I called into Towny’s for the first time since the sad passing of John late last year and the old boy would have been comforted by what he saw from above. The drop-in centre for middle-aged blokes with bugger all to do – employed or not – is alive and well.
It was refreshing to see Goal-a-Game propping up the counter as ever, bursting with excitement at the prospect of a new date, even in his eighty-third year and discussing possible venues with Richard.
Baildon’s very own Rod Stewart had just acquired some bargains from the sale racks; when they clear his wardrobes out they will be able to clothe Mozambique. He confessed – with a twinkle – that he had pulled at John’s funeral, which we had to admit was some going.
There was a flash of light and a wink of approval from above.
In a gesture of wild generosity on went the kettle – Maxwell House on the house – as in walked one of Richard’s suppliers, desperate like all good salesmen to avoid any sales chatter in this, the first week of the new year; he was safe here.
Then, in through the back door, came another two regulars perhaps hearing the calling of the kettle.
Anonymous from Baildon had brought along his dog too, confessing that most days he liked some company “…even the wife, though the dog’s more fun and cheaper to feed!”
Our other newcomer mentioned a sad story about a dog that had been left tied to a suitcase at a train station over Christmas. Anonymous mused that if he were to leave both the wife and his dog, he was sure the dog would be okay.
And on this wonderful chatter went as Richard flicked the till off and gave up any hope of cash flowing inward. Soon, like junkies leaving our weekly meet at the methadone clinic, it was time to go.
As I left the shop clutching my obligatory “bargain”, I smiled an inward smile at a pyrrhic victory of sorts; £30 for a cup of coffee was not too bad an outcome on any normal day at Townys.
Austerity 2015
.
I opened my Sunday paper to be greeted by all the usual twaddle about saving money, such as changing your energy supplier every week and living in a house made of solar panels. Nowhere did it say avoid Raymond Town Menswear.
So I thought I would offer my own tips on how to keep those floorboards securely battened down in these tough times.
1 – follow wife/girlfriend around house proving slavish devotion whilst enabling you to switch off plugs, lights and taps enough to power Wembley Stadium and water the grass simultaneously.
2 – recycle tea-bags. After fourth use, dry out and offer as Earl Grey.
3 – always switch heating off on way out to pub (prepare excuse that boiler must have failed again if accompanied and anticipate vigorous sex on return) as drunks never feel the cold.
4 – recreate that holiday feeling for free by peeing in shower and saving water into the bargain. Warming effects on feet may also allow a degree or two lower on thermostat; remember to turn back up to “Kettle Level” if followed by wife/girlfriend or she may shriek louder than usual.
5 – never offer to share the shower to save money as you will need A&E from peeling effects on your skin from boiling water.
Go compare!
A Broken Man
Saturday afternoon and the call to prayers was made; the congregation gathered with no sign of the spiritual leader as smoke billowed from the open fire. There lay an uneasy hush over church – The Scruffy – silent, awaiting news of the Great One.
Finally, the doors opened and in walked Reverend Molly with family in tow as heavenly bells rang out at last.
Barmaid/Bouncer Sue stubbed her fag out on the wall, stuck it behind her ear and flexed her biceps as she prepared to create a pint of heaven, locally known as Saltaire Blonde.
Suddenly there was a clap of thunder and the lights flickered as Molly uttered words never heard before.
“A pint of lime and soda please Sue and a bottle of wine for t’wife.”
The congregation was in shock, dogs previously fast asleep on the carpet awoke wide-eyed, emitting mournful howls, as Carol and daughter Chloe led their broken man to his seat close to howling himself.
The ice jangled in his glass of pop, condensation running down the glass like the cascading tears hidden behind his mournful eyes.
Molly had fallen for the propaganda that going “dry” for the month of January would somehow turn him from revered soak to world class athlete; Carol had clearly decided that January was going to be party time and thirty days on the lash.
Although January’s ride on the “wagon” had started badly – he’d already fallen off twice and had booked another day off mid-month – he had set a target of losing 2 stone. Rumour had it he would be using his long run – three paces – this coming cricket season.
Money was rapidly exchanged as the odds were set from “never” to “not in my lifetime“.
As Carol fought with daughter Chloe over the Scruffy’s vintage Echo Falls Rose – the sort of wine that strips moss from a pavement – Molly looked forlornly at his pint of pop.
Landlord Michael sat in the corner typing an early profits warning to Punch Taverns.
It was left to Our Jackie to arrive and lift the gloom displaying her already broken Christmas present.
Nobody had told her the vibrator she had gleefully unwrapped was not designed to run 24/7 nor from the mains; inside a week, it was blowing smoke as she desperately tried to revive it, blowing…(stop! Ed).
It was time to go just as the conversation started to get surreal with Big Al claiming he too would lose two stone; this was far too early to be talking deficit reduction.
Marsy tried to whip up interest in a visit to the Rajshahi desperate as ever to avoid his mother’s cooking.
Luckless Linda had already turned up to claim her “prize” – the Chinky was ordered – ensuring Big Al was not tempted down the High Street with Marsy. Off they went arm in arm for a Number 47 and a night of passion if she could peel his socks off.
This could be a long year for promises, promises.
Marvin’s Marvellous Pilates
Old Cheesy was back for a new year gathering of his housewife disciples, desperate to not only tone their cores but, in many cases, actually locate one.
In the run up to Christmas we’d had enough floorspace to do patterns on the floor; now it was like being on a beach in Torremolinos with half of Munich.
I secured my spot early, marking it carefully with my mat, only to return to find my nose would be eighteen inches from a mass of wobbly black lycra.
We started the class but it was clear that my neighbour had either got the wrong class or should never have signed that direct debit at the counter.
Midway through and I chanced a glance; there she was, sat cross-legged like some Buddha, drinking from the gnarled teat of an energy drink – not that she had actually consumed much – I swear she was about to tear the teat from it’s neck.
She gave me the impression of looking as if she was expecting the Cornetto Man; either that or she fancied a fag and a Budweiser. Well before the hour was out she had given up the ghost, hauled on her Parka and was jabbing a finger at her mate, several mats away.
“‘Ey you never said this was fooking ‘ard!” she snarled “last time I had me legs in the air like that I ‘ad Our Ryan!”
And off she went as I sighed a relief knowing full well that next week I would have my private space back once again…until next January.
Old Photos of Bradford
Although this picture was actually taken in Leeds in 1954 I just love it.
The Meaning of Life – January Blues
“Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.” Henry David Thoreau.
Even struggling writers (you mean layabouts? Ed) get the January blues. So it was that I woke last Monday to a diary as clear as the sparkling blue skies outside my bedroom window. It was time for “real” life again.
Monday, bloody Monday…what to do with another day in Paradise?
As I gave my nether regions a comforting scratch and exhaled gas Russia would be proud of exporting, it occurred to me that millions by this time had already endured the morning rush-hour and not the one from bed to pan.
By now they would be secretly dreaming of ways to exterminate the prick of a boss that had clearly spent the holidays reciting more corporate mantras and playing Climb the Greasy Pole with intellectual peers – their kids.
According to a recent Gallup poll (Sunday Times 4/1/15) “…only 13% of employees are engaged at work”. As most people spend some 70% of their waking hours working, then the fact that apparently 87% are hacked off hardly makes it Happy Valley.
They say you should live every day as it it were your last but nobody really knows what that means, so few of us do; most simply aspire just to get through another day.
But what about when the time comes, lying on your deathbed, surrounded by a bevy of beautiful women, a soothing pint of ale eased to your lips, with you about to expire your last breath; got any regrets?
As I sat in the woods, I watched the squirrels zipping around and wondered whether they had the January blues. Clearly, there is no real point to this piece other than – no matter how glum you feel – it’s still good to be alive.
Happy new year!
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