Category Archives: Autobiographical

MY MUM 2 MARGARET THATCHER 0

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I feel compelled to not let Baroness Thatcher’s passing go unremarked.

Iron Lady. Rust In Peace

Iron Lady. Rust In Peace

So I’ll sum up my feelings by recounting a little tale about my dear old Mum.

Before I was born, in the late ‘50s my Mum was a social worker in the North West. She had a big patch and drove her Ford Popular to get to her appointments. (A bit like ‘Call the Midwife’ on four wheels) Back then, social work wasn’t tarnished with the brush of scandal and incompetence that rightly or wrongly it has been in recent years. All the same, it was about tackling poverty and deprivation and trying to improve the conditions for society’s most vulnerable.

After stopping work to have the family and a hip-replacement operation, she retrained to be a Primary School teacher, first in Greater Manchester and later in the poorest area of Whitehaven, in the shadow of Haigh pit and the Marchon chemical works.

She hated Thatcherism and its uncaring, hectoring style. I knew that from the way she would answer back to the news on radio and TV. But she never discussed her own politics. To this day I don’t know how she voted.

Anyway, the year is 1982 or thereabouts, in the run up to local elections. Mid morning one day there was rat-tat at our front door. I was upstairs and heard my Mum go to answer it.

‘Yes?’

‘Good Morning, Madam. Lovely day’

There seemed to be two visitors on the doorstep. I listened on.

‘I wonder whether we might be able to count on your vote in the forthcoming election?’

‘And you are ..?’

Well, it was the Tory candiate, long-forgotten; while the other introduced himself as one Piers Merchant, a young Tory smoothie and unsuccessful candidate for Newcastle Central in 1979. Presumably Central Office were allowing him to hone his campaigning skills ready for the next general election campaign.

‘May we ask what line of work you or your husband are in then we can give you an idea of some of the ways the Conservative Party are going to be able to transform your lives?’

‘As it happens we are both in Education’

‘Ah! Schools’ said Merchant ‘A subject close to Mrs. Thatcher’s heart and one that I think you will find the Conservative Party …’

‘What does she know about schools?’

Talk about ‘lighting the blue touchpaper!’ For a good fifteen minutes, my Mum laid into them, wiped the floor with them in fact, on every aspect of Tory policy Education, Health, Energy, Tax, The Falklands. I listened on in glee, getting prouder and prouder of my Mum as they got more and more uncomfortable. Eventually to resounding cheers from upstairs, she slammed the door on them and they scuttled off, tails between their legs.

Epilogue

Piers Rolf Garfield Merchant got his wish and was elected to parliament representing Newcastle Central in the 1983 election. He lost his seat in1987. He returned to parliament as MP for Beckenham in 1992. His resignation was precipitated by the ‘Sleeze Merchant’ Affair in which the married MP was photographed and filmed in what are generally referred to in these cases as ‘compromising situations’ with a 17 year old Soho based ‘Hostess’. In 2005, he was the UKIP candidate for the Torrington Rural ward in the Devon County Council election, but finished fourth of the four candidates.

The point being of course that the Iron Lady image was a myth perpetrated by the likes of spineless lackeys like Merchant. In overcoming adversity, battling a lifetime of ill health (not that often you would know it) my Mum was an Iron Lady, so was her Mum, and My Best Mate Aky’s Mum. And Jackie and Jane and Caroline …

 

THE OLD HAG DREAM

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I’ve never had much truck with ghosts and all that shite. Everything can be explained by Science, Art or both – and if it can’t, there’s probably a good reason for it: like we haven’t evolved enough to comprehend. Giving my great grandfather a mobile phone in his trench in Flanders would have been futile. To him it would have been nothing more than a small cigarette box with numbers on. No use for vital communication that may have saved his and his comrades’ lives. Besides what use is one mobile phone? Who do you ring?

Anyway, I’m getting distracted. Long time readers of blog may recall about 4 years ago I promised to tell the tale of my Old Hag dream. Well here it is!

In old London town back when George Michael was considering turning another corner (Ah! Pop Pickers, that’s got you thinking ‘Now…what year was that?’) I was going through quite a messy split from long term girlfriend, Ruby. The reasons for the split? Well they were complicated (Fred) and hard to explain (her boss) – it’s OK, I’m over it now, and I got custody of the Photo-Me booth strips of the pair of us. However, suffice to say I may have had this on my mind a bit.

One night I went to bed in my flat in Bow only to be awoken in the small hours, unable to move, for sitting on my chest was a cackling, wizened old hag with the unmistakeable, though distorted features of Ruby. As I looked up at her, still pinned at my chest, she suddenly grew incredibly tall, her head almost  disappearing from view in the madly distorted perspective. ….and she was gone.

Too much Guinness?

No. Its actualy quite common.  Sleep paralysis as it is known, is a phenomenon in which people, either when falling asleep or wakening, temporarily experience an inability to move. It is a transitional state between wakefulness and rest characterised by complete muscle atonia (muscle weakness). It can occur at sleep onset or upon awakening, and can be associated with terrifying visions (e.g. an intruder in the room or sitting on the sleeper), to which one is unable to react due to paralysis. It is believed a result of disrupted REM sleep, which is associated with complete muscle atonia that prevents individuals from acting out their dreams. It exists in a similar form in many cultures around the world . In Finnish and Swedish folklore for instance, the culprit is a mare, a supernatural creature. The mare is a damned woman, who is cursed and her body is carried mysteriously during sleep and without her noticing. In this state, she visits villagers to sit on their rib cages while they are asleep, causing them to experience nightmares. The “Old Hag” was a nightmare spirit in British and North American folklore. In Vietnam it is called ma đè, meaning “held down by a ghost,” or bóng đè, meaning “held down by a shadow.”

hag

Fuseli: ‘The Nightmare’ 1782

© Andy Daly 2013

STRICTLY COME DANCING

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School PE: Football, Cross Country, Rugby, Tennis, Athletics, Basketball … So where did the Ballroom Dancing fit in?

One of the most hated aspects of the P.E. curriculum at St. Wilfrid’s my middle school, was the dancing. Learning, with a partner of the opposite sex to do the ‘Gay Gordons’ or a ‘Dashing Sargeant’

In the winter; possibly because it was too wet and cold to do anything else or posssibly just because sadistic PE staff wanted to embarrass the fuck out of us, we had to do so many lessons of Ballroom Dancing

Now before you get all dewy-eyed with mental pictures of Artem, Flavia and Aliona, beautiful costumes, sequins and the wigs of TVs ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ We are in a totally different situation:

Imagine the humiliation.

Boys and girls, as if it were not enough to be thrown headlong into the maelstrom of adolescence, already (with the exception of a lucky few) despairing of their body image, being forced to dance with each other, in the smelly school hall! The boys in their house rugby tops/shorts (Southworth, Arrowsmith, Rigby and Dumbledore) Clothing, that in most cases had lain undisturbed at the bottom of their bag since the previous week, if not the start of term. They line up to be paired off with the girls, God love ‘em who were forced to wear their leotards.

I can’t imagine a more sphincter–clenching embarrassment. Boys in my year ranged from 6 footers, with such dark 5 0’ clock shadows they had to shave twice a day, smoked twenty fags a day, had gruff, deep voices and probably joined their Dads down at the Club of an evening for a few pints – to those who looked like they would be much more at home, playing with lego and the Hornby train set. As for the girls… well, I can’t think of a more cruel exposure of one’s pysical attributes than a black nylon leotard. It was perfectly obvious to one and all who’s ‘equipment had arrived’ and who was still deperately waiting to take delivery.  Mind you, with or without ‘equipment’ it was a complete mystery to me how girls at around this time went from being uncomplicated friends, our best winger out on the playground, to wearing blue eyeshadow and eyeliner that appeared to have been applied by an epileptic monkey, writing ‘David Cassidy’ on every object they owned and becoming a Mormons because they ‘liked Donny Osmond’.

Still, it was the ‘70s and this is what was presented to us as our PE experience for this particular series of lessons. God knows why. Perhaps it was thought we ought to be prepared should someone out of the blue ask you to do a Gay Gordon with them. (With the benefit of hindsight that’s one club I would be wanting to make a very hasty exit from)

So! the first dance. Girls chattering nervously or standing mute in terror, the purple veins on their legs looking like maps of Britain’s inland waterways. The boys behaving like idiots; the more aware hoping that they get someone who has had a visit from UPS and that they can avoid the one with the impetigo and warts.

There is nothing quite like wrapping your hand around clammy fingers which feel like they are covered in Rice Krispies, still a vivid indigo from the wart stuff the nurse puts on them, the white ‘burnt’ bits showing round the edges. The leotard has a stiff sandpapery feel as you gingerly place your hand on the small of your partner’s back.

And we are off.

This it wasn't

This it wasn’t

“Not-Like-That-Daly, Get hold of her Lad. You some sort of Puff or what?” shouts our PE teacher who to save his blushes, (for I gather he still roams the streets of Whitworth, Rochdale minus the ‘70s sideburns I hope) I shall simply refer to as ‘Sir’ Whereupon, he snatches the poor girl out of my hand  and wheels around the floor with her, feet off the floor, her head bobbing from side to side like a rag doll. Meanwhile, Sir’s nylon tracksuit bottoms and money belt threaten to fall down at any moment.

“That’s how you do it” he laughs as the poor girl is unceremoniously dumped back in front of me.

Can you imagine this happening in school these days?

For those of you who may be interested. This is how the ‘Gay Gordons’ goes.

Bars

Description
1-2 Right hands joined over lady’s   shoulder (man’s arm behind her back) and left hands joined in front, walk   forward for four steps, starting on the right foot.
3-4 Still moving in the same   direction, and without letting go, pivot on the spot (so left hand is behind   lady and right hand is in front) and take four steps backwards.
5-8 Repeat in the opposite   direction.
9-12 Drop left hands, raise right   hands above lady’s head. Lady pivots on the spot. (The man may set).
13-16 Joining hands in ballroom hold,   polka round the room

17        Ad Lib (Ad Lib?)

Dreadful, dahling, just dreadful ...

Dreadful, dahling, just dreadful …

Affectionately dedicated to all my dance partners over the years.

© Andy Daly 2013

Playing Doctors and Nurses

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Here’s a great little game to play if you find yourself in Hospital, or visiting someone who is.

Draw the curtain around the bed so that the player cannot see who is approaching. Basically it is very simple. All you need to do is listen to the footsteps of approaching hospital personnel and guess who it is:

Categories

Loud, brisk and purposeful step: Consultant.

No-nonesense pat pat. Has three speeds (fast/medium/slow) depending on the personality of the member of staff him or herself, amount of shift remaining and urgency of journey: Nurse

Lots of noisy, clattering footsteps which seem to change direction frequently. A bit like a heard of antelope: Junior Doctors and students.

Slow soft shuffle. Feet never seem to lift off the floor: Cleaner.

Squeak squeak of rubber ‘Crocs’: Anaesthetist.

Silent. Appear at your bedside without warning: Surgeon

doc_nurses shoes

© Andy Daly 2013

Khan Stand Losing

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Here it is, repackaged with extra content in a bumper Christmas Special. New improved title! Bits I forgot in the original! Proper ending! All mistakes corrected! The ideal Christmas gift!

Yes, yes I am familiar with the concept of Proofreading and faithfully swear to use it sometime. But until then, here is Khan Stand Losing (Formerly known as Khan Get No Satisfaction)

Back in the dim and distant past, before Harry met Sally, Snickers were still Marathons and if you wanted to go to France you had to get a boat or plane, I find myself teaching in a Secondary Comprehensive school in Middlesex. With, I’ll have you know, some very illustrious former pupils. None of whose names spring to mind at the moment unfortunately – except the girl who is in Grange Hill, and the girl on the local BBC news team; the one who’s married to the Sports Correspondent. Oh! and Fearne Cotton and Mick the Mad Cabbie …

It is an alright kind of school. In fact it is a grammar school, back in the day; when in order to gain entry pupils have to pass a tricky little exam called the Eleven Plus. I never take an Eleven Plus, which is just as well, as for me at that age school is a breeze, a place to meet your pals and have a laugh. Indeed, come to think of it, so are the whole of my school days – to such an extent I become extremely suspicious of those types who claim that ‘the Child’ is like a pot waiting to be filled with knowledge and facts. In my day I may be a pot, even a pot waiting to be filled, but not with knowledge and facts, more like Sherbert Dabs, Everton Mints, Spanish, Fruit Salad chews and so on.

Anyway so here I am a young, impressionable, idealistic teacher in his first school – of course this is arrant nonesense as both my parents are teachers, so I know the score as far as the old Chalk and Talk dodge is concerned from day one. However, it seems I make some friends in high places as for my second year there I find myself timetabled to teach Wednesday afternoon Fifth and Sixth Form Games. Now this is felt by one and all to be a great honour; and if the truth be known a bit if a wheeze. But great fun nonetheless. A chance to show your prowess (or otherwise) in the sporting arena and for the kids to see you in another light and marvel at your athleticism or revel in your buffoonery. The range of options available, clearly reflects staff expertise and is quite mind-boggling now I think back to it eg. Football, Rugby, Athletics (track and field) Cross Country, Tennis, Badminton, Squash, Golf, Ice Skating, Volleyball, Skiing, Climbing, Sailing. Canoeing, Kayaking, Weightlifting and Ten Pin Bowling. For my sins, at one time or another, I run the Ice Skating, Skiing, Volleyball and share Footy duties with my old mate Chawkey.

Well, it just so happens that the Girls’ Squash option is for many years the domain of Head of Geography, Mrs Croaker, one of the number of old salts from the grammar school days, who although she looks a bit of a ferocious old fossil who has a habit of shooting first and asking questions a couple of weeks later, is actually an OK sort of Judy once you get to know her.

Legend has it that one day she turns up at the squash club, in Northwood with her girls to find one of their courts occupied. Mrs. Croaker storms right onto the court demanding to know what the blazes and who is responsible and why this court is in use when the school has it booked every week since before Jesus is in sandals…

Jahangir khan

The two guilty parties, their epic battle interrupted stand looking at their trainers like naughty boys until finally someone comes down from reception to sort out the mix up. Which they quickly do, and in no time at all Mrs Croaker and her girls have forgotten all about it.

And the sheepish target of Mrs. Croaker’s fiery invective? The player who dares to take her court? Well, if it is none other than the then World Number One professional squash player Jahangir Khan from Pakistan, who is considered by many to be the greatest player in the history of the game. He wins the World Open six times and the British Open a record ten times. From 1981 to 1986, he is unbeaten in competitive play. During that time he wins 555 games consecutively, the longest winning streak by any athlete in top-level professional sports as recorded by Guinness World Records.

I wonder if it is worth looking at the odds on Jahangir vs. Mrs. Croaker, but figure no bookie would be sap enough to come within a million miles of such a contest. Old Mrs Croaker wins every time, hand running.

I think you can probably insert your own caption here

I think you can probably insert your own caption here

© Andy Daly 2012

Me and Danny Baker

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I thought you might like to hear about the time I met writer and broadcaster Danny Baker.

It was when I was working at the Victoria Wine shop in Marylebone High Street in the summer of 1980/81 or thereabouts. One day I got a call at work from My Best Mate Aky. He suggested that after we were both finished I join him and his girlfriend Silvana over in Poplar, East London for a few scoops. Say no more.

Now, I must introduce you to Silvana. Like the amplifiers in Rob Reiner’s classic send – up of the Rock business, ‘Spinal Tap’, Silvana’s controls all went up to ‘11’. Presence, Intensity, Tone, Speed, Gain and Volume – all up to ‘11’. I had never met someone who could talk so much, so loud, so quickly, spin such convincing yarns, rip the piss out people in such a way that they didn’t even realise she was doing it. AND have an opinion on everything – even subjects she knew nothing about. Quite frankly, she scared the shit out of me. I simply could not figure out how to cope with this crackling, fizzing, jumping box of fireworks. Indeed, it was some years later, when quite by chance I wound up teaching in the same school as Silvana in South East London that I began to get the measure of her. But she had  a heart of gold, and the abiding image I have of her implanted in my brain is all-talked-out, but refusing to admit defeat, pushing her ‘80’s wide rimmed specs up her nose, the old map cracking into a smile and laughing her throaty laugh.

Anyway, now I’ve trashed one old friend, I’ll move on to the main task of the day. I made my way over to Silvana’s flat in Poplar: Fitzgerald House, one of the tower blocks on East India Dock Road, sixteenth floor, I believe. I think I must have had a few ‘travelling cans’ (usually a 4-pack of beers designed to combat the stress and boredom of travelling on London Transport) on the way over, because my memory of the evening is decidedly hazy from the outset. What I do remember was that we ajourned to some moody ‘estate’ pub behind the flats.

Silvana announced that we would be joined by a friend of hers: “Danny. He writes for the NME” (New Musical Express. At the time the definative voice on music which, during the 70s had a weekly circulation in the region of 300,000)’. Knowing how keen I was on music Silvana intimated that ‘Danny’ and I should have quite a lot in common. Well, I was brought up on the NME! I remember how at school, my mate Baz would get a copy every week, and our little gang: Self, Baz and Beckett would stand around reading it from cover to cover. News, reviews, tours, cartoons and jokes. I couldn’t wait. When Danny arrived we were introduced and left to chew the fat for a while. Thus, ensued one of the most dismal evenings I have ever spent in a public house.

Danny seemed distinctly reluctant to chat, whereas I was keen to know all about the NME, who he had interviewed, what they were really like etc. etc. It didn’t go too well. It seemed every band I liked, he hated “Magazine? Devoto – Twat!” and vice versa. It was a pretty disagreeable all in all and eventually all civilised conversation dried up. I caught the 106 back to our hovel in Stoke Newington, thinking “That Danny Baker’s a real miserable bastard”. And so it was. I could never quite reconcile the upbeat,cheery public persona with what I knew to be in private, a darkly-tortured soul. And a miserable bastard.

Until a year or so ago.

Having been out of contact with my mate Aky for about ten years, we got back in touch. After a few weeks, I happened to mention my memories of this forgettable evening and what a grumpy git Danny Baker was.

“Ah yes” he says. “What you probably didn’t realise was that Silvana and ‘Danny’ had recently split up”

(My mate Aky, it seems being the primary cause of the stoppage.)

Which probably explains ‘Danny’s’ demeanour on the night in question.

“But you’re a bit mixed up” (probably the ‘travelling cans’)

“It wasn’t Danny Baker … It was Danny Kelly!”

The Dannys: Kelly and Baker, or is it Baker and Kelly?

For those of you who have no idea what I am talking about:

Kelly is a music journalist, sports presenter, and internet publisher. He began writing for New Musical Express in the early 80s and was its editor from the late 1980s to 1992. After that he edited the British music monthly, Q, and was awarded the title British Magazine Editor of the Year for his work there. He also launched the sports monthly Total Sport. He often works in partnership with fellow sports fan and radio journalist Danny Baker.

Baker worked in record shops before co-founding punk fanzine Sniffin’ Glue in 1976. His work on Sniffin’ Glue led to an offer from the New Musical Express  where he stood out for his wit and comic style. He went on to work on London ITV’s The 6 O’Clock Show in 1982. He became the weekend breakfast presenter for Greater London Radio in 1989, then started working for the BBC on Sportscall, Radio Five, in 1990. In 1992 began writing for TV on clip show TV Hell, then  presented Radio 1’s Saturday and Sunday morning show in 1993, as well as a short-lived late night television chat show, Danny Baker After All, on BBC1. Despite critical acclaim, his radio show was cut in 1996. Writing for Channel 4’s hit show TFI Friday followed in 1996, hosted by Chris Evans, which ran until 2000. He also wrote for comics Jonathan Ross and Angus Deayton and became a regular on panel shows such as Have I got News For You. In 2001 he returned to the BBC from Virgin Radio to host BBC London’s breakfast show, winning Sony’s DJ of the year in 2005. In 2008 he returned to BBC 5 Live, taking over the Saturday morning show in 2009. Diagnosed with cancer 2010. In 2012 his regular afternoon Show on BBC Radio London was axed, despite listener protests.

Baker’s autobiography. Well worth a read

So now you know…

© Andy Daly 2012

Stupidity

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Stupidity:  quality or state of being stupid. It derives from the Latin verb stupere which means numb or astonished. Apparently stupid and stupidity entered the English language in the sixteeth century. Since then, stupid has taken its place along with fool/foolish, idiot/idiotic and moron/moronic to describe the types of people and behaviour I am about to introduce you to. People whose behaviour  shows a lack of good sense or judgement – to whit, I put it to you that stupidity is predicated on a level of intelligence, which is ignored by ‘The Stupid One’ in order to be stupid. The reasons for this are unclear but in my experience almost certainly involve the excessive consumption of alcohol, a desire to impress a member of the opposite sex or for a bet, on which large sums of cash money are believed to be riding (or sometimes a combination of all three).  It was my story about the Train Carriage Hurdling that got me thinking more than somewhat about Stupidity, but if you thought that was stupid; as Bachman said to Turner after critics labelled them underpowered ‘You ain’t seen nuthin yet’

Mr. T: Crazy fools doin’ stupid stuff

Please note that in order to preserve the dignity of the ‘former aquaintances’ responsible for what is about to follow I shall refer to them from here on in simply as my ‘former aquaintances’. In a true spirit of inclusivity and interaction, feel free to grade this selection in order of stupidity: one being high.

Nightclubbing

“Can’t we get a washing machine? I’m sick of that launderette” complained the partner of a former aquaintance

“Are you kidding?” He said “ A basic model would set us back about £250 – No way!”

That evening uptown with a skinfull of grog, my former aquaintance makes for a nightclub with some friends.  They are refused entry whereupon in protest, he jumps up and grabs the canvas awning over the club door, intent on swinging on it. Needless to say it rips and then collapses. The doormen give him a light kicking (nothing that would show) then hand him in to the police. He is charged with Drunk and Disorderly Behaviour and in court is fined …£250

Batman

You know that feeling; on the way home from the pub, you feel the urge to wee, but also a desire to be a bit creative about it. Think Gotham City and Batman! My former aquaintance was a dab hand at this, he would keep his bladder as full as possible, then using a suitably lit wall, relax and let flow in an up down, left right configuration to reveal an uncanny likeness to the  Batman ‘spotlight’ motif, including scallop-shaped batwings.

Batman

Chin up up up up

One night on entering one of the capital’s larger tube stations, my former aquaintance suddenly  takes a run up then launches himself headlong down one of those inviting-looking strips of stainless steel you find between the up and down escalators. He went at quite a lick too, unfortunately he had forgotten about those ‘Toblerone – shaped’ signs which lie across at regular intrevals warning those on the moving stairs to ‘Stand to the Right’ or ‘Fold Pushchairs’. Wallop! Wallop! Wallop! Wall … You get the picture. He only did it the once.

Wallop wallop wallop

Chips Ahoy

One evening a former aquaintance who was also sharing our flat, arrived home having forgotten it was his turn to cook tea.

“Never mind lads, I’ll go to the chip shop. What do we all want?” He took the order, put his helmet on again, jumped on his motorbike and sped off into the night. He returned about 20 minutes later. He took off his helmet with a sheepish grin, wiping the visor which seemed to have been in a collision with a pot of glue and a box of beige carpet trimmings.

“Errrr, I don’t know how to tell you this”

“What?”

“Well, I got the order, and the bag was quite big, so I thought how can I carry it back on my motorbike? I know, I’ll stuff it down my leather jacket, except halfway gown Wingrove Road it burst open and there was fucking fish and chips everywhere!”

Hole in one

We had some friends who had a first floor flat in a house in the East end of Newcastle. One day a hole began to appear in the bathroom floor, alongside the toilet. It slowly got worse, but the landlords did nothing about till one day it worked its way through the ceiling of the flat below; which because it was the same layout, was also their bathroom. One night our friends had a party. I remember my former aquaintance rushing up to me mid-party:

“I’ve done it! Look at this”

He showed me to the bathroom where, with some skill it has to be said, he took aim and pissed through the hole in the floor right into downstairs’ toilet!

Bowie: Volume 10

My former aquaintance comes home from the pub. Ah! The perfect way to complete the evening: a little bit of Ziggy Sardust at full blast. So with his parents  asleep upstairs, he tiptoes into the front room, loads up the platter, puts on the headphones  and cranks it all the way up! He is less than half way  through ‘Five Years’ when he finds himself being  violently shaken awake from an uneasy slumber. Can’t hear, the music’s too loud. So he takes off the heaphones. The music is even louder. His father is yelling at him but he still can’t hear. Finally his Dad pulls the plug out of the record player and  as Bowie slowwwly faaades aaaaawayyyy, stomps back to bed in his pyjamas.

He can’t figure it out, until he realises he never actually plugged in the headphones at all. What he had been listening to was the noise of Bowie volume 10 filtering into his phones from outside!

“The difference between stupidity and genius is that genius has its limits” Albert Einstein

Warning. Do not try any of these stupid stunts at home. Or anywhere else for that matter. Always leave it to the experts.

© Andy Daly 2012

Training for the Hurdles

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The incredible success of this year’s ‘Summer of Sport’ got me thinking. Although I have participated in many sports such as: Football, Skiing, Climbing, Long Distance Running, Tae Kwon Do and Ice Skating, I cannot really be said to have excelled at any.

Except Train Carriage Hurdles.

My frame – even to this day, compact, lithe and muscular (less objective commentators might say skinny) is perfect for a discipline which requires powerful bursts of speed, agility, the ability to propel oneself to a significant height, after – and, this is where the key factor, balance comes in – consuming copious quantities of alcohol … or indeed while consuming copious quantities of alcohol.

Don’t be surprised if you have never heard of Train Carriage Hurdles; it has been largely an underground pursuit, (no pun intended – much) despite attempts to have it accepted as a demonstration sport in the 2016 Rio Olympics.

Of course you need some specialist equipment: such as a Bulleid 4EPB/SR train carriage. Introduced in 1940, they populated the Southern region and remained in service until 1992. You know the ones: with the distinctive luggage racks, known and hated by two generations of commuters, with a three seat one side, two seat the other configuration.

Train Carriage Hurdles

Also essential is a short run of track between two stations. We used to use the now-defunct spur to Woodside from Elmer’s End. It served our purposes perfectly. For one, the journey length; no more than 3 or 4 minutes meant just enough time to complete a race and scramble off the train. And secondly, it was where we lived. That is to say My Best Mate Aky, The Baron, the rest of the gang and briefly, Yours Truly.

So what did Train Carriage Hurdles involve? Well, assuming you were in an empty carriage at Elmer’s End (it was possible to compete in an occupied waggon, but the risk of being detained by the British Transport Police or getting your teeth knocked down your throat by an irate fellow commuter was significantly increased.) The two competitors tossed a coin to choose start positions: almost always on the three seat side for reasons which will become apparent. Numbers were restricted to two in a race. The only exception being the relay, in which case the second leg runners took their places at the other end of the train in the ‘baton change-over’ area. Once the start marshall was happy, competitors went on the signal ‘Go!’

The object of the race was to jump off the seat cushions, and launch oneself, first between the top of the seat and the luggage rack  in front, onto the next seat then another launch and over – this time beween the luggage rack and the carriage roof. And so on in an ‘under and over’ fashion (you see why most competitors, save for the slightest-built quicker starters opted to start on the three seat row) until the end of the carriage was reached, at which point, they would cross to the opposite side and come all the way back in the same manner. The winner of course, being first home before Woodside was reached.

If ever there was a sport for which I was entirely suited it was this. It is just a shame that it was of an era before the current blurring of the boundaries between sport and criminal behaviour. In fact there are probably fewer than half a dozen people alive on this planet who can bear witness to my prowess as a Train Carriage Hurdler. Those were the days!

Stardust in Rochdale

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I know. Sounds unlikely doesn’t it?

I suppose you might be thinking coal, asbestos, or brick dust, fair enough. But stardust?

Yet, for a while in the ’70s there was a significant scattering of Stardust in Rochdale, the old mill town in Lancashire where I grew up.

I should explain. The stardust in question was not sprinkly sparkly stuff, but plain old Bernard Jewry, otherwise known as Shane Fenton, otherwise known as Alvin Stardust; a corny, would-be glam pop singer.

One day on a gable end in Heywood near Rochdale, Alvin Stardust’s face appeared painted larger than life with a jigsaw pattern backgound. Why Alvin Stardust? Well why not? Local legend has it that it was intended to be Elvis, but the artist – who I later was to learn was Walter Kershaw – didn’t have a suitable picture!

Alvin Stardust by Walter Kershaw

Walter remembers going to the house and asking the owner whether he would mind if he used the side wall as his canvas. He said yes. This phenomenon of ‘Street Art’ (which pre-dates the ‘Cable Street Mural’ by at least four or five years ‘Art Graffiti’ by ten and Banksy by decades) began in 1973 with ‘The Pansies’. Often paintings were on properties that were due for demolition. I remember as a kid: dying to see what was going to appear next, and where.

Pansies 1973

Although I think I am right in saying that Walter never got into any trouble over his work, the Council certainly didn’t approve, which of course made it all the more exciting. I thought he was brilliant. A sort of guerrilla artist, bringing art out of the gallery into a public space.

The Inside Out House

My little story came about at the saturday morning art class which was held at Rochdale Art College. I loved it there. I did a basic drawing/painting class for a couple of years, then an excellent life drawing class for a couple more. I remember the white-painted studio walls, paint-caked floors and the smell of turpentine, oil paint and stale fixative; something which, although I have all but lost my sense of smell, I can still conjure up.

I must have been about thirteen. On this particular morning I was drawing an imaginary scene – a lunar space space station, when the tutor announced a visitor. It was Walter Kershaw, and he was keen to see what we were doing. I remember him going around, spending a little time with each of us; making suggestions about how we could improve our work. Finally, he came to me. I was in awe. For me it was like George Best suddenly coming up to you in the park and showing you how to improve your dribbling skills.

I remember exactly what he taught me, because I still have the picture. I had put in some rather half-baked lettering What he did was to rub this out and show me using faint ruler-drawn parallel lines, how to make ‘guides’ which would ensure you got letter shapes the same height. Something which in later life as  an Art and Design teacher I did for my own students countless thousands of times.

Mmmmm. That Hubble telescope is not what it’s cracked up to be

In fact, at about this time, Rochdale had quite an alternative scene going on. So alongside Walter’s subversive murals, there was the Rochdale Alternative Press (RAP) – one of the highest circulation alternative magazines in Europe, The Rochdale Art Festival, The M6 theatre company (whose cast included Sue Johnston – later Brookside and Royal Family), The Deeply Vale free music festivals which played a significant part in the early careers of amongst others; Joy Division, The Fall, Mick Hucknall, plus Cargo studios on Kenyon Street where artists such as The Fall, Joy Division, Gang of Four, Not Sensibles, A Certain  Ratio, Nico, Teardrop   Explodes, Icicle Works,  The Chameleons, Echo and the Bunnymen,  Durutti Column etc. recorded.

In 1977 I moved away from Rochdale, but I never forgot Walter Kershaw’s work, nor his ‘down to earth’ approach to art. He was one of the reasons I went to study Art in Newcastle, as he studied there too (when it was still King’s College, Durham.) I began painting murals myself: at the Sixth Form college I went to and later, when I took up teaching, with groups of students in my own and local schools. In addition, mindful of how much of an impression it made on me to see an artist make a living from his work, and furthermore, share it with his community, in the last school I taught at we initiated an Artist in School programme that lasted over ten years, in which we had an annual residency or artist’s workshops, the aim being to reach as many children as possible.

Walter Kershaw. One of the TraffordPark mural panels

Walter still lives in Rochdale and works out of his studio in Littleborough and as well as his mural painting, which has  taken him all over the world, he has work in a number of public collections such as the Victoria and Albert Museum, the Arts Council and the Gulbenkian Foundation.

© Andy Daly 2012

© All images (except No. 4) Walter Kershaw

Rake’s progress 3

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2

Where am I?

One of my companions has just made a fire beneath his bed using his clothes. He said he ‘was cold’. Thank God he didn’t have any matches. Mind you during the course  of a chilly September night with draughts creeping in from the ill-fitting windows alongside my bed, I would have been glad of a bit of warmth and the restful glow given off by smouldering underpants and socks.

Guess where I am?

I’ll give you a clue. It begins with ‘H’.

Hell?

No, but you are close.

Of course, I’m in Hospital!

This time the surreal nonsense began in the cab here. The driver furnished me with all manner of interesting facts. Such as:

“Did you know the human body can live for 40 days without water?”

“Really?”

“Or is it food? Yeah, must be food….”

“Well, I suppose, if Jesus did it ….”

“Did he? He done all that then?”

“Well, according  to the Bible, 40 days and 40 nights in the desert …”

“That must be Lent then? When you give up chocolate? Just imagine 40 days and 40 nights without chocolate. It’s a good job Easter falls when it does”.

Hospital benefactors, decor, architecture etc revisited

The current admission is for surgery to re-implant the electrical contacts in my brain, to hopefully target better the stimulation, and in turn give greater relief from symptoms. I give the Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein a nod as I book in at reception. She was actually called Henrietta, the ‘ugly duckling’ daughter of Queen Victoria, except she never got her hands on a Swan-conversion kit. She was married off to a penniless minor German aristocrat, Prince Christian. She devoted her life to ‘good works’ and was a supporter of the Suffragette Movement. What doesn’t look quite so good on the CV is that she was apparently addicted to Opium (that is the drug, not the tarty perfume) and Laudanum. I resist the temptation to  inspect the fine craftsmanship and intricate carving on the staircase, and make my way up to the ward.

After bedding down looking forward to relative peace and quiet: there being only three of us on the ward, the night became typically eventful after  a patient is brought in somewhere about midnight screaming and shouting the place down. Apparently he’d had an operation the previous week, gone home and existed almost exclusively on painkillers. Now I’m no quack, but even I know that painkillers will give you constipation. So after the registrar had had a good feel of his distended stomach and bowel, and assured the patient he was (unfortunately) in no danger, he promptly fell asleep and gave the rest of us a virtuoso display of snoring and farting. By 5am I could take no more and was ready to fucking strangle the bastard. So I got up.

DBS set up

The beginners guide to Deep Brain Stimulation Surgery – A practical approach. Part two

After undergoing a battery of tests, I join the surgical team to discuss the situation. There are basically two options. The first, is to move my electrodes – but where to? My problem is that the implanted electrodes in the Sub Thalamic Nucleus of my brain are exactly were the textbook says they should be. Also, what I didn’t know until then was that every time they go into the brain they need to drill fresh holes in the skull through virgin bone. Even for a re-implantation. Not good. A Second option would be to fit a fresh set of electrodes in  the Globus Pallidus, with which there have been some successes in reducing the uncontrollable movements (Diskynesias) which are a side effect of anti-Parkinson’s medication. Again this would mean fresh drilling, but would mean that the original set of leads stay in place. Now my ears prick up at this. The advantages are that existing benefits could be retained and fine-tuned by means of the leads in the Globus Pallidus –  in theory. Disadvantages are a whole second run of cabling down the right side of the head, to match the left and the insertion of an additional IPG (battery and Implanted Pulse Generator about the size and weight of a large-ish mobile phone), into my chest below the collarbone, or the abdomen.

Hmmm. don’t much like he sound of that.

For those of you who battled through the particularly inept piece of writing that marked the opening of this tale of tales, and were  paying attention, you will recall my attempt to explain the intricacies of Deep Brain Stimulation surgery, using kitchen utensils, an AM radio and some  fruit and veg. It maybe of help to expand on this to explain my current predicament in laymans terms. So, to recap, you will need one coconut, one cauliflower, 4 kebab skewers, copper wiring,  AM Radio,  power drill and a new potato. Here’s a coconut I prepared earlier. In it I have the two original holes. I now have to make two fresh ones to re-implant the kebab skewers or to attempt a fresh insertion into the Globus Pallidus. So I drill the two holes as before making sure I leave a good gap between new and old.

The Kitchen’s getting a bit crowded here. Anyone fancy a Malibu?

Now take …  Fuck, I’ve dropped the coconut. That’s torn it. It’s cracked across the top from hole 1 to 3  and No, I can’t use the other half of the shell, because for reasons which seemed perfectly sound at the time, I cut it in half again to fashion a horse’s ‘clip clop’ hoof sound effect. Rats! Okay, lets gaffa tape it up, or failing that I can use some silicone sealant. Like everyone else does, everywhere. Where was I? Yes, now the cauliflower make sure … Oh I don’t think I can be bothered with this.

So, back to the Professor’s office, and what to do? The question is batted backwards and forwards, while I, gung-ho for surgery no more than an hour ago, am quickly losing my nerve as it becomes evident that any additional surgery will at least as difficult, if not more so, than the original foray; and that there is every possibility that it could leave me worse rather than better off. Finally it is put to the vote – my consultant (expert in programming DBS systems), Chief Surgeon (one of the world’s foremost practitioners in this field) and his assistant (again highly experienced in DBS) unanimously advise not to proceed on the basis that my test scores indicate an overall improvement of 50% and because surgery would be a ‘shot in the dark’, for the moment at least any way, it presents too much of a risk.

So there we have it. Down to me now to make the most of what I’ve got. Cue Operation Independence.

I can’t think of an amusing way to round this tale off, so I’ll just bring you up to date with Mr. Death’s Door, my constipated screamer from last night. As I packed my gear, I was more than satisfied to find that nature – or rather some industrial strength laxatives had taken its course, and Our Friend was now beset by a monumental case of The Green Apple Quickstep.

Fine for me. I have no sense of smell.

© Andy Daly 2012