Lowlife 128 – Jam Tarts

Jam Tarts

By Dominic Horton

My dear son Kenteke and I recently baked some jam tarts for Cradley Heath Creative's contribution to the Women Chainmakers' Festival as our input, in our new 'oss box, was focused around food and what particular foodstuffs mean to different people. The jam tarts were workmanlike at best but they can't have been too bad as they were all scoffed by festival goers and no one asked for their money back – which is a good job really as the jam tarts were free. Home made jam tarts remind me of my Nanny Gladys who, together with my Grandad Charlie, lived in a council house in Blackheath. The jam tarts that Nan used to bake were warm, rich and sweet, just like Nan. They tasted like love.

Mine & Kenteke Jam tarts, by request of Toby In-Tents.

Food was all around at Nan and Grandad's house as their large garden was effectively an allotment and Grandad used to grow all of his own veg: carrots, spuds, cabbage, green beans and in the green house fragrant tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers. He built the greenhouse himself out of bits and pieces he found in skips and on wasteland. Living through the war and the austerity that followed meant that Nan and Grandad watched every penny and they didn't have much but they were both generous, giving souls in many ways.

Once, in the hot summer of 1976, an ice cream van pulled up outside Grandad's house and he asked me if I wanted one, to which I said yes. The ice cream man held the ice cream out and said, “5p please.” Grandad said, “'ow much?! I aye a-payin' that me mon! Yow can 'av thruppence and not a penny moowa.” The bloke said, “But it's 5p.” But by now in the sweltering heat the ice cream started to melt down the man's arm. He reluctantly and unhappily conceded, “alright then, gie us thruppence.” That was one of my earliest memories.

Instead of doing all of their shopping at one supermarket, as people tend to do today, to make the most of their money Nan and Grandad would go round all of the shops in Blackheath seeking the best deals and using coupons from newspapers and magazines to get money off. Nan and Grandad didn't have a fridge when I was young or a telephone, the television was only black and white and they had a coal fire. It didn't matter though as they were happy and I was happy when I was at their house too.

When they went on holiday in this country Grandad would sniff out the British Legion as the beer would always be cheaper and better there. They used to take us grandchildren to Blackpool in the summer. On the way Grandad would avoid the expensive motorway services and would pull over in a lay-by on an A road, where he would brew tea using a camping stove. He would warn us about the evils of costly motorway services and to this day if I buy anything at the services I feel a great sense of guilt and decadence.

Cradley Heath Creative's 'Oss Box.

Friday night was bingo night at Blackheath Labour Club, a big deal in Dodge City. Grandad would buy us a bottle of dandelion and burdock and tell us not to guzzle it as we wouldn't get another one. We would guzzle it. When Grandad went into the bingo hall Nan would buy us another bottle and told us not to tell Grandad. As there were no ipads or the like back then us kids used to entertain ourselves by reading The Young Solider magazine, which was a Salvation Army paper sold by a fella who used to tour the pubs and clubs selling The Young Soldier and War Cry.

As it was a Friday night there was a great sense of anticipation of the following day's football. Uncle Alb and Auntie Ann used to be there too and Alb would take my brother and I with him to watch Aston Villa, his team. But I couldn't go to the Villa until I was 7 years old so until I was old enough Grandad used to take me to see local teams such as Oldbury United or Halesowen Town. I remember seeing Willenhall Town scoring off a corner at Oldbury using a tactic where the attacking players gathered in a huddle on the edge of the penalty box and split and made different runs on the corner kicker's strike. As I was no older than 6 and impressed by the routine I guess that I was always destined to be a football coach in later life.

Me and Nanny Gladys on Blackpool beach, 1970's.

I was finally allowed to go up the Villa with Uncle Alb and my brother but being little there was the problem of me being able to see as the Holte End at Villa Park was all standing at the time. Kids used to stand on plastic beer crates but Grandad had other, grander ideas. Out of scrap wood Grandad made my brother and I a wooden step to stand on, it had two levels and he even painted it claret and blue. I don't know what happened to our treasured step but I wish I still had it now.

When I was old enough I was allowed into the bingo hall at the Labour Club to observe the proceedings but I had to be deadly quiet. There was always a great tension in the air. After a while a woman would excitedly shout “house!” but often once the bingo caller checked the card he would declare somberly over the PA, “Ladies and gentlemen, it's a bogie.” A bogie meant it wasn't a house at all and the old lady had made a mistake – she would have to walk down the central aisle of the hall to get her card back to quiet boos and hisses from the disapproving crowd. “ 'er's always a-doin' it she is, the clarnet*,” they'd say. On the way home Grandad would say, “I was one off the flyer again, whack!” He seemed to be one off the flyer every week.

My Dad, Ken, and my Grandad Charlie - this is my
favourite photograph, I love the difference in styles
of dress, my Grandad in his Sunday best, looking
immaculate with his newspaper folded neatly under
his arm and my Dad in his Teddy boy gear. 

Grandad fought in the war in the Coldstream Guards but he never used to talk about it, even if I asked him. I used to wear Grandad's uniform cap sometimes and pretend I was in the army. He was regimented and disciplined in everything he did and all items in the house had its place and when you had finished using something you had to put it back where it belonged. If you left the room you had to shut the door and if you didn't Grandad would say, “put the 'ood in the 'ole there's a lark in the lezza**.” Having learnt the value of this approach as a child I follow it now as an adult and I am organised and neat and tidy, bordering on OCD but that is for other reasons. At Christmas I used to read Nan and Grandad's Christmas cards that were on the sideboard.  One was written in a foreign hand and the sender sent a card to Grandad every year. One year I asked who the card was from and Grandad said it is from a Dutchman he knew in the war. I asked what was written in the card and Grandad said, “I doe know, I cor read Dutch.”

The one thing I remember about Nan is her laugh – she used to laugh all of the time. “I dae 'alf loff me eye up” she used to say. Nan used to love to watch the wrestling on Saturday afternoons on World of Sport featuring such wrestlers as Giant Haystacks, Cat Weazel, Big Daddy and Jake “Fit” Findlay. Grandad used to pass through the room and say to Nan, “It's a bloody fix Gladys, a fiddle.” But Nan would have none of it. She must have known it was all fixed but she didn't want to acknowledge it as she loved it too much. When Cry Baby Cooper was wrestling Grandad would say, “'ee's a cry babby he is.”

I used to help Grandad in his garden and when we had finished and were tired we'd sit on the bench, which Grandad had made himself, and Nan would bring a pot of tea down and digestive biscuits. The tea was made with tea leaves and the milk was sterilised. I can taste that heavenly, quenching tea now. Try as I may as an adult I have never been able to replicate the taste of my Nan's tea. I have not manage to replicate my Nan's delectable jam tarts either.

* Clarnet means idiot or fool in the Black Country dialect.

** Lezza means field in the Black Country dialect.

© Dominic Horton, August 2015.

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

Lowlife 127 – Forget Me Not

Forget Me Not

By Dominic Horton

Last week was another busy week which included Tater's funeral, a day with my dear son Kenteke, a shared reading session of poetry for residents of a care home who suffer from dementia, a trip to the picturesque Telford campus of the University of Wolverhampton, being force fed Enville Ale from the cask by Sleepy Tom Parker at his place on Saturday (I didn't complain) and more job related shenanigans. Not forgetting quiz night at the Flagon & Gorses, where the Pirate and I were proud as peacocks not to finish last. As far as pub quizzes are concerned it is usually a case of me being first up the bar, last in the quiz. The only question I usually answer right is when Chilli Willy behind the bar asks me what I want to drink and I get that wrong half of the time.

Jonty Von Rossi in the Flagon & Gorses

Talking of pub matters (and pubs do of course matter) I was disappointed to hear that my good friend Jonty Von Rossi is soon to cease to become landlord of The Swan on Shell Corner after taking the controversial decision to emigrate to Devon. What Devon has to offer - other than fine beaches, a balmy climate, fabulous cream teas and stunning National Parks – gawd only knows. It is a long way for Jonty to go to avoid suffering the indignities of watching West Bromwich Albion but if that is what it takes, then fair enough. Jonty's imminent departure was a good a reason as any for a little drink so I met him on Sunday in The Swan and The Frymaster General dragged himself down the motorway from Stoke to join us. Within seconds of being at the bar the Frymaster, true to type, had sniffed out the murkiest scrumpy on offer – if you can see through the pint it is not for the Frymaster.

On Monday I wasn't drinking murky cider but a crystal clear Enville brewery Cherry Blonde in The Whitley after Tater's funeral, where so many turned up to pay their respects to my dear friend that a great number of mourners were locked out of the chapel. My pall bearing and speech giving duties went well enough and it was a relief when they were over, though it was a great honour to be asked to play my part in the proceedings. Pall bearing is a particularly nerve wracking task as I always fear that I will trip up and knock the coffin over, or some such calamity, even though these days the coffin tends to be on a trolley to make things easier. And writing and orating a speech for a funeral is a much more difficult undertaking than doing it for a wedding, giving the somberness and sensitivity of the occasion. When writing a best man's speech you only need to throw in a few cheap one liners and it gets the tipsy gathering tittering, so you are off and running. But that tactic cannot be equally applied to writing a eulogy or a tribute, so you have to tread with great care and delicacy.

I was a bit delicate on Tuesday as we had a few to send Tater off. I performed my usual trick of not eating much despite Sarah laying on a magnificent buffet and when I finally got home I didn't have the heart to wake a frozen pizza that lay sleeping in the freezer – the pizza must have had a hard day because it was flat out. The irony of me not eating was that a food bank collection that Sarah had organised for the funeral drew in enough food to feed the whole of Halesowen.

The Whitley, Halesowen.

A fry up on Tuesday morning with my dear son Kenteke at the wonderful Litebites cafe round the corner from my Codger Mansions home remedied the position and propelled me into the rest of the week, which saw me reading poetry to care home residents with dementia in Tipton on Wednesday as part of my volunteering with The Shared Reading Company. I didn't know quite what to expect from the experience but I was keen to go to find out what it was like, on invitation from my colleague Nuala, who runs the shared reading groups at the home. The care home was a big place, like a village almost, divided into different sections that cater for the needs of the residents.

When we arrived Nuala started talking to residents that she knows to see how they are. Nuala asked one seated lady, J___, how she is and she enthusiastically greeted Nuala, “Oooooh, hello luvva, it's so lovely to see you chick, how am ya?” Nuala said, “You know who I am then J___?” J___ said, “No love, aye got a clue.” As I was standing round like a spare part I started to introduce myself and talk to the residents too. A study found that care home residents who have dementia on average only spend 2 minutes a day participating in meaningful social interaction, so a bit of chat, even with me, might be valuable. Nuala spoke with one man, P___ , and when they had finished he moved away in his wheelchair to watch television. Nuala said to me, in hushed tones, “He's a lovely chap P_____, he's in here but there's nothing wrong with him.” I looked at P____ and saw he has no legs. I looked back at Nuala and we both laughed at her statement – what she meant of course was that he doesn't have dementia, he is perfectly lucid, but for some reason he is in the dementia based home.

The Frymaster General, by request of Toby In-Tents.

I talked to T_____. He asked me, “what time am yow gooin' to bed?” “I don't know T___, maybe 11.30.” “That's late.” “Well, I shall probably go to the pub this evening.” “They woe let me goo to the pub! No chance! And the minute yow goo, they'll put me t' bed, I'm tellin' ya.” I assumed that T___'s last comment wasn't a true reflection of what would happen (as it was only early in the afternoon) but I did desperately want to take him out to the pub for a drink, even if it was just for one pint. It would probably do T___ the world of good.

Nuala and I read poems to the group of six residents and stopped for discussion after each piece. Some of the group gave their thoughts on the poems, some didn't, S___ just smiled. She smiled a lot, it was lovely to see. After a poem about gardening (The Glory of the Garden by Rudyard Kipling) one resident, L___, became very animated and told us all about the large garden that she used to have at her home and what she use to do in it.  L____ spoke with energy and she had a light in her eyes, recalling memories from her life.

B___ spoke a few words about the poems after each reading and was even able to read one piece aloud. Later Nuala told me that at first B___ didn't say a word at the sessions but slowly over the weeks she has begun to contribute more. Another lady, D___, sat expressionless throughout most of the session and didn't look at the poetry sheets in front of her. But towards the end of the readings she picked up the poem in question and started to follow Nuala's reading, accurately as well, as I could tell she was reading the correct lines and she turned the page at the right place.

Litebites cafe, Halesowen.

The shared reading session was the last one of the season as the funding has come to an end and even though Nuala has re-applied to the funders, with a view to starting a new round of sessions in the autumn, there is no guarantee the money will be forthcoming. As we left Nuala admitted to feeling a bit sad, as she won't be back next week. I said I feel sad too, even though it's my first visit – who will read poems to the residents next week? Nuala handed a bound folder of poetry to an employee of the home who is known to her, in the hope that she will read to the residents - I sincerely hope that she does but given the pressures of her job she might not have the time or the inclination.

The residents of the home deserve not to be simply forgotten. And my dear departed friend Tater will always be in my memory. And even though he's going to Devon I won't forget Jonty Von Rossi either – mainly because I want to visit him for a free holiday. 

© Dominic Horton, July 2015.

Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Email: lordhofr@gmail.com

Lowlife 126 – Perpetual Motion

Perpetual Motion

By Dominic Horton

Last Thursday morning felt full of possibilities. I could have gone for a stroll on the breezy Otterspool promenade and said hello to the seagulls to blow a bit of booze out of my feathers, I could have read my book in bed, watched the news and learnt about the previous day's budget – nothing like getting the heckles up first thing to bring one to life – or I could sit and make notes in order to write this tomfoolery: I plumped for the latter option. I was in a Travelodge in Aigburth, Liverpool as I was attending a three day Read to Lead course in the locality, run by The Reader organisation.

Moby Dick.

Thursday morning saw me in my modus operandi of having a suggestion of a hangover having sampled some of the local watering holes the night before. I hadn't planned to go out at all on Wednesday evening as I was very tired on account of only having had a few miserly hours sleep over the previous couple of nights and I was up at 0430 hours on Wednesday morning for the drive. I set out ridiculously early as I had never undertook a motorway journey of such a length before and I was a bundle of nerves, or as Alexander Sutcliffe would have it, I was shaking like a tap dancer's fanny.

After the course I arrived back at my travel tavern prison cell, with it's domineering view of a large bush inches from the window, and decided that I must get out after I had eaten my tea. As I was trying to do the trip on a tight budget tea consisted of an executive pot noodle type affair with cherry tomatoes – the dish was supposed to be accompanied by black olives to give it a more Mediterranean feel but the ring came off the tin, rendering it useless. And although I am a thorough sort of chap I didn't pack a tin opener, though one will be on my list for the next trip.

Despite breathing exercises and other tricks of the anxiety trade I found it difficult to becalm myself after the jumpy motorway journey and a busy day at the course, so there was only one thing for it – a pint. I looked on the Whatpub website and there basically seemed to be two choices: walk a couple of miles to Lark Lane in Aigburth, which seemed have some runners and riders, though they looked a bit fancy for my liking, or stroll a mile or so into Garston to visit a back street boozer, which appealed more to my Lowlifian tastes, especially as the pub temptingly promised six real ales to tickle the tonsils with. But first was a visit to the Toby carvery which accompanies the travel tavern, as although I know what banalities awaited me I wouldn't be doing my job as writer of this column properly if I didn't at least have a quick one.

The Toby had all the set pieces: surly staff resigned to their fate, invasive and unsettling piped music, advertisements for Carling cider pitchers at £13.10 a pop (Carling cider?! How low rent can one get) and a faltering Wifi that didn't have the heart to rise to the challenge and overcome its dismal surroundings. My eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the small bounty of three hand pumps. But on closer inspection they all vended the same beer. Of course they did. How dare me to expect otherwise from Mr Toby. But the pint was in tip top nick, not what I anticipated at all, which threw me a bit.

Otterspool Promenade, Aigburth, Liverpool.

I hot trotted the fifteen minutes or so to The Masonic, leaving leafy, affluent Aigburth and entering an earthy world of council houses and Victorian terraces.  Although Whatpub is useful to discover the best of what an area has to offer it takes all of the excitement out of sniffing out a boozer on unfamiliar territory. As I walked down the main road to the Masonic I gazed longingly down side streets hoping to see a beery oasis adorned with hanging baskets but I knew full well that it was not going to happen. Looking at Whatpub had snatched that possibility away from me. Even reading the real ale buff's bible The Good Beer Guide doesn't completely shut the door on unearthing a gem of a pub as not all of the decent ones are in the book. And as my fellow inmates at The Flagon & Gorses will tell you there's nothing quiet like rooting out a bostin' boozer only by using the stars and the aroma of hops to guide you, like Ray Mears sniffing out a Wetherspoons in the Amazon rainforest.

The Masonic was tucked away, shyly hidden in a labyrinth of terraced house streets. In the public bar there were three men and there seemed to be a customer dress code of shaved heads and shorts revealing tattooed calves. All hands seemed pleasant enough though. As I approached the bar the gaffer said, “we've only got one on” pointing to the six hand pumps. At the this point I hadn't spoken and I had only been in the pub literally seconds so how he knew that I am a real ale drinker I know not, either I must just look like the sort or his gafferly instrincts told him.

The Masonic, Garston, Liverpool, by request

of Toby In-Tents

The gaffer served me the one beer they had on but before I could taste what looked like an acceptable - but far from mint condition - pint it was whisked away as he deemed it not to be in adequate condition. He poured me another pint, which was in better nick, but also gave me the original one as well, explaining that I could have the naff one for for free. He charged me £2, so it was effectively a £1 a pint, which appealed to my meagre budget. After another couple it was back to the Toby for a nightcap, then bed.

The following night demanded a change of tactics, so I sauntered the couple of miles or so to Lark Lane, via a couple of pit stops. After walking for about a mile and a half passed large houses with perfectly manicured lawns and Mercedes camper vans on driveways I encountered seven churches and three Italian restaurants but no pub. There's too much pasta and not enough pissed-a in Aigburth and the work/ drink balance appears to be all wrong.

I finally got to The Old Bank, some three miles down the main road from The Masonic with no other pubs in between (not counting the Toby of course, which can't claim to be a proper boozer.) The pub was not unpleasant but it sported more television screens (three) than hand pulls (two) and there was only a couple with a dog in, so after a quick one and a chat with the barman, I moved on.

I quickly hazarded upon a lively house called the Fulwood Arms, where drinkers had spilled out onto the street and an Irish folkey band were in full irritating swing. Ominiously two hand pulls had no pump clips on them. I asked the gaffer, who himself turned out to be Irish, if he had any real ale on. “Wha's dat yer mean?” I pointed forlornly at the hand pumps. “We have some Guinness Porter,” and being the best thing on offer I had a pint. It was freezing cold and gassy and gave me the hiccups. Back out into the Liverpudlian night.

I finally found Lark Lane, which is attractive and a bit boho, like London almost but you don't have to get on a tube to get there, which was a relief. I popped in two more pubs with bar staff with perplexed looks when I inquired about the availability of real ale. Heading up Lark Lane on my quest for a decent pint I felt like the beer hunter, in perpetual motion, I was Captain Ahab in Moby Dick but instead of hunting the great white whale I would have settled for an average real ale – then I found one, in The Albert. An attractive building had been ruined internally with garish advertising, more TV screens than Currys and flashing fruit machines. An odd contraption behind the bar advertised 'crispy bacon vodka' which sounds like a Russian breakfast drink. I hankered for home and the Flagon & Gorses and left The Albert to return, unfulfilled, to the travel tavern.

The Albert, Aigburth, Liverpool. 

But I passed a place called the Rhubarb, that looked on first glance like a wine bar (which I had earlier dismissed) and I studied it more closely and it beckoned me in. At last I had found what appeared to be a normal locals' pub. With people at the bar who talk to you. And chit chat and chaffing with the bar staff. A mature woman at the bar asked where I am from and what I was doing in Liverpool. I explained that I am from a town called Halesowen in the Black Country and that I was in Liverpool on a course to do with Shared Reading. “I've nevva eeerrred of dat place. Martin, dis lad's come all de way 'ere to read booooowks!!!!” Martin - “He's a Brummie dat lad.” Barman - “No ee's not like, 'ee's from Dudley I'm tellin' ya.” Dudley: close enough for me. Turns out the barman went to Birmingham University and has a bit of West Midlands knowledge.

Martin tipped me off to order as much as I wanted at last orders as the bar staff don't kick you out but they can't serve after hours, as the gaffer, who was upstairs, will know by looking at the electronic till. He ordered four pints of Guinness. I conservatively just had the three pints of bitter. Finally I had got my catch but unlike Ahab I didn't pay with my life but with a twenty pound note.

© Dominic Horton, July 2015.

Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Email: lordhofr@gmail.com

Lowlife 125 – In the Wee Small Hours

In the Wee Small Hours

By Dominic Horton

Without wishing to sound like a raving hypochondriac I seem to be having a rather poor run of health at the moment: aside from the usual incumbents of anxiety disorder and hay fever I am under the physiotherapist for my back, I have the dreaded dizzy-wobbles – otherwise known as labyrinthitis – and I even have a touch of the old Chalfonts. When the government recommended that you have at least five a day I suspect that they were not referring to ailments. I did have an odd sensation the other day though when I was sitting in the garden: I felt relaxed. Suffering from anxiety disorder as I do alarm bells start to ring when I feel relaxed and I felt suspicious as to why I was in such a foreign state. True, I was sitting in the sun having a pleasant time with the lovely Babushka but I normally feel fearful to one degree or another in all and any circumstances. My suspicions turned out to be justified as I had been unwittingly drugged with a medication that is used to counter the jitters.

Pat Jennings, by request of Toby In-Tents.

I had taken the medication stemetil, as prescribed by my GP, which is supposed to soften the effect of dizziness, and being a nurse Babushka followed her second nature and looked the drug up and found that it is indeed used to treat dizziness and vertigo but also mania and bi-polar disorder, mood disorders, nausea and vomiting, schizophrenia and psychosis and anxiety. I purposefully have always resisted taking drugs for my anxiety disorder (always pushing my GP for talking treatments when needed) only for them now to get in through the back door.

Later that evening after the meds wore off I was back to my old anxious self and I was grappling with Mr Insomnia in the wee small hours and Mr I was winning. To pass the time I was having a debate with myself as to which is worse: sleeplessness or nightmares. It was like a Nicky Campbell phone-in. Just without Nicky Campbell, the callers and any telephones. I concluded that nightmares are favourable to insomnia as at least once the nightmare episode has finished and the end credits have gone up you can tell yourself that it is only a dream and not reality and get back to sleep.

Later - after a tea break and a read of the newspaper for an hour – my wishes were to come true as when I finally nodded off at dawn I quickly had a nightmare, which oddly consisted of me being menaced by the legendary goal keeper Pat Jennings. In real life Jennings is a mild mannered and softly spoken Ulsterman, so he was badly cast in his role as tormentor in the nightmare.

I did wonder where the phantasm was (who usually haunts my dreams) and why he didn't make an appearance but given the time of year he is probably off sunning himself somewhere and terrorising sleeping holiday makers in the night to keep his hand in. Even nightmare inhabiting ghouls such as the phantasm have the right to a holiday and I hope his union have secured a decent pension for him, private healthcare and reasonable sick pay. Given the amount of times he visits me if nothing else the phantasm is a hard worker so I'm glad he's recharging his batteries, especially as it has given me the chance to meet Pat Jennings, a childhood hero, even if it wasn't in the most pleasant of circumstances.

A collapsible donkey toy.

The dizzy-wobbles meant that I hadn't ventured up the Flagon & Gorses all week but last night I reached crisis point and despite having a giddy spell I scaled Furnace Hill and headed to the pub. It is hard to describe labyrinthitis but it is like your backbone has been removed – literally not metaphorically – so you feel like a rag doll or like one of those old collapsing donkey toy puppets who's had his button pressed. It is not only a case of feeling dizzy though, when I have a spell I am also overcome with tiredness and it plays havoc with my cognitive functions, which struggle at the best of times. A packet of Cheddars (not Mini-Cheddars but the full monty version) that I bought for Neddy La Chouffe felt banana shaped in my hand – these are the kind of tricks that labyrinthitis can play on you. It also gives me a bit of dyslexia – a sign saying “no fires” in the park became “no fries” and in Halesowen town centre a fella's t-shirt that read, “I ♥ rapid rafting” became “I ♥ rapid farting.”

The sun was out as I walked up Furnace Hill and it was on the face of it a pleasant evening but my dizzy-wobbles meant that there was a latent unrest in the air and I was ill at ease. I felt like I was going to fall over, bump into a lamp post or wander into the road, though experience of the condition told me that in actuality I wasn't going to do any of these things. Walking home from the pub might be a different matter. Everything seemed threatening and daunting. Even the pretty flowers were b*stards. I ploughed on and got to Earl's roundabout but the flowers on it looked wonderful not malevolent, a sea of dynamic poppies. I think that the success of the poppy as a symbol of remembrance is due to its vibrant, bold, life-affirming quality being paradoxical to the dark, sorrowful grief of mourning lost soldiers.

Poppies on Earl's Roundabout, Halesowen

In the Flagon & Gorses nothing much had changed in the time since I last visited - the scotch eggs have sold out; some of the spirits have been moved from one shelf to another; fish and chips have been added to the menu; Richie Ramone has put up a small plaque in Tom Corneronly's corner. In pub life the minutiae matters, it keeps the interest, it helps the soothing stream of booze to flow along gently. As the Flagon's regular inmates sit around waiting for something to happen every detail is significant, eventful. The significant event of my week (other than having a job interview at The Heritage Lottery Fund and having an MRI scan on my back conducted by a stern German radiologist) was the father's race at my dear son Kenteke's sports day at school.

Last year there was prejudicially only a mom's race and not a dad's, so I wasn't expecting to compete and I was glad not to anyway given my dizzy-wobbles. But the sports teacher announced that it was time for the father's race and Kenteke was insistent that I partake. Five dads, including me, stepped forward leaving one spare lane on the race track. I looked around at the other competitors and decided, notwithstanding my giddiness, that I fancied my chances. Then, at the eleventh hour, an enthusiastic young teacher stepped forward to fill the spare lane next to me, a lad in his mid-20's at a push. Given his youthfulness the teacher was rank favourite, so now my heckles were up and my old sportsman's instincts took over and under no circumstances did I want to be beat.

My shiny "1st" Sticker.

It was not a straight sprint as each competitor had to pick up three bean bags, which were set away from the start line in intervals, and return them individually to the start line before then making a fifty yard dash. I started well enough but then disaster, I slipped on my ars* and from that position I could see the teacher get away and the game seemed to be up but with a mixture of dogged determination and blind faith I chased him down and pipped him by a short head at the finishing line. A shiny “1st” sticker was slapped on me to declare me the winner. The adrenaline rush was wonderful and it reminded me as to why I played football for all of those years but the likes of Harry Gout will be quick to tell you that I rarely won any running races in my footballing days and if it was a test of pure pace between me and the centre forward the striker would usually win.

I had a price to pay for my victory though as my dizzy-wobbles went off the richter scale and the rest of the day was challenging as I had to struggle through getting prepared for my interview, which was the following day. If I am lucky enough to get the job at the Heritage Lottery Fund I will make it my urgent business to ensure that notable British sporting achievements are preserved for posterity, namely victorious fathers at primary school sports day races in Halesowen on Tuesday 30^th June, 2015.

© Dominic Horton, July 2015.

Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Email: lordhofr@gmail.com

Lowlife 124 - I'm the Daddy

I'm the Daddy

By Dominic Horton

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

Steve McQueen in solitary confinement in Papillon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black & White Composition by Gillian Ayres, by request of 

Toby In-Tents.

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

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

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

© Dominic Horton, June 2015.

Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Email: lordhofr@gmail.com

Lowlife 123 – A Recipe for Disaster

A Recipe for Disaster

By Dominic Horton

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

The brilliant film maker, Ken Loach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Herbs at Codger Mansions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Dominic Horton, June 2015.

Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall

Email: lordhofr@gmail.com