Author Archives: Sitting comfortably with andy daly

If You Only Ever Read One Book

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The Father I Had

by Martin Townsend

Bantam Press 2007  

If you only ever read one book in your life …

… Make sure it is this one.

It’s a gem, which tells the  story of the Townsend family and in particular the relationship between eldest son, Martin and his Bi-Polar/Manic-Depressive father. Achingly sad, but genuinely very funny in places, it tackles the issue of living with a person who has mental health difficulties and the impact that this has on family life, head-on.

Not quite the mindless holiday reading you were hoping for? Do yourself a favour, put down the Danielle Steel and give this a go. It will take you – I almost said …’on a roller-coaster emotional ride’  But apart from being an awful cliché, it suggests something which is much less subtle: faster, noiser, hysterical. No,…this book will take you on an emotional voyage that I guarantee you will not forget in a hurry; and is moreover, one from which you will return with a greater understanding of the strength of the Human Spirit, its resilience and capacity for love.

“The Father I Had” allows you the priviledge of  a window into the life of a remarkable family. Its daily battles with ignorance, prejudice, often, an intransigent Heath Service; and most poignant of all its attempts to be as normal a family as possible are all thrown into sharp focus via Townsend’s writing. You share the family’s happinesses, their laughter and their pride, just as keenly as you feel their sorrows, sometimes despair, but never hoplessness at their predicament. All set against the backdrop of North West London in the 60s, 70s and 80s which is painted, it must be said with unnerving accuracy and a keen eye (and ear) for the sort of detail which will strike a chord with those who lived through the same period.

Don’t be put off. This is not some doomy tome which will end its days stopping the kitchen door or propping the window with the broken sash. Far from it, for despite its uncompromising subject, I believe Townsend’s book will leave you uplifted, and enlightened and maybe – as it did me – cause you to look at relationships in your own life from an altogether different perspective.

© Andy Daly  2010

Frostbite on Marylebone High Street

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My beloved Doc Marten boots.Black, eight hole, customised with football boot laces (when the local constabulary weren’t removing them for us at gigs at the Rainbow) After a wet motorcycle pillion journey from York to Newcastle (not recommended) I melted part of the rubber sole of the right boot by resting it on the glass door of the solid fuel fire we had as I tried to thaw out.

Apart from the phhht!  sound it made when I walked, it wasn’t  a problem. Until I came down to London for my stint working for Victoria Wine, Marylebone High St. in the week running up to Christmas; during which in 1980 (for ‘twas then )  it snowed, leaving quite a covering for a few days, even in central London, There was I, from dawn till dusk wheeling my barrow laden with cases of wine, crates of champagne, boxes of mixers, bottles of babycham, Advocaat and VAT 69 over the snow-covered streets for all the office parties* that were taking place. One foot getting noticeably colder than the other. Close inspection revealed the cause. As I walked, snow entered through the puncture in my right boot, filling the void that was the air cushion and packing itself into a hard, freezing sole- shaped lozenge. Anxious to save money (as the point of the exercise was to earn money to buy presents) I persevered for two days, after which I could bear it no more and bought a new pair. Could this be the closest anyone has got to frostbite in central London?

*Not as tiresome as it may sound. The shop had some very interesting customers: EMI Manchester Square being one; Hughie Green another. Mind you, for Hughie, meeting me was sadly lacking the impact I might have hoped for. I was let into the flat by his butler/housekeeper, shown through the lounge, past the sofa, on which Hughie was lain, wearing a grey shirt, open to the waist and and shorts, slobbering in a deep sleep (in which he remained for the whole of our encounter) to the kitchen, where I left his (sizeable) order.

Houston You got a problem?

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We were at the dinner table one evening, talking school with the boys. Thankfully, this has always been a thoroughly pleasurable experience: They do like to talk about school especially since they have both been at secondary – they tend to ‘bounce’ stories off each other. Occasionally, you get some utter gems, such as this one.

Ian told us this about his Year 9 Science teacher ‘Miss Houston’. Miss seems a bit dizzy from what he’s already told us. You get the feeling that she’s not really fully in control. She is Greek, apparently, talks in a high-pitched singy-songy voice, and asks the kids “Houston gotta problem?” (As in Houston, Texas, Mission Control: “Houston we gotta problem”) when she thinks they are stuck.

Well, it comes about it’s a hot, tedious afternoon, almost time for home, but that bell is just far enough away to make it feel like an eternity. They are studying human reproduction and are labelling diagrams in their books as she points out for them the various key features. They are scribbling away with the parts of  the male reproductive system. They get to ‘Scrotum’ which she points out on the diagram and as they continue to write, heads down, suddenly, and to no-one in particular, she announces:

“Ahhh! ‘Scrotum’ I love the way it rolls off your tongue!”

(I swear this is true: we had the tale independently verified…)

The kids carried on writing, then it slowly began to dawn on…. first one or two…then a few more: what she had actually said. However, because of the directness with which she said it, coupled with the fact that the import of what she had actually said had only slowly made itself apparent to the class, right at the very end, there wasn’t a big fuss over it in the lesson. Many of them were packing away or had left the class, before someone or other said “Did she really say what I think she said?”

Well, after I’d recovered my composure (it was one of those cases where eventually you get to laughing at other people laughing. and Ian’s laugh is the most infectious ever..Oh God , I was in bulk…) Well, I was horrified and impressed in equal measure. Ian had, in fact already told my wife in the car after she’d picked him and James up. She nearly went off the road in hysterics, James thought she was having a fit, she eventually pulled up.

Well, as we got to hear more and more stories about her it became clear it was completely in character. Ian chose Chemistry, her subject  (however not necessarily because of her, though I will strongly encourage James to do so….) For example, she taught them about the ‘Bonding’ of atoms, by getting people from the class to act out scenes from a nightclub where each participant was an atom, the majority of who were out for a few drinks and a laugh, but basically to bond with another. Then there were one or two ‘kinky’ ones who wanted to bond in twos and threes! I began to wonder. Is she a dizzy, daft old moo who doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going, or is she (and this is where my money was going) actually a very canny teacher who was using language, key words, vingettes, play-acting, kinaesthetic learning to make it fun, interesting and easy to remember.

I finally met her at his year 11 parents’ evening and we had such a laugh at Ian’s expense (she didn’t know I was a teacher and I didn’t let on) but we were on the same wavelength immediately. Ian will never have any trouble remembering, or explaining what ‘bonding’ is or how it works.

One very cool (if still slightly dotty) lady.

 © Andy Daly  2010

Brain downs tools

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With Parkinson’s everything revolves around a few – well, more than a few actually – tablets. Every bloody thing you do, every bloody where you go: you’ve got to think 3 steps ahead and make sure every eventuality is planned for. When disaster strikes and say, you have a major ‘freeze’ it’s usually that something unexpected has got in the way of a dose, or has caused you to lose momentum.

However, sometimes the opposite can happen. Under the right circumstances, I can keep going, for a while. For instance,if I am deeply engrossed in something or if I am particularly happy or feel I am having success with something. As a result, doses may be late or (rarely, now) skipped altogether.

But you soon know about it. I described it to my consultant once as akin to the comic “moment of realisation” that they used to use to such great effect in animated cartoons. You know, Roadrunner, for example, where Wily E. Cayote runs off the edge of the canyon and keeps going as though the road is still firm beneath his feet….until he stops…and realises that there’s nothing whatsoever under him. Then he gives you ‘that look’ as he pauses momentarily before plummeting down to the canyon floor. Eventually, your brain does the same, realising it has been tricked, yells “Oi lads we’ve been had, that’s it! Down tools.

© Andy Daly  2010

Headache

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I’ve had a shockin’ day today. My head feels like a block of wood. I fact it looks a lot like one too. You know, like an African carved mask with eyes looking in different directions, raffia hair and teeth made from sea shells. That’s exactly what I feel like right now. I’ve got a whole gang of men from the Kalabari region of Nigeria, behind me making all sorts of noises. I have never met them before, and I’ve no idea who let them in, but they seem jolly nice.

© Andy Daly  2010.

 

Gas Man’s Crack (Revisited)

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It’s certainly very comforting to know that the water companies take the issue of water leaks as seriously as they say they do. They (‘Three Valleys Water’) have come today to fix the leak outside our house. It’s not much of a leak: it leaves a long ‘pond’ in the gutter from its source, somewhere under the pavement as far as the next drain in front of our neighbour’s house – about 20 feet. But it is a leak, nevertheless. I reported it when I first spotted it shortly after building work on the extension began (Not that I hold the builder in any way responsible. Far from it: he was quite meticulous about making sure that no loads were parked on the pavement or on our block paving in such a way as they might risk causing damage)

 Well, that was late September/early October.

 It is now …  let me see … Ah yes! …  

 It is now May. Eight months and two calls to the Three Valleys Water ‘Leakspotter line’ later, they turn up to fix my leak, proceeding to interrupt me every 10 minutes to tell me what they are going to do next.

 I couldn’t care less!

It’s not my leak! It’s theirs! I was only being public-spirited in an attempt to avoid wastage of a valuable  resource. (Although, as it finds its own way to a drain, I am assuming it gets incorporated into the system/cycle again: or is this being stupidly naive and uniformed?) Other than that, I don’t want to know. They are not doing me any favours. In fact, my suspicions are that quite the opposite: it is going to cause considerable inconvenience …

And so: what’s the first thing these dopey fuckers do? That’s right! They cut the gas pipe by mistake. Now I’m no expert on the sphagetti that lives beneath our feet, but I would imagine a gas pipe, especially one laid as recently as ours, would be fairly clearly marked. But then what do I know?

Yes! … yes! the pipe so lovingly laid on that miserable freezing friday back in December by the gang of villains, rogues, ex-cons, headcases, gypsies, tramps and thieves that were The Transco Pipelayers (See ‘Gas Man’s Crack’) In fact, I’d have paid good money to have  had a couple of them here this afternoon – the cocky ‘Chirpy Cock-er-nee Sparrer’ foreman, his cap always at an outrageously jaunty angle, and the fitter with one eye and cauliflower ears, for instance; secretly watching the hapless Three Valleys gang making such a dog’s dinner of their handiwork. Then the ‘Transco Tag-team’ chewing them up and spitting them out all down Woodlands Avenue as they head back for the M25 and Kent (which is where they came from every day, believe it or not) in the Friday afternoon traffic.

 Speaking of which … Ha!  I notice that the Three Valleys Water gang omitted to come to the door and inform me of this particular piece of information … As I write, at 2:40pm, Friday their van kicks into life and before you can say ‘Three Valleys Leakspotter Line’ they’ve fucked off for the weekend, leaving a ten foot deep, flooded  hole in front of our drive. It is debateable whether we’ll be able to get the car out.

 Still, for no extra charge, I got to watch the four-strong Three Valley’s team stand around and look blankly as the British Gas pair made good their pipe, while thankfully (and perhaps most importantly) you will be pleased to know that I was not treated to any kind of improptu dispay of the gas inspector’s nether regions as he checked the supply.

 Thank Christ for that!

 I await developments next week with utter indifference,

Incidentally, I’m sure you’ll be tickled pink to know that although the builders are no more, their presence is nonetheless felt almost daily in what has become the most tortuous and truly surreal stage of the works. In case you’ve forgotten (I know you couldn’t give a shit, but I’m going to tell you anyay) we’ve had:

  1. Design and planning: (That was the bit on the back of the fag packet)
  2. Enabling Works: Site preparation (Caterpillar and Dumper truck speed trials: All comers)
  3. Footings (during which our builder seemed to have cornered the world market in pre-mixed concrete. It looked at one stage as if he had confused our plans (fag packet) with those for a personal nuclear fallout shelter (9oz. Old Shag Rolling Tobacco packet) This is the last time next door’s cat was seen alive.
  4. Block and Brickwork: (Respect. Be in awe. We are not worthy etc.)
  5. Roofing: (Which nobody notices unless something or somebody falls off it)
  6. Knocking Through: (Severe trauma. Best forgotten about)
  7. Internal walls and plastering: (Forget the brickies! RESPECT, BE IN AWE, WE ARE NOT WORTHY etc.
  8. First Fix: (You didn’t want it here? What makes you think you have a choice?)
  9. Snagging: ( “There’s just a few minor bits and bobs … Shall we start with the roof? “Sure …. Where?” “Well … All of it … “)

Andy Daly  2009

Fivehead

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I remember on the eve of our son’s 4th birthday, he was lying in bed, I had been reading to him and his brother, who was already asleep. He looked up at me and said “Dad, you know I’ve got a forehead?” “Yes, James?”- not seeing it coming – “When I’m 5, will I have a fivehead?

© Andy Daly  2010

The Crabs

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This was a band formed from staff at the last school I worked at and in which I played bass – namely an exquisite, if battered natural (‘Butterscotch’) 1973 Fender Precision. Our main rivals were the 6th Form band at the time (I guess it was 1999 or thereabouts) who subsequently stuck at  the music and  now make up 66.6% of chart band ‘Scouting for Girls’

To be able to outplay/out perform them when it came to school concerts was one of the things that prompted us to get out and about and play ‘real’ gigs. Our first live appearance was at Eastcote Hockey club in Middlesex, A ramshackle late ’60s early 70’s affair which sported a mass of corridors and a labyrinthine collection of passages.

Russ our, guitarist, discovered these and was soon able to navigate most of the hockey club – in the dark In fact, most of  the exits opened out into the changing rooms which were our green Rooms – Lovely! a pungent mix of mud, Deep Heat, sweat, lager and stale farts.

Well, to cut a long story short… Russ decided to go ‘walkabout’ for one of his guitar solos, using his ‘wireless’  guitar lead. He’d planned his route: Main Bar, Gent’s toilets (!) playing all the time, from there he was to go through the juniors’ changing room and up on to the back of the stage – except that on the night, one of the doors was locked so he had to go back. Meanwhile, as we continued to play on stage, no idea where he was, his guitar lead began to pick up the local cab service signal, the Police waveband, Heathrow Air Traffic Control and a Turkish Radio programme. He finally made it back after we had played 47 choruses of Oasis’ “Some Might Say” and ordered everyone’s taxis home for the night – A European record.

We were called the Crabs and actually played four weddings and a funeral (Well, not quite a funeral, it was a memorial service for a fellow member of staff who had died of Cancer.) We were asked to play something appropriate. (So that was ‘Pretty Fly for a White Guy’ out f the running) I suggested “With or Without You” by U2. It was very moving, definately the hardest gig I’ve ever done. In fact, Roy now lead singer with ‘Scouting For Girls’ Gave the speech.

© Andy Daly  2010.

Here’s a tall tale

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Once upon a long time ago me and My Best Mate Aky entered the Scawfell
hotel, Seascale, West Cumbria (aged 19 and ¾ ) at about 10:00pm one evening. The pub was then run by a local ‘entrepreneur’ (ie Layabout/small time crook) called Joe Smith.
He had a wife who seemed to model herself on a mixture of Zsa Zsa Gabor and
Joan Collins, swanning from bar to lounge , carrying her stupid poodle and
bestowing her conversational benediction on her adoring audience (ie. her
foul-mouthed tales and bitchy gossip) Never fond of hard work, hubby Joe is
behind the bar ‘supervising’ clearly inexperienced (or inefficient) bar
staff.

Well, as me and Aky wait patiently at the public bar, nervously twitching
and eyeing the clock – remember, these were the days of a strict regime of
‘last orders’ at 10:30, out by 10:45 (11:00 on Friday/Saturday) unless of
course you were a local ‘entrepreneur’ or member of the constabulary,
in which case, ‘last orders’ was anywhere between 01:30 to 03:00am.  The bar was busy, the number waiting to be served increasing all the
time. Reluctantly, poor old Joe dives into the fray as the clamour for
drinks reaches fever pitch and proves as feckless as his dopey teenage
barstaff. It’s close to 10:20 now, and already two people, have been served
before us. Aky and me are thinking the same: What can we order, when he
(finally) come to us, that will really fuck things up for him? ‘4 pints of
Guinness: 2 each?’ I suggest ‘Make it six’ says Aky. Well, you know how L – O
– N –  G it takes to pour…… Joe’s face is a picture ‘Six pints of Guinness?!’
he repeats. You can see he’s on the verge of refusing to serve us. So at
last orders, 10:30 on the dot with 2 packed bars of drinkers waiting to be
served we watch with glee as he attempts to cope with our order. Wonderful!

Only one problem remaining….Well there wasn’t a problem with the first two
for me but I must admit, the third in 15 minutes was a bit of a struggle. Of
course ‘The Fish’ Atkinson, just glugged them all one by one; the downing of
the final dregs of each followed a wiping of his mouth with the back of his
hand and his familiar beery grin. What a laugh!

God, when I think how much I used to drink then…………….

© Andy Daly  2010

Another one

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Once upon a time my Dad went to a service at Lancaster cathedral, where they happened to be renovating the doors. The congregation was swelled by a group of Spanish tourists from San Sebastian (in the Northern Basque territory) One of the priests is an ex-pupil and they were chatting watching people leave through the only available door, result of the works. The priest had noticed that the Spanish group had managed to clog the door as they filtered out, still taking photos.
 
A dry as you like, he says “That’s what you get when you put all your Basques in one exit!”

 

© Andy Daly  2010