Now, here’s a tricky one for you. What is the connection between the Troodos Mountains in Cyprus, The Rileys, a notorious Islington-based criminal family probably best known for their Finsbury Square ‘shoot out’ with rival gang the Adams, and a small parade of shops behind St. Pancras parish church, designed by Thomas Cubitt and built in 1822?
Don’t worry if you’re struggling. There’s probably less than half a dozen people alive on this planet who know the answer; which is of course, Hangovers. Not the physical phenomenon that we all know and love, result of bashing the grape more than somewhat and characterised by headache, dehydration, upset stomach, double vision, death (or close to) depending on how many extra one has attemped to tie on. In fact at one time in my life I am sorry to say, what had become my ‘default setting’ such that occasionally; maybe on a Tuesday or Wednesday I would wake up in my bed and not some wretched, deserted London Transport terminal like Cockfosters, Upminster, Dagenham, Barnet Church etc. and stumble about, blinking in the sunshine, unaccustomed to the levelness of the floor and the agreeable volume at which I found everything. Fit, in fact as a fiddle. Which brings me back to Hangovers.
The next time you are walking around Bloomsbury, which I realise for some of you for reasons of geography, is going to be less likely than it is for others, do yourself a favour. Head north through Tavistock Square, pass the British Medical Association, then between The New Ambassadors and the County Hotel, Stick your nose into Woburn Walk. As if you’ve stepped into a timewarp you are transported from the noise, grime and traffic on Upper Woburn Place to the most wonderful parade of Georgian shops.
This hidden gem was the brainchild of architect Thomas Cubitt, also resposible for, among other things, the East front of Buckingham Palace and was built as London’s first pedestrianised street. The houses themselves are three storeys with stucco fronts , while the shop facades were designed with great skill (it says here) The window stood in the centre, flanked by doorways, each of which were of four panels with rectangular fanlight above. Each window was divided by very delicate glazing bars into twenty-four panes, four panes high, and curved at each side. Between each pair of doors was a wrought-iron scraper and the rainwater downpipes, with moulded heads, were neatly arranged in alternate recesses between the houses. Number 5 was occupied from 1895-1919 by William Butler Yeats. While from 1982 -1987 it was occupied along with number 3, by Hangovers, the Wine Store.
Aky and self outside Hangovers, summer 1984
Antique shop opposite Hangovers
So there’s the first link. The others I’ll come to presently.
There are so many Hangovers stories. They criss-cross, overlap and are so tightly packed that it is almost impossible to tease them out into one single narrative. So they have been left to mature these last few years and what I am going to attempt to do for you is to slice off some of the tasty titbits such as Stage Door Martin and the Waterloo Bridge incident, The SAS Captain, and The Flower Seller, amongst others.
Now I wish to state that the bleakest house I ever saw was in Newcastle.
It stood, and in fact still does, so my sources tell me, on the Westgate Road, which follows the line of Hadrian’s wall (more or less) out of that fair city, whereupon the wall continues across the country to the Solway Firth.
Graingerville. No number. Just Graingerville.
You know how buildings by the shapes of their windows, shutters, doors and so forth can like cars, suggest a sort of ‘human’ face? Personality even? Well Graingerville did this. It looked like Ronnie Kray.
I became acquainted with it during one bitter cold winter some time back when The Human League were riding high in the charts with ‘Don’t You Want Me Baby’, and I wore someone else’s coat.
Full of malicious intent, it stood some way back off the main road, next door but one to the Chinese Chippy.
I didn’t live there. No, I lived in a much smaller house, if just as cold. It really was a wicked winter and thanks to someone who shall remain nameless, our cosy West End semi was left uninhabited over Christmas with water on and of all things, a dripping bath tap. Now I don’t know whether you have ever seen a bath-sized, bath-shaped block of ice before. Great comic potential I daresay, especially when thinking of a suitable drink to put it into, but not such a laugh if bust pipes and a potentially frozen backboiler mean you’ve no heat to defrost it. Add to that the ‘Ice Palace’ trim down the drainpipe and around the front door and you’ll understand why that particular January you could barely move for monkeys looking for welders.
Anyway, back to Graingerville. I’ve got to say, it must have been a classy joint in its day. Built for Richard Grainger, of Grainger Market/Street fame, circa 1839 of dressed (ashlar) Sandstone with a Welsh slate roof; it had steps up to the front door, a basement, two stories, two sitting rooms and an attic. You could almost imagine it in its heyday. Home to a well-to-do Edwardian family: servants downstairs, stiff upper lips upstairs. Unfortunately, during the brief spell I knew it, it was in the hands of some very unscrupulous landlords, whose treatment of their tenants, students at Newcastle Polytechnic, was nothing short of diabolical. I’ll give you two examples.
The tenants had complained about the state of the gas fires. They were old, far from adequate, and clearly had not been serviced in many a year – in fact, I swear the feet of the fire in the attic had ‘SPQR’ and ‘Romanus fecit’ stamped on them. The gas pressure was so feeble that as the occupants in turn ignited their fires, the flame on the first-lit diminished to such an extent that there remained just the faintest of flickers. The landlords told them that it was all in hand and to worry not. Shortly, new British Gas pipework would mean more gas than they knew what to do with. Well, this was laid to rest and exposed as A Big Old Lie by a simple call to British Gas. It soon became clear that the renewal of so many miles of ancient pipework would be the owners’ responsibility and set them back a considerable amount of cash money. So there was a snowball’s chance in Hell of that happening.
Then there was the story of The Lock. This was the straw which broke the camel’s back as far as Graingerville and the tenants were concerned. One day the front door lock fell off. The door was rotten and over the years the cylinder lock – there wasn’t a separate mortice lock – had been subject to a fair amount of punishment, and one day it simply fell out. The landlords refused to replace it, The tenants dug their heels in and refused to pay the rent, whereupon the landlords began the strong-arm tactics: calling around unannounced, making threats and generally being thoroughly disagreeable about it all. Indeed, any attempt to get them to deal with the raft of problems with the house was met with hostility. Even the gadge who came to fix the ceiling in the lower of the two sitting rooms, filling and painting while water dripped from the rose onto his nose never came back.
In fact, I am staggered to discover that it is a Grade Two listed building; status granted in 1976 – five years before the period I refer to. All I can say is that English Heritage would have got their knickers in a twist more than somewhat had they known what was happening at Graingerville. To whit and to boot, here is the full story of this episode in the life of Graingerville.
It comes along about 11 bells one night and I am returning from a night on ‘the Toon’, accompanying some of the residents of Graingerville and their partners. It being a such a bitter night, I am invited in by same for a cup of hot something to keep me going on the remainder of my walk home. We tread carefully on the ice up the path. Now what’s this? As we walk up to the house, the unlocked front door is ajar. Stepping inside,we are greeted by the sight of about half a dozen people sitting in the hall eating their chips and gravy from the Chinese next door. I admit to being a bit nonplussed, but the residents are quite used to it as it is an apparently frequent occurence and not so strange if you think about it for the hall is furnished with seats in the manner of a waiting room. It being such a cold snap, the take-away customers, rather than eat in the street, seek out the shelter and comfort (If not warmth) of Graingerville’s hall. So we bid them Good Evening and Bon Appetite and go up to one of two sitting rooms, where I am more than a little bemused to find myself walking ankle-deep in what appears to be grass. I don’t wish to come across as rude or conservative in my taste for floor coverings, so let it lie. In the same way, I try not to bat an eyelid as I am served a coffee in what seems to be a tupperware sandwich box. The reason for this, I discover later is that all the crockery and cutlery is frozen in one big heap in the kitchen sink – and has been since before Christmas, it now being Jan. 18th
Well, after losing all sensation in my fingertips and fearing the onset of frostbite, I make my way back to our cosy semi with the novelty ice-cube. Once in bed I fall into a restless sleep in which I find myself back in Graingerville, taking a nightmarish tour of the darkened house.
It begins in the basement which appears semi-flooded. There is no light save that given off by my unseen guide and the torch he carries. I can see shapes cut by odd pieces of furniture … and a supermarket trolley. We go up the stairs into the hall, as mentioned. Now in the dead of night, dark and still. To our right two rooms, in the front as the torchlight flickers I make out a bed, and strangely, all around the outside of the room including the bay window: seats; like out in the hall, again reminiscent of a waiting room. Anxious flashes of the torch belonging to my silent guide signal me to retreat and enter the room at the back. As soon as I enter, the hairs go up on the back of my neck higher than Don King’s on a bad hair day. I notice another bed and the sound of cascading water, seemingly down the back of the building. But what sort of a place is this? Of course, the penny drops. If it is nothing more than an ancient doctor’s surgery and waiting rooms. Again my guide motions me to move. So we climb the staircase into the ‘grass sitting room’. While I find it trickier terrain to cross than previously, in the dark, I do notice it has grown splendidly and am wondering what they use for fertilizer, when I am elbowed into an adjoining room, which seems to be a kitchen of sorts. At least it has a sink in it. And inside, frozen together all manner of things: plates, cups, rubber glove, potato peeler…There is an urgency about my guide now, we run up the pitch black stairs, by-passing the upper sitting room, which I take a glance into. I’m not sure, but this seems to be carpeted with snow, so one way or another I figure the Welsh slate roof is in need of some attention. We pass another bedroom, and finally burst into the attic. As I spot another figure in the darkened room, my guide at last speaks: ‘Are you fucking ready then? Let’s go’ And with that, we depart the building.
I never see the inside of Graingerville again from that day to this, but it seems the tenants do what is called a ‘moonlight flit’ meaning they depart said accommodation in the middle of the night, owing a month’s rent and what with all the rush forgetting to leave a forwarding address. Not only that, but they find a supermarket trolley which comes in very handy indeed for carrying all the lightbulbs, light fittings, cutlery, odd items of furniture etc. such as they are likely to need in their new joints.
And the grass sitting room? Well the carpet is damp for so long and the landlords do nothing about it, that one day one of the tenants’ partners slings a handful of mustard seeds onto the floor just to see what will happen. In fact someone tells me that same year he wins a gold medal at the Benwell and Elswick Summer Fete in the jams, chutneys, marmalades and mustards tent, but I am inclined to take that with a pinch of salt.
for children under the age of 12, unless accompanied by a parent or Guardian
Junior Science teachers ( a minimum of 2 years experience)
Science Technicians (as above, pro rata)
Meeting Suky
Once upon a time, before the invention of colour, I found myself in an English lesson. It wasn’t any old English lesson, oh no. It was my first English lesson at my new middle school: the monument to knowledge, learning and betterment of the Human Soul that was St. Wilfred’s Catholic Comprehensive Co- Educational Middle School, Rochdale. As I recall, a largely grim place which bore more than a passing resemblance to that which features in Ken Loach’s iconic 1969 film ‘Kes’. His version of the Barry Hines story ‘Kestrel for a Knave’. Honestly if you want a fairly accurate picture of what life was like in a run of the mill secondary school in the industrial North of England: all its banalities, injustices, absurdities and gallows humour, you need look no further than Casper’s school. In particular, the masterpiece that is the PE lesson and the Headmaster’s Office sequence (Go on have a look. For those of you who have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, click below for a vintage piece of social commentary in film) I can remember numerous lessons – not just PE, which were as surreal and farcical.
However, its significance was in more than just the marking of another new phase in my life. I admit, I suppose the fact that this notable lesson was being taught by a professional wrestler was something that doesn’t happen every day. (‘Taught’ insomuch as he gave us the books, set the task, remained with us the whole lesson and repeatedly told us to ‘Shut Up’) Mr. Green as I recall; though I daresay that wasn’t his ‘ring name’ I reckon it was something like ‘Greedy Guts Green: the Grappling Greaser’. He had shoulder-length lank, dark hair and great sideburns like strips of airport runway tarmac that very nearly met under his chin and a huge paunch on top of which you could comfortably park a decent sized family car. A monicker that would have been suitably in keeping with his hirsute style, far from athletic frame and the kind of bizarre, yet strangely compelling spectacle that was British ‘Professional’ wrestling in the 1970s.
No. Despite being an interesting footnote to my education in English, the lesson’s significance did not lie with Greedy Guts or plain Mr.Green nor indeed, how he chose to earn his pocket money.
It was significant because this was the first time I met Suky.
Suky was (and hopefully still is) Edmund Giddins, loveable rogue, tearaway and ne’r do well of Castleton near Rochdale. Not that I ever – not once, called him ‘Edmund’ or ‘Nez’,’ Ed’or ‘Giddy’ In fact I can recall times where I had trouble remembering exactly what his real name was. No, the strange nickname was down to elder brother Robert’s teasing, singing the nursery rhyme ‘Polly Put The Kettle On. The line ‘Suky Take It Off Again’ seemed to stick, and Suky it was.
We were pals straight away and every chance we got to sit together, we did. Suky was alright. Not least because he was PNE. That means he was a supporter of Preston North End. Living in Rochdale, that took some bottle, particularly as he was so passionate about them. It wasn’t something he hid: quite the opposite. He tattooed the back of his hands during another English lesson. I remember watching him do it, ‘convict style’ with a compass and a fountain pen ink cartridge. ‘PNE’ across his knuckles. I admired this aspect of his character. The only other PNE supporter in Rochdale I knew of was my Dad, who although he didn’t tattoo their name across his knuckles, was passionate in his own way when he talked wistfully of his times at Deepdale watching the great Tom Finney.
Suky had eight brothers: Frank, John, Robert, Chris (who I was to get to know some years later, in of all places, Newcastle upon Tyne, where he was doing teacher training) Anthony or ‘Ants’ as he was known, Michael, Richard, Patrick and three sisters: Anne, Shiela and Pauline. Chris and ‘Ants’ were the only ones I knew. My Best Mate Aky lived nearby and bunked off with ‘The Giddins’ – or at least Suky, Chris and ‘Ants’ – closest to him in age, on a fairly regular basis.
And ‘The Giddins’ is how they were known. A collective entity. Mad on Bowie, Velvets, Lou Reed, Roxy. Not so mad on school, authority, being told what to do. There were times when they bunked so much, people thought they were on part time timetables. Suky wasn’t a bad lad. He was bright but lazy, enjoyed having a laugh, was fearless – every time some hairbrained scheme or other was hatched requiring someone with a bit of moxie to front it, Suky was there. He was always in trouble: increasingly so as he got older; but nothing major, nothing nasty. He gave the impression he just didn’t care – and he didn’t about a lot of things: but he never would have hurt anyone.
Two memorable lessons (for all the wrong reasons)
Both incidents take place at the Bishop Henshaw Memorial R C High School, Shaw Road, Rochdale. Don’t look for it, it’s no longer there. It is now St. Cuthbert’s. I attended for two years: 4th and 5th year (Years 10 and 11 in today’s money)
Anyway, it is three years later and it just so happens that me and Suky are sitting together, funnily enough, in our first Geography lesson at our new high school, the aforementioned Bishop Henshaw – or ‘Benshaws’ as it was known. Despite it being our very first lesson of the year our teacher was absent (not a good sign) and so we were being looked after by the Head of Department, the ‘hilarious’ Mr. Broadgland. He was playing the ‘Introductions’ Game. Go round the room one table at a time and get everyone to say who they are, which school they have come from, why they have chosen Geography and who they fancy for the 3:30 at Chepstow. Anyway, he finally casts his piggy little eyes in our direction. I am dreading this, but he starts with Suky – “Now, don’t tell me … You’re a Giddins aren’t you?”
“Yes Sir” says Suky
“Aaaahhhh. See? I can smell ‘em a mile off” Chortled Mr Broadgland to himself.
“Yeah, but at least I don’t smell of shit like you, you cunt” said Suky under his breath, smarting (as I did on his behalf too) at the uncalled for verbal assault by Broadgland.
“What’s that lad?”
“Oh I was just saying I hoped I’d be able to sit nearer the front Sir”
“Pleased to hear it Giddins, my lad, pleased to hear it. Next week”
“Fuck you, you knob” muttered Suky
“Sorry? …. “
“I said just the job …”
What an outrageous thing to say. Thirty five years later I can still see, as though it were yesterday, Suky colour up, bite his lip, breath quicken and blink rate increase as his eyes begin to prick and sting …. .
The second episode is – surprise, surprise! Another Geography lesson, six months down the line. It turns out that our Geography teacher, second in command in Broadgland’s little empire, is ‘up the duff’ or ‘with child’ so not only have we not seen her since we started at the school, we’ve had cover teacher after cover teacher after supply after cover teacher and its a load of crap and we’re all sick of Broadgland’s photocopied sheets. In fact, we never do see her,ever, because after giving birth, she decides to give up teaching to be a full time Mum! Excellent! Another year of photocopies we’ve actually already done and cover teachers,supply teachers, cover teachers …
… Like this one. Dr. Joy. Bastard. He was a Physics teacher of bad hair and humour. Today, he had our lesson. The inevitable photocopies came round, we said we’d already done them. He said we hadn’t, we said WE HAD: TWICE, he said there must be a good reason for us doing them again and not only that, but we would do them in SILENCE! (Shouted) – a common teacher’s trick. Lull your class into a false sense of security, with a gentle calm voice … then make them all jump when for no apparent reason, YOU SHOUT THE LAST BIT OF YOUR SENTENCE OUT AS LOUD AS YOU CAN! Great fun.
Anyway, there’s no chance me and Suky are going to pass up the opportunity of a good natter – probably about music, which by this time, we were both heavily into. Joy obviously knew we were talking, he kept looking up and giving us the ‘I know you two are talking, and so I’m going to keep doing this till I catch the pair of you’ look. Well me and Suky are quite adept thank you very much at holding surruptitious conversations. I mean, we’d had lots of chance to practice. But what this sneaky bastard does is quietly slip out of his seat, work his way around the room, coming up behind as we chunter away. He’s brought with him ‘Scrote’s Elementary Physics’ a sizeable hardbacked tome, which he brings down with full force, on first my noggin, then Suky’s. To add insult to injury, he gives us a post lesson ‘stern talking to’ and asks us each do an essay for the following morning on ‘Truth’ ‘Why it’s important not to lie’ or some bobbins like that. Bastard! …. Anyway, I thought as he sent us away, We didn’t tell any lies: we were talking; you caught us.Then you hit us over the head with the fucking Domesday Book.
I saw Suky the following morning.“Essay? “ He looked unconcerned. “Nah, he can stick it up his arse. I’m not writing any essays. He won’t bloody check “ He didn’t, Joy never bloody did. My Dad was Head of the Sixth Form at the school, and I didn’t want tales of my misdemeanors finding their way back and embarrassing him. So my earnest, crappy little ‘essay’ was dutifully handed in at the staffroom door. It probably went straight into the bin. (As kids, staffrooms seemed to suggest a fiercely guarded garden of delights. When I became a teacher, I discovered that all that was fiercely guarded were the few minutes calm in a sea of lunacy …there was no garden of delights. Not even, despite the many plant pots and yoghurt containers anything remotely green and living – except in the fridge – the squalor! …)
The Tale of Suky and the fireproof curtains
Now then, in a grim, colourless and unstimulating environment, Science labs were an Alladin’s cave of wonders just crying out to be stolen, broken, fucked about with, and used for entirely the wrong purpose.The corridors and stairwells where we had to ‘line up’ for Science lessons had fire extiguishers at approriate intervals on their walls. It was considered highly amusing, around this time to read out to those around you for their health and safety, the instructions for operational use of these vital pieces of equipment.
Remove from the wall
Keep upright
Aim at the base of the fire
Strike knob
At which point, some unfortunate of the male persuasion and not party to what was coming next, would be the recipient of a barrage of thumps into the goolies which would serve to make his eyeballs spin, like washing machine drums in different directions, stream stinging tears and be enough to raise the pitch of his voice by two octaves. Little did we know that today they would be called into action. (And at least one of them found wanting)
Like many school Science departments, the rooms were collected around a central resource space with connecting doors to the classrooms. we entered the classroom and sat down. Suky was in the other class. After a few minutes I felt sure I heard a faint scream, from the class next door. Then lots of subdued shouts, calls and a couple of bouts of hysterical laughter. The noise was getting louder!
Suky had decided to appoint himself Chief Fire Officer for the day and number one on the list of checks he had chosen to to perform was over the effectiveness of the flame retardancy of the safety curtains. All Suky had to do was open the gas tap and torch the nearest curtain at the same time. The rest of the class, sensing something was ‘afoot’ began to sidle over to Suky’s side of the room, eyes on the curtains.
And they weren’t disappointed as much to their glee minimal contact between flame and fabric, and they went up like the Hindenberg. One of the white-coated Science technicians burst through the connecting door, into our classroom, from where, she amost bounced up to Mr. Viscsak our teacher and began whispering frantically.
A loud “Ooooooooohhhhhh!” from next door. It seems like another curtain had gone up. It was like bloody Bonfire Night!
We weren’t aware of it at the time, but it transpires that poor old Suky is in double trouble. For as we strain our necks to watch the flaming tatters of the ‘fire- proof’ curtains peel away and fall with a kind of ghostly grace, they do so onto neatly stacked piles of unmarked Science exam papers! Arkward.
“Now that’s enough!” Said Mr. Viscsak, as he strode purposefully next door to sort out the whole flaming mess. We were out of our seats peering into next door’s room for a better view. Suky was dragged off for questionning The whole school was abuzz with his exploits at lunchtime.
What’s all this about the curtains in the Science lab?
‘Fireproof’
‘Huuuuhh?’
‘Fireproof, flame retardant. I think they have to have them in case of fire.’
‘Well, they had a case of fire today, and they were fucking useless’
Epilogue
Later that same afternoon, Suky was grilled by Headmaster, Mr. O’Riordan . His defence that he wanted to check and confirm that the curtains met minimum BS standards was found to be untenable. Suky was sent home the afternoon of his misdemeanor, to come back again the following morning, to then be taken out of his lessons all day, returned to his science classroom at the end of the school and held there for an hour’s detention. That was just for starters. I think the Science department wanted its pound of flesh for those damaged exam scripts.
With a clarity that is admirable, Suky said “This is bollocks”, went home that afternoon never to return!
Let me explain. All this nonsense took place about four weeks before the end of the summer term of Suky’s third year. the summer holidays followed, then …a new school! …. Bishop Henshaw! Suky confided in My Best Mate Aky. What was he going to do? They were going to crucify him at school. Aky put his thinking cap on. Master-tactician and strategist even at the age of 13, Aky considered the whole picture. There was a fair chance, he reasoned, that if Suky ‘laid low’ till the end of term, then a new start in a new school? who knows? It might all blow over. It was a calculated risk. But one that Suky was prepared to take. My Best Mate Aky concerned that Suky’s immediate future and peace of mind rested on his ‘long shot’ agreed to accompany him. So the two of them bunked off the whole of the following month.
And what do you think? It bloody well worked! Suky ‘re-surfaced’ anew at Bishop Henshaw, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, so to speak, having escaped the wrath of Headmaster O’ Riordan and St. Wilfred’s Science department. Now you can see why idiot Broadgland’s stupid remarks struck a raw nerve.
So there you go. That’s the story of Suky and the unsafe safety curtains. I last saw Suky in The Flying Horse 1977, before I moved away from Rochdale. But I gather that he still lives in the area with his family. Thanks Suky for a great story and just mind how you go with the barbecue.
(Please note this post may not be suitable for young children or those of a nervous disposition)
A post prompted by ‘Sitting Comfortably?’s recent series on recurring dreams which involved forced DIY of a particularly ‘Flat-Pack’ nature and their interpretation. It is intended to provide succour and support for those in ‘Flat-Pack Hell’, wherever that happens to be: deep in their subconscious, or all over the living room floor.
Swedish Exports
So, guess what? Me and an old friend had a whale of a time last weekend … At our local branch of IEKA. Yep! You heard correct: I did say IEKA. Sweden’s greatest export (After Björn, Benny, Agnetha and Anne-Frid* of course) That unlovely and irritating Nordic hemorrhoid (which in case you’ve ever been curious are a damn sight easier to get than they are to spell) which sits aside the marginally unlovlier A 406. The capital’s inner orbital route.
Not one of my favourite parts of town
That’s the ‘top bit’ – if your Geography’s failing you – The North Circular: or simply ‘That Fucking Road’ as it is more commonly known. It wends it miserable way through North West London, blighting the lives of those unfortunate enough to live near it, who, at our present location, just happen to be the inhabitants of Neasden. And of course the poor sods who have to attempt to journey along its carbon-encrusted, crumbling and winding fucking lanes, its lights and never, never, never-ending road works with their inevitable lane closures.
You could say that it is not one of my favourite parts of town. In fact, I will do almost anything to avoid filtering round from Hanger Lane, or down through Wembley/Stanmore or anywhere which leads in the general direction of ‘You Know What’.
‘You Know What’. Otherwise known as IEKA.
A successful visit to IEKA.
There are a pitifully small number of occasions on which we can have said to have had a successful visit to IEKA. In other words avoided an interminable traffic jam, there, back – or both, been able to walk through the store without fear for our safety, found what we wanted, been able to pay for it, then fit it onto/into the car and make it home without further incident. These pathetic ‘successes’ have been achieved either as the result of an early morning snap-decision to ‘up and out’ while everyone is still in bed and beat the crowds – or even better, to go when the England football team play a major game such as a World Cup quarter-final, for instance.
Just look at it. Like a malevolent Lego set. It stands (casually, lazily. Not straight-backed and disciplined like Marine Commando John Lewis) A sharp – eyed sentinel, jealously guarding its ‘reputation’ and more importantly its market share; topped off with all the charm of a devious, wicked paedophile: enticing the unwary and vulnerable into its veritable ‘Garden of Delights’.
Seductive furnishing, fabrics and practical knickknacks
The sad fact of course though is that there is no answer to its seductive furnishing, fabrics and practical knickknacks. Not at such prices. There really isn’t anywhere else you can get that sexy, contemporary tin opener for less than the price of a pint and a game of pool. Or that sofa-bed which you’ve been searching for (but without breaking the bank) for when your Dad comes to stay. I dread the words: ‘Shall we go to IEKA? We could do with something with which we can create a bit of space’ It’s a bit like hearing ‘I’ve been thinking, Pet. I really do think its time we got rid of that surplus old testicle of yours. We’ve never needed it … and besides, it takes up so much room.’ In addition, it will fit so snugly into that alcove’ (the sofa-bed) – and incidentally push Dad’s Sciatica into a new and chronic phase.
Reassuring
And look at this: both products, tin opener and sofa-bed are packaged in reassuring, environmentally – friendly corrugated card. And both carry the individual designer’s name: Bengt Bangersson and Soren Ulafsson respectively. (However, the chances of you getting hold of Bengt or Soren should their product fail to come up to your expectations are … well … remote to say the least.)
Funny Names
And they do give them some funny names don’t they? the products? The sofa-bed is called a ‘Lycksel’ which I can’t help thinking is rather rude – if not a physical impossibility.
Try it yourself
Rant over and done with and out of my system – this is where Jimmy and I got our laughs.’Rude, Suggestive and Silly IEKA names’. It’s not big, it’s not clever and it’s not original, but it made us giggle for a while. I am sure that many of you will have not only played but come up with far better examples of your own.
Here are some of ours. Try it yourself: in the store or just flicking through the catalogue at home. Lycka till !
New for 2011/12
Recktum – Is space a problem? Try these attractive stacking storage boxes. You’ll wonder how you ever did without.
Nob. A carefully positioned Nob can do wonders for even the most featureless room. Try the Nob range of table lamps.
Wince. IEKA’s range of giftware. Second to none.
Don’t buy till you’ve tried Bile, IEKA’s exclusive space age cooking utensils.
Tossä. You won’t be able to resist Anders Liefshite’s dynamic new tablewear.
Robust, hardwearing – you need a strong, sturdy Skrötum – especially with the likes of these rascals climbing all over it all the time! Skrötum is a fully interchangeable system of shelving for walls, doors and … wherever you want!
Chuff: An elegant soap dispenser.
Pubik: Scatter cushions.
Gag: a complete range of bedding – sheets, pillows, duvets. You name it!
Ulsså: make your mark with these ready-made curtains.
The ‘Must-Have’ wardrobe for 2011/12 is Stroke. You’ll probably have one too as you attempt to self-assemble this box of shite. Designer Stig Holmqvist makes a feature of using a completely different number of screws and nails on each construction – Individual! Or as we say in Sweden, ‘Förlorare!’**
* ABBA: For those of you who have been hibernating for the last 50 years.
** ‘Loser!
Postscript to ‘How to hang your Skrötum’
A few IEKA facts:
Founded in 1943 by 17-year-old Ingvar Kamprad in Sweden.
It is the World’ largest retailer of furniture.
The company name is an acronym comprising Ingvar’s initials, the farm where he grew up (Elmtaryd), and his home parish, Agunnaryd.
IEKA products are identified by single word names. Most of the names are Swedish in origin, based on a special naming system developed by IEKA.
Upholstered furniture, coffee tables, rattan furniture, bookshelves, media storage, doorknobs: Swedish placenames
Beds, wardrobes, hall furniture: Norwegian place names
Dining tables and chairs: Finnish place names
Bookcase ranges: Occupations
Bathroom articles: Scandinavian lakes, rivers and bays
Kitchens: grammatical terms, sometimes also other names
As the penultimate in the recent series of stories about dreams, I offer you a particularly spooky dream my eldest son had a couple of months ago while on holiday.
Amongst other things, he is a qualified Lifeguard and as such a very handy person to have around if you happen to be near water (eg. Bathroom, Kitchen etc)
Well his dream goes like this. He is walking past the swimming pool belonging to an adjacent block of flats and becomes aware of somebody in difficulty at the far end. Of course, he doesn’t think twice, and launches himself in to save the flailing figure.
Automatically, he begins to carry out the rescue procedure, only to find out that as he does, his ‘victim’ begins to fight and force him under…. Now this wasn’t in his training programme. You expect a bit of resistance from petrified potential fishbait, but not this. This was a strong, fit young man who had obviously been lying, or more correctly´’floating’ in wait for him.
Anyway, cut a long story short, my son ‘saves’ the man and drags him out of the pool, by which time assistance has arrived…
(This is where it gets weird) … because of his demonstration of selflesness and public spirit he is rewarded by the local council with a civic reception in Uxbridge, followed by Sunday Lunch and an afternoon spent in the company of Harry and Jamie Redknapp!
(For the benefit of my ‘Global’ readership, some of whom will not be familiar with the Redknapps: they are former Football (Soccer)player and now manager of Tottenham Hotspur, Dad Harry; and former player, now TV pundit, son Jamie. As random a pair as you could pick in the context of the above)
Here I was minding my own business, being agreeably insomniac, when all of a sudden I’m having these dreams. And not only that, but recurring dreams too. I never have recurring dreams: I’ve had ‘The Old Hag’ dream and woken up to find her sitting on my chest (I’ll tell you about it one day) but never recurring dreams.
So it was that in the first of these dreams I found myself having to produce a life sized copy of the Hindu Temple in Neasden North London, or perhaps more correctly The BAPS Shri Swaminarayan Mandir; Europe’s first traditional Hindu temple. My task was not only to do this, but to do it with flatpack furniture. No easy feat I can tell you, when all they give you is one stupid Allen (Hex) key and no instructions.
Then the following night it was but a stone’s throw away … Okay 20 minutes by car (presumably – I was asleep) and to Perivale. The subject was Wallis, Gilbert & Partners’ wonderful Art Deco masterpiece, The Hoover Factory on the Western Avenue (A40) My construction materials for the night were packed in brown card boxes and were stamped IEKA. What a headache. Every boxed item had a silly name, like Sküm and Tossa. I couldn’t tell my Arsse from my Elbö. In the dream, however, I managed it OK. It just took us 4 hours to get back in the traffic.
Then night three and Tower Bridge. I had to use end-of-line bits and pieces from Do-It-All and B & Q. There wasn’t enough stuff! I told them I would need more shelf brackets and door hinges but they didn’t listen. If you look closely you will see my Grade One listed building has no back. Also, Do-It-All and especially B & Q need to sort out their warehousing.
Last night, and after the North London temple, this was the toughest task: St Paul’s Cathedral. I had to complement the main construction with at least two from the hundreds of really interesting buildings tucked away in that sort of triangle created by Bishop’s Gate, Newgate St. and then down to the river. I was really disappointed with this one: I left out ‘The Whispering Gallery! Can you believe it? My other two very rushed offerings were in the shape of a poorly scaled St Mary le Bow and a lopsided Bank of England. Finding drawer fronts that weren’t already marked or scratched was a problem.
What would Freud have made of it all?
So just what would Freud, that interpreter of dreams, explorer of the unconscious, architect of psychoanalysis – himself a North London resident for the last few years of his life, have made of this?
(Parliament Hill)
Well for my money, I reckon he would have taken off either to Highgate Ponds and the surrounding area on Hampstead Heath, or Parliament Hill, located in the south east corner of Hampstead Heath, and a vertigo-inducing 322 feet high. From here, or hereabouts, he would have had good views variously of Kenwood House, Keat’s House, The Spaniards and the Old Bull and Bush.
(St. Marylebone Church)
(Kenwood House: A museum of food mixers here)
In the other direction, although unlikely to have been able to see the river, he would otherwise have had much of the city of London laid out before him: Regents Park, St. Marylebone Church, Westminster ahead, To the east The Monument and St. Pauls. Closer, and those symbols of mercantile might, the railway stations: George Gilbert Scott’s St. Pancras, an exceptional example of the Gothic Revival, flanked by Kings Cross and Euston. Together they presented an unequivocal statement of intent by the railway companies. To the West, and moving away from the ‘dirty’ money – soiled as it were, by work and toil, the relative calm and tranquility of the Palace and Royal Parks.
Think of the possibilities he had – The Houses of Parliament made using empty carbolic soap boxes, The Monument using packets of tea, and Sloane’s liniment bottles, The Old Bailey, a triumph of Soda Syphons and their cases, Kenwood House with timber pilfered from the rail depot at Finchley Road.
You know, in the light of this, I’m of the opinion that we ought to look at dreams and what they mean in a lot more detail.
What do you think? Send in your ideas. Use the comment space after this post.
I awoke pondering last night’s handiwork: St. Paul’s Cathedral and key buildings of architectural and/or historical interest in the Newgate St, Bishopsgate and Mansion House ‘triangle’ such as St.Mary le Bow and the Bank of England.
All done using Wickes’ kitchen unit remnants, Howden’s drawer fronts and some Jewson timber off-cuts.
Now, here’s a tricky one for you. What is the connection between the Troodos Mountains in Cyprus, The Rileys, a notorious Islington-based criminal family probably best known for their Finsbury Square ‘shoot out’ with rival gang the Adams, and a small parade of shops behind St. Pancras parish church, designed by Thomas Cubitt and built in 1822?
y Hangovers, the Wine Store.
Here I was minding my own business, being agreeably insomniac, when all of a sudden I’m having these dreams. And not only that, but recurring dreams too. I never have recurring dreams: I’ve had ‘The Old Hag’ dream and woken up to find her sitting on my chest (I’ll tell you about it one day) but never recurring dreams.
Sitting Comfortably? 