Hell's Inky Square

The Kindle Man of Rotherhithe

2012-01-19T07:52:00.000Z

The Lizard Man of Rotherhithe

Tony P.

Outside of the grocery on Albion Street, the local copper, landlord and the grocer regarded the local paper and pondered on the events reported about the man who had rented the room over the shop. ‘Age was difficult to determine’ so says the coroner presiding over the inquest in 1971 and, as soon as he saw the corpse, immediately drew a cover over the proceedings citing something about ‘protection of the public’.

The living Tzardif Dyskynyzych was a difficult bloke to age. Tricky to approach, he shied away from folk as best he could, but a chap has to eat and earn a living. In actuality, our man probably emerged in 1920 or thereabouts, and I have a reliable source who tells me Tzardif was born to poor country people on the southern Polish region of Zaglebie Dabrowskie, which is a hard and unforgiving land to live on. Showing the enlightened attitude of all shepherd folk who scrape a living on the edges of this scrubland, the locals cursed his young mother, quite literally, after she was caught with her knickers down.

Tzardif had a difficult early childhood as a consequence of his parent being ostracized from their kin and he was eventually left outside an orphanage aged about 18 months and his mother was never seen again. Unremarkable in his achievements and unnoticed by most, he lived without making any friends and this rarely caused him concern. At the age of seven however, Tzardif brought notoriety upon himself. He chanced upon the open school gates and wandered out into the woods. He tripped on his laces and banged his head on a tree stump covered in a pungent vermillion fungus. Dazed, the boy made his way back and stumbled into the orphanage, damp and bedraggled with a few cuts and bruises. He struggled to understand the concern and amazement of the priests who ran the institution (as well as the other orphans and the folk from the village) as he had actually been gone a year to the day.

To some in the orphanage he was the same boy, he had not aged, or so it appeared, and he was wearing the same clothes. Tzardif thought he had been gone an hour or so but the priests soon became angry and accused the boy of the same witchery as his mother. What happened during that year is not known, though some of the other orphans believe he had not been missing for a year at all. Some thought he may have been held captive by one of the more peculiar priests, but others said they had never noticed the boy before and didn’t know his name. Was he new?

Tzardif was dispatched to the north and placed into a family of a seaman who lived in Danzig to rid the establishment of the unwanted attention such things might attract. Though barely in his teens, he was soon living the life of a merchant sea farer. This quiet and dull but fidgety child turned into an unremarkable and ungainly gangly young man, with just enough nous about him to get by in the claustrophobic world on board ship. Tzardif worked the trade routes along the ports of northern Europe and further a field. Never one to leave the confines of the ship when in port, the fellow crew members soon got used to this land-shy sailor and left him to his own devices. There was another curiosity aboard ship, however, and one that no one managed to connect with Tzardif. Any ship that he worked on was amazingly rat free.

Things changed somewhat when war broke out but being the simple fellow he was, he let it break out around him and he just got on with life as a sailor as best he could. At least that is until his ship was caught in the sights of a German U-Boat in the North Sea and was sunk. Tzardif and some of his crew were rescued, cold and shivering by a British navy vessel and brought to London.

He settled where foreign sailors have for centuries, along side the south east shore of the Thames and this part of London was where he stayed for thirty years or so, picking up enough English to get by and earning a living as best he could in what was left of the Surrey Docks. He blended well into his surroundings of the dirty red brick terraced houses and tenement buildings in and around the isolated peninsular of Rotherhithe. In all this time, Tzardif had not made any friends amongst his fellow workers, nor with the other dinners in the café on Albion Street, where he ate every evening, nor with the other drinkers in the Ship and Whale not far from his lodgings. Despite this, he was hardly ever still, his gestures where almost elegant as he would sweep up the pack of cigarettes from the table, tap one out and light it, all seemingly in one dramatic movement, holding his head back for the first drag and slowly exhaling the smoke into a shroud over himself, making him appear to disappear.

During the hot and sunny summer months, Tzardif would sit out in Southwark Park as mums and nannies pushed children in shiny prams. One afternoon, two mums stopped to chat in front of Tzardif as he sat on a bench. The two women were oblivious to the man but the small boy with them eating an ice cream smiled as the strange man’s face seemed to just blend in with the background except for his big eyes, which inched closer. Tzardif’s eyes were fixed on the ice cream. He steadied himself and then, in a split second, Tzardif opened his mouth and his tongue shot out and enveloped the icy treat, removing it from the child’s grasp. It was back in Tzardif’s mouth before the boy could react as best a young child can and burst into stinging tears and cries. Completely unawares, the mother looked round and comforted her child. The odd man on the bench seemed to be swallowing something but she just pushed the pram away muttering disapproval but without really knowing what had just happened.

Tzardif worked long hours in the bakers on Bermondsey Street. He would always walk home and hang his old navy great coat on the hooks on the back of the door along side the skin he shed once a year around July or August. Tzardif had somehow managed to keep this a secret throughout his life. It was a difficult process that required some time, about 2 or 3 days in all and he would stay in his room, managing to get by without food or water. This was usually the time when his foreman at the batkers would actually notice Tzardif by his absence and would regard him on his return, with suspicion, that he had somehow changed.

So Tzardif Dyskynyzych shed his skin once a year and hung it up on the back of the door for a while to dry it out and then sometimes threw it on the fire. If anyone was to see Tzardif sitting there in the quiet in his room, they would see him move with the careful movements of a chameleon. With wide sweeping arcs of his arms and tongue extending out to taste the dusty smoky air. Rarely ever exposing his body even in the privacy of his room, but stripping off to wash in his vest and pants, Tzardif would almost disappear, as his skin blended into the dull brown austere surroundings of his room above the grocers, attributes that would not endear him to anyone at all.

The weather-worn face of Tzardif Dyskynyzych was hard, red and round. One day in 1971, his hand clutched the razor as he stared into the small shaving mirror on the wall above the sink and the exaggerated movements of his hands waved the blade here and there and finally resting on to his neck and he would find the wherewithal to bring it up across the stubbled skin, rinse it in the bowl and maneuver the blade across his neck again. This time, pausing to steady himself in the mirror, Tzardif repeated the action once more, but tilting the blade, he cut through his skin and brought an end to his miserable and lonely existence as the lizard man of Rotherhithe.

It was the landlord who broke the door down when the rent wasn’t paid. In the gloom of the upstairs room, he pulled the curtains open, which blew up the dust from the bare wooden floor boards. A shiny blade glinting with light from the window lay amidst a large papery husk in the shape of a man. The landlord walked over to see the shriveled remains covered in many skins dried and cracked, layer upon layer and within, a small dead boy.

They found within these skins the almost perfectly preserved corpse of a small child. In his hand he clutched a cut throat razor blade and on his neck was a cut, deep into the vein. Inside the bare room, the police found little to identify the Polish man who was supposed to have lived there. Besides the bed and small table next to it, there was just a larger table to eat at and chair next to a small fireplace. There was a cupboard with a few yellowing shirts and vests and on the wall hung a small crucifix and small colour printed calendar in Polish, dated 1951.

Local police investigations revealed that no one could actually picture the Polish man. The café owner knew he ate liver and onions. “He paid is bill on time, no worries, but I could not tell you what he looked like. You know, he was sort of very plane-looking”. None of the blokes with whom he worked with could do any better. His foreman also struggled to picture him. “Yes, he came in every day and just got on with it and I did not know he was there half the time. I don’t know what he did, but since he’s gone, we’ve got one hell of a mouse problem”.

‘It was best to keep this quiet’, the copper said.

‘It would be bad for business’, said the grocer.

The dead Tzardif Dyskynyzych was very difficult to age, especially for those who found his mysterious corpse in the darkened room above the grocer’s shop. His remains puzzled everyone who saw it. Just a cold dead boy in the middle of snake-like skins, bearing the faintest resemblance of the man that could be the Polish man who lived there. As for the folk of Albion Street, who went about their lives without much thought about the man above the grocers, there was not much guilt felt about the matter. After all, the Pole was alien to them. Not from round here.

Happy Birthday DB x

2012-01-08T15:24:00.000Z

Christmas Log 31.12.11

2012-01-01T11:44:00.000Z

Saturday, 31st December 2011

It has been raining, or at least it has not been dry outside at all since Dad's funeral and today was not exception. Steve and I managed to drag ourselves out to Prescot, at least we got out somewhere, mainly to see if I could get a new strap for dad's watch that we are giving to Liam. I sent him an email about it and he was pleased to be offered it, saying he would get a new strap if it needed one. Mum didn't want to give the watch like, that making a fuss about it. Considering Prescot was the watch making town of the north at one point, there wasn't a single jewellers in the town any more. There was a key cutting place in Pound Stretcher, or whatever its called, but they only had cheap plastic straps.

We hovered outside the Watchmaker pub, the new Wetherspoons and came back that way after getting the things we wanted. Inside, its like any other Wetherspoons, but the local photos where interesting and I'd like to go back again have a look at them all. I had a pint of Pendle Witch's Brew!

After having a roast dinner at the table, we concluded that going out was not on the cards and settled in for a night in front of the TV/laptop. Jools was on too late for my liking, but we enjoyed watching Alan Carr's special and Gok Won's rude rebuttal when Alan Carr did an impersonation of him. They might be in trouble for that.

I didn't call anyone except Sprigg, to wish him a belated birthday and a happy new year. He told me that P's mum died suddenly today, had a heart attack. I was shocked to hear that. After everything that had been happening to me, it was sad to hear that someone else was to go through the same thing. I asked if he would pass on my condolences, but Sprigg said P did not want to hear from me.

Some time ago, Steve bought a chinese lantern, that has been stuck behind the cupboard in the dining room and was fetched out to launch at midnight. However, the wind kept blowing it back at the ground and it didn't get any lift and fearing it would just burn up, I stamped it out in a puddle in the back garden. There were plenty of fireworks, some quite amazingly large for people's back gardens. Another hour of Jools Holland and an amazing pair of legs on Sandy Shaw, and we were off to bed.

Christmas Log 30.12.11

2011-12-31T08:20:00.000Z

Friday, 30th December 2011

I tried to have a lay in as long as possible, as getting up early will only wake Steve, but its difficult for me to just lay there in bed. I don't have games on the phone any more, as they stop me reading and can be a little addictive. I browsed some of the apps for the phone and managed to find the one that Gary & Dave recommended, one that tunes into radio stations. Steve and I have been listening a lot to BBC Radio Merseyside this past week and now I can tune into Billy Butler of an afternoon, regardless of where I am. I like the breakfast show too.

I had it in mind to go into Liverpool today or in the evening, but it was ridiculously wet again. We did go to Prescot and I banked dad's last pension payment into mum's account and then went to get a few bits in Planet Tesco. In the afternoon, I started going through dad's clothes and bagged some of them up. I was reminded to call John Joseph Powell Nursing home, where dad died and the nurse I spoke to said she thought they didn't have dad's belongings any more, that they only keep them for a few days. I said I was disappointed to hear that but she went to check and said there was 'just a small brown holdall' waiting for me to collect, her voice full of judgement. I went out into the rain again to get it and making use of the Day Ticket I had, I let two Arriva 10A buses and a 61 go by so I could wait for a Stagecoach and get the benefit of the ticket.

I walked into to the small lounge/dining room and one of the residents looked up at me and said 'Oh Ay, here's trouble". I thanked the nurses in the small office as they give me dad's bag and then went out into the rain. Steve was preparing dinner which was smoked haddock and I noticed that it was from China. China! Haddock is caught in the water's all around the UK and Tesco go an import it all the way from bleedin China! I don't think I would have bothered with it if I had have noticed that.

I didn't bother asking if Steve wanted to go out into Liverpool this evening as I know he is averse to going out if it is wet. We had a quiet evening, me watching telly and Steve, looking at washing machines on the internet.

Christmas Log 29.12.11

2011-12-31T07:52:00.000Z

After yesterday's bright blue skies, today's was of dark, grey and rain. It rained all day. I tried to put some washing out, but the rain came back about 2pm after trying to brighten up a bit. The Phone rang constantly, mainly it was people who didn't make it to the service and wanted to give their condolences to mum. She was ok. She wanted to take down the cards and said they should've gone into the coffin. I put them in a bag and they have gone upstairs to be put at the bottom of the wardrobe, probably.

Steve and I did very little. I read through some of the notes about completing the Inheritance tax forms, not that there is any to pay, but it still needs completing. I sent an email to Karen Baker, who sorted out the will for my dad as the signed copy is held in a solicitors in Southport. The tax form wants to know if the house is left solely to mum but it doesn't directly ask if it or part of it has been left to anyone else, as it has in this instance. This was mainly to protect some or all of the value of the house for me and my brother. This was not out of any need or greed, but mainly because we feel that these services should be free, like they are in Scotland or in nursing homes. Dad was in a care home from March to December and I am still not sure if they are going to send a bill or try to recover some of their costs in some way.
I gave up on it by the end of the day, no further. I did call several utility and insurance companies were dad's name was on the policy. Some were straight forward, some not so. Still lots more to do.

Christmas Log 28.12.11

2011-12-29T08:31:00.000Z

Wednesday, 28th December 2011

Day of my dad's funeral and I was up at about 7am. Steve and I had given the house a thorough clean the night before and there was little we needed to do until just before the hearse arrived. I took the dog for a walk and noticed that despite the beautiful blue skies, the wing was bitingly cold. Just one circuit of the park and then Freddie aimed for the gates, wise dog.

Mum was ok, quiet and fussing over her trousers that are too long. My Aunty Tess regularly complains to her daughter who works in M&S in Liverpool about the sizes being inaccurate in the store. The reason being that the clothes are made abroad, apparently. A safety pin and all was well. I called John, and he had just arrived at Lime St Station and I said he might be able to get a train to Prescot at about half past, which he did and he refused to get a cab when arriving at Prescot, saying he had already planned his route with his AtoZ. Before he arrived, Liam and Ceira came and then just after John arrived, Nick and Kerrie came. K looked quite respectable and Nick in a suit.

At St Lukes church, the wind was cruel and I took mum right into the entrance. I didn't know all of the people there, but some of the faces I knew just from passing the house. Mum's friend Jess was there with her eldest son, but I didn't see them. Dad had lodged with Jess's family when he left the orphanage, aged about 14 and Jess's mum, Mrs Galloway, was almost a grandma to me and my brother. Mum stayed in her chair and I sat next to her at the front. I sat down then noticed everyone behind me was stood up. All of this up and down and kneeling, through the service, I didn't know where I was. I was asked to do the first reading and tried to steady myself about thinking of a gas bill and a line by Lily Savage, which worked and I got through the reading, except for not knowing how to end it and glanced at the priest, who mouthed the words at me and it was done. I was supposed to go up again for the bidding prayers, but as we had not had a dress rehearsal about it, I was unsure and just let him and the dean do it.

As much as I am not religious, the ceremony and its words are designed to instigate an emotional response and it worked on all of us. Many people getting up for communion held my mum's hand as they passed and as we followed dad's coffin out of the church I tried not to make eye contact with anyone. Outside, I got mum right in the car as the wind was getting worse. People came over to pay their respects to mum and me, I wasn't sure where Nick was at first. My cousin Phil came over and said hi and said he had to get back to work. I had not seen him for over 25 years and he looked no different. The cousin of my dad who called mum a few days ago came over and she looked so like him, though couldn't work out if dad and her were actually blood related. Nora and the other cousins, Magdalin and Francis and Nora's two daughters chatted to John and I and they said they would come to the crem and to the pub. One of the daughter's said she knew where the pub was.

During the service, Father Fox's mobile phone started ringing and a few of us commented about it during the slow drive to St Helen's crematorium, which took us very quickly out of suburbia and through farm land that separates Prescot and St Helens. The entrance to the crem was mercifully enclosed and we waited only briefly before I took mum right to the front next to Dad's coffin. Mose Allison's Trouble in Mind was playing and it sounded beautiful and really appropriate to the occasion. It was all too brief, the committal and before we knew it, the curtain was being closed around the stand on which Dad's coffin was resting and then Frank Sinatra's Fly Me To The Moon played and I blubbed and laughed at the same time, as did Nick and Mum.

At the Holt pub, mum wanted to get everyone a drink and so the opened a tab and then they brought out the food, which was lovely, especially the scouse, which dad would have loved. I chatted with my neice and her boyfriend, Ian who is CID and her brother Danny. I usually only see them as they pop into mum's at birthday's and christmas so it was great to sit and have a chat with them properly. I also talked to Nora and her daughters, whose names I've forgotten already. The have a relative at Ranlagh Grange where Dad was and one of them is an inspector for CQC. I told her that when Nick brought back Dad's clothes, they contained women's items and other things that were not his and some things were missing and all if stunk of urine. Nora's daughter said I had to complain about that.

As they were leaving, Nora and I cried. She said she remembered the day that mine and John's dad were taken from Nora's home to the orphanage, just a few weeks after Nora's mum was given the house that should have been given to our grandmother. I meant to ask her how Bridget died and where she was buried. John later asked if anyone had a photo of our granddad, which we didn't ask of Nora. I said I would send some photo's of dad to Francis.

The afternoon wore on and Steve was starting to look a little wobbly but we decided to go see Ken Dodd, at least for the first half (probably the first 3 hours!) and take John to the station en route. We actually got a cab right into town, after Steve poured himself a large gin and John and I a Grand Marnie. How we got on the subject, I don't know but the cabbie was big fan of Prefab Sprout, as are John and I and then the cabbie asked us to guess which female singer he has been to see 27 times. Britney Spears. You couldn't make it up. He even said he has a tattoo of her on his back. John asked was he married and he said he was but not any more. We dropped John off at Lime St station and we carried on up to the Philharmonic and popped into the pub across the road for a quick one.

Ken Dodd made his entrance to a packed house after an intro by some child dancers then some burlesque dancers and then Ken. Steve nodded off instantly and I have to say that I shut my eyes for a moment. We managed about an hour, then Ken went off and left some woman singing and playing the piano. We both went to the toilet and had a pint at the bar, so did about a hundred or so of the audience. We decided that we would go home now and went to the Phil across the road to call a cab from there. We sat in the large room at the back and then after waiting for a mini cab that came and went without us, we got a black cab, which was not as expensive as I thought it would be.

Back home, I noticed how much gin had actually gone into Steve. We had a night cap and played the tunes we had had played in the crem and I posted the Mose Allison one on Facebook.

Christmas Log 27.12.11

2011-12-28T00:26:00.001Z

Reading back on some of the blogs I've posted this year may have been a mistake. Like diary entries, they are not something you need to rely on so soon. This year I am quite happy to forget what miniscule things I was up to now, but this is something I have missed from previous diary and blog entries. Not knowing what I was doing before or after or my mind sets during such a thing is something I need to work on when posting blogs.

As this is the day before my dad's funeral, and as the days have been getting closer, I thought I would be starting to feel, well, just feel more about it. I don't and I expect this is what the funeral is supposed to be about. Nick came by late on, though Steve and I caught sight of him talking to a fellow angler at a pond near where he lives. The bus goes past there on the way to St Helens. I said to Steve, he is asking if the bloke has caught the fish yet, the pond being so small.

We went to St Helens and did a bit of shopping in Wilkinson's. A shop missing from the pantheon of retail delights at Surrey Quays Shopping Experience. In there I bought some brackets and screws for the shelving in the shed. I also went to M&S and bought a shirt.

I forgot to get a printer USB cable and when we got back home, I went out on my own, very quickly to tesco, to find that the cables where all of 5p. I bought two.

Mum went up quite early, asking if I had talked to the priest yet about changing the mistake on one of the prayers that gets dad's brother's names wrong. I will do in the morning. I also looked for the reading I am to do on the web. My cousin Trish offered to do it for me in case I was inconsolable. I couldn't find it as written and was not sure what to say at end. I got frustrated and started ranting about the inappropriateness of me and atheist doing a religious reading. I calmed down.

Steve and I cleaned the living room; polishing the surfaces, hoovering and shaking down the throws on the chairs. I even wiped the small tables and Steve mopped the floors. We then sat listening to some Mose Allison tracks on a CD I bought the other day to see if I could fid a track suitable to play as we enter the crem. We found one of his trumpet songs called, Trouble In Mind, which is fairly sombre in mood. Which is in great contrast to the final song, Fly Me To The Moon (In Other Words) by Sinatra. Dad could have great difficulty finding the right words to say to keep a conversation going, but he could burst into song and usually Come Fly With Me or Fly me to the Moon, which is I feel, suitably uplifting after the curtain has closed on my dad's coffin. He would rather us all be dancing and laughing.

Christmas Log 26.12.11

2011-12-26T23:56:00.000Z

Monday, 26th December 2011

I think its fair to say that I had more than a little too much to drink and had a face like a beetroot when I got to the bathroom this morning. I decided not to shower just yet, have a lazy day and just brushed my teeth. Steve looked rooshed and I noticed he had had another large gin after I had gone to bed. We had cleaned the place pretty thoroughly the night before, so there was little to do. Mum, unfortunately was suffering from having a small amount of rich food and she had such a bad stomach and because of poor mobility, was unable to get to the bathroom on time. I brought down the clothes that needed to go into the washing machine and got her some toast and a small cup of tea.

I had no plan for the day but mum wanted more Imodium, which she uses a lot, so we just said we would go to Tesco. I went out with the dog to the park and it was warm but the wind was vicious. It was blowing the dust and debris from the flattened mound that separated the main road and the newly created hospital car park. In the park there were a hand full of other dog walkers and some kids and parents playing ball or on the swings.

Tesco should not open on Boxing day. Prescot was dead and we strolled down to the retail park but passed very few people. I noticed some half price printers and decided to get one to use at mums. I have a few forms that I need that I would have to bring down with me next time, and most weekends, I forget to bring something or other and this will be very useful. Steve and I debated for about half an hour what one to get an I put an Epson in the trolley, half price at £40. I forgot to pick up a USB printer cable and thought I may connect it wirelessly (as if - it took me 18 months to sort out my own printer wirelessly). We put some gin, to replace what we drank last night and some other bits, such as some white wine but didn't need much in the way for food.

Back home and gave mum the imodium, but within minutes, she was caught short again. More washing. I put my own clothes out to dry earlier and they dried in about an hour. I defrosted some lentil soup for mum and in about 2 hours, she was in trouble again and this time, she went up and didn't come down. As soon as she was in bed, she was looking better. Its very worrying that she is struggling with things like eating and her bowels.

While I was out, mum called to say that Catherine from Daisy designs called round with a mock up of the order of service, which looked great when I saw it. She used the pic of dad taken by me in York at the army reunion and he is stood smartly in a blazer and the regimental tie, which he hated wearing. Mum told me he was not a career soldier in the army and only joined up as they were going to teach him music at the military school of music. Mum said he would change into civvies as soon as he got in from his band rehearsals and mixed very little with the other soldiers.

Steve and I had some turkey left-overs, re roasted spuds and sliced turkey in lovely gravy. The veg was fried up and I tried to flavour the sprouts enough for me to try them, which I did but could not put them on my plate with any great commitment to heat them. Mum had tea and toast. Steve and I sat in the back room and I fiddled about with the printer set up, unsuccessfully and then we watched misery square. A bit more TV watching and then we retired to our beds.

Christmas Log 25.12.11

2011-12-26T08:08:00.001Z

Sunday 25^th December 2011

Up early to use the loo at 4am, mum woke too and started getting up then realised it was disappointingly early, it took me until after 6am to fall back to sleep. I'm writing this now in bed at about 25 past 11 - I have had knots in my stomach all day, and despite a fair old amount of alcohol and food, it has not gone away. Dad was not mentioned by mum all day until, just as I was going to, Steve held up his glass at the table and said a toast to him, which pissed me off a bit, but rather him than K. Nick and K had said they were coming for a small bite to eat with us and then go home to cook their own dinner. In fact, they stayed right through until it got dark and mum called them a cab to get home. K had not washed her hair and her clothes had not been ironed. This seemed usual to me, but after they left mum got very concerned that she was going to turn up looking like that at the funeral and would show her up to the family. Her usual trick was to leave food on the plate, not eat the gravy if I made it and complain that some veg or other brought her out in hives. She came and tasted the turkey as I carved it and said nothing, which is almost as rude as saying something was wrong with it. She did same as she dunked some turkey into the gravy pan. At the table, I set things out in serving dishes and said to Nick and K to put as little as they wanted on their plates if they were eating later. They had starter, main and desert and Nick said he was not going to bother cooking later, just have a sandwich. Give me strength. K wanted me to help her with her new laptop, just as I started doing the dishes. I could not see any problem with the connection, as they say they have and the innocuous error messages that come up when closing a game site, are probably due to her not closing the games properly. Some silly child’s game. I showed her some other basic commands and downloaded iTunes for her, offered to put some tunes on there, but she said she was getting confused about it and she was starting to shout as she got more confused.

We sat watching some TV and had a brief doze before Doctor Who came on, and great it was too. Mum stayed up for the Dancing and then went to bed as did I after a large G&T with Steve while we watched Abs Fab, which was Fab and a nice fun way to end the day and go to bed. Steve can be heard going out at least every ten mins for a fag. Earlier on, he said he chatted to Trish and Alan as they returned from lunch at her brother’s in Warrington. He told them about K and that he had to sleep on the sofa because mum was catholic, which they laughed at. Oh, the shame.

Christmas Log 24.12.11

2011-12-26T08:05:00.002Z

Saturday, 24^th December 2011

I was up at about 8am, woken by my ma’s clanking Zimmer frame as she bangs it into the landing skirting board. Steve was up and ready for action, though after another 2 and half hours we had still not set off for Liverpool. Mum was ok, didn’t need anything, then suggested eggs and another bottle of whiskey. Erm, yes, two things that don’t easily blend together. Anyhow, Aunty Pat came in asking if we wanted anything from Lidl, but we didn’t. She came back before we manager to get our backsides out of the door.

Buses are more expensive in Liverpool and are not regulated. There are two 10A services running between St Helens and Liverpool and the Arriva service is so much more expensive. Luckily the Stagecoach service came and I got a day ticket for £3.30. I once pointed out to Steve where Sterry Terry lived, in a block of flats near where the Bluebell pub used to be and he laughed as we passed it saying he was reminded of him. Terry lives in the Angel now, I see him occasionally. Oh Well.

We went straight into M&S when we got there and I got all of the things I wanted, which was mainly a black tie for next Wednesday. I also got a few gifts for mum, Aunty Pat and Uncle bill and some stocking fillers for Nick & K. We then wandered in search of a record shop. HMV had disappeared from Clayton Square, replace by some Danish cross between Argos and Maplins. We wandered towards the N1 centre, meaning the L1 centre, which is much bigger than the N1 centre in the Angel. I popped into Probe and then we found HMV and I tracked down “Stardust” by Artie Shaw, not in the Jazz section, but on a 3 disc compilation of music “from the war”, that also contained a track by Betty Driver, Hotpot Ken, twiddle beads. I also bought a Mose Allison CD, which contains his first two albums. Mum and Dad went to see him at some venue in Streatham High Road that I used to live near. I thought maybe there was a track on there suitable for the Committal, if not, then Frank Sinatra and Artie Shaw.

For Lunch, I suggested The Bridewell, mainly because Gary and Tommy mention it on Facebook sometimes. It took us a while to find it; it not being where it says it is on the net. Inside, the place stunk of disinfectant used to clean the toilets, something I hate in a pub. The tables are in the old cells and we found one and Steve was not a happy bunny, but as it had taken us ages, and we were cold and very hungry, we stayed an endured the watery scouse and Steve, his cremated Aberdeen Angus burger. Oh well, Steve said he would post a comment about it on a review site, but I suggested not doing that as a friend of Gary’s worked there.

We got a bus and on the way home, mum called to say the dog wouldn’t stop barking (and had woken her up), so I reassured her we were on our way. We popped into Prescot, which at 4pm on Christmas Eve was as dead as anything I had ever seen. We got the eggs, not the Whiskey and when I got home, realised that the gift for Aunty Pat didn’t really include Uncle Bill, with it being a teacup and saucer. Mum said the dog was a nuisance, but he was spark out on the back of the armchair when we walked in. Mum also said Trish and her family had come home from Gibraltar as a surprise for Aunty Pat, who didn’t know and had panicked thinking she was having to cook them some Christmas dinner. Surprise Surprise! A quiet evening and to bed at a reasonable time, if not a little anxious about it being Dad’s birthday tomorrow.

Christmas Log 23.12.11

2011-12-26T08:04:00.002Z

Friday, 23^rd December 2011

Woke quite early and down stairs, did some ironing and other chores, then contemplated going to Liverpool early. Remembering I had to take the signed crematory form back to Berry & Jagger, thought I’d best wait. It took ages to get light and only when Steve woke up about 8.30, I noticed it was dark, overcast and piddling it down with rain outside. We postponed our trip out to later on. The rain, though, it persisted down all day long and when the funeral director called to say he would call by, just to see how we are getting on (and pick up his deposit) and to say that the graphic designers would also call by to sort out the order of service for dad’s funeral, we decided not to bother and Steve went out to Prescot on his own mainly to get out.

Cathy called by and we chose the design and I said I would email her a photo of dad. The one I had in mind was a lovely portrait shot I took of dad on the Isle of Man, but mum said she wanted a normal photo, meaning not wearing a hat. Then the funeral director came by and took his deposit and no sooner had he gone then Sister Eileen turned up with a copy of the reading and hymns and things. Seemingly, I am doing the first reading and we might need to ask Liam and Ceira to do the offertories. I have long been an atheist and can’t remember much about all of this hokus pocus, but if it pleases the family…

About 7pm mum says she is upset that her meds have not been delivered. She says she wants the sleeping pills and thinks she will have to wait now till Monday. I wish she had said earlier, I could have walked over to pick them up. I tentatively mentioned that Monday was Boxing Day and Tuesday was a bank holiday. Oo, I can’t repeat what she said. I suggested we call the out of hour’s service but she maintains they will not give her the diazepam that she wants. I will try in any case after double-checking they will not turn up in the morning. I should have thought that the GP would understand, considering what she has been through this week.

One of the big problems Steve has each time he comes up, especially in winter, when Mum’s need for heat has meant she now has her own gas storage tank in the back garden to ensure the boiler will never turn off this side of April. Well maybe May. I asked Steve to sit in with her and I as he usually sits in the back room and it looks a little anti social. We did do and melted. The other thing is that mum’s TV viewing only consists of sports or food programmes. We watched a Raymond Blanc programme, mum couldn’t hear it as she is quite deaf and the TV volume is usually turned up to 11 and I can’t understand his accent. Mum and I kept asking Steve, “What did he say?” As soon as mum says, “I think I’ll go up”, I turn of the rad in the living room, which is big enough to heat a small concert hall and Steve will open the back door to get a draft through. It’s the routine.

During the course of the evening as I type up the Xmas Log, I think about dad’s ashes and scattering them on the Mersey and I think about when dad’s dad died. I am not that comfortable with calling him Granddad as he died before I was born, many years back. In fact, I remind myself that his ship was sunk in the North Atlantic in December. I check a website I have about the ship he went down in, and realise my dad died on the same day that his dad died. I feel too upset to say anything to mum at this time in the evening and so I’ll save that for the morning.

Christmas Log 22.12.11

2011-12-26T08:03:00.000Z

Thursday, 22^nd December 2011

I called Steve about 9am and he said he was aiming to get an earlier train, which he did. I went into Prescot and called into the Halifax to see if there was anything specific they needed from me to deal with dad’s accounts. I have lasting power of attorney for his affairs, which apparently ended when he died; so I need to get the grant of probate, and then make an appointment to see the person who deals with bereavements. I picked up some brawn from Yeats & Greer’s and I then jumped a 10A to Rainhill to meet Steve and Freddie at the station. All was well with Steve; great to see him and he had a stress free journey. No one vomited on his bag.

Steve kindly brought my suit for the funeral; luckily it was clean, no running round to the dry cleaners. Mum had a few more bits to get from Planet Tesco, so Steve and I walked up there via Berry & Jagger, who were not having a jamming session, but wanted me to pick up another form for mum to sign. We changed our mind about dad’s ashes being scattered on the rose garden in the crematory. I was not pleased with leaving him in Woolly Back Land. Dad was a proper Liverpudlian and had even said some time not too long ago that he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes cast into the Mersey, so he could flow into the sea and be reunited with his father, who went down on a merchant ship in 1940, thanks to U-boat 100.

In Tesco, we pumped into Ceira with her mum. Ceira’s hair had been rescued and was a lovely dark auburn colour. I introduced Steve to Trish. She asked if Steve was cooking and said she had been told all about him. Steve looked worried at this. Trish then asked if Nick and K were coming for dinner on Christmas day. I said I thought he was but would not be too bothered if not as I would probably get the gravy wrong or give her something that would kill her. Oh well.

In the evening, Nick came round and he, Steve and I went to the Holt to give the manager the deposit for the hot buffet. We then had a strole down to the village and a few pints in the Commercial. Nick said that he and K would not be coming for lunch on Christmas day after all, as he has too much food to waste. I was a little disappointed, but perhaps I would not get so stressed.

Earlier, Freddie had jumped up at mum and scratched her ankle. Not much blood but as her legs are oedemas, so leaked a bit. Later, as mum made her way to bed, there was a trail of leg juice across the floor! Poor mum.

Christmas Log 21.12.11

2011-12-26T08:01:00.000Z

Wednesday, 21^st December 2011

Called Steve to see if he was still set to come up in the morning, he was at mine doing some washing as he was beset with some washing machine disaster. I asked if he could print off some forms for me, such as the forms for probate and Inheritance, then remembered he cannot print from my work laptop onto my printer. It will all have to wait until the New Year. Things that I could have sorted out during the last year was changing the name on some of the household policies etc. as dad was not technically living at home, again they will have to wait now until I am home or if I see a cheap printer in the sales and keep at mum’s.

I went to Planet Tesco in the morning, which was not as bad I thought. I had a modest list of things to get, some cans, wine, sherry and port – not that mum drinks, only at Weddings and Christmas and birthdays. I also picked up a few things for gifts for family. I didn’t see anyone I knew. I was dreading someone saying something about dad.

Nick said he thinks he will be coming for Christmas dinner now; they hadn’t planned to as they had so much food at home. K has an appetite like my mum’s, who ate a slice of toast and half cup of cup-a-soup yesterday, but she will prepare food enough for a table of ten people. No wonder Nick and I pile on the pounds so easily. As it would be my dad’s 82^nd birthday on Christmas day, I think we can cope with having more people to cook for. Nick’s eldest daughter, Kate called round to see her Nan, brought some gifts and some jerboas, which looked lovely. She was fine, moved into her new house near Planet Tesco in Prescot with her fella, Ian. Her brother Danny is still living the high life in Liverpool but is still struggling to find permanent employment as a teacher.

Later, Nick came round and short while later, so did Liam and Ceira, who had a beanie hat on, hiding a hair disaster. She had bleached her hair but it had turned orange. She was wearing a fab Smiths t-shirt and pleased that I commented on it. Liam is working a few hours on Christmas day in the restaurant in the village.

Christmas Log 20.12.11

2011-12-26T07:58:00.002Z

Tuesday 20^th December 2011

Nick had arranged an appointment at the Registry office in Prescot for 11.30 and he came over to mum’s to go with me. The death certificate was sealed up and I had no interest to open it which is not like me, but I took along dad’s birth and marriage certificate and Medical card, thanks to the direct.gov website. I was disappointed that the certificate was not written by hand, but was printed on an A4 sheet. Nick signed it, being the eldest, he said.

Later on, the funeral director came over from Berry & Jagger. No, they are not based on Stellar Street, but I can’t help think that Mick and Chuck have a sideline in New Orleans Style funeral services. They didn’t do cardboard box coffins, but the cheapest one, which we chose, does look as though it comes flat packed. Dad is going to be cremated, so there is absolutely no need for any fancy coffins. That sorted, Nick and I went to the Holt pub to ask if they can put on a hot buffet for the wake there after the cremation next week, which they can. Gary, who does odd jobs for mum and plays dominos with my cousin Paul was in there and was shocked to hear the news.

Christmas Log 19.12.11

2011-12-26T07:57:00.000Z

Monday 19^th December 2011

I hardly slept all night, not so much thinking about dad, but because Steve was snoring so loudly during most of the night, I was relegated to the sofa. Despite being awake most of the night and packing most of what I wanted to bring with me the night before, I got out of the house too late and after a very brief chat to Mags, my neighbour, I missed train my minutes. I got on the next available train, via Manchester Piccadilly, then realised there are no connecting services from Piccadilly. Then, before I got off the train, a couple of elderly Africans, who where up and down and couldn’t sit still all journey pointed at some rubbish by my feet. The bloke reached down and grabbed the bag I had used to get my tea from the shop and he vomited in it, which splashed a bit on my case.

I marched pretty quickly out of the station and across the city centre in the rain towards Victoria Station. I bought a hot pastie from a Ginster’s shop – peculiar, I thought, and then got on the train to Rainhill. The rain was coming down hard and I called for a cab to pick me up at the station and then thought that Nick might be there meeting me, which he was. We gave each other a big hug and Nick was just about keeping it together.

At home, Nick said there was a house full, with Aunty Tess and cousin Sheila visiting and Aunty Pat had stayed the night last night to keep my mum company. We said hello and goodbye when I got there and they went next door to Pat’s.

Steve told me there was some good help on the direct.gov website, which was actually quite helpful. That evening, mum stayed up quite late and I was desperate for bed so tired from not sleeping the night before. Eventually, mum took the hint and we both went up.

Christmas Log 18.12.11

2011-12-25T23:51:00.003Z

Sunday 18^th December 2011

My Christmas break was planned to start on Thursday 22^nd. I had been going up to Rainhill most weekends for quite some time, as it was either mum or dad was in poor health or some other concern. I took this weekend off to catch up with chores and shopping. I spent the morning clearing the garden of weeds that had grown unhindered since about August. Shameful, I know and I was about to go to the local discount warehouse to get some screws and plugs to put up some wire to trail the wisteria along. I got a text message from my brother, saying he had a call from John Paul Jones nursing home, where dad is saying he is not well and then I set off for the shops. Coming back on the bike via Tesco, to get Steve some blackcurrant squash, with a wooden broom staith I was going to use for the wisteria, the mobile phone rang as I was on my bike. Call was from Mum and was surprised to hear Nick. “He’s died”, he said, dad had died. Poor Nick had not got there in time, but time enough for the priest to come and administer last rights, or what ever it is called, and then he passed away or so the nurse said. Nick was taken into see dad and when I got home the next day, Nick was waiting at the station in the rain for me.

My poor old dad.

October 2011

2011-11-07T22:17:00.000Z

Greenland Dock has some great skies at this time of the year. The sun is getting lower and the colours picked up in the trees around the dock and in Russian Dock Woodland Park can be amazing. But all is not well in the park.

The Docker was out there one morning a couple of weeks back, walking Freddie Dog. After entering the part from Lady Dock Path, The Docker turned left over the bridge, as that walk is quite pretty, winding up and around the clumps of trees when he started to catch up with a man walking three spaniels.

Freddie is always interested in other dogs and its good for them to socialise with others. The man turned to call one of his spaniels and noticed it was interested in Freddie Dog and ran in a panic over to his mutt and put him on the lead, really un-neccesarily, thought The Docker, and casually asked if there was a concern. There is nothing worse that some judgmental dog owner being precious about their pedigree dogs, looking down on little old Freddie Dog. Anyhow, the bloke said something about his dog getting aggressive so The Docker offered the oft used suggestion passed between dog owners across the land, to perhaps keep him on a long lead for peace of mind.

Well, a mini version of hell broke loose as the man looked up at The Docker with venom and fury at such an unjustified comment being passed his way and screamed "Don't tell me what to do, YOU F*****G C**T. Braving up, The Docker, who had taken a few paces away from the guy turned back and walked straight up to him, seeing that he was a fairly strong looking fellow but in his late fifties maybe, this guy looked not unlike Alf Garnet.

"Do you know who you are talking to?" said The Docker, regretfully as the answer had already been aired to all within earshot.

"YES, YOU, YOU F*****G C**T, I'M TALKING TO A F*****G C**T, YOU F*****G C**T. WHAT?! WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO, YOU F*****G C**T.

The Docker sensed he was not going to get satisfaction at 8am in the morning with some Alf Garnet Lookie Likie screaming abuse at him so he casually walked away in the direction of the underpass going towards the dock. As it happened, Alf Garnet and his trio of precious spaniels also casually walked off in the same direction. The Docker occasionally glanced over his shoulder to see what Alf was up to and it was as if nothing had been said. Poor old Freddie Dog was a little shaken, but settled down after his breakfast.

23rd January 1988

2011-01-29T09:26:00.001Z

Saturday 23^rd January 1988

Phoned in sick, s’pose I’ll be marked absent

Sunday 24^th January 1988

WAS marked absent and I am to work it back next Thursday on my day off.

Boring Day At Work!

Monday 25^th January 1988

Horrid late shift, finished early and arranged a day off for tomorrow for an interview. Went to (staff) club for a beverage. Tony W sat his final exams today.

Tuesday 26^th January 1988

Didn’t go for interview, no money to get there. NO pay till tomorrow. I’ve been charges £149.51 tax. I’m not happy. £319 pay. Swapped day off.

No recollection of what job this interview was for.

Wednesday 27^th January 1988

Got Paid

Went to Reading afterwork and what dumb move that was! OR was it

Great Coop and lively mood L was in, not!

Thursday 28^th January 1988

Boring Day. L didn’t want a break as it was raining, like I wanted to stand in the rain myself. Met Daniel and L at 8pm and went to High Wycombe where I was asked to leave the house while Danny’s brother came round. Made my day complete. Sleeping in a double bed made no difference, indifference and snoring.

Friday 29^th January 1988

Returned to Reading with Brian and then after seeing L for a few mins (deciding I should return to work or be sacked), returned to Brookwood and went to Slough! Went to Smelly Nelly’s in Windsor and met Casey from Ibiza. Slough was uninteresting – though Steven P pulled Beuller!

Saturday 30^th January 1988

Worked. Fed up with it all. Fed up with having to put up with misery guts living here. Went to Slough for a change.

Sunday 31^st January 1988

Phone in sick. Was sick. Reminded of the time I phoned in sick for Tony W, went to the phone box and decided he had measles. Later that day he broke out in spots and it WAS measles! Stayed in bed till late. Wasted the day. Decided to go to Shepherd’s Bush (not that sick) and what a camp time that was. Steven P’s caught a nasty bug from Beuller!

1988 again

2011-01-22T11:23:00.000Z

Wednesday 13^th January 1988

DAY OFF

Got to Reading at 12.45pm, just missed L, looked round shops for 3.5 hours, got a refund (for something) and bought Something Wild LP. Spent hours in WHS.

Went to Heela’s again and went to house. L & I spoke for about half an hour but it all seemed worthwhile. Things were improving, but I did a stupid thing much to the delight of L when he found out….

Saw Something Wild in Liverpool earlier in the year, liked the soundtrack, don't know what happened to that record.

Thursday 14^th January 1988

Phoned L and realised word had spread in exaggerated form back to him about my flying visit to the cottage and we had a very difficult conversation on the phone. I went to Slough with the boys and drowned them sorrows (Wo is me). First its me thinking he’s having naughties, but its now me! I think this may be the excuse he (or I) need.

Ooh, getting a bit bored with this relationship now.

Friday 15^th January 1988

Phoned L at about 8.30am and things seemed a lot calmer. After several attempts to tell him my feelings over the phone, I knew he had something up his sleeve. Retribution, dear reader. I’m not sure he is aware I know he is Mr Smooth talker with all these young blokes, I wouldn’t say he was caught in the act, more like a planned accident!

After he left the little chicken, he came over to speak to me and had a revealing conversation. I don’t know if I should tell him that I spoke to the lad already and I know there is nothing in it.

Me thinks I was a bit of a drama queen about all this

Saturday 16^th January 1988

L came over, went out, didn’t have a good time, neither did Julie Mac.

Wonder what Julie Mac is going these days. Can't recall what her last name is.

Sunday 17^th January 1988

Spent afternoon sleeping and arguing avec L.

Went to Silks, saw Joe T-shirt Good time but degraded myself.

SILKS, somewhere in Plaistow, I think and who was Joe T-Shirt???

Monday 18^th January 1988

Early at Work and was totally fed up. L and I talked and I discovered how mixed up he is and I came to the conclusion that I couldn’t care less. Terrible of me. But what about the Hipp? I can go tonight, upset everyone including L (the whole object) or I can go another week and have a damned good time. P & I can go to the staff club because I have more respect for my friends. I want to say to L that its no good and we should quit because, well because.

Tuesday 19^th January 1988

HRH returned home and I told him I thought it would be best to finish, but he won out saying he thought we should try harder.

Boring early Finished and L still in bed and found out about some party he was going to tonight. Missed 2 busses and borrowed (Steven’s?) car. He tried to go while I’d gone over to my room. He came back that eve and got up for work Wed Morning.

20^th January 1988

Day Off

Boring Day (no money!) Uneventful.

Thursday 21^st January 198

DAY OFF
Tony phoned to go out but (he) didn’t manage to accomplish anything, eventually got aboard the Waterloo train and wandered around London, Saw the arse end of a commercial being made at Covent Garden. Went to a Sauna with Tony! When I got home we went to Slough and saw L, Daniel and Brian.

Friday 22^nd January 2988

PM shift on Barber, broke the monotomy of a boring day at work

Actually, later went out to BAD, but ended up in Heaven and had a really good night out.

Got home at 6.30am

8th January 1988

2011-01-11T17:43:00.000Z

Easy Day. Went to Slough again after moans and groans from Tony W & Steve P. L was supposed to be go t Slough but he didn't turn up. Good time in any case. (We) had our pic taken for Gay Times (God, my life is a social whirl).

9th January 1988

Horrible Long Day. Went to West Villa. had a great time with Peg who was a red Goblin called Gobley! L came over with Steve. Tony W & Steven P went to a party and we content to stay in. (No fear,) went to Slough for a change. L went straight into the closet when we got there.

10th January 1988
Horrible Lates. Boring Day. went to Wimbledon and had a great time with L ignoring me and sparks flew - waste of time me going out when I'm like that. L said he was going home in the morning.

Monday 11th Jan 1988
Great day on the ward. Depression over the money business, went to staff club to drown me sorrows.

Tuesday 12th January 1988
DAY OFF
Spent the day in Woking with P who got several jobs and some money which he has spent already! He starts job on monday in Tax Office in Woking. S'posed to be going to the Fridge, Tony W and Steven P are no where to be found.
I may slump into a foul mood if I don't watch myself
Went to Slough
Spoke on the phone to L and decided to go to Reading for the day.

I can't recall what Tony W's relationship status with Steven was at that time, but I think he had the measure of me (& P) and would disappear when our funds where low! Obviously didn't know how to call it quits with L. No idea how we got to these places, like Wimbledon and Slough, obviously someone had a car and we drove there.

7th January 1988

2011-01-09T06:33:00.000Z

7th January 1988
I think I was on Redding. P arrived pissed and we went to Slough (Greyhound Pub) and met L there. I was rather OTT. We had a good time, otherwise.

8th January 1988
Had an easy day, went to Slough again after moans and groans from Tony & Steve. L was supposed go, but didn't show up. Good time in any case. We had our pic taken for Gay Times. (Our lives are a social whirl!)

9th January 1988
Horrible long day worked, worked on West Villa, Peg was a Red Goblin called Gobly. L came over with Steve. Tony & Steve went to a party, we content to stay in but went to Slough and L climbed back into the closet as soon as we got there.

10th January 1988
Worked a Late Shift. Boring day - went to Wimbledon and had a great time with L ignoring me and sparks flew, waste of time going out when its like that. L said he was going home in the morning.

P came to stay and find work near by, he shared my single room.

West Villa was the secure ward. I recall there being an office with reinforced glass windows in which the regular staff sat, while outside with patients were the agency staff, student nurses and nursing assistants. The Charge Nurse(s) were usually in the staff club (no word of a lie). I would usually be asked to work there if they were short on staff or someone from my ward needed 'specialing' or one on one nursing supervision. Peg - a nick name for a man who had been a patient for decades would read Enid Blyton books which would get mixed up with reality sometimes. He would abscond occasionally, getting on trains and end up in places like Cornwall - great for those sent after him. I had to take him to a general hospital once as he had swallowed some drawing pins (thumb tacks). A bemused Asian doctor examining his X ray asked him why he had eaten the pins, he responded saying he wanted to try a 'drawing pin curry'.

Not being able to drive I was dependent on others for transport. I have little recollection how far any of our haunts were, though I recall getting to the Greyhound pub involved the M25 and the M4.

6th January 1988

2011-01-09T05:54:00.000Z

(WORKED LONG DAY) Barber ward in the morning, nice time! Redding ward pm - just ok. Finished avoiding Tracy, who phoned the ward & wanted... (most probably). Watched Girls On Top at Toe's. P coming tomorrow.

There were two acute admission wards at Brookwood Hospital, which was a sprawling old Victorian institute. Average stay on these wards was 2 years, with a high but decreasing percentage of people moving on to longer stay wards within the hospital. This was to change drastically with the Community Care Act. The patients slept in dormitories - male and female and as a Nursing Assistant, I made beds amongst other menial tasks.

5th January 1988

2011-01-04T19:35:00.000Z

DAY OFF
Lazed in bed till 12ish, went to meet L for lunch and had a wonderful 20mins together! Swapped Mum's jumper (christmas present) for another one. Rearranged L's room & had tea and went for train. Evening spoiled by journey home and Tracy trying to get into my knickers.

(I had this habit of re arranging furniture in friend's homes. I am not sure if I had some in-built Feng Shui or a longing for interior design, who knows. Tracy was a colleague on the ward who had a 'thing' for me. She knocked on my door that evening, quite drunk and straddled me on my bed. NOTHING happened, meaning it stirred nothing in me. Tracy soon just left her job, sadly it seems, as a consequence of my knock back. I gave it a go. We snogged like giddy kids in the laundry cupboard on the ward and she knew I as gay, so it was sad it ended without us becoming good friends.)

4th January 1988

2011-01-03T23:02:00.000Z

DAY OFF
Easy Day Working (?), actually managed to get to Reading, arrived at 11.00 2 hrs travel. Boring. Had a pint in Guilford Pub. Full of Sissy Marys. Got on very well with L 'mmm'.

I can't quite recall how I travelled to Reading, probably changed at Woking or Guilford. L working in a department store and I recall the place as being quite dull. Must try and get some pics from Tony W from that time.

1988

2011-01-02T18:25:00.000Z

1988

Sue, Alan and Me, Last night working in Paco's 1987

Previous to these occasional blog postings, I have not managed to keep a diary almost consistently since 1988. I’ve kept all the diaries and find that I have just made entries when things got a little difficult, mainly to see if I could extract anything creative out of them and I also have a long term plan to fill the gaps in some diaries with fictional stories and such like – on that long list of things to do.

Anyway, I intend to post my 1988 diary in its entirety over the coming year along side whatever it is that I get up to in the hear and now. I was 23 as the year started and was working and living in Brookwood Psychiatric Hospital, near Woking in Surrey having moved there from Liverpool in the September of 1987. Work in Liverpool was difficult to come by and I had no specific career plan. I had met my friend Tony W who was an Enrolled nurse in Rainhill Hospital near where I lived and he move to Brookwood Teaching Hospital to do a conversion course to be State Registered Nurse and he suggested I apply for a job as a Nursing Assistant. I did and managed to get a job on one of the two Acute Admission Wards, which ensured that I stayed for as long as I did. If I had been placed on one of the Long Stay wards, I think I would have been back in Liverpool on the next train.

Not long after moving to Brookwood in the autumn of 1987, the Great Storm caused much damage to the grounds of the hospital. Typically, the Victorian Institution was once self sufficient with farmland producing most of its own food. It was then looking like parkland, with many old trees and the different departments spread around the grounds connected by long winding paths and roads. As the winds increased during the night, I knew something was up when the door to my room was actually sucked open. Each room had a blocked up fire place with vent holes in the front. The wind blowing over the roofs sucked the air out of the rooms with eary whistling noises and heavy wooden door was pulled open. The walk to the ward in the morning was an ordeal, climbing over fallen trees, the grounds looked completely different.

The salary of a nursing assistant was not great in 1988 and I regularly ran out, calling home for top ups, mostly because I’d spent too much having a good time. Accommodation was sparse. Single rooms with communal but barely fitted kitchens and laundry rooms was not going to help me stay in nights. It was either the subsidised staff club or a car ride to various venues including trips into London. It seemed like forever, but I think I managed to stay in that job for about 8 months.

Here are the few entries from the end of 1987…

2^nd December 1987

Went to Heaven, L came, went back to Reading but was very pissed! Stayed the night at L’s.

3^rd December

Hungover. What happened! Stayed the night again “Mmm!”

4^th December

Returned today at work.

First Admission! Chuffed.

9^th December

Nick’s birthday – go home today

Got train home. Table booked at Darby Arms for 8pm – I got there at 8.15pm, not bad! Stayed for a drink with Sue. Taxi home.

10^th December

Went to Town (Liverpool) in daytime had a hair cut at Victor’s, who asked if I’d gone mad yet

Out with Sue and P. Went to Paco’s (Brian + Alan + Alan) then Mardi Gras & Macmillans – boring

Saw Kate

11^th December

Watched Labyrinth & Little Shop of Horrors

Saw Kate & Danny

Went to town with P, went to Jody’s and Bigmouth!

12^th December

4.05 train to London

Got Home and L came over

13^th December

(Steve’s) Car knackered!?

Stayed local – Great!

14^th December

L went home today – sob! Long day worked.

18^th December

Worked Long day

Begged all for some money and went to Slough to meet L, stayed at his and saw Bryan & John

It was a bit tense

19^th December

Walked about Reading – saw a futon £179 not bad. Came back to Brookwood

20^th December

Didn’t go in for the afternoon shift.

23^rd December

PYRAMID PARTY – HEAVEN

Went to Heaven. Good!

24^th December

Everyone on late shift. Got pissed drinking (Tony W’s) vodka, asleep by 9.30. Tony not happy.

25^th December

DAD’S BIRTHDAY

Returned to work

L came, picked us up and went to Slough. L’s present was a gold chain. Tony & I went to Reading

26^th December

Went to Londres

Stayed at Tony B’s place. (went to) Pidgeon’s – Groovy Time!

L & I, a silly row, Tony W & Daniel didn’t have a silly row!

27^th December

Went to James’ then went to Benjy’s (Disco 2000), good time, saw Colin from Eastenders and Marcia (Marc Almond). Slept for 2 hours. Bitchy time with L.

28^th December

Day off. Returned to Reading in the evening, slept 2 and half hours as L snored like death, Might be something to do with the bondage!

29^th December

Returned to work on a Late shift, ate a Chinese on the ward for Sister Sue’s birthday, got £110 off the boys. Will it last. Read on!

30^th December

Work. Spoke to L on phone, very curt. Decided to have a break, calm my senses and nerves. Too much too soon.

Went to the doc and got to take Becotide. Fuck that!

31^st December

P’S BIRTHDAY – GOD KNOW’S WHERE? SLOUGH, JUST FOR A CHANGE!

Found out about £400. Lovely end to ’87. V. Depressed. Early tomorrow on West Villa (secure unit) Fuck That!

Persuasion went to London to Chalk Farm (David Connor). To Hampstead to let the new year in & to La Cage aux Folle. Pissed Again! Tony W copped off. I too pissed to. Went to Chalk farm for a couple hours kip. A Yank at the flat, some actor

1st Jan 1988

Steve bought Leather Jacket. Went to work. Bad day.

2^nd January

Went to work, was on Barber (ward)

Went out with Tracy. Too much!

3^rd January

Went to work. Good Day

P coming down on Thursday

Phoned L. I still love him

Want to go to Reading tomorrow after work

28th December 2010

2010-12-29T18:11:00.000Z

28^th December 2010

Started to actually feel like I’d eaten too much over the last few days – sluggish and bloated as well as this stinking cold. Mum was not too well, as she had not slept the night before and as soon as she had her porridge, she slept for a few hours on the sofa. Steve and I went into Prescot to do some shopping. Eccleston St is appallingly bleak. All betting shops and charity shops. Waiting for a cab outside of Planet Tesco, two women appeared. One in a Wheel chiar with a shopping trolley clamped to the front of it and the other in a Tesco complimentary disability scooter and who looked a little like Katherine Hepburn – headscarfe and slight tremor. As the first one stood up to get out of her chair to get into the taxi, Steve shouted “It’s a Miracle!” No one paid any attention to him.

I bought some Welsh lamb and we had that with a huge bowl of trifle and we slobbed out in front of the TV watching some programs about The Good Life. The night before, we had watched a John Bishop DVD, Steve had bought it to watch with everyone and I had told him that my parents liked him. When he is on prime time TV, however, he is not as sweary as he is doing his main job as stand up comedian. Mum shrank away at the swearing and sexual jokes, while dad laughed out loud at them. He used to be more mindful of bad language and such things and just smile quietly, not wanting to show any appreciation of such behaviour. I put this down to his dementia and it was good to see him enjoy something without the usual inhibitions.

Last night in Rainhill, Steve more than anyone is keen to get home to sleep in a bed and not my mum’s sofa.

27th December 2010

2010-12-29T18:08:00.000Z

27^th December 2010

First of the Bank Holidays and Steve and I, feeling a little stir crazy we caught a 10A bus into Liverpool to have a look at people shopping in the sales. The 10A is quite obviously feeling more than a bit vulnerable, as they do actually roam in gangs, seemingly for protection. There are two companies running busses along the same route with the same number and one of them is cheaper than the other. Stagecoach and Arriva. One of them has a reputation of setting up services in towns and charging lower fares until the existing companies go under. They then put the fares up, so I am told. The bus was empty and we found a box of unused Christmas cards on one of the seats, so Steve put a few up on the back shelf to cheer the bus up.

In Liverpool, I wasn’t into rummaging around the shops as much as I thought I was and after some lunch in the L1 shopping experience we looked around John Lewis. I bought Brian Eno CD from Probe records and caught a bus home. I have to say that when Steve and I last came into Liverpool together it was for the Matthew Street Festival, which was all over the city, I brought attention to myself with my Mu. Then, everyone was on high spirits and had ‘Go Compare’ sung at me, with little surprise. This time, I just had people staring and commenting about me. Not that I was bothered, in comparison – oh, see where this is going? – I’d rather people be up front about it. Later on that evening, we went for a pint in Rainhill village with my Bro, and the whole bar stopped talking when we walked in. Some guy turned to look at me when I was stood at the bar waiting to be served and he said “Je-sus-christ’. The folk up norh are very fashion conscious, Steve asked if they still wear shell suits, but people have moved on from that, except the young lads all wearing the uniform of black sports wear and hoodies. This year the younger girls are all wearing too much make-up, false eyelashes and have big hair, ratted up like beehives. They go out shopping during the day with the hair in curlers and there is a fashion at the moment for fur. Mostly obviously fake but great to look at. I had seen some blokes wearing those suede Ug boots in London, but this had not travelled well to Liverpool. The men are far too conservative and reserved to look like anything other than their mates, so every bloke looks more or less the same, with the same hair and the same clothes. So, when I stand at the bar with a shirt plastered in pink flowers (M&S, not that outré), black trousers, shaved head and a handlebar moustache, I know I am going to attract some comment.

The thaw started with the rain that evening, no cabs and Steve as miserable as sin, saying he is never coming to this one-horse town again.

26th December 2010

2010-12-27T11:31:00.000Z

26^th December 2010

A bit of a late start in the “P” household, I was succumbing to the slight cold that Steve has – Sorry, he has Man Flu so if you don’t know the difference, have a look at http://manflu.com/ to check out your symptoms.

There was still more capon to have and I had made some soup from the carcass with some lentils and carrot. Our Eileen was not too well and was still in bed for quite some time but the soup perked her up and she managed to come down. Dad is always out of sorts if mum is not within his vision. Quite innocently, as Steve was browsing through the TV pages, he told dad and me how much he didn’t regard Bruce Forsyth’s talent or achievements. For some reason, dad took great offence at this, probably because it was said in very clearly against someone who dad has seen on the TV on a Saturday night for the last 3 months in Strictly Come Dancing. Dad stood up and squared up to Steve and told him what he thought of him. That told Steve for dissing Brucie! Of course, 5 minutes later and Dad had forgotten what the fuss was about.

Bro came over and reported that his missus was getting fed up that the docs where not done with putting some good blood in her. He didn’t stop as he had the two dogs to tend to at home. I might get him out for a pint tomorrow evening.

Tony P

25th December 2010

2010-12-26T12:00:00.001Z

Usual chaos in the kitchen with Steve and I aiming to get things ready to serve by 1.30 as I assumed visiting was at 3pm and Nick was going to eat with us as his Missus was in Whiston Hospital. I jumped, with two feet firmly on the floor, off of that self imposed wagon of sobriety and had a couple of Whiskey Macs. Dad was a little bemused about the fact that it was his 81^st birthday today and we helped him unwrap his gifts.

I called in next door to give Aunty Pat and her family some gifts. My cousin Trish and her family were there from Gibraltar and my other cousin Jeff was coming over later. Trish was in her PJs still and I only noticed this as I was saying goodbye and I said she wouldn’t look out of place in her PJs and curlers in her hair walking round Tesco.

The Capon, bought by Steve in Smithfield’s meat market was put in the oven in good time and Nick came over at about 2pm then his two kids came by so the meal was put on hold until our visitors went then we got tucked in. Nick and I later slid over to Whiston Hospital (just down the road) to see his missus. She seemed fine and despite the change in Nick’s eating arrangements she didn’t ask if he ate well, how my Dad’s birthday went, if we enjoyed out Christmas, you know. She was keen to go out for a smoke, though.

We got back in time for Doctor Who, and some other bits and bobs on telly until bed time. The Royale Family was great, better than last year’s effort.

24th December 2010

2010-12-26T11:59:00.000Z

…Was spent giving a lot of sympathy to Steve, who succumbed to a most virulent strain of Man Flu, so much so that most others around him where affected in one way or another. Despite this debilitating condition, we managed to get out into St Helens to do some, last minute, but quite relaxed shopping. We failed to get the lard or goose fat for the spuds and we didn’t get the Bury’s Black Pudding, added to the list by Our Eileen to give it that Northern authenticity. As it was a Friday, we got some Fish from the wet fish shop and had a bite to eat in the Country Larder. Our waitress seemed a little harassed, as she darted from table to till and kept us up dated as to when she would get round to taking our order. “I’ll be with you in a minute Lads, Nearly with you Lads” etc. No one else got this attention and when she finally got to stand at our table to take our order, she shared the fact that “ I’ve got the curse today, Lads, that’s why I’m all over the place”.

Every now and then I sent a txt to my brother Nick, as I knew he was intending to do some shopping today. He was at his wife’s Rapid Heart Clinic appointment at St Helens hospital in the morning so when he said he was still there, we thought there was something a do. We, or I decided to get the 89 bus back as the 10A route was quite slow. We let 7 10As pass us at the bus station, all leaving in two groups as if it were safe in numbers. In the end we caught the 8^th 10A as there was no sign of an 89, oh well.

Back with the veg and last minute provisions, Our Eileen set about peeling the veg – Steve noticed that Aunty Pat next door had prepared hers earlier and were stored in the porch out of the way. Nick turned up about 3.30pm with the news that Kerrie had been admitted to Whiston Hospital because her blood results were pretty poor. Seemingly, she lacks some basic nutrients in her blood causing some of the symptoms she has been experiencing. She needs a transfusion and some potassium, nitrogen and some all purpose compost, by the sounds of it. We suggested to Nick that he give the shopping trip to St Helens a miss at this late hour, but he revealed that he had done no Christmas present shopping at all. His inertia in this respect is nothing new. We wished him luck and he was on his way.

Christmas Log 2010

2010-12-23T18:44:00.000Z

Thursday, 23rd Dec 2010

Despite Our Eileen's predictions of doom for all who travel in the snowy weather, Steve, Freddie and & set off just after 9am and managed to get on a Liverpool-bound train. I called Our Eileen intermittently, just to let her know how we were progressing. The quip about being stuck in a snow drift just outside of Crewe didn't go down very well.

Sat in front of us, a better behaved pooch sat on the lap of a Jenny Agutter looky likey. She was on the phone organizing her christmas to who we worked out to be her house keeper. "Don't be confused Isabel, but we are having so and so over on the 24th, and this will be our christmas. We will be opening presents, having dinner and going to mass at 11pm. When you come next, we will not be there, don't bother doing the beds until the 27th, but there will be wrapping paper and such like. When Are your coming next Isabel? I have left your money in the draw put Joshua and his father took some of this for petrol for the car, so I will settle up with you later, unless it has been replaced. What will you be doing Isabel, don't forget not to do the beds until after the 27th". It kept us amused until Stafford.

Off the train at Prescot in sunny Merseyside and a bit of a struggle to get to the old folk's. The snow's still everywhere and no one clears the paths any more. After about 5mins waiting for a bus or cab, Steve was vowing to go away even if it was with some old wrinkly Germans in the Yumbo Centre in Gran Canaria.

View of Greenland Dock the other morning

We're off to Planet Tesco this evening, I might need to self medicate after that on some chocolate and mulled wine, despite my intentions to stay on the wagon until after its all over. Its about 30 degrees C in the living room, we've the radiators turned off in the back and as Steve has brought his newly acquired Macbook Pro, he has no need to pester me to use my 'plastic' one.

Tony P

THE GIANTS OF BELSIZE VILLAGE

2010-10-30T19:57:00.002+01:00

THE GIANTS OF BELSIZE VILLAGE

Third edit (cheers Colm) of a story that is fitting for Halloween.

Snow had been thick on the ground for almost a week along the back roads off Camden High Street, not even turned to slush yet, almost uniform white and too frozen still for the Council gritters to have made a difference. The nights had been so cold. Snow iced up and then even more snow fell. On top of that, a thick fog had smothered everything. It was in these conditions that I had started my driving lessons. I had had two sessions so far and this one was pointless. The Instructor made me drive gingerly up Robert Street, round the back of Mornington Crescent and then asked me to park up as close to the back of the Driving School office as possible, somewhere along Arlington Road. He went through the road signs in the book, determined not to give me a refund for the lesson. We managed about half and hour and he said he would make it up at the next session. I got out of the car and had hardly stood up straight and I was on my back and my head hit the icy pavement with a thud.

I was sure I was out cold, but maybe I had just closed my eyes. My stomach felt slightly nauseous although I was actually very comfortable and surprisingly warm. I was happy to stay there and wait for the instructor to get out of the car and help me up. It was several moments before I realised that the Instructor’s car was not there any more. I blinked a few times to adjust my vision as I had been staring up at the amber street light for some time now and the silhouettes of the two tall figures looming over me were hard to focus on. They reached down with long arms and took mine and lifted me gently to a sitting position, keeping hold of my arms to steady me. I looked up again at them and they still seemed unfeasibly high up above me. I shook my head again and the pain from the knock was suddenly very real. I think I said “I can stand now”, but my voice sounded like I was under water or I had cotton wool in my ears. The two tall figures lifted me up and I took hold of the lamppost to find my feet.

The nausea came back in waves and it hit me with such force this time that I wretched and vomited into the snow filled gutter. More muffled words in my ears and I looked up again to apologise to these two people for showing my thanks for their picking me up by vomiting at their feet. I looked up again and I swear they were as tall as the lamppost, heads blurred by the fog and the amber lights. They, or I, seemed all out of proportion with the world. I heard them speak again, not to me but to each other.

“Take his arms. Pull them off “ she said, with a thick cockney accent.

“Hold him still, then I will,” said him.

This wasn’t right, surely.

It was the next morning and I came to, thankfully in bed, with a lump on the back of my head as big as a duck egg. No blood but a ringing in my ears still which subsided as I turned on the radio and Chris Tarrant’s own version of white noise filled my freezing cold kitchen. Hot milk on cornflakes and a pint mug of tea warmed me up a bit and I decided to throw caution to the winds and run a bath, leaving the fan heater on in the bathroom to take the chill out of the air. My bathroom was up a few stairs at the back of the flat and was almost half a floor higher than the first floor living room. Down below, in the basement flat was Mrs Golder. She was a cautious woman who had bars on all her windows and an iron gate over her door. She was always warning me about my complacency over safety and that I should secure my windows. As it was, the bathroom’s steamy panes were painted shut and without a concern for my security, I slipped into the comforting warm water, draped the hot wet flannel over my face and relaxed.

The snow-covered gardens at the back of Belsize Avenue were bright with the winter sun, which usually rose above the rooftops late morning directly into my bathroom. It was therefore noticeable, even under the face cloth, when it went darker. I rinsed the flannel and used it to wipe the water from my eyes and saw dark shadows blocking the morning light from getting through the fogged up window pane. On one side, a large hand wiped the outside of the windowpane and the dark shadow drew closer to the frosted glass, trying to peer in. It was impossible to make out any features but I could make out two faces. A man’s head framed with a trilby hat and a woman’s, possibly wearing a head scarf. Frozen with fear, I dared not to breath. I heard the same voices I heard last night and it all came back to me. The same muffled voices talking to each other, goading each other to pull off my limbs.

The shadows finally faded away as if slowly walking backwards away from the window. Panicking, I struggled with the latch on the sash window somehow forgetting that it couldn’t be opened. I tottered round to the bedroom and pulled up that sash window. The snow down in the garden had remained largely untouched, except for the prints of a few birds and the neighbour’s cat. The only other marks on the snow were two tracks of footprints leading in a dead straight line right up to the base of the back wall underneath the bathroom window. Just in the one direction, and there was no mistaking the fact that the pair of foot prints were way beyond normal size. They were huge. I was not feeling any better and I lost all co-ordination as I shook with panic. I heard the crunch of snow directly below me and I felt the pressure building up inside my head and the ringing in my ears returning, completely drowning out the radio from the kitchen; just the sound of foot steps on the snow and the buzzing in my ears. It felt like gravity had been increased and the ground rose up to me in slow motion. I fell forward but could not recall hitting the ground.

My sister was sitting by the bed as I woke up, seemingly in hospital. She was crying and called the nurses in to see me when I opened my eyes. Caring, but without any eye contact, the two women lifted me forward slightly and adjusted the pillows behind my head. I could feel the pressure of a great bandage on my head and the urge to scratch my head came almost as soon as I was conscious of its presence. I became more awake as the moments passed and more people came by the bed, looked at me and then walked away again. Margie my sister, still tearful but talking to me now, has a lovely calming voice, I was glad she was there, but wondered what all the fuss was to bring her up from Greenwich.

Her comments helped piece things together for me. I’d had a dreadful illness and the hospital would move me to a rehab ward and she would need to arrange for a carer to help me after this dreadful, dreadful illness. I said I fell and bumped my head and Margie cried some more. “No, really”, I said. “I got out of the Driving Instructor’s car and slipped on the ice”.

Still more tears.

I rested a while and, finding my voice again, I made light of the fact I might have to rearrange my driving test. Margie leant forward and I could see the concern behind the tears.

“You passed your driving test years ago, love. You’ve had a car for years, what driving lessons?”

I rested some more, focused my thoughts and told Margie that I must have banged my head when I fell; I was probably mixed up about some things.

“Two people helped me up but I was……I was for some reason… scared of them”. Uncertain of what I was saying, I adopted that annoying inflection at the end of my sentences, like some Australians do. “I think they followed me home and wanted something from me. Did they take anything? Was I robbed? Is the flat ok?” More tears from our Margie. I just closed my eyes as I had not the energy to move closer to Margie to offer comfort. Seconds later and I was sound asleep.

Awake again and Margie had gone. In her place, a middle-aged man with strong aftershave on said some things to me about an operation. There was a chance of some infection but they were giving me antibiotics, they had put a line up my nose to feed me and a line in my arm to keep me hydrated and this would come out as soon as the OT team had assessed me. He said I would need to learn from scratch but I need not be dependent on carers all my life if I put my mind to it. I said yes and thank you, as if I had been interviewed for a job, and closed my eyes, as I was aware of the dreamy transitory nature of these conscious, delicious moments on Dia-Morphine.

Margie was here again when I next opened my eyes and it felt like another day, she was wearing different clothes and she was not as tearful, but still had great concern in her eyes. She said I was screaming in my sleep and the night staff needed to give me more medication, this was probably why I was so sleepy.

“Something about giants, they said you were saying. Something about giants and your… your legs, love.”

I knew as soon as she said that word that there was something fundamentally wrong – something missing. The amazingly relaxing foggy haze of painkiller had smothered me in a fantastically soft but thick and heavy eiderdown. But as soon as she mentioned my legs I could feel the tingling sensations, the pins and needles and the tightness of the dressings around my thighs. The tingling turned to shooting pain as I realised Margie was staring in my eyes and was refusing to look down at my limbless body. She leant forward and pressed her face to mine and her tears fell between us as she whispered over and over how sorry she was. It dawned on me that the man talking to me earlier was a surgeon and he had been talking about operating on my legs.

After some time, in an attempt to help me recall, Margie told me that Mrs Golder had raised the alarm. My neighbour had called immediately for an ambulance when she heard my screams. Nothing was clear in my own mind, events before and throughout my stay in hospital were very uncertain. It seemed certain that it had been an illness: meningitis. The infection had poisoned my blood and my legs had been removed to save my life, surely this was why I was now without both legs? But I could not get the thoughts of two figures at my bathroom window out of my mind. I saw a psychologist for a few sessions afterwards, but remained tight-lipped during the uncomfortable meetings and after a couple of months, I was discharged from hospital.

It was an unexpected pleasure to get a visit from my old neighbour. I had not been back to my old flat at all after leaving hospital. I had been to North London a few times for more operations and after the wounds had healed – 12 months or so - I was being fitted for prosthetic legs. By the time Mrs Golder came to visit, I was mobile in my electric chair and could manoeuvre around my new home near Greenwich Park pretty well independently and the team of carers had not long stopped. Greenwich seemed a safe enough place. I had never been there before, I knew no one there other than my sister and the river seemed like a moat, deep enough on this stretch to keep the tallest giants out. I was alone when my visitor arrived and was asleep on the sofa when the door bell rang. She brought some flowers and chatted about this and that as she routed through the cupboards in the kitchen for a vase. I could see she was checking the windows and seemed concerned that they were not as secure as they could be. Mrs Golder was polite and comforting and I was pleased she had made the effort to come to Greenwich to see me.

We had some lunch and before Mrs Golder was about to leave, I could see she had something more to say. She had picked up her handbag as if to leave, but then said

“My boy, you need more security. The… People can get in to this place too easily - burglars, that is”. I ignored her peculiar concern for security; she was like this in Belsize Village. Despite me going through all of the hospital experiences, we had skirted round the reason, as if it was not uncommon and quite normal for a guy to loose his legs in such a way. I asked her direct about when it all happened.

She put her bag down. “I called the ambulance, my boy. I knew there was a problem up there because I could hear it all – then I could hear you screaming. These old houses, I never pry but sometimes you can hear what people are saying, especially on the phone. People talk louder on the phone, put on posh voices. I could hear what… I heard you screaming and I was so worried for you, I didn’t know what else to do”. Mrs Golder looked away as if embarrassed and then leant forward and put her hand on my thigh. “I knew they had come for you”.

“The emergency services?” I was confused.

“No, no, no, my boy. Those… there are two of them. I told you time and time again. Your flat was not secure enough. They could get in; they could reach in and get you. Did I not tell you to get bars on them windows enough?” Mrs Golder was getting upset and picked her bag up, but so was I.

“Mrs Golder, I was ill with meningitis, I was confused and delirious, surely there was no one after me? It…it just doesn’t make sense”.

“My boy, London is a very different place these days.” She paused and took breath before continuing and put her bag down. “Neighbours are strangers and relatives don’t live near each other any more. They move away and us older ones, well some of us keep things quiet about what we see about us. It seems not everyone can see them, those giants in Belsize Village.” There was a long silence as I was too uncomfortable for words and I didn’t know how to respond. Perhaps Mrs Golder could read my thoughts as well as listen into my phone conversations. She continued. “Your lovely sister told me, inadvertently, I might add, what you spoke out loud in your sleep in hospital, about giants after your arms and legs. That is what they do my boy”. Mrs Golder picked up her bag again.

A cold shiver came over me. I tried to piece it together for her. “Mrs Golder, as difficult as this is for me, I am resigned to the fact that I no longer have my legs; that I had meningitis and this had poisoned my blood and I had to have my legs removed to save me from the infection. I have been confused about one thing or another and this was why I dreamt, hallucinated about the Giants. I was probably semiconscious in the operating theatre. I’ve read about it, anaesthetists can’t be trusted.” There was nothing for Mrs Golder to say to this, just a polite shaking of her head and the look of pity in her eyes as she looked down at the bag in her hands.

“Mrs Golder, I wish my sister was here because I have only ever told her about the Giants. It was the meningitis, it was the infection that caused all of this, wasn’t it?”. I was raising my voice and she put down her bag to calm me down.

“Shush, shush, my boy. When did you first see them? Think, because they have been here a very long time and they don’t forget. It wouldn’t take them long to get to Greenwich. Think back.”

“I told Margie that I slipped on the ice when I finished a driving lesson and there was two tall people who helped me up. But Mrs Golder, I took my driving lessons in 1990, I’ve been driving for years, this happened the day before I must have become unwell”.

“I told you, these two go back a long way. It was snowing last January; it was snowing at the beginning of 1990. It was the last time that London was cold enough for the snow to stay for days. Where did you learn to drive?”

“I took lessons from the BSM office on Camden High Street, my first few lessons where around Arlington Road”. My mouth was dry and I was scared again.

“My boy, don’t you see, this is when they first saw you all vulnerable on the ice way back in 1990. There are probably other times you have had encounters with them”.

“But this is crazy, its like some Hammer horror film come to life - there are no Giants in Belsize Village”.

“It’s real enough, my boy. They are very real, but you try telling anyone about it. You’d be put in Friern Barnet. Listen, this may be before your time, there was a vegetable stall on Plender street, old Italian family had it, he was a nice man but, ‘pht’, he was gone and his no good brother took it over, business nearly closed down. The brother was found on the streets with his legs gone, pulled off. Papers said it was a gang-related crime. He died, bled to death.

Mrs Golder picked up and opened her bag and pulled out a handkerchief, patted her nose with it and continued. “Then there was a hippy couple in a house on Baynes Mews. Mrs Rosen who lives in the same road, said it was the drugs as well, but he was carted off to the asylum, said he was insane because of the drugs and had cut her arms off, but she had been telling people about the ‘giants’. I don’t know where she ended up, never saw her again and the house was empty for years afterwards. You don’t remember do you?” Mrs Golder was emboldened by all the revelations she had told me about. “Your… your legs were already gone before you got to the hospital. I saw this myself. ”

The shaking was almost uncontrollable, I began to sweat and phantom pains began to irritate me. Despite this, I was unable to disregard what the old woman was saying. Mrs Golder had called the ambulance and she had been interviewed by the police, but it became evident that she was unable to tell them what had happened for fear of reprisals. She continued and told me that I was found naked on the snow in the back garden, not inside my flat, and my legs were gone, just pulled off. Regardless of my living in Greenwich now, she told me I was still at risk and I should get bars fitted over the windows straight away.

She asked if I could recall anything more about it. I closed my eyes and let those impossible thoughts I suppress every day float up into my consciousness. Mrs Golder put her bag down and took my hand as I told her there were two of them.

“A man and a woman, so tall, maybe 14 or 15 feet. I can’t recall any features, their faces, but they had musty old clothes, dirty suits or coats that were old fashioned, from the 30’s or 40’s”.

The old lady sighed and nodded a little as if recognising these creatures. I told her that possibly back in 1990, the giants had picked me up after falling on the ice in Camden; that I might have seen them, or their silhouette crossing the foggy windows of the launderette in the village; that I had seen them whilst on the heath lurking under a bridge late at night; that I had heard their foot steps coming awkwardly down the stairs of Belsize tube station and finally, that they had approached the flat from the back and had looked in through the bathroom window the day they finally got me.

“They have you marked, my boy. It is not safe and you must protect yourself. They know you and they will just know where to find you and they will come when you’re not expecting it and finish you off”.

Mrs Golder placed her hand on my shoulder and urged me not to delay about the windows and she took an envelope out of her handbag and left it on the side table in the hall. She said she hoped this did not offend me, but it was all she could do in return for not saying anything sooner. I offered her little comfort in saying that it was highly unlikely I would have believed her. I thanked her for her effort to come and see me and I wondered if I would see her again.

“Are you safe enough, Mrs Golder?” I was concerned momentarily that she was still living in Belsize village.

“Thank you, love. I am safe enough, though tend not to go out as much at night as I used to, but there are some ordinary reasons for that, it is London after all and I am almost in my 80s”. Saying goodbye, Mrs Golder’s eyes fell towards my legs and looked away quickly as she closed the door behind her.

When Margie called round to see me that evening, I told her that my old neighbour had come to visit me and that she had left me some money to pay for window bars to protect me in my home. Margie was in the kitchen making herself a mug of tea. She returned and shot me a sisterly look of concern, pulling her chair closer to me.

“Look, see yourself, that envelope on the table in the hall” I said. I had only glanced at it after the old woman had left. Margie sat down pulling the contents of the envelope out on to her lap. A bundle of £20 notes, maybe two or three thousand pounds and a few old photos. Margie looked at the photos and passed them over without saying a word.

The photographs, all had Mrs Golder in them I assumed, as she had hardly changed her hair style over the decades yet she seemed typical of the time in each photo. The first one, there were three of them, was taken a long time ago when Mrs Golder was a young lady and has a young man on her arm. The print was about 8” by 4” and was crimped around the edges. The second was maybe taken in the late 60’s judging by the clothes and beside the same couple was a young boy. It was matt finished and about 4” square and the colour was slightly fading. The third photo looked like the 80’s, it was of the same couple, aged and more like the woman when I met her, but in a wheel chair just in front of Mrs Golder sat a young man who had no legs. In all three photographs and too tall to fit in the frame was the giant couple. They seemed to be wearing the same clothes and linking arms in the same pose in each. Despite the time difference between each photo the giants stood out of time somehow behind Mr & Mrs Golder, like opening the same locked room in each photo. It was as if Mrs Golder had returned to some familiar and well-loved home and immortalised the occasion each time with a photograph. The Giants must have been at least twice the size of Mrs Golder, whose expression in each photo was that of abject fear.

My sister kissed me and pulled the door closed behind her. She blocked the evening sun slightly as she passed the front window and turned towards the busy Trafalgar Road. As I turned my chair towards the hall table where Mrs Golder’s envelope sat, the living room became suddenly darkened, as if time had sped up and pulled time forward half an hour towards dusk. I looked back towards the window and saw the two huge figures bending down to peer through the nets and large clumsy fingers pulled at the sash windows. The brass catch on each one pinged off and flew on to the wooden floor with a shocking din. They pulled up the windows and the evening air blew up the net curtains to reveal the grey complexion of the male giant, as he reached in with a long arm towards me.

New Name

2010-10-27T07:33:00.000+01:00

The Docker has relaunched this site and is less likely to publish journals, as he does this somewhere else (where they are read!) and this site will be just for the short stories.

The Giants of Belsize Village

2010-10-12T08:23:00.000+01:00

This tall tale has two endings and you are invited to comment and let me decide which one is best.

Snow had been thick on the ground for almost a week along the back roads off Camden High Street, not even turned to slush yet, almost uniform white and too frozen still for the Council gritters to have made a difference. The nights had been so cold. Snow iced up and then even more snow fell. On top of that, a thick fog had smothered everything. It was in these conditions that I had started my driving lessons. I had had two sessions so far and this one was pointless. The Instructor made me drive gingerly up Robert Street, round the back of Mornington Crescent and then asked me to park up as close to the back of the Driving School office as possible, somewhere along Arlington Road. We went through the road signs in the book, determined not to give me a refund for the lesson, we managed about half and hour and he said he would make it up at the next session. I got out of the car and had hardly stood up straight and I was on my back and my head hit the icy pavement with a thud.

I was sure I was out cold, but maybe I had just closed my eyes. I was sick in my stomach with nausea although I was actually very comfortable and surprisingly warm. I was happy to stay there and wait for the instructor to get out of the car and help me up. It was few more moments before I realised that the Instructor’s car was not there any more. I blinked a few times to adjust my vision as I had been staring up at the amber street light for some time now and the silhouettes of the two tall figures looming over me were hard to focus on. They reached down with long arms and took mine and lifted me gently to a sitting position, keeping hold my arms to steady me. I looked up again at them and they still seemed unfeasibly high up above me. I shook my head again and the pain from the knock was very real. I think I said I could stand now, but I sounded like I was under water or had cotton wool in my ears. The two tall figures lifted me up to my feet and I took hold of the lamppost to help me find my feet.

The nausea came back in waves and it hit me with some force this time that I wretched and vomited into the snow filled gutter. More muffled words in my ears and I looked up again to apologise to these two people for picking me up for showing my thanks by vomiting at their feet. I looked up again and I swear they were as tall as the lamppost, heads blurred by the fog and the amber lights. They, or I seemed all out of proportion with the world. I heard them speak again, not to me but to each other.

“Take his arms. Pull them off “ she said, with a thick Cockney accent.

“Hold him still, then I will,” said him.

This wasn’t right, surely.

It was the next morning and I came to thankfully in bed with a lump on the back of my head as big as a duck egg. No blood but a ringing in my ears still but less muffled as I turned on the radio and Chris Tarrant’s own version of white noise filled my freezing cold kitchen. Hot milk on cornflakes and a pint mug of tea warmed me up a bit and I decided to blow caution to the wind and run a bath and leave the fan heater on in the bathroom to take the chill out of the air. My bathroom was up a few stairs at the back of the flat and was almost half a floor higher than the first floor that my living room was on. Down below, in the basement flat was Mrs Golder. She was a cautious woman who had bars on all her windows and an iron gate over her door. She was always warning me about my complacency over safety and I should secure my windows. As it was, the bathroom’s steamy windows were painted shut and without a concern about my security, I slipped into the comforting warm water, draped the hot wet flannel over my face and relaxed.

The snow-covered gardens at the back of Belsize Avenue were bright with the winter sun, which usually rose above the rooftops late morning and directly into my bathroom. It was therefore noticeable, even under the face cloth, when it went darker. I rinsed the flannel and used it to wipe the water from my eyes and saw dark shadows blocking the morning light from getting through the fogged up window pane. On one side, a large hand wiped the outside of the windowpane and the dark shadow drew closer to the frosted glass, trying to peer in. It was impossible to make out any features but I could make out two faces, one man and one woman, and frozen with fear, I dared not to breath. I then heard the same voices I heard last night and it all came back to me. The same muffled voices talking to each other, goading each other to pull off my limbs.

The shadows at the window finally faded away as if slowly walking backwards away from the window. Panicking, struggled with the latch on the sash window somehow forgetting that it couldn’t be opened. I tottered round to the bedroom and pulled up that sash window. The snow down in the garden had remained largely untouched, except for the prints of a few birds and the neighbour’s cat. The only other marks on the snow were two tracks of footprints leading in a dead straight line right up to the base of the back wall underneath the bathroom window. Just in the one direction, and with no mistake in seeing that the pair of foot prints were way beyond normal size, they were huge. I was not feeling any better and I lost all co-ordination as I shook with panic. I heard the crunch of snow directly below me and I felt as if the pressure was building up inside my head and the ringing in my ears, completely drowning out the radio from the kitchen, just the sound of foot steps on the snow and the buzzing in my ears and it felt like gravity had been increased and the ground rose up to me in slow motion. I fell forward but could not recall hitting the ground.

My sister was sat by the bed as I woke up, seemingly in hospital. She was crying and called the nurses into see me when I opened my eyes. Caring, but without any eye contact, the two women lifted me forward slightly and adjusted the pillows behind my head. I could feel the pressure of a great bandage on my head and the urge to itch my head came almost as soon as I was conscious of its presence. I became more awake as the moments passed and more people came by the bed, looked at me and then walked away again. Maggie my sister, still tearful but talking to me now, has a lovely calming voice, I was glad she was there, but wondered what the fuss was to bring her up from Greenwich.

Still more tears.

I rested a while and finding my voice again, I made light of the fact I might have to rearrange my driving test. Margie leant forward and I could see the concern behind the tears.

“You passed your driving test years ago, love. You’ve had a car for years, what driving lessons?”

I rested some more, focused my thoughts and told Margie that I must have banged my head when I fell; I was probably mixed up about some things.

“Two people helped me up but I was, I was for some reason scared of them”. Uncertain of what I was saying, I adopted that annoying inflection at the end of my sentences, like some Australians do. “I think they followed me home and wanted something from me. Did they take anything? Was I robbed? Is the flat ok?” More tears from our Margie. I just closed my eyes as I had not the energy to move closer to Maggie to offer comfort. Seconds later and I was sound asleep.

Awake again and Margie had gone. In her place, a middle-aged man with strong aftershave on said some things to me about an operation. There was a chance of some infection but they were giving me antibiotics, they had put a line up my nose to feed me and a line in my arm to keep me hydrated and this would come out as soon as the OT team had assessed me. He said I would need to learn from scratch but I need not be dependent on carers all my life if I put my mind to it. I said yes and thank you, as if I had been interviewed for a job and closed my eyes, as I was aware of the dreamy transitory nature of these conscious delicious moments on dy-morphine.

“Something about giants, they said you were saying. Something about giants and your… your legs, love.”

I knew as soon as she said that word that there was something fundamentally wrong – something missing. The amazingly relaxing foggy haze of painkiller had comforted me as if smothered in a fantastically soft but thick and heavy eiderdown. But as soon as she mentioned my legs I could feel the tingling sensations, the pins and needles and the tightness of the dressings around my thighs. The tingling turned to shooting pain as I realised Margie was staring in my eyes and was refusing to look down at my limbless body. She leant forward and pressed her face to mine and her tears fell between us as she whispered over and over how sorry she was. It dawned on me that the man talking to me earlier was a surgeon and he had been talking about operating on my legs.

After some time, in an attempt to help me recall, Margie told me that Mrs Golder had raised the alarm. My neighbour had called immediately for an ambulance when she heard my screams. Nothing was clear in my own mind, events before and throughout my stay in hospital was very uncertain. I seemed sure that it had been an illness, meningitis. The infection had poisoned my blood and my legs had been removed to save my life, surely this was why I was now without both legs. But I could not get the thoughts of two figures at my bathroom window out of my mind. I saw a psychologist for a few sessions afterwards, but remained tight-lipped during the uncomfortable meetings and after a couple of months, I was discharged from hospital.

It was an unexpected pleasure to get a visit from my old neighbour. I had not been back to my old flat at all after leaving hospital. I had been to London a few times for more operations and after the wounds had healed – 12 months or so - I was being fitted for prosthetic legs. By the time Mrs Golder came to visit, I was mobile in my electric chair and could manoeuvre around the flat pretty well independently and the team of carers had not long stopped. I was alone when my visitor arrived. She brought some flowers and chatted about this and that as she routed through the cupboards in the kitchen for a vase. I could see she was checking the windows and seemed concerned that they were not as secure as they could be. She was polite and comforting and I was pleased she had made the effort to come to Greenwich to see me.

We had some lunch and before Mrs Golder was about to leave, I could see she had something more to say. She had picked up her handbag as if to leave, but then said

“You need more security. The… People can get in to this place too easily - burglars, that is”. I ignored her peculiar concern for security; she was like this in Belsize Village. Despite me going through all of the hospital experiences, we had skirted round the reason, as if it was not uncommon and quite normal for a guy to loose his legs in such a way. I asked her direct about when it all happened.

“The emergency services?” I was confused.

“Mrs Golder, I was ill with meningitis, I was confused and delirious, surely there was no one after me. It, it just doesn’t make sense”.

“London is a very different place these days.” She paused and took breath before continuing and put her bag down. “Neighbours are strangers and relatives don’t live near each other any more. They move away and us older ones, well some of us keep things quiet about what we see about us. Seemingly not everyone can see them, those giants in Belsize Village.” There was some silence as I was too uncomfortable for words and I didn’t know how to respond. Perhaps Mrs Golder could read my thoughts as well as listen into my phone conversations. She continued. “Your lovely sister told me, inadvertently, I might add, what you spoke out loud in your sleep in hospital, about giants after your arms and legs. That is what they do my boy”. Mrs Golder picked up her bag again.

A cold shiver came over me. I tried to piece it together for her. “Mrs Golder, as difficult as this is for me, I am resigned to the fact that I no longer have my legs, that I had meningitis and this had poisoned my blood and I had to have my legs removed to save me from the infection. I have been confused about one thing or another and this was why I dreamt, hallucinated about the Giants. I was probably semiconscious in the operating theatre. I’ve read about it, anaesthetists can’t be trusted.” There was nothing for Mrs Golder to say to this, just a polite shaking of her head and the look of pity in her eyes as she looked down at the bag in her hands.

“Shush, shush, my boy. When did you first see them? Think, because they have been here a very long time and they don’t forget. It wouldn’t take them long to get to Greenwich. Think back.”

“I took lessons from the BSM office on Camden High Street, my first few lessons where around Arlington Road”. My mouth was dry and was scared again.

“My boy, don’t you see, this is when they first saw you all vulnerable on the ice way back in 1990. There are probably other times you have had encounters with them”.

“But this is crazy, its like some Hammer horror film come to life - there are no Giants in Belsize Village”.

“It’s real enough, my boy. They are very real, but you try telling anyone about it. You’d be put in Friern Barnet. Listen, this maybe before your time, there was a stallholder on Plender street, old Italian family had it, he was a nice man but, ‘pht’, he was gone and his no good brother took it over, business nearly closed down. The brother was found on the streets with his legs gone, pulled off. Papers said it was a gang-related crime. He died, bled to death.

The shaking was almost uncontrollable, I began to sweat and phantom pains began to irritate me. Despite this, I was unable to disregard what the old woman was saying. Mrs Golder had called the ambulance and she had been interviewed by the police, but it became evident that she was unable to tell them what had happened for fear or reprisals. She continued and told me that I was found naked on the snow in the back garden, not inside my flat, and my legs were gone, just pulled off. Regardless of my living in Greenwich now, she told me I am still at risk and I should get bars fitted over the windows straight away.

She asked if I could recall anything more about it. I closed my eyes and let those impossible thoughts I suppress every day to float up into my consciousness. Mrs Golder put her bag down and took my hand as I told her there were two of them.

“A man and a woman so tall, maybe 14 or 15 feet. I can’t recall any features, their faces, but they had musty old clothes, dirty suits or coats that were old fashioned, from the 30’s or 40’s”.

The old lady sighed and nodded a little as if recognising these creatures. I told her that possibly back in 1990, the giants had picked me up after falling on the ice in Camden; that I might have seen them, or their silhouette crossing the foggy windows of the Launderette in the village; that I had seen them when on the heath lurking under a bridge late at night; that I had heard their foot steps coming awkwardly down the stairs of Belsize tube station and finally, that they had approached the flat from the back and had looked in through the bathroom window the day they finally got me.

“They have you marked, my boy. It is not safe and you must protect yourself. They know you and they will just know where to find you and they will come when you least expect it and finish you off”.

“Are you safe enough, Mrs Golder?” I was concerned momentarily that she was still living in Belsize village.

“Thank you, love. I am safe enough, though tend not to go out as much at night as I used to, but there are some ordinary reasons for that, it is London after all and I am almost in my 80s”. Mrs Golder smiled and closed the door behind her.

When Margie called round to see me that evening, I told her that my old neighbour had come to visit me and that she had left me some money to pay for window bars to protect me in my home. Margie was in the kitchen making herself a mug of tea returned and shot me a sisterly look of concern, she pulled my chair closer to me.

“Look see yourself, that envelope on the table in the hall” I said. I had only glanced at it after the old woman had left. Margie sat down pulling the contents of the envelope out on to her lap. A bundle of £20 notes may be two or three thousand pounds and a few old photos. Margie looked at the photos and passed them over without saying a word.

The photographs, all with Mrs Golder in them I assumed as she had hardly changed her hair style over the decades, she seemed typical of the time in each photo. The first one, there were three of them, was taken a long time ago when Mrs Golder was young lady and has a young man on her arm. The print was about 8” by 4” and was crimped around the edges. The second was maybe taken in the late 60’s by the clothes and beside the same couple was a young boy. It was matt finished and about 4” square and the colour was slightly fading. The third photo was of the same couple, aged and more like the woman I knew, but in a wheel chair just in front of Mrs Golder sat a young man who had no legs. In all three photographs and too tall to fit in the frame was the giant couple. They seem to be wearing the same clothes and linking arms in the same pose in each, despite the time difference and they stood behind Mr & Mrs Golder. It was as if Mrs Golder had returned to some a familiar and well-loved destination and immortalised the occasion each time with a photograph. The Giants must have been at least twice the size of Mrs Golder, whose expression in each photo was that of abject fear.

Ending 1

I was able to find a company to make and install iron grills for my windows within a few weeks of Mrs Golder’s visit and was starting a course of psychoanalysis to help me make sense of the chaos, confusion and bereavement since the loss of my legs. Yes, bereavement, I really suffered at the loss of those fine stout poles that kept me upright and moving. I still have doubts about what has happened and my psychotherapist understands not to doubt me too much if I am adamant that two Giants from Belsize Village maybe lurking outside my bedroom windows late at night to take my arms, having already taken my legs, or if I concede that it was meningitis that had affected my brain as well as taking my legs.

I may now be a fair way from Belsize Village and surround myself with family and friends and work as hard as I can to put those events into perspective, but I still have three photographs at the back of a drawer that prove to me that I have a right to remain fearful of the Giants of Belsize Village.

Ending 2

My sister put the photos back into the envelope of cash and finding little more to discuss with me, she gathered her stuff together and made as if to go.

“It seemed best not to mention them, it was so unreal, I felt so uneasy thinking I would bring you through it again”.

“Margie, its alright now I know for sure. I can get on with things. It won’t happen again, I know it. Listen, most ground floor flats in Southeast England have bars on the windows because of one thing or another, why not keep the giants out as well as the burglars!”

Bam Thwok

2010-10-05T04:30:00.001+01:00

Should be a good night, good bands and fine folk to dance with

Spent the weekend in London, called the old folks a few times and ma wasn't liking the dark, wet weather. She said she had the lights on during the day! I had the lights off on Saturday as I was a little hung over from having a few drinkies after work.
It had been some people's birthday some time ago, so it was an excuse to go out on a Friday night just after payday. I was with my manager, her manager and a few other colleagues from the office, including one of the people from head office in Hounslow, who made a gallant effort to join in.
We went to The Hide Bar on Bermondsey St, and despite several efforts to suggest karaoke somewhere, we stayed there until 10-ish and then caught a cab towards Smithfield Market, which was fine for me as Steve lives near by and I was staying there.
The Hide bar was incredibly pricy (its hardly West End) and the other place we went to was hardly any better, but it was a surprise to learn why someone had suggested we go there. It turned out that another of my colleagues from work was working there, or was helping out with her partner. The customers were mainly Turkish and the music was modern dancey Turkish stuff, which ain't my cup of tea.

Saturday, we did some shopping up The Angel and Chapel Market, browsed around the Criterion auction rooms. We came over to my place on Sunday so as to be here for the plumber/electrician who are booked in to repair my hot water tank, which has not been working properly since June!

As I type, the plumber has just called to say, he might not bother coming out until the sparky has been, but he is in Croydon and there is traffic and there is a tube strike. Its going to be a complete waste of time!

Tzardif Was An Alien

2010-09-29T09:11:00.001+01:00

“Age was difficult to determine” said the coroner presiding over his inquest in 1971 and immediately drew a cover over the proceedings as soon as they saw the corpse.  It was something about “protection of the public”.  Even in life, the living Tzardif was a difficult bloke to age.  Not only was he hard to approach, he shied away from folk as best he could, but a bloke has to eat.  In actuality, our man was probably born in 1920 or thereabouts, and I have a good reliable source who tells me Tzardif was born of poor country people on the southern Polish region Zaglebie Dabrowskie which is actually a desert.  Like all the Shepherd folk who would scrape a living on the edges of this scrubland, the locals cursed his mother after being caught with her knickers down.  Not so dissimilar to the folk on Albion Street in 1971.
Tzardif had a difficult childhood as a consequence of his parents being ostracized from their kin and he was eventually left outside an orphanage aged about 18 months and his parents where never seen again.  Life in the orphanage was dull.  He went by following the routine, unremarkable in his achievements and unnoticed by most, he lived without making any friends and this rarely caused him concern.
But, at the age of 7, Tzardif brought notoriety upon himself.  He took it upon himself to walk through the school gate, which was usually locked and wandered into the woods. He tripped on his laces and banged his head on a tree stump, which was covered in a vermillion fungus.  Dazed, the boy made his way back and stumbled into the orphanage, damp and bedraggled with a few cuts and bruises. It was difficult for the boy to understand the concern and amazement from the priests and news soon spread to the orphans and the folk from the village, for he had been gone a year to the day.
To the Priests in the orphanage he was the same boy, he had not aged, or so they thought and he was wearing the same clothes.  Tzardif thought he had been gone an hour or so but the amazed priests soon became angry and accused the boy of the same witchery as his mother.  What happened to the boy is still not known, though some of the other orphans believe he had not been missing for a year at all.  Some believed the boy had been held captive by one of the more violent priests, but others said they had never noticed the boy before and didn’t know his name.  Was he new?
Tzardif was soon dispatched to rid the establishment of this unwanted notoriety and he was sent to the north and placed into the to a family of a seaman in Danzig and before you knew it, he was living the life of a merchant sailor.  Barely in his teens and living life below decks.
This quiet and dull boy turned into an unremarkable and ungainly young man, with just enough knowse about him to get by in the claustrophobic world on board ship and Tzardif worked the merchant ships long the ports of northern Europe and further a field. Never one to leave the confines of the ship when in port, the fellow crew members soon got used to this land-shy sailor and left him to his own devices.  There was another curiosity aboard ship, however, and one that no one managed to connect with Tzardif.  This ship, or for that matter, any ship that Tzardif worked on, was amazingly rodent free.
Things changed somewhat when war broke out.  Unbeknownst to Tzardif and being the simple chap he was, he let it break out around him and he just got on with life as a sailor as best he could, that is until his ship was caught in the sights of a German U-Boat in the North Sea and was sunk.  Tzardif and some of his crew were rescued cold and shivering by a British navy vessel and were brought to London.
So, the south east of London was where he stayed for twenty years or so, picking up enough English to get by and earning a living as best he could in what was left of the Surrey Docks after the war.  He blended well into his surroundings of the dirty red brick terraced houses and tenement buildings in and around the isolated peninsular of Rotherhithe. In all this time, Tzardif had not made any friends amongst his fellow workers, nor with the other dinners in the café on Albion Street, where he ate every evening, nor with the other drinkers in the Cock & Monkey around the corner from his lodgings. He sat in the corner constantly bathed in a blue haze as he chain smoked. His gestures where almost elegant as he would sweep up the pack of cigarettes from the table, tap one out and light it, all seemingly in one dramatic movement, holding his head back for the first drag and slowly exhaling the smoke into a shroud over himself.
During the summer months, Tzardif sat in Southwark Park on Sunday afternoons, as mums or nannies pushed children in shiny prams.  One Summer afternoon, two mums stopped to chat in front of Tzardif and a small boy sat eating an ice-cream staring at the man on the bench.  The two women were oblivious to the man on the bench but the boy was more aware and smiled as the strange man’s face seemed to inch closer to the boy, yet seemed to slowly fade into the background.  Tzardif’s eyes were fixed on the ice-cream and steadied himself and then in a split second, Tzardif opened his mouth and his tongue shot out and enveloped the ice-cream as it was removed it from the young boy’s grasp and it was back in Tzardif’s mouth before the boy reacted as best a young child can and burst into stinging tears and cries.
Completely unawares, the mother looked round and comforted her child, looked at the odd man on the bench, who seemed to be swallowing something and pushed the pram away muttering disapproval but without really knowing what had just happened.
During these years Tzardif was working long hours in a bakers on Bermondsey Street, he would always walk home along Jamaica Road and hang his old navy great coat on the hooks on the back of the door along side the skin he shed once a year during the hot summer months. Tzardif had somehow managed to keep this a secret throughout his life.  It was a difficult process that required some time, about 2 or 3 days in all and he would stay in his room, managing to get by without food for this time and worry about his absence from work. This was usually the time when his foreman would actually notice Tzardif, by his absence and would regard him on his return, with suspicion, that he had somehow changed, if he had actually paid any attention to quiet Polish man, that is.
So Tzardif Dyskynyzych shed his skin once a year and hung it up on the back of the door for a while, dried it out then threw it on the fire.  If anyone was to see Tzardif sitting there in the quiet in his room, they would see him move with the careful movements of a chameleon, with wide sweeping movements of his arms and tongue extending out to taste the dusty smoky air. Rarely ever exposing his body even in the privacy of his room, he would cool down in his vest and pants and Tzardif would almost disappear, as his skin had the ability of blending into the dull brown austere surroundings of his room above the grocers.
The weather-worn face was hard and red and round and was shaved daily. On this day in 1971, his hand clutched the razor as he stared into the small shaving mirror on the wall and the exaggerated movements of his hands waved the blade here and there and finally resting on to his neck, he would find the wherewithal to bring it up across the stubbled neck, rinse it in the bowl and maneuver the blade across his neck again. Pausing to steady himself in the mirror, Tzardif repeated the action one last time, tilting the blade to cut through his skin.
As was said already, a coroner investigated his death, and the conclusion was an open verdict with the details of his demise, a badly kept secret to the people along Albion Street.  It was the landlord, who broke the door down when the rent wasn’t paid.  In the gloom of the upstairs room, he pulled the curtains open, which blew up the dust of the skins, which had fallen from the hooks behind the door.  The dusty bare floor boards, were brown and dry.  A large papery husk by the sink noticeable by a shiny blade glinting in the light from the window, the landlord walked over to see the shriveled remains layered in many skins dried and cracked, layer upon layer and within, a small dead boy.
The coroner found within these skins the almost perfectly preserved remains of a small boy, no more than 7 or 8 years of age and quite dead.  In his hand he clutched a cut throat razor blade and on his neck was a cut, deep into the vein, although there was not much blood from this wound.  In bare room, the police found little to identify the Polish man who had lived there, nor the small boy.  Besides the bed and small table next to it, there was just a table and chair next to a small fireplace, a cupboard with a few yellowing shirts and vests and on the wall hung a small crucifix and small colour calendar in polish, dated 1951.
The local police investigations revealed that no one could actually picture the Polish man. The café owner knew he ate liver and onions and could say he paid his bill no problem, but he could not picture his face. “Y’know, he was Polish wasn’t he?  He looked Polish, then”.  None of the blokes with whom he worked with could do any better.  His foreman could recall the absent days once a year, but other than that, was non the wiser as to his appearance.  “It was best to keep this quiet”, the copper said.  “It would be bad for business”, said the grocer. And the coroner felt that it would not be good to reveal that the authorities had left a small child to fend for itself in the borough, regardless of the circumstances, which still puzzled everyone who saw the corpse and the skins in the dusty, dark room.  The indifference people had shown to the man on their street and the strange manner in which he had died had left pang of guilt so they kept this one quiet, didn’t want to be seen as neglectful of him, well, he was an alien after all, wasn’t really one of them, was he?

David Bowie - Five Years

2010-09-24T13:01:00.001+01:00

Diary

2010-09-21T22:06:00.000+01:00

22nd September 1995

Room - Wendy $72
Food - Wendy $20
Food - Tony P $50
Drinks - Michael $22

Car Hire - Michael $5233 (cc) (? could be $52.33)

at the Wiakiki horrid. Down to Tony Roma's for supper. To Bed - MK wanted to go out and was grumpy. Tony couldn't sleep and Wendy was comatose.

Diary extract from filofax which used to belong to Steven Petit.

1917 - David Bowie

2010-09-17T15:35:00.000+01:00

David Bowie's b side of Thursday's Child single has been remixed and extended by The Docker himself

"My Life Flashing Before My Eyes"

2010-09-07T22:04:00.001+01:00

Pink: Past and Present trailer from first take on Vimeo.

The Docker noticed a link from an old scouse pal's Facebook page, there are a few of The Docker's old associates in this clip.

Its a Dogs Life

2010-09-06T18:07:00.000+01:00

Fair and Bright on Greenland Dock

2010-08-31T08:59:00.000+01:00

Greenland Dock 0856hrs 30th August 2010

MOVIES4MEN - Not what it sounds like

2010-07-28T22:11:00.002+01:00

The Docker has wanted to talk about this for some time, but real life sometimes gets in the way. So it is only on occasion that he sits in front of the TV, one size too big for the room, and flicks through the channels, the next most popular pastime, after Football he supposes.

Not one to be a slave to convention, but hounded constantly by cold calling Sky telesales people to get him to subscribe to the movies or sports channels, The Docker is content to see whatever films come up on the 'other channels'. It is a couple of these channels that have caught his eye. After waking with a Hangover on Sunday morning last, The Docker watched part of sci-fi film, seemingly set in some Texan or New Mexican ranch, where the family is visited by an appallingly amateurish stop-motion animated alien, who skates across the screen completely oblivious to the images he is superimposed over. Then, some device seemingly made with some gadgets taped together with a couple of antennae which can partly burn through a bedroom door and is described as being the baddie, just in case the viewer was unable to deduce this. Then the whole ranch is pulled through a space/time continuum, leaving a little girl and her mum stranded in time/space. Meanwhile, another plasticine monster with stuck on glass bead eyes appears for no explained reason and chases after a horse. Following reunion with the daughter and mum, who sounded like she had been brainwashed by a cult, the whole family pointed in the direction of a new civilisation, probably near Albuquerque. The Docker was agog throughout the whole thing.

This was on 'movies4men' on channel 323, with another movies4men2 channel and the ubiquitous +1 channels showing the same content and hour later. All show movies of unbelievable hammy-ness. Some are so bad AND old, the video transfer looks sometimes like a VHS copy of the movie, with a bit of cricket taped over the end of the film, but as no one watches them, these things go unnoticed. I would imagine that the newer movies went straight to Video and DVD but it is worth checking the listings or the website as there are some gems to be found.

The other two are The Horror Channels, same format, but just cheesey horror genre films.

http://www.movies4men.co.uk/

Photo Archive No.5

2010-07-28T05:56:00.000+01:00

Stained Glass Window in a mausoleum, somewhere in Paris, 2008

One More Thing...

2010-07-27T20:16:00.000+01:00

I Kissed A Squirrel* And I liked it

* requires the American pronunciation

Ship & Handbag Returns

2010-07-26T08:00:00.000+01:00

Drag at The Ship & Handbag

To mark the 40th Birthday of John, The Ship & Whale's landlord, he threw a private party friends and relatives and decorated the place generously with Drag Queens.

It was the first time in 20 years that Lola Lasagna had performed at the pub and The Duchess, who is usually found at the George & Dragon on Blackheath Road most Sundays said it was amazing what you could do with a 'bleachy mop'.

A free bar until after the Drag and then a cold buffet kept people going until 5am (for some folk).

The Railway Children

2010-07-22T08:24:00.001+01:00

There is no shame in having a children's film as one's favorite, especially if that film is the classic The Railway Children. The Docker was at the theatre last night to see the stage version performed on the old Eurostar platforms of Waterloo station. With the audience on opposite sides looking down onto a track with 2 platforms and 3 flat trucks moving stage pieces and actors on and off the performance area, the real stars were the original engine and carriage from the film, which carried the 'old gentleman' to London where the Children sent their love to their absent father.

Having seen the film many times, The Docker can confirm that show drew heavily from this and was mainly an edit of the original film script with the all of the children, Bobby, Phyllis & Peter, all played by actors too old to be believable, addressing the audience directly from time to time when it was necessary to suspend belief even further. Despite this, The Docker's companion can confirm that he wept like a girl at various times during the show. The steam engine appeared at the end of the first half to mild applause from the audience and the grand first class carriage only showed itself to one half of the audience at the end of the show itself.

As the show was performed along an area relatively thin but long at about 35 meters, the producers made good use of sound technology to ensure the audience followed the actors and sounds as they ran from one end of 'Oakworth Station' to the other. Speakers above the stage ran the full length and where active only when the actors where directly below them. During the scenes where The Children wave to the passing 9.15 train to London, the audience were assisted in this make believe with a fast moving smoke machine just out of view under the platforms and the magnificent surround sounds of the steam engines rumbling past from one end to the other, a trick that David Bowie might have used for performances of Station to Station, maybe.

The production coincides with the 40th anniversary of the film's first release and there is a commemorative book and DVD release of the film available. The Docker will have these in his possession fairly soon.
Click the link to see pictures and video of the show.
http://www.railwaychildrenwaterloo.com/home/photographs/

No Sign of Shirley Bassey Anywhere

2010-07-21T08:07:00.000+01:00

The Docker in Kennington Park last night with Austrian pals Annette & Harry and Gordon. The Docker was unaware that The Austrians were in town and literally bumped into them on Tooley Street the day before and arranged to meet up with Gordon and have a few drinks. Later, a slow and for Annette, a painful stroll (new shoes) to Gordon's lovely garden for a Campari cocktail.

Girls On Top Interview

2010-07-18T12:53:00.000+01:00

One Eye Grey: 8 (still) Out Now!

2010-07-18T09:06:00.001+01:00

The Docker's contribution, "THE LIZARD MAN OF ROTHERHITHE" is in the latest edition of One Eye Grey - A Penny Dreadful for the 21st Century - and can be bought from the following site...

http://www.fandmpublications.co.uk/

At this site The Docker recommends any of the other publications, London Walks and such stuff.

One Eye Grey: 8

Nigel of Bermondsey's

LONDON DREAM TIME

Available online from HMV or Amazon

http://www.pure-mint.com/artists/NigelOfB.html

Live Aid: Wembley Philadelphia & Balham

2010-07-15T22:27:00.001+01:00

25th Anniversary this week to remind us of our age and guilt, maybe that we are still witnessing famine somewhere in the world. Bob and Bono are still doing their bit and Live 8 seems not to have acquired any of the naive pathos that Live Aid and the whole Bob and Midge thing seems to have. For different reasons, The Docker supposes. Anyhow...

The Docker went to Wembley for the Live Aid concert with friend Sue. Somehow caught up in the emotionally charged intentions of a few pop starts that he had a passing regard for, he was more interested in seeing David Bowie again. Prior to heading out to sea, The Docker lived near Liverpool and had travelled just a few times to London previous to this. With his Da, he had visited relatives living off City Road in a tower block, tried to go to the Post Office tower and returned home all in the same day. A year or two before Live Aid, The Docker had visited a bit of crumpet he met in passing at Liverpool's Central Station, like you do. After that, with the Liverpool Gay and Lesbian Youth Group, a van was hired and an exchange visit was orchestrated and timed to coincide with a London Gay Pride March, probably either 1983/84. It was during this visit that The Docker met one of the London Gay Youth Groupies who lived in some exotic area of London called Balham, took a phone number and kept it safe for use at a later date.

The Docker can't recall all of the details leading up to the Live Aid gig, other than talking about it with Friend Sue and perhaps calling Balham and going to Liverpool's Royal Court theatre box office and leaving £53.00 for two tickets and waiting an age for confirmation that he actually had the tickets. Passage to London was via National Express to Victoria coach station and they somehow made it via the overground to Balham. The Chappie that the couple were staying with wasn't at home when the travellers arrived and not knowing what to expect, were surprised to find Chappy's mum to greet them. It was a terraced house on one of those roads off Balham High Road and it seamed the Mum or Dad was a bit of a hoarder. The stairs and hallways were piled precariously with boxes, books and newspapers and the place had an oudor of its own. What happened during the evening, The Docker cannot recall, but he can recall the hour the household retired to bed. Sue was given a sofa and The Docker was given a cold stretch of lino in the bedroom of said Chappie, who gave plenty of encouragement for The Docker to jump into the single bed with him while he audibly fiddled with himself.

Day of the Biggest gig ever started uncomfortably for The Docker and he and Sue went in search of a shop to buy provisions to be eaten at Wembley Stadium. Naively thinking they would get a spot near the stage if they got there at about 10.30am, The Docker was somewhat disappointed, but equally amazed to see just how many people could actually fit between him and Sue and the stage. There were only a hand full of rows behind them to be at the back of the stadium and even the Diamond Vision Screen at the side of the stage was tiny in comparison to what is expected at stadia gigs these days.

The Docker has to admit to actually crying with emotion when the gig started - Have Status Quo Made People Cry At Any Other Concert? - and again at the moment when Bob Geldof milked the crowd and the world at that particular moment during I Don't Like Mondays. The first bit of the gig is remembered as being a little tedious. Elvis Costello was disappointing for the fact he sang only one song, he surely could have whipped a few quid out of people's wallets with some of his own stirring tunes. There were distractions, The Docker recalls, one being the crowd itself. It was a vast thing between them and the stage and there were a lot of goings on. Another thing was being able to actually see sound travel, or so The Docker believes. When everyone clapped in unison to, say Freddie Mercury singing We Will Rock You, the CLAP at the front of the crowd would start half a second before it reached the back and a noticeable 'wave' sped back towards The Docker. Also, if the cameras on stage held a close up of the artist singing, they were so out of sync.

For The Docker, it was only the second time he had seen David Bowie live and despite the honorable intentions, he would have preferred to have heard Bowie sing Five Years as had been planned, rather than endure the emotionally crippling video to The Cars' song that he introduced at he end of his short set. U2 were enthralling too but the finale was something of a damp squib for those in the crowd as Paul McCartney's mic failed through Let It Be. Somehow, The Docker lost his souvenir program and he has lost recollection of the second night back in Balham and the trip home. He had left intricate instructions for The Docker's Da to record the show, which he did minus the last 20mins and The Docker still has these VHS cassette tapes an a trunk somewhere.

Finally, The Docker can confess here and now that he didn't actually buy the Band Aid single and assuaged his catholic guilt by kneeling on pencils.

Spain, Innit.

2010-07-13T19:29:00.000+01:00

The Docker and side-kick, now affectionately referred to as Sevvy Con Gas, has returned from the Annual Summer trip to Malaga. Enjoyed all the more by the fact that Sevvy Con Gas is no longer a smoker. However, instead of inhaling tobacco smoke as a pastime, he seems to have tapped into reserves of natural gas, which, if he were to be connected to a gas boiler, he would keep a five bedroom house with 3 en suite and a 20 meter outdoor pool heated all winter. They put it down to the fish.

Ship's log reports no mishaps, no illnesses nor any other notable major events. It was by all accounts, a good little break, with the added bonus of having at 2 world cup games featuring Spain to content with. The Docker can recall being in Spain, and indeed, a short 48 hour docking in Cyprus, when games were played and local teams won. The celebrations continued through to the dawn. The Quarter final against Paraguay was seen from outside a popular cafe in Torremolinos. Large crowds of Spanish and some English spectators gathered in excitement and The Docker and Sevvy joined in the growing excitement. Drums, fireworks and confusion about what looked like 2 penalties added to the mounting anticipation and then finally a win.

The Semi final was seen from Pepe's Bar, local to the appartmentos del Tia Pat e Tio Bill, where The Docker and Sevvy were staying. Pepe is a retired Spanish C-list celebrity. Cling-film-covered faded posters behind the bar show what he was like in a commercial, when he had authentic black hair and when he could fit into his clothes a bit better. Pepe is assisted, despite an atmosphere of non-verbal communication, by his wife. Between serving customers, they sit at separate tables alone or join different groups of regular ex-pats. Mrs Pepe steams through books of word puzzles and Pepe steams through the Brandy. The Docker's uncle Bill was somehow barred from the place not so long ago, but seemingly allowed back a week or two later, details unavailable before publishing.

Whilst watching the game, it was observed by The Docker that the bar just up the side road from Pepe's was frequented by female patrons only. An effort was made to ascertain if he or Sevvy could safely jump to a conclusion that it was a lesbian bar by checking the attire of the couples that passed us to go to the place. Such stereotypes are hard to establish in another unfamiliar country as it is clearly too warm for thick check shirts and denims. The Docker has a hazy recollection of having a late night cocoa there last year and was not serviced with any of the indifference usually dolled out in similar places up the Green Lanes, North London.

Getting back to the football. The more sedate and unexcitable audience made the game difficult to enjoy. All the worse for the only really horrendous Brit Types that The Docker had encountered. Two couples, mostly uninterested in the football because it wasn't England playing, but mainly because smoking seemed to be a competition they were in and clearly ahead of the game. Each had a different brand of smokes in front of them and no one passed a pack round. They all smoked roughly continuously, with occasional breaks for the loo or the bar, although Pepe waited on them diligently. The older woman looked all the more ridiculous for the old polyester football top she wore and the younger woman had matching yellow hair and fingers. Thankfully, The Docker and Sevvy encounter few people like these in Spain these days.

An attempt was made to visit Marbella and Puerto Banus. A photo taken by The Docker of his old palls back in the early nineties in exclusive port area sits in the cabin back home. As it was, cloudy skies prevented The Docker from clearly getting his bearings and despite securing passage on a local bus from Central Marbella, they seemed to have missed the place by miles, ending up in an over grown Pueblo just up the hill from the coast. A return bus and still they couldn't locate the damn place and they returned to Marbella, where they had earlier stumbled upon the old town and despite not seeing many Costa Crime Wives about, they returned to Torremolinos and feasted on fresh fish just under the old Torre itself.

The appartmentos owned by The Docker's now elderly relatives is small and would clearly benefit from some modern aircon, but is comfortable enough and the building is surrounded by a lovely tendered Garden with a pool. On a steep hill, there are white-washed steps leading up to the top of the garden and pool and it was there that The Docker and Sevvy Con Gas lay out and used the shade of the trees to rest in, occasionally dipping in the pool or sipping cold cervezas. Aunty Pat's neighbour, who speaks no english is a good friend to her and they will, so The Docker is told, sit together in each other's company knowing and assured by the fact that both are fervent catholics. Theresa's appartmentos looks over the main door to the building and keeps a watchful eye over everyone's coming and goings. Sevvy, tickled no end by this, would attempt to exit the building without setting off the sensors and being detected. Having no idea of the the catholic church, The Docker wound him up a little by telling him such old ladies have a number for the Vatican they can call to report sightings of sinners such as he and Sevvy.

Upon returning home to Blighty, The Docker and Sevvy were mildly irked by the fact that the weather had been pretty well similar to the find hot Mediterranean sun they had so enjoyed.

MALAGA 2010

2010-06-28T23:36:00.000+01:00

I PACKED MY BAGS LAST NIGHT, PRE-FLIGHT. ZERO HOUR 9am...

Malaga trip is now ready for take off. The Docker and his side-kick have logged on, checked in and printed off Boarding cards on flimsy Tesco Value A4 paper, which will be no good whatsoever to keep The Docker's page on his chosen light reading for the voyage "I AM OZZY". It used to be useful, the boarding card, for the holiday. There may be any number of half read paperbacks upon the shelves of The Docker's cabin in which one might find a stub of some trip to here there or anywhere.

Zero hour is actually 11am, Gatwick - South terminal thanks to Air Fungus. The Docker is to rendevue with Mrs R on the train to Gatwick Airport itself. Mrs R is to signal to The Docker of his Departure from Farringate by mobile phone and The Docker is to ensure he has placed himself on the correct platform at London Bridge to board the correct train.

Is The Docker ready? The Docker has had a day and a half and is comforted well with a bottle of Spanish white from Tesco and has no particular urge to trouble himself with stressful panicing. There are a small number of things to do before he retires to his cabin and set sail in the morning. Watering the garden seemed to be an urgent task at 1900hrs but now, The Docker is more pragmatic about the weather, as reports from oop north tell of rain all day today. As for packing, that is a chore for the morning, throw a few climate-appropriate garments into the trunk and its off they go.

There is little to say of an itinerary for the voyage, it being the hottest of months in Malaga, the shade of the tree in the garden next to the pool is about as much as The Docker can muster. Although, this can change. There are a few things to consider and bear in mind at the moment. The Docker's erstwhile companion, not to be confused with Amy Pond, who has the luck to be travelling with The Doctor, not The Docker, is at this moment in time, not smoking. Once a 40-a-day kinda guy, thanks to the wonders of Champix and the NHS, he has for the last week or so, not sucked on a single fag. Side effects of this being death, murder and anything in between. Tolerance has been set to zero and it has been noted this week that The Docker is breathing too loud. If any such soul should wonder blindly upon this site/blog, following my seemingly unexplained and sudden decapitation might find the need to pass this onto the Coroner.

Tomorrow - Arrival, checking in and the Spain V. Portugal game.

Photo Archive No.4

2010-06-27T09:21:00.000+01:00

This chap was being proud and out there on the streets of Brighton a few years back.

Diaries

2010-06-19T01:26:00.000+01:00

World Cup Football?

In need of some inspiration one evening recently, The Docker did some rummaging through some trunks covered in dust and barnacles. The treasure within was as disappointing as the TV schedules at the moment but there may have been a glimmer of something special. As with most things, The Docker's attention and commitment to things can be fleeting. So it was no surprise for him to be reminded of the lack of commitment to diary writing over the years. More surprisingly, that The Docker had managed to keep most of his diaries, empty or not, going back to about 1981.

Intentions scribbled on backs of envelopes, draft stories or fictional travel itineraries, they fill drawer space or litter the desktop. One such being an idea to fill the gaps in the diaries with fictional accounts, or purloin events from history, ship's logs and newspaper headlines. To start with, as the diary entries were sporadic, it took no time to get through. 1988, however, was a year that The Docker had scribbled something about most every day's events. Although mainly accounts of encounters in various ports, fallen women and even lower men, as a young sailor The Docker was not so different from his peers. Five years earlier though, and it was a surprise to see that The Docker had attempted some longhand novel writing. In hardback A5 size books, bought probably from some dockside market in the Punjab, these were fanciful tales. Echoing the need to escape and travel. These stories mix fantasy with the dull reality of his life on land. The Docker tried to recall what it was like to be that young man with so much to write about but nothing much to say. Perhaps things haven't changed much.

As the years progress, the diaries told The Docker more about his employment on various leaky boats and rat-infested barges than it does about what happened in his his heart or mind. Until that is, he encounters some dark treacherous waters, where most like-minded captains or sailors, he would pour his fear into something other than the faces of his shipmates. Wrong turns, lost courses and dodgy ports turn up as obvious to any man or woman reading over The Docker's shoulder, though at the time, he was certainly up a blind alley. Algerian boarder police and encounters in Tunisian sand dunes would be more interesting than weekly rotas and training days, but these dusty old books don't reveal anything new and exciting, instead The Docker feels he has been reminded about things best forgotten. Memories and experiences are a sign that life is being lived, its just that not all of it warrants a diary entry. The Diary of a Nobody? Not quite, more like the Diary that needs rewriting, re inventing maybe.
The Docker.

One Eye Grey

2010-06-07T21:22:00.005+01:00

The Docker is proud of himself for managing to get something published, in One Eye Grey in fact. This is under the alter ego of Tony P, who resides somewhere in the peripheral vision of The Docker. His weird little short tale is about alienation and is entitled "THE LIZARD MAN OF ROTHERHITHE".

You could do no better than to visit www.fandmpublications.co.uk where you may be able to buy yourself a copy.

Otherwise, why not spend Summer Solstice on the Rotherhithe peninsular at Surrey Docks City Farm, where the Longest Day will be celebrated in style with some entertainment from Nigel of Bermondsey and you may be able to pick up a copy of One Eye Grey.

In addition to the joys of celebrating his publishing debut, The Docker was pleasantly surprised to see his story was accompanied by a marvelous drawing by Phoebe Eason, who has published her illustration on her blog. The Docker would be pleased if you had a butchers at www.phoebeeason.com where there is a link to her blog or by going to http://aneartrumpet.wordpress.com/

The Lizard Man of Rotherhithe will make an appearance here all in good time, that's if he hasn't already and you just didn't see him, right in front of your eyes.

The Docker

Pulling the Garage Down

2010-05-10T18:27:00.016+01:00

Pulling The Garage Down - a collection of photos taken on my camera phone on the day we pulled the old garage down. With help from my brother Nick, his missis Kerrie and me Dad, we emptied the old thing and hauled most of the rubbish to the local refuse depot in a hired van. A small amount of useful 'junk' and tools were boxed and kept in the shed.

Paint scraps against the wood

The Forman 'overseeing' proceedings.

Old 'empty' oil can

Old car lamp bulbs and some rusty mess

One of many old jars, useful to keep things in

Once a small shrub up against the garage now a large tree

One of many piles of bricks collected by me Dad to build a replacement garage

Close up of some cobwebs and textures

If left, the garage would push through the fence and into Uncle Bill's fish pond on the other side.

Me Dad, always the joker, gurning like Old Man Steptoe

Gravity was pulling it down

Falling in slow motion

Leaning to the left

And the chaos within

Longs to fill the void

Nature Abhors a vacuum,

The Garage and its contents

Desires to spill over the fence

And spread its wealth,

Knowledge and history

Over the well kept lawn

Growing up, it was kind of out of bounds, but I knew where the key was kept. The key was to the big padlock on the garage doors where the Morris Minor lived and I used it to explore the only place where my dad had free reign. When he was at work and car was gone, there was space and time to rummage through the boxes and jars on the shelves. It was a palace of spare parts and broken goods. The panels from machines and the old dansette record player. The cables and tubing from an old cylinder vacuum cleaner and some old coats. My dad would envision a need in the future for everything in there and it was mostly from the jumble of contents that we had the home made sledge or the go-cart.

Depending on what I'd seen on TV that afternoon, the garage was the Tardis or the base of the Tomorrow People and I would be able to close the garage doors on the approach of a platoon of Cybermen or giant maggots and host of tools I could nail together to rid the aliens from the back garden.

It became obvious that the garage, for many years unused, was leaning towards Uncle Bill's garden fence and his trim lawn and fish pond beyond. The roof had many holes and the paint had peeled from the wood and rot had set in. I was not sure if the insurance covered it if it did collapse and it was not worth the wrath of Uncle Bill, nor the worry that Dad might be inside it when it finally collapsed.

The Docker

The Old Apartment

2010-04-18T17:37:00.004+01:00

IT was a cold dark December evening, warmed only in the kitchen by the glow of a Belling ceramic hob illuminated from above by a 20watt bulb in the cooker hood. A miserable looking creature was warming through some pasta and shook in some olive oil and a crushed clove of garlic. Pasta gave him terrible wind. Turning on his heel the cranky old sod pulled down the zinc kitchen work surface and set out a plate and a fork. Some dreadful sounds from the radio on top of the microwave fizzed into life when he turned the thing on – always on Radio 2 and he pulled the stool over and pored the hot pasta onto the cold plate. It was quarter past 7 and the key was turning in the front door of the small apartment.

The Lodger came home having first been to the pub after leaving his office, he pulled the earphone buds from his cold red ears. His mood soured as he forcefully squeezed past the misery on the stool and pulled an aluminium pan from the rack and poured some water into it from the tap. His eyes darted between the pan the codger on the stool and thought about bringing it down heavily on his head. He squeezed by again and put his hand down on the ceramic hob surface as he did so and cursed loudly for burning his hand.

“You could have told me it was on”.

“There is a little HOT sign there lit up ‘coz its hot and I am eating hot food, kinda gives you a clue”.

“Still, you could have said. Are you listening to his crap?”

“That’s why it’s on, because I’m listening to it”.

A brief pause as the lodger put some beige soya sponges into the pan from a dull plastic container on the shelf above the sink and without much thought, pulled an empty McDonald's wrapper from a cheeseburger out of his trouser pocket and put it in the bin.

“I can’t listen to this, its fucking dreadful. Its an organ version of Top of The World”.

“When do I ever come in and turn your crap off, eh?”

“I don’t listen to crap”.

“Its all CRAP, the same crap over and over again and you leave the crap cds all over the place”.

The smelly old frying pan came down now and was filled with some leftover noodles from a plate in the fridge and when the oil in pan was spitting, he slid the cold noodles into it and it spat hot fat onto the back of the old git as he scraped up the last of his meal into his mouth. The hot oil smoked up the kitchen and as he got up off the stool to put the plate into the sink, he turned on the cooker hood fan up to high and also the extractor on the ceiling. The noise was now unbearable.

It might have been appropriate to move out of the kitchen and let the lodger prepare his mean in peace as the Old Git had. Instead, he reached up for a tin of sweet pears and pulled the lid off and used his fingers to scoop out a segment and slurped it into his mouth. The Lodger regarded this with disgust and squeezed past to get something from the fridge and then back again to put it in the frying pan. The Old Git washed his plate and things, emptied the sink and wiped the surface he had eaten from. He pushed the stool into the corner and lifted the zinc top up into the cupboard. Deciding to fix himself a scotch before he finished in there, he quickly fetched down the bottle from the top shelf and a glass from the cupboard and pored a generous measure. Finally he plonked two ice cubes into the glass just as The Lodger exploded with exasperation.

“How bloody long are you going to faff about. Would it be too much trouble to wait until I had finished cooking to do all of that”.

“Your bloody drunk already and I hung on an hour for you to come in and sort yourself out. Don’t blame me for being a pisshead. Leave this kitchen spotless, I’m up early tomorrow and I don’t want your smelly pans about the place. I don’t know why I put up with this”.

Taking the bottle with him, the Old Git spent an hour or so just listening the Lodger as he finished preparing his meal, resting quite for 10 minutes or so and then ventured out of his room and fetched something out of the kitchen, probably the bottle opener and a glass. After another half an hour a low rhythmic vibration gently made the Old Git sick in his stomach. The crumbling old first floor apartment had paper thin partition walls and noise carried unhindered. The Old Git then turned on the TV and turned over on his bed and fell sound asleep.

John Ackrill RIP

2010-04-09T08:03:00.003+01:00

The Docker's long time friend passed away recently. John was in the process of retiring from work on health grounds and had a pint with The Docker just days before he died, over which he discussed with some assurance that his future was not so bleak.

He was bright and sharp in mind and despite a painfully slow walk back to London Bridge Station, he showed no other signs that his health was so poor.

The Docker is forever grateful for John's wisdom, humor and guiding hand during some desperately dark times in the late 90's.

BOWIE IN THE BATH

2010-03-20T12:09:00.005Z

THE DOCKER TAKES BOWIE IN THE BATH

As part of a well established routine on Saturday mornings, the cabin boy will draw a steaming hot bath for The Docker, who selects David Bowie tunes to play, usually at high volume (neighbours out shopping already) and sings along passionately.

This morning, The Docker selected the following tracks from a live recording in Australia, 1978.

"HEROES'

WHAT IN THE WORLD

BE MY WIFE

JEAN GENIE

BLACKOUT

SENSE OF DOUBT

BREAKING GLASS

FAME

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

The Docker is Corrected

2010-03-12T07:14:00.003Z

A sad and lonely soul, most likely to be from Tunbridge Wells (Steve) has written to The Docker to correct him on his last post, which was the curious painting of two elderly spinsters whom The Docker refers to as himself and Steve.

A clipping from The Evesham News was included with this letter and informs The Docker about the origins of this oil painting.

"Oil paintings from the museum's own collection are on display in the second showcase - From Brush to Canvas - until the end of August. One is of Wyre Forest sisters, Jane and Caroline Badland, and was painted by Cyril Lavenstein in 1956. At the time, the women were aged 104 and 100 respectively and Caroline was the organist at Kidderminster's New Meeting Church, while Jane was a Sunday school teacher."

The painter, Cyril Lavenstein, now departed from this world was a relative of Steve and he recalls visiting Uncle Lavi in his large and rambling home, which he remembers had a wide sweeping staircase and its own tennis courts in the grounds. An American relative of Uncle Lavi living in the UK married the elderly man in his final years in order to remain in the country and is herself quite the eccentric. It is always interesting to have exotic relatives, The Docker thinks.

Photo Archive No.2

2010-02-14T00:27:00.002Z

The Docker & Steve pose while taking afternoon tea.

The Sofa of Genealogy

2010-02-13T00:58:00.001Z

Hola, The Docker has landed in the hometown Port of Liverpool for the weekend, usual parental duties. The opening Spanish greeting, usually an absent-minded tic, adopted affectionately in response to the many recent and enjoyable voyages to the Port of Malaga, is for once quite sincere. The Docker’s Ma had spoken during the week of a piece of work sent from her grand niece now living in Gibraltar, which was about some family history researched in her school. Tayla – yes, born in the eighties, had sent this over to Liverpool and it has had quite an effect on The Docker’s Ma.

The work was entitled The Peacemaker and was essentially about Tayla’s great and The Docker’s grandfather (maternal). Now, The Docker, who has brine in his veins and is one of the last great old Salty Seadogs has actually discovered that his maternal family – name of Redmond - are Irish descendents of shipwrecked survivors of the Spanish Armada, washed up on the shores of County Wexford and set about in true catholic tradition, breading with as many Redmonds as was humanly possible. This explains one or two things adopted by The Docker since his regular trips to, what is essentially, the home country and that is his love of cava and paella.

Sadly, The Docker was deprived of meeting any of his grandparents and for one reason or another, not much was ever spoken about them. Paternally, this side of the family history going back as far as The Docker’s Da’s child hood is fairly well known and sad enough in itself for one reason or another. But a few missing bits of jigsaw puzzle have been dug out from the back of the sofa of genealogy.

Briefly, Mr & Mrs Redmond came to Liverpool with their 5 kids in 1900, opened a pub, which brewed its own ale on the Dock Road. Mr Redmond was also a local councillor. William R, The Docker’s Grandpa was born in Wexford in 1888. He joined Sheffield based electronic experimental outfit BEF, (or was it the British Expeditionary Forces?) and was one of the first groups to entertain the troupes in the great push at the Somme. Doing some geezer a favour who wanted to swap shifts as he was due to go on leave the following day, Old Grandpa R went out on patrol and was duly shot in the leg. Gangrene set in and the leg came off and an honourable discharge with a war pension and he was back in The Pool and married Tessie, whose sister was going out with one of Willie’s brothers at the time.

A life devoted to his family and the local church and keeping woodworm at bay in his wooden leg, Grandpa R was proud of his three daughters Tessie, Eileen and Pat and would polish their shoes for them every night so they had shiny shoes to Irish Dance their way to school every morning. Suddenly, at the age of 55 Gramps was dead of a heart attack. So respected was he in his local parish, that a team of priests kept vigil all night long over his body in the church the day before his funeral, or was it to prevent theft of the wooden leg – scousers will nick anything.

Old Grandpa R was not so old after all. His five siblings had mixed and various lives, but non as exciting or interesting as James, who found a calling for the priesthood at an early age. He was also befriended by a wealthy couple, whose business was in fishmongery and who left him a tidy sum to see him through his seminary and with which he helped out some of his not so successful brothers and sister. Father Jim was sent to Craggy Island – no stop. That was just a cheap joke. After serving in various parishes around Liverpool, he became Monsignor Redmond and was secretary to the Pope in Rome, with responsibilities of running the English school in Vatican City. His service in Rome at an end, he returned to Blundlesands parish in North Liverpool and retired. He died in 1972 and The Docker has fond memories of going to visit the old man, who for some reason or other, had horses in the grounds of the house he lived in. Sugar cubes where therefore required to be saved from trips to Owen Owen’s café with which to feed the horses, otherwise, they would not let us proceed to the Monsignor. Such was the mind of a 5 year old.

Tayla finishes her work saying she wishes she could have met her Great Grandpa R, who was by all accounts one Tip Top kinda guy. This has been seconded by The Docker’s Ma, who was obviously very moved by the account of her father’s life and wished we all could have met him.

A true Liverpool-Irish tale in the tradition of Her Benny and Ha’penny to Cross the Mersey. On the other side of the family, the story is far more adventurous and melodramatic, in a Willie Russell musical kinda way, and is going to have to wait for another day. The Docker is going to ask Tayla for permission to post her work on these pages.

Bowie's Do-Dah Horn Finally Gets An Airing

2010-02-03T18:41:00.005Z

The Umpteenth reissue under the "DELUXE EDITION" banner sees the multiple re release of tracks from David Bowie's first Album on the DERAM label. On the coat tails of Bowie's first time on CD release of his last A REALITY TOUR, which has been surprisingly well promoted for a something that has been available on DVD since 2005, the "David Bowie" Deluxe Edition includes probably the entire catalogue recorded under the Deram label, including some new mixes.

Some tracks thought lost have been found, although one is not sure that this has been any blessing, even the Bowienet discussion fora have been remarkably quiet about this release. It has to be noted that the original version of a song called Ching-A-Ling Song has revealed a perviously unheard verse about a DO-DA HORN. This song was re recorded and released in the 1980s as part of the "Love You Till Tuesday" Promo film recorded in 1968. It features songs from The Deram "David Bowie" album, which was released on the same day as The Beatles' SERGEANT PEPPER'S album, although the David Bowie album did nothing to ignite interest in the fledgling artist, being only 19 when he scored the deal with DERAM.

Ching-A-Ling Song was later recycled and parts of it can be heard on the Man Who Sold The World track SAVIOUR MACHINE. Lyrically, poles apart but I have to say I find them both alluring in some indefinable way. Ching-A-Ling Song was performed by David as part of his group called FEATHERS. I like these songs, Nuf said.

New Ale Launched in Twickers Boozer

2010-01-31T19:47:00.004Z

Popular Pub Landlord Launches "Onin's Old Gargle"

Popular Pup Landlord Sprigg of The Dark Prince of Wales has announced he is to be a father again. Positively dripping with testosterone, Sprigg has to place a warning sign for female staff and customers alike, that there is a real and present danger of fertilisation just by being near him.

Ever the entrepreneur, Landlord Sprigg has brewed his man juice into an award winning organic ale called ‘Onin’s Old Gargle’. Asked about his new brew, "I am essentially a green landlord and recycle as much as I can about the pub". An acquired taste.

DESERT ISLAND DICKS

2010-01-31T11:41:00.003Z

Despite concerted efforts from The Docker’s people to convince the programmers at the Beeb to commission his amazing concept series, The Docker is extremely confident that he will be hosting DESERT ISLAND DICKS in the same slot as Kirsty Young’s tired old programme. Intrinsically similar, The Docker will be inviting guests to talk about the 8 dicks they would take to a Desert Island. In a stroke of luck, Kirsty Young hosts the Pilot episode and managed to get to grips with The Docker’s own 8 amazing Dicks.

Kirsty Young

The Docker Announces World Tour 2010

2010-01-31T11:20:00.004Z

Docker's World Tour

Fast becoming an institution and on the heals of last year’s amazing sell-out gigs in Europe, Norfolk and Welsh Wales, The Docker’s management has announced a string of dates around Europe for summer 2010.

Kicking off with a week’s residency in Malaga’s La Dorada June 25 - July 2 2010 and more dates to be announced. It is likely that The Docker is going to build on the success he had with a set list that is to include ‘My Old Man’s a Wychita LInesman and ‘Every Day is Like Sunday Bloody Sunday”. The band line up is the celebrated regulars of Baby Dee-Dee-Dozy-Beaky-Mick & Titch on comb & paper, Louie Louie XVI on drums, Mrs Mills & Boon on piano and The Docker’s longstanding guitarist, Pope Clarence III. The tour is sponsored by Nelly hairspray.

Tickets are restricted to fan club member Steve. New members can join by going to hellsinkysquare.blogspot.com/

The Docker’s Greatest Hit Collection – "Rock n Roll Suicide - Live at The Retro Bar" is available from no-good Record and Tape stores now.

Photo Archive No.1

2010-01-31T08:56:00.003Z

In the bar of the Philharmonic Hall, not the pub across the road. This was before a Morrissey gig. I was trying to photograph the wall mural but each time I tried, people were sat on the bench in front. I only noticed afterwards that the bloke has only one arm.

People Grow Old

2010-01-25T23:04:00.003Z

Despite being 42 for the past 3 years, it seems not everyone around The Docker has the same issues with age and are wearing their “I’m 50” badges with pride and Gordon's and Marion’s 100 years between them are being celebrated in one form or another in the coming weeks. Leading scientists from Britain’s top laboratories have sought to keep the ravages of time at bay and lotions, potions and hot poultice wraps with hot stone massages may only keep one’s pockets slim, it seems that whatever secret these two have for keeping their looks, it can’t be sold in little pots with made up ingredients.

On the face of it, its amazing that Marion and Gordon look as good as they do, given the high life they have lead or to some degree, are still living. If neither have been gullible enough to buy into the Hydrollolaloids or Aquaspheres and other such fictitious ingredients at £60 a gram then may be it is the meat-free diet that has done them good. The Docker’s love of a good meaty sausage may have contributed to the extra width over the years but dashing good looks seem not to have diminished because of the odd nosh. May be it’s the fact that the work-shy pair have never done a proper day’s work in all their lives and have followed a good principle with regards to need and want, work and play.

2010-01-21T21:53:00.002Z

A 'Prince of Wales' New Year

2010-01-09T19:56:00.010Z

Happy New Year from The Docker

Telegram received by The Docker whilst up in Liverpool…

Mutiny! STOP Staff abandon ship on New Year’s Eve STOP Help Needed Behind Bar STOP

The Docker responded by dusting off his linen glass towel and set course for The Prince Of Wales Inn on the Hampton Road. At short notice, the Freddie Dog was brought along as no sitter could be found and Indispensable Steven, previously known as Roger, The Cabin Boy who has many a year’s experience pulling pints came along too.

Landlord Sprigg had sent the summons and had also asked some other old chums, of whom only one, Steve, Son of Ena came along. Landlady George was curiously unwell and was to be seen hugging the porcelain bowl in the upstairs quarters with various varieties of pickled onions, Chinese food and such like at hand. The

Landlord’s fearsome beast of a dog called Jimmy was also to hand.

The Prince of Wales is fine old pub with a curious French Restaurant in the back room. Despite the kitchens being closed, the chef was about, not working, but would appear at times to lend wisdom to such things as the lighting of the fire or on the numbers of customers. The regular staff are fine and customers are lovely. The Docker has little experience of these waters, having in the past only traversed the areas around Brentford Docks on occasion. The pub itself is late Victorian and include a well kept garden with seating areas for more clement weathers, various out houses including a coach house, a yard and a cellar kept in good order for fine ales. Landlord Sprigg also has the delightful baby Gina P.

Despite the generous advice of the chef and The Docker’s own suggestions, such as turning the restaurant room into a Shakespearian Put Up theatre, a Variety Music Hall or to host Boot’s Only nights for the local gentlemen of a lavender hue, Landlord Sprigg is just happy to have his name above the door and is waiting for the opportunity to issue the immortal lines a la Peggy Mitchell “Get art ‘ta my pub”.

The Docker had a concern that Freddie Dog and Jimmy Whippet would not get on, in fact it could be disastrous as whippets like chasing wee beasts for sport and the kill and Freddie Dog is mildly psychopathic and will ‘ave a go with most dogs many times his small size. As it was, Jimmy Whippet had stirred some long forgotten desires in Freddie Dog and almost immediately, Freddie lost his heart to the slim limbed hound. A relentless pursuit commenced, and at once became untenable within the pub itself, as customers were in danger of being tripped up as Jack Russell chased Whippet around the tables, over sofas and in and out the bar. Upstairs, Landlady George, who was not up to the events of the evening and had retired to bed with a jar of Bartlett’s finest pickled onions, had to bar the dogs access to her boudoir, as the sight of Freddie’s relentless humping began to turn her stomach.

As it was, the evening was well and the customers probably benefited from the poor mathematic skills of The Docker and despite the generous donation of time to the fledgling landlord, The regulars were moved and drunk enough to part with just over £70 pounds in tips. After midnight, we bar men retired a little and formed dalliances with the regular folk. Steve took it upon himself to go round the tables with an empty pint pot and collected the tips in little more than 5 minutes. During the course of the evening serving drinks, The Docker was offered nothing in the way of gratitude, other than the politeness and curtsey of the customers.

As the evening wore on, so The Docker wore out a little and nearer 4am than 3, the remaining customers were bid a safe journey home and everyone retired to bed. Well, it turned out that the temporary bar staff had not had the foresight to check out the sleeping arrangements and The Docker was forgetful somewhat about the house keeping skills of his friends. Not wanting to be judgemental about these busy folk, it can be fairto say Landlady George has never been one fully understand the instructions of how to operate a vacuum cleaner, for example, or just how much washing up liquid can be applied to a bowl of hot water to do the dishes. So as it was, Steve, Son of Ena found a stretch of floor in the office and Steven, Freddie and The Docker found a warm place on the sofa and stretch of floor next to it in the living room.

The following morning, it was regretful to discover that Steve, Son of Ena had slept on dog poop. The Docker had been laying on a lilo on the floor in the living room and woke just as Landlady George was stepping over to fetch something in the living room. Lovely Growler.

The lovely Gina P keeps the same hours as her parents and was up at the relatively late hour for a 3 year old that is, of 10am, , and last night she had been given the Christmas gift from The Docker and Steven, a little late, but was an attempt to give her the chance to relate the gift to the giver. Selected with some thought, The Docker had given little Gina P a Bath-time Activity Centre in the form of a washing machine. Fearful the Gina P should grow up without learning any gender specific roles from her mother (no offence intended) it might be useful for all of them if at least someone in the family can use a domestic appliance.

As for the dogs, Freddie resumed his attempts to make doggie love with Jimmy, and all agreed that Jimmy Whippet doth protest too much and as the elderly Freddie tired somewhat, he would nudge the dirty old dog for a little more. Hmm.

Steve, Son Of Ena beat a hasty departure and the three men, two dogs and a baby set off on foot to Bushy Park only to find it to be slightly too far to walk to, finding ourselves pooped when the park was found. Only a short distance into the park, a herd of deer was spied. A bus ride back to the pub, which has its name for the nearest bus stop. Steven and the Docker decided to stay for the day, drank copious amounts of booze and was thoroughly entertained by the marvellous Gina P. Before we caught the train home, Landlord Sprigg treated us with thanks to a fine Ruby Murry, during which Gina P slept.

Asked about next New Year, The Docker vowed to ensure he screened his telegrams.

Happy New Year to you one and all. x

29.12.09 The Docker’s Christmas Log

2009-12-30T23:42:00.001Z

Tuesday, 29^th December 2009

Today is the birthday of The Docker’s very good friend, Sprigg. Not sure what age he is, if he is older or younger than someone’s mother. Last night, having forgotten for the umpteenth time to send the card bought for someone’s birthday, The Docker went to moonpig.com and selected a funny card, uploaded some picks and that eased The Docker’s guilt.

It had been planned that today, The Docker and Roger, The Cabin Boy would go to Liverpool to do some shopping. As Dad had been badgered into staying in bed for as long as possible, the household was sleeping in later and later, The Docker’s mum stayed in bed until the carer came to attend to her toilet (as in the French meaning for personal care, not the other meaning). Roger, The Cabin Boy slept later on the sofa and The Docker, thinking that sleeping upstairs was going to afford him a better rest was so mistaken. His mum never slept the whole night through and she used the zimmer to get to the bathroom, with it bashing into the doors and skirting and as she had become suddenly quite deaf, she was unaware of the noise she was making. Usually, if mum had been up to the loo, then dad would follow, which lead The Docker to believe that Dad must be awake himself most nights, or a very light sleeper.

The Docker’s mum’s bedroom is upstairs at the front. There is a small ‘box room’ just off this, which is over the entry between their’s and Pat and Billy’s house next door. As a young boy, The Docker shared the room at the back with his brother. As they got older, they swapped rooms with The Parents and as The Docker’s brother entered into puberty, it was safer for The Young Docker to seek refuge into the box room, big enough for a 2’5” single bed. It is noted that The Docker cannot remember the back room when it was his parent’s except when Cousin John from London stayed and he found his Christmas present, managed to unwrap it, (train set), set it up and not be able to play with it, vent his disappointment as it was not an electric set, but a cheaper battery operated model and his parents had not provided the batteries, be able to pack it back up and wrap it up again and descretely remind his parents to buy 4 size D batteries otherwise Christmas would be killed.

Dad had decided last year to sleep in the box room, rather than the back bedroom, where his wardrobe and clothes where. The Docker’s mum had bought herself sometime the previous year, an all singing all dancing automatic bed. It goes up and down at each end and it vibrates in varying patterns along the length of the mattress. It was slightly disconcerting for The Docker to say goodnight to his mother as she went to bed and then to hear a vibrating sound from the room above for a good 10 minutes or so.

Anyway, Liverpool has become an even larger retail park and it was fully explored by The Docker and Roger, The Cabin boy. They had a late start and caught the 10A bus into town. Roger had his bus pass, rarely recognised by the scouse bus drivers, most of whom can’t read. The Docker paid £2.40. Note that readers. As usual, the bus ride is about 10 miles and takes about 40mins. It is a trip down memory lane and as Roger the Cabin Boy has become used to this, he prompted The Docker to recount each part of the journey. Such a sweet boy.

During the bus ride, The Docker noticed that the fashions of Liverpudlian girls had morphed into something new. It is now thus…

Ugg-type boots, worn out on the heal and several sizes too big for the wearer

Printed spandex tight/leggings

Fake fur sleeveless & bodyless bolero-type top (which is basically a furry collar)

Very long false lashes and full face biscuit beige make-up

Vacant expression

The Docker and Roger, The Cabin Boy when on the Plant, Tescoprescot some days earlier, saw one of these magnificent Scouse women with Gold leggings and hair in very large bright green rollers, looking like an extra from Mars Attacks!

In Liverpool, they headed for the Liverpool N1 One Arndale Bullring Centre and as it was a quarter to lunch time, go for a bite to eat. The Docker mentioned that M&S had been largened somewhat and the coffee shot might be a good place to rest up. Roger, poo-poo’ed the suggestion so they went somewhere more scouse. In the Cavern Walks Boutique shopping center-ette, they ordered some warm drinks and a couple of toasted sandwiches. The Modern scouse woman behind he counter kindly offered to bring the drinks over. Her permenant perplexed look and the fact that she counted out over 25pence in coppers saying she had no silver in change should have given warning that not all was going to be well.

After 20 minutes and the teas and coffee’s were drunk, it was evident that the toasted sandwiches were not coming. Contrary to The Docker’s mild mannered manners, he demanded his money back at the counter. The Modern Scouse woman protested by saying the toased sandwiches were ready now, but they would have been bitter allows.

Erm.

The Docker’s mum wanted a duvet and duvet cover and these were bought. Roger took The Docker into several sports clothes shops for trainers and found out that every shoe he wanted was not available in size 8. Hunger and tirdness catching up with all.

The Docker.

28.12.09 The Docker’s Christmas Log

2009-12-30T13:41:00.000Z

Monday, 28^th December 2009

The Docker had spent some time late last week looking to see what was on in or around Liverpool for him, Roger, the Cabin Boy and dad to go see or do. Last year, they had gone to the Panto in St Helen’s Theatre Royal, which was memorable for being so badly performed as the cast where hung over from the day before. It was too late for any of the shows in Liverpool, which included Peter Pan at the Empire with Henry Winkler or the touring production of The 39 Steps.

As it was, they plumped for the panto in St Helens again and got 3 tickets for the matinee show on the 28^th. It was Cinderella and starred most of the same cast as last year’s show, but included not 1 but 3 celebrities from TV’s The Salon. ? Cast also included a local Radio DJ and someone who used to be in Grange Hill. The Bady was played by Richard De Vere, an Illusionist by trade who has a voice like Les Dawson. All in all, it got us out of the house for a few hours, gave The Docker’s mum a break and the show was a good bit of fun. Meal this evening was a pan of scouse, with beetroot and some bread and butter, made from the left over leg of lamb the day before.

The Docker

27.12.09 The Docker’s Christmas Log

2009-12-30T13:28:00.001Z

Sunday, 27^th December 2009

It is worth making an account of the food and alcohol bought and consumed over the festive period, as you may note from the brevity of the later Docker Christmas diaries, that booze was probably getting consumed at a rate of knots. The Docker’s mum had a shopping list as long as your arm, which included whiskey and ‘get yourself a good bottle of wine”. In the dinning room of The Docker’s parents house, there is a ‘wall unit, with a glass cabinet for glasses, and a fold down drinks cabinet. In here, there was always usually some cream sherry, whiskey, gin and also, some hospital appointment letters. Why it was felt that this was the most appropriate place for these, we will never know. Without casting aspersions, The Docker’s mum appreciated a glass or two of sherry before supper and sometimes would come down at night for a drop of whiskey in her tea to help her sleep. She also likes wine, having only drunk Hock for most of her life, The Docker’s mum has now started to drink some other wines and on the recommendation of her friend Jess, has been buying a good bottle of Rioja. The Docker and Roger, The Cabin Boy bought for themselves a bottle of Borolo and this is what they had on the table with the turkey, after a little glass of cava to wish the Docker’s dad a happy birthday. He was 80 and he was a little overwhelmed by all the cards and gifts given to him earlier in the day and was starting to get a bit fed up with it. The Docker’s Dad didn’t really drink wine these days and he was offered a whiskey to drink with Pat and Billy when they came in. This was mixed with lemonade and The Docker noticed that he drank this down in one and 5 minutes later he was fast asleep. During the meal, he had a glass of wine and started to top his own glass up after just a few sips and repeatedly said he had never tasted a sweeter wine, until mum told him to “give it a rest, we get the picture”.

Roger, the Cabin Boy requested a bottle of Grand Marnier and The Docker’s mum asked for a small bottle of Tia Maria. On top of this, The Docker’s Mum had received a box of 3 bottles of wine for renewing her ‘bricks & Mortar” with the Halifax. Translated, means Buildings insurance. During the course of the next few days, all of this booze would be drunk, leaving most of the spirits, although a new bottle of sherry was needed. It must have evaporated.

On the Sunday, we had a leg of lamb, which Aunty Tess had bought for mum and usually did this on her way over to visit. The Docker noticed that there is an Iceland supermarket in Queen’s Square, Liverpool, where Aunty Tess would have to change buses on the way from West Kirby. The Lamb should have been taken from the freezer the night before and various methods were tried to defrost the thing for an hour or two, until The Docker noticed that the packaging had a big red sticker on it with instructions to cook from frozen, so it was thrown into the oven and left for 3 hours.

That evening, so thinks The Docker, we started watching The Pirates of The Caribbean. Great for the first hour and then both he and The Docker’s dad started waning. Far too long for a film.

The Docker

26.12.09 The Docker’s Christmas Log

2009-12-29T11:21:00.001Z

Boxing Day, 26^th December 2009

Highlight of the day was a trip out to Prescot on the bus, primarily to get some air and get out of the house as The Docker’s mum seemingly cannot thrive without the central heating being on full blast furnace setting, and is probably single handedly responsible for global warming, and secondly to fetch some messages for mum, namely Imodium and Calamine Lotion. The snow and ice was melting away, leaving what was left a deadly wet and slippy glass-like sheet on the pavements. Despite all warnings that it was not a good idea to drink and walk on the ice, The Docker and Roger, The Cabin boy decided to ignore such advice & neck a few pints in a local hostelry before juxtaposing ourselves & heading across the border to Tescoland (yes! a principality in itself with its own eco-system & Government often attached to many towns somewhere near their graveyards sorry High Streets). The Pub was The Sun Inn, just on the brew going into Prescot from Liverpool. It’s a great old fashioned boozer with a front parlour with a coal fire. This was the primary reason for the Docker heading there, but the room was full of biscuit-smelling old men. The pub is small, yet the saloon is tiny but it was full of men watching the football on the TV. On the way back to the bus stop, we called in at the Royal Oak to see if Sue was behind the bar. The woman behind the bar was actually Sue’s neice, The Docker thought he could detect a South African accent. They didn’t see Sue as it was Everton playing on the TV, not Liverpool! Messages collected, wine & trifle weren’t on the list but in the bag, we headed back to the furnace.

25.12.09 The Docker’s Christmas Log

2009-12-29T11:18:00.001Z

Christmas Day, 25^th December 2009

Dad was up early again so all except mum were denied a Christmas lay in. No worries. Despite mum requesting that the carers only come to attend to her personal needs, she had not the patience to wait for them and instructed me dad to help her into the bathroom. The Docker tried to call the carer’s office number but it wasn’t answered. Steve took the lead in the kitchen and started to process the vegetables in readiness. There was no set agenda as the turkey breast from M&S wasn’t going to take too long. All we had to do was wait for The Docker’s brother to come and exchange presents. So we waited. Calls were made and received from various relatives around Liverpool and London and later on, Aunty Pat and Uncle Bill came in for half an hour before they went for lunch with their son Jeffrey, who came in himself before ferrying his parents over to his place in Warrington.

During the morning, the Docker and Steve tried a Christmas cocktail Snowball as seen being made on Something For The Weekend food program by those two presenters who both seem to have undergone a personality by-pass operation. It was the original recipe with lime juice, whiskey, egg and lashings of ginger ale. It wasn’t that good, so The Docker had some more whiskey and Steven (or Roger, The Cabin boy, as he requests to be referred to from here on in) had some Port.

Brother Nick, Wifey and Nicks two youngest kids came and presents were exchanged. Cousin Jeff had for some reason, never met wifey Kerrie before (lucky bugger). Anyway, the kids stayed for an hour and it seemed that Nick & Kerrie were somehow attached to the free bar too much to take the hint that The Docker was getting stressed and the old folk wanted their Christmas dinner. Eventually, a cab was called for them and they went and made their very merry way home. The dinner was finished and poor mum didn’t eat much. The Docker was hoping to have napped before Doctor Who, but this was not to be, although he regained some sense enough to enjoy the programme. Steven snoozed and dad pottered about in the kitchen hiding the dishes. It wasn’t a late evening and The Docker was glad to get to bed to discover Santa had popped in during the evening to secrete a wonderful surprise under the quilty bedspread thing… 5 George Underwood Ziggy Stardust badges in a metal box!!!

24.12.09 The Docker’s Christmas Log

2009-12-28T19:18:00.001Z

Thursday, 24^th December 2009

The Docker, Steve and Freddie Dog are in Rainhill for Christmas. For the purpose of further expanding the myth surrounding The Docker, his parent’s home is a typical docker’s residence. You are given permission to imagine it like one of those terraced houses running down to the banks of the Mersey with a great big ship moored at the end. The docks where The Docker once first went to see is just down the Dock Road, along where once ran the overhead railway, or the ‘Docker’s Umberella, -ella, -ella” as it was once called.

An early start this morning, as Steve comes up to wake The Docker as his dad is up already and its only 6am. The night before, The Docker’s Dad had dismantled the bath lift and hidden its parts around the house. It being something new and he having dementia meant that there was at risk of this happening. All the parts were found and it was reassembled and Dad was steered towards a ‘free bath’, which would give everyone at least an hour’s grace as he took longer and longer in the bathroom these days. Poor Steve. Mum promised to gate keep and send him back to bed if he did this again.

The carer’s came to help mum into the bath and The Docker sorted Dad’s pills for him and then a trip to St Helens for the bits that couldn’t be found in Tesco the night before. Steve and The Docker just about catch a 70 bus which only just about managed to screech to a halt at the stop and then quickly caught up to speed as if we were Keanu and Sandra. As it was, the 70 Bus route is via some of the far flung corners of St Helens, and along roads that where still iced up and the bus driver proceeded with caution so as not to slip and slide into the parked cars along the way.

In St Helens, Steve and The Docker popped into Wilko’s for Bird seed and dog toys, as you do, then they went to Greg’s for bread and barmcakes, which for southerners, are just soft bread rolls. Then into WHSmiths for last minute gifts for The Docker’s mum. The Docker’s brother called and came into the shop as he and his missus was outstide, they too doing some last minute shopping. As it was, The Docker and his mate managed to get all that was needed by 11am, grabbed some sustenance in the form a sausage barm & was home before midday.

After lunch, mum had a call from a neighbour who had seen the notice in The Echo for Dad’s birthday. The Docker had forgotten about this and so he and Steve and the dog took a walk in the ice and snow across the field called The Brickie to the newsagents to acquire several copies of the paper. Dad enjoyed seeing his photo in The Echo and joked that at least it wasn’t in the Wanted column. Some other relatives saw the photo and called up to say they saw it and The Docker’s brother asked for a copy of the newspaper. It cost over £70 for the small notice.

Dad went to bed under instruction to stay in bed until at least 8am. Needless to say, that instruction went in one ear and then the other.

The Docker.

23.12.09 The Docker’s Christmas Log

2009-12-27T21:16:00.004Z

All of last year’s resolutions not to be a prat and race around shopping for presents in the last few days before Christmas had been erased from The Docker’s mind probably some time mid October. Train tickets were the only things that had been purchased in advanced and The Docker and companion had arrived at Euston Station with large cases and dog in tow in good time. This was the start of a week with The Docker’s parents in the old Port of Liverpool. As stressful as Christmas can be, there was the added bonus of both parents having been hospitalised recently following unexplained falls, faith-based sleeping arrangements and The Docker still had shopping to do.

These are the diaries of The Docker’s Christmas Log...

Star Date: Wednesday 23^rd December

Location: Euston Station, London

The Docker, Steve, 2 large cases and Freddie Dog arrived at the London Euston Station in good time for the 12.30 Virgin Pendolino service to Warrington Bank Quay. Not having had time to break fast that morning, The Docker was single-mindedly distracted by the need to eat and nothing could be considered until an over priced crusty baguette had been devoured. The Docker could then consider the fact that 12.30 was fast approaching and the platform number had not appeared on the board. It became apparent that not all the passengers had made it on to the previous service to Glasgow, where our train was terminating and before the platform was announced, the announcer asked the passengers who had not been able to squeeze on to the 11.30 Glasgae service to go to platform 2, were special arrangements were being made for them. The Docker suggested to Steve that they go to platform 2 and check it out. Steve was despatched to check the destination of the train and let me know if it was indeed, our train.

As it happened, our service was announced just as Steve go to the platform and The Docker dutifully followed on with case and dog only to be denied access to the platform by a line of butch ticket inspectors, the like of which I had only seen before fighting outside The Black Cap in Old Camden Town. Steve could be seen striding up the platform and he was not answering his phone. As a few hundred people were granted access to the train as they were the bearers of valid tickets and passes, I was left making small talk with a very broad shouldered woman, who was not a dog lover. Just on 12.30, Steve answered his phone and came back to allow me onto the train.

It was very clear that the train was over occupied in cattle class, where we had reservations. But as we passed two vacant seats in 1^st, we decided to stay put and deal with the train manager when it came to it. As it was, we were allowed to stay put without any concern whatsoever and the free glass of wine was accepted in gratitude but completely wiped out The Docker, who was only just recovering from celebrating in Nunhead the night before and all but passed out.

The late start and the slow progress meant that we had missed out connection and we got to Warrington Bank Quay about 10 minutes too late. It was officially colder up north and there was a lot of ice and snow on the ground. Finally making the last leg of the trip an hour later, we got to Rainhill and walked the half a mile to The Docker’s family pile, rested a while and went out to the local Tesco, which is the size of a small village, has its own gravity, etc, you get the picture, its big.

So, the first day was at a close. The fridge was full, bags outside in subzero temperatures were filled with whatever couldn’t fit in the fridge (the turkey breast from M&S was in a Bag for Life, tied dangling from the washing line – in case of bears, foxes, wolves, Scoucers, etc.) and we relaxed before Steve tried out his bed made up for him by The Docker’s Aunty Pat, which was behind the dinning table and was actually a plastic sun lounger with a thick duvet on it. As it was the law in this catholic household, no two men were allowed to sleep in the same bed unless they were men of the cloth. As the Docker and Steve had not taken vows, we were consigned to sleep apart for the duration and poor Steve had more to endure than the lumpy lilo. Roll on Christmas Eve.

The Docker.

Playlist for The Docker's Christmas Compilation

2009-12-20T23:07:00.002Z

Happy Christmas09 ” Love on ya” The Docker X

1. Hello Halo – Piney Gir

2. Stardust Kids – Bowie Vs MGMT

3. Life Is A Snowball – Yello

4. Ghost – Little Boots

5. Prince Meets the Phantom – Drums & Tuba

6. Fake Palindromes – Andrew Bird

7. Bewitched – Ella Fitzgerald

8. My Oracle Lives Uptown – William Orbit

9. The Phoenix – Marianne Faithfull

10. Like a Motorway – Saint Etienne

11. My Life As An Echo – John Foxx

12. Invergence Of The Twain – Stephen Emmer

13. Eye Spy – Hector Zazou (feat. Lucrezia Von Berger)

14. White Man’s Hut – It’s Immaterial

15. Microdisnical World Tour – Cornelius

16. A Song For Ellie Greenwich – Parenthetical Girls

17. The Liberty Of Norton Folgate – Madness

18. 199 To Elephant And Castle – Piney Gir

19. What A Way To End It All – Deaf School

Back Cover Star “Porter No 283” Scandinavian oil on wood by D. Liumdsfryd circa 1894.

Hellsinkysquare.blogspot.com

Youtube/TheGreatValerian

Download this on to your iTunes, select preferences and set crossfade songs to 4 or 5 secs and press play.

2009-12-13T19:48:00.002Z

The Docker took this photo of his 'Da' in St Helens.

SPOT THE ODD ONE OUT!

Greenland Dock in the Fog

2009-11-21T11:26:00.003Z

Canada Water by The Docker

Russia Dock Woodland by The Docker

Greenland Dock by The Docker