On behalf of Bradford Cancer Support my little furry growth in Movember raised £212.50 so thanks again to all who supported me…have a happy Christmas.
The Very Idle Lord Willy
Musings From The Padded Cell
On behalf of Bradford Cancer Support my little furry growth in Movember raised £212.50 so thanks again to all who supported me…have a happy Christmas.
The Very Idle Lord Willy
I woke to a cold, dark and wet Saturday morning with a head far too fuzzy after a later than intended stay on my stool at The Scruffy. It was time again to pull on the shorts and walking boots for the annual winter trek from Ilkley to Appletreewick.
Unable as we had been, to lower the average age for the foot slog once again, six of us, slightly greyer, balder and one or two a bit more rounded, arrived at Shipley Station all sharing the belief that there had to be easier ways of getting out for a few beers at our time of life.
Demonstrating the true meaning of team spirit – woefully lacking later on by a certain member who shall be named “Jack” to protect his sensitivities (you know who you are Patch!) – trip co-ordinator Molly gleefully produced several hip flasks.
The contraband had been smuggled out of the house taped to various parts of his body like a suicide bomber, defying a suspicious wife who would never, ever dream of feeling up her husband at least not without a drink or two herself. Unbeknown to him, she had also taped his credit card to her nether regions where he was also forbidden and Meadowhall beckoned.
Whether what was in the hip flasks was a legal or an illegal high none of us quite knew; either way the contents were generously offered around, as Molly savoured freedom and another famous ruse.
As my hangover had several more hours to play out, I was happy with my water and mint imperials but always on the look out for a freebie, Jack, gulped down a few hearty swigs of the poison on offer, eyes bulging slightly at the potent brew.Not known to be a “drinker” the omens were not good for the bargain hunter from Go Outdoors.
Sadly we were missing several regulars this year for varying reasons. Pete the Mountain Goat was car shopping after his new Audi had proven irresistible and was now probably being driven by somebody peddling substances a touch stronger than Molly’s hip flasks.
Additionally, a combination of age, senility and dementia had accounted for two other trip stalwarts, Big Al and Sherpa Brennan, depriving us of Sherpa’s extensive array of satellite navigation aids just in case the River Wharfe had changed direction this year after the last few centuries constant flow.
The big man’s constant moaning, wheezing and liberal use of expletives was to be sadly missed on the trip but years of carrying his bulk had savaged both hips to the extent that his choices were either surgery or a Stannah chair lift installing from home to The Scruffy.
As for Sherpa, there had been a tragic “accident” several months earlier and you may consider the following a possible conspiracy theory, but read on and make your own minds up.
With their new business venture now up and running– a classy B&B in Ilkley at the beginning of the popular Dalesway – www.dalesview-ilkley.co.uk (shameless plug) – Sherpa’s partner, Sally, was keen to maintain the highest of standards, despite her choice of man.
Of course, part of this strategy was keeping scruffy old Sherpa out of sight when guests arrived and passing him off as the gardener if they caught a glimpse of him during their stay. When guests were in situ, he slept in the cellar but a few pints too many one night and the steep stone stairs proved far too much. Far be it from me to suggest Sally may have thrown him down…
Several months later and the two cripples had booked the Council invalid bus for a special trip for two to the Dales, demonstrating their determination to remain part of the team, the very essence of the trip, or in Big Al’s case another day on the “sauce”.
So as Big Al spent the morning waiting for his Home Help to come and pull on his socks and with Sherpa awaiting the unlocking of the cellar door and a glimpse of daylight, the rest of us arrived in Ilkley for a coffee and bacon roll, ready to begin our pilgrimage; six wise men we were not.
After a year off it was great to be honoured again by the presence of legendary Bradford League cricket great, Leapy Lee, teller of tall tales and known throughout the cricket world for his artistry with the gloves behind the sticks.
Dressed in wife Steph’s fluorescent jacket, straight out of the Highways Agency hi-vis section, ,this clearly had its plus points if we were to need the Search & Rescue helicopter later in the day.
Joining us again was Whispering Chris, taking a day off from the pressures of managing a hostel for people down on their luck, allowing Molly to enquire as to the possibilities of housing him later in life when his luck ran out and long suffering wife Carol finally kicked him out.
HMRC was also represented and no surprise when, with a flash of his card, Nigel received a free coffee from one clearly fearful coffee shop owner; if they could do Starbucks who next?
Finally there was “I’m all right Jack” fretting about making the entire trip having already double-crossed the team, secretly agreeing to meet the invalid bus early on the premise of helping Big Al off the tail-lift.
It was heavy going as we set off at the starting point of the Dalesway route and, on reflection, the big man’s absence was perhaps fortuitous as sinking was definitely a possibility.
By now struggling from the effects of Molly’s flasks, Jack quickly began to lag behind and it looked like a long march ahead.
Looking across the valley we saw a man on the roof of Sherpa’s B&B; could this be Sherpa banished now to the roof? Helpfully, Nigel shouted across the way “do it, jump!” I love a bit of early Christmas cheer.
Soon we were at the Peeing Wall, a sort of marker on the route and, with uncanny timing, all of us were in need of relief. Being outdoors, answering the call is one of the joys known only to man; the sweet wind in the willows, steam rising faster than from Jack’s head and all of us wondering if we would finish before the lady with the dog in the distance arrived.
By this time though, Jack had become demented from the effects of the hooch and, either let his true feelings for Molly finally come out, or was convinced he could find another flask presumably secreted up Molly’s backside, if he could just get his trousers off.
Some two and a half hours from starting out we were at the fabulous Bolton Abbey café for welcome tea and cakes although, as Molly and Jack had abandoned us for a short-cut avoiding the river crossing, they were sat awaiting our arrival like two smug fat cats.
The climb had been steep and Leapy was wheezing on a par with Big Al although, thankfully, not cussing like him; at least his spirit remained alive on the walk and seemingly following us up and down the winding path.
On through the woods we passed a woodsman’s hut displaying all sorts of carved offerings, many with a festive theme, which Whispering generously described as “over priced crap”, helpfully within earshot of the craftsman!
True, the attempt at a wooden reindeer looked a bit flawed, almost a cross between a kangaroo and a giant rabbit and I had not been drinking Molly’s hallucinating liquids. Jack took one look at it and ran off into the trees wailing “don’t let it eat me!”
By now Jack was starting to slur his words and began to walk with a bit of a roll, winding his arms around as if warming up for a long Saturday afternoon spell at the cricket. Maybe we would need that helicopter and the orange landing pad?
Soon we were in touching distance of Burnsall with barely a mile to go. In the distance, with uncanny timing, the invalid bus had arrived at our eventual destination – the magnificent Craven Arms in Appletreewick – and Big Al, slowly descended on the tail lift like Brian Potter. “Get me a pint I’m knackered” he wailed.
Sherpa, enjoying his freedom from the cellar, was staying put till the bus arrived in Burnsall. Despite walking slower than the man who did the London Marathon in a diving suit, he would make that mile back from Burnsall come what may.
Jack had had enough and wandered off alone into the distance to join Big Al unable to face the remaining couple of miles. In truth, Molly’s flasks had all been drained by now and Jack, by this point deliriously pissed, could easily have turned the other way and ended up in the river.
Hearty farewell salutes were exchanged – fingers airborne – and we marched on hoping he would not hallucinate and start trying to mount a sheep or two, calling out “Paula, Paula!”
Two welcome pints at the Red Lion and only one more mile to go content in the knowledge that, even if our “reserved” corner was populated by locals enjoying a quiet meal, a few hours in the vicinity of Big Al would clear them quicker than tear gas.
Sure enough a roaring fire and a fine array of ales awaited us and it was a relief to find Sherpa safe and sound. As usual it was wise to keep an eye on your gear and only the realisation that it may trigger toxic poisoning saved Molly’s boots from ending up on the fire like Big Al’s socks the previous year.
With fifteen of us now and only three cars it became clear that transport may be tricky but not insurmountable.
When Jack suddenly upped and vanished, blagging a lift with Whispering and family without a backward glance, some of us knew we were now stranded…in a pub…oh hardship come beat me!
Fortunately the only taxi in the village, driven by a lovely Scots guy, saved the day and one free train and another taxi and we were back at the Bear for the last rites. Sherpa had declined a free ride from Leapy clearly not relishing the return to the cellar.
Another wonderful day out of beer, banter and more beer…better days there rarely are.
In case you missed it,England’s cricket team won a test match again at the weekend with considerable style, grit and teamwork. Beating India on home turf to go 2-1 up in the series with one to play is no mean feat indeed based on history. Added to this the captain, Alastair Cook, chalked off a couple of new personal milestones becoming the holder of the most number of test centuries ever scored by an Englishman and also the youngest man ever, at twenty-seven, to get to 7,000 test runs. The legendary greats he now shares the record books with would make any man proud but Cook continues to lead the England team with a quiet and developing authority. We have a national team to be proud of at the moment.
The reason you may not have heard too much about these incredible feats is that the Ugly Game – where we do not have any semblance of national pride – once again dominated the headlines. This time the events at the Manchester derby, that twice-annual love-in between the cash laden Arabs and the debt laden Yankees played out by a scattering of mercenaries resembling the United Nations, reminded us all how ugly the game of football has become. However, what followed the now well documented pelting with coins of the ex-England captain, Rio Ferdinand, resulting in a lucky escape with only a gashed eyebrow, was arguably more sickening than the idiocy from the perpetrators.
Given these times of austerity and the price of tickets to watch the Arabian Mercenaries, you would have thought that the average Mancunian would be a touch more careful with his cash. Throwing money away, especially in the direction of Ferdinand given his take home pay, looks a little generous to say the least but hitting him flush on the bonce, probably after several pints of Carling, must have been more “luck” than Olympian standard marksmanship. Of course, it was a ridiculous thing to do and, a few millimetres either way, and Ferdinand could easily have lost an eye. What price a game of football?
And yet the outpouring from the “hierarchy” of this sick industry either could not see the real issue or simply chose to close eyes and ears to it. On they came with Sir Alex unable to resist stirring up similar events at rivals Chelsea a few weeks ago, not content with the three points from the day’s proceedings and subtly scoring a few more. Pundit after pundit wailed about how wrong it was and how they should clearly hang the perpetrator from the goalposts solving all football’s ills in one go. Public floggings at the Etihad…home sweet home for the Sheikh; and yet worse was to follow.
The Chairman of the Professional Footballers’ Association (PFA), Gordon Taylor – incredibly paid seven times more than the Prime Minister – once again made one gasp at his insularity. Defender of his men to the last he deplored the events and then suggested a cure-all as being giant netting, presumably collapsible if the crowd really does get out of control? This man is laughable at his consistently woeful defence of equally over-paid players, desperate not to de-rail the great gravy train by saying anything that approaches common sense. If a salary of £1m a year can only produce the solution of a giant hair net it may suggest the man is a little out of touch? Surely it is right to expect a little gravitas for the money?
Let me offer a few observations if I may. Firstly, most football fans are normal, likeable people but even the usually sane and sensible can get whipped into a frenzy when part of a partisan, baying mob, especially when they sense injustice to their team. Secondly, a minority of football fans should be in secure confinement and not just on match days, being a clear danger to society. Thirdly, the football arena has progressed little from the amphitheatres of Roman times and the crowds still bay for blood, if generally that of the referee these days rather than the gladiators.
What all these highly paid protectors of the ugly game were not willing to concede was that celebrating a winning goal in front of the opposing fans at any ground from Bradford Park Avenue to the Etihad Stadium is hardly likely to attract bouquets of flowers from the opposing fans. Nor are the same fans likely to stand up and applaud whilst shouting “jolly well played!” Lame brain Rio and his mates, were they capable of rationale thought, should have wheeled on their heels and celebrated in front of their own fans rather than gesticulating at the wrong end. Being slightly pedantic, perhaps lining up ready to ensure the opposition could not reply quickly might have been the professional response?
The game is so bereft of strong leadership from the very top, largely because they are all deluded by its invincibility in the Sky funded era, that each year it gets ever more corrupt, seedy and ultimately unwatchable. Players behave like spoilt primary school children and managers continue to “hear all, see all and say now’t” especially where it concerns their own players. It may be that most managers cannot remonstrate effectively with their players as few are fluent in the variety of languages needed these days in the Premier League. There are exceptions – the admirable David Moyes at Everton for one, who I would imagine just glares at the offender – but these are few and far between.
Empires built on bloated greed all eventually crash to Earth. It may appear that twenty years of Sky money has created something invincible but nothing is ever so. And apart from the legacy of obscene salaries, megalomaniac owners and admittedly fabulous stadia what is the true legacy of the great Premier League? A third rate national side struggling to get to the next World Cup in the face of opposition from the mighty Montenegro. Even if we do scrape in via the back door to the party you can guarantee an early exit, lots of hand-wringing, promises of another inquiry and back to the real loot via the “Premier” League. Truly an industry which has lost its soul.
Having spent a lifetime dutifully avoiding technology’s relentless march, I was recently in the temporary possession of a Kindle; one of this year’s must have gadgets. The reasons were the dual aim of critiquing both the sleek new toy and this year’s top read for bored, frustrated and delusional, middle aged women, Fifty Shades of Grey. Very quickly, having read the first few “pages”, it became clear that I could not hang on long enough without wanting to end it all rapidly – strapped, manacled or whipped – to properly make a judgement on the Kindle, having already made my mind up about the utter drivel I was reading.
Still I don’t suppose the author is too bothered about what I think as she spends her millions courtesy of Suburban Sandra hiding behind her net curtains, an array of new toys whirring and buzzing away, filling in the hours till Normal Norman returns home from the office. I had been forewarned, sat in the local the other week, eavesdropping into an “illuminating” conversation between several women of what I would consider to be the author’s target market; fat, fed up, frumpy and never having read anything more challenging than Kerry Katona’s autobiography.
As if representing the newly formed White Bear Literary Club, one of them earnestly said “If my fella tried to stick it there it’d be last place he would stick it I tell yer”.
Nodding in stern agreement, with a few shifty downward glances, the pack offered support as they slurped their pints of Carling.
“I think the story was really good…sort of romantic” offered another, trying to dilute the theme away from the real content and get back to her Pork Scratchings and Scampi Fries supper in peace.
“Bollocks, its just filth” said another “if my Albert wants to play wi’ chains he can get in the bike shed” Sneaking a glance over my shoulder I heard myself urging old Albert to go for it…what had he got to lose…lock yourself in and never come out. And instantly it struck me that, although technology marches on at a pace, there will always be stupid people for it to feed on and that’s why gadgets actually exist at all.
People talk of technology as progress but really it’s the opposite; every new gizmo that comes out is a regression to childhood. These things are the equivalent of toys hanging from a cot, designed to placate and soothe the occupier for as many waking hours as possible; less noise, less fuss. Want a conspiracy theory? Those who consider their new gadget as a gateway to information via live news on demand ignore the reality; much of what we are fed is controlled by the select few. Not only are the middle aged kids being soothed with new toys, they are being gently spoon fed sedatives from Nanny State’s bosom and that dodgy Antipodean fellow.
I admit part of my aversion to gadgets is that I’ve never been very practical and so struggle to understand anything remotely mechanical. I came close to being kicked out of Woodwork & Metalwork class at school for simply being totally useless, a grading that the exam paper did not cater for. My attempt at a toast rack looked like a broken, listing, matchbox ship – minus the sails – whilst my toffee hammer collapsed at its first attempt to batter a strawberry bon bon. In later life, an exasperated art teacher called me the “most unemployable kid in Britain” – I suppose she had a point – but it seemed harsh just because I could not master the art of sketching a Kate Bush album cover, even with the help of tracing paper.
Understanding gadgets is, therefore, not a strong point either; indeed; I often struggle with a can opener. Years ago, working at Silks nightclub in Bradford, I was asked to go uncork some wine. In the kitchen there was this “labour saving” corkscrew fixed at an angle to the work-surface – a huge handle with a hooded cap – where it looked like the bottle neck had to go albeit to do what? I looked at it from all angles studiously, got on my knees for a view from the floor, yanked it a few times, tried to manually screw the bottle onto the contraption and then tried forcing it up, offering the impression that I was humping the bottle from behind.
It was then I heard the giggles of my manageress, Maggie, close to wetting herself on the spot, having observed her university educated barman for close on ten minutes. Composing herself, she took the bottle out of my hand, patted me on the head, held it up to the contraption, pulled the lever down and pushed it back up – hey presto – one uncorked bottle if wasted as, by now, the customers had long since gone. Generously she did not sack me on the spot and simply popped the cork back on the bottle for the next unsuspecting customers. Beaujolais Nouveaux rarely suffered from a bit of early opening.
This fear of progress has not been totally limiting. I love my iPod and cannot believe we used to take Sony Walkmans and dozens of tapes to the beach, desperately trying not to get sand and sun cream on our Duran Duran cassettes as we spooled them back with our little fingers, the tape having snagged again resisting Simon Le Bon’s high notes. Thousands of songs, all chosen by me, on something smaller than a cigarette packet – amazing – and so the logic should surely also apply to books as well; only that it does not.
Kindles are one of the fastest selling gizmos in the UK at the moment – there are an estimated 1.5m of them out there – and offer hope via self-publishing, albeit probably false, to lots of aspiring writers dreaming of that bestseller. Whether I actually buy a Kindle is another matter though; personally, there is nothing like the feel or smell of a new book and I just cannot imagine sitting on the loo with a little screen or lying in the bath without dropping it in.
The surge in iPads is another recent phenomenon with all manner of variants available on the High Street and the internet. Typing away on my close to ten year old lap top, I was reminded of a recent effort to upload some software for my printer and scanner, which Barclays kindly donated to my “retirement fund” on the basis that it was worthless to collect and dump; better to leave it here and let me dump it. No matter, for my trusty old HP is still whirring away as it too, approaches its tenth birthday.
It soon became clear that loading this software was impossible largely because the size of the file was the equivalent of trying to squeeze a Rolls Royce engine into a Mini. My lap-top performed a good impression of a wheeze and a cough before giving up the ghost. And yet it works…starts every time…a good little runner, so why would I change it?
Similarly, my battered Nokia simply refuses my best efforts to destroy it by drowning or lose it as nobody would ever wish to steal it; it always gets handed in. Vodafone generously offered me a “super” new deal with 500MB of data free every month – imagine the little guy in Mumbai explaining that one to me – I consented although with no idea what this meant. Three months later they sent a text to confirm my monthly usage was 3MB. I wish I could do the same with my gas bill.
I find it quizzical that adults will bemoan the amount of time kids spend on computer games these days but, at the same time, cannot seem to wait for the next gadget. The beauty of an iPad to people was explained to me as being “instantaneous”, whereas waiting a few minutes for a laptop to yawn, stretch and open its eyes seemed to be life critical; really? Who are these people and what world critical jobs do they do? Personally, as my old laptop coughs into life each morning, those few minutes are devoted to the aromas of coffee and toast – who wants an iPad to spoil that – by the time I have wiped my chin the old girl is up and running and I have missed nothing. Life in the fast lane…maybe not.
(I penned this piece for a new local magazine. I wanted to write about a club that I have fond memories of and that typifies many of the issues at grass roots level)
[Read more…] about Bingley Congs CC (published “Bingley matters” Dec 2012)
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