Open Your Eyes, What Do You See?

     I had the honour of showing five delightful Irishmen around my home town recently. There are John and Shamus, Liam and Noel and brother-in-law Tom, Tom Jones that is. There are two firemen, a postman and two professional singers; no, Tom, Tom Jones that is, is not one of the singers. Some live in County Wicklow, one lives in London and one lives near Nottingham; and they all know Dublin. Confused, how do you think I felt! They would appear to have a profound intellectual interest in and appreciation of all things historical; plus less intellectually, they love eating. drinking and charity shops!

    My hometown is Derby (England). Hands up who's ever been there? Hands up, what Derby's famous for? Who's ever even heard of the place; or could find it on a map? I have often asked similar questions on my travels, seldom receiving very convincing answers. So, from the top of my head, here goes.

    Derby, home of Royal Crown Derby; Rolls Royce Aero Engines, anything to do with railways and, built in more recent times, Toyota motor factory. Home to Derby County Football Club (the ground now called IPro Stadium, the club previously housed at The Baseball Ground.) According to some the most haunted city in England, Florence Nightingale and that's all that comes to mind at the moment. No matter, it defeats the object if I use the internet to refresh my mind. With all this in mind I took my Irish friends on a somewhat impromptu 'tour' and this is how our day went! Plus it was an education for me too!

     We walked through what was, when I was a lad, Victoria Street, the town's main street. (I rode regally in a new, 'bog standard' wheelchair, an education in itself and bloody uncomfortable.) Only now the town is dominated by a huge shopping complex, the Intu Centre, around six hundred yards away.

Resulting in Victoria Street and surrounds being bereft of shoppers, looking forlorn and unattractive, discouraging in the extreme. Alongside which stands derelict Duckworth Square, abandoned at least ten years ago, welcome to the City of Derby!

    We visited the town's museum. We examined an exhibition by an Irishman, Denis O'Connor.       . We saw Derby's own Joseph Wright paintings; we saw also a 'mummy' three thousand years old, PLUS the mummified cat I so loved as a child all those years ago; some things never change!

    In the Silk Mill we observed 'a work in progress'. The oldest factory in the world, it is to house objects that show Derby's place in the industrial world. Aero engines or railway exhibits for instance.     The museum is also 'a work in progress'. Particularly noticeable are bright, eager, in the main young volunteers in all manner of occupation who are keenly ensuring at least some progress is made. It is blatantly obvious that money, or the lack of it is making life difficult if not impossible in any project remotely deemed 'cultural'. It looks like its 'Lottery/Heritage funding or nothing. I am pleased our visitors saw attempts at preserving our heritage for our children. Plus the army of unpaid, keen cheerful volunteers deserve our thanks, if not the government or the councils cash.

    With the pursuit of historical knowledge in mind we also visited three hostelries! The Bell, an ancient pub in Sadler Gate. A pub with a so chequered a recent history that it was shut by the police for some considerable time. Very, very old,  I viewed the state of the top floor out of the window and wondered if it would refrain from collapsing before we finished our drinks. Oh ye of little faith, Kenneth, my Irish friends thought it 'the bees knees' or whatever they say in Ireland!

Similarly The Dolphin public house, reputedly the oldest pub in Derby was received with due Irish reverence. And the third 'drinking experience' we encountered was The Standing Order. An ex-bank, a Wetherspoons establishment that is very impressive; its ceiling is particularly so. Coupled with excellent food it was a supurb choice. We also called briefly in Bennetts, probably the oldest departmental store in Derby. We were too late to comprehensively view the goods on display but the young female assistants were much admired! Thus ended a glorious day. My friends despatched me in a yellow cab and they returned to their base in Attenborough.

    An ordinary place, Derby, made special for the day by extraordinary people. Was it John Howard Payne who said 'Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home' Mind you, I've seen these words also attributed to Frank Baum's ' Wonderful Wizard of Oz' AND to  Bridget Carson amongst others so take your pick!

    Humorous, patient, lively in the extreme, you were all excellent ambassadors for Ireland. Thanks chaps, I hope you all enjoyed the day as much as I did.

Image Says it All; Or Does It.

     I got a few raised eyebrows when I suggested there was a faint smell of formaldehyde emitted from a pensioners group I saw in Hawes on my travels. It was 'tongue in cheek' but looking back it made me think. Have I, like the majority of the population, got a pre-conceived idea as to what old people are like. By old I reckon I am thinking about 'grown ups'. This is the way our children, or grandchildren  for that matter think. They, teenagers live in a world of their own. If you don't believe me, ask a teenager what they think about 'snogging' in particular old people 'snogging', grandma and granddad for instance. 'Opinions will probably vary from 'embarrassing to disgusting'. And the idea of 'sex' and old people, 'ugh', don't go there! The point I am trying to make is that we have an image in our mind of what people should 'do' what they should 'be'; and this image, this picture is often closely related to  physical age. So what these images, these pictures without us realising it,  determine the way we live.

    A case in point is the question of transport. Most elderly individuals drive cars, not ride motorbikes for obvious reasons. (When did you last see a motorbike and sidecar.) Many years ago, in my youth men aspired to owning a Ford Popular or an Austin Seven. The man who had 'truly' arrived, usually late in life, if at all, proudly owned a Rover.

   Paul the plasterer is not of pensionable age. No teenager either admittedly, but old enough to make the mature, staid, unexciting choices prevalent of so many middle aged males. Not so Paul, his choice of transport is a  900cc Triumph Speeedmaster, an awesome machine full of sound and fury. Complete with a number plate suggesting a mischievous sense of humour cheerfully acceptable in the so often over serious western world. Paul is indeed an unusual individual; more of this in a later post.

John is of pensionable age, no doubt at all. But like Paul, John is young at heart. John is a retired Rolls Royce engineer, brilliant, knowledgeable, innovative. RR produce some of the best aero engines in the world. Most of the workers are proud to work there; reliable, sensible individuals who give the company their whole working lives. I reckon it takes a certain type of person to work for RR. (I was taken to RR concerning employment when I left school. It was immediately obviously to a non too self disciplined schoolboy this place was not for him. I often wondered, do RR set on certain type of person, or do they BECOME a certain type of person. I went instead to work for F W Woolworth!!)

    RR car park is full of Fords, Audis, Nissans; sensible if sometimes uninspiring choices. John's choice of transport is a Bettson. A trike, a three wheeled motorbike rebuilt by himself and using two Hillman Imp engines. An engineering feat beyond ordinary mortals.  And to see John and his delightful wife astride this monster of a machine is a joy to behold.

    A year or so ago our life became more difficult for several reasons. Being of definite pensionable age my wife and I decided to buy a car to lighten the gloom. ('My wife and I', sounds very royal, except that the Queen has never bought a car in her life!) What do the young look for in a car we pondered.

    Something sporty for a start; plus 'go faster stripes. Darkened windows (reminiscent of a drug dealers car),  a spoiler and a host of decals. Oh, and bucket seats, a definite requirement for the sporty young male. So we bought a sporty Seat Ibiza, an FR model. Plus go faster stripes, darkened windows, a spoiler, decals and bucket seats. All set off by my beloved registration reminding of Derby County, 0009 RAM. To see young sporty types faces as my wife and I overtake is in itself worth the purchase. (Complete with 'shade;, Grumpy Old Ken, of course, not the other whizz kids!)
On the rear of the car is the following; my wife is not so keen but I couldn't resist it.

'This car is owned and driven by geriatrics. Why should the young 'uns have all the fun!

    They say today's eighty year olds are yesterdays sixty year olds. Some also say men never grow up! What do you, dear readers think? Whatever your age or gender, tell me, do you have things you hang on to from the past. Have you got ways of reminding you of when you were younger. There's nothing wrong with that, I reckon. Why SHOULD we act our age if we don't want to!

(This post has taken me a long time. I 'lost' the content, how I've no idea! Perhaps it's a sign of getting old!)

Fame or Infamy

    I'm just an ordinary person who has lived mainly in two places. By coincidence both have been in the news for completely different reasons; both will be immortalised for ever.

I live in Derby, a midlands city that houses Crown Derby pottery, Rolls Royce aero engines and Derby County Football Club. Very much a railway place originally, an industrial city that limps on in hard times. Home of Joseph Wright the painter and few others. A place that from now on will be infamous as the home of the notorious Mick Philpott.

    Mick was well known in Derby. He fathered seventeen children by five different women. He lived with a wife, mistress and eleven children in a council house not far from my house in Derby. He appeared on the Jeremy Kyle Show and in a documentary with Ann Widdicombe. He had plenty of time to do so as he had not worked for many years. He amused himself by playing snooker in an extension to his house, amusing others on a pub kareaoke machine and 'dogging' with his wife and best friend Paul Mosley in and around Derby parks. On occasion he appeared in the media demanding a larger house from the local council and stated in no uncertain terms that 'Britain was going to the dogs.'

    Mick Philpott would still, I imagine, be living the proverbial 'life of Riley' were it not for a tragic, stupid, horrific mistake he made in May 2012. He and his friend Paul Mosley hatched a plan to set fire to his house. He, Philpott was to rush into the house and rescue the six children. He would appear a hero, the council would supply him with a bigger house and his mistress Lisa, who had left the house recently with her five children would be blamed.
    The deed was done, the fire got out of control and the six children in the house perished.                

    In March 2013  the despicable trio were sentenced for manslaughter. (Mairead his wife may not have taken part but was complicent.) Mick Philpott was sentenced to life in prison, Mairead and           Mosley seventeen years.         .

    There is so much more one could say.  Suffice to say Derby will be forever immortalised for the existence of a dangerous, feckless, bullying braggart whose whole existence it would be hard to justify. We in Derby have had months of publicity we could do without. I would be amazed if, irrespective of where you live  in the world, you haven't heard of Mick Philpott. He is, I assure you, not typical of the place.
    I lived in Grantham, Lincolnshire for four years. Nothing much happens in Grantham. They had a railway accident in 1906. They still talk about it! Mind you, both my children were born there; there wasn't too much to do of an evening! Isaac Newton was born just outside. A very clever man indeed but I'll take you a bet. I reckon Mrs Thatcher's fame will eventually outshine that of dear old Isaac.
    There's a statue dedicated to him in the town. There's no statue of Margaret Thatcher in Grantham, yet, but I've no doubt it will come. They don't rush things in Lincolnshire! I used to reckon the Lincolnshire motto was 'Never do today what you can leave 'til tomorrow.'
     Lady Margaret Thatcher died this week, aged eighty seven. Her father, Alfred Roberts kept a grocery store in the town and was also Mayor.     .

    His daughter Margaret took an interest in politics, became an MP and eventually the first female Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. Love her or hate her, there has been an outpouring of comment that will no doubt continue for many moons to come.  The Philpotts of this world become infamous; the Thatchers, I will be kind and say, probably famous. The only certainty in life is that we all eventually die and eventually leave some sort of legacy.What memories are you going to leave behind and what is your town or village famous for?

A Real Football Hero.

Having said I don't normally 'do' topical here we go again. The Ryan Giggs affair really set me going and here's why. I personally quite admired the guy, so I view his antics with both surprise and disappointment. (Ryan Giggs, professional footballer, married, father of four has a 'liason/affair' with a young lady and tries to use the full force of the law to stop anyone from being aware of his antics. Says he's thinking of his children. Bit late, Ryan, what a hypocrite!)
To those who say his private life is his own business, I say rubbish, we're entitled to know. This man earns millions from football and even more millions as a 'whiter than white' ambassador for football. He is, like it or not, a role model for millions of children.
My background is ordinary, working class village boy born in the first months of the war. Plus I was orphaned at the age of thirteen. Role models have always been important, particularly where young males are concerned; in my case, because of my circumstances doubly so. The like of Reg Harrison, footballer was particularly important in my formative years. Contrast Reg's career with the spoilt, prima donna's of the modern footballing world.
Reg Harrison was a young man, a keen, honest Derby born and bred professional footballer aged nineteen in 1946, playing for Derby County in the immediate post war years. In an era of shortages there were special problems for professional sportsmen and women. Sport is reliant on fitness; diet is a critical factor if success is to be achieved. Footballers were allocated no extra rations yet a level of fitness was maintained creditable in the extreme. True, there was the occasional perk of extra meat from a butcher in return for match day tickets. There was also a Derby County team manager who was in the catering trade, providing the players with a meal once a week, tripe and onions being a particular favourite. But there were no massive wages to supplement the player's diet, even had extra rations been available.
Reg signed a contract in 1946 for the princely sum of ten pounds a week. The manager somewhat apologetically explained that only long term first team regulars were paid more, he, Reg was what was termed ‘a slider', any increase, and small at that depending on regular first team football. In fact a member of Reg’s family earned more after stoppages working as a foreman in the local Rolls Royce factory. Which would suggest that admired they might well have been, but immediate post war footballers were seldom financially secure. Reg never forgot the club director, an accountant by profession who solicitously inquired, shortly after Reg married as to whether he was saving his money. As Reg inevitably retorted, ‘Chance would have been a fine thing on footballer’s wages’.
Reg lived with his parents until he married and then moved to a small house in the town, from where he walked to work. Not that he considered training twice a day preseason and playing twice a week in season as work. A hard life physically, but one he enjoyed just the same. A life that brought the reward coveted by all British footballers. A FA Cup appearance with the ultimate reward, a cup winner’s medal. For in 1946 Derby County reached the FA Cup Final, meeting Charlton Athletic at Wembley on Saturday the 27th April.
Tickets for the match were eagerly sought by a Derby population starved of real football excitement for almost six long war years. Prices ranged from 3/6 (17p) to £2 2 0s (£2 10s). Derby County were allocated 12,000 tickets, applications by post only, though season ticket holders were assured of a seat. Some travelled on the thirteen special trains travelling from Derby minus a ticket. In fact some 10 6d (52 p) tickets were changing hands before the match for £10 10s (£10 50s). The idea that these were times devoid of football disorder was somewhat questioned when hundreds attempted to gain free entrance just before the match and had to be dispelled by mounted police.
Prior to the match the team stayed at a hotel in Harpenden, four to a room; Reg shared with Angus Morrison, Chick Musson and Jim Bullion. Normally the team had tea and toast for breakfast plus a meal before a match of boiled fish or chicken. On this illustrious occasion they had the luxury of breakfast in bed; egg and sherry mixed with milk and sugar before a coach took them to Wembley Stadium. Each player was allocated two tickets, not over generous when one considers the crowd numbered one hundred thousand.
Derby won a memorable match 4-1 after extra time. An extraordinary game made even more so when the ball burst, a rare occurrence indeed. The team stayed overnight again at Harpenden and played Arsenal in London the following Monday.
On Tuesday 30th April 1946 the conquering heroes were paraded round Derby to rapturous acclaim on the back of an Offilers Brewery wagon; from the Blue Peter Public House in Alvaston to the Police Building in Full Street. The following day Derby played another league match and yet again the following Saturday. Counting from the Saturday before the Cup Final Derby County played six games in fifteen days. The players received their normal wages plus an inscribed Royal Crown Derby plate; the pampered existence of modern footballers a far-cry away.
I still see Reg at the Derby County games. He is over eighty years of age. (There are two Derby County survivors from the cup final game, Reg and Jim Bullions.) A lovely, unassuming, modest man, married for many, many years; thanks for the memories, Reg. You may not be rich but you are still greatly admired. You put the likes of Ryan Giggs to shame.

THE CUP FINAL

Quirks of Fate

The Prime Minister, Gordon Brown visited Derby on Wednesday, as did Nigel Clough. And whose visit will be remembered longest, Nigel's of course. For Nigel has become manager of the local football team..

We are rather a small time town, and county for that matter. (We are actually a city but you would hardly know.) The local airport, East Midlands, four miles from Derby incorporated the name Notts in its title for a spell, arguing that no one knew where Derby or Derbyshire was. (I travel fairly extensively in the British Isles and find this is often the case.) Rather naff but perhaps the airport authority had a point.

We have little interest in informing the world of our greatness, our superiority over other beings. (Lest it be said we lack pride, our football ground is called Pride Park, not too often with just cause, except for last Wednesday of course.

If some Yorkshiremen are exiled, they often have to tell you, ad nauseum where they are from; if you work with some Yorkshiremen they too also remind you frequently. Not imagined, alas, I have worked with many. And quite frankly, if I was expected to shout 'Derbyshire, Derbyshire' at a football match I'd be embarrassed. I have many Yorkshire friends, including bloggers, visit the county often and much of the place is beautiful; so please, no more unwanted bellicose rants in my direction.

Which all makes me wonder how others see us and our home areas.

Derby; Bonnie Prince Charlie, marched from Scotland, got as far as Derby and went home; I wonder why. Derby, home of Derby Crown China, Rolls Royce aero engines. Derbyshire, Bakewell Puddings, (they are puddings, not tarts,) a crooked spire and underrated scenery.

It is interesting how places become famous, and occasionally infamous. I have never been to Hastings but I know there was a battle there. Lockerbie, for ever remembered for an horrific air crash. (It is twenty years this week since the Kegworth Air Disaster not far from here. I wonder how many will think of this when the name of Kegworth is mentioned.) I think of Hungerford and only think of a terrible gunman running amok. Bamburgh will forever be remembered as the birthplace of the brave Grace Darling. Nottingham and Robin Hood, the White Cliffs of Dover, Dick Turpin and York, we often form a picture of many places without having ever visited.

(Concerning infamy, see blog dated 4th October. I would be mortified if Derby were to be remembered for such detestable, thoughtless insensitive behaviour. It seems to have already been forgotten. Sad in a way though I would not like it to be thought of as being typical of the place.)

We seek an identity, some more than others. Which brings me back to good old Nigel; just a football manager. A forty two year old, modest, unassuming, likeable typical Derbyshire born individual. Whose arrival in Derby on Wednesday resembled that of the Messiah. And to many he is just that. Almost thirty thousand people go to the football at Derby. That's a lot of people for a the size of the place. (population around 230,000.) Football is in a way a tribal thing, intangible but an identity for many, and in cases like Derby somewhat traditional. Many children from an early age will 'adopt' a team. Usually a famous successful team, for instance Manchester United. Right or wrong, people travel miles to go to their home matches just for the privilege of watching what they consider the best and inevitably claim 'bragging rights' over lesser mortals. None of us have any control over where we were born. I was born in Derby and saw my first Derby County match in 1948. I have followed them since through thick and thin, and boy, have there been some thin times! Without wishing to labour the point, only a football fan can realise how a successful football team can lift a town. Many years ago Nigel Clough's father, Brian became the manager of Derby County and was extremely successful and popular. History repeats itself and the whole town is agog with excitement. Incidentally life can be very quirky. Nigel Clough was born here and lives here with his family. His father came from Middlesborough but we didn't mind and he is in fact buried here.

I look at the addresses of the friends I have made amongst the visitors to my humble blog; two things spring to mind. How do you see your town/city/area. What would you expect it to mean to me? And secondly, off the top of your head, what do you know of Derby and Derbyshire?

A City Shamed

It was with some trepidation I joined the blogging world with my first blog on the 16th April. I enjoy the fact that amongst other things it helps keep a sixty eight year old mind active. This is my sixty second blog and for the first time it a blog I did not really want to write.

Derby is a somewhat innocuous, nondescript city though it is famous in small ways for a variety of reasons. It is the home of Rolls Royce, one of the most prestigious companies of the world. Joseph Wright is a world renowned and greatly admired artist born in Derby in 1734. Herbert Spencer the Victorian philosopher was born in Derby in 1820. Dr Samuel Johnson, man of letters married in St Werberghs Derby in 1753. Samuel Plimsoll, Derby's Member of Parliament from 1868 to 1880 did much to enhance the safety of vessels at sea; so much so that he was known as 'the sailors friend'. Bess of Hardwick's tomb is in the cathedral and Derby County Football Club is internationally known though it has suffered of late.

A catalogue of events typical of the history of many a town and city in 21st century Britain. Events that I feel were overshadowed the day Derby's small claims to fame were replaced by a single act of hideous infamy.

On Saturday afternoon, the 27th September, around 2.30pm a young man climbed onto the railing at the edge of the Westfield Centre car park. At about 5.45pm the young man fell to his death; a sad event at anytime. What made this particular occurrence particularly horrifying was that it was witnessed by a crowd of onlookers whose reactions were, to say the least, mystifying.

That anyone by choice would witness the sad demise of a fellow human being defies any understanding. That some enjoyed the drama, to the extent of giving abuse and shouting encouragement to jump defies comprehension. Plus the amazing fact that some allowed children to witness the unfolding spectacle. Add the fact that some recorded events on mobile phones (in some cases later posted on internet sites) and you have a 'happening' that is mind bendingly beyond the understanding of normal people.

In the days of public hanging a mob mentality existed. It was a day out, an entertainment for all. The last public hanging in Derby took place in 1862. Have we not moved on from ignorant, uncaring times; seemingly not. For make no mistake, the actions of many bystanders was worse than those of long gone times. For we now live in the main in more civilised times. So what fuels these unthinking, uncaring fools? The word scum is an overused collective noun, but for once where these imbeciles are concerned I think it is justified.

One or two things come to mind then I will give these idiots no more of my time. Do these people now realise in the cold light of day that their behaviour was totally unreprehesible, totally unacceptable to the majority; I hope so. What causes such disregard for our fellow human beings, particularly towards those who find life difficult in the extreme. (Blame is usually directed towards too much alcohol or the fact that a diet of horror movies desensitises but no excuse carries any real weight.)

One further concern occupies my thoughts. In 1745 Bonnie Prince Charlie marched on London. Arriving in Derby he changed his mind and returned home with his rag tag army. Now the fact that it was near Derby that he turned back was irrelevant at the time. He knew nothing of Derby so it was not personal. But at the back of mind is the fact that the whole world seems to have read of Saturdays sad events. How many will now view the good citizens of Derby with contemptuous disgust. No matter that the majority are caring, concerned individuals. Presumably these awful events could have happened elsewhere but it would be wrong to say I hope so. Shaun Dykes, aged seventeen, rest in peace; you deserved better of the world.

Where Are They Now

Out of the blue the phone rang and a delightful elderly gentleman inquired as to whether I had left school in 1958. Fifty years ago, perish the thought. (Why is it I always think of other people of my age as sounding elderly but consider myself as being eternally middle aged rather than ancient in the extreme.). The gist of the gentleman's call was to inform of a reunion to be arranged for Long Eaton Grammar School leavers in the year of 1958. Now for someone who can't recall what he had for breakfast remembering the year I left school was something of a tall order. Plus the fact that I recall drifting away from an educational establishment I had little love for rather than formally leaving at a term end. I have also never attended a reunion of anything in my entire life, suspecting that for many it tends to be an excuse for the 'Haven't I done well in life syndrome' rather than a desire to meet up with school 'chums' you genuinely liked and admired, or, heaven forbid, feared and despised.
I taught in a large comprehensive school for close on twenty years. At its peak there were over two thousand pupils and over one hundred staff. On occasion individuals come to mind who have lingered long in my subconscious. I taught one young man who went on to commit murder in a local public house. One former pupil whom I met on the street informed me she had been at one stage a madame in a brothel. The newspapers often feature ex pupils; shop lifting, arson, GBH, car crimes, the offences by ex pupils are endless.
Yet the majority are respectable citizens in ordinary sometimes mundane occupations. But some excel in life, and I am proud of them and for them. One former pupil was awarded an Oscar though not for acting. Another young lady was editor of Marie Claire until being head hunted by a rival American magazine. We have educated lawyers, solicitors professional footballers and headteachers by the score. One hell of a mix; perhaps reunions are more fun than I had imagined. I wrote the following short story when thinking how pupils do in fact 'turn out'. It is based on real pupils but one incident in particular stands out. I leave you to guess as to what I am referring.

“Tempora mutantur, nos et mutantur in illis.”

(Times change and we change with them)

The Reunion

‘Calling class 5G, Marvill Secondary School, 1974’ the message on ‘Friend’s United’ had read. ‘Informal meeting in the common room, Alverton Public Library Friday March 12th, 8pm onwards, all welcome.’
The tall, confident man seated by the fire surveyed his companions.
“Malcolm, Malcolm Russell,” he announced in case anyone failed to recognise him. “Welcome, although I didn’t organise this get together.”
No one present gave any indication that they were in fact the organisers of the soiree.
The beaming man standing by the window took his cue from Malcolm.
“Wayne, Wayne Scott, long time, no see! Yet it all seems like yesterday.”
“And you’re Marjory, Marjory Bailey that was.”
Wayne looked enquiringly at the demure, attractive blond half hiding by the screen notice board. Marjory nodded and blushed furiously Even at forty-six years of age she hadn’t forgotten the crush she’d had on Wayne, aged fifteen, even if he had.
“Happy days.” The quiet, diffident man swivelled his chair so as to get a better view of the others.
“Adam, Adam Tate, in case I’ve changed a little.” He laughed almost nervously.
“Of course it’s you, Adam.”
Malcolm, Mr Confidence Personified continued to assert himself.
“Who could forget your contribution to 5G, Adam?”
The reaction was one of titters rather than belly laughs.
“Remember your hosepipe exhibition on the last day of term?”
Remember it, who could forget it!
The headmaster had been in full oratory flight, on stage, in front of the entire school on the last day of the school year. Adam, out of view at the side of the stage, had directed the fire hose onto the pontificating headmaster, knocking him to the ground with the sheer force of the water. Adam was up and away across the fields before horrified staff had helped the unfortunate, very wet, very undignified headmaster to his feet.
That Adam was the culprit might well have been common knowledge, proving such a preposterous act was never likely.
Adam smiled at the memory.
“I never excelled at school, certainly in the academic sense,” he conceded.
Somewhat of an understatement! A tendency to truant Maths, Science, PE and assemblies limited progress. Plus there was the much remembered armband incident.
Between lessons Adam had unwound a metal armband and strung it across the classroom. Poor, elderly, short-sighted Mr Duval, the French teacher had almost decapitated himself in his perambulations around the classroom.
This event was related by Malcolm with relish, to Adam’s obvious discomfort.
“None of us were angels, were we? Tracey, Tracey Mellows that was.” The rather large presence entering the room rescued Adam from Malcolm’s inquisition.
“True, Tracey love.”
Malcolm switched his attention to the newcomer.
“Remember the bike sheds, Tracey dear?”
Remember, how could Tracey forget!
Large, unattractive, insecure, Tracey had gained notoriety by the granting of sexual favours to many a male in year five. What ten pence would buy didn’t bear thinking about.
‘The best bike in the bike shed’ she was unflatteringly referred to.
“I loved those bike sheds.” Adam smiled to himself “Who was it had that butterfly tattoo on her bottom?” The question was seemingly rhetorical. The three males smiled at their memories.
“We all had tattoos, though not butterflies.” Marjory rescued Tracey from further humiliation. “Only we did most of them ourselves, remember. With a pen and ink, it didn’t half hurt!” She looked down at her arm, deciphering the faint blue lines of a crooked cross, still visible after all these years.
“And we pierced our own ears. Mine went good and proper septic, plus I got a swipe from my mother for my trouble!” Marjory grimaced at the memory.
“Remember PE and those embarrassing navy blue knickers we had to wear?” Tracy and Marjory rekindled female memories long stored but obviously not forgotten.
“I remember them too!” Adam laughed at distant lustful, adolescent, recollections.
Tracey and Marjory ignored such insensitive masculine intervention.
“Do you remember our form teacher, Mr Green? I had a right crush on him. I sometimes babysat for him and his wife, Sandra. I used to explore the house, as babysitters do. I wondered, at fifteen, why they had a whip on the wall over the bed. Come to think of it, I still do!” Marjory laughed at the memory.
“I didn’t like Mr Butler though, he used to look down my dress. Mind you, I was a big girl, even then!” Marjory laughed again.
“I went to Mr Mason’s house shortly after we all left.” Tracey was encouraged by Marjory’s contribution.
“Do you remember Mr Mason? How you boys used to make fun of him. He had a deaf aid that he hardly ever turned on. The class would be almost rioting and the only person who was oblivious was Mr Mason!
He also walked with a stick because he’d been involved in some sort of accident. You boys used to walk behind him and imitate his strange limp. Add his poor eyesight and thick classes and I guess he hadn’t much going for him.
Funnily enough I remember only one thing from Mr Mason’s house. On the wall in his hall there was a plaque. And do you know what it said? ‘I had no shoes and I complained. Then I met a man with no feet.’
It made me feel awful after all the things people did to poor Mr Mason at school.”
Tracey sighed at the memory. Wayne and Adam noticeably shuffled with embarrassment.
“You all did daft things in those days.” Malcolm’s use of ‘you’, rather than ‘we’ was not lost on the others!
“Remember, Wayne, you farting in science and blaming it on the experiment going wrong! Old Mr Bell had to look it up in a science manual what was supposed to happen when you heated sulphur and iron filings.”
Wayne shuffled uncomfortably but Malcolm was not finished yet.
“I hear you also got yourself in the news when you were an apprentice at Rolls Royce. ‘The Amorous Apprentice’ was the headline if I remember rightly.”
Wayne laughed, but out of embarrassment, not amusement. How could he ever forget?
A hot summer’s day, and a young man’s thoughts had turned to love. Wayne had arranged to pick up Jane, his girlfriend after work. Hopelessly in love, it had seemed a good idea at the time. He had stripped off before he started the short journey to the building society where she worked. She would get such a shock, no doubt be amused, and, hopefully, impressed. Only the policeman in the car alongside at the traffic lights was neither amused nor impressed! Wayne left Rolls Royce shortly afterwards, though his notoriety lived on.
Wayne shook his head at the memory of a youthful indiscretion he would rather forget.
Malcolm was beginning to irritate both Wayne and Adam.
“I must admit, we didn’t kill ourselves with work, did we?”
Wayne remembered hours spent gazing out of the windows. Hopeless guesses at diarrhoea and benefited in spelling tests. Trying, unsuccessfully, to solve the mysteries of Pythagoras, square roots and algebra.
“And how did Mr Brainbox himself do in the end?”
Adam’s vexed question barely disguised his growing animosity.
“I must admit, I didn’t do too bad.” If Malcolm was affecting modesty, he failed miserably.
He well knew his academic prowess had been the envy of many.
No joining in dubious boyish pastimes for Malcolm. No smoking behind the bike sheds or stealing beer from around the back of the Co-op. No joining the other boys in the toilets to see who could pee highest or spit furthest!
Malcolm wasn’t nicknamed Brains after the character in Thunderbirds for nothing! He needed no second invitation to champion his academic successes.
“Ten ‘O’ levels, grade ‘A’; five ‘A’ levels, grade ‘A’ at Wilmington College. Went to Oxford, Got a First Class Honours Degree.
‘Oh this learning, what a thing it is,’ Shakespeare, Taming of the Shrew.”
Malcolm, predicable to the end, demonstrated his literary knowledge.
Adam noticeably stiffened with annoyance at Malcolm’s unapologetic demonstration of his academic superiority.
“I wonder where some of the others are now?” Marjory tried to deflect attention away from Malcolm.
“Do you remember Wee Davey, frightened even of even his own shadow? He joined the Army and won a medal for bravery. Alan Sowter drives buses, Simon Hodson went to Australia and Sandra Mee, who always loved children, now has eight of her own.”
Tracey’s concern for others was evident in her knowledge of the whereabouts of her classmates in 5G.
“Plus David Gregory, Sally Gunn, Tommy Roe and Ruth Thomas, where are they now, I wonder?”
“And George Platt, Gorgeous George we used to call him. He used to hang out more with you girls than us boys.” Who could forget George? Adam shook his head at the memory.
The room fell silent. All remembered a year that shaped the next thirty.
“I must be going.” Wayne broke the silence. “I’ve things to do but I will remember you all. Good night and God be with you.”
The Reverend Wayne Scott shook hands with everyone, adjusted his dog collar and stepped into the night.
The room again lapsed into silence.
“I must be going too, I’m on duty at ten o’clock.” Police Inspector Adam Tate smiled apologetically and moved towards the door.
“And me also, may I walk part of the way with you?” Tracey joined Adam by the door.
“Thank you all for a delightful evening.” Sister Tracey of the Dominican Order Of Nuns smoothed down her habit, adjusted her wimple and opened the door. Almost as an after thought, she stopped in the doorway.
“By the way, I still have the butterfly tattoo. Goodbye and may the Lord keep you safe.”
The room lapsed into silence for a third time.
Marjory, Staff Nurse Marjory of Kingsmead Hospital looked uneasily at her watch.
A knock at the door broke the silence. Two men in white coats entered, smiled, and beckoned to Malcolm.
Patient 1057, Kingsmead Hospital, formally known as The Derbyshire Asylum for the Criminally Insane meekly followed the two orderlies down the stairs to the subtle, anonymous looking white vehicle parked by the library entrance. Nurse Marjory followed at a discreet distance, pausing only to hold the door for the tall, attractive, willowy brunette who entered as the Kingsmead contingent left.
The newcomer hurried up the stairs, the sound of her high heels echoing in the almost deserted building. She glanced in the empty common room and continued down the corridor to the dimly lit reception area.
“I’m sorry I’m so late, please forgive me. I’d like to pay for the use of the common room, as agreed. My names Georgina, Georgina Platt.”

Walter Mitty is Alive and Well

Our delightful grandchild Tommy is picked up by dad after a day's childminding at grandma's. "I've been in the pond" he announces triumphantly to a bemused father. Ponds and four year olds don't exactly go together. A fact of which grandma is well aware, the story is a porky of the first order. "I fell downstairs, from top to bottom" was last weeks pronouncement, again a happening only in his obviously fertile imagination.
Many years ago as a full time youth leader I had the acquaintence of Dennis, a non too bright eighteen year club member. One day he regaled me in great detail regarding an accident in which he had been involved. Riding his motorcycle he had collided with a car, a Ford Consul. The driver evidently a large distinct ginger haired individual wearing a red jacket, brogues and corduroy trousers was cooperative enough and had given him a phone number to contact in order to make arrangements to mend the damage to the motor cycle. Only the phone number was non existent. I was very concerned, for Dennis could ill afford to pay for other people's damage.
I didn't see Dennis for a while until he wandered into the club a fortnight or so later. "Hello, Dennis, and how are you?" I offered. "How did you go on concerning the accident?" Dennis looked even blanker than usual. "What accident?" he replied. "Can I book the snooker table?"
As far as I can ascertain, children tell fibs and most adults either at best deal in falsehoods or simply misrepresent the truth. And dare I say it, some including the worst politicians simply lie. An inbuilt genetic trait we all possess or is it learnt behaviour than makes life more interesting. Take your pick. I wrote the following short story to pay homage to all the con artists, romancers and down right liars I have met over the years. Incredibly I am still as gullible as ever to their stories. Some of us never learn.

“Tell a lie and find the truth.”
Spanish Proverb

Liars

The old men sat around the table, pints in hand, seemingly deep in thought. The landlord stood behind the bar in close proximity. The clock struck the hour.
“He were an unusual man, were Arthur my grandfather.” Old Ernie broke the silence.
“In fact he were an unusual child. He could tie a knot in a length of string with his toes at three. At four he were playing a penny whistle with his nose. An avid reader from the age of five, a child who delighted in attention, little Arthur devoured information the way other children devoured cream cakes.
At seven he knew butterflies were once called flutterbies; that King Charles the First were only four feet seven inches tall. He knew that camelhair-brushes were invented by a Mr Camel, and of any case weren’t made from camel hair. And he knew, although he’d never been there, that Chile had no public lavatories.
At ten years of age he pondered the great philosophical questions of his day. Why does a man’s bike have a crossbar? What’s the difference between chutney and pickle? Why are dusters yellow and where does the wind go when it’s not blowing? He were before his time, were Granddad.”
Ernie lapsed back into sombre contemplation.
Silence reigned again, but not for long.
“He were a lucky man, your grandfather.” Old Michael, known as ‘Bony M’ on account of his gaunt frame, took up the challenge.
“If he’d had the start in life my grandfather had, he’d never have bothered.
Not a pretty child, the midwife took one look, stuck him under the bed and ran out of the room screaming!
Determined to do well in life, despite social and physical disadvantages, he tried hard to succeed. But the fates seem to conspire against him.
Adolph was not the best choice of names for a sensitive child. Neither was an upbringing in a family devoid of normality.
Illegitimate, his father was reputed to be the local squire and prospective Conservative candidate in forthcoming elections. His paternal grandfather had been one of the earliest persons in the area to be sentenced to penal servitude in Australia, fourteen years for arson, churches being his speciality.
His mother was well known for favours bestowed locally on dignitaries for little or no cost, no role model for an adolescent child.
His brother Deidrie grew up sexually confused. He wore a suit and tie in his job as clerk in the local railway offices; and was beautifully turned out in a dress and bonnet at church on Sundays.
Not surprisingly Adolph grew up scarred mentally. Ashamed of his background, he vowed never to reveal his families’ secrets, particularly that his father may have been a Conservative!”
Old Michael too lapsed into silence as he contemplated his lineage.
“Unlucky, unlucky, you don’t know what bad luck is.” Old Harry took his chance with enthusiasm.
“My great uncle Jake didn’t choose to be one of life’s losers, but life chose him.
All his life he suffered from ailments, imaginary and real that meant he could never participate in those pastimes others found normal.
Frequently hospitalised, he was treated for dozens of conditions previously unknown to mankind.
Sadly typical was the time he suffered peculiar thumping sensations whilst in bed. Exhausted after days without sleep, he was subjected to every conceivable test. But even the most comprehensive X-rays and electrocardiograms failed to diagnose the cause. Not surprising, since the problem was eventually found to be the thermostat on his new electric blanket!
Regular work was a rarity. So, with an income barely above subsistence level, Jake spent his time attending establishments that offered free entertainment or education. Unfortunately his luck didn’t change.
Carrying more books than was wise he fell down the stairs of the local library and was hospitalised for two weeks.
Visiting an exhibition by RoSPA in the Town Hall, he tripped over his shoelaces and collided with a table displaying items concerned with danger in the home.
Unable to keep his balance Jake hit the floor with a resounding crash, grasping the cloth from the table in a desperate attempt to lessen his demise. This in turn brought crashing down on the unfortunate Jake the items previously displayed on the table: an iron, frying pan and a canteen of cutlery; a vacuum cleaner, hair dryer, toaster and a glass fronted first aid cabinet!
This time he was hospitalised for a mere eight days.”
“Now, now, you two, your families don’t have a monopoly where bad luck is concerned. Granddad Arthur succeeded in spite of adversity.” Ernie was not one to admit defeat lightly.
“The end for Arthur’s brother alone would have destroyed lesser men than Arthur. A brewer with a Burton Brewery, he fell into a vat of beer at the height of his brewing success. Beer contains ethanol, which has a lower density than water, so not surprisingly he drowned. It is not true that he got out twice to sober up. It is true though the brewery was upset that the entire batch had to be thrown away!”
Michael seized his opportunity.
“Adolph’s brother Deidre also met an unfortunate end. Plagued by doubts concerning his sexuality, he decided to end it all. After downing a bottle of brandy he placed cushions on the floor, turned on the gas, put his head in the oven and promptly fell asleep.
Six hours later he woke with a splitting headache. Cursing the inefficiency of modern North Sea Gas, totally befuddled, he fumbled in his pockets, found what he was looking for and lit his last cigarette; in fact he lit his last anything!
The explosion destroyed Deidre’s flat, the bookies below and the chip shop next door. Deidre definitely went out with a bang.”
If these sombre observations were intended to deflect Harry from his pessimistic telling of Jake’s misfortunes it was unsuccessful. Harry continued unabashed.
“Browsing through a local antique salesroom, entrance of course free, Jake made two exciting discoveries that he hoped would change his life forever. He discovered, almost simultaneously, a violin and a painting, both so faintly signed as to be almost indecipherable.
Cunningly examined so as to avoid the attention of connoisseurs in the antiques world, he realised with mounting excitement the signatures were of immense importance. Jake had discovered a Stradivarius and a Rembrandt. His joy was boundless, for his troubles were surely over. Unfortunately not, for the painting was by Stradivarius and the violin was a Rembrandt!”
Harry shook his head at the thought of the cruel misfortunes heaped on poor Jake.
“‘All that Glitters is not Gold,’” said Ernie, “‘Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, 1615.’”
“‘Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched’. Aesop, 570AD” retorted Michael, determined not to be upstaged.
Ernie pondered the misfortunes of the illustrious Jake.
“Arthur could never be considered unfortunate, certainly where money was concerned. Niche markets were his speciality. He owned a small factory producing left handed cups that were a great success.
He bought a large consignment of contraceptives, seconds that is. He resold them to Roman Catholics with the promise that they had the blessing, so to speak, of the Pope.
He sold, by mail order, 78 records that purported to contain the entire work of Marcel Marceau.
He became a rich man. His innovative spirit knew no bounds. And he would undoubtedly have continued to prosper, had his fortune not become his misfortune, so to speak.
A rich young man who could afford any leisure activity of his choice, he was one of the earliest riders of a motorcycle in his district. Arthur was the proud owner of an AJS, named after the maker, Mr A J Stevens.
Before the age of sophisticated motorcycle clothing, any long coat sufficed, worn back to front to keep out the cold, and buttoned up before a journey by helpful friends, often of the female gender. A leather helmet and goggles, a scarf and long gauntlets completed the transformation.
Throwing caution to the wind, Arthur was often seen hurtling through the villages, drawing admiring gazes from love struck young maidens, and fearful curses galore from those aged and infirm. He had minor accidents, mishaps inevitable to so fearless a rider. And he would have no doubt continued in like vein, except for an unfortunate mistake by a pair of country bumkins, unaware of the ways of the world, the motorcycle world, that is.
Dashing down a country lane on a warm summer evening, Arthur encountered with both wheels a cowpat of particular lushness. In full view of two straw chewing yokels, seated on a farmyard gate, the out of control rider and machine flew through the air. Both cleared a stone wall with consummate ease.
The motorbike sailed into an uninviting duck pond and Arthur landed face down with no small impact on a grassy bank. Arthur stared into the ground, no doubt tasted the grass beneath him and was probably thankful to be alive. That is, until the helpful yokels arrived and viewed the prone figure. Helpful to the end, that is Arthur’s end, the two yokels, with great difficulty, but equal determination managed to realign his head!”
Ernie grimaced at the thought of Arthur’s unfortunate end.
Michael nodded in sympathy.
“Granddad Adoph had a funny life but at least he had a peaceful end.
A humble, inoffensive little man, he worked quietly, almost invisibly as a railway clerk for many years. His life was one of drudgery and utter boredom.
He did in fact marry, but it was not a success. A big, slovenly, idle woman, his wife bullied poor Adolph unmercifully. He used to tell himself, “My wife’s a light eater, as soon as it gets light she starts eating!” But he was afraid of course to make such an observation out loud.
His life was one of poverty, chastity and obedience.
But even a worm turns. A week before his thirtieth wedding anniversary, Adolph secreted a bag containing clothes under the stairs.
On the morning of the anniversary Adolph made his wife’s breakfast as always. She sat down to a full, very large meal and Adolph made his way unnoticed to the hall.
Eating greedily she addressed her subservient husband out of sight in the hall.
“Don’t think you are going to get away cheaply this anniversary,” she bawled down the hall, “I want to go somewhere I’ve never been before.”
“Try the kitchen!” came back Adolph’s reply.
They were the last words Adolph ever spoke to his wife. When she looked in the hall he was gone.
That night he settled into a new life in a Franciscan Monastery. Exchanging a life of poverty, chastity and obedience for a life of poverty, chastity and obedience. Only this time he was a willing participant.”
Michael and Ernie turned to Harry inviting a response. Not one to disappoint, Harry took up the challenge.
“As Lord Byron said in 1823, ‘Truth is stranger than fiction.’
Jake continued to find life a struggle. Finance, or rather the lack of it continued to dog his very existence.
Depressed, near suicidal, Jake received news that would undoubtedly change his life forever.
A maiden aunt summoned Jake to her presence. She had, she informed him, watched his troubled existence for many years. She had the means to help solve his problems forever. Having no children, she wished to bequeath her house and considerable fortune to Jake on her death.
She asked only one thing. Having fond memories of Skegness as a child, she wished to visit one more time. On her return she would write a will, completely in Jake’s favour, finishing, at the stroke of a pen Jake’s life of hardship and toil.
Feverishly ecstatic, Jake, after a diligent search for the right vehicle, ‘borrowed’ a limousine from a nearby showroom forecourt, intending of course to return it eventually.
On a hot summer’s morning shortly afterwards, Jake lovingly, carefully placed his elderly, frail would-be benefactor into the back of the pristine limousine he had so thoughtfully acquired.
The air conditioning was magnificent; a credit to Mr Rolls and Mr Royce and the journey was uneventful.
Great Aunt Maud thoroughly enjoyed her time on Skegness beach. The sun beat down but she was oblivious. Any discomfort experienced due to two or three layers of clothing she ignored. The constant flow of ice cream, courtesy of the ever attentive Jake nectar to the euphoric Great Aunt Maud.
As the crowds drifted away at teatime, the contented, rather pink, or rather very pink Great Aunt Maud was lifted into the back of the limousine for the last time. The very last time; definitely the very last time! For as Jake checked Great Aunt Maud prior to starting the journey homeward every conceivable emotion flooded his mind: horror, disbelief and not a little fear.
It was rather obvious that Great Aunt Maud had experienced her last visit to Skegness beach. Still, quiet, silent even, open mouthed, eyes staring, Great Aunt Maud had gone to that resort in the sky where the sun always shines and the ice creams are free. She was in fact dead, very dead!
Jake glanced furtively round the car park, seeing only families hurrying home to tea, happily reliving their day on the beach. More important, everyone was obviously unaware of Jake’s problems.
Jake’s mind was racing, but, heart pounding, he adopted an air of casual normality as he eased the limousine down Skegness High Street and on towards home.
The return journey home was as uneventful as that made only hours before. Admittedly Jake’s passenger was not much company but Jake was, of any case, preoccupied.
Approaching Nottingham he still had no idea as to his next move. A large public house on the edge of the city beckoned. Jake parked up and entered, leaving Great Aunt Maud hidden from public view behind the darkened windows of the Rolls.
Jake bought himself a glass of stout and agonised over the problem of the late, Great Aunt Maud. There seemed to be two distinct choices. Ring the police and confess all. Including of course the facts concerning the ‘borrowed’ Rolls Royce and the lack of a driving licence and insurance documents. Not to mention concealing a death, an event in its own right serious enough to probably warrant incarceration at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Alternatively, take Great Aunt Maud home, somehow get her into her own bed and await discovery of the unfortunate deceased, an event hopefully unconnected to nephew Jake.
Undecided as to which course of action to follow, Jake finished his drink and returned to the car park. At this stage a bad day got decidedly worse! The limousine and its passenger were nowhere to be seen. And, put simply, that was that!
Jake never forgot that day in Skegness. Getting home was comparatively easy. Getting over the whole traumatic episode was less so. On many a cold winter’s night Jake shivered in bed and wondered whatever happened to Great Aunt Maud; and for that matter, the Rolls.
The house and fortune eventually passed to the state, for there was of course no will. But not until many years later. For no-one seemed to know where Great Aunt Maud had got to; of any case a missing person cannot be presumed dead for all of seven years.
And Jake was hardly in a position to help, was he? Poor, poor Jake!”
The clock again struck the hour. The three old men lapsed into silence.
After what seemed an eternity they looked in unison towards the landlord, who had remained nearby during the whole discourse.
He pondered for a moment, walked from behind the bar and presented Harry with a bottle of his best malt whisky.
Michael and Ernie knew that this year’s winner of Tall Story Club was undoubtedly Harry.
“Well done, old man,” said Michael graciously.
“Definitely well done.” echoed Ernie. “And what did become of poor Jake?”
“He too died,” replied Harry, “leaving his children half a million pounds.” Harry’s audience were taken by surprise.
“Where did the money come from?”
Harry anticipated the question in everyone’s mind.
“From a life insurance. Jake decided to end it all, and, at the same time, make provision for his children. A suicide note was found in his house showing his intention of drowning in the local river. Hey presto, end of Jake’s financial problems!”
Old Michael jumped to his feet as fast as an eighty-year-old can.
“Not possible,” he shouted triumphantly. “All life insurance policies have a get out clause that excludes paying out in the event of a suicide!”
“Quite correct,” said Old Harry. “But who said Jake’s death was a suicide?”
“You did,” retorted Old Ernie. “You said a suicide note from Jake indicated he was going to the river.”
Harry too rose to his feet.
“So I did.” replied the venerable Harry. “But the river was searched to no avail. Jake’s body was found, in a ditch, half a mile from the river. He had apparently tripped over the wire fence in the dark and drowned in eight inches of water. The inquest’s verdict was accidental death, not suicide!
Good night gentlemen. See you next year, God willing.”