Category Archives: Autobiographical

Salmon fishing on the Afon Dwyfor, Criccieth, Gwynedd

Posted on by
1

Way back, way, way back before the invention of impermeable groundsheets, I took part in the  10th Rochdale Scout camp in Criccieth. Most notable for the food we had, or rather didn’t.  After we had been there for a couple of days and acclimatised ourselves to the rain, sausages, eggs and constipation, we decided enough was enough.  To hell with powdered mash and burnt baked beans. No! We were going to feast. Tonight, we would provide the food. And what was it to be? A  whole Salmon. In fact, the biggest salmon we had ever seen.  Two of our intrepid gang had gone ‘exploring’ in the area and had returned with tales of a ‘massive bloody Salmon’ they had found lurking under a huge rock in the Afon Dwyfor – a majestic strip of river that runs past Criccieth to the coast.

Like ancient hunters, we prepared. Something primordial was sparked off in us as we sharpened spears, made arrows and went about weaving nets made of string. Later that afternoon, away we went, like an ancient hunting party.

Our intrepid duo were right. Sure enough, in one of the deep slow moving pools, if you hung upside down and put your head under water (Incidentally, I don’t recommend this or condone subsequent actions. All I will say in my defence is that it was 1973) there was indeed a ‘massive bloody salmon’ exactly as described. Our plan of attack was cunning and considered: scare it out into the shallows with sticks and spears, then ‘catch it’ with our (now rather pathetic-looking) nets ….. and tonight we shall feast!

Well, part one of the plan went surprisingly smoothly. Within a few minutes we had the most enormous fish, at least 40 lbs in weight, splashing around, fighting for life, while we stood with dropped jaws, transfixed by the beauty and sheer power of the monster we had unleashed. So much so, in fact that we failed to notice the two dark green Land Rovers that had sped onto the fields adjacent to the river bank. Before we could utter a word, and in a scene reminiscent of the closing sequence of ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’, we were bundled into said vehicles and after the briefest of interrogations, driven back to our camp. It was during the course of this short drive back that I noticed, for the first time the signs along the river bank ‘Private Land’, ‘No Fishing’, ‘Poachers will be prosecuted’

We got off with a caution, scotch eggs and mushy peas.

© Andy Daly  2010

Greedy Greedy Guts Guts

Posted on by
1

Once upon a time, I was up in Camden Town at the Dublin Castle to meet some friends who had come down from the North for a spell in the smoke.  We had a couple of beers together, before they had to shoot off to meet another party: I think, to go boozing up Highgate/Hampstead. I didn’t fancy it, so I went off down Parkway, towards the tube; as it was early, probably intending to head for home (Bromley-by Bow) and finish off in the Priory Tavern.

At the time, on Parkway, just below the Dublin Castle, was a no-frills English restaurant – I think also called ‘Parkway’. We used it a lot. They used to do a great all – week – round Sunday roast, and we’d often end up there for some nosebag if we’d been ‘getting the taste’ in Camden.

As I walked past the restaurant, I instinctively looked in the main window – I think I was a bit peckish and was half hoping that there might be someone in there I knew, who I could go join neck some scran. Well, whaddaya know, sitting at the window table: it’s only my best mate Aky and his girlfriend. I wave and grin like an idiot. Something approaching a smile briefly flutters across her lips, then her face hardens as she realises the possible implications of my sudden appearance (ie no more cosy meal for two) Aky, meanwhile is oblivious to this as he’s taking a big slug out of a pint glass and doesn’t see me. I do the honourable thing and walk on. However, he must have spotted something, or his girlfriend given something away, because he’s soon calling me from the restaurant door. I walk back up to and into the restaurant, ask for a third seat and join them; stressing that I do not wish to disrupt their evening together. While Aky says “Noooo, the more the merrier.  Listen, we’ve just this minute ordered, what are you having?” his girlfriend’s eyes are suggesting that whatever it is, I enjoy it, because if she’s got any say in the matter, it will be the last meal I have.

“The usual, I reckon” That was roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, roasties, two veg and gravy. “Yeah. Me too” says Aky.

So we order some beers and presently the food arrives. It is politely and efficiently served and we get stuck in. Aky, a real ‘trencherman’ is first to finish, wrapping up the proceedings by draining the dregs of his pint, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and giving me his familiar beery grin. I’m not far behind him, but I’m more in the skinny git with hollow legs mould.

“Ahhhhh …” I said, contentedly: “Y’know what …  I could eat that all again”

“Why don’t we?” says Aky, mischievous glint in his eye. His girlfriend is horrified.

We call over the waitress.

“Can we have it all again. Just the same, one each, all over again.”

She didn’t seem to understand: “What? Was there something wrong with it?”

In the meantime, the head waitress had appeared. She seemed braced for trouble:

“Is there a problem?”

“No, not at all, we enjoyed it so much, we just want the same again, if that’s OK”

“Certainly!”

… and so off we went again! Everything was polished off, and I do believe we even – much to Aky’s girlfriend’s annoyance – had a pudding too!

A great night. If I tried it now, of course, I’d be crippled for days!

Andy Daly  2010

Mirror mirror

Posted on by
Reply

Dinks, despite being from ‘Sheff’ was a smashing bloke. Bit of a nuisance when he was drunk; but then so are a lot of people. The last time I saw him, he wore baggy army surplus trousers, a Sex Pistols T-shirt and a denim jacket. His head was shaved, revealing an angry lunar landscape of spots, blackheads and acne scars. Bleached hair sprouted from a point to the front of his crown, and for the most part dangled down over his eyes and face.

“Did I ever tell y’t’ story of when I saw me oan arsehole?” He asked one day in the pub, apropos of nothing.

“Well, I were on’t’ bus comin’ oam fr-fr- fr-fr- frum college one dinner time…” (he stammered too)

I was immediately hooked and listened intently.

“Aye, I were on this bus, when I thowat: Y’ knurr, twenteh too yeayurs on th-th-th-th-this planet and I’ve n-n-n-n-n-never seen me oan arsehole.”

Then and there, Dinks resolved to do something about it. He hatched a plan. What sort of bizarre meanderings and tortured thought processes lead a human mind to close focus of such an issue is beyond me. However, unimpeded by such concerns, the intrepid Dinks prepared to alight.

At his stop, he scuttled down the stairs and off the bus. He quickly covered the quarter of a mile or so to his house.

“Twelve-thirty: brilliant, me Mum won’t be ‘oam till at least wun. Should be perfect!” he thought to himself as he glanced at his Tintin watch

He described reaching home, hurridly unlocking the front door, and racing straight up the stairs into the bathroom.

Once in, he threw off his jacket. The bathroom, though clean and tidy, was small and poky. The only mirror was that on the front of the vanity unit placed high on the wall, adjacent to the sink. Now this was going to be tricky, it would require nerve, balance and more than a little agilty. Not to worry! Our Hero had done his planning and, after feverishly unbuttoning, dropping and stepping out of his pants, naked from the waist down, he began his ascent. Careful!… one foot on the basket that housed spare toilet rolls, old newspapers, and inexplicably, a can of WD 40. Good! … it did’t give. A step up with the other foot onto the window ledge. Easy! The fan light was open causing the net curtain to play in the fluttery wind. This was the big one … Ready? One, two, three … Hup! Other foot into the ‘soap space’ corner of the sink, behind the tap … Will it hold my weight? …. Yyyyeeessss! Done it!

I recall the expession on his face as he reached this pivotal point in his recounting of the whole tale: a mixture of triumph and relief.

“At last! The Holy Grail!” (His words!) “I could see me oan arsehole!”

He should have taken more notice of the open window, for no sooner had his face of triumph clouded with revulsion at what he beheld in the mirror than the bathroom door (which in his haste he had forgotten to lock) swung open, and his Mum walked in.

“Jeremy!” She screeched “What on EARTH are you doing….?

“Well, I just said first thing that came into me ‘ead”

“I’m br-br-br-br-brushin’ me teeth Mum!”

© Andy Daly  2010

Weary Wycombe

Posted on by
Reply

Well, my running shoes (Reeboks if you’re interested) were hung up in 1989 in disgust after my second half marathon at Wycombe proved  to be a pale follow up to the previous year’s success in which a whole bunch of us – marathon novices – ran as a team and enjoyed a long afternoon’s post race analysis over a Sunday roast in that posh old hotel in Amersham, y’know the one in ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’ (or was it ‘Truly Madly Deeply’? … whatever …)  I raised buckets of cash and was generally left with a warm, cosy feeling inside.

Now let’s see …

The Wycombe half begins with a dash from the start to a large, dense and immovable object. No! not John Prescott – but ‘The Hill’ (If you’ve ever wondered why it’s called ‘High Wycombe’ here’s your answer)

A particularly mean and spiteful thing to do, methinks … put a big hill right at the start of a 13 ½ mile race (or I suppose, more correctly put a race start right next to a big hill). So, anyway the Wycombe half starts like this and goes downhill. Well, what I mean is it goes uphill, but for yours truly at least, the race starts badly and from there goes to worse. I’m soon regretting the 4 pints of Guinness and curry the night before and my similarly cavalier attitude to training over recent weeks. Looking at my watch I realise that to beat last year’s time, I have a mountain to climb. What?! Another one? I find the final section: crossing the M40 and the descent into Wycombe an uphill struggle.

 

Anyway, the upshot is that I find it a thoroughly disagreeable day. Even the photo the Wycombe Gazette took of me (in fact, of all competitors) was spectacularly bad. I appeared gaunt, haggard stumbling across the finish line. Well over the hill … truly, metaphorically and deeply … I swore I would never get involved again, and I haven’t.

© Andy Daly  2010

Sticks and Bones

Posted on by
1

I went to see my neurologist today at Charing Cross (that’s the hospital not the station – though I do wonder sometimes!) They see the Parkinson’s  patients in rooms off the narrowest corridor you can imagine: not only that, but they use the corridor as a waiting area – so you can imagine what it’s like, seated Parkinson’s sufferers at all sorts of angles: coats, bags, arms, legs and sticks poking out everywhere, so the newly-called patient has to negotiate this obstacle course before they can take their seat – if  there is one – adjacent to their specialist’s consulting room. Crazy! Do they do it on purpose?

 © Andy Daly  2010

Traffic in Valencia

Posted on by
Reply

To start with, be prepared for a complete refusal to comply with any aspect of their equivalent of the highway code, by about a third of the population (shooting red lights, parking on the centre of roundabouts etc) and the ‘Grandes Vias’.  These are old huge 6 lane roads which run through the city. Elegant, with enormous trees, ornamental gardens, fountains, cafes and bars running down their central reservation, and over-looked by blocks of highly sought after flats and ,apartments, they are ‘roads from hell’ for the unwary, faint-hearted, and the most vulnerable of all ‘the tourist in the hired car’. Everyone travels at breakneck speed (usually breaking the national speed limit, never mind the urban limit) Obligatory free arm hanging out of the window, the other hand on the wheel, but poised ready to thump the horn for anything (In warning, anger, frustration, because you’ve seen a mate, because Valencia won last night, or because it’s Tuesday…or Wednesday..or whatever…) Lanes that you are pelting down at 70+ mph simply disappear or suddenly reduce from 6 to 4. Add to which you have (even these days) unhelmeted scooter or motorbike riders protected by nothing more than a bikini or pair of shorts, weaving in and out like mad wasps or hornets….I think you probably get the picture!

But it is exhilarating and I love it!!

© Andy Daly  2010.

Frostbite on Marylebone High Street

Posted on by
2

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?

Posted on by
Reply

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

Posted on by
Reply

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

Fivehead

Posted on by
Reply

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