Weep not for me
29 June 2006
It’s official I’m turning into a Cat Bore…
Weep not for me though I am gone
Into that gentle night.
Grieve if you will, but not for long,
Upon my soul’s sweet flight.
I am at peace, my soul’s at rest,
There is no need for tears;
For with your love I was blessed
For all those many years.
There is no pain, I suffer not;
The fear now all is gone.
Put now these things out of your thoughts,
In your memory I live on.
Remember not my fight for breath,
Remember not the strife.
Please do not dwell upon my death, But celebrate my life.
Betty
28 June 2006
I left home in October 1990 and bought my own place - a three bed terrace house in Linden a working class suburb of Gloucester. I drive past my old house sometimes and wonder how I was able to live there for so long, it wasn’t rough by any stretch of the imagination however there were certain things that went on that made it ‘Proppa Glaws’ (that’s ‘Uniquely Gloucester’ for all those who don’t know the lingo).
For example…
It was general practice to go shopping at the local Co-Op in your moccasins or slippers. IF you wore shoes they HAD to be black slip ons and you HAD to be wearing white socks (preferably Donnay), a pair of tracksuit bottoms with elasticated ankles and a pair of Buddy Holly style specs.
Friday and Saturday evenings were designated as Chippy Nights - you had to purchase Chips, Fish and a Pickled Egg from ‘The Seymour Chippy’, take them home and eat them from your lap out of the wrapper - it was considered a heinous crime if you used a tray to stop the grease from seeping onto your legs.
Domestic Abuse - It was OK to scrap with your missus after closing time as long as it was done behind the privacy of your own front door - my lodger and best mate (I’ve got a few of them so don’t get offended if you’re reading this and thought that you were the chosen one) Beesy and I spent many happy (!) hours having cups of tea at 2 in the morning listening to DIY Dave (the bloke next door) have ‘disagreements’ with his wife/girlfriend (we never could work it out) after a night at the Seymour (the local hostelry). It was generally agreed by the both of us that she usually had the upperhand (or it might have been uppercut) in these weekend no holds barred match ups in view of the fact that he regularly appeared on a Sunday morning at the paper shop (sans slippers) with a black eye apologising about the ‘…noise last night lads, you know how it is when you’ve had a few.’
Throughout the time I lived in Lysons Ave (pronounced Lie-sunz-Aaaavvv) there were two constants in my life - My Cats, Betty and Fudge.
The day I left and said farewell to my Mum and Dad (I see and speak to them now more than I ever did when I was living at home!) was the day I moved into my house to start a new life for myself and also the day I picked up my two cats who’d been abandoned as kittens in a bag along with the broken records and Dog Dirt on Tredworth’s Rugby Club Pitch.
When I was skint, when I was tired, when I was drunk, when I was unhappy, when I was depressed, when I was lonely, when I broke up with a long term girlfriend, when I couldn’t be bothered to answer the door, phone or questions on 15 to 1, they were there. I used to come home from work, sprawl out on the sofa and they both would jump up and lie on me and we’d sit there all night until it was time for bed and then we’d do the same on the double mattress.
When I moved in with Len she adopted them as her own and we cared for them together whilst they enjoyed the larger garden and wooded area behind our house (something that they never had in the urban concrete jungle of Linden). Four years ago Fudge was attacked by a Dog whilst I was at work and had a heart attack and died immediately. It troubled me that I wasn’t with her during her final moments and I’ve never really got over it.
Lunchtime today I called our vet, we’d taken Betty in yesterday evening for some tests as she had recently lost a lot of weight and was looking under the weather, her behaviour was lethargic to say the least and she had been sleeping throughout the day. The news wasn’t good, I was told that she had a Tumour on her liver and also had severe Kidney disease, along with a poor blood count - the choice was to put her on antibiotics for a week to give her maybe 3-6 months extra life (if they worked) or… well, the alternative makes my eyes fill up as I write this entry.
We took her in at 6 o’clock this evening and were told that she might have 2 or 3 days without any medication and her quality of life would decline rapidly even if we decided to try her on antibiotics. We decided to put her to sleep - the little black cat that has been a part of me through the largest and arguably the most important part of my life has gone. She’s watched me mature from a 20 year old Kid to a 36 year old Man with no moans, gripes or questions - all she’s done is shower me with affection.
It’s no exaggeration to say that she helped me through some of the toughest times in my life so far - I’ll miss her.
Mind Your Language
24 June 2006
I received an email from Auntie Sheila and Uncle Ken yesterday commenting on the language employed on this very website which made me have a cursory glance at the content and also question why some of the writing should probably be classified by the BBFC.
I’d like to put it down to the fact that as an up and coming amateur writer I would prefer not to compromise my artistic integrity by censoring my prose – that’s all bollocks though. The reason why the language can sometimes slip into the toilet every now and again is down to my Parents and also their long term next door neighbours (who I’ve referred to as Auntie Sheila and Uncle Ken ever since I could walk - or should that be talk?!).
The four of them enjoyed late night New Years Eve Party’s along with the rest of the neighbourhood while my Parents packed off their 10 year old child to be looked after by their 3 teenage Son’s.
I can recall playing snooker in their living room late on many December 31sts and being subjected to Big Steve’s (I was ‘Little Steve’) ‘Beefburgers’ (we’re talking farts not food), and it was then that I probably developed my potty mouth, calling on hitherto unknown survival instincts when telling him to ‘…Stick a sodding red ball up his bloody backside’ - I wasn’t alone, Tim and Rob were berating him too!
They cajoled me into bunking off school with exciting trips to Severn Beach, South Cerney and Alton Towers (the latter was cancelled due to a blizzard) and my Parents went along with it.
They played cine-camera footage of my Dad backwards which showed him regurgitating a mouthful of wedding food from his gob whilst they all laughed and encouraged me to mock my own flesh and blood.
My Dad broke his leg, they drew a breast on his plastered knee.
They encouraged their Sons to wear T-Shirts with questionable slogans emblazoned on them ‘Have A Break, Have a Kwik Krap’ was one example.
All of these things take their toll on an young, innocent, impressionable child.
So, in short if any readers of the site feel at all offended by the content – don’t blame me. Email your complaints and I’ll forward them onto my adopted Auntie and Uncle. It’s all their fault.
Bike Rage
23 June 2006
I experienced Bike Rage yesterday as I was approaching and subsequently coming off Walls Roundabout in Gloucester. I had filtered to (near enough) the front of the queue and had taken up a position behind a lady in a Peugeot 406 Estate I looked to the right onto the roundabout to see a space the size of the Grand Canyon - well that might be a slight exaggeration but it was more than sufficient to fit her, me and the driver behind whose car had more Red Crosses on it than a bloody pools coupon onto the roundabout. She stuttered, she revved, she indicated left and travelled about 10 inches (and believe me I know how far 10 inches is 
) before coming to a halt to give an old skool Ford Cortina that had just joined the roundabout 70 yards away a wide birth the size of which dwarfed the distance that separated the two waves that were parted when Moses strutted his stuff.
If I hadn’t just spent a fruitless lunch hour chasing my bloody dog about and trying in vain to teach her the difference between Bakers Complete Puppy Food and Cat Poo I might have been able to let it go but I began to steam underneath my Arai (that’s a helmet for the uninitiated!).
406 woman finally pulled away when (it was generally accepted by the convoy of 200 vehicles behind her) she had enough room to complete a 3 point turn in a sodding aircraft carrier. I followed behind her barking expletives into my visor and waited for her to take the nearside lane of two so that I could overtake her. She proceeded up the middle of the road straddling the white lines of the lanes.
She was either…
A Driving Miss Daisy
B Driving a slot car utilising the white lines Scalextrix Style
C A F*%king Lunatic Bird in my B@stard way and P£ssing me right off.
The language emanating from my gob by this time suggested option ‘C’ and I dropped a cog ‘did her’ on the inside and accelerated away – I was doing 70 in a 40 before I realised that Biker Rage had taken a severe hold of me. When I got back to the office someone had parked their stupid silver Mercedes Cabriolet in such a manner as that I had to siphon the bloody tank to get the bike through!
Although I know whose car it is I cobbled together an email to ‘ALL Staff’ which I haven’t sent… yet!
Motorbike owners would be grateful if whoever parks at the side of the building leave sufficient space for them to squeeze a peanut sized helmet past - Enabling us to get a bike through the space that you leave would also be a bonus. To assist you in realising when bikes are parked at the side of the building here is a brief description…
They’re the big two wheeled things that are similar in colour to the scratches that’ll be down the side of your car next time you park like a Nob Jockey.
Cheers
Barmy
22 June 2006
Last week I finally took the plunge and ordered a flag from Barmy Flags - I’d been talking about it for some time but World Cup Fever finally took its’ grip and I placed my order online for a 6×3 (measurement in old skool imperial) St.George’s Cross Banner.
Imagine my surprise when it arrived yesterday and I took it out of the packaging. I gently started to take the flag out of the DHL sack but instead of easily sliding out of the bag it unravelled and kept on coming. After 5 foot of flag was covering my floor the contents of the package seemed only half empty, there was more to come and the flag continued to churn out it’s contents akin to a Butlins Magician removing a plethora of coloured Handkerchiefs from his sequin suited person.
Finally when the bag was empty Len and I inspected our purchase attempting to untangle it in the house to get a good look it. Our attempts were useless so I decided to place it in the back garden so we could inspect it properly. My guess is that it’s 9 x 4.5 and I’m considering using it as a car cover…
The Top Ten
21 June 2006
The Top Ten Alton Towers Rides…
10. The Black Hole
What lurked at the end of the dark corridors of the Black Hole? Well, if you were pregnant or 3 foot 2 you weren’t gonna get past the 16 year old kid wearing a silver space suit with ‘Security’ emblazoned across it. The anticipation as you entered the darkened corridors which were lifted straight from a Space 1999 set was immense. Unfortunately the bubble was soon burst when your mates arse was crushing your goolies and you were strapped into what was basically a glorified 6 seater shopping trolley using a seatbelt straight out of an Austin Maestro. You gobbed on the big Spaceman as you were taken to the top of the ride and made sure you had a bored expression for the photograph half way around – it was Shit.
9. The Rapids
Sit in a circle around a metal table and chat with your mates, I’m sorry but if there’s no alcohol involved I don’t see the point.
8. The Thunder Looper
One loop forwards, one loop backwards on a straight track and you weren’t allowed to take any food on it unlike the scouts on ‘Jim’ll Fix’ it who had done the dirty deed more than ten years earlier on Blackpool Pleasure Beach. TheThunderlooper was an afterthought and they’d have done better business if they’d have chucked up some Face Painting Stalls and a Penalty Shoot Out Booth.
7. Nemesis
Nemesis - A righteous infliction of retribution manifested by an appropriate agent. Personified in this case by a Fairground Ride. It was never gonna live up to its’ billing really.
6. The Enterprise
Another Bollock Crusher. Two of you sat in a small cage that whizzed around and around merry go round style until a central arm lifted to 90 degrees and you were spinning up ‘n down vertically. This ride generated more complaints than any other at ‘The Towers’, most of them from Trekkie’s who questioned why a hunk of metal that looked more like a Romulan Star Freighter was named after Captain Kirk’s penis extension.
5. Oblivion
All your money fell out of your pockets during a 30 second ride starting with entry into a large dark hole – They should’ve called it ‘Prostitute’.
4. The Log Flume
‘Keep Your Hands Inside the Ride at ALL Times’ you were warned – Yeah right, as soon as the log was free of the revolving turntable you drenched your mates and stuck the ‘V’s up to the people on the wooden footbridge above. The Flume provided the best photo opportunity in the whole Park, although you were obliged to make a fool of yourselves at the highest point of the ride in full view of everyone queuing up purely for the benefit of a snapshot that you’d pay 5 quid for once you disembarked. One question? Why were plastic dinosaurs located in the middle of a wooded area in Staffordshire? Only one person was glad of them and that was the YTS kid who’s responsibility it was to bark ‘dinosounds’ through the speakers that were hung on trees throughout the route.
3. The Pirate Ship
How the hell a 5 tonne boat could be propelled to such extravagant heights by a remoulded tyre off a Ford Anglia is anyone’s guess. It happened though and to see your fear mirrored by the middle aged women sat opposite you as the Ship reached its’ optimum height and you attempted to go ‘no handed’ made for a spellbinding ride.
2. The Corkscrew
Alton Towers’ main draw in the 80’s, no other park came close to thrashing the yellow tracked meanie when it came to white knuckle anarchy. It had such popularity that the rollercoaster even had top billing on crappy kids gameshow ‘Hold Tight’. The ’screw pissed on Drayton Manor Park and Zoo’s Mini Pirate Ship and Carousel and as that was about all the competition could come up with at the time we were quite happy to queue up for 2 hours for the experience.
1. Toboggans
‘The Widowmaker’ as Towers Staff christened it. Take a seat on a tray with wheels (widely considered to be ‘Kryptonics’ by the skateboarding community) and let gravity do its’ thing as your backside sits 2 inches above a concrete track that had, at its’ tamest a 1 in 5 decline. The ‘brake’ was a small pole between your legs any attempt to use it was a lesson in futility. The addition of hay bales and traction control in 1986 did little to lesson the hazardous nature of the treacherous track which claimed 5 lives and had 500 lbs of skin scraped off it during its’ short career as an ‘attraction’. Fortunately Health and Safety Officials closed it down after Paul ‘Fishy’ Fisher from Grimsby was treated for 3rd degree burns when he turned into a fireball due to a build up of friction whilst he was attempting to brake using his Dunlop Green Flash on the second to last corner.
Honey Monster
15 June 2006
The lack of any diary entries is down to 3 things…
1. The World Cup Schedule
2. Rosie’s Walking Schedule
3. Hayfever
This has been the worst year on record for my annual battle with Pollen which unfortunately started at the beginning of March. I try my damndest not to let the ailment affect my everyday life so consequently take Rosie for walks in the longest grass possible as she likes to bound about in the pollen infested reeds and don’t bother staying in when there is a suspected high count in the area. This obviously is absolutely no good for me whatsoever and during Rosie’s early morning one hour walk I snot, sneeze and gob allsorts of tripe out of my body – I’m a bit like a snail in that I leave a trail of goo behind me wherever I go.
Unfortunately over the 20 years that I’ve suffered I’ve tried every remedy known to man from the herbal to the prescribed and nothing works – I’ve been told by the Doc that the injection contains a high steroid count so don’t really fancy taking that for fear of putting weight on, although thanks to the World Cup schedule and the numerous Supermarket Coppa Mondiale Beer promotions I seem to be doing a pretty good job of that myself recently (stay tuned for ‘Manual II – the Gym’s revenge’ coming to a Diary to you sometime after the 9th of July 2006!).
I recently read that eating locally produced Honey can be a good way of improving the antibodies used to combat hayfever allergies and of late have been eating it on toast to test the theory out. Is it working? Nope, but it bloody tastes nice.
Steve claims that his recent diet has no after effects whatsoever
En-ger-lund
10 June 2006
Our first mistake was being woken by the Hotel’s Pay Per View Porn Channel, the second mistake was believing our hotel receptionist when she said that Stuttgart Railway Station was only a ‘Fave meeeneeet waluk’ away.
The train left at 8.40 and as German precision dictated that it wouldn’t leave a minute later, at 8.36 we were sprinting through Stuttgart’s pedestrian area as fast as our dehydrated bodies could take us, Beesy in our wake complaining that he didn’t feel at all match fit.
Thankfully we arrived with minutes to spare and were able to locate a locker that, once opened bore tardis like properties and we fitted all our luggage in it with plenty of room to spare. After a brief stop at a News Stand for 6 litres of water and (the later regretted) three cans of Jack Daniels and Coke we boarded the train and settled down in our reserved seats (for ‘reserved seats’ read ‘corridor of the carriage’).
The train journey was a muted affair, last nights excesses catching up with us and the fearful JD and Coke being eyed with suspicion until one of our party decided to open his. Beesy complained about drinking it until the can was empty and a broad grin replaced his previous ‘Morning after the Night before’ grimace.
On arrival in Frankfurt we decided to get our bearings and also paid 70 cents for the privilege of using the cleanest railway toilets in the world EVER (I believe they were sponsored by the ‘NOW! that’s what I call music’ conglomerate). It became clear that tickets were going to be impossible to come by and with the ground approximately 4 miles away we made our way to the City’s main square, the place that SKY SPORTS NEWS had told us only days before that England fans would be gathering.
After dodging the oldest (and orangest) roller blading instructor that it’s ever been my privilege to observe we made our way along the riverbank towards a large steeple where we thought the Square might be. Sure enough we rounded a corner and into view came a sea of red and white. St. George’s Cross’, England Shirts, Balloons, Buses all crammed into a small picturesque square that without the invasion of 50 thousand England Fans could’ve been straight out of ‘Hansel and Gretel’.
We made our way around the square taking in the atmosphere and hung our flag up and searched for a shadowy space to enjoy a beer, it was about 10.30 and already the temperature was well over 25 degrees.
Thankfully we settled down for a beer or two under a large umbrella and were able to witness England fans kicking balls around the square, enjoying the warm weather, singing songs and generally having a good time (Thankfully we didn’t witness any windows being broken in the historic buildings by wayward Geoff Thomas style punts).
What surprised me most about the Bars and Pubs was that there was not a large screen in evidence at these premises nor was there any attempt to lure fans into establishments with the promise of ‘The MATCH – Live’ (or its’ German equivalent). In fact I assume that once kick off approached the square resembled a ghost town. Whether this was a tactic employed to keep fans away or just an oversight I think that these hostelries missed out on a lot of revenue during the match (although I’m sure they did sufficiently well out of us before and after).
At 12pm we made our way to the riverbank to where the game was being shown on two gigantic screens located in the middle of the river. As we got closer to the ‘fan zone’ an announcement was made that one viewing area was full so we quickly crossed the bank only to be told that the other area was full too. This presented a bit of a problem. We’d witnessed very few places to watch the game in the centre of Frankfurt and there was no way that we’d be able to turn around and retrace our steps in a vain hope to stumble across somewhere showing the match. We trudged past the entrance to the viewing area (which, if both full housed in excess of 15 thousand England Fans) and followed the river line to the screens. That’s when things finally began to fall into place.
We noticed some steps up to a balcony that was uninhabited and overlooked the river and luckily the large TV which was sprouting from the water – This we thought was the perfect place to camp for the rest of the day.
Within minutes our flag was hung onto the railings of the balcony (a football fans way of ‘claiming’ the area for their own) and Beesy was despatched to find some beers that would see us through the next 5 hours – a task that we didn’t really think that the poor lad was up to. Of course, we needn’t have worried whilst I was trying to barter for a few bottles of lager with a bloke whose lorry had broken down in front of us we got a shout from the long lost traveller who was struggling with a crate of ale the size of a Mini Metro. I ran up to him and greeted him like a returning war hero and gladly assisted him with the beer laden crate to our own little fan zone – the 3 of us stood on the balcony, Best Mates, surveying the area below, supping beer and exchanging knowing glances – that particular moment, before the madness of other fans joining us is an experience that I’ll never forget. As a good friend quite simply describes those types of occasions – ‘Good Times’.
As kick off for the game drew nearer so did the size of the crowd on our balcony and suddenly we found ourselves singing our teams praises, clapping, and dancing to the extent that our little group became the focal point for England Chants. Where we started others followed and as the popularity of our terrace grew so did the interest in it with people filming, taking photographs and clapping us. How it happened is beyond me and I doubt we’ll ever enjoy that sort of popularity again however our Andy Warhol 15 minutes took the form of two solid hours and we all thoroughly enjoyed our 120 minutes of infamy.
Once the game had ended (after about 5 minutes of football was the general consensus) our terrace community split up as quickly as it had grown and we walked along the riverbank stopping only for a brief celebration courtesy of Frankfurt Fire Officers.
We made our way slowly back to the Train Station catching the earlier train to Stuttgart to enable us to enjoy a final night of Gaylord free drinking before returning back to the UK on the 7am flight – If ever a flight was worthy of the term ‘red-eye’ then it was that one!
The Sting
9 June 2006
Luther - ‘How much did you lose?’
Johnny Hooker - [winces] ‘All of it.’
Luther - ‘In one damn night? What are you spraying money around like that for, you could’ve been nailed.’
Johnny Hooker - ‘I checked the place first. There were no dicks in there.’
Luther - ‘But you’re a con man! And you blew it like a pimp!’ - The Sting, 1973.
The announcement was that the BA Flight to Stuttgart was delayed for an hour due to the fact that the 2nd officer was stuck in traffic. A likely story we thought however Al’s vociferous allegations that the officer was ‘…on the nest with a stewardess’ proved to be unfounded when on my return to the UK I read about the arctic that had jack-knifed spilling its’ consignment of fruit all over three Northbound lanes of the M25.
On arrival in Stuttgart, welcomed by an airport filled with World Cup Banners and tired looking businessmen we underwent an epic search of Indian Jones’ type proportions looking for a toilet, we eventually found it hidden behind some hanging vines and a large rock partially obscured by a wide screen TV showing Germany –v- Costa Rica.
Once in the City and checked into our surprisingly sumptuous hotel we ventured into the Town Centre where it immediately became clear where Michael Schumacher got his recent Monaco qualifying lap tactics from. German fans were already celebrating their win against Costa Rica by blocking the streets with vehicles, waving the National Flag and hanging out of cars while honking their horns.
We settled into a small underground bar to watch the mouth watering prospect of Poland –v- Ecuador whilst drinking reasonably priced beer in the company of German, English and Polish fans. Beesy pointed out a bespectacled bloke sat next to us at a table nursing a beer like it was his long lost child, and whilst I can’t be 100% certain I believe he used the phrase ‘Billy No Mates’. After a quick trip to the (gloriously clean – ‘you could eat a dripper off the floor’ was the general consensus of opinion) toilets I returned to find that Billy was mateless no more as Beesy had taken it upon himself to cross the Anglo German divide and was hugging his former prey and talking about the Ecuadorian offside trap. It turned out that the blokes name was Gayan (Beesy christened him Gaylord – a name which stuck throughout the evening I’m afraid to say) and he was from Norway but studying something or other at Stuttgart College. After spotting that Beesy was vulnerable once he’d had a beer or three the hunter became the hunted as Gayan mentioned to him almost tearfully that he didn’t have any money left. True to form and to no-ones surprise Beesy declared Gayan to be his best friend and that he’d ‘sub him’ for the rest of the evening. While those words hung in the air Gayan hugged Beesy and asked for a pint of lager and a packet of crisps while myself and Al ripped our cash point cards up and put our excess Euros in our socks well away from Gayan’s grasp.
After witnessing Beesy haemorrhaging cash to the drunken Swedish grifter over the next few hours at various Pubs and Bars we finally said our farewells to Gayan at approximately one in the morning. We later found out that the sigh of relief that emanated from Beesy’s wallet could be heard by English fans in Frankfurt, Nuremberg and Dover.
Humpy Scrumpy
05 June 2006
‘I am a cider drinker,
I drinks it all of the day,
I am a cider drinker,
It sooths all me troubles away,
oo-ar oo-ar eh oa-ar oo-ar eh’ The Wurzels 1976
What the hell is going on with Cider Manufacturers?
WhyOhWhyOhWhyOhWhyOhWhy have cider distributors decided to market their product with the added inclusion of ice cubes all of a sudden? Aren’t we all happy with a cool can/pint of ‘bow without contaminating it with iced soddin’ water? You wouldn’t go up to a bar and ask for a pint of Stella with ice and a slice so why the hell are we being bombarded with advertising that suggests we do it with Cider? Is it for pretentious women? Well, they’ve got enough drinks aimed at them thankyou very much, Spritzer, Breezer, Archers, Hooch, Woody a plethora of alchopops that also doubles up as a fleet of Santa’s reindeers.
Magners are the villains of the piece in this instance (there is one other manufacturer that I’ve witnessed using this type of marketing campaign but thankfully I’ve wiped them from my memory banks).
Magners and Ice - Kiss My Arse
Enjoy a cool refreshing Magners we are told, and then there it is being poured into a half pint (mistake number one) glass full to the brim of bloody ice cubes (mistake number two) jingling and jangling away as the refreshing liquid hits them. Cut to a woman in a summery dress with long flowing locks smiling as she sips (yeah, you heard me, SIPS!!) at the liquid (mistake number three).
If I see any man enjoying a pint of ‘Ci’ in the aforementioned manner you’ll excuse me if I walk out of the bar in disgust.
Tossers.
‘You can’t beat a bit of Scrumpy and Western’ - Wurzel fan, Newent Town Hall, 2005