On Bad Hair Days.

I'm seldom sure what my next blog will be about. How some bloggers post daily is beyond me. I post every five or six days and struggle for subjects. I don't normally 'do' topical posts so that makes life doubly difficult. But every now and again a news item leaps from the pages that shouts for attention. Such a case was the airline steward who had 'a bad hair day'.

Steven Slater was formerly an air steward on Jet Blue. After years, twenty eight years in fact of putting up with the rude, abusive behaviour of some airline passengers Mr Slater's patience eventually gave out. The behaviour of one cursing, argumentative female passenger on arrival at New York was a step too far for Mr Slater. On landing he made a valedictory address on the intercom to passengers and staff on Flight 1052, picked up his hand luggage and two beers from the trolley, opened the door, activated the inflatable chute and slid out of the stationary plane onto the tarmac. Out of a job and into folklore.

Who has never had a bad hair day. Who has never reacted in a way that could only be described as 'inappropriate'. Or are all of Grumpy's readers possessors of supreme self control, the ultimate paragons of virtue!

In the late 1950's I worked in the stockroom of F W Woolworth's, a menial role enlivened by daily sessions of dinner hour snooker over the nearby premises of Burton the Tailors. Good fun, not to be taken seriously except that on this particular day stockroom man John lost, again, and was not amused. At which point John returned to the stockroom, in a huff to say the least, and proceeded to hurl large tins of paint at the stockroom walls. Inevitably, some burst open, leaving the stockroom floor a magical, multicoloured mess. At which 'Big John' ordered the nearest, extremely small, fearful stockroom junior to clean up. Reluctant to cooperate, the unfortunate junior was seized by the neck and rubbed, face downwards through the brightly coloured spillage. All of which resulted in a wild eyed John being escorted, with difficulty, off the premises and ordered to seek employment elsewhere. A bad hair day for all concerned but at least life was never dull at F W Woolworth's. My teaching career in later years was tame by comparison. Or was it?

No one volunteered to drive the school minibus with sixteen 'year nines' on board to nearby Melbourne on a routine Geography trip, surely not. Never a wise decision, and routine, Year Nine, who's kidding who! The day started to go downhill the moment the Year Nine 'would be trippers' got out of bed. But at least they arrived in Melbourne in one piece, an encouraging start. Perhaps the teachers should have stayed closer to Year Nine but nobody in their right minds kept too close to such miscreants. Twenty minutes into the visit and members of the public reported children throwing stones at the ducks on Melbourne Pool. Eton College, perhaps, on a day trip to Melbourne; no such luck. Teacher number one dispatched to investigate. (There was a full sized bus plus three teachers also involved on the trip.) Further minutes elapsed without incident. That is until an irate vicar appeared on the scene. Evidently there were children in his church doing strange things, apparently attempting to invoke spirits and involving a 'weejie' board; I kid you not! Another high profile school visit, yes, surely not children of less than average intelligence from a less than renowned comprehensive. (Though the teachers guessed it was their pupils who were definitely making their presence felt. And as teachers they also knew that Melbourne parents seldom chose their school as their number one choice of secondary education provider. Or second choice, or third, fourth or fifth for that matter.) Teacher number two dispatched. And as they pondered the foolishness of such parents came news of a spate of shoplifting involving children in a nearby shop!

They rounded up their pupils, eventually, many chewing sweets not previously apparent on their person, so to speak. Nerves a little shredded, temper a little frayed the minibus driver pointed the minibus towards Melbourne centre and off they went. Only Melbourne High Street has a parking problem, and thus can only take one line of traffic at a time. Which would have been fine had not some foolish, unobservant, dozy, diligent, dopey, almost certainly local geriatric car driver met the minibus two thirds of the way down the street. They halted, bonnet to bonnet and the car driver suggested orally and with accompanying gestures (which Year Nine should not have understood) that the minibus driver should gracefully recognise that age has precedence on British roads and the minibus should therefore reverse the length of the High Street. Now the minibus had had a lovely day so he did as he requested. Not! and those on the minibus spoke in awed tones for months afterwards of the teacher who pulled the keys out of the ignition, threw them on the floor and stormed off, swearing profusely in full view of shoppers in Melbourne High Street.

John at Woolworth's sought other employment. And the teacher in the minibus? He took early retirement, his blood pressure dropped dramatically and he lived happily ever after. I miss teaching, occasionally, very, very occasionally. And I don't get too many Bad Hair Days!

On People and Places.

We've just been away in our motorhome for a few days. Our travels may not be in the same league as George Orwell's (Eric Arthur Blair) but I've enjoyed the change.

We called at a scrap yard near Preston on the way up. Don't let my wife ever tell you I don't take her anywhere interesting. I'm sure many a lady would like to be taken round a scrap yard! I bought two brass signs for my bar. Corny, yes, but they amuse me. Why ever grow up when you don't have to.

We stayed the week on the playing fields of King Edward VII and Queen Mary School, Lytham St Annes, courtesy of The Camping and Caravan Club (Lune Valley D A). Within sight of my daughter's home, literally across the road. An ideal situation, close but not under each other's feet, so to speak.

I hadn't realised how elderly many caravaners and motorhomers are. Smashing people in the main, many in their seventies and no small number eighty plus. Brilliant that so many ' oldies' are still active in this day and age. Though I doubt that all drivers following cars and caravans on our crowded roads would agree.
St Annes up the road (And Lytham for that matter) have a gentile, affluent feel about them.. My mother in law, well into her eighties loves them. She says they have a better class of charity shop than most. (I counted six at least in St Annes, charity shops that is, not mother in laws!)

Whereas Blackpool, not too far down the road has no pretensions of grandeur. Many people in Lytham and St Annes are rude about Blackpool. snobbery to a degree, but I can see why. I must admit I have seldom seen so much obesity, so many people smoking and so many tattoos for many a while. And that was only the ladies! (Only joking). I met a delightful man and his father who lived in Stoke on Trent, the son had had retired this week after thirty eight years in teaching and they always holidayed in Blackpool. Stoke, Blackpool and thirty eight years in teaching, the mind boggles! Nevertheless I like Blackpool.

Fleetwood is unique in its own way. A port, though perhaps somewhat in decline, not particularly attractive, certainly not pretty; it's biggest claim to fame appears to be its markets, Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. The numerous parked buses testament to the many day trippers who descend on the markets week after week. And I have never seen so many geriatrics, and geriatric aids for that matter in one place. The market heaves with ancient old dears intent on a bargain and woe betide anyone not quick on their feet who momentarily blocks their path in the search for the holy grail. If I have learnt nothing else from this short break, I have learnt that the average age of the British population is high in the extreme. Either that or they've all migrated to the north west.

I did meet one interesting young man by the name of Andrew. He wandered over to our motorhome on the seafront at Fleetwood. He insisted on telling me a large proportion of his life story. Andrew is twenty seven, married into a travelling family, with children and has recently moved from Rochdale, having run up several hundred pounds in debts owed to the council. (I was unclear as to whether the money is still owed.) He and his brother make a precarious 'living' collecting scrap metal with the aid of an old van. evidently 'scrap' is worth around £170 a ton but was £200 not long ago. Andrew had recently been arrested for 'stealing by finding'. Taking scrap without permission, even though it's been lying round for some considerable time. You learn something everyday if you're prepared to give a little of your time.

Andrew was waiting for a friend who was 'in front' of the magistrates in the nearby courts, (a favourite parking spot of mine) charged with numerous motoring offences. Ok, so Andrew was not 'the sharpest pencil in the box' and maybe he'd had a drink. But he was totally friendly, polite and civil and no, he didn't 'tap me up' for money; I am ashamed that I considered that might be his motive. We shook hands and parted, Andrew informing me that his ambition was to move his family up the coast to a quiet life in a nearby village. I hope his dreams come true. (Back home we are visited by three different groups collecting scrap metal on a regular basis. I have not seen this happen for many years; it must be a sign of austere times.)

One other memory. Life consists of millions of individuals seeking contentment, success, pleasure in their brief lives. The punk groups in Blackpool, there to attend concerts in the Winter Gardens were a joy to behold. A non conforming, colourful, good humoured presence, piercings and Mohican's to the fore, they were a joy to behold; thanks lads and lasses, you made my day.

And at the end of the week, what did we take home. Five books, second hand from a charity shop and a pair of shoes each, new, though in the sales from a 'proper' shop and a cardigan for the wife (that sounds a good swap to me). A watch (I never learn, can't get it to work yet but there's hope) plus some meat of all things, both from a car boot sale. (I hope the marks on the meat are not made by a saddle.) Plus a Colocasia Black Magic and a Musa Santa Morelli from a garden centre. Oh, and memories to savour on the dark nights ahead. Roll on Christmas!

Mothers Birthday

This day has special meaning for me and always will have. No explanation needed, just the excerpt from my diary of 1985.

'The birthday of Mary Elizabeth Stevens, my mother. An incredible, independent, stubborn, beautiful fighter. What do I remember thirty two years on?

I remember a little, busy woman, working, often, almost always working. preparing school meals, cleaning for the rich, cleaning our home for her pride. I remember shopping in Derby at Cheshires, an old family business, returning usually with 'yellow fish' or pyclets, two favourites that we could ill afford.

I remember a home maybe lacking in the trappings of wealth, but a happy home, scrupulously clean. We lived in three different houses until Mary died in 1953. Try as I might, only fleeting memories can be retrieved. A cherry lady ornament in a window, cherries held aloft invitingly but never consumed. a Westminster chimes clock, erratic in its timekeeping. A pot cat with amazing long neck and amusing expression. a black leaded dog, almost certainly a Scottie. Sweets lovingly made from flour, cocoa and other forgotten ingredients. Rather secretive visits to her nightwatchman friend, also named Stevens, the nearest Mary came to romance as a hardworking widow, mother of two. similarly secretive visits to Stockbrook Street, home of Ernest Steven's sister, Elsie. (An area rating lowly in most eyes, similarly rated in the eyes of the Hudstons.) Strange days, long ago days, but happy days nevertheless.'

I was of course only thirteen when my mother died. And this diary was written twenty five years ago; where do the years go. Some of this diary excerpt is no doubt unintelligible to 'outsiders'. But I bet few can claim an extended family devoid of problems or complications. We might think we are 'in control' of our little insignificant lives in the short term, but make no mistake, over a lifetime we are 'in the lap of the gods' so to speak. We are what we are, moulded by experiences often beyond our control.

July, You Didn't Let Us Down. Grumpy's Alternative News.

What a month, where do we begin! Money, what to do with it. One of Elvis's pianos is up for sale, they think it might fetch £1,000,000. Plus Roy Roger's horse, Trigger (stuffed of course) is to be auctioned, they think it might fetch up to £133, 000 ($200,000). You're too late for the ashes of the cat featured in the Coronation Street titles, they fetched £800 at a Gloucestershire auctioneers. Talking of ashes, did you notice they're creating a reef in the English Channel made from concrete and reef balls filled with cremated remains. (Ringstead Bay, Dorset.) But I digress, they've not had the Chatsworth House contents auction yet (this autumn. 20,000 items, 1,400 lots.) There's something for everyone: marble chimneypiece £300,000, down to teacups and saucers, £20-£600 plus the Duchess's 'record changer and wireless', circa 1935, £30-50. (All prices are estimates.)

Alternatively you might fancy the new flying car, the Terrafugia Transition, priced £128,000. Money can't buy Paul the octopus who correctly predicted World Cup results but if you're really loaded you could go for that most exclusive of internet domain names, Sex.com. (It fetched $12million when last sold in 2006.) The only person I can think of who could afford that sort of money is Wayne Rooney. He won a court case recently that will make him richer than ever. But it didn't stop him being named as the ugliest footballer on earth by Beautifulpeople.com. Money can't buy everything, Wayne!

Enough of money. What made me laugh, or cry for that matter. The ice-cream van for dogs in Regent's Park is brilliant. 'Canine cookie crunch' indeed. I hope the van, which is called K99 and plays the Scooby Doo theme does well. The burglar from Blackburn who left behind his false teeth when he had a sandwich at the scene of crime was not the sharpest. Nominally brighter than the seventy six year old retired Army major who hurt his back 'tombstoning' at Durdle Door. Couldn't he find something safer with which to occupy himself. Any suggestions? He'd have been better off 'tweeting' like Ivy Bean who died recently, aged 104 and acknowledged as the oldest person on Twitter. Mind you, her 'tweets' weren't exactly ground-breaking. 'Had a visit from our sandra yesterday she bought some parkin which we had with our cuppa.' Rest in peace, Ivy.

There were things in the month that made me wonder. The property tycoon who attacked a helicopter, hitting it and trying to open the pilot's door because it blew dust over his Land Rover lacked self control. Even more serious was the maniac who knifed two people because they hit his car with a discarded lollipop. He was deservedly locked up. Frightening that such people exist. Likewise the idiots in Russia who hoisted a donkey into the air by parachute as a publicity stunt ought to have had a dose of their own medicine. Fortunately such individuals are in the minority.

Just a couple or so items in poor taste. I know some of you love them! Can you remember Keith Chegwin presenting a game show whilst naked. I thought of him when I read someone has been putting up photographs of his private parts (with a pink bow tied round!) around Lewes. No, I am NOT suggesting it is Keith Chegwin! The pictures are being examined for fingerprints. Honestly! There is so, so much more I could say but I mustn't! And evidently 'a big budget' p0rn movie was shot in a London hospital. They won't say which one but evidently the hospital made a 'substantial income'. Having recently spent a week in hospital I'm totally jealous. I bet it made the time go a lot quicker!

I will leave you with a snippet from Derby, my home town. We have a university, just like Oxford and Cambridge. But no studies of comparable depth or importance. Derby University is offering a one year diploma course in artisan food, showing amongst other things how to bake bread and make cheese and pickle. One module even shows how to brew ale. Shakespearean studies, who needs 'em!

Where's granddad Gone?

Away, Monday blues, granddad's gone to the pub again!

Do You Always Look on The Bright Side of Life.

The last post I wrote was a miserable rant in many ways and I was amazed at the positive comments I received. Seemingly many of you feel like me concerning the injustices in the world and the fools and the greedy so and so's out there. I try not to be too gloomy too often. So I was not a little surprised to come across a draft dated March 2009. Seemingly I never posted this effort, perhaps the mood lightened.

'They don't call me Grumpy Old Ken for nothing. I'm sitting here because it's raining like hell and I was going out. Plus we got wet through at the football. Not a bad match but we really ought to have won. The cookers packed up and they wanted well over two hundred pounds to fix it. I have had to buy a new one and Curry's messed me around concerning delivery. Plus when it did arrive they couldn't fit it for technical reasons they should have told me about in the shop. Plus I've had to get someone else to fit the darned thing. Now I've got to go back to Curry's as I paid in vouchers so now they owe me money for non fitting. Our motorhome leaks and has to be sorted, less than a year old. Plus it's being recalled anyway, I think for the fourth time, I've lost count. My teeth need doing, and the bill, already mounting, will be astronomical. I can't sell my house, on the market since August, the offers have been derisory, and I've found some damp in our new home that will need sorting. I bought a greenhouse in the week to cheer myself up and half the bits are missing. My knees ache and my breathing could be better; the doctor's surgery was full, made me feel ten times worse. The TV licence is due and the car tax, insurance and gas and electricity bills not far behind. My moods not improved by a nail in my tyre and a mark on the van courtesy of some fool in a public car park. Thank God I've no cat to get fleas or dog to get rabies.

Fast forward to July 2010.

The house eventually sold and if it didn't make a fortune, so what, many would love a house to sell. Someone fetched the old cooker for spares (Freecycle) so it did someone some good. I can still walk and am still alive though bits fall off with regular monotony. The bills still hover and the teeth still 'bover' plus the damps still there, but who cares in the middle of summer. The wife, the kids and the grandchildren are still lovely, it's nearly the new football season and only 157 days to Christmas! Is your glass half full or half empty.

Always Look on the Black Side of Life.

Having written two posts on June that were fairly cheerful I started to think of aspects in the month that got me going. After all, I'm not called Grumpy for nothing!

For instance, the idiot fat cats in the world never suffer in hard times. I noticed, there are 172 Civil Servants earning more than the Prime Minister. (£150,000 or more.) Plus more than 100 BBC staff also earn more than David Cameron. (The most senior executive, Carol Thomson earns £333,000 a year.)

Our chief executive of Derby City Council, Adam Wilkinson earns a mere £160,000 a year. Poor man, except that Kent County Council gave him severance pay of £365,000 when he quit as director of environment after twelve months. Justin King, chief executive of Sainsbury's received almost £8,000,000 last year. What a pity they recorded their worst growth in six years, lest some of my more affluent readers try to suggest such indecent bonuses, salaries and pensions are justified. The trend is that the salaries of directors of large companies are increasing whilst profits are decreasing. (BBC News, 4th July.)

The word effluence springs to mind rather than affluence. I notice a loaf of bread made in Nailsworth has up to a hundred customers in the Cotswolds despite costing £21 each. I'm not so sure about the sensibilities of that either in these austere times.

One can argue that one's money is yours to spend as you please, but is it that simple. Whilst half the world starves, Britain is in the middle of the worst depression for many decades and Cabestan, a Swiss company offer a watch for sale at £250,000. (The Scuderia Ferrari One.)

I think that what gets my goat, so to speak, is the hypocrisy of it all, big business and the rich purporting to care whilst continuing to profit massively in a troubled world. Not all company profits are decreasing. I noticed brewers Fuller, Smith and Turner showing great concern for the future. Well, it didn't stop your yearly profits being up 17% on the year, did it lads.

I've suffered several dodgy life threatening experiences over the last few years. So much so that I made a vow not to concern myself with things I can't change. Yet here I am, raving about stupid, greedy imbeciles who really don't deserve a minute of my time. So why do I do it? I refuse to read regularly either The Daily Express or The Daily Mail. What pathetic apologies for newspapers they are. Negative, subversive, biased, frankly unpleasant and pandering to their readers prejudices. It worries me that many, particularly the older generation like my mother in law are influenced by the propaganda of people with a hidden agenda. (I do of course recognise that The Sun wields great influence but I always assume, naively in all probability that most realise the Sun is a comic at heart.) If none of us ever read a newspaper ever again I doubt our lives would be too diminished. We need to know of the world beyond our immediate environment, but how much do we need to know in reality.

Is it paranoia or merely concern that makes me so het up at times. Many things in June besides 'fat cats' caught my eye. In Gloucester Cathedral flower arrangers have been told they must undergo Criminal Record Bureau checks. The usual PC rubbish. Plus the EU attempting to ban the sale of eggs by the dozen is mind bendingly dumb. A dozen is divisible by half, a quarter, a third, a sixth, try that, you metric lovers. I don't know what is worse, the interference or the stupidity.

The police had many, many chances to apprehend a rapist in London and failing to do so makes me angry and not a little sad. This alongside the case of Eddie Gilfoyle whose conviction for murder after eighteen years now seems highly suspect. The police failing to heed the written warning given when Raoul Moat was released from prison is enough to make even the fairest of individuals roar with frustration. (Yet the police had until recently a Home Office Adviser on red tape. Officially 'the independent reducing bureaucracy advocate'.)

France -Inter sacking comedians because they had the temerity to suggest Nicolas Sarkozy is a midget is pathetic but at least it's funny. Of course he is a midget. I too at five feet four am a midget. Of course you are a midget, Sarkozy, so deal with it, you power mad French fool.

Just some of life's irritations from the past weeks. All off my chest now! Do you get steamed up with the world out there or is it just me. And is it the same for my readers overseas? Same or similar problems? How do you cope with it all; I'd love to know.

This was to be the end of this miserable post. Except that I've just had four superb days in the Yorkshire Dales in the motorhome. Met a chap whose father is a lord. A chap without a bit of swagger or brag, what a lovely guy you are. Stayed once again on my favourite campsite, Cow Close Barn near Leyburn. 'Mike, the 'boss', affable and helpful as ever. Dad, Alec, not in the best of health but never one to let his problems affect others. Both utter charmers, plus their equally lovely, hard working wives; always a pleasure to meet again. Four days with my own smashing wife savouring the delights of great people and beautiful countryside. What the heck am I doing letting the idiots in the world get to me. You tell me!