Lowlife 29 - That's It, That's Unlucky: The Ultimate Dave

That's It, That's Unlucky: The Ultimate Dave

Last week was a difficult week given that my dear friend Mark Rutter's funeral was on the Monday. This week has proved to be even harder, for reasons that I will describe shortly.

Over 600 people attended Mark's service, which is a testament to Mark's popularity amongst all sorts of people.  My speech seemed to go down well enough and I managed not to choke but I did burst into tears shortly after returning to my seat.  My fellow pall bearers and I managed to not drop the coffin, so things went as well as they could have done for what was always going to be a very difficult day, especially for all of Mark's family.  The burial was by far the hardest part of the day and it was utterly heartbreaking seeing Mark's two little boys throw flowers on their father's coffin.  There were no dry eyes.

It was a relief to get to join the multitudes of mourners at the Park Tavern for a drink and given that mostly everyone was standing outside in the hot weather the occasion had the look of a wedding, not a funeral.  There were that many people that I knew in attendance, many of whom I had not seen for a little while, and given the numbers I did not even get the opportunity to speak to them all.  The fabled Kingswinford Hoaxer revealed himself to me (his identity not his private parts) but I promised to not disclose his identity to others. For years I thought Mark was the Hoaxer but he always denied it when I quizzed him on it, so now I finally know the truth.

I know that the first time I attend Villa Park without Rutter that it is going to be a difficult experience to say the least but when my good friend Dave Baldock (known to all as Davie B [Lowlife's Alfie C]) and I went to the stadium the other Saturday to sort out our season tickets he said that he would be there with me and that was a very comforting thought and one that I was clinging onto.  Once we had transacted our business Dave suggested we go for a pint so we repaired to the Coombeswood Cricket Club to enjoy the sunshine, the cricket and the wonderful view of Clent and the Malverns.

I explained to Dave that I was only going to have two pints in order to keep myself in respectable fettle, given that I was going to Pete Rhodes's surprise 50^th birthday party later that evening.  Given that Dave had a rare day to himself I surmised that he would have preferred that I could have spent the afternoon with him but he understood my position and was enjoying sitting in the sun with me, us talking like excited schoolboys at the prospect of the forthcoming football season.

Once I had consumed my second pint it was time for me to go, which was I disappointed about as it was a perfect English summer's afternoon given the delightful scenery, the sound of leather on willow, the lovely ale and the clement weather and of course, most importantly, the wonderful company of Dave which is always highly enjoyable and highly entertaining and jocular.  Usually when Dave and I meet, before we have even had chance to properly say hello we are in fits of laughter at each other and we do not even have to speak to get into this tittering state; I am not in the minority in this regard and Dave has this frolicsome effect on many people.

I suggested to Dave that he might want to hang around the club as our mutual friend Martin usually pops there for a drink on a Saturday, so he could join him.  Dave explained that in fact he was happy to go home and sit quietly in his garden on his own, enjoying the sunshine and supping a few relaxing beers; I thought at the time that is a sure sign of a man who is at peace with himself and is happy with his lot in life.

On Tuesday last I was running up Furnace Hill, where I live, and Dave was driving down it.  On seeing me Dave produced his trademark Cheshire cat grin and he shouted out of his car window, “Hey Blondie” (being his nickname for me) in the style of Tuco in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, which is the comedic way he addresses me.  Off Dave rolled down the hill and I continued to run up it and it was no more than an innocuous passing, an acknowledgement of two friends, but later in the week it took on a far greater significance.

The weather was a little cooler than it had been last Saturday but I was enjoying being out in the fresh air watching my boy Kenny play football.  My mobile phone rang and to my surprise it was Abigail, a friend of mine and the wife of Tim, a mutual friend of Davie B and I and one of Jo's (Davie B's wife) best friends. Abigail had the unenviable task of breaking to me the most shocking, overwhelming and unforeseen news that I have ever had the misfortune of hearing.  Abigail explained that following what was a suspected heart attack Davie B had suddenly and tragically died.  I cannot adequately articulate how I felt on hearing this news but I was simply stunned.  Speechless.  I didn't know what to say but of course I came out with stupid questions, such as “are you sure?”   I felt for Abigail, having to tell me the dreadful, woeful news.

When I had finished the phone conversation with Abigail other than disbelief, my over riding emotion was one of panic, though I am not sure why.  Because of Mark and Dave’s deaths being so close together and both of them being young men in their 40’s, it was probably panic that the world was going to end there and then.  I felt an urgent and immediate need to go somewhere, do something and see someone, but where, what and who I did not know.  I simply could not begin to compute the horrendous news that I had just heard.  I refused to believe that Dave had gone, “How can it be?” I thought.  I deemed it not to be possible.

Today, being five days after Dave’s death, the shock has started to subside a little and the realisation that Dave is no longer here is slowly starting to sink in.  Disbelief is gradually eroding and overwhelming sadness and grief is taking its place.   Last night my son Kenny (who loved Dave and indeed Dave loved Kenny, as he just adored children) was talking about Dave in fond terms and asking me what a heart attack is, which I did my best to explain.  Kenny finished up by saying, “Dad, he was a real loony”.   Kenny used the word “loony” as a term of endearment as like most of us, Kenny viewed Dave as a madcap, jovial character.

When Dave, my son Kenny and I were in the car on the way to Villa Park Dave would always ask Kenny if he has any jokes and Kenny would always oblige with gags that he had picked up on the school playground or that he had learnt from his joke book.  Regardless of the quality or standard of the joke Dave would whoop with laughter and jauntily exclaim, “Oh yes, that's it Ken! That's it! The Ultimate Ken, the Ken of Kens!! It's the way he tells 'em! He'll be on the stage will Ken! Ooohhh yes, Kenteke, El Blondino, heeee's a corker, that's it!!!!”  

The car would be in absolute hysterics, not only at the jokes but more so at Dave's gushing hyperbole towards them.   And that summed Dave up, quite simply he was just great fun to be with.   Amongst other things, I will miss that car trip with Dave to Villa Park with us full of the joys of spring and optimism about the outcome of the game, us discussing the week that we’ve had, chatting but mostly laughing and giggling about anything and everything.

Dave seemed to have a unique communication system all of his own which included graphic hand gestures and signals, grunts and assorted noises and a set of stock phrases and sayings, including his catchphrase of, “that’s it, that’s unlucky”, which seems to be more poignant than ever now in the sad circumstances.  But where Dave really came into his own was his ability to pluck the right remark or saying out of the air at the right time which invariably lead to riotous laughter; Dave had a great gift for this and with a sparse economy of words he could get everybody laughing, he didn’t have to say much but what he did say was delivered with considerable comedy effect. 

Dave invented the most outlandish nicknames for people and it only struck me today that the pseudonyms that I usually use for Lowlife are probably borne out of Dave’s nickname tradition.   Amongst other things Dave called his bosom buddy Dave Frost El Pistolero or the Gunslinger and he called his close friend Martin the Cutter, as his surname is Woodman.  Only Dave could christen someone with the unforgettable moniker Albino Duxbury, the name he devised for my elder brother Warwick. 

Above I wrote about Dave’s love for my son Kenny but of course the children he loved the most were his two little ones Charlie and Hannah, who in addition to his wife Jo, he simply adored.  Dave and Jo seemed perfect together and good for each other and you could not wish to meet a kinder hearted woman.   More than anything Dave was a family man, his family being his first priority, his love and his world.   Outside of his family Dave did not need, or want, much else.

With Dave gone, there is a great chasm in my heart and in my world and it feels very much like things won’t be the same again as he was unique and nobody can replace him.  I cannot begin to imagine the hurt and pain that Jo, his children and the rest of his family are suffering after this cataclysmically traumatic episode in their lives.   

I will miss Dave so much mainly because he was gold dust as his company, which I looked forward to very much, was a guarantee of fun and frolics and his individual and idiosyncratic sense of humour always lead to much amusement and laughter.  So when I remember Dave more than anything I can hear the sound of his laughter, and my laughter with him, and despite all the awful anguish, heartache and grief of his passing every time I think of him he still continues to make me smile.

Postscript

I know that in this edition that I switched half way through the piece from referring to Dave in the present tense to the past tense but I thought this grammatical inconsistently was essential for the story that I was writing. 

In addition to the passing of my friends Mark and Dave, my sincere and heartfelt condolences go out to my friend Steve Davies, who I used to play football with an Enville Athletic FC, on the tragic passing of his partner Kerry, who died last week after being diagnosed with cancer only weeks ago.   Steve is a pleasanter chap as you are likely to meet and I sincerely hope he can in time slowly start to piece his life together for the sake of himself and his children and family.

The bad news seems never ending at the moment and I hate to be the prophet of doom, but things are what they are and regrettably I am powerless to change them.

© Dominic Horton, July 2013. 

Lowlife 28 - Blitzkrieg Rockery

                     Blitzkrieg Rockery

In order for them to convalesce, I am treating my internal organs to a short break from drink as they are overdue a holiday. They usually holiday at home but this year they are demanding they go away; the pancreas favours Biarritz, the spleen Bognor, the heart the newly part-liberalised Albania, the liver anywhere hot (to dry out) and the kidneys have a difference of opinion between Falmouth and Pörtschach, Austria (to attend the World Bodypainting Festival.)   By the time my organs have finished bickering about where to go the break will be over and they will back in the Flagon & Gorses encased in my body, dutifully processing alcohol.

The Flagon’s chilli pickled onions are sublime but after becoming addicted to them a couple of years ago I had to wean myself off them as I was eating far too many and the problem is that they have a chronically adverse affect on the freshness of one’s breath, extending even to the day after consumption.  I am now considering taking up eating the pickles again to ward off the increasing amount of work colleagues who are invading my personal space during conversations and entering into what American anthropologist Edward T Hall describes as one's intimate space. It has got to the stage that when a colleague sits down next to me for a discussion I have to protrude my knee out at an unnatural angle in front of me to act as some kind of a buffer to keep the advancing person at bay.  The irony of the whole situation is that I mostly have nil success in my romantic life in luring any ladies into my intimate space, even though I have overcome the chilli pickled onion addiction.

I should pour the used vinegar from the Waggon’s Chilli pickled onions onto my garden borders to stop all plants and weeds growing.  I find it baffling that most people want things to grow in their gardens as this just means more work weeding and pruning and trimming and the like; I actively do not want things to grow in the garden to make my life easier.  The King in waiting Prince Charles famously talks to his plants in the misplaced belief that it will make them cultivate whereas I firmly instruct all vegetation in my garden to not grow under any circumstances.  The plants and weeds at Codger Mansions repeatedly ignore my desperate pleas and sprout forth quicker than Homer Simpson’s chin stubble, especially the horrid, stringy weeds in the rockery (rockery is probably too grand a word to describe what is no more than a load of half enders randomly assembled in bibble and nub end laden soil.)  I should blitzkrieg the damn thing with super strength weed killer which would then make it a blitzkrieg rockery.

I am sure that the nature loving Prince would enjoy the proliferation of spiders, beetles, earwigs and other insect beasties that lord it around Codger Mansions as though they own the place.   When I first moved in to the house I used to expel the insects from the house like a nightclub bouncer evicting troublesome drunks, but now I just let them roam free around the property as, like the Prince of Wales himself, they are harmless enough and they at least keep me company.   There are commonly that many beasties in Codger Mansions that it would put the insect house at Dudley Zoo to shame and at times there are more spider webs (despite me clearing them out on a daily basis) than in the Addams Family’s karsy.   Given that my dwelling is like a safari park, on the rare occasions that I have visitors I should charge them an entrance fee.

Luckily my wonderful son Kenteke is in the pro-insect lobby and I myself enjoy their company a great deal more than the aforementioned work colleagues who invade my personal space.  If I were to tempt any lady into my intimate space they would not last long in Codger Mansions as once they encountered the beer mat sized spiders that tend to lurk in the bath they would run screaming out of the front door like Little Miss Muffet, meaning no whey-hey for yours truly.   

In order to amuse themselves the insects often organise games and they mostly favour cricket, which they play in the games room, which was formerly the dining room until the dining table was ousted at Christmas to house Kenteke’s pool table.   The poor old spiders keep getting out lbw given the amount of legs that they have and the slow moving earwigs are commonly run out.   I unceremoniously brought a limited overs game to an end the other day when I accidentally and fatally trod on a beetle who was fielding down at long leg.   The only solace for the late creepy crawly was that in the last innings before his demise he scored a credible 43 not out in a last wicket stand of 107 with a free scoring money spider, who only came in at number 11 as he had a traumatic morning being chased around the garden by next door’s cat.

Talking of cricket, Willy Mantitt told me a wonderful story about the competitive nature of my close friend the Imp, who sadly and tragically died recently.   Mantitt’s work cricket team were short of a man and being the person he was, the Imp dropped everything and to make up the eleven.  In the limited overs league in question if a batsman makes 35 runs he has to retire but he can return to the crease if all other batsmen are out and there are overs left to bowl.   As the teams in the league are composed of firms that transact business together the games are usually played in a Corinthian spirit with all hands observing gentlemanly cricketing civility.

Willy’s team’s opposition had a star batsman who laid on 35 runs in no time at all and as the game progressed the opposing team were eight wickets down and needed five runs to win. The last two batsmen were simply shocking and their number 11 dollied the ball straight to Mantitt for the simplest of catches and if Willy held the catch it meant that the star batsman would return to the crease.   As the ball was in the air, falling towards Willy’s cupped hands, a loud shout went up from first slip piercing the tranquil quietness that often adorns village cricket grounds.  The shout came from the Imp who bellowed, “Drop the f****g thing Willy!”

Alas, observing the correct etiquette Willy caught the ball and received much back slapping from team mates but the Imp was not at all impressed.   The Imp rushed over to Mantitt, and pushing Willy’s boss out of the way he exclaimed, “Willy you are a clueless ****, now we are f*****d.”   Willy’s boss pulled him to one side and suggested the Imp was not entering into the spirit of things.   Within half an hour all were in the bar with the Imp at the centre of proceedings as always, with everyone hanging on his every word in laughter, Willy’s boss included.   

Willy’s cricketing story of the Imp was almost trumped by an anecdote that my crony Tom Holliday relayed to me in the Flagon & Gorses this week.   Holliday’s father, Mr Holliday Snr needed a replacement flat roof at his property and Tom suggested Unlucky Virgil, a roofer friend of ours.  Virgil visited Holliday Snr to give an estimate for the work and he had his girlfriend in toe, who is Thai in origin and short in stature.  Holliday Snr offered Virgil and his girlfriend a cup of tea which they accepted.  While Virgil was up his ladder assessing the roof, Holliday Snr surreptitiously slipped Virgil’s girlfriend a chocolate digestive biscuit and whispered to her the immortal words, “don’t tell your dad” !!

Postscript

My sincere condolences go out to the Abdul whose father died unexpectedly this week.   It is a very sad time and a deep shock for the Abdul but I hope that in time he can take comfort from the fact that his father passed away quickly without any prolonged sufferance. 

In happier news the Pirate is now back home recuperating at the Flagon & Gorses after his few days of hospitalisation following heart difficulties last Sunday.  On arrival at Russell’s Hall hospital on Monday I found the Pirate to be in a single room in the cardio ward, which was a sensible move by the medical staff given the rank state of the Pirate’s flatulence.   Mind you poor Ung Pirat, the Pirate’s son, had to suffer his father’s sulphurous emissions all afternoon and evening.  The Pirate’s liver and pancreas must have wondered what it had done to deserve a few days off from being bombarded with Nottingham Don’s Pale Ale and cream cakes, which like the Pirate himself, are naughty but nice.

© Dominic Horton, 19^th July, 2013. 

Lowlife 27 - The Pirate-less Pensax

The Pirate-less Pensax

As I meandered around the office today I pondered on my long held belief that everyone has a measure of madness in them, to one degree or another.  I use the word “madness” in the context of people doing odd or unfathomable things.  On arrival at the photocopier I found a smartly dressed man present that I have not had the benefit of an introduction to, standing in full office attire but his feet were merely stockinged and were not accompanied by shoes.  To compound his shoeless state the fellow was wearing the most garish pair of brightly coloured socks possible, as if to announce to the world, “I know I am not wearing shoes in an environment where shoe wearing is the convention but I do not care a jot about it.”   To my mind, the incident fully justified my measure of madness theory.

One person who has more than his fair share of madness quota is Sleepy Tom Parker and he proved this once more on our yearly visit to the Bell at Pensax beer festival on Saturday by again continuing the annual ritual of ignoring my simple directions (drive through Kidderminster and keep on going until you reach Clows Top, then turn left) and consequently Tom became hopelessly lost and ended up on a one track road in the wilds of the Worcestershire countryside.   

In fairness to Sleepy Tom though he did arrive before us in mid-afternoon, with his brother Breezy John Parker, and we found them sitting on deck chairs by their tent.  Mind you, they did set out at the crack of dawn for what is normally a drive of less than an hour but as Tom is perpetually getting lost they unwittingly visited almost every village in Worcestershire and had to stop for petrol thrice before finally arriving in Pensax.  Even though it was only 1500 hours Tom was looking decidedly drowsy in his deck chair so my travelling companions Chompa Babbee and Fudgkins and I erected our tents in double quick time in order to get Sleepy Tom on the move before he dozed off.

Fudgkins had only just returned to Blighty in time for the festival as he had visited Katowice in Poland to follow his dream of becoming a door to door toothpaste salesman, who are popular in Poland, but he was deemed too short at the interview and there was concern that when residents opened their front doors to Fudgey’s knock that they would not realise he was standing on the front step unless they were also unusually diminutive.   So after going through customs at the airport on the way home and declaring his foolishness Fudgkins dejectedly returned to the Midlands with his tail between his (short) legs and a year’s supply of Colgate toothpaste in his suitcase. 

Despite my invitation to join us in Pensax the Pirate decided to stay in situ at the Flagon & Gorses and as a consequence he missed Fudgkins regaling us with tales of his travels to Poland and although it was not exactly akin to Gulliver’s Travels (especially as unlike Gulliver Fudgey is short of leg) it did wile away the short drive. 

Fudgkins explained that in Poland you are not allowed to cross the road under any circumstances unless you are at an official crossing and the green man is showing, even if there are no vehicles within sight.  Apparently persons who breach this rule are smacked over the head by the baton of a Polish police officer and extorted to the tune of the equivalent of £40, which is a small fortune in Poland give that a pint is 80p and a three course meal £4.   It is a surprise given those nominal prices that Fudgey made it out of the bar in Poland at all, especially as he was terrified at crossing the road due to the highly draconian regulations and he was also struggling to shift the cumbersome toothpaste laden suitcase, which had one squeaky wheel and the other one missing altogether.

On the trip to Pensax Fudgkins’s newly procured second hand Volkswagen car seemed to be in as bad a condition as his overburdened suitcase.  On the face of it the car looked in decent nick and it did get us to and from Pensax but it was quickly apparent from being a passenger in the vehicle that all was not well.    It would be easier for Fudgey to get into the Buckingham Palace garden party than to get the errant car into gear and the passenger side electric window, which was showing increasing signs of dissent, eventually packed in completely and refused to come back out to play, making Chompa Babbee’s experience on the back seat a gusty one to say the least.    On exiting the Fudgemobile I slammed the door harder than I anticipated and resultantly for a brief second the wedged window popped its head above the parapet and fortunately the quick fingered Fudgkins managed to pinch the window and ease it into an elevated state.

If Fudgey has increasing difficulties with his new motor he could try to sell it to www.webuyanyoldnail.com but I wouldn’t recommend it given my demoralising experience.   Out of curiosity I tapped the details of my ailing but stoical vehicle Pat (see Lowlife No 3) into the website and disappointingly it offered me a price of a paltry fifty quid.   Worse was to follow as the small print stated that webuyanyoldnail would deduct an administration fee of £49.99 from the offered price, meaning that in effect they were offering me a ludicrously miserly one new penny for poor old Pat.    Pat may clunk and bang and make all sorts of odd noises and emit odd odours of faint burning; his heater may have ceased to be worthy of the name many years ago and his tyres balder than Duncan Goodhew but Pat, and the service he provides, is invaluable to me.

Once we reached the holy grail of the beer garden of the Bell I decided that before we started about the wholesome and uncomplicated task of drinking a dozen pints of beer and thoroughly enjoying ourselves to call order amongst our gathered brethren, which was now swelled by the appearance of the Abdul from stage left, appearing like a bald and grinning apparition.   Once the assorted giggling and dissentious comments had dampened down I produced to Sleepy Tom the latest edition of Wolverhampton CAMRA’s Beerwolf magazine and suggested he cast his weary eyes over the Snoozers in Boozers feature, which to Tom’s great surprise, and to much mirth amongst the party, included a photo of him in a comatose state. To celebrate sleepy Tom’s enduring contribution and efforts in promoting pub slumbering I presented to him a commemorative certificate, much to his delight.  If Tom ever acquires a public house I suggest he calls it The Sleeping Inn.

General frivolity ensued at the beer festival but as ever it flew by in the blink of an eye and I found myself awake in my tent on Sunday morning at 0600 hrs desperately in need of a wee.  On staggering out of the tent I could see that Fudgey’s tent door was wide open, flapping in the wind and on peering in I found that he looked like he had expired and was lying in state, for all of the camp site occupants to view and pay their respects.  I realised that if Fudgkins had indeed shed his mortal coil that we would have to wrap him in the pop up tent for the homeward journey (for which we would have to fashion a makeshift roof rack), with the tent thereafter being known as the Pensax shroud. 

Chompa and I had decided to house Fudgkins in the single tent on his own due to his strange nocturnal habits, with me having to tolerate Chompa in the larger tent.  When we woke proper at 0800 hrs we discovered Fudgey’s tent was unoccupied leading to the suspicion that Sleepy Tom and Breezy John had snatched the body in Burke & Hare style.  I was beginning to be concerned as to how I would explain to Mrs Fudgkins that not only had her husband perished but that his body is missing too.  I then noticed that the rickety Fudgemobile was also absent, meaning Fudgey must have survived the night after all but had now mysteriously disappeared. 

When Fudgkins’s returned some time later we hurriedly struck camp and retreated to the café at Hopley’s campsite down the road to indulge in essential greasy breakfast nourishment.  Despite Chompa Babbee chomping his way through bacon all of his life of two score and six years he recently announced that he no longer likes to eat it, for reasons unknown, so he partook in the standard breakfast trade in of one rasher of bacon for two sausages, which café owners are legally obliged to comply with given the terms of section 17 the little known Pork and Diary Products Exchange and Trading Act 1832, which is still on the statute book. 

On return home later that Sunday I sat on the comfortable settles in the peaceful back room of the Flagon & Gorses with Weston Super-Leeds and Jolly D, musing over a pint of bitter on my annual trip to the Shire thinking that next year I really hope that things will not be the slightest bit different at all.  Well, all except for the horrendous Don Estelle shorts that Fudgkins sported.

Postscript

Many congratulations to my associate Greig Heatison and his lovely wife, Mrs Heatison, on their recent marriage.  Warm wishes and the best of luck to them both in what I am sure will be a happy future together.  Luckily Heatison warmed to the idea of getting wed as at one stage he was so terrified of the thought of it that he even walked out in front of a bus in Colmore Row in Birmingham just to avoid the eventuality of a wedded union.  To rub salt into Heatison’s wounds the bus driver even charged him a short hop fare, the irony of which was not lost on him as after the accident he could not walk but he could just about manage a short hop.

© Dominic Horton, 3^rd July, 2013.

Lowlife 26 - Fast Eddie's Last Stand

Fast Eddie's Last Stand

One of my dearest, closest and most cherished friends, Mark Rutter (Lowlife's the Imp), tragically departed this Earth today. Mark had bravely and stoically overcome the ravages and indignities of leukaemia twice in his short life but the unwelcome condition cruelly returned three months ago and this time the illness and the affect it had on Mark's already weakened heart and kidneys, simply proved too much. It goes without saying that my heart and sincere and deep felt condolences go out to his wonderful wife Kate, his lovely boys Harvey and Niall, his father Graham and his wife Lesley and Mark's sister Helen, more warm and loving people you could not wish to meet. The strength and dignity that all of Mark's family have shown throughout his illness has been simply incredible, it has been an inspiration to us all.

As you can probably tell by the opening paragraph above, Lowlife this week is through necessity not going to be the usual jocular romp but an altogether more sobering experience. I make no apologies. I had already written this edition of Lowlife (entitled the Pirate-less Pensax) about our annual visit to Pensax beer festival, but that will have to wait until next week at least in the sad circumstances.

I met Mark many years ago when we were both young footballers playing for Enville Athletic FC and I met Steve Newton (known to all as Newty) and Carl "Tater" Taylor around the same time and we have all remained close friends ever since. At that time Mark was more of a nightclub dwelling, fashion conscious type, whereas Newty, Tater and I were more pint of bitter, bar-room banter merchants but we slowly ground Mark down over the years and brought him round to our way of thinking. We must have done a good job on him as he became a regular and extremely popular patron of his local, the Park Lane Tavern, therein after.

Everyone in the Tavern knew and liked, and loved even, Mark. This is for two principal reasons. Firstly, Mark made everyone laugh and smile and if you asked people who knew him to describe him the word “cheeky”will invariably pop up; he had a gift of being able to take the mickey out of people and humour them but in a very endearing way without ever pushing the boundaries too far (except for a couple of exceptions which were confined to football dressing rooms and of course all is fair in love, war and sports changing rooms.) Secondly, Mark was an archetypal people person, he was like an octopus that spread his long tentacles far and wide and he made such a positive impression on people who only met him briefly that they would always ask about his welfare thereafter. If you put Mark in a room full of 50 strangers he would know them all within a short space of time, that was what he was like, sociable, effervescent, vivacious, interesting and interested in others always. 

It is very odd to be writing about my friend in the past tense, as it has still not sank in that I will never see his cheeky grin again and it will most probably not sink in for quite a while, which I know is the way many people feel when they have lost a loved one. Even in the short space of time since his death I have thought to myself a couple of times that I will tell Mark this or that next time I see him, but of course that will not come to pass.

Over our years of friendship Mark and I grew closer and we found increasingly that we were able to talk to each other about the experiences and emotions that life throws up and in that respect Mark was an invaluable confidant to me as I hope I was to him. Us men of course are great at trivial and humorous bar room talk but we are a poor second to women when it comes to sharing our feelings, so although I will miss Mark terribly for many reasons, more than anything I will miss the intimacy and closeness that we shared as true friends. It will take some getting over the fact that I will never be able to talk with him again.

When Mark went into hospital three odd months ago when I visited he would always say (thinking of others as always) that I didn't need to visit so much that I must have better things to do. I would reply that I was there as I wanted to be there, because I loved his company, whether that be in the pub, on the terraces at Aston Villa or in a hospital room, it didn't matter to me, sharing time together was the most important thing, which of course is a large part of what friendship is all about.

Increasingly over the last year or so Mark's health, strength and fitness waned and he finally took the very difficult decision to discontinue his business as a builder, a partnership he had grown with his dad Graham, which had an impeccable reputation and very high standards. I knew what a demoralising effect this would most likely have on Mark, especially as all men tend to think of themselves as breadwinners with a primary responsibility to look after their families, so for Mark not being able work in his normal profession it was bound to have a profound and detrimental psychological effect on him. I stayed in close contact with Mark around this time knowing my support would be appreciated and needed and indeed it was.

Over a period of months different theories and diagnoses were put forward for Mark's increasing difficulties and one by one each of these were ruled out after what seems like endless tests and appointments with specialists. Eventually and inevitably the “L” word was mentioned and Mark was tested for the dreaded blood cancer again and it was a bitter, awful blow when the result came back positive; the collective sound of Mark's family and friends' hearts sinking must have been heard all over England. Not leukaemia, please no, anything but that f*cking horrid, atrocious leukaemia, that Mark has seen off twice before. Mark knew that he could have no more radiotherapy treatment, so I assumed that the hospital would not be able to successfully eradicate the leukemic cells in Mark’s blood.

Shortly after Mark’s diagnosis Aston Villa played Liverpool and I met Mark at Villa Park as usual together with our respective children and other friends. I didn’t know quite what to say to Mark, even though we had spoken about things on the telephone the day before, so I didn’t speak at all, I simply hugged him. Shortly after I told him that I love him, which is not something I have told a friend before, but it was wholly appropriate in that moment. Mark was due to go into hospital to start his treatment in the week after that game and it struck me then that it could be the last time he attends Villa Park but like with most things Mark proved me wrong.

Although Mark could have no more radiotherapy treatment, once he had attended the initial consultation with the haematology consultant all seemed to be quite positive as it was explained to him that the condition can now be treated with arsenic, a new development since Mark last had the illness. The consultant assured Mark that the treatment would get him into remission so everybody was hopeful that Mark could once more overcome the nasty condition. However, once Mark started to have the arsenic treatment it had a progressively adverse effect on his heart and his kidneys and increasingly the doctors struggled with a fine balancing act of treating the haematology, renal and cardio difficulties that Mark had.

On the early evening of Saturday 27^th April I visited Mark and I found that his wife Kate and two sons, Harvey and Niall were there together with Mark’s father Graham. It was clear the situation was not good so I offered to take Harvey and Niall to the canteen for an hour or so, so Mark could talk openly to Kate and Graham. Harvey and Niall were such pleasant company which highlighted what great parents Mark and Kate are and what a fine job they have done in bringing up their two little treasures. Later when we were alone, Mark explained to me that he was fearful that his body could take no more of the arsenic due the damaging effect it was having on his kidneys but that he had to go for dialysis the following day to see if that would help overcome the renal complications. I told Mark I would visit him the following evening after he had been through the dialysis and I departed that night at 2200 hrs but I desperately didn’t want to leave but Mark was tired and needed his rest.

During the course of the following morning, I felt an acceleration of uneasy feelings, I was not sure what was up but my antennae told me to get up the hospital immediately. When I arrived in the cardio ward I could see that Mark’s room had been completely cleared and I felt an overwhelming feeling of dread as I immediately thought that Mark had passed away in the night; my legs went to jelly, all the energy drained out of my body, my heart was going ten to the dozen and I started to sweat profusely. I composed myself and asked a nurse (who recognised me) where Mark was and the nurse took me to a private room to explain that Mark had been moved to intensive care which was not good news but I did feel relieved as I fully expected the nurse to tell me that he had died.

I cannot begin to adequately explain the emotions that I experienced for the remainder of that day in Mark’s room in intensive care. I am sure that all of Mark’s family and friends that saw him that day will tell you the same. I found Mark hooked up to forbidding looking machines, with his father Graham sitting with him. His first words to me were, “this is it buddy” meaning that he had reached the end of the line and that there were no more avenues for the doctors to explore. Mark explained that his kidneys had failed and dialysis had transpired to not be a realistic option as it would almost certainly send him into cardiac arrest. The medical staff had explained to Mark that once the life support machines are switched off he would only have a matter of hours to live. Mark quickly decided that he wanted to say goodbye to his family and close friends and to then be disconnected from the life support, so as to not prolong the agony for his wife and children and all concerned, which is one of many indications of the great strength, selflessness and thoughtfulness of the man.

Once Mark had finished explaining the position to me I hugged him and kissed him but I nearly accidentally killed him off there and then as I realised that I was treading on the wires that were supplying the life support drugs to him. Luckily he did didn’t go blue in the face and I removed my foot to the welcome sound of lightly relieving laughter. Naturally Mark talked about his concern for his children but I tried to assure him that the influence that he has had in their happy and decent upbringing will never cease and it will continue to have a positive bearing on Harvey and Niall throughout their lives and that Mark and Kate’s grounding will see both boys grow up into fine young men.

Mark’s friends and family were beckoned to the hospital, including Newty and Tater, who I telephoned and people filtered in to say their heartbreaking goodbyes to him. At one point the room was full of just Mark’s friends and fed up of the heavy, sombre atmosphere Mark said, “for lord’s sake, please just talk some sh*t!” For the following half an hour or so there was a bar room type atmosphere in the room and everyone tried their best to laugh, joke and reminisce with anecdotes from the past to lift Mark’s spirits a little. But soon the mood changed once we were informed that Mark’s little boys were to visit shortly to say their own crushing farewell to their father. It was time to say my final, tearful adios to Mark. Again I think I nearly ended Mark’s time there and then as I squeezed him so hard and I said to him what we would usually say when we parted, “Up the Villa mate” but this time it was said through stinging, tormenting tears. Like everyone else who shared a goodbye with Mark that day I left the room devastated, bereft.

On leaving the hospital Newty, Tater and I went for a doleful, down hearted pint and I went to my local, the Waggon & Horses, thereafter to, not to put too fine a point on it, get drunk. All the Waggoners showed great sympathy and humility and behind the bar the kind natured Caroline and Bill looked after me.

The following day saw a waiting game whereby I was fearful that every text or phone call was going to be the dreaded news of Mark’s demise. But no such news came so off I went to Villa Park with my son Kenny and my friends Davie B and Tim as Villa were playing Sunderland in a crunch relegation battle. Villa Park felt the right place to be in the circumstances and I shared the terrible news of Mark with other Villan friends of ours. I was determined that no-one would sit in Mark’s seat that night, despite there being a near capacity crowd but looking at Mark’s season ticket I realised I’d been unknowingly sitting in Mark’s seat all season and he in mine.

The atmosphere in Villa Park that evening really was something immensely special, it was electric, something I had not quite experienced before and above the stadium shone a solitary bright, glistening star and it felt like the star was Mark looking down on the occasion. That night we beat Sunderland in emphatic style, winning 6-1, in one of the best displays that has graced Villa Park in many a year and it felt very much like it was a performance and a night for Mark; it was just meant to be. My overriding and dominant thought that evening was that I had wished that Mark could have seen the game and I fully expected that he would no longer be with us by that point. But little did any of us know that miraculously Mark had not only survived the night but that he had even managed to watch the game with Graham; I learnt this the following morning at breakfast and couldn’t hold back what were paradoxically tears of joy that Mark had seen the game but laced with tears of deep sadness.

Again on the Tuesday and Wednesday of that week I was waiting for news of Mark but being the lionhearted battler that he was he was still clinging on. I was unable to cope with going to work but equally I did not know what to do with myself and I felt very isolated and alone, even when in the company of other people. On the Thursday I decided to see if I could face work but after being in the office for a short while I had a very strong sense that I should travel to the hospital, so that is exactly what I did. On arrival I sat in the canteen, as I did know what else to do, and it did not feel in order to go to Mark’s room on the ward as I had said my farewell on Sunday. However, after a while Graham spotted me and invited me to go and see his son stating that Mark's friend Nigel Round, was also present. Having thought that I would never see my dear friend again I spent what felt like a magical hour or so with him and Nigel was delighted that he got to see Mark as he was in America the previous Sunday. I left the hospital that day feeling elated almost, serene and peaceful and eternally grateful for the additional time with Mark.

The days passed and not only did Mark stay alive but he actually started to get better and free of the poisoning arsenic his kidneys began to work again and he started to pass water. Every time I visited Mark he seemed to be a little bit better than the previous visit but I was not prepared for the astonishing sight that I saw on 5^th May, the day of his son Harvey’s birthday. I arrived at the hospital and I could not believe my eyes as I was greeted by a beaming Graham pushing a fully clothed Mark in a wheelchair back into the hospital via the main doors. In typical Rutter fashion, come hell or high water Mark was determined to get out of the hospital to celebrate Harvey’s birthday, much to the delight of his family.

Graham said that Mark had even drunk a piña colada at the birthday meal. I explained to Graham the reasoning behind Mark’s choice of drink: when we were on Newty’s stag do in York a few years before we had returned to the hotel late at night and approached the night porter for a nightcap. The night porter stood in what appeared to be a serving hatch which was a makeshift bar for residents, with the bar proper being shut given the lateness of the hour. The only drinks visible in this hatch were cans of beer and bottles of wine so in a characteristically devilish move Mark ordered three piña coladas, nudging me with his elbow , grinning, as he did so. To our great surprise the night porter replied, “coming right up” and minutes later he produced three glasses of the cocktail, which we continued to drink for the rest of the night.

Given his stable state it was decided to move Mark to the more pleasant surroundings of Mary Stevens Hospice in Oldswinford, the place where I was born when it was a maternity hospital. Mark expressed his desire to me to attend Aston Villa’s last home game on the Saturday, 11^th May, Vs Chelsea. Mark was Chairman of Kingswinford Lions supporters club, which he had invested a lot of time and effort into to make a success, so I called Alan Perrins, who is head of the Lions Clubs at Villa Park, to see if arrangements could be made for Mark to be present at the game in his wheelchair. Alan was magnificent and not only did he fix it for Mark and Graham to watch the match from a box, with free complimentary meal, but also he suggested Mark present Brad Guzan with the player of the season award on the pitch before the game. I explained that Mark would not be able to participate in the player of the season award due to his weak condition but I suggested that Mark and Kate’s children, Harvey and Niall, could present the award and Alan liked the idea and we decided to keep the presentation a secret from Mark.

On the day of the match all went according to plan and the main thing was that Mark was well enough to attend and the presentation went well, the boys were thrilled to meet one of their heroes and Mark proudly looked on seeing his lads on the Villa Park pitch. It was a very special day, especially as I never imagined in my wildest dreams that Mark would be able to go to the famous old stadium again, one of his favourite places.

Even though Mark was resident at the hospice he certainly was not confined to its walls and thankfully he was able at times to spend time watching his boys play sports and spend valuable time with his wife Kate. One day, on a Monday, Graham sent me a message that they would be in the Forrester’s pub in Wollaston that evening if I cared to join them. I didn’t, of course, need any second invitation and I went up there along with Mark and I's mutual friends Tony Parks and Newty and many people were there in addition to Mark, Graham, Kate and Lesley. Mark’s improvement seemed almost miraculous and he sat and chatted, walked to and fro the toilet unaided, and even drank three pints.

That night Mark talked of possible treatments and medical options and at that stage it seemed possible that the unthinkable might happen and that he may recover and continue to live with some quality of life; this hope was further strengthened a few days later when a deliriously happy Graham called me to explained that preliminary results from a bone marrow test had revealed that no leukemic cells were present in Mark’s blood, so it seemed that the small amount of arsenic treatment that Mark had been able to have had done the trick. Highly unusually, Mark was even discharged from the hospice and returned home for a spell.

After the elation of Mark’s bone marrow result, the reality of his situation dawned again as his health fluctuated for a while thereafter and eventually he was admitted back into the cardio unit of Russell’s Hall hospital because of escalating obstacles in relation to his heart and kidneys. About a fortnight ago the situation took a significant turn for the worse and Graham and Lesley were called back from a short trip to Greece, which they reasonably went on as when they departed Mark’s condition was not too bad and seemed stable. When I visited Mark I found him in the worse plight I had seen him in since he was originally admitted to hospital and he was barely conscious for most of my stay. At that point I could not see Mark lasting long at all and that seemed to be the consensus amongst Helen (who once again had dashed back up from her home in London), Kate and Graham.

But I should know my stoical and determined friend better. On the football field Mark never gave less than everything, he battled as hard as he could and fought resiliently always for the team and he always carried these immense qualities with him in his life. On my next visit to Mark I found him very thin, as he was substantially unable to eat, but he was bright, animated and he had the trademark Rutter glint in his eye and we spend a couple of invaluable hours laughing and chatting; it was a priceless time for me. The highlight of the visit though was unquestionably when Harvey walked into the room and seeing his father in a much more lively condition Harvey produced a big, luminous, disbelieving smile and Mark responded with the same, and it was an extremely momentous sight, one I will certainly never forget.

The following day, Saturday 29^th June, saw the occasion of Mark's 40^th birthday, which was a day I am sure most people, including me, thought that he would not see. Mark proved again that we should not underestimate his fighting qualities and his ability to endure what is beyond the abilities of most other people. I visited Mark in the morning and he was in a pretty jubilant mood, especially as the doctors had agreed to him leaving the hospital for the afternoon to go to Graham's house for a barbecue with his family. I didn't know what to get Mark for his birthday given the circumstances, but when I found my camera that I had mislaid months before it presented to me an idea for an his gift. I had taken a photograph of Mark and Aston Villa hero Peter McParland (who scored both of Villa's goals when we last won the FA Cup in 1957) at Villa Park many months ago but when I lost the camera I had forgotten about the picture and Mark had never seen it. It is a wonderful photograph as for some reason that day Mark was wearing very smart clothing and the picture captured his enigmatic, radiant smile. I framed the photograph and presented it to Mark and I hope his family will look on it as a memento of him in happy times in years to come.

On the Thursday after Mark's birthday, on arriving in Mark's ward at the hospital I was greeted by a cheerful Kate with the gratifying news that once Mark's prescribed medication arrived he was free to return home. Kate had met with the palliative care specialists earlier in the week who had provided Mark with a hospital bed and other useful equipment for his home and after such a lengthy spell of inhabiting and tolerating hospitals and hospices, Mark simply wanted to go home. I helped Kate take Mark back home and he was overjoyed just to sit in comfort on his own sofa in his living room. “Can you hear that?” I asked Mark. “What?” he replied. I explained that all I could hear was beautiful bird song but other than that it was silent, which was a pleasantly welcome change for Mark and Kate from the clatter and noise of a busy hospital ward. I chatted with Mark for a while but he was very tired and sleepy, so I hugged him and bid my farewell and said I would see him soon. Although I did not know it then, it was the last time I would see my wonderful friend. Although I wished that I had seen him again, on reflection it was not a bad way to leave Mark as I left him lying back on his soft settee, relaxed, tranquil and at peace.

During the following weekend as Mark was in his own home, I thought it best to leave him alone to enjoy some quality family time with Kate, Harvey and Niall, though I was in contact with Kate who said that Mark was having difficulties with his kidneys again. On the Monday Kate contacted me with the disappointing and distressing news that Mark had fallen from his bed in the early hours on Sunday night and although he had not broken any bones the fall had further damaged his already weakened body so once more he was confined to the hospital. Kate continued that she had contacted the hospice who had a spare bed, so the plan was to transfer Mark there the following day, so I decided that I would call in on him on the Tuesday evening.

Tragically, Mark never made it to the hospice. I received a call early on Tuesday morning from Lesley, Graham's wife, passing on to me the bitterly heartbreaking news that Mark had died very early on Tuesday morning with his close family around him after he had deteriorated during the night. Apparently, Mark was not in pain and he was asleep and he peacefully and serenely slipped quietly away.

© Dominic Horton, July, 2013.

Lowlife 25 - A Brillo Pad, Two Baked Beans and a Pickled Gherkin

A Brillo Pad, Two Baked Beans and a Pickled Gherkin

I have hit a new low this week by acceding to a request by a Lowlife reader to replicate the private parts of a person known to us both, using a brillo pad, two baked beans and a pickled gherkin. The errant requester insisted I photograph the creation thereafter for inclusion in this column.  The reader in question will remain nameless, as I promised her that her identity would remain confidential when she served me the pint in the Flagon last night before she pinched a fag off her partner Chilli Willy.

It wasn’t a particularly late night in the Flagon last eve and I even got a lift home off the kind hearted Chilli Willy but on returning back at Codger Mansions I foolishly stayed up watching the film Green Card, starring the enigmatic Gerard Depardieu, finishing off the second bottle of brandy that I bought off Philly the Gent.  Depardieu looked youthful, almost fresh faced, in the film but it was filmed in 1990, so 23 years ago now when he was 42, a year older than me.  Even though I am in surprisingly good fettle for my age, all things considered, I have not been accused of being fresh faced for a while.

Chilli Willy most probably offered me the lift to compensate for nearly killing me earlier in the evening by insisting I eat some chilli chocolate that he had in his possession. Willy had two batches of the chocolate, one mildly spiced and another hotter than a peppered sprout (to quote the lyrics from Jackson by Johnny Cash and June Carter-Cash) but he got the batches mixed up and offered me the hot version before its milder counterpart.  Although I compared Chilli Willy to mafia contract killer Luca Brasi in Lowlife 22 I would advise him not to use the poisoning method as he would most likely get the meals mixed up and erroneously kill himself instead of the target.

My late supper last evening was poor, even by my standards, constituting of a boiled egg with hot pepper sauce and pickled gherkins.  In order to stomach the gherkins I had to divorce my thoughts from the reason why I had acquired them.  I then indulged in my recently developed habit of falling asleep on the sofa, only to be woken by bird song at dawn before retreating to join my faithful teddy bear companion Alfie in the Codger Mansions Presidential Suite.  Alfie was less than happy that I was having such a decadent time for a Monday and when I stirred for work this morning I found him lying on the floor by the bed, Geordie Peacock style.

Geordie Peacock was played by Daniel Craig in the poignant BBC drama serial Our Friends in the North and Craig of course has gone on to play the secret agent James Bond, appropriate as Chilli Willy’s chilli chocolate left me shaken not stirred.  The appealing blended Scotch Whisky Chivas Regal was of course one of James Bond’s favourite drinks and a bottle of the tipple in question was presented to me by my wonderful little son Kenteke on Father’s Day on Sunday, proving that my training of him has worked.  Making sense of my anarchic life is sometimes challenging but the dots always join together if one looks hard enough.

The weekend saw the addition of a resplendent new hanging basket at Codger Mansions, which will most likely be half inched in the near future if past experience is anything to go by. With the work on the front wall now complete and with Liam Redwood having fixed the letter box, the external appearance of Codger Mansions is looking better than ever. Which can only mean that disaster is lurking menacingly around the corner.

Sunday last saw a rare excursion from the Flagon on the Sabbath, with the Abdul, Weston Super-Leeds, Toby-in-Tents and his girlfriend, the lovely Samuka Dudlovski, in toe. We attended a Steve Ajao's Blues Kings gig at the Prince of Wales in Birmingham and what a wonderful afternoon it was, being an old fashioned pub gig, with a packed out bar and people dancing to the music, even though it was only late afternoon.

By the end of the gig Super-Leeds, Toby-in-Tents and Samuka were lost in battle leaving just the Adbul and yours truly standing, or wobbling rather, having had more drinks than we had realised.  After some impromptu solid sustenance the Abdul made his acquaintance with Halesowen’s most famous son, the highly influential nineteenth century politician and economist Thomas Attwood, by sitting next to his statue that adorns the steps of Chamberlain Square in Birmingham. 

The Adbul was wearing an awful T-shirt as he had asked his daughter to buy him a T-shirt with a wolf on it for Father’s Day.  As Abdul is a West Bromwich Albion fan his daughter missed a trick as she should have bought him a Wolves jersey.  I took the opportunity to take a snap of the Abdul sitting by Attwood's statue and in the resultant photograph he looks like he is playing the part of the relaxed tourist whereas in actuality he had just had eight pints together with as many roll ups, followed by a Big Mac and fries.

Despite his name my associate the Frymaster General never cooked fries (better known as chips in Anglo Saxon) when I had the misfortune of sharing a property with him in Fairfield Drive.   Fortunately the décor and general appearance of the Fairfield Drive dwelling was infinitely better than the Frymaster’s old flat in a less salubrious part of Halesowen where it was said that all the residents were either drug dealers or drug takers.   The Frymaster did not have a bed, opting to sleep on the sofa and the sole chattel in the bedroom was an abandoned shopping trolley.   The living room had the appearance of an 18^th Century doss house and the wall paper was hanging off the walls, with bare plaster in places.   When the Frymaster moved into the flat the council foolishly gave him £200 to decorate it but he invested all of the funds down the bookies and in the pub in the course of the weekend and not a penny saw the inside of the till at the B&Q. 

I remember the dawning horror of waking up in the Frymaster’s old flat many years ago in a state of inverted sobriety and being offered a cup of tea for refreshment.  It transpired that the Frymaster only had a solitary mug (which had been relieved of its handle) and he was clean out of milk and sugar, so the experience was not quite shaping up to be like high tea at the Ritz and I was thinking that the tea might not be such a good idea.   The straw that broke the camel’s back was that one of the Frymaster’s pubes was nestling in the mug, so I made my excuses and declined the char leaving Earl Grey rolling in his grave.   Early Grey, being Prime Minister in the 1830’s, was the author of the Reform Bill of 1832 and I was left in no doubt that the Frymaster’s tea making utensils, stocks and procedures needed radical reform.

In order to rescue the Frymaster General from such squalid conditions I invited him to move into Fairfield Drive with Still-in-Fjord and I as it just so happened a room had become free in the residence.   In the absence of anything better to do we decided to brew beer in a small room at the back of the garage and we called the brewery The Scotch Egg Puritanicals.   

The worst job whilst brewing was after the first fermentation in the bucket transferring the beer into a barrel for the second fermentation.  This was because in order to draw the beer from the bucket into the barrel you had to suck a pipe and often you got a mouthful of the foul liquid, so to be equitable we took the job in turns.  It was the Frymaster's turn one particular Monday and he was struggling to draw the beer down the pipe into the barrel below and he was moaning as a consequence.  Still-in-Fjord walked into the kitchen at that moment and he could hear us but not see us and it must have been with great disgust and bewilderment that he heard me exclaim to the Frymaster, “for f*cks sake, just get down on your knees and give it a good hard suck.”

Presently, Dick the Hook would not benefit from the Frymaster General’s cooking techniques or from lashings of the substandard beer that the Frymaster and I used to brew, as he revealed to me recently in the Flagon that he is on a diet due to a waistline that is expanding quicker than the Roman Empire in the second century.   Due to his diet the jocular Dick was torturously restricting himself to one pint of beer only but he still had time to describe to me the fascinating contents of a book that he had recently read, Life of Pi by Yann Martel.   Dick explained that he was reading books as a poor substitute for drinking beer but he had very much enjoyed the book nonetheless and was now looking forward to seeing the film.    From behind the bar the amiable Donny Darkeye had been eavesdropping on the conversation and he interjected, “I have seen Life of Pi and I can tell you it is a wonderful film but I fell fast asleep after 20 minutes.”  Which is a contradiction in terms if ever I have heard one. 

Postscript

Many congratulations to my correspondent and associate Willy Mantitt and his wife, the lovely Mrs Mantitt, on the birth of their second child, Charlie James Mantitt, who entered this world recently weighing in at 7lbs 14 oz.    The birth of Charlie is clearly a wonderful event in its own right but regular readers of this column will also know that it marks the official end of Mantitt’s self imposed sobriety, pending the arrival of the child.  I use the word “official” as in practice the weak willed Willy broke the booze ban within 48 hours of it coming into force and continued to flagrantly disregard his promise thereafter, as predicated by the author. 

© Dominic Horton, 28^th June, 2013.

Lowlife 24 - The Turks are Revolting

Lowlife 24

The Turks are Revolting

I see that the French are on strike, the Turks are revolting (or rebelling, as "revolting" could be taken the wrong way) and that the Royal Bank of Scotland Chief Executive Stephen Hester is abandoning ship, now he feels that he has done his bit for the bank, with an immensely generous golden handshake of £1.6m of taxpayers’ money and a potential £4m in shares to feather his nest with.

I feel sorry for the tramps in Istanbul as not only are the authorities planning to build on the locally revered Geki Park in the city but a law has now also been passed banning the sale of alcohol in shops after 2200 hours, so they cannot even drown their sorrows to lament the sad news of the Park’s development if they fail to get to the off licence on time. 

I can picture Turkish tramps waking up on park benches after impromptu snoozes and legging it to the offy to buy their medicinal nightcap just before 2200 hrs in a blind panic, with the booze devils chasing them up the street.  The image is akin to me leaving the Flagon & Gorses at one minute before midnight in the desperate hope to make the Rhareli Peking Chinese take away before the turn of the hour, when it shuts; the sight of the light to the shop being on when I turn the corner of the road is a highly welcome one, like a thirsty man sighting an oasis in the desert.  I understand that J.J. Cale penned his classic track, After Midnight, after the crushing disappointment of not making it to the Rhareli Peking before closing time.

On the BBC, RBS's Hester immodestly sang his own praises and then he then declared, "I've been in the trenches with my people."  To begin with I doubt he's been in the trenches, more like in battle HQ far behind the enemy lines, sipping Bordeaux and biting into quails eggs telling the other officers how he and Bunny once laid on a seventh wicket stand of 117 for Oxford University 2nd XII against the oiks from Birmingham.  "My people"?! Does Mr Hester think he owns the poor employees at RBS? Is he going to take them with him when he leaves and pack them into a card board box with the contents of his desk and the £1.6m in banknotes he's blagged? 

We've all heard the expression "laughing all the way to the bank"; well in this case the fortuitous Mr Hester will be laughing all the way from the bank.   I can just imagine him returning home in the evening and explaining to the wife, "the bad news dear is that I have resigned and no longer have a job.  The good news is that I have got 1.6 million spondoolies in my sky rocket, so forget those fishfingers you are cooking we are going down the pub to get ratted followed by a ruby at the Star of Bengal.  Jeeves, rev the Merc up my old son, I'm choking for a pint."

Hester and his like live in a completely different stratosphere to us mere mortals.  Apparently he owns a 350 acre estate in Oxfordshire and the garden, which includes an arboretum, was designed by Chelsea Gold Medal winning landscape architect Tom Stuart-Smith and includes pleached limes and five of the first batch of Australian Wollemi pines ever brought to Britain.   Why anyone would want to own Australian Wollemi pines is beyond me with them being a singularly unattractive tree; they resemble my scraggy, cheap, plastic Christmas tree that I drag out of the cupboard under the stairs once a year which is so uninspiring it actually dampens the festive spirit as opposed to enlivening it.   Contrarily, a row of elegant pleached limes would go down a treat amongst the cat sh*t, stingers and weeds of my Codger Mansions garden.   Hester has expensive pleached limes but all I get is a pickled lemon, which Chilli Willy offered me in the Flagon the other night and I have to say it was truly disgusting.  The place for a lemon is in a gin and tonic, sliced, in my book, or distilled into limoncello, not soaked in vinegar in a pickle jar, which is more the domain of onions, eggs, gherkins and the like.  One thing is for sure, with £1.6m nestling in Hester’s wallet he is unlikely to be in a pickle.

I even have to weed the wall in the back garden of Codger Mansions as like charity street sellers in Birmingham City Centre, the damn weeds get everywhere.  The owners of the new tram line at Snow Hill in Birmingham have turned the whole thing on its head by actually inserting weeds into the freshly developed wall by the proposed tram line and it looks dreadful.  Every time I walk past the wall of weeds it reminds me that the Codger Mansions garden needs attending to so the whole thing has less to do with a tram trip and is more like a guilt trip.

I rarely keep up with current affairs, usually only hearing snippets of news in the Flagon & Gorses, which are mostly a version of the story distorted or misrepresented by the punter in question and heavily laden with the relater’s opinions on the matter.  However, I learnt of the France, Turkey and RBS developments after catching a few minutes of the news on BBC television.
 

People at work often ask me if I saw this or that on television last night but despite me replying repeatedly “no, I don’t often watch television” they continue to ask away and then tediously explain the contents of the goggle box programmes they watched the previous evening.  Some of them must dedicate their entire association time to glaring at insipid television programmes and what’s worse they totally ignore the odd programme of quality and interest that can be found, if one tries hard enough, such as the documentaries on PBS America.  There was such a broadcast on the channel last night, a two hour film about the two fabled bouts between Joe Louis and Max Schmeling in the 1930’s but alas I had to give it a miss as I had to dedicate time to writing this nonsense. 

Some people even switch the television on but do not watch it, which is a puzzling thing to do to my simple mind.  It would seem odd if a person put the oven on but cooked nothing, but switching on the television only to undertake a different activity, or even to adjourn to another room, is apparently a normal thing to do. 

My viewing is largely confined to football during the season, the odd bit of test match cricket and the Cartoon Channel when my son Kenteke is in the house.  As a money saving measure I have had Sky Sports switched off for summertime, after having had to wrestle with the difficult but cosmopolitan staff at Virgin TV to accept my simple instruction of disconnecting the channels.  I spoke variously to a gentleman from the sub-continent, a Scotsman and a lady of indistinguishable accent or origin before eventually losing faith in humanity and putting the telephone handset back on the receiver. 

A letter of complaint to the Virgin company secretary subsequently did the trick and the polite complaints manager that telephone me, who sounded like he is from the Home Counties, could not have been more helpful.  The smug faced Richard Branson might want to spend less time appearing in his irritating television advertisements and more time reminding his telephony staff they that are there to assist and not obstruct valued customers, who help to pay their wages after all (whether it be in sterling, rupees or Scotch whisky.)

Thankfully the television is rarely switched on in the Flagon & Gorses and when it is on it is confined to the back room, so it is not a nuisance if you are drinking merrily in the peaceful bar.   There is a rumour though that a new model is to be installed to replace the current antiquated set, which should be confined to the vaults of the British Museum.   All this modernisation at the Flagon is a little concerning though, as we do not want to lose the antiquated charm of the place and I cannot see the Pirate wearing the latest pair of Adidas training shoes with his trouser belt hanging half way down his arse revealing Calvin Klein pants.

Postscript

The other week in Lowlife 22 I failed to mention another culinary lowlight from my Fairfield Drive days. Prior to payday all I had left to eat was the residue of a stew from the night before but there was not an ample amount left to constitute a meal so I managed to form a soup out if it, which thereafter was known as the resi-stew.

© Dominic Horton, 14^th June, 2013.

Lowlife 23 - The Lesser Titted Mantitt

The Lesser Titted Mantitt

Things are so dire financially at the moment that in order to live I have had to defraud myself just to generate money.  When I find out what I have done to myself I am not going to be very happy.  It could spark an internal dispute in Codger Mansions.   I have also had to spend money that I have not yet got, which one can only do with great difficulty, using guile, cunning and skill.   I have even cashed in my Christmas club money and it is only June, which means it’s going to be a miserable festive season this year.    In stead of “Christmas is coming and the goose is getting fat” it will be “Christmas is coming but the balloons are going flat.” 

Just to rub things in Lowlife has learnt that the lavish and gluttonous Willy Mantitt had two steaks for dinner last night, whereas I only get one dose of quality red meat a month at the Flagon & Gorses steak night, which fortunately falls just after pay day.  Mantitt tried to justify his covetous consumption by stating that as Mrs Mantitt is a vegetarian he always has to eat two of everything.   All this overeating means that Willy’s waistline is getting bigger, as are his man boobs, both of which he is keen to reduce so he can once more sunbathe in his garden, which will mean that a certain rare species will be able to be sighted on Willy’s lawn again: the Lesser Titted Mantitt.

Willy could of course freeze one steak or even better invite me round to dinner, where I could do him a favour and knock a hole in his booze stocks which presently represent an unwelcome temptation in his house due to his pledge of sobriety for the month of June (see Lowlife 21). 

Mind you, like Mantitt I will be dry today as I will be blessed by the presence of my wonderful son Kenteke later and besides my internal organs have organised a petition and are campaigning for a better deal which involves less alcohol and more oily fish; I could more frequently oblige them with the former but as for the latter they obviously don’t know the price of fresh mackerel.   It is usually my mind that is rebellious but now my body has followed suit meaning that (quoting a poem I wrote in 1989 entitled Return of the Soul Destroyer [yes I was cheery then too]) “all I have left is my soul, refusing to budge from the whole.”

Willy queried if I feed my rank sausage casserole gruel to Kenteke but I replied emphatically that I certainly do not as it would amount to child cruelty and I don’t want to be cruel with the gruel.  Kenteke would be straight on the blower to Esther Rantzen at Childline and I wouldn't blame him.

Esther Rantzen is now a senior citizen of course and according to the Observer a growing proportion of pensioners are p*ssed half of the time.   The Observer article was explaining how boozing is particularly bad for elderly people's health but I am sure most of them think that as they have made it to advanced years they may as well do what they want and enjoy the time that they have got left.  One senior citizen that will buck the trend is the Abdul as carelessly he has crocked his leg and he is not supposed to drink for a week give the strong painkillers he’s on, so he is stone cold sober for the first time in years.   Given my pension projections I will barely be able to afford to eat as a pensioner, let alone drink.  They are more like pension dejections than projections.  If I can’t afford to drink as a pensioner I might as well do myself in.

I sometimes think about what method I would employ if I was to end it all, not in a morbid or depressed way but in a practical sense and it helps to while away a sit on the toilet.  For a start I could not put my head in the oven as I haven’t cleaned it since I moved into Codger Mansions so it is so encrusted with charred remains that I would not be able to fit my head in there.  I found a charcoal of sausage in there the other day and it looked less than palatable.   A lethal injection is out of the question as I’m not a massive fan of needles after a disturbing trip to the doctors where he wanted to stick a little prick in me.    I would not want to employ the drowning method as I can barely swim and as a result it would not be very safe.   

If I jumped off a tall building I might not be very popular with the council as my large conk (yes, I said conk) would most likely ruin the pavement and the damage would result in the council tax going up, embittering all my associates to my memory and my funeral would be sparsely populated as a consequence.   I could shoot myself, but to do that I would need to acquire a gun and I wouldn’t be able to afford to buy one, my poverty being the reason as to why I would want to top myself in the first place.    Chilli Willy, the Flagon’s chef, could be politely asked to poison me but judging by his meals he has already tried to do that and it hasn’t worked. 

If I were to hang myself in Codger Mansions it might leave ghoulish omens for the subsequent occupants and the only other place I could do it is in the shed, but given the dilapidated state of the decrepit structure if would collapse under the weight of a cat let alone me.

 One person who will not have to contemplate doing himself in due to glum impoverished circumstances is Willy Mantitt's affluent boss, who once wrote a chapter in a book entitled How I Made my First Million.  If I was to write a chapter in a book on financial matters I think it would be called How I Made my First Wage Packet Disappear in Five Minutes Flat.

I am sure that Willy’s gaffer will expediently relieve him of his duties if Mantitt offers him some of the disgusting sounding coconut water that he has been procuring for the heavily pregnant Mrs Mantitt.   Coconut water sounds like something Robinson Crusoe would have mixed into his rum to take the edge off before thrashing Man Friday at cricket.    I would rather have some of the light and delightful Portuguese sherry that the Pirate poured me on Monday in the Flagon, which he served in was the most attractive, delicate little vessel I have ever imbibed out of.    Attractive and delicate are not words usually associated with the Pirate but if he is hung over he might be delicate but not attractive.

The Pirate’s sherry was a cut above the rank, cheap stuff I used to guzzle with my jovial accomplice El Pistolero at my old residence at Fairfield Drive many moons ago.  One evening, having only a few jingling coins in our roomy pockets and no banknotes in our wallets, El Pistolero and I ambled down the local off licence more in hope that expectation of exchanging our trifling amount of cash for sufficient booze to make us merry.  We relayed our comprised position to the shop assistant and explained we wanted maximum alcohol by volume for minimum expenditure.   To our pleasant surprise the assistant expertly suggested we purchase bottles of the cheap dry sherry that they stock, so we blew the dust off the bottles and transacted accordingly. 

After furtively hot-footing back to Fairfield Drive we tipped the sherry into pint glasses and looked forward to sampling the tipple.  After the first sip of the drink my face resembled that of a man biting into a fresh lemon but within a few more tastes the drink was revealed to be infinitely more appetising than expected.    The sherry went from being a skid row drink borne out of necessity to our beverage of choice from the off licence which we purchased even when we were flush, which was appropriate enough as one sip of it made one’s face flush.   The off licence in question finally closed down and that marked the end of our merry sherry experience, which in the long run was most probably for the best.

Postscript

Recently I attended a very enjoyable school re-union (to mark 25 years since we left the wretched establishment) organised by my good friend the Jolly Keen Giant and held in Brandhall Conservative Club (in Langley) that is run my long time crony Jonty Von Rossi and his wife, the lovely Lareina Von Rossi.  If you can ignore the political allegiance the Brandhall Conservative Club is certainly worth a visit.  

Anyway, prior to the re-union I met up with two other long time cohorts, Ted Stone and Si Clerr, for a swift one in the Flagon and to my great joy and surprise Ted produced the fabled “I did it Peapod” photographs that I referred to in Lowlife 17 (entitled I did it Peapod).  The photographs are shown above (in the paper and email edition but not the online edition – please shout up if you want a copies online readers.) Note the Farah trousers and the Adidas Samba trainers that I am wearing, which were schoolboy chic at the time.

Ted Stone is now a big cheese (or at least a medium sized cheese) insurance broker with a motor home bigger than my house whereas I am reduced to writing weekly witticisms about past fiascos and the inner life of the Flagon & Gorses, for nil monetary reward.  But Ted is to thank for the photographs as I tipped him off about the planned Peapod caper and with him being slightly more affluent than us Shell Corner kids, which was not hard, he had a camera and duly did the business, capturing the escapade forever for posterity. 

© Dominic Horton, 7^th June, 2013.