That's Life.

    This is not actually the post I intended. But in researching material for Grumpy's Alternative News for October I became sidetracked. (The October News item will be my next post.) I noticed several news items that made me think about luck, fate, call it what you will. Now I know that there are people out there who believe our lives our being, our ending is pre-destined; when your times up, your times up.(Presumably all worked out in advance by an all powerful being some refer to as 'God'.) And who am I to interfere with personal beliefs. (See post dated 4th August, And After Creation For My Next Trick.) The suggestion is that FATE is a course of events that will inevitably happen in the future. LUCK seems to be what will happen, good or bad, due to chance, FATE or fortune. The subtle difference is that FATE cannot be changed, it is your destiny. I could no doubt find examples of 'FATE' to prove a point or otherwise from anywhere or any time. But these are instances from September's news that brought on this deep, deep philosophical debate. (Somewhat tongue in cheek examples, it's not Einstein writing this blog, it's Grumpy Old Ken for goodness sake!)

    Bristol. A man stabbed his wife with a 14 inch kitchen knife. Her life is saved because the blade caught the wiring of her bra, enabling her to fend him off and escape. A good job she wore a bra!

    High Wycombe. Four British tourists holiday in Peru. They book a flight in a Cessna 185 from a remote site. A last minute arrangement, the pilot is flustered, and is over the alcohol limits for pilots. He forgets to switch on the fuel, the plane almost immediately crashes, all are killed. Couldn't happen to me, I only go to Skegness. Wait a minute, Skegness does flights round the town and back!

Bradford. A man falls backwards into a clothes-dryer; the dryer collapses. His head lodges between the rails. He struggles to free himself, makes matters worse and he suffocates. A coroner said the incident was 'probably rarer than being struck by lightning or struck by a meteorite'.

    Connah's Quay. A Mr Michael Dunn from Connah's Quay, Wales goes all the way to Australia for a military exercise in Brisbane. He goes to use a portable toilet. The toilet explodes whilst Sergeant Dunn is inside. Cause unknown but probably a fuel spill. No matter, Sergeant Dunn is killed and is awarded a full military funeral.

    Cardiff. Mohammed Ali Ege has problems with a man who owes him money. He is a bad man, is Mohammed Ali, and pays two men to kill the debtor. The two 'hitmen' are not over bright, plus high on drugs. They go to the wrong house, in the wrong street and kill the wrong man. Sadly very much a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

    Galway Michael Fahery, aged 76, was found totally burnt in his home. The only damage to the property was above and below him. The coroner's verdict, he died of 'spontaneous human combustion'. Now some say such a thing is impossible, but a coroner is a learned man; you cannot take his verdict lightly.

    There you have it. All examples of FATE? You tell me. And just for a complete tease. Niall Pawsey, a law student from Cheltenham had a bet with friends that he could go for a month without drinking alcohol. He won his bet and they all celebrated. A further bet was that Neil could swim across the Thames at Kingston in Surrey. Unfortunately Niall lost this bet, his luck??? was out and he paid with his life. Jeni Anderson, a 23 year old student fell overboard, in the dark from a ferry 20 miles off Scarborough. A lifeboat from the ferry picked her up thirty minutes later, cold and frightened, but very much alive. You could truthfully say her time was NOT up. What do you reckon? 

    

Moan, Moan, Moan, Moan, Moan.

It's been a bit rough for the past month so my wife and I (Very royal if you like), my wife and I went Skegness way for the weekend. I like Skegness, no pretensions. All sticks of rock, car boot sales, warm beer and fish and chips. (One street is actually known as Chip Alley by visitors.)

Talking of visitors, our favourite past time is sitting eating chips outside a 'caff' whilst 'people watching'. I was going to say 'all shapes and sizes' but one shape, one size predominates. 'The big people' rule in Skegness. If you're big, nay massive Skegness is seemingly the place to be. Every obese, large, rotund, overweight individual from Leicester, Derby. Nottingham and Sheffield seem to make for dear old 'Skeggy'. And I've not seen so many smokers for many a day. Add tattoos by the dozen, on heads, necks, backs, arms, legs (I daren't guess what's fortunately hidden from view) and you get the picture. And the men are just as bad! Nevertheless It's a cheerful place, at least I thought it was. Now I'm not so sure.

I bought the local paper, the Skegness Standard. Its front page banner headline read. 'United in Wind Battle'. Now Skegness and district is dominated at the moment by news of a proposed 'wind farm' to be situated on land near Anderby Creek. Feelings apparently run high, but are know where near the 'united front' suggested in the headlines. (I actually stayed at Anderby Creek. I met many, including locals who held a different viewpoint. I also noticed 'anti' signs a long distance from the proposed site.) There is even an anti-windfarm organiser, a certain Melvyn Grosvenor who will help organise your protests if you so wish. I could go on, but minds are made up, the word NIMBY springs to mind.

Moving on, I noticed something interesting; happiness in Skegness and district is not in abundance. Letters to the paper are a case in point. Apparently motor vehicle parking on the pavement is rife. Tradesmen, taxis, the general public, all park on the pavement. Not that it's any better when they take to the roads. Buses clog the roads outside the Embassy; parked on zigzags, double parked, and what's more, evidently the police don't care! And if you don't drive but merely walk about, what happens. The seafront shelters you pass are full of foul mouthed drunken men at all hours of the day. Are people born moaners or does the place do this to you?

No, not a happy place, Skegness. The newspaper's Facebook is full of irate moans concerning overflowing litterbins, dirty waterways and overgrown roadside verges. A visit to Skegness really is 'slit your wrist' time. Never mind, a walk up to jolly old Ingoldmells will surely do you good. Nope, not really. People on sites near to the Bolton Lane Sewer Works have been moving out because of the smell. ('Anglian Water is working hard to identify the source of the odour.') Try the Sewer Works, fellas.

If all these problems aren't enough, I'm sure we can find other reasons for a good old moan. Croft residents in particular have got moaning off to a fine art. A delegation from Sycamore Close complained about children skateboarding. (' They didn't skateboard in my day.' Of course they didn't, skateboards weren't invented!) And more radar gun useage requested in Church Lane please, motorists are speeding through the village. (Are you sure it's not machine guns you require? That would cure the problem.) As if all this were not enough, it was reported than the swings on the playing fields were being used by 'certain children' (are they aliens?) and drunk adults. Plus they are leaving litter; serious stuff indeed! Mind you, you will be pleased to know vehicles over seven and a half ton are to be banned from around Croft. (No vehicles, no deliveries, surely; or is that different?)

I wonder if there is something in the water around Skegness that affects people; or maybe it's a misery 'gene'. Is it an age thing? Perhaps its parochialism gone mad. Perhaps the Standard just likes to be miserable. Some Skegness and district citizens make Grumpy Old Ken look positively,

ecstatically happy.

Do you remember Mona Lott, Mrs Mop of ITMA fame. Her favourite saying was' It's being so cheerful as keeps me going.' I wonder if she came from Skegness!

Times, Are They Really A'changing?

Like almost everyone else I bemoan the passing of time. Plus like many others I occasionally pontificate as to how life was often, if not better, certainly different in our distant past. Our memories often deceive us and nostalgia takes over. What's the saying,* 'Viewed through rose coloured spectacles.' (Seeing life only positively, in other words, seeing everything in a cheerful and optimistic way.) What's particularly interesting in my case is the fact that I kept a very comprehensive diary for one year, 1985; the year itself of no special significance, but its all there, in black and white. Remembering of course twenty five years is a fair while ago. Whilst you're reading my efforts, can you remember events from your past ten, twenty, thirty, forty or even fifty years.

Diary excerpt, October 1985.

'Paulette continues to attend her Keep-Fit class whilst I prefer to write, watch television and drink home brew.'

Nothing new there then, even allowing for the fact that my wife is eight years younger than me. The home brewing has gone (A necessity when we were young and poor, home brewing is no longer in vogue. Most of us are financially better off compared to the 1980's)

My TV watching is so-so and I am still involved in various aspects of writing. (No blogging then a days)

Twenty five years on, I've had various serious health scares, am diabetic and suffer from fairly serious mobility problems caused by arthritis. My wife was diagnosed a Coeliac in 1987 and also has serious arthritic problems (Despite the Keep Fit). The children are grown up, with children of their own, so life goes on, history in part repeating itself. Progress in a way, mustn't grumble.

Diary excerpt Nov 9th 1985

'My mother died, worn out at the premature age of forty six. I am forty six today.'

My mother died of pneumonia. No one should die of pneumonia, particularly so in the reasonably sophisticated, fairly developed western world. I am not in brilliant shape, with the diabetes and everything else, but they, the modern NHS keep me going. Nowadays my world seems full of geriatrics, in front of me in the queue at the supermarket, at the football, scoffing two for one meals in the pub. Those of mature age certainly 'rule' in 2010. Progress, yes or no?

We have a market at Allenton, adjacent to where I lived at the time. Opened in 1961, consisting of 90 stalls on Fridays and Saturdays it was lively if considered somewhat downmarket. And if Fridays and Saturdays were less than upmarket, the flea market on Tuesday evenings was even less salubrious. Stalls offering every conceivable second hand goods, junk of the highest order, to even less wholesome customers the norm. Shady goods, shadier deals, the shadiest of dealers; great fun, but not for the fainted hearted.

My daughter Sarah aged sixteen befriended a stall holder, helping on his stall on occasion. Her innocent looks and youthful well scrubbed complexion standing out like a beacon amongst the great unwashed. Nevertheless I was proud of her efforts and once took my camera from its case, ready to record her efforts for posterity. Ready to record, not ready for the mass exodus of stall holders within range, who had no desire to have their efforts within the black economy recorded on film; I was indeed naive. Few if any wished their efforts to be available for examination by anyone, and particularly anyone who might conceivably be a tax inspector or the like. Taxes, tax forms, who needs 'em! Benefit fraud was alive and well in 1985.

Fast forward to 2010, a coalition government eager to exert its authority. And what is the 'flavour of the month' at the Conservative Party Conference in Birmingham. Clamping down on benefit fraud of course. Oh well, what's a mere twenty five years between friends! And by the way, Tesco have bought the pub, The Mitre that adjoins the market. Plus all the nearby houses. And guess what, they've bought the market site too. Ah well, that's progress, 2010 style. ( I looked up Allenton Market on the Internet to refresh my memory. A non too erudite web site referred to the market as a 'flee market'; a Freudian slip perhaps! http://www.derbyphotos.co.uk/. Amazingly enough Allenton Market was also listed as a 'Gay Derby Cruising Area'. Even at seventy we live and learn.)

An old man's memories but backed up by the written word. Other memories may not be so accurate. But there is no doubt life changes and inevitably moves on. 'It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.' (Charles Dickens. A Tale of Two Cities.) We smoked in public and went to places like Skegness and Yarmouth for holidays; cruises, not on the agenda. Firms like Cadburys were British and a job was for life. Cameras used films and computers, the Internet, solar panels and i-pods were unheard of. Global warming and the word stress were not in our vocabulary. Plus we knew of Al Green, but Al -Quaeda, never. Times past, but the memories linger on. In the words of Mary Hopkins, 'Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end'. Perhaps, only perhaps she had a point.

*Used figuratively in the 1850's and first used in print in 'Tom Brown at Oxford'. 'Oxford was a sort of Utopia to the Captain.....He continued to behold towers, and quadrangles, and chapels, through rose-coloured spectacles.' And at the risk of being utterly pedantic, the word is coloured, Yahoo, not colored! Just another example of life in 2010, American style.

How to do Everything.

We went to Skegness at the weekend. Wet, windy, freezing; what's new! So bad that I bought two books to pass the time in the motorhome out of the cold. And what is my choice of reading material. Were they bought because they're cultural, uplifting, enlightening; or did they merely look cheap bargains in more ways than one. Book review one, the second to follow.

'How to do Everything' by Rosemarie Jarski. How modest are our American friends. Purporting to teach you 'the skills mom and dad should have taught you but never did.' (Note the use of the word mom, an Americanism if I ever saw one.) The book is trite, mundane, mind bendingly banal but at times immensely amusing. So what did I learn?

The choice of subject is at times amazing. Didn't know how to open a supermarket plastic bag. I do now! Did you know spiders hate the smell of soap and a swatted bee can bring in reinforcements. Do you know how to tie a Windsor knot, make a cat's cradle or slice a pineapple, its all there! I would have never thought of dyeing the water in a vase with food dye to match the colour of the flowers. And how many pairs of shoes do American women own. It is suggested you photograph your shoes and put the picture on the box to tell you which shoes are which! ( I have three pairs, or is it four.)

The book is mainly aimed at the ladies amongst us. Inevitably assuming the female of the species is the 'home maker' and presumably the male is the 'provider.' Not surprising therefore the bulk of the book concerns the home. How to throw the perfect dinner party, make the perfect bed, the best order in which to clean the home, all explained for 'wifeys' benefit. But amongst the advice are some real 'crackers'.

On vacuum cleaners. 'I got the wife implants for Christmas. She didn't want 'em. She wanted a Dyson.' (Roger Kavanagh, The Royle Family.)

On bed making. Did you know a man is twice as likely to fall out of a hospital bed as a woman.

On washing up. Did you know a national survey found that, given the choice, a woman would rather see a man washing dishes than dancing nude.

And one more. If noise is a problem, move to Switzerland. It is an offence to flush the toilet in an apartment after 10pm. It is also illegal to use your lawn mower on a Sunday.

So much to take in, so many new things to learn. Using the toilet, I've been doing it all wrong. 'Pull your underwear right down around your ankles. Half-mast is not good enough'. As Michael Caine would say, 'Not a lot of people know that.'

How to make the perfect cup of tea AND how to drink tea like Prince Charles AND how to read the tea leaves. (Tasseography) Try it, sure to amuse. Did you also know there are, on average each year in Britain 37 injuries involving tea cozies.

And the thing that will stay with me longest?

From the section concerning posture whilst sitting at your computer. With your right foot make clockwise circles. At the same time, draw the number 6 in the air using your right hand. Your foot will change direction. Not the most useful of all the things taught in the book, but what the hell. Well done, Rosemarie, you amused me no end.

What have you read lately, any recommendations?

A Day in the Life of a Nobody

Idly wandering the internet, for no apparent reason I fed into Google 'A Day in the life of''. You have one or two choices, 74,000,000 to be precise! As I couldn't think of anything else on which to blog I thought, as a one off only, I'd make it 74,000,001.

Got out of bed, as usual reluctantly, just before eight o'clock, an early start for me. Found the bottle and gave a urine sample. Too much information, I know, I know, but a diabetic check was due. Even grumpier than usual, hungry due to the obligatory fast, I watched my wife having tea and toast. Cruelty comes in many forms.

Wandered up to the doctors surgery, obtained a ticket, number forty three and waited my turn. Question, if I was number forty three, I got there at one minute past nine and the clinic opens at nine, how come I was number forty three on the list. I'm new to this surgery and there's obviously something I don't know. Eventually called in and gave a right armful of blood. Tony Hancock would have been proud. The nurse reckons it was nothing, I don't call three bottles full, however small, nothing!

Travelled to a local garden centre, now in liquidation to collect my purchases from their internet sale on Monday morning. (The modern way, years ago you would have attended a proper sale and bid along with dozens of other addicted bargain hunters.) Not so much of a bargain, VAT plus other premiums puts over thirty per cent on the purchase price. Collected one pub type, humorous 'no smoking sign' which evidently attracted ten potential bidders and cost me a fortune. No matter, we are easily amused , it will be my most prized possession, at least for a few days. Come on, surely everyone has somethings they especially value.

Collected also my second purchase, four plastic garden tables and one chair, faded, used, price, £2; I could not resist them at that price. Again, hand on heart, have you never bought a bargain on impulse?

Home again, fed and watered, a little less light headed. A young man arrived by arrangement and tested the camera I had put in the previous nights paper. One of the cameras we had unwittingly bought in a previous on line auction. (We don't do these auctions regularly, honest. In fact we have only just discovered them, hence our bungling.) My visitor, a young Muslim obviously knows far more about cameras than I do. He tells me he owns a kebab shop and is only nineteen years of age. Hard working and technically proficient he puts us old 'uns to shame. He buys the camera, I am happy if he is happy.

I spend time on the phone contacting Citizens Advice and a solicitor on behalf of a relation. A son has been involved in a serious accident, the landlords response is to threaten eviction if the rent is withheld for whatever reason. Some people have more than their fair share of trial and tribulation.

We, my wife and I go into my 'pretend' bar and proceed to put my new sign on the wall. I am concerned that my wife might fall off the stepladder, it never looks over safe! She follows my instructions quite well as the place I choose is rather high on the wall. Too high, in fact and I decide to place it elsewhere. My wife says nothing. I reposition my sign in a place that does not necessitate the use of ladders. I admire my handiwork and feel right proud!

I fetch an old school colleague, Kenneth for the afternoon. He is unusual, somewhat eccentric, a lifelong bachelor and ninety two years of age. Ken too has his problems. He lives on his own in a poor neighbourhood. This year he has been targeted three times, almost certainly by children and has windows smashed on each occasion. Locals would like to buy his house and pester him to sell. He tells me one shouts after him in the street, "Please, please, you tell me when you die." In other circumstances it would be funny.

We have a convivial afternoon. We, my wife that is feeds him chocolate biscuits, beans on toast and cups of tea. He tells me the beans on toast remind him of his childhood. He claims he eats well at home but I do wonder, he has no help whatsoever. He bemoans the fact that due to lung problems he can no longer ride his bicycle. I am secretly not sorry as he used to fall off it frequently all of twenty years ago. He tells me he will not go on the roof of his house anymore as his crawling board is not safe and he is unwilling to spend on another. He is, though, he tells me, quite happy to use a ladder where necessary. (I have known him to use carpet squares on his roof instead of slates.) His lifestyle is his choice and he is sadly a dinosaur in a not always nice age; but the least he deserves is respect and safety. I take him home after dark. I do not enter his home; if he wished me to do so he would ask no doubt. He returns to his dimly lit solitude I to a brightly lit home and a loving wife.

Sister in law has rung in the meantime. Roger her husband is holidaying in Thailand. On the television comes the news that the main airport, Bangkok has been taken over by militants. A volatile country at best, Christine is naturally concerned. There is nothing you can do but I confess it goes through my mind that we never get problems holidaying in Skegness!

I spend the rest of the evening enjoying my 'bar' with sixties CD's playing in the background. Enjoy a bottle of Thwaites Lancaster Bomber. 4.4%. Elvis booms out, to my delight. Its the first time in my entire life my home is not physically attached to another. Someone sings 'You don't love me no more.' The teaching bit never goes away and I wince at such ungrammatical sloppiness but for once it doesn't really matter. Enjoy a bottle of Bavaria Holland Beer. 5.o%. I hear 'Sheila said she loves me, said she'd never leave me.' Didn't catch who was singing but does it matter. (any answers, 1960's music.) Enjoy an 'Extra Cold Carling' 4.1%. Note the warning on the tin 'UK Chief Medical Officers recommend men do not regularly exceed 3-4 units daily.' Sorry, chaps, but it's been a long day!

And eventually, reluctantly to bed. This blog was not meant to be educational but I've learnt something. The old TGA has not finished me off quite yet; I like my life and who needs to go to work when you don't have to.

It's All in the Mind (Forever).

Some may consider Harry Lorayne's book naff, but it's got me thinking. I believe everything we have ever experienced stays in the mind forever, at least whilst we draw breath, so to speak. The brain is cleverer than any computer and seems endless in its capabilities. Its merely a matter of recall; but easier said than done sometimes. Beyond that I have no idea, there again I never was a threat to Albert, Einstein that is. Nevertheless I'm going to conduct a little experiment over the next four days. I'm going to try and recall four events, unconnected, of little importance, but events hopefully I've not recalled for some considerable time. Unscientific, of no value to anyone but, heck it may interest me!

Number 1 Tuesday

I remember visiting Skegness as a child and being fascinated by an exhibition concerning Japanese atrocities towards British and Commonwealth troops in WW2. Cost, sixpence, showing hangings and decapitations. The exhibition ran for several years. Who ran it, I wonder and when did it finish. Presumably it was done so that people would not forget what happened during the war. I remember as children we would inflict cruelty on insects, spiders, ants and the like. We would pretend they were German or Japanese soldiers. Remember we were children brought up in the aftermath of war. It's surprising in a way that we finished as normal as we seem to be. Though some might disagree concerning our 'normality'. One final thought. Fighting between Georgia and Russia is constantly in the news at the moment. Has this prompted this recall I wonder.

A Peaceful Weekend at the Seaside

The strain of the our forthcoming move is beginning to show. A couple of days away usually does the trick so we load up the van and, hey presto we're away. Three hours later and we're walking down Skegness High Street.

Dear old Skeggy, full of obese, cigarette smoking, often tattooed individuals of both sexes, many day trippers from the Midlands: Derby, Nottingham, Leicester, Sheffield, Rotherham and Barnsley. A pilgrimage their parents and grandparents made in the non too distant past.

Although it is barely afternoon the effects of alcohol and the warm sun combine to make the expletives flow and I wince at the lack of self control shown by some with small children in tow.

We buy a bag of chips, obligatory in Skegness and eat them outside the shop. Skegness never did stand on ceremony; the place has a certain charm, though many would not be seen dead there, an unfortunate phrase considering what was to happen only a few hours later.

We elected to stay overnight on a caravan site in nearby Anderby Creek. A pleasant enough choice amongst the static caravans much loved on the East Coast. Plus the bonus of a pub nearby. A toilet block on the site plus a pub nearby, life is good at times as long as your expectations are not too high! We cooked a meal by the beach, returned to the caravan site in good humour and retired to the pub.

The place was full and it was immediately apparent the average age was high. (The average age of motorhomers evidently is sixty three. The average age of people in static caravans is probably higher.) It did occur to me an OAP bus trip had called in except that it was fairly obvious that most were ensconced in the best seats, suggesting they were all 'regulars'. No matter, my wife and I took a back seat, literally a back seat and surveyed the scene.

The bingo was approached by the regulars with enthusiasm, the caller screeching the numbers with deafening gusto. My original enthusiasm was tested and the production of a karaoke machine set the alarm bells ringing. Thus commenced the worst karaoke singing I have ever heard. Whether it was the sheer age of the participants, (whom I doubt had ever seen never mind used such modern apparatus) or the choice of song, inevitably Country and Western, the end product was excruciatingly bad. Plus they did encores, perhaps a case of senility rules. (One old gentleman definitely 'away with the fairies' insisted on regaling us with his rendering of an entirely different song (we were in a side room and viewing through an open door).

By now my original euphoria had all but gone, and I was beginning to wonder whether our visit was a good idea. I glanced out of the window and did a double take so as to be sure as to what I was actually seeing. A van was only yards away, its rear doors open. An unusual vehicle in a way, it took only a moment to realise it was in fact an undertaker's vehicle. Fascinated, singers ignored I watched in morbid fascination. Lo and behold, a stretchered body appeared from a nearby caravan and was carefully placed in the waiting vehicle; and the karaokers continued to karaoke. Quite a shock of a Saturday evening, not exactly designed to lift the spirits if you'll pardon the pun. The karaoke was bad but I hadn't realised it was that bad! (Evidently an elderly gentleman had died in the caravan overnight and had been discovered only minutes before we arrived for a 'fun' night out.)

The rest of a most unusual weekend passed without incident, but a weekend we would not forget in a hurry. Who said you can't beat a weekend on the East Coast for getting rid of stress!
Coincidentally I write up this post as the television announces new government plans to allow people to die in the place of their choice. Great news, except that you need to know in advance the time of your demise. No doubt the old man loved his caravan at the seaside. I wonder if he knew something we didn't.

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.”