dogs begin to bark/ and the hounds begin to howl”, so I think that the barking Spratt wants to join our band, which would be a good move as he's a top dog and universally popular with everyone, which is more than can be said for the rest of us.

© Dominic Horton, September 2015.

* Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Lowlife 128 – Jam Tarts

Jam Tarts

By Dominic Horton

My dear son Kenteke and I recently baked some jam tarts for Cradley Heath Creative's contribution to the Women Chainmakers' Festival as our input, in our new 'oss box, was focused around food and what particular foodstuffs mean to different people. The jam tarts were workmanlike at best but they can't have been too bad as they were all scoffed by festival goers and no one asked for their money back – which is a good job really as the jam tarts were free. Home made jam tarts remind me of my Nanny Gladys who, together with my Grandad Charlie, lived in a council house in Blackheath. The jam tarts that Nan used to bake were warm, rich and sweet, just like Nan. They tasted like love.

Mine & Kenteke Jam tarts, by request of Toby In-Tents.

Food was all around at Nan and Grandad's house as their large garden was effectively an allotment and Grandad used to grow all of his own veg: carrots, spuds, cabbage, green beans and in the green house fragrant tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers. He built the greenhouse himself out of bits and pieces he found in skips and on wasteland. Living through the war and the austerity that followed meant that Nan and Grandad watched every penny and they didn't have much but they were both generous, giving souls in many ways.

Once, in the hot summer of 1976, an ice cream van pulled up outside Grandad's house and he asked me if I wanted one, to which I said yes. The ice cream man held the ice cream out and said, “5p please.” Grandad said, “'ow much?! I aye a-payin' that me mon! Yow can 'av thruppence and not a penny moowa.” The bloke said, “But it's 5p.” But by now in the sweltering heat the ice cream started to melt down the man's arm. He reluctantly and unhappily conceded, “alright then, gie us thruppence.” That was one of my earliest memories.

Instead of doing all of their shopping at one supermarket, as people tend to do today, to make the most of their money Nan and Grandad would go round all of the shops in Blackheath seeking the best deals and using coupons from newspapers and magazines to get money off. Nan and Grandad didn't have a fridge when I was young or a telephone, the television was only black and white and they had a coal fire. It didn't matter though as they were happy and I was happy when I was at their house too.

When they went on holiday in this country Grandad would sniff out the British Legion as the beer would always be cheaper and better there. They used to take us grandchildren to Blackpool in the summer. On the way Grandad would avoid the expensive motorway services and would pull over in a lay-by on an A road, where he would brew tea using a camping stove. He would warn us about the evils of costly motorway services and to this day if I buy anything at the services I feel a great sense of guilt and decadence.

Cradley Heath Creative's 'Oss Box.

Friday night was bingo night at Blackheath Labour Club, a big deal in Dodge City. Grandad would buy us a bottle of dandelion and burdock and tell us not to guzzle it as we wouldn't get another one. We would guzzle it. When Grandad went into the bingo hall Nan would buy us another bottle and told us not to tell Grandad. As there were no ipads or the like back then us kids used to entertain ourselves by reading The Young Solider magazine, which was a Salvation Army paper sold by a fella who used to tour the pubs and clubs selling The Young Soldier and War Cry.

As it was a Friday night there was a great sense of anticipation of the following day's football. Uncle Alb and Auntie Ann used to be there too and Alb would take my brother and I with him to watch Aston Villa, his team. But I couldn't go to the Villa until I was 7 years old so until I was old enough Grandad used to take me to see local teams such as Oldbury United or Halesowen Town. I remember seeing Willenhall Town scoring off a corner at Oldbury using a tactic where the attacking players gathered in a huddle on the edge of the penalty box and split and made different runs on the corner kicker's strike. As I was no older than 6 and impressed by the routine I guess that I was always destined to be a football coach in later life.

Me and Nanny Gladys on Blackpool beach, 1970's.

I was finally allowed to go up the Villa with Uncle Alb and my brother but being little there was the problem of me being able to see as the Holte End at Villa Park was all standing at the time. Kids used to stand on plastic beer crates but Grandad had other, grander ideas. Out of scrap wood Grandad made my brother and I a wooden step to stand on, it had two levels and he even painted it claret and blue. I don't know what happened to our treasured step but I wish I still had it now.

When I was old enough I was allowed into the bingo hall at the Labour Club to observe the proceedings but I had to be deadly quiet. There was always a great tension in the air. After a while a woman would excitedly shout “house!” but often once the bingo caller checked the card he would declare somberly over the PA, “Ladies and gentlemen, it's a bogie.” A bogie meant it wasn't a house at all and the old lady had made a mistake – she would have to walk down the central aisle of the hall to get her card back to quiet boos and hisses from the disapproving crowd. “ 'er's always a-doin' it she is, the clarnet*,” they'd say. On the way home Grandad would say, “I was one off the flyer again, whack!” He seemed to be one off the flyer every week.

My Dad, Ken, and my Grandad Charlie - this is my
favourite photograph, I love the difference in styles
of dress, my Grandad in his Sunday best, looking
immaculate with his newspaper folded neatly under
his arm and my Dad in his Teddy boy gear. 

Grandad fought in the war in the Coldstream Guards but he never used to talk about it, even if I asked him. I used to wear Grandad's uniform cap sometimes and pretend I was in the army. He was regimented and disciplined in everything he did and all items in the house had its place and when you had finished using something you had to put it back where it belonged. If you left the room you had to shut the door and if you didn't Grandad would say, “put the 'ood in the 'ole there's a lark in the lezza**.” Having learnt the value of this approach as a child I follow it now as an adult and I am organised and neat and tidy, bordering on OCD but that is for other reasons. At Christmas I used to read Nan and Grandad's Christmas cards that were on the sideboard.  One was written in a foreign hand and the sender sent a card to Grandad every year. One year I asked who the card was from and Grandad said it is from a Dutchman he knew in the war. I asked what was written in the card and Grandad said, “I doe know, I cor read Dutch.”

The one thing I remember about Nan is her laugh – she used to laugh all of the time. “I dae 'alf loff me eye up” she used to say. Nan used to love to watch the wrestling on Saturday afternoons on World of Sport featuring such wrestlers as Giant Haystacks, Cat Weazel, Big Daddy and Jake “Fit” Findlay. Grandad used to pass through the room and say to Nan, “It's a bloody fix Gladys, a fiddle.” But Nan would have none of it. She must have known it was all fixed but she didn't want to acknowledge it as she loved it too much. When Cry Baby Cooper was wrestling Grandad would say, “'ee's a cry babby he is.”

I used to help Grandad in his garden and when we had finished and were tired we'd sit on the bench, which Grandad had made himself, and Nan would bring a pot of tea down and digestive biscuits. The tea was made with tea leaves and the milk was sterilised. I can taste that heavenly, quenching tea now. Try as I may as an adult I have never been able to replicate the taste of my Nan's tea. I have not manage to replicate my Nan's delectable jam tarts either.

* Clarnet means idiot or fool in the Black Country dialect.

** Lezza means field in the Black Country dialect.

© Dominic Horton, August 2015.

* Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Lowlife 127 – Forget Me Not

Forget Me Not

By Dominic Horton

Last week was another busy week which included Tater's funeral, a day with my dear son Kenteke, a shared reading session of poetry for residents of a care home who suffer from dementia, a trip to the picturesque Telford campus of the University of Wolverhampton, being force fed Enville Ale from the cask by Sleepy Tom Parker at his place on Saturday (I didn't complain) and more job related shenanigans. Not forgetting quiz night at the Flagon & Gorses, where the Pirate and I were proud as peacocks not to finish last. As far as pub quizzes are concerned it is usually a case of me being first up the bar, last in the quiz. The only question I usually answer right is when Chilli Willy behind the bar asks me what I want to drink and I get that wrong half of the time.

Jonty Von Rossi in the Flagon & Gorses

Talking of pub matters (and pubs do of course matter) I was disappointed to hear that my good friend Jonty Von Rossi is soon to cease to become landlord of The Swan on Shell Corner after taking the controversial decision to emigrate to Devon. What Devon has to offer - other than fine beaches, a balmy climate, fabulous cream teas and stunning National Parks – gawd only knows. It is a long way for Jonty to go to avoid suffering the indignities of watching West Bromwich Albion but if that is what it takes, then fair enough. Jonty's imminent departure was a good a reason as any for a little drink so I met him on Sunday in The Swan and The Frymaster General dragged himself down the motorway from Stoke to join us. Within seconds of being at the bar the Frymaster, true to type, had sniffed out the murkiest scrumpy on offer – if you can see through the pint it is not for the Frymaster.

On Monday I wasn't drinking murky cider but a crystal clear Enville brewery Cherry Blonde in The Whitley after Tater's funeral, where so many turned up to pay their respects to my dear friend that a great number of mourners were locked out of the chapel. My pall bearing and speech giving duties went well enough and it was a relief when they were over, though it was a great honour to be asked to play my part in the proceedings. Pall bearing is a particularly nerve wracking task as I always fear that I will trip up and knock the coffin over, or some such calamity, even though these days the coffin tends to be on a trolley to make things easier. And writing and orating a speech for a funeral is a much more difficult undertaking than doing it for a wedding, giving the somberness and sensitivity of the occasion. When writing a best man's speech you only need to throw in a few cheap one liners and it gets the tipsy gathering tittering, so you are off and running. But that tactic cannot be equally applied to writing a eulogy or a tribute, so you have to tread with great care and delicacy.

I was a bit delicate on Tuesday as we had a few to send Tater off. I performed my usual trick of not eating much despite Sarah laying on a magnificent buffet and when I finally got home I didn't have the heart to wake a frozen pizza that lay sleeping in the freezer – the pizza must have had a hard day because it was flat out. The irony of me not eating was that a food bank collection that Sarah had organised for the funeral drew in enough food to feed the whole of Halesowen.

The Whitley, Halesowen.

A fry up on Tuesday morning with my dear son Kenteke at the wonderful Litebites cafe round the corner from my Codger Mansions home remedied the position and propelled me into the rest of the week, which saw me reading poetry to care home residents with dementia in Tipton on Wednesday as part of my volunteering with The Shared Reading Company. I didn't know quite what to expect from the experience but I was keen to go to find out what it was like, on invitation from my colleague Nuala, who runs the shared reading groups at the home. The care home was a big place, like a village almost, divided into different sections that cater for the needs of the residents.

When we arrived Nuala started talking to residents that she knows to see how they are. Nuala asked one seated lady, J___, how she is and she enthusiastically greeted Nuala, “Oooooh, hello luvva, it's so lovely to see you chick, how am ya?” Nuala said, “You know who I am then J___?” J___ said, “No love, aye got a clue.” As I was standing round like a spare part I started to introduce myself and talk to the residents too. A study found that care home residents who have dementia on average only spend 2 minutes a day participating in meaningful social interaction, so a bit of chat, even with me, might be valuable. Nuala spoke with one man, P___ , and when they had finished he moved away in his wheelchair to watch television. Nuala said to me, in hushed tones, “He's a lovely chap P_____, he's in here but there's nothing wrong with him.” I looked at P____ and saw he has no legs. I looked back at Nuala and we both laughed at her statement – what she meant of course was that he doesn't have dementia, he is perfectly lucid, but for some reason he is in the dementia based home.

The Frymaster General, by request of Toby In-Tents.

I talked to T_____. He asked me, “what time am yow gooin' to bed?” “I don't know T___, maybe 11.30.” “That's late.” “Well, I shall probably go to the pub this evening.” “They woe let me goo to the pub! No chance! And the minute yow goo, they'll put me t' bed, I'm tellin' ya.” I assumed that T___'s last comment wasn't a true reflection of what would happen (as it was only early in the afternoon) but I did desperately want to take him out to the pub for a drink, even if it was just for one pint. It would probably do T___ the world of good.

Nuala and I read poems to the group of six residents and stopped for discussion after each piece. Some of the group gave their thoughts on the poems, some didn't, S___ just smiled. She smiled a lot, it was lovely to see. After a poem about gardening (The Glory of the Garden by Rudyard Kipling) one resident, L___, became very animated and told us all about the large garden that she used to have at her home and what she use to do in it.  L____ spoke with energy and she had a light in her eyes, recalling memories from her life.

B___ spoke a few words about the poems after each reading and was even able to read one piece aloud. Later Nuala told me that at first B___ didn't say a word at the sessions but slowly over the weeks she has begun to contribute more. Another lady, D___, sat expressionless throughout most of the session and didn't look at the poetry sheets in front of her. But towards the end of the readings she picked up the poem in question and started to follow Nuala's reading, accurately as well, as I could tell she was reading the correct lines and she turned the page at the right place.

Litebites cafe, Halesowen.

The shared reading session was the last one of the season as the funding has come to an end and even though Nuala has re-applied to the funders, with a view to starting a new round of sessions in the autumn, there is no guarantee the money will be forthcoming. As we left Nuala admitted to feeling a bit sad, as she won't be back next week. I said I feel sad too, even though it's my first visit – who will read poems to the residents next week? Nuala handed a bound folder of poetry to an employee of the home who is known to her, in the hope that she will read to the residents - I sincerely hope that she does but given the pressures of her job she might not have the time or the inclination.

The residents of the home deserve not to be simply forgotten. And my dear departed friend Tater will always be in my memory. And even though he's going to Devon I won't forget Jonty Von Rossi either – mainly because I want to visit him for a free holiday. 

© Dominic Horton, July 2015.

Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Email: lordhofr@gmail.com

Lowlife 126 – Perpetual Motion

Perpetual Motion

By Dominic Horton

Last Thursday morning felt full of possibilities. I could have gone for a stroll on the breezy Otterspool promenade and said hello to the seagulls to blow a bit of booze out of my feathers, I could have read my book in bed, watched the news and learnt about the previous day's budget – nothing like getting the heckles up first thing to bring one to life – or I could sit and make notes in order to write this tomfoolery: I plumped for the latter option. I was in a Travelodge in Aigburth, Liverpool as I was attending a three day Read to Lead course in the locality, run by The Reader organisation.

Moby Dick.

Thursday morning saw me in my modus operandi of having a suggestion of a hangover having sampled some of the local watering holes the night before. I hadn't planned to go out at all on Wednesday evening as I was very tired on account of only having had a few miserly hours sleep over the previous couple of nights and I was up at 0430 hours on Wednesday morning for the drive. I set out ridiculously early as I had never undertook a motorway journey of such a length before and I was a bundle of nerves, or as Alexander Sutcliffe would have it, I was shaking like a tap dancer's fanny.

After the course I arrived back at my travel tavern prison cell, with it's domineering view of a large bush inches from the window, and decided that I must get out after I had eaten my tea. As I was trying to do the trip on a tight budget tea consisted of an executive pot noodle type affair with cherry tomatoes – the dish was supposed to be accompanied by black olives to give it a more Mediterranean feel but the ring came off the tin, rendering it useless. And although I am a thorough sort of chap I didn't pack a tin opener, though one will be on my list for the next trip.

Despite breathing exercises and other tricks of the anxiety trade I found it difficult to becalm myself after the jumpy motorway journey and a busy day at the course, so there was only one thing for it – a pint. I looked on the Whatpub website and there basically seemed to be two choices: walk a couple of miles to Lark Lane in Aigburth, which seemed have some runners and riders, though they looked a bit fancy for my liking, or stroll a mile or so into Garston to visit a back street boozer, which appealed more to my Lowlifian tastes, especially as the pub temptingly promised six real ales to tickle the tonsils with. But first was a visit to the Toby carvery which accompanies the travel tavern, as although I know what banalities awaited me I wouldn't be doing my job as writer of this column properly if I didn't at least have a quick one.

The Toby had all the set pieces: surly staff resigned to their fate, invasive and unsettling piped music, advertisements for Carling cider pitchers at £13.10 a pop (Carling cider?! How low rent can one get) and a faltering Wifi that didn't have the heart to rise to the challenge and overcome its dismal surroundings. My eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the small bounty of three hand pumps. But on closer inspection they all vended the same beer. Of course they did. How dare me to expect otherwise from Mr Toby. But the pint was in tip top nick, not what I anticipated at all, which threw me a bit.

Otterspool Promenade, Aigburth, Liverpool.

I hot trotted the fifteen minutes or so to The Masonic, leaving leafy, affluent Aigburth and entering an earthy world of council houses and Victorian terraces.  Although Whatpub is useful to discover the best of what an area has to offer it takes all of the excitement out of sniffing out a boozer on unfamiliar territory. As I walked down the main road to the Masonic I gazed longingly down side streets hoping to see a beery oasis adorned with hanging baskets but I knew full well that it was not going to happen. Looking at Whatpub had snatched that possibility away from me. Even reading the real ale buff's bible The Good Beer Guide doesn't completely shut the door on unearthing a gem of a pub as not all of the decent ones are in the book. And as my fellow inmates at The Flagon & Gorses will tell you there's nothing quiet like rooting out a bostin' boozer only by using the stars and the aroma of hops to guide you, like Ray Mears sniffing out a Wetherspoons in the Amazon rainforest.

The Masonic was tucked away, shyly hidden in a labyrinth of terraced house streets. In the public bar there were three men and there seemed to be a customer dress code of shaved heads and shorts revealing tattooed calves. All hands seemed pleasant enough though. As I approached the bar the gaffer said, “we've only got one on” pointing to the six hand pumps. At the this point I hadn't spoken and I had only been in the pub literally seconds so how he knew that I am a real ale drinker I know not, either I must just look like the sort or his gafferly instrincts told him.

The Masonic, Garston, Liverpool, by request

of Toby In-Tents

The gaffer served me the one beer they had on but before I could taste what looked like an acceptable - but far from mint condition - pint it was whisked away as he deemed it not to be in adequate condition. He poured me another pint, which was in better nick, but also gave me the original one as well, explaining that I could have the naff one for for free. He charged me £2, so it was effectively a £1 a pint, which appealed to my meagre budget. After another couple it was back to the Toby for a nightcap, then bed.

The following night demanded a change of tactics, so I sauntered the couple of miles or so to Lark Lane, via a couple of pit stops. After walking for about a mile and a half passed large houses with perfectly manicured lawns and Mercedes camper vans on driveways I encountered seven churches and three Italian restaurants but no pub. There's too much pasta and not enough pissed-a in Aigburth and the work/ drink balance appears to be all wrong.

I finally got to The Old Bank, some three miles down the main road from The Masonic with no other pubs in between (not counting the Toby of course, which can't claim to be a proper boozer.) The pub was not unpleasant but it sported more television screens (three) than hand pulls (two) and there was only a couple with a dog in, so after a quick one and a chat with the barman, I moved on.

I quickly hazarded upon a lively house called the Fulwood Arms, where drinkers had spilled out onto the street and an Irish folkey band were in full irritating swing. Ominiously two hand pulls had no pump clips on them. I asked the gaffer, who himself turned out to be Irish, if he had any real ale on. “Wha's dat yer mean?” I pointed forlornly at the hand pumps. “We have some Guinness Porter,” and being the best thing on offer I had a pint. It was freezing cold and gassy and gave me the hiccups. Back out into the Liverpudlian night.

I finally found Lark Lane, which is attractive and a bit boho, like London almost but you don't have to get on a tube to get there, which was a relief. I popped in two more pubs with bar staff with perplexed looks when I inquired about the availability of real ale. Heading up Lark Lane on my quest for a decent pint I felt like the beer hunter, in perpetual motion, I was Captain Ahab in Moby Dick but instead of hunting the great white whale I would have settled for an average real ale – then I found one, in The Albert. An attractive building had been ruined internally with garish advertising, more TV screens than Currys and flashing fruit machines. An odd contraption behind the bar advertised 'crispy bacon vodka' which sounds like a Russian breakfast drink. I hankered for home and the Flagon & Gorses and left The Albert to return, unfulfilled, to the travel tavern.

The Albert, Aigburth, Liverpool. 

But I passed a place called the Rhubarb, that looked on first glance like a wine bar (which I had earlier dismissed) and I studied it more closely and it beckoned me in. At last I had found what appeared to be a normal locals' pub. With people at the bar who talk to you. And chit chat and chaffing with the bar staff. A mature woman at the bar asked where I am from and what I was doing in Liverpool. I explained that I am from a town called Halesowen in the Black Country and that I was in Liverpool on a course to do with Shared Reading. “I've nevva eeerrred of dat place. Martin, dis lad's come all de way 'ere to read booooowks!!!!” Martin - “He's a Brummie dat lad.” Barman - “No ee's not like, 'ee's from Dudley I'm tellin' ya.” Dudley: close enough for me. Turns out the barman went to Birmingham University and has a bit of West Midlands knowledge.

Martin tipped me off to order as much as I wanted at last orders as the bar staff don't kick you out but they can't serve after hours, as the gaffer, who was upstairs, will know by looking at the electronic till. He ordered four pints of Guinness. I conservatively just had the three pints of bitter. Finally I had got my catch but unlike Ahab I didn't pay with my life but with a twenty pound note.

© Dominic Horton, July 2015.

Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Email: lordhofr@gmail.com

Lowlife 125 – In the Wee Small Hours

In the Wee Small Hours

By Dominic Horton

Without wishing to sound like a raving hypochondriac I seem to be having a rather poor run of health at the moment: aside from the usual incumbents of anxiety disorder and hay fever I am under the physiotherapist for my back, I have the dreaded dizzy-wobbles – otherwise known as labyrinthitis – and I even have a touch of the old Chalfonts. When the government recommended that you have at least five a day I suspect that they were not referring to ailments. I did have an odd sensation the other day though when I was sitting in the garden: I felt relaxed. Suffering from anxiety disorder as I do alarm bells start to ring when I feel relaxed and I felt suspicious as to why I was in such a foreign state. True, I was sitting in the sun having a pleasant time with the lovely Babushka but I normally feel fearful to one degree or another in all and any circumstances. My suspicions turned out to be justified as I had been unwittingly drugged with a medication that is used to counter the jitters.

Pat Jennings, by request of Toby In-Tents.

I had taken the medication stemetil, as prescribed by my GP, which is supposed to soften the effect of dizziness, and being a nurse Babushka followed her second nature and looked the drug up and found that it is indeed used to treat dizziness and vertigo but also mania and bi-polar disorder, mood disorders, nausea and vomiting, schizophrenia and psychosis and anxiety. I purposefully have always resisted taking drugs for my anxiety disorder (always pushing my GP for talking treatments when needed) only for them now to get in through the back door.

Later that evening after the meds wore off I was back to my old anxious self and I was grappling with Mr Insomnia in the wee small hours and Mr I was winning. To pass the time I was having a debate with myself as to which is worse: sleeplessness or nightmares. It was like a Nicky Campbell phone-in. Just without Nicky Campbell, the callers and any telephones. I concluded that nightmares are favourable to insomnia as at least once the nightmare episode has finished and the end credits have gone up you can tell yourself that it is only a dream and not reality and get back to sleep.

Later - after a tea break and a read of the newspaper for an hour – my wishes were to come true as when I finally nodded off at dawn I quickly had a nightmare, which oddly consisted of me being menaced by the legendary goal keeper Pat Jennings. In real life Jennings is a mild mannered and softly spoken Ulsterman, so he was badly cast in his role as tormentor in the nightmare.

I did wonder where the phantasm was (who usually haunts my dreams) and why he didn't make an appearance but given the time of year he is probably off sunning himself somewhere and terrorising sleeping holiday makers in the night to keep his hand in. Even nightmare inhabiting ghouls such as the phantasm have the right to a holiday and I hope his union have secured a decent pension for him, private healthcare and reasonable sick pay. Given the amount of times he visits me if nothing else the phantasm is a hard worker so I'm glad he's recharging his batteries, especially as it has given me the chance to meet Pat Jennings, a childhood hero, even if it wasn't in the most pleasant of circumstances.

A collapsible donkey toy.

The dizzy-wobbles meant that I hadn't ventured up the Flagon & Gorses all week but last night I reached crisis point and despite having a giddy spell I scaled Furnace Hill and headed to the pub. It is hard to describe labyrinthitis but it is like your backbone has been removed – literally not metaphorically – so you feel like a rag doll or like one of those old collapsing donkey toy puppets who's had his button pressed. It is not only a case of feeling dizzy though, when I have a spell I am also overcome with tiredness and it plays havoc with my cognitive functions, which struggle at the best of times. A packet of Cheddars (not Mini-Cheddars but the full monty version) that I bought for Neddy La Chouffe felt banana shaped in my hand – these are the kind of tricks that labyrinthitis can play on you. It also gives me a bit of dyslexia – a sign saying “no fires” in the park became “no fries” and in Halesowen town centre a fella's t-shirt that read, “I ♥ rapid rafting” became “I ♥ rapid farting.”

The sun was out as I walked up Furnace Hill and it was on the face of it a pleasant evening but my dizzy-wobbles meant that there was a latent unrest in the air and I was ill at ease. I felt like I was going to fall over, bump into a lamp post or wander into the road, though experience of the condition told me that in actuality I wasn't going to do any of these things. Walking home from the pub might be a different matter. Everything seemed threatening and daunting. Even the pretty flowers were b*stards. I ploughed on and got to Earl's roundabout but the flowers on it looked wonderful not malevolent, a sea of dynamic poppies. I think that the success of the poppy as a symbol of remembrance is due to its vibrant, bold, life-affirming quality being paradoxical to the dark, sorrowful grief of mourning lost soldiers.

Poppies on Earl's Roundabout, Halesowen

In the Flagon & Gorses nothing much had changed in the time since I last visited - the scotch eggs have sold out; some of the spirits have been moved from one shelf to another; fish and chips have been added to the menu; Richie Ramone has put up a small plaque in Tom Corneronly's corner. In pub life the minutiae matters, it keeps the interest, it helps the soothing stream of booze to flow along gently. As the Flagon's regular inmates sit around waiting for something to happen every detail is significant, eventful. The significant event of my week (other than having a job interview at The Heritage Lottery Fund and having an MRI scan on my back conducted by a stern German radiologist) was the father's race at my dear son Kenteke's sports day at school.

Last year there was prejudicially only a mom's race and not a dad's, so I wasn't expecting to compete and I was glad not to anyway given my dizzy-wobbles. But the sports teacher announced that it was time for the father's race and Kenteke was insistent that I partake. Five dads, including me, stepped forward leaving one spare lane on the race track. I looked around at the other competitors and decided, notwithstanding my giddiness, that I fancied my chances. Then, at the eleventh hour, an enthusiastic young teacher stepped forward to fill the spare lane next to me, a lad in his mid-20's at a push. Given his youthfulness the teacher was rank favourite, so now my heckles were up and my old sportsman's instincts took over and under no circumstances did I want to be beat.

My shiny "1st" Sticker.

It was not a straight sprint as each competitor had to pick up three bean bags, which were set away from the start line in intervals, and return them individually to the start line before then making a fifty yard dash. I started well enough but then disaster, I slipped on my ars* and from that position I could see the teacher get away and the game seemed to be up but with a mixture of dogged determination and blind faith I chased him down and pipped him by a short head at the finishing line. A shiny “1st” sticker was slapped on me to declare me the winner. The adrenaline rush was wonderful and it reminded me as to why I played football for all of those years but the likes of Harry Gout will be quick to tell you that I rarely won any running races in my footballing days and if it was a test of pure pace between me and the centre forward the striker would usually win.

I had a price to pay for my victory though as my dizzy-wobbles went off the richter scale and the rest of the day was challenging as I had to struggle through getting prepared for my interview, which was the following day. If I am lucky enough to get the job at the Heritage Lottery Fund I will make it my urgent business to ensure that notable British sporting achievements are preserved for posterity, namely victorious fathers at primary school sports day races in Halesowen on Tuesday 30^th June, 2015.

© Dominic Horton, July 2015.

Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Email: lordhofr@gmail.com