31st May 2011

33 hours and counting.

I was thinking of having a month off the grog. As always.

I remembered back to that day, on the late May Bank Holiday of 2010 when I had a little quiver in my wrist, involuntarily, and a taste of the numbness in my right cheek. Mr Aruni Sen, my man in The Maelor, looms large enough still for me to bear homage.

I reached back for the memory as I sat and idly flicked through the pages of the new Spring/Summer edition of ‘Stroke News’. It was in the mailbox when I had opened it up and came swimming to the surface as I sifted through the various, unwelcome communications. It is a fascinating publication that deserves a guest appearance on ‘Have I Got News For You’.

In fact when I really thought about it, I had been waiting for this moment for nigh on a full year.

The 1st day of the month and not much evidence of the usual footage of May Day Parades, glorifying the respective histories of much of Europe and beyond. I was thankfully tucked out of the way and was happy to miss the newsreels.

We were at Tower Farm, nursing Daisy through the annual outing to Llangollen. It had been a full year since the last occasion we had spent ‘time out’ together. Yes, we had done many things since, but not just us, not just together. Without anybody else.

We gloried in the swelter and slowly, eventually, put on a face to meet the faces we would meet about town. We made a smart start and found ourselves in a seat with a river view, in Bensons Bar. I do like Llangollen with its tangled history and cosmopolitan mix of old and young, coming to the Vale from near and far. Breaded Mushrooms and Gammon for me, Pate and Smoked Haddock for the good woman. A Guinness or two in The Bridge Inn and back to the cosy safety of the camper van. We shared a last glass of wine and drifted off to the radio, chiming the 30 minute segments between news and sport stories, in the still a little chilly night.

News of Gaddafi’s son and three of his grandchildren. Dead in their beds. I don’t know about you, but can you imagine the outrage if it happened like that here. It will have been known to of course, back in the annals of time but Lord.

33 years old at the time of his crucifixion.

For it to slip so soon behind the headlines and be lost there, left there.

Done deal.

I could see three caravans through the windscreen and could just make out their names without my reading glasses…. Predator….Pageant…. Pegasus.

We lost Ted Lowe and Henry Cooper overnight and then….

The warmth and beauty of the day broke any spell or dream of contentment. Osama was dead, killed in his own room in a Pakistani compound. Peter Allen brought an uncomfortable balance to the discussion and observed that…. it somehow feels uncomfortable…. celebrating a death in such an overt manner…. I am left feeling uncomfortable….

He was almost apologetic. Excellent, brave, radio journalism at its BBC best.

Osama was swiftly buried at sea, bringing the ‘Propaganda of the Deed’ into deep conspiratorial waters. Video evidence, reflected in the eyes of Hillary and Barack, as the relayed images conjured up a photo opportunity and another ‘Call of Duty’ moment. We were told he had been cowering behind his wife at the final fait accompli.

War of the Flea.

We went out voting again after a late night at work. We said YES but the rest of the country didn’t agree. We almost held a majority. Well that isn’t quite enough obviously and it did for the Plaid Cymru man all the same. 

The blur of Seve, swathing through the compiled clips of another news table. The funeral stories giving some human credence and vitality to the ongoing messages of death and destruction, that are always seemingly around us.

It was Chloes’ birthday, her little body straining with the fullness of life. We sat and talked as Jamie and Snez poured drinks and we smoked in the small garden, dwarfed by the huge trampoline. J and S seemed to be in a good place and we left with happy hearts. We called to see the folks on the way back and after refusing the offer of a few quid from my mum in the kitchen, ‘to see me through’, we headed for the hills. The journey back, via 10 roundabouts and 23 miles of tarmac took us 20 minutes. Just in time to call at the garage for milk and a bottle of red.

We went to Manchester to see a ghost. Well a performance of the show of the film of the same name. What a history this story has, all the way back from the Greeks, to Hamlet and through to Blithe Spirit, Charles Dickens and beyond. The impressive list is endless.

It is a story of good and evil of course and a love story in its own right. It is certainly true, that something about it has inescapably caught the public imagination in such a sure and true way. Patrick Swayze has surmounted the death of his legend and delivered the birth of a posthumous legacy.

Manchester was full of partisan football supporters, celebrating their respective teams victories. Falling into the back of a taxi to take us through the city, I was treated to the vision of an inebriated man pissing against the glass panel of a bus stop.

The theatre was packed, all expectant for the final house of the run. We grabbed a programme, ordered wine for the interval and settled in for a rousing interpretation of the show. They didn’t let us down. Singers and actors and musicians alike. The only distraction, from my seat in the front row of the steep balcony seats, was three sets of hands, for bass, violin and piano, gently bringing the soundtrack to life.

We wandered north towards our hotel in Tib Street, stopping for Dim Sum, Prawn Toast, Sweet and Sour Chicken and more wine, in a small restaurant on the edge of Chinatown. There were plenty to choose from and we settled on the one with Chinese guests. Always a good move in a relatively unknown place.

We allowed ourselves an early night, easing our way through the hotel lobby which was filled to the brim with sleeping, black, African children. Early casualties of an exuberant wedding party. It was perfect and the hotel bed was bliss. We have ripped up a few nights in our time, in various places and under the influence of God knows what, but it is nice to find what you were always looking for anyway…. togetherness…. a quiet night …. an early night even and a bit of peace. Together with a good breakfast of course.

The journey back was played out to the dying embers of the Scottish football season, with only one real expected destination for the awaiting helicopter to deliver the trophy. There was an almost comical moment during the Hearts v Celtic game the previous week. Only two minutes of extra time after 2 sendings off…. 7 bookings…. 1 assault…. 1 retaliation and 6 substitutions. I couldn’t see Fergie allowing that myself. Apoplectic springs to mind.

It has been a sour year altogether, with only one real culprit who can take responsibility for the detritus we are left with. Not sectarianism I would say, but newspapers and press coverage and media attention, affording and priming an uneven vitriolism, when compared to the old firm matches but, significant happenstances all the same in the Edinburgh games too.

The newspapers, as ever, are filled with stories of Super Injunctions…. a boy in a skirt…. the tragedy in Tenerife…. the bizarre pastime that is Planking…. and the pernicious notions of a new Military Covenant.

Hugh Grant and Rooneys Floozy amongst others, picked a steady path through a late night, television special on faithfulness. No mention at this time of Giggs and Thomas of course, though I am sure if they were watching it would have made for uneasy viewing. I recall going to Bala when I was about 15, with Jimmy D and my near namesake Steve B, on a weekend fishing trip. The wind and rain howled for two days, destroying our tentage and we sought some shelter in a cafe near to the centre of the town. Jimmy reckoned he had heard that the Welsh were into ‘Free Love’. We casually made an extra effort when glancing about the room. A young couple were playing a slot machine and the sound of the money tumbling into the steel tray caught our attention. The young woman shouted…. ‘You’ve won’…. and pulled up the front of her top to reveal an ample helping of bra-less breast. We were convinced from that point on that Jimmy had it right and immediately made plans to come back in better weather. I personally of course, made plans to come and live here.

I think Ryan and Imogen might find this episode of theirs will come at a different cost.

The Visit.

Elizabeth Windsor came to The Republic of Ireland in a hail of rhetoric and bite the bullet bluster. The ceremony and the laying of the wreath were played out to the sound of the National Anthem. I remember when I was younger, the TV was switched off at the end of the evening to save the sound of the anthem causing my dad to hurl it into the garden. Time does heal. My parents are thankfully, living proof that it does.

Not so those Irish Volunteers, almost 50,000 of them, who met their deaths in the First World War, running a hopeful parallel course to the feted desire for Home Rule and the atrocities after the Easter Rising of 1916. Before you could draw breath, that is of course if you still had the life in you to draw one at all….

O’Bama came to Ireland too and helped himself to a Guinness. If he had planned the occasion properly, he could have took the Royal Yacht back with the Queen in time for the Love-In at Buckingham and Westminster Palaces respectively. He could have saved himself the price of the fare.

At my age, I can see it with accepting if still oft dissenting eyes. Some days I wish I was 21 again. Ping Pong and a barbecue ? I ask you.

All the same, for some of course it brought an important closure, and was a gentle gesture choking with emotions. For others it will have started an important new beginning, that will be laced with future unknown and unannounced difficulties.

An irony in its own way for the 50th Anniversary of the Freedom Riders.

Gareth and myself sat in Birkenhead Park again, 6 months or so after my first road trip, when still recovering from my TIA, that day last May. This time we took Daisy and sat drinking tea and smoking, in full view of the Liver Buildings, winking at us beyond the trees and through the distant haze.

Gareth had managed to track down a copy of the compilation album ‘Small Hits and Near Misses’, which was a blast from my own long ago past. It contained a track of mine alongside a range of other, more serious notables. It felt good to see it again and I put it safely with the copy of the original acetate, which I had kept from harm for all these years.

33.3 revolutions/minute scratching a constant nag by way of my soundtrack.

We shot some footage of the journey up and down the A41, hoping to use it for video material at a later date.

We talked of the epidemic of May Bugs, that had shown their cockroach styled faces again. Gareth had been unknowingly, blindly attacked by them, passing through The Dunks on one of his late journeys home; an overgrown expanse of dead and dank and damp field space, sited between the housing estates. Unbeknownst to him, he still had a specimen in his long hair and the thought of it while he had been taking his rest, had filled him with horror. I must say, he is not easily spooked is our Gareth. By coincidence, I went to the bathroom later and there was one squirming on its back, unable to get to a place of safety. I wrapped it in tissue and threw it out into the garden. I didn’t even mention it to Elika although Clint talked of it in passing and may have heard the commotion somehow.

Thoughts flooded back from somewhere else, memories of whole days lost ‘Down the Valley’; from Mill Lane through and over the rail tracks, past the edges of the golf course and on again to the rope swings and the distant paths to The Boostings and beyond.

News came of the official end to the Iraq War. I had witnessed its beginnings on a night out in Caernarvon, staying with colleagues from the old Youth Service – Smigger, Lester and Martin. We were holed up at Port Menai, for a few days respite and thumb twirling, with a brief to rewrite our current working roles. Suitably charged, we made the short distance to the town centre and Martin ordered pints of Mild all round. The first images of the battle for Baghdad filled the TV screens and there was a weary, unnatural peace within the room. On a lighter note, Martin and myself still talk with a fondness about the fact that in 6 different pubs that night, we managed to find a pint of Mild in each of them.

There were 179 British troops killed in the conflict, more than 5,000 Americans and over 100,000 Iraqi civilians. The numbers of injured are too vast to consider here but a visit to Antiwar.com will inform the interested.

I didn’t realise it then but I was already waiting for Janet. We had began to text each other at that point, but it would be a further 3 or 4 months before we consummated our growing friendship.

Thankfully, it was a much different trip we made to Red Wharf Bay in Anglesey last weekend, to further toast her birthday. The trek across to Manchester had began a fortnight of celebrations and this was round two of three. With our long time friends Daz and Nia, also owners of a VW Camper named Lily, we parked up on the small promenade with nothing but a metal rail between us and the sea. We had already booked a table at The Ship and with Daisy and Lily top and tailed side by side, we slid the doors open and created a space that was more than adequate between the four of us. Annie and Conor took the reins at home with little Elvis and despite their worries about Harry Camping (novel name that it is), we had no problems with any worries about the end of the world. We were only a hop or a quick call away after all.

The food was fantastic, Soup, Skins and plump Olives, Steaks of Rump and Cod, Bangers and Onion Mash, completed with three sticky sweets between the four of us. Together with the goodies from the after-bash hamper, it kept us awake until nearly 4.00am.

I stuck to the grog. Again.

We got home in time for what was left of the Sunday afternoon. Elika made a perfect roast and with what was still left of our energy, together with a glass or two more of red, we readied ourselves wearily for bed. I drifted through a phantasmagorical review of all the little nuggets that continually crashed my thoughts and misguided memory. Some turned out to be real while others will too in their own way.

– MP3 Rocket downloading an episode of Family Guy…. Talk of espadrilles and culottes….  Lord Triesman signing a left winger for his strong commitment to bribery and charges of corruption…. Sepp Blatter winning the golden boot…. Fukishima drawing against Sellafield in the play-offs…. Clegg and the fallout from the election…. Royal Wooton Bassett…. The Independent publishing the top 100 from a Happy List…. BA and Unite celebrating another triumph for popular opinion…. Charles ‘Chuckles’ Choules, he really was the last man standing…. Discovery – two down and one to go…. Endeavour…. The Chair of the IMF remanded and released…. together with that Senior cop who somehow always knew that George Davies was really innocent…. and the G20 police officer charged with manslaughter…. All sharing bottles of Bud, while they were watching Lemmy selling bottles of Kronenburg – 

More grog stuff. As always.

Everything else for a day or two shuffled around Bob. A little reading on the subject and a few tunes here and there to ease the passing of time. Mr Zimmerman, His Bobness to you and I, turned 70 years of age last week. These pages can’t hope to bring anything too encompassing in the way of comment on his achievements. He continues to break new and historic boundaries. Witness his recent ground-breaking shows in Beijing and Shanghai. The only real and tangible connection that I have to him, is the fact that my own brother Kev, was born on his 21st birthday. The rest is, well, just the rest.

PQR Steve…. I’ve got a virus. It was my Dad. I thought he was on about his health for a minute there and was about to call his GP. We explored a few options – his laptop was refusing to allow him through the twisted manacles of his AVG. 

Ctrl/Alt/Delete…. Sorted.

Dani didn’t manage to pass her driving test. God love her. I am glad I remembered to text her on the day. My brain is like a piece of Gorgonzola these days. I was always one for writing things down as a matter of course but now I have to. When I can remember that is.

Gareth bounced around our discourse on vaccinations while I troubled myself with the deeper worry of Antigens, Pathogens and Innoculation. He managed to conjure a song from the leftovers.

Proof of Principles – Proof of Concept.

We adjourned to the front room, talking out some ideas for Your Face. Viral Megalomaniac that he is… No 1…. Feeder programming…. Accumulating…. The Google Panda variations.

Both of us talking Blurb. It was 1.00am when he left.

The noise of the last of the crew from the Friday Night Club awoke me. I came back downstairs and sat at the kitchen table as the 6.00am news was broadcasting. It brought the sad news of Gil Scott Heron. Sketches of a troubled soul.

It was early afternoon by the time I roused myself, spent getting ready for the last meaningful game of the season. Joey was due about tea-time and Kian it turned out would be staying too. Joey eventually slept himself through to morning, to be washed and fed and readied for a day at Chester Zoo. What a great life.

Round Three and another day in town for a mix of birthdays and anniversarys…. More grog…. We bumped into MG and his loved ones at the start of the journey. Good Man…. Andy B with his son and both looking rather well…. we talked of days in Dublin bars, of singers and ex-girlfriends and all else that mattered in the world we occasionally shared together.

A trip to Jamuna where the Master of Ceremonies did his best to bring the mob to order. I had misordered and asked politely if I could choose an alternative. It was impossible, the Chef had already started to cook my Jalfrezi. I had meant to ask for the Shashlik but in the melee had lost my way. No starter either and worse still, no grog. I almost left there and then. But I saw off the main course with a thick slice of vegetable naan all the same. I upped as soon as I reasonably could, while the remainder continued to sort out the taxis. It was quicker to walk.

Aaah, another restless night on the small framed Chesterfield.

It was Royal Oak Day. Played out to the shaping news of the capture of Miladic.

In the background, courtesy of DAB, Tremlett took another wicket.

33 for 3.

I took a little trip up into the attic, looking for some correspondence from Bert. I had been reminded of him by bumping into Sylvia while cutting through the college campus. She had literally just retired and was no doubt off to find some grog to celebrate. Dave she said, had been unwell. I found some old papers with remnants of Farrell filling the pages, with his exuberant talk of ‘Decade Blenders’ and ‘Communitarians’.

The rain bores a hole through the air, falling like nails splitting a piece of cast off wood and for good measure, finds a secure core, finally, as its berth . The sun tries to blister the remainder, with gusts of warmth and doses of spyglass good sun. There is a thick wedge of almost purple cloud, stranded above the slow sunset, reflecting a strong, royal dusk above the imaginary parapets as the gates close on the last of the long weekends, this side of the Summer Solstice.

Mine ran over until the Tuesday, courtesy of congested sinuses. It didn’t help my efforts at recalling and regurgitating the day to day data.

The 100th anniversary of the launch of the Titanic cut an imaginary sweep through the last of the news related flotsam and jetsam. Jacob Zuma heads another delegation to see Gaddafi while a spokesman for the ‘Libyan Transitional National Council’, advises him to pack a bag and leave. Lord Taylor, the first black Conservative Peer does exactly that, when a judge tells an officer to ‘take him down’, just days after justice is sought for again in memory of the death of Stephen Lawrence. Germany strikes out for a Nuclear free future by 2020 as its outbreak of e-coli takes another life. The expectant are still waiting to see if they have Olympic tickets as I write at this late hour.

The month has seen the minute movements of the sun, inch and trace the changing path across my visible horizon once again. Between each, in turn, of the serrated chimney stacks and carefully, pulling itself at this time every day, a little higher, a little further into the ether and settling itself more deeply in the flush and flow of the airspace.

Lost in the time and the expectation of it all. The inevitable. Ineluctable.

Bert, Dave and George A…. they all knew about the inevitable. Give it to me. The inevitable. Point me at it. Show me.

3.333 recurring recurring recurring…. Neverending Math Equation.

I drank the last glass of grog.

As always.