Lowlife No 13 - What’s up Doc?

What’s up Doc?

With my dear son the Cannonball suffering from an infected in-growing toenail, yesterday brought an unscheduled trip to the doctors. A trip to the doctors usually means a long, mind numbing time sitting in the waiting room as the surgery works on a first come first served basis known as open surgery (not to be confused with open heart surgery).    The practice changed to fixed appointments only a few years ago, but it took at least a fortnight to get the opportunity to see the doctor by which time the patient had either recovered or died. Consequently, most people turned up at the surgery on spec anyway demanding to see the doctor so as a result the appointment system was abandoned.

The surgery usually opens at 0845 hrs but even if you arrive at that time sharp there is commonly at least a dozen pensioners who have beat you to it and are already in the queue to see the receptionist, which ensures that a tediously long wait is in store.

This time I was determined to be first in the queue so I triumphantly arrived at the surgery at 0830 hrs.  Only to find that the surgery now opens at 0830 hrs and that the line of pensioners had once more arrived before me.  All was not lost, I thought to myself, as there were only a half dozen malingers before C’ball and I so with there being two doctors on duty we will be seen to in no time at all, by 0900 hrs at the latest. 

C’Ball and I settled down to read our respective books to fill the anticipated short wait.   I had one eye on my book and one on the patients going in and out of the surgery to work out when we would be called.   0900 hrs came and went, as did 0930 hrs.  By then a great number of patients had entered the waiting room and it was harder to decipher who was before us in the pecking order and who was not.

Everything now seemed a terrible jumble.  There was only six people to see the doctor before us, but eleven had saw the doctor and left, none of which came in after us and there were still patients waiting that had come in before us.    Things were getting so confusing that I lost the power to concentrate on my book and C’ball decided he had had enough of reading at the same time and abandoned his book, deciding instead to restlessly fidget.

I am certainly no mathematician but by this stage two doctors has seen eleven patients in one hour and fifteen minutes, meaning each patient on average had spent over 13 minutes with the doctor.  And this is an average, meaning some patients had taken considerably more time.   In all the visits that I have had to the doctors over the years, being very businesslike I cannot recall being in the surgery with the doctor for over five minutes once I had eventually been called.  But some people do not know the meaning of the word concise and others are relentless chatterboxes who just like to talk for the sake of it, having flagrant disregard for the suffering masses in the waiting room.

By 0945 hrs C’ball and I had gone way past the end of our tethers and even though I wasn’t ill when I went into the surgery I started to feel utterly dreadful, despite the fact that I had not had a drink for two days.   When the doctor called the next patient her voice became increasingly vague and I began to wonder if our names had been called but I had missed it.  

It is normally at this point that you need the toilet but are fearful that you will miss your call if you go, so you cross your legs and start to read the posters on the wall to take your mind off the matter.  And what a depressing occupation that is.   Most people walk in to the surgery in a cheerless state given that they are ill or have an injury of some description and are in need of a bit of merriment to lighten the mood.  But the posters on the wall serve as a reminder of our mortality and makes one feel even gloomier than before.  To make things worse there is now a television in the corner piping in medical based information directly into the waiting room in invasive fashion, so there is no escape from contemplating such horrors as the onset of dementia. 

At long last, when we thought we had entered the land that time forgot, we were called by the doctor and she turned out to have arms that were hairier than those of Talk Sport’s Richard Keys.  True to form we were out of the surgery, prescription in hand, within a matter of minutes which made me wonder why most of the other patients took so much time. 

GPs are trouble shooters so generally they can get you out of the surgery expediently by either giving you a prescription, telling you that your ailment is not worth worrying about (i.e. p*ss of you malingerer) or referring you to a specialist.  Even if the problem is a little sticky, in my experience the doctor gives you short shrift.  When I have sought help with depression from the GPs they have been so dismissive that I have left thinking that they must have worse problems than me. 

The one thing that doctors do not like above all is when the patient dabbles in self diagnoses.  In his 20’s my younger brother Roger told the GP that he thought he had a double hernia but the doc dismissed this theory as he said Rog was too young to have that complaint.  Roger then was referred to various specialists and medicos before they finally diagnosed the problem.  A double hernia or double trouble, more like. 

I hanker for the days of dear old Doctor Robinson, with his half moon glasses and tweed jacket and no-nonsense approach. Patients were in and out like a revolving door under Robinson.  My mother took my verruca riddled older Brother, the Albino, to see Robinson to sort out his feet.  Robinson didn’t mess around with creams or treatments he simply cut the unwelcome verrucas off with his scalpel.  This not only cured the problem in double quick time but additionally put me off going to the doctors at all until after Robinson finally retired.

The Antipodean doctor, who worked at the practice not too long ago but who’s name escapes me, was a far cry from the efficient Robinson.   Undertaking a blood test the Aussie doctor took a blood sample from me, but as I was suffering from low blood pressure as part of my illness I felt very faint.  The doctor reacted to this with nervous laughter, which did not fill me with confidence.  He didn’t seem to know what on earth to do so I suggested he find me a biscuit to chomp on, which duly did the trick and I perked up a bit.

But it was it was the lady doctor Nettles who really takes the biscuit. Many years ago I developed an unsightly rash in the groin area, which was giving me more than a little concern.  I was ushered in to see the rookie doctor Nettles and I explained that I had a rash, but she didn’t ask on what part of the body the rash had appeared, she simply asked to see it – she must have expected me to roll up my sleeve as it was to her great horror that I dropped my trousers and underwear to reveal the rash.  I don’t think she had seen one before.  Not wanting to get her hands dirty, to inspect the rash further she moved my testicles to one side with a pencil, which fortunately for me was a little blunt.  To my great relief she diagnosed a heat rash.   Which is ironic, given that through embarrassment Nettles was having a hot flush. 

But it was an emergency doctor in West Bromwich who won the day for medical incompetence.  A few years ago on a Saturday I could withstand the earache I was suffering no longer so visited the our of hours doctor who commented, after looking down my throat, that my tonsils were infected, to which I replied, “I don’t think so doc, I had them removed in 1978!”

© Dominic Horton, 18^th March, 2013. 

Lowlife No 12 - Oliver: Please Sir, No More Sir!

Oliver: Please Sir, No More Sir!

Lowlife is not in the habit of doing restaurant reviews, as I rarely eat in such places given the threadbare state of my finances. The closest I get to eating out is having a slice of the magnificent turkey and ham pie in the Flagon.  Mind you the Cannonball did treat me to a Greggs pasty the other week at our local Greggs the Baker, which is a sit down outlet, posh I know, so it did count as dining out.  Good old philanthropic Mr Gregg vending tasty hot pasties to the impoverished for mere pennies.  Like all good philanthropists you never hear of or see Mr Gregg but I think it is about time he was rewarded in the New Year’s Honours list.  However, for Mother’s Day I found myself in Jamie’s Italian, the Birmingham vehicle of the irritating television cook, Jamie Oliver. Oliver is so bothersome that he would even agitate Dustin from the Flagon, who is the most placid and gentlemanly figure I know.

It is true to say that my view of the restaurant was a little coloured even before I set foot in the place given my mild aversion to Oliver but I was trying very hard to keep an open mind. 

Unfortunately, I was put on the back foot before I had even sat down and took my coat off as the waitress used that awful Americanism of “guys” to address us, despite there being two ladies in our party.  

Taking our order the waitress consistently used the slang word “cool” and I was hoping that was not a description of the state of the soup.  But the soup could not be cool as when I enquired what the soup of the day was (which I wanted to warm me up in the arctic conditions) I was informed that the restaurant does not sell soup.  A restaurant not serving soup?! That is comparable to the Flagon not selling beer.    If I had known about the absence of soup I could have visited the amiable Craig in the inviting Whisky Shop in the Great Western Arcade for a quick winter warmer.

Undeterred by the souplessness I spotted that encouragingly local beer was stocked so asked the waitress what they had on offer.  She replied that they currently have no local beer.   As you can well imagine at that point my estimation of the place was going down faster than the Liverpool striker Luis Suarez in the opposition’s penalty box.

The waitress started to take the gentlemen’s orders before the ladies in an anti-etiquette strategy.  The strategy was further in evidence when I later spotted her taking the orders of another party and she actually sat down, uninvited, with the diners on their table to talk to them.  She might as well have scoffed their dinners while she was at it.

The sound of invasive pop music  rang out around the room and not of the tasteful and quiet variety, such as produced by the lizard-like Canadian Leonard Cohen for example, but lively, up tempo pop that is more at home in a trucker’s café.   The ability of the diners to relax was further eroded by that most unwelcome of modern phenomenon, the open kitchen.  If there is one thing I cannot stand it is screaming and shouting and general mayhem.  It happens in the usually restful Flagon occasionally when a stag party stumbles in, much to the distaste of the regular patrons.  

The whole restaurant was adorned with great vulgarity by Oliver related goods which are on sale to the diners, making the whole place looking like a cross between a café and a bookshop, which is what the restaurant used to be.  To make matters worse when I went to the toilet I had to pass the front of the open kitchen and was blocked off by rude waiting and kitchen staff, thundering past me in manic fashion. I naively thought the staff would stand to one side and invite me, as a customer, to proceed but not a bit of it.  The very same thing happened on the way back from the gents.  I would much prefer the mayhem and chaos of the kitchen be confined to a separate room.

Despite what the Imp claimed (see Lowlife No 2) I am no style guru but some of the diner’s attire leaved a lot to be desired.  Some men (I hesitate to use the word gentlemen) did not wear a collar and others were unshaven (and to some both applied).  Other male diners even wore sports shoes.  It is no surprise that an establishment of this nature attracts customers with such slovenly standards.

I thought I had cracked things on the food front by ordering a lamb stew to make up for the soup disappointment.  When I ordered the stew I didn’t for one minute imagine that it would be served in the style of a pie with sliced red onions on top.  It looked like the chef had dropped the onions on the stew-pie in error instead of putting them on a salad, which is not a surprise given the pressure the staff are under by the prying eyes of customers into the open kitchen.   Let’s hope that the chef didn’t erroneously drop a sausage on top of the duck l’orange as that would be quackers.

The saving grace of the lunchtime was that I most unexpectedly fell in love.  The sweet and beautiful Limoncello was the object of my affections, which was not the name of the waitress, but an Italian liqueur spirit made from the fruity zest of Femminello Saint Teresa lemons of Southern Italy.  It was love at first taste, if you will. Limoncello was recommended to me by  another Mockney bluffer, Willy Mantitt, and usually you have to take his recommendations with a large pinch of salt, but this time he is right on the money.  Incidentally I had to add a large pinch of salt to the stew to give it some flavour.  It is doubtful that I will be a father again, but if I am and I have a daughter I will name her Limoncello after the delightful Mediterranean spirit.  The only downside to the drink was that it was such a meagre serving that I had to drink it quicker than I normally like to otherwise it would have evaporated.

Such was the letdown of Oliver’s restaurant that I had to un-pucker myself by immediately visiting the Flagon to quaff pints with the Pirate.  As you know I use pseudonyms in this column to protect the innocent and to not condemn the guilty, but I can now reveal that the Pirate’s real name is Bob Van Vliet.  The Pirate attempted in his own unique style to promote Lowlife.  A punter picked up a copy of the latest edition and after glancing at it put it down again and Van Vliet shouted across the bar to him, “Don’t put that back, f*cking read it, the author is sitting next to me.”   There was no answer to that.

Once fully refreshed, on leaving the Flagon I decided to have a taste of the Orient in order to banish the earlier culinary calamity.  I congratulated myself for bypassing the disgusting Seldum Peking take away and chose instead to take the longer walk to the delicious Red Lantern.  Once I returned home I sat there smugly spilling curry sauce all down my dressing gown and the food is that good at the Lantern that I didn’t even rue the soup that never was.

Postscript

To avoid doubt, as all good lawyers say for clarification, the following comments are in all seriousness.  I can see that the regular reader of Lowlife might think I am being sarcastic, but I assure you wholeheartedly that is not the case.

If you do want quality food at a decent price, venture no further than the Flagon (being the Waggon and Horses, Stourbridge Road, Halesowen) where the chef Chilli Willy serves up delicious hearty fayre.  The regular steak and other themed nights are so popular that they are always fully booked to such a degree that it is easier to get a table at the Savoy Grill on a Saturday evening.   The difference is that the food, beer, ambience and company are far superior to the Savoy.  Willy knows how to cook a mean steak which is ironic as both Willy and his partner, Flagon barmaid and some time archaeologist Carla von Trow-Hell, are vegetarians.  Food is served every day until 1800 hrs (later on a Monday and a Wednesday) except Sunday so you should treat yourself and dine in style at the Flagon. 

© Dominic Horton, 11^th March, 2013.

Lowlife No 11 - The Horizontal Scottish Bar Steward and other Stories

The Horizontal Scottish Bar Steward and other Stories

There was no sleep to be had last night, intermittent snoozing at most but no real sleep.  This is often the case on the first sober night after a few days of drinking.  I was caught out by an impromptu night out on Tuesday to see the Magic Band (i.e. Captain Beefheart’s band) with Fudgkins, the Pirate and the Frymaster General. 

The Magic Band were magnificent.  The Frymaster General was chuffed he made a mad dash from the Potteries to make it.  We went in the White Rose in Bilston for a swifty pre-gig and the Frymaster was in there with his kit bag, having booked a room.  He was wearing a black shirt with small white horses on it. Hideous. Fudgkins is the only man in Britain that would wear a Harbourne Golf Club sweater to a Beerfartesque gig.  The morning after the concert Frymaster sent a despatch to say that the Magic Band were staying in the White Rose as well and he joined them for breakfast.  When we left the Robin after the gig the bass guitarist Rockette Morton and guitarist Denny Walley were wandering back into the Robin with a take away balti, which just goes to show that even Americans are Black Country at heart.

The beer sweats took hold last night as soon as I got into bed and despite trying to relax with reading I could not calm down sufficiently to get to sleep.  The only drink that I had on the evening was a small Scotch with the intention that it would keep the wolf from the door, but the wolf proceeded to rampage in uncompromising fashion through my sickly dreams and thoughts anyway.   I drank the cheap Aldi Scotch from a Les Vegas shot glass that I had from the Phantom and the irony of this was not lost on me. 

Even my teddy bear Alfie seemed to be struggling a bit with the terror and it doesn’t unduly surprise me as I have long suspected that he nips at my spirits when I am out, which is why they disappear so quickly.  I would have never pictured myself having a teddy but the Cannonball bought me one as a gift and Alfie has turned out to be one of the most valuable presents that I have ever had – I would recommend any single person buying one as the comfort they offer is immeasurable.  I explained this to the Adbul up the Flagon, but he did not seem too taken with the idea.  That said he might have since acquired a teddy but kept it quiet from me in order to keep his masculine sensibility in tact.   Alfie always offers me great warmth and reassurance, especially on dark nights of the soul as described above.

This little spell of drinking more than average needs to be put to bed and my normal routines resumed.  The spell started after hearing of Jonathan Rendall’s death a few weeks ago and now it needs to stop.  Occasionally there is an online survey on drinking where they ask such questions as “do you drink alone” or “have you ever missed a day off work through drinking.” Usually the idea is that if you answer yes to 50% of the questions then you are (in their eyes) a problem drinker.  The annoying thing is that there is never a simple click you can make to answer yes to all of the questions without having to go through them individually.  It is enough to drive you to drink.

Whilst having a course of counselling a few years ago I raised the issue of alcohol and told the counsellor that I wanted to discuss it, saying that I was concerned about the amount I drink.  The counsellor asked me how much and when I drink and then asked me to compare that with my friends’ alcohol habits.  When I told her that on average I consume the same amount of booze as my friends and usually have at least three dry days a week she was adamant that I have nothing to anguish about and that I should not worry.   I suspect that the counsellor enjoyed a little drop herself and that she saw my drinking as tame.  In fact by the time I left the session she had made me feel as though I was not drinking enough and that I should try harder.  Consequently my drinking habits were not moderated.

On I turning 40 a couple of years ago I received a letter from my local GP inviting me for a routine medical.  I took up the offer and underwent several tests and answered a multitude of questions about my lifestyle.  I decided to answer the questions as honestly as I could in order to get the best advice from the doctor.  The doc was impressed with my diet and my exercise regime but was a little surprised by my answers to questions on alcohol.  At the end of the examination all the relevant info was fed into a computer which calculated that I had a 1% chance of having a heart attack or stroke at the current time.  As the computer does not give out a score of 0% the GP explained that I scored as well as I possibly could have done.  However, the doc then proceeded to warn me that I drink too much and that I really need to cut down.  I protested that as I had an estimated 1% chance of having a heart attack or stroke I could not possibly do any better so why should I change my habits?  As far as I was concerned the 1% score gave me complete carte blanche to drink what I damn well wanted to, so in my case the check up probably had the opposite effect that it intended.

Following Jonathan Rendall’s death I was delighted to see that More 4 repeated his excellent documentary The Gambler, where Channel 4 gave him £12,000 to gamble away as he sees fit.  On the face of it the footage where he gambles £1,000 at the Cheltenham Gold Cup (he loses) portrays the agonies and anxieties that a gambler goes through during a horse race.  But watching the sequence anew after the 8 odd years since it was first broadcast, it’s clear to me that what Rendall is going through during the race is actually post alcohol terror.  It is very painful and difficult to watch, given my empathy with Rendall’s predicament at that moment.   I imagine that Rendall was nervous about the filming and had a decent drink the night before and was suffering the horror-filled consequences during the race.   It is noticeable that he excuses himself immediately after the race and goes for a drink, which most will think is needed to calm him from the excitement and disappointment of the race, but in reality is more likely needed to chase away the drink demons.

As part of my fruitless search to try to get hold of a copy of the manuscript of Rendall’s unpublished book about Mike Tyson, Scream, I found myself writing to a one Luke Stacey of Hampshire.  A Luke Stacey of that county had written a review of the book on Amazon but there were no details for him.  I found the Mr Stacey that I wrote to after research on the internet but sadly it transpired not to be the same Mr S.  In his correspondence back to me Stacey said that my politeness and courtesy will take me far in life.  If only he knew.

Boozers can normally sniff out other boozers at a 100 paces, and so it came to pass the morning after the wedding of my associate Willy Mantitt in Gloucester a few years ago.  After the wedding in the early hours I returned alone to the pub accommodation that I was staying in.  On hearing music coming from the bar I decided to investigate.  Two wedding guests were having a little drink together with the barman.  It would have been rude not to join the little party so I ordered a large brandy off the barman, but it became apparent that he was blind drunk and couldn’t remember the price of my tipple, so he told me to have the drink gratis and pushed the bottle towards me so I could help myself.  The barman was Scottish so to make conversation I asked him what part of the country he was from, to which he drunkenly answered, “I cannae remember.”    Shortly after this he collapsed, earning the fabled nickname the Horizontal Scottish Bar Steward.  After the other gentleman present and I brought the HSBS round with a soda shaker he proceeded to pour himself another drink to delve further into oblivion.  At this point I cut my losses and went to bed.

After a stout English breakfast in the morning with Mr & Mrs Chompa Babbee I felt right as rain and went to pay the digs bill.  A little queue had formed at the front desk, which was being manned by the Horizontal Scottish Bar Steward, clearly the worse for wear as indicated by the buttons on his shirt being done up in the wrong order. The HSBS was relieved to get rid of an old well-to-do couple, who had made a great fuss about paying their bill.  Once I headed the queue he excused himself and returned from the bar with a clear fizzy drink, which he guzzled down in no uncertain fashion before explaining, “gin and tonic, I needed that.”  I doubt that given his extreme state the night before that he could have remembered me, so the Horizontal Scottish Bar Steward must have simply surmised that I am a boozer.  And reluctantly I have to admit that he is right. 

© Dominic Horton, 7^th March, 2013.

Lowlife No 10 - It’s a Dog’s Life

It’s a Dog’s Life

So the Queen has got a severe case of the sh*ts.  At half time in the football yesterday on BBC Radio 5 they announced that there was to be an extended news broadcast.   Knowing that my London based cohort Bartholomew Hook had gone on an impromptu bender in Soho, my first thought was to wonder what chaos Barty had got up to this time that warranted an extended news.  I knew whatever had happened it must be fairly serious as the news at the break in the football is always very brief so the listeners are not exposed to reality for too long, in order to get back to the serious business of analysing the first half.  Half time football analysis is like lunch time drinking during the working day, there’s so much to do in such a short time frame, so time is at a premium. 

They announced that the Queen’s impending trip to Swansea had to be cancelled.  So that explains it.  I can hear her announcing to her court, “There’s no chance that I am going to Swansea and I don’t give a f*ck what you tell them.”   Even Regina Betty has to draw the line somewhere.   To make the story look plausible the fixers at Buck House also had to cancel a trip to Rome, which was planned as a treat so the Queen could recover from the trauma of having to visit Swansea.   The timing was perfect with there being no current Pope so our Ruler could even do away with the inconvenience of having to visit the Vatican to be served the disgusting tea they dispense, which is only slightly off set with fine handmade Garibaldi biscuits. 

After the shock of being denied the full half time broadcast, when the football had finished it was off up the Flagon to meet my good friend the foreboding Toby-In-Tents, who is quick of opinion but slow of foot.  Like Panini stickers, friends are collected along the way.  Some are like the sought after and treasured shiny metallic badge of your team and others are more akin to an unknown and unloved centre half of Heart of Midlothian.   Fortunately Toby fits into the former category, though ironically in his football playing days he was an unloved centre half.

In-Tents has taken to trying to train his over excitable dog, the ever popular Suavey, to sit in the pub calmly so he can quaff pints, combining dog walking and drinking to kill two birds with one stone.  I gather that is how Barbara Woodhouse started out, but she preferred a dry sherry or five to real ale.  On arrival Toby proceeds to spend the vast majority of his visit to the Flagon pacifying the lively Suavey and I am constantly in fear of the dog bounding into the table and knocking over my beer, so I am in a permanent state of anxiety which is the very thing you go to the pub to get away from.  Especially on a Sunday. 

As Toby’s hands were full trying to calm the irrepressible dog I had to visit the bar with his money to get the beer in which meant that out of necessity I had to break the time honoured ‘he who pays fetches rule’, which gave me no pleasure at all.  The alternative, paying for the round myself, was swiftly dismissed, as was the flavoursome pint of Kinver I ordered.   In-Tents assures me that within relatively little time his canine friend will be boozer familias and placidly roam free around the Flagon in relaxed fashion.  I remain to be convinced.

Charl served Suavey water (in a drip tray, there are no bounds to human ingenuity) and after his refreshing drink he calmed down sufficiently for In-tents to come out with the ludicrous statement that he was giving up smoking his tatty roll ups for Lent.  My knowledge on the regulations for Lent abstinence is a little sketchy but giving up something that you should not be doing in the first place does not seem to be in the spirit of things. Is it officially permitted to give up taking cocaine for Lent for example? Or refrain from drinking Carling Black Label? Not wanting to be dragged into the vague and murky world of Lent I am not going to give up anything.  Talking of lent I have just realised that Toby has effectively ponced the tent he borrowed off me last summer.  He has a habit of stockpiling tins of tuna, buying them at discount prices employing the economy of scale theory, so he is probably using the tent in his back garden for overspill tuna storage.

I wouldn’t call In-Tents vain but he always pays good regard to his appearance to assist him in his fruitful search for the opposite sex and it must be working as he always has runners and riders.  Barty Hook is also trying valiantly to ensnare women, but his success seems a little more mixed than Toby’s.  The kind of types Hook is having to mix with in the capital are not going to be satisfied by a night in the Wetherspoons, so he is going to have to up his game. 

I have noticed that vanity is something that my wonderful 8 year old son the Cannonball is starting to develop.  In the Postman Pat mobile on Saturday he pulled down the passenger seat sun screen and started looking at himself in the mirror.  I explained to him that hereon in he will gradually get more and more vain until it reaches a frenzied peak in his late teenage years where he will look in a mirror more frequently than the Pirate farts. Which is quite regularly I can tell you.  I continued that in his 20’s the vanity will persist but it will start to drop off slowly in his 30’s and by the time his 40’s come round if he is anything like me, he will no longer give a fiddler’s fart (to borrow Frank McCourt’s eloquent phrase from Angela’s Ashes) about the way he looks, which is a blessing given the state of my work shoes and trousers.

The Cannonball later told me he wishes he could stay at his age forever and never grow up and that if CJ (my mother’s next door neighbour, same age as the Cannonball) didn’t grow up either he could happily play in Nanny’s garden with him forever.  This broke my heart as I know that he will grow up and have to experience all of the peaks and troughs of adolescent and adult life. 

If the opposite of hot is cold and the opposite of fast is slow, the opposite of vain is my oldest associate, the Frymaster General.  Vanity is not a word in his vocabulary.   He once claimed that even if he won the lottery he would not want hair back to cover his bald head as having hair to him was a pain the backside as it has to be combed and washed etc.  When he turned up at the Belbroughton Beer Festival last summer his shabby T-Shirt was covered in dog hairs so I said to him, “I didn’t know you had a dog” and he replied “I haven’t.”   Even if the Frymaster invests some of his ill gotten gains on an expensive and tasteful garment within five minutes it is soiled and ruined.   But fortunately for him he doesn’t care.

Incredibly the Frymaster is now engaged and even more of a shock was that he proposed in some kind of style, popping the question in a specially arranged trip to New York.  Logically, a wedding follows an engagement, though in the Frymaster’s case it would not surprise me if he never sees the matter through to its martial conclusion.  But if he does get wed it will be interesting to see what ensemble he dons himself in.   If he goes down the traditional suit route he will look like a fat Bob Hoskins on his uppers.

Hoskins of course starred with Helen Mirren in Fred Schepisi’s wonderful film Last Orders (based on Graham Swift’s book of the same name) and as Mirren famously played the Queen it brings us neatly, like another national treasure Michael Palin, full circle. 

Postscript – Wilko Johnson

Lowlife had a little night out on Thursday (that is, I went out alone) to see the irrepressible Wilko Johnson on his farewell tour at the Robin in Bilston.  As you may well know Wilko has terminal pancreatic cancer and is not destined to be long on this earth, so this was a night not to be missed.

Unscrupulous touts had despicably bought a big slice of the tickets on their release and the gig was sold out in no time at all.  With the invaluable help of Jonty von Rossi I finally managed to get a ticket on eBay for £43, which was £25.50 over the odds but the seller was donating the proceeds to a pancreatic cancer charity, so good came out of it and I was glad not to be fleeced by a morally redundant tout.

On the way into the venue I was briefly interviewed by a reporter from the Express & Star and kicked myself later for not having the wherewithal to give this column a plug.  Hindsight is a wonderful thing.   Entering the venue it seemed overbearingly hot and clammy, in the way gigs used to be, and given my ongoing booze horrors I started to sweat profusely and get the dreaded nanas.  The mostly middle aged crowd seemed to all be clad in woolly jumpers and scarves covered by coats; I have no idea had they withstood the tropical conditions. At the point where it was starting to become unbearable the Robin staff turned on the aircon and a cool calming breeze blew soothingly over me.  Blessed relief.

Wilko appeared on the stage and illuminated the place with his mere magical presence.  Backed by the first rate rhythm section of ex-Blockheads Dylan Howe (drums) and Norman Watt-Roy (Bass) Wilko uncompromisingly tore his way through the set (including Down By the Jetty, Roxette, Paradise, Sneakin’ Suspicion, Back In The Night and She Does It Right), with all of his usual routines of strutting, jerking, duck walking, shuffling and of course using the guitar as a machine gun.  Johnson’s slashing and cutting staccato guitar reverberated around the place and at times the band played to a rocking crescendo that bought the house down. 

The encore, Chuck Berry’s Bye Bye Johnny, was alternately tender and rocking but given the verve and energy that Wilko had rocked with all night it was the first time my thoughts began to turn sad about the finality of his condition.

Wilko Johnson is without doubt a one off wildcard of a man. He’s also 100% rock ‘n’ roll to his very core.  The media have reported that Wilko is dying of cancer but I can guarantee you that performing on that stage last night with the adrenaline and energy flowing relentlessly through his electrified body there would have been no one in the whole sad world that felt more alive.

© Dominic Horton, 5^th * 8^th March, 2013.

Lowlife No 9 - Tooth Justice

Tooth Justice

After having a disrupted nights sleep I woke up and at looking at my watch I saw it was 0615 hrs; not ideal but all is not lost as the alarm is set for 0630 hrs, which gives me fifteen minutes of slumbersome grace.  But it turned out to be a dream and looking at my watch it transpired it was actually 0620 hrs, so the dream had cunningly robbed me of 5 precious minutes.   I then heard the annoying sound of my alarm which revealed that in fact hitherto the whole thing was a dream, or a mini nightmare (a slightmare?) and the real time was the dreaded 0630 hrs, time to get up. 

I purposely chose an irritating sound for the alarm on my mobile phone so I have to stumble out of bed to quickly switch it off.  In the days before mobile phones when I had a radio alarm, which were the height of chic technology at one time (probably debuting on Tomorrow’s World), I used to wake up to the caustic voice of the late Derek Jameson on BBC Radio 2, which was guaranteed to make me fly out of bed to switch off his grating tones but which made me start the day on an ill tempered note.

Up and out of bed into the nippy Codger Mansions bedroom; the place is generally cold but it is at its worst first thing in the morning as I cannot deduce how to work out the unfathomable central heating settings, try as I may.  The code breakers of Bletchley Park would have struggled to decipher my heating settings, such is its labyrinthine mystery – they are a true enigma.  After I moved into the place I called my brother Roger, who I rent the gaff off and who used to live there, to ask him how to work the central heating settings.  He said, “I haven’t got a clue, we just used to turn it off and on at the main switch”, so that is the simple method that I myself have adopted.  So it means that unless I awake after 5am in order to make the bladder gladder and turn the heating on before returning to bed, the gaff is invariably anywhere between chilly and glacial when I arise.

Even with the radiators on, in the majority of the house it is no guaranteed safeguard against goose bumps. The toasty, small living room is the exception as a few years ago I bought a heater from one of these bargain basement shops that spring up from nowhere and disappear as quickly in a dodgy fashion.  The heater was a mere £7 and as it is still working in a fine warming fashion I count myself lucky.  Lucky 7.

Once heated up by a hot bath it was off to take the Cannonball to school before a trip to the dentist.  I always enjoy a visit to the primary school as generally they must be one of the happiest and joyous places on earth, with the children’s paintings on the wall, the warmth from the old fashioned radiators and the laughter and boyishness of the Cannonball and his friends.  Primary schools are indemnified from the harshness and the realities of the adult outside world and they are an oasis of hope and innocence.

I got to the dentist at 0850 hours, 10 minutes early, and the door was still locked so I waited in the car to shelter from the cold.   I noticed that the curry house over the road had a sign stating “Bring your own drinks – beer and wine only”, which was presumably to stop heavy boozing on the premises.  I playfully thought about going in there with bottles of the Brewdog beer, The End of History, which stands at a very cheeky 55% ABV and drinking them right under the waiter’s nose to flout the rules.  But I discounted the idea, as no one likes a clever dick, least of all me.

I scrambled around the car for some extra strong mints which I thought I had, as despite endless tooth scrubbing before leaving the house my mouth felt less than fragrant.  Although the night before I had admirably steered clear of booze, forgetting the impending dentist visit I had eaten pickled onions to complement a selection of cheese that the Pirate had sold me in the Flagon.  The pickled onions had the same effect on the freshness my breath as a cross has to a vampire. My search was fruitless, or mint-less rather, so I would just have to front it out.

Looking at the shops on both sides of the main road I realised that only a couple remained as the same businesses as when I was a child and even those had changed hands at some stage.  This served as a reminder that change is the one constant in life.

There was change afoot at the dentists.  I had received a letter stating that my dental surgeon of 25 years, Mr Walter, was retiring and that a Mr Shulmer was to take over the firm and consequently the responsibility for my teeth.  Given that Mr Walter enjoyed my complete faith and trust the news of his unforeseen departure was a shock to say the least and although I had never met Shulmer I doubted that he could live up to Walter’s impeccable old school standards.

On entering the surgery I noticed the old receptionist, Sharon, had also gone. A complete and brutal cull.  The new receptionist seemed to have all the requisite qualities for the job except for an obvious absence of personality and polite charm, so she seemed perfect for the post.  Sitting in the waiting room I noticed that it was still cash or cheque only, which offered some reassurance.   It is too common a sight now for young upstarts to stand waiting for a drink in a pub holding up a plastic card; it is always to my great pleasure when the landlord informs them that no, they don’t take cards.  The Flagon of course, as you would imagine, is strictly cash only.

At 0907 hours in rushed Shulmer like the perennially late Reggie Perrin.   His tardiness didn’t fill me with confidence and to compound matters he was not only unshaven but his shoes were in a considerably more worn state that mine.  On being invited into the surgery I could see that unlike Walter, under his gown his wore no shirt and tie, or indeed any clothing at all.   Not only was Shulman young but he was also visibly nervous, repeating his words on more than one occasion. I began to wonder if I was his first post-training victim.

I explained to Shulman that I had cracked a filling on a peppercorn but his first act was to take an inventory of my teeth, calling out the state of each individual tooth to his assistant.  Most teeth were described as “restored” which is the quaint neo-dentist way of referring to a filling, which makes my teeth sound like a refurbished antique Edwardian cabinet.  Shulman could have saved everyone considerable time by summarising to his assistant, “his teeth are f*cked.”

On inspecting the cracked “restored” molar Shulman commented ruefully that, “it doesn’t look good”, after which I expected him to explain that the tooth would need to be refilled in the same way Mr Walter had done many times before.  Instead Shulman’s apologetic assessment was that the tooth had to come out, it was, like his shoddy shoes, beyond repair.   To make things worse, it would be a messy and troublesome procedure as the tooth was split so he would have to dig down to the roots.   I wanted the reassuring Walter back, who surely would have patched up the molar in time honoured fashion and dismissed me as good to go. 

While I lay there with Shulman yanking in vain at my tooth I tried to divert my mind from the horror of the situation by thinking of how many readies the surly receptionist was going to fleece me for once Shulman had finished his butchery.  I knew the extraction from my wallet would be infinitely more painful than the extraction from my mouth.  The rookie dentist then informed me that he was having grief getting the split tooth out as the roots didn’t want to budge, which made me wonder why he was extracting the hardy molar in the first place.

When the Shulman had finally finished it left a big toothless gap down the left side of my bleeding upper mouth, as I lost a tooth in the same spot years earlier playing football.   Overall though, he seemed to have done a competent job, especially as with him being fresh out of college I was effectively a guinea pig.

Before I left Shulman told me that these days with modern dentistry techniques, my teeth would not need to be restored quite as much but older style dentists had a tendency to drill and fill.  He had managed to turn the tables on the gentlemanly Walter, who in hindsight had appeared to be using Victorian methods right up until his retirement.  So Shulman seemed to know his onions, which means undoubtedly he recognised the pickled variety that so distastefully flavoured my soured breath.

* * * * *

Postscript

They say death comes in threes.   After the sad passing of writer Jonathan Rendall and bluesman Magic Slim I was wondering who was next.  It transpired that my long time barber Trevor was the one to complete the trio.  A bit of a shock to say the least.  I only saw him a few weeks ago, the last time he trimmed my hair and he seemed in good enough health at the time.  When I went into the shop Paul was there with a younger barber, a Wolves fan, but no Trev, who normally worked on a Tuesday.  I asked Paul how Trev is.  When Paul replied, “Don’t you know?” in a serious fashion I could see what was coming.  

At 66 he still worked of course and was always out and about doing one thing or another and indulging in his love of photography.  Trev was always quick with a quip and a smile and he turned the mundane task of a trip to the barbers into a pleasant experience that I always looked forward to and enjoyed so he will be sorely missed but fondly remembered.

© Dominic Horton, 4^th March, 2013. 

Lowlife No 8 - Goodbye the Yellow Brick Road

Goodbye the Yellow Brick Road

By Dominic Horton

I did not know quite what to expect.  On the one hand he was a wonderfully talented writer, but on the other he was not that well known.  But in the end the turnout to Jonathan Rendall’s funeral was about what one would have expected.  The chapel was full, but no one had to stand.

On the night before the funeral I met the inimitable Colly Coren, who is always good value for money, in the Flagon. Coren is a teacher and it was half term, so you can work the rest out for yourself.  As a consequence the plans I had for the morning of the funeral went out of the window, especially as my train to Oxford was due to leave Birmingham New Street at 1034, so I couldn’t drag my heels anyway.  

Jonathan Rendall

If I had to I would have gone to the funeral alone but I was very glad that my good friend Bartholomew Hook accompanied me, meeting me in Oxford from London.  Hook’s train was late so having an hour to spare I hot trotted into the town to visit some of the pubs I had researched in The Good Beer Guide.  Me included, there were only three punters in the Royal Blenheim (the White Horse brewery tap), the other two both being elderly gentlemen.  The first kept himself to himself, reading The Sporting Life and strangely eating chips out of a pint mug. The other made it his immediate and pressing business to stare me out, which I thought was especially off of him considering I was dressed in standard funeral attire (Hook made the perceptive comment later that the more posh the funeral the worse dressed the mourners are.)  I  stared back determined not to break his soulless gaze but broke off in the end reminding myself that getting into bother on the day of a funeral would not be the best idea. I wouldn’t mind but the bloke was only eight stone wet through and though I am by no means a fighter I could have had him with my right hand while not spilling the pint in my left.  Even my long time associate Dustin Scoffman would have given him a run for his money. 

I departed for the next pub, not on account of the starer in the Royal Blenheim but due the melancholic piped music which was lowering my already lugubrious mood to unacceptable levels. To my mind Jookies and live music are perfectly acceptable in a pub, but there is no place for piped music, especially when it is of the soul sapping variety of the Carpenters, or even worse Coldplay.

Collis P Huntington

In the Chequers a fella bearing an uncanny resemblance to the late wrestler and actor Pat Roach befriended me and we talked about beer, us both drinking the highly quaffable porter.  I liked him immediately.  He was ruddy faced and didn’t finish his sentences.  He was proper Oxford, that is not a student or pseudo Oxford or an Antipodean barmaid.  Things were going swimmingly until Roach asked me if I had got home safely last night after I left him.  I explained that I am from Halesowen and had never met him before in my life.  He was undeterred by this and insisted on buying me a 7.4% real cider and I had to use powers of persuasion that Collis P Huntington would have been proud of to stop him buying me the drink. 

Back at the station I hooked up with Hook.  As we were crossing the road in busy Oxford a stranger appeared out of the blue and asked Hook and I if we were going to Jonathan Rendall’s funeral.  Neither of us was unnerved by this strange incident and after introductory pleasantries (fella named Mark, friend and sometime colleague of Rendall’s) we realised that we had to work quickly if we were to have a drink before going to the crem.  There was an instant connection between Mark and Hooky and I of the type that can only be borne out of a shared deep affection for something or someone.   After going into a hotel that reprehensively had no bar we hurriedly found a pub whose name I forget, which is fitting as the place was utterly forgettable.  Given the time constraints we decided on a short and I did the decent thing and offered to pay while secretly thinking I was about to be stung with us being in Oxford and all.  Luckily it was double up for a quid and the bill came in at only just a shade over a tenner.

Arriving at the funeral Hook and I went into a waiting room where I spotted the former world featherweight champion Colin McMillan, who looked in good fettle.  The atmosphere in the room was far too intimate and claustrophobic and feeling a little out of place we went outside and I saw a bald man with glasses and I instantly knew that he was Rendall’s brother Andrew.  I just knew, even though there is no facial resemblance as they were both adopted.  Observer journalists Will Buckley and Kevin Mitchell walked past and the odd thing is that I always imagined Mitchell to be tall and Buckley to be short.  The odd thing is that in both cases the opposite is true, which threw me a bit.  I wanted to say hello to them both and say how much I admired their writing (and Buckley’s appearances on the riotous BBC Radio 5 show Fighting Talk) but it didn’t seem right given the occasion.

Colin McMillan

As we entered the chapel Robert Wyatt’s Shipbuilding was playing, and although it is one of my favourite songs I never play it as even in everyday life it is just too sad, so to hear it in the circumstances I did well not to cry.  Scanning around the mourners I speculated that Barty Hook and I appeared to be the only people there who did not have a personal connection to Rendall, who are simply admirers of his writing, though there was a young, attractive girl in her 20’s in front of us, who appeared to be French, who was alone so she might have been in the same boat as us.  She played with her mobile quite a bit during the ceremony but I think it was more through nervousness than anything else so I didn’t see it as disrespectful. 

The non-religious ceremony was the most tasteful I have ever attended.  Rendall’s grief stricken brother Andrew read a very touching tribute as did his friend Marek Walisiewicz, who took the photograph of Rendall that was on the front of the programme of the service.  In the photograph, which is from the dust jacket of his first book This Bloody Mary is the Last Thing I Own, Rendall looks youthful and bright, radiant almost.  It is a wonderful photographic portrait that perfectly captures a person in an immortal moment in time.

After the service we decided not to join the family and friends at The Victoria Arms in Old Marston as it somehow seemed wrong.  I regretted it later. 

Back at the Chequers in Oxford I had a real ale victory, which is something that gives me a great deal of pleasure.  Barty asked for a Guinness and being a good member of the Campaign for Real Ale I dutifully pointed out there was a nice porter to be had, which would be a far superior drink to the Guinness.  I could tell that Hook was fearful of the porter through ignorance so I played a trick that I have had success with before.  I said to Hook that as a compromise I would but him half a pint of the porter and half of Guinness, so if he didn’t like the porter he still had the Guinness to fall back on and he duly agreed to this.  When the barman asked me what I wanted I sneakily bought him a full pint of the porter anyway and on tasting it he was happy with my decision and he told me so.   In the next breathe Hook disappointingly told me he had taken up wine tasting.  You win some you lose some.

After a couple more pubs and a good few more pints we returned to the station at 1930 hours to catch our respective trains.  As soon as Hook departed I felt overwhelmed with sadness and to divert my mind to a pleasanter place I started to talk to a good looking woman, who I guessed was about my age, on the platform.  I told her I might be slightly incoherent due to being drunk, but she didn’t seem to mind.  She said she was travelling to Manchester.  On boarding the train we sat next to each other and continued the conversation.  In a lull in the chatter I must have nodded off and when I awoke I found that the woman had gone, she must have simply moved seats (and carriages for that matter) as we were nowhere near Manchester.

On return to the Midlands I was feeling dreadfully mournful and didn’t want to go home so I repaired to the Flagon and on arrival the Abdul was standing outside smoking a roll up.  I have never been so pleased to see a friendly face, even though it was the leathery features of the Abdul.  In a temporary lapse into derangement I told Liam Redwood that he could have my Aston Villa mod badge that he has converted for some while.  But I don’t regret it.

Much to the surprise of Charl, the consummate professional barman, I ordered an Hornitos tequila, which the peerless Alexander Sutcliffe had introduced me to a few days earlier.  I sipped it as I don’t believe in slammers and the like preferring to savour the spirit.  I sat with Keith the Black Country ex-roadie and before I knew it I had a pint of mild, his favoured tipple, to compliment the Hornitos.  I then mused that it is highly unlikely that anyone has ever previously drank an Hornitos with a Dirty Rat Mild chaser and in many ways it felt like a fitting end to the day.

© Dominic Horton, 25^th February, 2013.

Lowlife No 7 - House In the Country

House In the Country

No matter how hard I try, and regardless of what tactics I employ, I find it almost impossible to avoid a hangover on a Monday morning.  The plain fact of the matter is that the Sabbath is by far and a way the best day in the week for drinking. The next best day of the week to imbibe, Thursday, does not even run Sundays a close second.    Whereas for years the enduringly intellectual broadcaster Melvyn Bragg started the week with his BBC Radio 4 show cunningly entitled Start the Week, my week starts in a drink tainted fashion.  The hangovers are not debilitating, far from it, and are generally no more than a minor irritation and in all earnestness I cannot imagine Monday mornings without them, it simply would not be right and moreover I most probably would not function properly.   

My traditional Sunday routine is to venture up the Flaggon with Fudgkins at about 2030 hours to meet the inimitable Colly Coren and fellow 50 +er Richie Ramone (and Toby in Tents, if he is not indulging in his favourite hobby of spinning plates.)  Incidentally, I have noticed a strange phenomenon with gentlemen who attain the age of 50 in as much as they either switch their mobile phone off or simply cease taking it out with them at all, making contact and communication difficult – I am not sure if this is also true of women in their 50’s, so any correspondence on this matter would be useful.   

I have decided of late to saunter up the Flagon on a Sunday at an earlier hour, usually with Toby in Tents in toe, in order to return back to my Codger Mansion’s dwelling at a decent hour.   The tea time meet also means I will most probably bump into the Pirate, which is fitting on the Sabbath with him being the High Priest of Beer standing at the alter of my principal place of worship, being the Flagon & Horses.   The first part of the plan, namely arriving at the Flagon at 1700 hours, is executed with chilling and exact precision.  The second step in the plan, arriving home by 2100 hours in time for Miss Marple  (or whatever nonsense is currently showing on the BBC at that time), has proved more difficult.   The BBC have of course used the approach on a Sunday night of broadcasting light hearted programmes (the best example being The Last of the Summer Wine) in order to distract the viewers from the awful and nagging thought of having to go back to work in the morning.  Of course the only successful way to take the edge off the impending return to work is to go to a decent public house and have a drink.  Which effectively brings us full circle.

Talking of light hearted BBC broadcasts, I hear as I write that dear old Richard Briers, who got a mention in this column a couple of weeks ago, has sadly passed away. It was probably being associated with this column that killed him off.  His circles have finally decreased to nothing.  In reference to The Good Life many gentleman often pronounced their affection and fondness for Felicity Kendal but to my mind Penelope Keith was always the more attractive of the two, being posh, horsey and dominant.

This Monday morning’s hangover was considerably soothed when on switching on the television at breakfast time a re-run of one of my favourite BBC programmes, Let’s F*ck off to the Country and Buy a Whacking Great House, was being broadcast.  As I am sure you are aware there have been a number of presenters of the show, all toffs, but the one this morning was Jules Hudson, the bloke who looks like my cohort Doctor Powerless, (who now inhabits the Emerald Isle).  In his gentle and friendly tones he asked the potential purchasers of the country mansion such things as, “Is this kitchen big enough for your needs?” or “do you like the look of that karzy?” but all I want him to ask is “where the f*ck did you get the dosh from to buy a place like this?” or “if you are so stinking rich why do you dress so appallingly badly.”  The fella on the show today was wearing a round neck T-Shirt under a sports blazer and not even in a Miami Vice sort of way.  Shocking.

I do not know how Hudson puts up with the whingeing nit picking guests on Let’s F*ck off to the Country and Buy a Whacking Great House, I really don’t.  He must have a few stiff ones before he goes on camera just to get through it.  After great effort and research Hudson presents to the guests three magnificent rural properties that are tailored to suit their every need and requirement and often all the ungrateful guests can think to say are things like, “I am sure that is not going to be big enough for our little Melissa to ride her pony” when they view the resplendent three acre garden.  To this Hudson should of course reply, “go and find your own house then you faultfinding, unappreciative b*stards.”  But he doesn’t because he’s a true pro. 

I am not sure that I would be an ideal guest on the show.  In every gaff Hudson showed me around I would comment, “that’s absolutely cracking Jules, a much better house than Codger Mansions but between me and you I haven’t got a pot to p*ss in.”  And that, as they say, would be that. 

© Dominic Horton, 18^th February, 2013.