Lowlife 124 - I'm the Daddy

I'm the Daddy

By Dominic Horton

On Friday my dear son Kenteke invited me to his primary school for an event to celebrate Fathers' Day. I gladly accepted the invitation but I didn't know what the event consisted of and I didn't ask as usually the children put on a pleasant little show in the hall, lasting for half an hour or so, where they perform spoken word and sing songs. But when I turned up to the school, together with the dozen or so other dads in attendance, I was ushered up the stairs to the older children's classrooms. I entered classroom 6, Kenteke's class, but all of the others behind me piled into classroom 5, leaving me as the only father in Kenteke's class who had bothered to show up. So I sat there conspicuously, like a Western missionary in a pygmy settlement.

Steve McQueen in solitary confinement in Papillon.

The teacher addressed the class and informed us that we were going to do some painting, which was not the news that I wanted to hear as my artistic talent is minuscule to say the least; even if I attempt to draw stick men they look so hideous that they complain. The kids seemed a bit non-plussed too, I suppose making a mess with paint is exciting for five year olds but by the time children reach ten it is a bit old hat to them. After a few minutes a pupil's grandfather turned up to give me a bit of moral support but he made it clear he was having none of the painting lark before departing the scene as quickly as he had entered. If only I had such audacity.

The uncomfortable feeling that I had worsened when I turned around only to find the whole of the Tory cabinet staring down at me. There was a display of the Conservative party top brass on a cork board with photographs and pen pictures of each cabinet member. Directly adjacent to me I could see the loathsome features of Oliver Letwin and I kept catching his picture out of the corner of my eye, which made me progressively irascible as the morning wore on.

Letwin was predictably educated in the private schools of Hall School in Hampstead and Eton and Cambridge University, so he was never destined to be stuck for high brow employment. Being a job seeker myself I took heart from a sign on the wall that read, “no one can do everything but everyone can do something.” What my 'something' is I am not entirely sure at the moment but it is certainly not painting pictures.

George Foreman smiling .....................

My interest picked up when the teacher stated that we would be learning about the abstract artist Gillian Ayres and we would then paint a picture in her style. We were treated to a short presentation about the artist, which included a slide show of a number of Ayres's pieces, which were vibrant and colourful, not my thing at all. But then the last painting that we were shown took my eye, it consisted of blocks of black and white paint, with a little bit of brown thrown in, and it had an austere and bleak feel. Bingo – that was exactly the type of picture I wanted to paint. But when the teaching assistant put the paints on the table there was no black and white paint, only bold and bright blue, red, yellow, purple and pink. At primary school all of the melancholy bits are edited out.

The kids were implored by the teacher and her sidekick to not mix the paint or not even to get paint on the newspaper that covered the table. Why ever not? I like things to be tidy as much as the next person with mild obsessive compulsive disorder but let the kids get on with it and be messy and if they end up painting over the face of Oliver Letwin in the Daily Telegraph then all the better.

I finished my picture pretty quickly and was content with it, in a fashion, so I sat quietly and glanced around at all of the other kids' paintings. The teaching assistant shattered my peace as she was working her way around the tables, heading my way, instructing the children to “fill the page with colour, there should be no bits left un-painted!” so that the pictures would emulate those of Gillian Ayres. But I didn't want to cram my page with colour, I like open spaces, to give things room to breathe, and my anxiety levels rise at the thought of things being cluttered. And some of the kids might not want to paint the whole page too and their creativity should be left to find its own way. But being the coward that I am as the assistant approached I quickly picked up a paint brush and looked busy, without actually doing anything.

..................................George Foreman not smiling.

After an hour or so, I agreed with myself that I had done my stint and I said my goodbyes and headed for the door, leaving my painting behind to be consigned to the bin, where it belongs. As I walked across the car park I could barely believe my eyes – all of the year 5 pupils and their dads were not going through the rigours of abstract painting under the supervision of the Tory cabinet but were instead enjoying a game of football on the field in the sunshine. My first instinct was to tell the dads not to bother showing up next year as they'll be doing painting but I didn't see why they shouldn't suffer too. It then struck me that I wouldn't be coming to the school for much longer as Kenteke is leaving shortly as he is going to high school in the Autumn. I then had that funny feeling that I guess most parents have, that I want Kenteke to grow and thrive and progress but on the other hand I want him to remain as a primary school child forever. “They grow up so quickly” is probably the most used phrase in relation to children but there is no greater truism.

And the reality of Kenteke going to High School was brought home yesterday when I was at a parent's evening at his new school. All parents were ushered into the school hall for a talk by the headmaster – or more like head salesman, given the patter he used to “sell” the merits of the school to the parents – and his underlings. As all the parents have already signed their kids up with the school I wished the headmaster would have dispensed with the hard sell and just got on with the business of the evening but he couldn't help himself. More often than not salespeople still carry on with their selling spiel when they are off duty because what they are really trying to sell is not a product or a service but themselves.

Black & White Composition by Gillian Ayres, by request of 

Toby In-Tents.

The headmaster explained that when children leave the school they will have their “ticket”, meaning they will be prepared for life after high school education. I mused that “ticket” is an odd choice of word as if the Pirate, the landlord of the Flagon & Gorses, gives me my ticket it means that he is telling me, “you're barred son!”

Next we were corralled into a classroom to meet Kenteke's new teacher, Mr H, who when he smiles looks like George Foreman, the former world heavyweight champion who is now known for his fat reducing grills, which are like an executive version of the humble Breville. It was overbearingly hot in the classroom, there were no seats left and I am suffering from the dizzy wobbles at the moment, so overall it was not a comfortable experience. Mr H explained the school's discipline procedures and that bad behaviour is initially dealt with by a yellow and red card system. I thought what chaos such a system would have caused when I was at school – the teacher would have had to abandon the lesson due to too many dismissals. I hope that Kenteke's disciplinary record is similar to Gary Lineker's and not like Vinnie Jones's. Mr H went on to state that a red card could lead to the child being sent to isolation, a bit harsh treating the kids like Papillion  but if it works then fair enough.

After banging on for far too long Mr H asked if there were any questions. I prayed that no one put their hand up as I was sweating profusely and felt faint headed and I just wanted to leave. I looked around the room and there seemed to be a mutual understanding, no questions, it's too hot let's just get out of here and go to our respective homes and public houses. But then, after a brief teasing pause, while I was heading for the door up went a torturous hand. I hope that the first lesson they teach Kenteke in High School is, “there is a time to ask questions and there is a time to keep quiet.”

© Dominic Horton, June 2015.

Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Email: lordhofr@gmail.com

Lowlife 123 – A Recipe for Disaster

A Recipe for Disaster

By Dominic Horton

My dear son Kenteke is a dedicated fan of the television programme Masterchef so recently he has taken a keen interest in cooking, which means that I have been stretching my culinary wings to try new recipes with Ken. I don't mind Masterchef except for the only unpalatable aspect of the show, which is the two arrogant, toffee nosed berks that present the programme, John Torode and Gregg Wallace, who strike me as being singularly disagreeable characters. Torode showed his true colours in a recent BBC television series called A Cook Abroad, where a well known chef travels to a foreign country to learn a thing or two about cooking in that country. The series as a whole was wonderful viewing but the Torode episode was the exception – he travelled to Argentina to marvel at their beef, which the Argentinians are obsessed with, but he revealed himself to be a dull, two dimensional character. In the programme Torode seemed to be so in love with himself that his Narcissism made me want to vomit. If his Masterchef sidekick had accompanied him to South America they could have entitled the show, A Cook Abroad: Argentina with Wallace and Vomit.

The brilliant film maker, Ken Loach.

Fortunately for me Kenteke is an infinitely more pleasant cooking partner than the Masterchef duo. I can dabble in the kitchen but I have never been much of a baker but we have been experimenting with the art of pastry making. The first thing we baked was banana and blackberry muffins but like my career in Barclays bank the muffins failed to rise. Maybe they need viagra. Using ASDA Smart Price self raising flour might account for the flatness of the muffins. The lord Jesus Christ rose from the grave (allegedly) but my muffins couldn't even rise from their cake cases. But despite looking like Friday night faggots trod on the muffins were at least edible and tasted acceptably good.

There is a lot of mystique about cooking and if you ask me it is all a load of b*llocks. What a television chef deems to be simple is not necessarily straightforward to most people. Everything I cook is that simple that even a UKIP voter could do it. I don't make posh things like falafels - I don't even know what a falafel is to be perfectly honest but it sounds delicious nonetheless. The celebrity chefs have all the top notch gear and quality ingredients. I have a knife that is as blunt as Brain Clough was to the average journalist and Tesco Everyday value products, which do for me but the likes of Heston Blumenthal wouldn't be seen dead using them.

The unidentified orange plant, ailing in my
Codger Mansions garden.

I've effectively become a vegetarian by proxy due to the scandalous price of meat. Even budget chicken – which is injected with water so it is 80% fluid – is beyond my means. Granted, I am currently a job seeker, so things are tight, but meat was a luxury even when I was in full time employment. Especially as I always sought to maximise my disposable income to spend on beer. Someone brought a Second World War ration recipe book to the Flagon & Gorses some time ago, which teaches readers to knock up cheap and tasty meals on meagre rations. Most drinkers who leafed through the book marvelled at how families survived on such meals but I thought to myself, “hang on a f*cking minute, war time families on rations ate better than me.”

Not being able to afford meat lentils are my stock in trade, which might sound boring but at least I have a variety of choice – green and red. If you cook a pot full of red lentils they reduce to a mere handful when they are done but the green ones are a bit more robust and meaty, so I tend to favour them. Lentils are supposed to be good for you but they make me bloat up and f*rt. But at least they are cheap, so I overlook the side effects.

I am destined to be a job seeker for the foreseeable future after the BBC decided not to offer me employment following my interview with them, which I thought went exceedingly well. The deafening sound of Lord Reith rolling in his grave at the thought of me joining the state broadcaster must have been too overbearing for the officials at dear old Auntie. At least the rejection upholds my theory that if you think you have done well at an interview, an exam or on a first date that you are most likely to have made a hash of it. Hash …........ there's an idea – I wonder if you can make it with lentils?

Herbs at Codger Mansions.

I was nervous enough before the interview but having to sit next to a full size dalek in the waiting room did nothing to ease my terrified condition. I scrubbed up pretty well though in my charity shop shirt, hand me down suit (complete with a tear in the ars* region) and tie chosen by Kenteke. 

The two interviewers (both named Sarah, which was convenient for me given my faulty memory) couldn't have been more pleasant and welcoming, which I was surprised at as once I saw the set up I assumed that they would go for the good cop/ bad cop approach. Sarah #1 started off in good cop mode so when Sarah #2 took the reins I was ready for her and thought to myself, “come on then, give it to me both barrels you motherf*cker, you are not going to break me.” So when Sarah #2 was as nice as pie to me it was a bit off putting. I did an awful lot of research about the BBC so when they asked me questions about the corporation I was more than able to address them. They probably thought that I was a smart alec, so it could have worked against me as no one likes a clever dick.

Due to the BBC turning me down I have been listening exclusively to Talk Sport in protest, boycotting Radio 5 Live and Radio 4, which is really a case of cutting off my (large) nose to spite my face, especially as the excellent Colin Murray is not currently filling his usual 1000 – 1300 hours slot as he's on holiday. Most probably eating meat. My Beeb-oycott won't last too long though, especially as I want to watch the last fifteen minutes of Ken Loach in Conversation with Cillian Murphy, as I was viewing the programme when I returned from the Flagon & Gorses on Monday, so I resultantly fell asleep after I had eaten my cheese and onion cob.

An innovative way to dry turd catchers, by request of Toby
In-Tents.

We are constantly informed that obesity is the new epidemic, which leads to heart problems, diabetes and turd catchers as the trouser of choice. But when television chefs cook a dish they invariably fry the ingredients, hardly the healthiest of cooking methods. The chef will say to the camera, “just add a spot of extra virgin olive oil to the pan”, which is all well and good when you have a top of the range non-stick Tefal but when your frying pan has seen better days you need to use half a pint of oil to ensure that the food doesn't glue itself to the pan.

I have even branched out into the murky world of trying to grow my own bits and pieces as the lovely Babushka donated to me some herb plants, which I yesterday housed in an old plant pot in the Codger Mansions garden. The herbs almost immediately wilted and when I went to survey their state today they looked to be going through a near death experience. I have long said that the only plants that prosper in the garden at Codger Mansions are weeds and this point is proved not only by the ailing herbs but also by the easy grow flower seeds that I planted a few weeks ago, which – despite me watering them religiously – have decided not to make an appearance. In a desperate attempt to add a splash of colour to the garden I even went to the extreme of planting an unidentified orange plant, which hitherto had been living happily in a pot I the kitchen.  The plant's health has since rapidly declined and it's demise doesn't seem to be too far off. Seemingly the only thing that successfully grows in the Codger Mansions garden is my frustration. 

© Dominic Horton, June 2015.

Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Email: lordhofr@gmail.com

Lowlife No 122 – Children, Animals & Laptops

Children, Animals & Laptops

By Dominic Horton

My quest to find gainful employment continues at a pace with varied success. I have received a steady flow of “thanks but no thanks” rejection emails regarding job applications and one was even cruelly headed, “Your Job Application – Shortlist” only to inform me in the body of the email that I had not made the shortlist. But at least those employers have had the courtesy to reply to me as the majority simply give you the cold shoulder after dispatching your CV into the dustbin. Or the electronic equivalent of the dustbin, whatever that is called. But a few days ago I at last had a breakthrough when a pleasant woman from the BBC called to inform me, to my delight, to invite me to an interview. After having a string of bothersome PPI and ambulance chaser sales calls I nearly didn't pick up the telephone as the number was unknown to me but a little voice inside my head must have implored me to take the call and I am glad that I did. There is no need to be concerned, if I am successful with the BBC interview I won't be starring at you on your television screen reading the news on Midlands Today like Alan Towers in days of old.

Alan Towers on Midlands Today.

The last time I had an interview was nearly two decades ago when I was offered a job with the bank that I was subsequently employed by for many's the moon until being made redundant last year. The interview was a bit of a sham as it only lasted fifteen minutes or so and I was only presented with a few gentle questions. I knew that the brevity of the interview meant that I had either definitely got the job or definitely not got it, but I did not know which one of the two outcomes would prevail. 

Job interviews, first dates and exams all often seem follow a set pattern – if you think you have done well you usually fail and if you think you have done badly you usually succeed. But the interview was so short that had I no time to succeed or fail so I was totally in the dark about the outcome. At the time there was a number of positions up for grabs and in hindsight the bank simply wanted to fill them – basically if you could do joined up writing and count to ten without using your fingers you were in.

Hunting for a job is not what it used to be as everything now is done electronically. When I was looking for a job in the 1990's before I joined the bank one used to buy copies of The Express & Star and The Evening Mail on a Thursday evening and scour the jobs pages and put a circle of red ink around any suitable opportunities. Then you had to either post off a CV with a covering letter or telephone the employer for an application form, which needed to be completed by hand, a dreadfully time consuming business, especially for me as my hand writing is appalling so I really had to take my time and concentrate on what I was doing. I always used to complete the application forms bitterly as I knew that despite my scribing efforts the chances were that the form would end up being flippantly disposed off by an official of the employer.

Harry Gout, by request of Toby In-Tents.

These days you can upload your CV online and some job websites even have a “one click” application procedure where they dispatch your CV to the employer, so it really is child's play. Filling out application forms online is less grueling than the paper equivalent as you can at least cut and paste sections from previous job applications and type face means that the aesthetic appearance of applicants' forms is universal, so my illegible written scribble doesn't disadvantage me.

Employers seem to like persons who are constantly adding new strings to their bows and are slaves to self improvement. To this end I recently attended a drama therapy course and a self employment workshop, both of which were free which gives you a clue as to the main reason as to why I attended. I didn't real know what to expect from the drama therapy session but I first perceived it as being “Drama? Therapy!” as in “had a major life DRAMA? Don't worry, we'll give you THERAPY!” But it didn't turn out to be a caper like that at all. In drama therapy a person can express their problems by playing a role like an actor. It's a bit like going to visit your doctor and saying, “I want to help a close friend of mine because he's too embarrassed to visit you as he's having difficulties getting an erection” when it is you all along that is failing to rise to the occasion.

Christian, the calm and friendly leader of the course, explained that dramatherapy is a form of psychological therapy in which all of the performance arts are utilised within the therapeutic relationship. The course was interesting and enlightening but the whale music that played in the background for the duration of the evening, which was intended to permeate tranquility and lead to a sense of serenity, didn't achieve its desired effect on me as it got right on my thruppenies and I wanted to sling the CD player out of the window. Whales should at least have the decency to learn a basic three cord punk track if they want to impose music upon our earholes.

Whale Music.

The first few speakers at the self employment workshop in Smethwick proved to be useful and informative but then I was presented with two young men from the High Street bank that I used to work for and they got my goat without even trying. One of the bankers was slovenly – unshaven, tie undone, wearing an ill-fitting shirt etc. - but he was not a bad speaker, though not an entirely competent one, and the other was smartly turned out with polished shoes, a pressed suit and closely clipped hair, but he was an uninspiring and less than competent orator. Between them the double act didn't present a favourable impression of the bank and they wouldn't make me rush to them to negotiate a loan to start up a business.

But worse was to follow when an accountant stepped out for the next part of the show and not wanting to break the stereotype of his profession he was an unrestrained and relentless dullard. His suit was dull, his tie was dull, his glasses were dull, his voice was dull, his slide show was unremittingly dull. Even his hair was dull. The accountant attempted a couple of “jokes” but no one even offered any apologetic laughter as he had drained the room of any remaining enthusiasm and life.

Just as I was losing the will to live a chap called Andy burst onto the stage and as much as a business advisor can be, he was a real showman and he wrestled back the attentions of the audience before him. Andy's confidence and vitality was such that he was completely unfazed by being asked to speak for ten minutes longer than he had planned, to make up for the schedule running ahead of time. This reminded me of once being instructed to spontaneously entertain a room full of guests for ten minutes at a wedding.

Lord Reith, who will probably be rolling in his grave at the

prospect of me being interviewed by the BBC.

Harry Gout bestowed the honour on our dear late friend The Imp and I of being his Best Men at his wedding and to that end we had prepared the customary speech. The Imp had previously been the Best Man for Lolly and the Imp based his speech on old photographs that he had acquired of Lolly, most of which were comedic, which he projected onto a wall at the wedding venue. We decided to follow this tack for our speech at Gout's wedding and after obtaining the necessary embarrassing pictures of Gout we rehearsed the speech to death and all was fine and dandy. That is until we actually came to perform the speech at the wedding. The Imp and I took the stage but to The Imp's horror the laptop computer, which we were to use to project the photographs from, was refusing to work. The Imp whispered to me, “the laptop's not working” but knowing that he was a right wind-up merchant I did not believe him but after investigating the matter I found his word to be true. As The Imp and I stood on the stage, with an increasingly impatient crowd looking on, he muttered the immortal words to me, “I will try and get the laptop to work, you entertain the crowd for ten minutes.”

Not having a short tap dance routine up my sleeve and being unable to play the spoons I had to disappoint the audience and The Imp. In the event we had to delay the speech to the evening by which time we finally had got the laptop working – in a fashion – but by then we were jibbering wrecks and the speech didn't reach the mirthful heights that it should have done. If at the BBC interview I am asked, “please tell me Mr Horton, what rule in life do you consider to be the most important?” I will answer, “never work with children, animals or laptops.”

© Dominic Horton, June 2015.

Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Email: lordhofr@gmail.com