Again I ask you to behold the comedy genius that is Mr Greg Lee. This is one of his masterpieces from three years ago. Watch it at your peril.
Archive for October, 2007
I need never eat a vegetable again.
These days pubs are allowed to stay open as long as they want. Back in the days of yore however licensing laws dictated that last orders were at 11pm. If you wanted to carry on drinking after this time then you had to go to a nightclub of some description. As we all know, nightclubs are sweaty, deafening, horrific hell holes filled with intoxicated cretins who are so off their heads that they are reduced to a primeval state and are only able to act on three instinctual impulses: shag, fight or vomit.
You also have to pay to get in to a nightclub, and then you have to pay for the watered down booze, and finally you have to pay for a taxi home. Such a night could easily bankrupt a 18 year old youth with limited financial means. At that age my only source of beer money was a re-prioritised clothing and dinner allowance, therefore the majority of my evenings on the town ended at 10:55 with a last minute dash for the 11 o’clock bus.
The bus station was invariably filled with fellow revelers, all gently swaying and stumbling as if on a ship in high seas. At first glance all seemed chaos, but to a seasoned observer there was a clumsy order to the milling drunken throng. Almondbury, Fartown, Colne Valley, Milnsbridge; each locality had its own set of bus routes and its own bay in the station from which they departed. During the day these bays were characterized by polite queues and a atmosphere of resigned boredom. At 11pm however the bays were fluid, ebbing and flowing into each other as the alcohol washed away inhibitions and sense of decorum.
Of course this wasn’t always positive in nature. Sure, you had your happy drunks arm in arm, singing exuberantly, and expressing their love for all around them. But there was also the nasty drunks, the “are you looking at my girlfriend” drunks. Arguments, screaming matches, and even fight’s weren’t unheard of; although they were usually relatively short lived. Smashing someone’s face in for “what they said about our Sharon” is one thing, but missing your bus and having to walk home is another.
Because when the clocks struck eleven the buses opened their doors and, like some giant reproducing bacteria, the drunken mass divided into small globules and funneled through the doors onto their waiting transport. Then, with a cacophony of reversing beeps, the buses would back out of the station as one, carrying their hooting, hollering and carousing cargo off into the night.
The station was left in eery silence. The harsh glare of the flurecent lighting only accentuating the stark litter strewn emptiness. This stillness was occasionally broken by the arrival of a sweating and panting latecomer who, having misjudged their ability to make a last minute dash for the final bus of the evening, was now faced with a long sobering walk home. After a while even the latecomers stopped coming and the station slept.
But the buses had a way to go yet.
More later.
Watching the local news the other day I was shocked and dismayed to discover that the 313 bus service to Holmfirth is to be discontinued. The report featured various elderly people talking about how the absence of the service would leave them isolated and cut off, unable to go into town to collect their pensions and buy their Werthers originals. To be honest my mind had drifted by that point, I was too busy mourning yet another facet of my youth which was silently being engulfed into the quicksand of history.
To be honest most of the time the 313 was pretty useless. It took such a tortuous route via various small villages and hamlets that it turned a twenty minute journey into one of nearly an hour. There were a multitude of other buses which were much more efficient: the 309, 310 and 311 to name but three. In fact the only time you might consider getting the 313 in daylight hours would be at half three in the afternoon. At this time all the other routes were temporarily transformed into duel purpose public/school bus services.
I can still remember the overwhelming feelings of helpless despair when your previously calm and civilized bus made that dreaded lunge through the high school gates. Admonishing yourself for getting on the damn thing in the first place, you would fly into damage limitation mode. Top of the list of priorities was to ensure you were not sat on either the top deck or at the back of the bus. These are areas which degenerate into feral lord of the flies type scenarios within mere seconds of the kids getting on. An unwary bystander can find himself the unwitting victim of a hurled geography textbook, uneaten packed lunch, or unfortunate first year without any prior warning whatsoever.
No matter where you were sat however you were in for a rather unpleasant journey. The barbarism of Genghis Khan’s mongol hordes were nothing compared to five dozen school kids on a West Yorkshire bus. Here they existed in a sort of limbo state, freed from the supervision of their teachers but not yet under the jurisdiction of their parents. It was pure unadulterated anarchy. During my own school days the lawlessness of it all was too much for me and I chose to walk a mile and a half to and from school in order to excuse myself from the mayhem. Even then I was not truly safe from the nihilism. I once received a particularly well aimed full pot of yogurt on my head from the top deck of a passing school bus. The emotional scars from this are yet to heal.
But I had it easy. I can only imagine the horror of being the driver on such routes. I envisage them slumping exhausted in the staff canteen at the end of their shift, their once smart and clean uniform soiled with countless spitbombs, their voice hoarse from shouting repeated appeals for clemency, and their souls tarnished from the knowledge that children are indeed the future. And then in walks the driver of the 313, smugly surveying all around him and gently chortling to himself at his colleagues beleaguered state. But the other drivers know he won’t be laughing long. He may have escaped being the school bus, but karma exists in the world of public transportation. What goes around, comes around. At 11pm the 313 turns into the drunk bus.
More tomorrow.
A periodic look at stuff I’ve been consuming recently.
Podcast: Daniel Kitson
I was unaware of comedian Daniel Kitson’s existence until very recently. Which is odd as he should really be a local celebrity. He comes from near me and we even went to the same sixth form college, missing each other only by a couple of years. And it’s not like he’s had a low profile; he played Spencer in Phoenix Nights, won the Perrier comedy award in 2002, and has received overwhelming critical praise for his stand up shows.
Since i have been alerted to his existence however i’ve lost no time in catching up with his output. Quite frankly the man is a genius. His comedy is intelligent, insightful, and devastatingly poignant. He transcends the barrier between entertainment and true art. There is an integrity to what he does which luminates his routines with honesty and a beautiful humanity. In short, I think he is pretty good.
I haven’t seen him live, although I’d love to. He has put some podcasts of his stand up shows on his website however, and I would recommend anyone go take a look. Ben and the Old Man is particularly wonderful.
Blog: Becky’s T-Blog
Becky is funny, damn funny. Sure, she has a fantastic blog layout, obvious design talents, and a great turn of phrase. But the thing that keeps me going back is the sparkling wit flying off her pages. Her posts are consistently among the most inventive and original of all the blogs I visit, and I seldom finish reading one without a broad grin on my face.
Becky is also a transvestite. I’ve been in a bit of a quandary about how to talk about this as I’m unsure of the etiquette and don’t want to say anything offensive by mistake. But if I do slip up I’m pretty sure she’ll forgive me. Saying that, I’ve learned quite a bit about the transvestite culture through reading her blog, and have had a few of my preconceptions challenged. Here are a few posts which I found particularly interesting:
Being Talked about
On muggles
Am I a transsexual?
But for me, Becky’s blog isn’t really about me nosing around in the transvestite culture. If it was I’d have got bored ages ago and stopped reading. No, it’s about great and funny posts, and she provides those in spades.
Becky’s alter ego Simon and his partner Jane (who has her own rather marvelous blog here) are getting married today. Congratulations guys, I wish you many years of happiness.
Amy and I went to visit Evan in hospital. As we walked into the children’s ward I could see her eyes goggle in amazement at all the toys and games scattered around the place.
We approached Evan’s bed and her gaze fell onto the sick bowl on the side table.
“Look!!†she exclaimed excitedly “They’ve even got cowboy hats in here!â€
The book The Dales Way by Colin Speakman (1994, Dalesman publishing) states that the length of the footpath from start to finish is 84 miles. However The Dales Way: A complete guide to the trail by Terry Marsh (2005, Cicerone publishing) claims that it is just 78.7 miles. This means that between 1994 and 2005 the Yorkshire Dales has shrunk by 5.3 miles. I blame global warming personally.
By my estimate, if the shrinkage continues at it’s present rate, by 2139 we should be able to walk the whole thing in just an afternoon. Plus Craig’s bad knee might have cleared up by then so he could come too. A plan with no drawbacks.
You really would have thought that the British Isles would be well enough mapped by now for people to be able to tell how far places are apart from each other. Perhaps we need to take one of those wheel thingies you use to measure distances on geography field trips so we can settle the issue once and for all. We could become famous, like Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon.
The positive response to the walk from the people I’ve asked to come along has been incredible. So far we have had a staggering total of eight people willing to develop blisters for a good cause: Myself, Dave, Oli, Paul, Mushy, Rich Bassinder, Rich Brook, and Sandip. Good eggs each and every one of them. We also have four definitely maybes: Jez, Jim, Craig and Greg.
And in case they need more persuasion, and because I left some people out of the rogues gallery on Tuesday, here are some more reasons why they should tag along.
The Yorkshire Dales is possibly the most beautiful of all England’s national parks. We will walk across magnificent limestone pavements, saunter alongside picturesque sparkling rivers, and stroll over gently rolling fields. The splendor of the countryside will only be broken by the periodic homely comfort of a village pub.
Plus you all work too damn hard. Just how many hours did you spend at work this week? Exactly. There will be no meetings where we are going. No powerpoint presentations, no driving up and down the M1 or hopping on and off planes. Sure, we’re going to have six or seven hours of walking to do each day, but we’re going to have about fourteen hours of daylight to do it in. Life goes by pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.
And finally there is of course the Joseph Salmon Trust. It is not perhaps the most glamorous of charities. There will be no cure for cancer, no rehoming of cute fluffy kittens, no rescuing swathes of Amazonian rainforrests. But it will help people going through one of the worst events imaginable, the loss of a child. Nothing anyone can do or say can reduce the pain of those first few days of bereavement. But hopefully together we can do something towards reducing some the burdens. Imagine the feelings of guilt if you were unable to afford a half decent funeral for your son, unable to buy a grave marker for your daughter. These are things people should not have to worry about during a time when all ability to cope crumbles.
Initially I was hopeful that we’d be able to raise a hundred pounds or so. But the sheer number and commitment of those that have agreed to participate has made me optimistic for something a whole lot bigger. We could really do some good here.
I’m planning on having a meeting in the Rat and Ratchett on Wednesday the seventh of November at 7:30. This will be to decide:
- How many days we want to spend doing it (five or six).
- The exact dates we’ll be going.
- What kind of ratio of camping/B&B’s we want.
- Sharing out some of the organization.
We need to get this sort of stuff decided as soon as possible so we can book accommodation. There’s going to be a few of us so if we leave it too late then some people might end up with nowhere to sleep.
I realize that some people won’t be able to make the meeting, but it would be great if as many people could come as possible. If you can’t attend then please let me know if you have any opinions on the above. I don’t want people to think this is going to be my project or anything, I really want it to be a group effort. Lets face it, if I’m left in charge we’ll end up walking to Dublin by mistake.
To everyone else reading this, I apologize that the blog has got sidetracked recently. Rest assured, it will return to the usual pointless banalities tomorrow.
They say bad things happen in threes:
One
Yesterday morning my neighbor and I drove into each other. He was reversing into a parking space and I was going in forwards. The whole thing seemed to happen in slow motion. I can even remember thinking to myself “If only there was some way I could make a noise with something in order to warn him he’s backing into me”. Yes, I know, like my car horn. Sometimes I’m not the quickest of thinkers. My neighbor was all set to take responsibility but to be honest the fault was pretty mutual. We didn’t have time to sort it all out properly as Kerry needed to take the car in order to drive to the train station.
Two
Yesterday afternoon I was driving our second car home from an enjoyable day out with the kids when the clutch suddenly gave out. I found myself half way up a rather steep hill franticly revving my engine and slipping steadily backwards. I managed to stop safely and called out the recovery service. Three quarters of an hour later I found myself being towed at breakneck pace along extremely narrow and winding roads, franticly trying to remember the thousands of instructions on how to be towed safely that I’d just signed a form to say I’d understood.
Three
At 1am this morning the cold that Evan has been struggling with for the past three or four days took a turn for the worse. He vomited all over our bed, had a temperature of 39°C and he had a breath rate of over 60/minute. After calpol and ten puffs on his inhaler he was no better so Kerry took him down to accident and emergency. They’ve managed to get his breathing back to normal but the oxygen levels in his blood are still too low so they have kept him in for observation. Long term readers of the blog will know that this has happened before, if fact it’s happened twice, so we’re confident everything is going to be ok within a day or two. It’s still pretty horrible to have a child in the hospital though.
[Update: Evan's back home now, which is probably just as well as he was beginning to get very unruly. Every time anyone would walk past his crib he stood up, rattled the bars, and waved at them maniacally yelling "HI YA!!" until they payed him some attention. A happy wheezer indeed. The admission was just a precautionary one and, while he's still not 100%, he's certainly a lot better this morning.]
Two years ago our friends Neil and Rachel’s three year old son, Joseph, passed away in his sleep. This year they set up a charity in his memory. Grieving families have enough to deal with without worries about where they will find the money to say goodbye to their child. The Joseph Salmon Trust will give financial assistance, helping pay for things like the funeral and the gravestone.
We are incredibly proud of our friends, and want to support what they are doing as much as we can. But even if we didn’t have that personal connection with them, we would still realise that the Joseph Salmon Trust will fill a vital gap in the support offered to bereaved parents. There are countless agencies who offer emotional and spiritual support, but very few who offer practical and financial.
So here is the promised announcement. Next year, sometime between the dates of the 19th of July and 3rd of August, I am going to do a sponsored walk of the entire length of the 84 mile long Dales Way. The expedition will take around six days and will take me through the beautiful Yorkshire Dales national park and into the outskirts of the Lake District.
And the following people are coming with me: Craig, Dave, Lee, Mushy, Paul, Rich, and Rich.
Of course most of these people are not actually aware of they are coming. And some people have actually expressed some kind of deluded belief that they are able to decline my invitation. But they are coming, oh yes they are coming. I realise that many might feel there are more comfortable ways of raising money than walking 84 miles through the Yorkshire countryside. But to them I say pah, pish, and pshaw. There are many reasons why they should come along and I shall address each individual personally.
 How many more opportunities are there going to be for a lad’s holiday? Slowly but steadily our youth is being subdued by adult responsibilities. Mortgages, careers, partners, and children; all these things have enhanced our lives in some way. But sometimes we need to break out and be that 18 year old idiot again. Think of it: eight friends wandering the beautiful rolling landscape by day, reclining in welcoming jovial country pubs in the evening. No pressures, no worries, only companionship. It’d be like City Slickers but without the cows.
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And that’s not the limit of who’s invited. Oli, Sam, Sandip, Jim, Jez, it’d be great if you came along too. In fact anyone can come, the more the merrier. But no girls, we don’t want any girl germs stinking up the place. This will be a manly walk for manly men. You women can do your own damn expedition.
Now for the details. I’ve yet to work out the exact specifics, but here’s what I’ve got so far. The walk will take around 6 days:
- Day One: Ilkley to Grassington (17 miles)
- Day Two: Grassington to Buckden (11 1/2 miles
- Day Three: Buckden to Lea Yeat (17 1/2 miles)
- Day Four: Lea Yeat to Sedbergh (11 miles)
- Day Five: Sedbergh to Burneside (17 miles)
- Day Six: Burneside to Bowness (10 miles)
I have a vague idea that we will alternate staying in a B&B’s one night with camping out in tents the next. This would keep the costs down. We wouldn’t be carrying the tents with us though, Kerry has said she’d be willing to drive them to us on nights we needed them.
The open road beckons you, what do you reply?
This was the first blog entry I ever wrote. It was posted on livejournal on April the 1st 2005. Despite the date this was the most serious and painful thing I have ever written. You can see the original here.
My friend’s son died today. I don’t know the full details, but it seems like they went to get him up this morning and found him dead.
I don’t really know why I’m writing this. To try and initiate some sort of cathartic release I guess. I feel very helpless; I hardly knew him and I have a deep well of sadness inside me so god only knows what Neil and Rachael are feeling. I keep thinking of them in such unbearable emotional pain that all I want to do is help - but know there is nothing I can do. I’m going to wait until I contact them until next week, then send a card or something - letting them know I’m there if they want me to be.
The first thing I wanted to do when I heard was go and pick up Amy from nursery and give her a hug. Kerry says she felt the same. It wasn’t even a “thank god it didn’t happen to us” thing, just a primeval urge.
He was only three for gods sake. All those hopes and expectations gone. I keep imagining them coming back from the hospital to the house with all his toys just as he left them. How the hell do you cope with something like that? I wish I could do something.
I went out tonight with Craig and Dave for Karl’s leaving do. I was hoping we could find a corner and sit and just reflect but we ended up going to a bunch of shitty towny pubs. We had a toast - to Joseph, Neil and Rachel, may they all find peace. I wanted to share the experience with people that had known Neil as long as me, and we did to some extent. I guess though that it was easier for me to put myself in their shoes because of Amy. I never really understand how deeply I could feel until I had Amy.
Shit.
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