No 133. Every bubble has passed its physical

By Dominic Horton

It’s rumoured that the coronavirus outbreak started after a Chinese man ate a bat.   Of the flying mammal variety that is, not a sporting implement made of willow.  I bet most of the world would like to get their hands on the fellow.  But I have no animosity towards him.   We’ve all been there, famished and in the throes of desperation, late at night after a gallon has gone down in the pub, rummaging around the kitchen trying to find something suitable to eat.     The wife of my associate Lal found him in such as position once, eating microwave melted margarine out of the tub, as if it were a soup. 

Before the days of a plethora of easy to access takeaways, and even microwaves, the organised person might have purchased a boil in the bag Vesta curry.  Which would sit in anticipation of its owner’s return home, like a faithful dog, or a blow-up doll.   There was always a frisson of danger and excitement with Vesta curries.  The combination of a drunk man and boiling water means the danger element needs no explanation.   And the excitement was provided as you could have a game of hunt the meat.

People used to have different tactics to address the post-pub food quandary.  Davie B used to empty the contents of the freezer, de-frost it in the microwave then mash it together and fry it.  He called it bubble and squeak. Which is exactly the sounds that were produced when it came out of the other end in the morning.   

When I lived with Davie B’s counterpart, Big Dave, his preferred method was to cook us a fishfinger curry.  It was an uncomplicated affair involving fried fishfingers covered with a tin of curry sauce, accompanied with under or over cooked rice.  At a squeeze, our meagre frying pan could hold 9 budget fish fingers - which contained more fingers than fish – so we had a dilemma, with 9 being an odd number and there being two of us.   To begin with we used to have 4 ½ fishfingers each.  But one night Dave suggested one of us have 5 and the other 4, with the roles reversed next time.  Of course, the only issue with this was that next time neither of us could remember who had 5 and who had 4 the time before, so predictable petty squabbles followed.

It wasn’t the only time the drink influenced the recall powers of Dave and I.  Our beloved Aston Villa had the temerity to reach the League Cup final, so we had to channel our energies and finances to get to Wembley.   After a quick and decisive committee meeting, we came to a swift and simple solution to save the cash we needed – we would stay in on a Friday night. 

For two young bachelors, who were desperate to get to the pub at the end of the working week, this was a Captain Oakes sized sacrifice.   But it didn’t turn out to be too bad, as the television programming on a Friday evening then was pretty good, with such gems as Three Irish Priests and a Tea Lady and I am Going to Take the P*ss out of Politicians for You.   All washed down with lashings of competitively priced premium lager and budget dry sherry.   The sherry is a story for another time.

The plan worked swimmingly, and we managed to save the required fold to finance our Wembley sojourn.   Sensibly, when we left for the pub one night, we took the wad with us as we didn’t want a burglar to think it was Christmas.  In another shrewd move, when we stumbled in from the pub, we decided to hide the cash to keep it safe from unsavoury fingers, before retiring to our quarters to dream of the Twin Towers and glory.   The only issue being come match day we couldn’t remember where we’d hidden the money.

Our ensuing panic-stricken search was more thorough and diligent than King Arthur’s search for the Holy Grail.  And like Arthur’s search, our hunt frustratingly bore no fruit.   We had given up hope and we were having frantic discussions about who we could ponce the necessary money off, when I absentmindedly leant against a dusty, unloved and rather drab painting that hung over the fireplace.   And to our eternal surprise and utter relief, down dropped the wad of cash.  Bingo. 

Villa beat Leeds United 3-0 in the final and a jolly good time was had by all.  But of course, at the moment none of us have the benefit of watching live football, unless you are Belarusian.   The lack of football is the least of people’s worries, as we are stowing ourselves away in our dwellings, hoping that this situation will resolve itself quickly.  

Kind and concerned family, friends and associates have been asking me how I’m coping with the hermit life, saying it must be awfully tough living alone in isolation.   But generally, it isn’t tough at all.  Afterall, at heart I’m a bit of a loner and introvert.   And I count my blessings that I can still see my dear son Kenny, I can work from home and I’m comfortable in my own company in my modest but cosy Codger Mansions bolt hole.

To begin with, like most other people I would imagine, I soaked up the coronavirus news, avidly watching, listening to and reading the latest developments in great detail.  I pretty quickly realised that this wasn’t doing me much good and was increasingly my anxiety levels, which are usually high at the best of times.   So, I heeded Sir Matt Busby’s advice.  

It’s well documented that when Sir Alex Ferguson began his management of Manchester United things didn’t go swimmingly.  So, predictably the commentary in the press was less than favourable.   Fergie told Sir Matt that he was agitated about the things he was reading about himself and his team in the press.  Sir Matt’s advice to Ferguson was simple – don’t read the papers.   And that’s exactly what I’ve done, I’ve disconnected myself from the media and resultantly my anxieties about the current crisis have decreased.

Us regular inmates at the Waggon & Horses are used to isolating ourselves away from the real world – that’s pretty much the whole point of pub life.   The pub temporarily insulates you from the less desirable aspects of existence, which wait menacingly for you outside the door at closing time.  Sure, people tell you the news, but rarely will the national news be discussed in any depth beyond the headlines.  The news will more likely be things like Swanky’s bar in the town has closed down or Neddy La Chouffe’s kitchen floor has fallen in because of flooding, so he’s having to cook his tea in his wellies.    But I won’t bore you with any more on all that, as I’ve written about it many times in this column before.

But suffice to say, there’s not been any pub-going in recent weeks, and there’s unlikely to be any for a while yet either.   I’ve walked forlornly past the Waggon a few times and looked in at the haunting, silent interior of the bar, hand pulls devoid of clips. And I’ve wondered when I’ll be able to recalibrate my work/ pub balance again to healthier levels.

I’ve recently experienced virtual pubs.  But the problem with them is every time I ‘attend’ them I get virtually p*ssed.  I don’t know why, but I always drink quicker than when I go to an actual pub.  Maybe it’s the stress of getting to grips with the technology.  More likely it’s to get over the horror of having to look straight at the faces of your fellow virtual pub attendees.  In an actual pub you usually don’t have to do that, especially if you are sitting on a settle, side-on to a fellow inmate.  And there’s an infinite number of things to distract the eye in an actual pub, to divert you from the grotesque faces of your associates.  To make the virtual pub experience more unsettling the picture of someone’s face broadcast via their mobile phone makes it look like they are in a hall of mirrors in Blackpool.   Luckily as you aren’t actually in their presence, they can’t kiss you quick.

But things could be a whole lot worse.  Imagine having to experience extended periods at home in the 1970’s world I grew up in, with only three television channels and no WiFi or other technological distractions.  So, I count the blessings that I have.  One of which is that my beloved Aston Villa haven’t lost in weeks.   Every cloud, they say, has a silver lining. 

© Dominic Horton, 2020.

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

No 132 - The Bengal Lancer - Keith's Story

By Dominic Horton

I work for a mental health charity, Rethink Mental Illness. Due to the work of Rethink, and other like organisations, the stigma and misconceptions about mental illness have reduced in recent times. Although there is still a lot of work to do, people are better educated about mental illness and more accepting of those who have mental health issues. The subject of mental illness is becoming less scary. And people will more readily talk about it.

It is often said that people can be less willing to talk about or engage with information about mental illness than that of physical illnesses. But there is still one physical illness that can be a taboo subject, that strikes fear into the minds of people. To such a degree that they shy away from learning about it or talking about it to others, even those that have experienced the condition.

This is the case even though nearly all of us will either get this condition or know someone who has experienced it. Just the mere mention of the name of the condition in question can lead people to turn over the TV or radio station or skip past a newspaper article. I didn’t even want to use the word in the title of this piece for fear it might turn people away. The word is one which even has negative connotations in our language beyond its original meaning. The word is short but powerful, to some even shocking. The word is cancer.

I hope you continue reading.

* * * * *

Keith Tandy is a friend of mine and he’s a youthful 70 years of age. He has a certain sense of style and always dresses younger than his years, but in a dignified, tasteful way. Keith can be quick with a witty, cutting quip when you meet him in our local pub. But he's a warm, kind and friendly individual. He exudes, more than anything, love.

Keith with his sister Ann and his son Luke

Keith recently ended intensive treatment for cancer. I spoke to him as I wanted to learn more about his experiences of the illness. Like many people with health issues Keith's experience was not straightforward. He was first diagnosed with skin cancer that affected his head. But soon after he was separately diagnosed with mantel cell non-Hodgkin lymphoma. There was no evidence of any link between the two conditions.

Keith accidentally banged his head which lead to a blister that wouldn't heal. He was told after tests that it was skin cancer. But this didn't come as too much of a surprise to Keith as he used to be a lorry driver. This meant that the right side of his head particularly was often exposed to sunlight. Although the diagnosis of skin cancer wasn't a massive shock to Keith, the way the news was delivered could have been better. The specialist said to a nurse, without addressing Keith, “It's cancer.” The words were audible to Keith though. He had a similar experience when he was later diagnosed with mantel cell non-Hodgkin lymphoma.

Keith's skin cancer was successfully treated. But soon after he developed severe diarrhea resulting in a loss of weight of two stones in only two weeks. Originally it was thought Keith had contracted norovirus. But the GP found lumps in Keith's glands and so referred him to a specialist for tests. The weight loss meant the lumps were clearly evident.

After a blood test proved inconclusive a biopsy was done and then came one of the most difficult times – waiting for the results. But Keith said it was worse for his family than for him. Especially as the severe diarrhea that Keith experienced had by then subsided and his weight began to stabilise.

Keith was eventually called to see a specialist consultant who he saw with his son Luke and his daughter Bekki. To begin with a more junior doctor told Keith that he had 'mantel cell'. She didn't use the word cancer or explain more about what mantel cell meant but said she'd get the consultant. With Keith and his family not knowing what mantel cell is, Bekki naturally researched it on her mobile phone while waiting. Which is not an ideal way to learn about a serious health condition.

Keith in hospital with his daughter Bekki

But the consultant made it clear to Keith what condition he had and the way forward: “You have mantel cell non-Hodgkin lymphoma. You have a serious illness, it's cancer. It is not curable but it is treatable. Do you understand what I am saying?” The consultant explained that to begin with Keith would receive six treatments of strong chemotherapy in twenty one days. He also explained that it was a close decision whether to treat Keith at all as he has angina and was 69 years old at the time – the cut of age for the treatment is 70. But Keith was considered fit enough to undergo the treatment.

But Keith immediately saw the positive in the consultant's words. He explained: “The words that registered with me when the doctor was telling me was 'it is treatable'. There are two 'T's' with cancer diagnoses - terminal and treatable.”

Keith's family were obviously upset by the news but they were very supportive. But even at this early stage Keith had a plan with how to deal with the situation: “I told my children and my family that for the rest of the year I would be concentrating on my treatment and getting better. I said that if they had problems or issues they would need to sort them out among themselves. I had a goal too – to see my grandchildren grow up.” This strategy of looking forward, being organised and setting goals ultimately played a big part in Keith's recovery.

Keith explained that he had to think carefully about what to say when it came to telling the news of his diagnosis to his sister Ann: “Ann is 10 years older than me. She's from a generation where they still whisper the word cancer. My parents and older brother were the same.” Keith was concerned that Ann would immediately think the worst about his outcome. And he was worried about the effect that would have on her.

Ann was so terrified of what cancer meant to her that she wouldn't visit Keith in hospital. But she did care about his welfare and called him every day. But Keith explained, “She was convinced I was not telling her everything – she still is now.” Keith thinks this is because Ann and people from her generation automatically equate cancer with death: “That's how it used to be.”

After being diagnosed Keith went through seven months of treatment. This started with the six strong chemotherapy sessions under the care of his consultant, nurses and other staff who were “absolutely fantastic.”

Feeling in control of what was going on was important to Keith in his recovery. He wrote everything down, the medication he’d taken, the food and fluid he’d had. This not only made the nurses' job easier, for which they were grateful, but also meant Keith was playing an active part in his recovery. He planned his own medication intake – instead of taking all 14 tablets in the morning he spaced them out throughout the day, keeping a careful record.

Keith valued making his own decisions and choices about his treatment. He was encouraged to inject himself at times and to take eye drops, as the treatment generally dries people’s eyes up. But Keith decided against both of these things: “I usually have watery eyes anyway and the eye drops made it worse.”

Having a set routine also helped Keith to feel in control of his days when in hospital. He was up at 6am and showered by 6.30. And then he dressed properly, opting to stay out of his pajamas and dressing gown. Keith would go downstairs to get a newspaper and to walk around as much as he could. This all gave Keith a greater sense of normality.

Keith back in the day, pint in hand

But Keith's routine was disrupted when his treatment meant at times that he had to be in isolation, because his immune system was down. This meant that he had to use other ways of coping. Keith has a lifelong passion for music and he used to work in the industry as a roadie in the late 1960's, the 70's and the 80's.  And listening to to his favourite music was his therapy while he was in isolation.

Another technique also helped. One day a nurse said to Keith he looked miles away. He replied, “I am. I am parked up in a lay-by in Scotland in my lorry. I'm looking right down the Glen – it's beautiful.” So Keith had the ability to dissociate himself from his immediate surroundings and transport himself to somewhere more appealing.

Keith told me he was fortunate as he never lost his appetite, which was a great help. He was talking about food of course. But actually I could see that he never lost his appetite for life. That seemed to be his chief driver and motivation, the thing that meant that he kept his humour and positivity in a difficult situation. Everything constructive and helpful that he did seemed to flow from this.

Keith's positivity, energy and humour was not only of use to himself as it always improved the moral of the wards he was on. One doctor told Keith, “If we could find out how you keep your positive attitude we could bottle it.” Keith told me about advising and cheering up one particular patient. The patient's daughter told Keith, “If I had a million pounds I'd give it to you Keith because of the way you have helped Dad. You have perked him up a hell of a lot.”

As Keith explained to another patient, “Nobody likes being diagnosed with cancer. But it's not all doom and gloom.” In fact Keith found some useful aspects of his situation. It gave him a greater appreciation of the simple things in life. Like going to the toilet without having to drag a drip stand behind him. Or at the end of isolation being able to go outside the hospital to a stall to buy some fruit and breathe in the fresh air.

Keith is now thankfully in remission and getting on with living his life. He still has regular treatment though, which was part of his treatment plan.

Not all cancers are treatable of course. But according to Cancer Research UK survival rates in the UK have doubled in the last 40 years. And the understanding and treatment of cancer is improving all the time.

I asked Keith what his advice would be to anyone who finds themselves in similar circumstances: “Set yourself a goal, get your family involved and communicate with the doctors and the people treating you. And remember there is light at the end of the tunnel.”

© Dominic Horton, 2018.

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

Lowlife 131 - The Last Days of the Roman Empire

The Last Days of the Roman Empire

By Dominic Horton

So finally the game is up. The Pirate's more than quarter century ownership of the Flagon & Gorses is at an end. The real ale public house specialists Black Country Ales now own the iconic drinking den and it currently stands shut and in the middle of a substantial renovation. The end of the Pirate's reign was protracted and drinking in the place became almost like sitting at the bedside of an ailing, elderly relative waiting for the Reaper to drop in to complete the formalities. Except in the Flagon it was the drinkers taking the medicine.

The Flagon & Gorses prior to the start of the refurb.

There were numerous false alarms prior to the sale and “this Sunday will probably be the last” were words often uttered by Chilli Willy and the other bar staff only to find the place still going the following Sabbath. Sunday was used as a benchmark purposefully as it was the quintessential Flagon & Gorses day, free of Friday and Saturday's day trippers and full of the usual inmates, both in the bustling and boozy afternoon and in the more sedate and civilised evening.

For years Sunday was my main day, the day when I simply had to go to the Flagon come hell or high water. As long as I could get to the Flagon on a Sunday then the rest of the week was tolerable, regardless of what slings and arrows were thrown at me and of what lay in wait in the days that followed. The obligations and duties of the week at an end, on a Sunday evening I could sit, pint in hand, and let the drink, the conversation and the camaraderie work its magic. The atmosphere somehow seemed heightened on a Sunday, more highly charged but also more relaxing at the same time. Spirits were always high, regardless of the various football results. Even the beer seemed to taste better, though it was always in pretty good nick regardless.

There had been rumours and counter rumours about the pub's sale for many, many months and during this time panicking punters had taken their personalised glasses home with them for fear of never seeing them again. Eventually the sale to Black Country Ales became an open secret (or a badly kept one) and ultimately everyone accepted the inevitability that there would be an end to the Pirate's era. But as Jolly Dave said at the time, “I'm fed up of this sale dragging on now, we need closure.”

Jolly Dave sitting in Tom Corneronly's seat in

The Flagon & Gorses

Another supposedly “final Sunday” came round but this time things seemed to have taken on a more serious, concrete edge. The whisper was that the Pirate had to move out the following day and on my arrival Carla Von Trow-Hell delivered this news over the bar together with my pint of stout. The Pirate was upstairs in his quarters sleeping off the afternoon's excesses. “As it is his last night he wants to pop down to have a drink,” Trow-Hell informed me, “and we decided that you should go upstairs to wake him up.” The Pirate's rooms in the pub were, to put it mildly, like a scene from a disaster movie where a 70's charity shop and The Great British Beer Festival had exploded leaving the combined miscellany strewn everywhere. So I was less than keen to disturb him from his slumber.

Fortunately the Pirate managed to wake and descend the stairs to the bar all of his own volition. The atmosphere was dark, odd at best. He shook a few hands, without really saying much, which wasn't like him. Instead of taking up his customary seat he stood at the end of the bar, on his own, facing the rest of us. I was sat in the corner at the other end of the bar, where Joe Attwood's boxing gloves used to be, and I was laughing at a funny comment that someone had made but the laughter seemed to be at complete odds with the somberness of the situation. The air seemed heavy. The Pirate made no speeches and there were no grand gestures. He was unusually subdued, withdrawn even. And after half an hour or so he went back upstairs, without a fan fare. I seem to remember he briefly, silently waved and that was it, he was gone.

In the weeks running up to the sale nobody really knew what the Pirate's plans were as he had been keeping a low profile. Would he return to his roots in Hampshire? Or move to Burton, where his youngest daughter is? Or start a new business, a micropub maybe? In the end it transpired that no one knew his plans as he didn't seem to have any. The Pirate didn't even have any accommodation lined up on the day he left the Flagon and it was only the kindheartedness of Pat De Bilder that saved him from a night in his motor by fixing him up with a rented safe house in the Lye.

The following evening, the Monday, was interesting. Contrary to the pessimistic doom-mongering of many inmates in the time leading up to the sale the pub had not crumbled into dust. It was still standing and thriving on that night under the stewardship of a bewildered Nick, a temporary manager that Black Country Ales had installed. Nick seemed nervous and I think he had thought that he was walking into a powder keg situation where the regulars would be disgruntled to the point of driving them to stage a coup d'état to get the Pirate back in. But that was not the case exactly – everyone just wanted a pint. All quickly warmed to Nick and his good humour and easy manner but like Edward VIII his reign was short and after a few weeks he was soon packed off to Leicester to skipper a new Black Country Ales house there called The Salmon.

Weston's Old Rosie, by request of Tony In-Tents

A few weeks ago Mick, who will be new gaffer of the Flagon moving forward, left the Court House pub in Dudley to take over from Nick. And then the place shut. Inevitably most of the punters have migrated the short distance up the road to The Edward, which has taken on the look of a refugee centre for displaced drinkers from the Flagon. I have flirted briefly with the Edward but good a public house as it is it's not the Flagon and I haven't bothered going out for a pint much since the pub shut.

I popped into the Loyal Lodge pub by my Codger Mansions home last week to have a look as it has just re-opened after a facelift. Although they have done a decent job with the décor and fittings the real ale situation is sadly pretty dire. They only had two beers on and one of them was the dreaded Doom Bar, a drink so named as it gives you a sense of doom when you go to the bar. So I had to drink Weston's Old Rosie, the one real cider they had on, but it did me no favours as it weighs in at a heavy weight 7.3% ABV. I think Old Rosie was the first scrumpy that I drank as they used to serve it in the Flagon and it was attractive to me as a youth trying to reach a state of Beervana on a tight budget.

Like Steve Austin they can rebuild the Flagon, though I suspect it won't cost $6,000,000. And it won't be, it can't be, the same as it was under the dynasty of the Pirate. Inevitably things will change, some for the worse, some for the better. The organised chaos, the modus operandi of the pub, will disappear to be replaced by a new sanitised, businesslike approach. The toilets will be in tip top condition and the electrics will no longer be a funeral waiting to happen. But the ongoing soap opera of the place, where something entertaining or ludicrous was always happening, is at an end.

The Pirate & the author, not in The Flagon & Gorses.

The silver lining is that unlike so many pubs The Flagon has not been turned into a Tesco Express, Dixie Chicken or a block of flats and it will remain as a traditional real ale pub. But the great fear that I have is that I will walk into the place once it is re-opened and instead of it feeling like my front room, as it did before, it will feel like someone else's front room, with an unfamiliar smell and aura. I know I will be treated well as a guest but it is not the same as sitting in your own comfy chair with your slippers and t*rd catchers on.

The one thing I will miss is having the comfort of knowing that I could pop in The Flagon pretty much any afternoon to find the Pirate in his seat, wearing his Flagon sweatshirt and preposterous salmon pink trousers ready to share a drink and do the crossword. It was not something I did very often, I have to work after all, but when I did it was a magical feeling having a becalming pint while the world went busily about its business outside.

But life goes on, onward and downward, as ever. 

© Dominic Horton, March 2016.

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

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