Firstly, my apologies for a rather self-consumed blog this week but I have been under severe threat…of being dragged away for a “romantic weekend”, a fate less welcome to middle aged men than an outbreak of piles.
“We need to spend some quality time together” said the Cricket Widow “before you succumb to your other woman!”
At this point I must make it clear that she was referring to Mrs Gunn & Moore, a willowy piece with a reliable sweet spot – if hard to find – and a habit of playing with my emotions like no other.
The choice was made for me – rather like the future care home will be as I drip drool down my uncontrollable tongue – and not too dissimilar. We were off to a pile called Staffield Hall slap bang in the middle of nowhere.
Safe in the knowledge that nobody would hear my screams, if the long suffering Cricket Widow decided enough was enough and assaulted me with Mrs Gunn & Moore, this seemed a good choice.
It looked like somewhere that must have been a sanatorium or maybe even a weekend retreat for alcoholics like Big Al who, bizarrely, I knew I was going to miss. Never did I ever envisage saying that!
He confessed last weekend that he had given up on his health drive – which never got off the drive – and was now much happier in the knowledge that he would cause no unnecessary suffering to the pub trade by cutting his consumption.
Nor would he linger seeking a care home into his dotage draining the State as well as the local beer barrels. As adopted joint carers, the lovely Luckless Linda and I shrugged our shoulders and accepted the inevitable.
The weekend was calling too with the prospect of The Scruffy with a full house watching England demolish the Frogs (racist? Ed) confirming us as rugby Six Nations champions ahead of the Micks, Taffs, Jockos and Eyeties (bang goes a seat for the Lib Dems on the Council! Ed)
And I was off on a romantic weekend; if only the typhoon had hit Cumbria and not the Archipelagos.
However, over on a bleak moorland outpost, dark forces were already conspiring to alter my fate.
It will not surprise you to discover the seeds of this grand plan were not of my making.
We men are generally content with a slowly changing world where the only thing that can really surprise you is a new guest beer at the local or a fresh set of boxer shorts every five years. Women feel the need to have thirty-five pairs of shoes; I rest my case.
Plus I have no more notion of romance than the internal combustion engine.
My Mum is fond of telling anyone in earshot that she “would not wish me on her worst enemy“. Why anyone would seek to lock themselves away with me for three days even I was dumbfounded.
The last time I was locked away it was overnight in Shipley “Nick” but I can’t really go there as my Mum is still living down the shame. So it was that I was convinced of the merits of a few days away from the grind of the rat-race to which, as most know, I am oblivious anyhow.
Having spent most of my life between a football and a cricket field, the notion of an exotic weekend away generally means Upper Wharfedale CC.
This is usually an afternoon watching it hose down, freezing my tits off and hoping that some lunatic umpire does not deem the soaked ground fit enough just so he can get half his fee before pissing off to the pub.
I am, consequently, clueless as to the whole process. That is probably why I have Big Al as my drinking buddy knowing he too will be unlikely to stray beyond the imaginary force field neatly encompassing our houses, The Scruffy and the chinky (more racism! Ed)
So I left it to the Cricket Widow to choose our destiny and made a note to write this down in case the Police came looking for my body. I donated my, as yet unworn, new Gray Nicolls tracksuit to my Dad and hoped he looked swell in the greenhouse wearing it.
I listened intently to the proposed benefits of three days away such as walking (can do that here), fresh air (ditto) and time together uninterrupted by Big Al (fair – if marginal – call).
Having confirmed the dates with the sanatorium, I was keen to see what the Cricket Widow had in mind for our stay hoping that around about Saturday afternoon it had a blocked out slot entitled “PUB – RUGBY – BEER – FUMBLING DRUNKEN SEX.”.
The “highlight” appeared to be the threat of a place called Go Ape where I would be expected to hang from a pine tree like a demented chimpanzee and all in the name of “getting away from it all”.
I looked at their website which described the “attraction” as a “2 – 3 hour Tree Top Adventure. We’ll brief you for safety before you fly down our zip-wires, leap off our Tarzan Swing and tackle our crossings.”
Like **** you will I thought! Paying to hang fifty feet in the air from a wire whilst in danger of soiling myself was not my idea of “getting away from it all”.
Here is a man that paid £20 decades ago to guard coats and handbags all day at Alton Towers and look a complete twat into the bargain. The pain still lingers from 10 year old Adam (now 35) calling me a “puff”.
If I had wanted to reverse the evolutionary clock I would have opted simply for walking with a stoop – like Big Al – and talking in strange slurred tones – like Big Al. It was too late in life to pretend I was Tarzan.
It seemed I had two choices; veer off the M6 at 130mph or claim I had contracted Ebola.
There would be long walks in the countryside, neither of us having a clue where we were especially as the Cricket Widow frequently gets lost on the way to M&S. Only recently we spent hours trying to get off Otley Chevin; none of my family have the blood of the great pioneers coursing their veins.
Sat on a hilltop – waiting for the RAF helicopter – with probing questions such as “where did it all go wrong for you?” and “how about considering a reversal?” – I would long for Patch and his GPS.
Candlelit dinners would follow and all around would be THOSE road signs…
I awoke in a pool of sweat, opening my eyes slowly. Peering outside I saw my greenhouse still there with the promises of summer ahead. Was it really over…had I been allowed to “come home”?
It had all been a dream – like Dallas – and once again life was on it’s calm, reliable plateau. I was safe again and I hugged Mrs Gunn & Moore with all I had, gently rubbing her slim shoulders with my aromatic jar of linseed oil, sanding her bottom ever so slowly.
And then the bells started peeling and Heavenly voices started to sing as a bright light shone over yonder…The Scruffy was open and it was time to go pray once more. The Lord truly works in devious ways.
jude says
No idea what you are talking about but it made me laugh – if you don’t write a book about women before you die I am going to kill you – WORD!
Steve says
To write a book one must understand the subject matter…clearly I remain a long way from that!