You only
Live Twice
In the witty and jocular book The Meaning of Liff by John Lloyd and Douglas Adams (which was
recommended to me by Dick the Hook) a tincleton is described as “A man who
amuses himself in your lavatory by pulling the chain in mid-pee and then seeing
if he finishes before the flush does.”
My long time crony Still-in-Fjord is without doubt a tincleton as the
chain/ pee challenge is exactly the type of antic that he revels in. Still-in-Fjord’s favourite tincleton type
pastime is the checkout game which works as follows: when he does the monthly
shop at the supermarket and he has dozens of items to purchase he has to ensure
all the items are bagged up immediately after the checkout operative has slung
the last item from the conveyor belt to the bagging area. To avoid a build-up of un-bagged items
Still-in-Fjord staggers the placing of loose fruit and veg on the conveyor belt
so the checkout operative has to periodically slow down to weigh the items,
thus allowing him to ensure that all goods are placed in bags.
One man who will not be able to enjoy the pleasures of the
checkout game is 37 year old Alireza M.
Last week the BBC reported the incredible story of Alireza M, an Iranian
prisoner who was convicted on a drug trafficking charge and was sentenced to
death, who was found alive in the morgue after he was believed to be dead as a
consequence of hanging for twelve minutes.
Undeterred by the prisoner’s astounding defiance of the rope the Iranian
authorities plan to hang the man again when he has recovered to health; the way
he is going he will be hanged more times than a painting in the National
Portrait Gallery. No doubt that when
the prisoner came round he thought he was in the afterlife before quickly
realising that it was a miracle and that he had not died and was still
alive. However, his unbounded joy would
have been short-lived as he noticed the prison guard standing over his bed, who
quickly soured his mood by saying “That was only the dress rehearsal our kid
and when you are better we are going to hang you for real.” The story is akin to a man surviving a
shipwreck only to be eaten by a shark after almost swimming all the way to the
shore. If the prisoner is a tincleton
he will no doubt try and defy the rope next time round for more than his
previous record of twelve minutes in order to make the otherwise grim
experience more entertaining for himself.
This is no laughing matter of course and I should add that as an
ex-member of Amnesty International I oppose capital punishment and human rights
abuses generally.
The BBC also informed us last week
that British Gas energy prices are to rise by a whopping 9.2% from November 23rd
and this British Gas announcement was especially untimely as it came on the
same day that the Daily Express reported that we are set for the worst winter
in over 100 years with record breaking snowfall predicated by some experts for
next month. The price rise comes after
the "big six" energy companies outlined price rises of between 6% and
10.8% between August and December last year.
The only consoling thought is that the big freeze/ energy price rise is
not quite as bad as Alireza M’s double whammy. Impoverished tincletons the country over will
no doubt be challenging themselves to see if they can see the winter out without
freezing to death.
Codger Mansions is far from being a warm property and the
bathroom is always chilly, even in the height of summer, and this is believed
to be the case because a previous owner of the property committed suicide in
the room. The only thing I can think of
to dispel the frosty aura of the bathroom is to offset the suicidal death by
the room hosting the birth of a new born baby to restore parity. It is a shame that I didn’t think of this
idea earlier as my work colleague from the valleys Rhydderch Richnerds had some good news this
week as his lovely wife Angelica gave birth to their first child Adam Ronald
Paul, my congratulations go out to them both.
Whilst sitting in the Flagon & Gorses last week I received a
photograph via mobile phone from Richnerds of young Adam, who is a very
pleasant looking little new born.
A photograph of a different nature formed part of my agenda on
the day that Adam was born. As a
Christmas present my ex-wife Selena generously bought a gift voucher for my son
Kenteke and I to have a free portrait picture with a professional photographer
and I only got around to arranging the appointment for the photo shoot a couple
of weeks ago for one reason and another.
The results of the shoot (which I viewed this week) only just fell short
of a disaster; Kenteke looked great in all of the shots but I looked awful,
especially my skin, which was dryer and ruddier than normal, despite me
moisturising before the shoot; I had an appearance not dissimilar to Michael Gambon’s
character, Philip E. Marlow, in The
Singing Detective. I was tasked to
choose one photograph from the dozens of snaps that were taken and I managed to
quickly narrow it down to three photos, which were the only ones in which I
didn’t look horrific. However, on two of
the pictures it appeared that I had a belly sticking out due to the way my
shirt was sitting, so that ruled them out and the choice was effectively down
to a solitary photo, which was a more sympathetic long shot. Even the sepia snaps did me no favours. Photogenic I am not though I hoped that the
photographer would have done a better job of using tricks of the trade to
soften my displeasing appearance in the pictures. Mind you as Willy Mantitt put it, she’s a
photographer not a miracle worker.
It would usually take a miracle worker to transform the cuisine
on offer in the Rhareli Peking Chinese take away into something approximating
the palatable but despite this knowledge on Sunday my arch nemesis the Baby
Faced Assassin, who occupies front of house in the establishment, again used
his mesmerising powers to draw me into the shop in a trance-like, moonstruck
state following the saliferous aromas, like the boy in the fabled Bisto
advert. A change of tack by me, ordering
a plain beef curry and friend rice, produced pleasing, if not wholly
gratifying, results. By siphoning off
some of the oleaginous matter from the stodgy dish I managed to partially
isolate the beef and onions and once they were liberated from the gelatinous
sauce and assimilated into the rice it formed an edible, inoffensive meal. I cannot claim this as a victory over the
Assassin, especially given the repellent aftertaste in my mouth on Monday
morning, but I am at least counting it as a score draw.
The culinary highlight of last week
was the cheese night at the Flagon & Gorses but as the slices of cheese
that were served were so humungous the plate was more calorific that than a normal three
course meal and resultantly I was left bloated for days and full of fromage,
which was my own fault of course for displaying such unabated gourmandism. The cheese was so plentiful I even took a
fair proportion of it home thereafter putting some in my lunchbox for the
following day but when I came to eat it I was still so infused with cheese
that, like a picture of the late Margaret Thatcher, I struggled to face
it. The cheese bloat at least
accelerated my recent quest for some new, comfortable work chinos (see Lowlife 36) and after systematically
trawling around most department stores and gentleman’s clothes retailers in
Birmingham I at last managed to find a pair that were cut half decently and not
skinny fitting. I found the trousers
in British Home Stores, a denizen of middle age chic, and they were
competitively priced at £20 and there was even the option of a single pleat
version, which I have searched for in vain for many a moon.
Standing
in British Home Stores hunting for relaxed fitting chinos is a sign of one’s
tenuous grasp on the hand of youth rapidly slipping away and it acts as
reminder of the greatest paradox of ageing: as time moves on one’s body and
demeanour slows down but a person’s relative perception of time speeds up, that
is a day to a middle aged person appears to them to pass quicker than the same
amount of time experienced by a child (numerous studies have verified this
theory). Time itself does not speed up
as one grows older of course but one’s perfection of it so logically with the
right psychological tool a person’s viewpoint of time could be once more
decelerated. To begin to even think
about the solution to such an abstract concept is beyond my meagre intellect
but I do know that there are few more stark reminders of the speedy passage of
life than the two signs yards apart from each other on the Stourbridge Road,
that can be seen by looking out from the door of the Flagon & Gorses. The
signs read, “Halesowen Youth Centre” swiftly and ominously followed by
“Halesowen Cemetery.”
© Dominic Horton, October 2013.
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