Tag Archives: humor

Parents’ Evening with Mr.Yong

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Okay, here we go …. You know the thing I hate the most as a parent at my own childrens’ parents’ evenings?

When you are greeted, sit down and the teacher then runs his/her fingers down the list of class names until they find ours … or someone who looks a bit like ours and is at about the same level, They then proceed to read me out a list of meaningless marks, grades, assessments, smart targets and other such spurious data, all of which serve to confirm the fact that a bit more time getting to ‘know’ the students (by teaching them not assessing them ad infinitum) would be well spent. Also, and this really pisses me off, when you have been met, greeted and sat down and the teacher looks across at our dear little one and coos “Well, how do You think you are getting on…..” Both are scenarios which say to me as parent: You (the teacher) are not prepared for this interview or you don’t know my child  sufficiently well enough to tell me in a nutshell about his progress or lack of. And why is this such a bitter pill to swallow Dear Reader? Because I’ve been there myself. In my final miserable months before Parkinson’s bloody ‘Shaking Palsy’ forced me out of the classroom and into oblivion; treading water for dear life, I confess to being guilty of same. Pot calling the kettle black. However, in happier times …

… Parents’ evenings could be a pain after a long day in the classroom, but generally, I enjoyed doing them. After being at a school for as long as I had, or having been in the area for so long, you got to know parents and families very well, and this, I loved.

 One of the most memorable meetings was with the parents of a terrific girl I taught called Elaine. She’d managed (poor girl) as luck (or fate) would have it to wind up in my class every year. On this particular occasion, it was the Parents’ Evening just prior to GCSE examinations starting and the students’ handing in of option choices for the Sixth Form and A Level. Elaine’s parents seemed to me like Chalk and Cheese. From Malaysia, Dad came across as assertive and I sometimes felt a bit  used to getting his own way, while mum was petite, demure and sometimes appeared, although nodding her head vigorously, to have lost the thread of the conversation. In previous years, Dad had let Mum do all he speaking. He just let it be known every now and then with a look or a comment, that he did not value the Arts, and wanted Elaine (who was very bright – a very sharp Mathematician) to do Maths and Sciences at A Level.

Well, it comes upon Year 11 Parents’ Evening. Elaine has already warned me that Dad is on the ‘warpath’ because she’s chosen Art and Design as one of her A levels. I am sitting at my desk (on the school stage for some bizarre reason) and along come Elaine’s parents. Even before any pleasantries can begin, Elaine’s Dad has fired the first salvo “Ah misser Daly, so YOU’RE the man who’s responsible for making my daughter wanna do Art. Explain yourself” (I swear this is how the meeting began!)

Well; as he is saying this, he makes with his fist as if to bang the table on the words: ‘you’re’, ‘responsible’, ‘Art’ and ‘explain’ – although he doesn’t actually make contact. However, I notice that as he does this, his wife’s eyebrows arch up, almost jumping off the top of her forehead. It’s as if there’s a fine piece of filament attached from one to the other: Down goes the fist, up go the eyebrows.

At one point, I said something along the lines that

 “Elaine’s an intelligent girl, she knows her own mind. In fact, I haven’t persuaded her to do anything. It’s something I actively avoid doing. I give them some ideas about the pros and cons,then it’s up to them….”

‘Hrrmph!’ (down went the fist, up went Mrs Yong’s eyebrows) ‘And what’s Elaine gonna do with this Art anyway? Make pictures? Who’s gonna buy them? She’s never gonna make any money. She’s gonna be poor. She’s bloody good at Maths and Science, so why you gotta persuade her with this Art? ‘(fist/eyebrows)

‘She doesn’t have to be poor …

… ‘Look at the amount of revenue generated by the Creative Industries for this country every year, the backbone of which is Art and Design. Yes, she could be a poor, struggling artist in her garret as popular myth would have us believe, but she’s more likely to be a well-paid member of one or other of this country’s highly successful design disciplines: Graphic Design, Fashion Design, Textile Design, Interior design, Product Design, Industrial Design, or working in Design management, Photography, Film, Television, Media”….and so it went on. He tested me (‘and what if …?’ ‘Suppose that … ?’ ‘What would …?’)  and wanted concrete examples –

Luckily I was well prepared.

Finally, he sat back in his chair (‘Phhew!’ went Mrs Yong’s eyebrows)

‘OK,You convince me. But if she messes up I’ll come back and I see you good’ He said with a ‘mock scowl’

Well, another two years fly by, and it comes upon Elaine’s final A Level show. Her coursework and Exam pieces are displayed on the wall. Alongside is her Personal Study,  A mature and intelligent analysis, authoritative and insightful on the work of artists Gilbert and George. I am nervous to say the least!

 By and by I relax, and sure enough, among the very welcome visitors are Mr and Mrs Yong, Elaine’s sister, Tammy and boyfriend.  They go to see Elaine’s exhibition, then generously give their time to visit each of the other shows in turn. Before he leaves, Mr Yong makes a point of coming up to me, to shake me vigorously by the hand and thank me and my colleague. ‘Now I understand, now I understand’ He was knocked out. Elaine is now a successful graphic Designer and, before I retired, Dad used to pop in and visit from time to time, to see how ‘His Favourite Art Teacher’ was doing! ….

I made many friends and had many a laugh on those noisy, tiring yet strangely euphoric evenings. ‘Thank you’, and ‘Thank You’ especially, Mr. Yong.

© Andy Daly  2010

As promised…Strange dream, what does it mean?

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As part of an occasional series on ‘Are you Sitting Comfortably?’ This is a particularly spooky dream my son had a couple of days ago.

Walking past the swimming pool belonging to an adjacent block of flats he became aware of somebody in difficulty at the far end. A qualified lifeguard, he didn’t think twice, and launched himself in to save the flailing figure

Automatically, he began to carry out the rescue procedure, only to find out that as he did, his ‘victim’ began 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 his life…

….and is rewarded for his efforts with a civic reception in Uxbridge, followed by (and this is where it gets really weird [my US readers … all 2 of you will have to bear with me here]) … Sunday Lunch and an afternoon spent in the company of Harry and Jamie Redknapp!

Jamie and Harry. Sunday Lunch anyone?

What does it mean?

© Andy Daly  2010

My Dad nicked in fuel scam

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My Dad went to the petrol station yesterday.

When he got home, he found two ‘Bizzies’ (Local Constabulary) waiting to question him. It appears he was wanted for driving away from the Total garage in Torrishome, Morecambe loaded up with fuel to which he was not entitled – seeing as he hadn’t paid for it. I can´t see it somehow. It’s just not his kind of job. ? Anyway …

He’d bought some confectionary: presumably to ease his guilty conscience on the getaway. I can can almost imagine him throwing  Lemon and Barley boiled sweets into his mouth as he made  good his escape at a steady 30 mph up the A6 towards Morecambe (after the heist, he’d popped into Homebase for a few odds and ends)  laughing, mockingly at the dopey ‘Bizzies’ in hot pursuit. (I’ll just gloss over the fact that they were at his house before him. Ah! no, thinking about it – these were probably a completely new pair of ‘Bizzies’ freshly scrambled from Morecambe Central.)

‘Good morning sir’ said one of the officers.

‘Is this your car?’ The other asked with distain as he eyed my Dad’s Ford Ka: a villain’s motor, if ever there was one.

‘Hmmmm… The old ‘Good cop Bad cop’ routine eh?’ Thought my Dad. ‘They could do with watching a couple of episodes of  ‘The Sweeney’

Come on George ……

Now then, when ‘The Sweeney’ was at its height in the mid/late ’70s, my Dad was, amongst other things the ‘hard case’ deputy head  (any school worth its salt had one) in industrially-blighted, tough West Cumbria while these two jokers were still in nappies. He made such an impression that someone even went as  far as daubing  a slogan on the school sportshall wall in which my Dad´s ‘Strong-arm work’ was compared to that of actor/villain, James Cagney – something of which he was immensely proud. So dealing with Morecambe’s finest plod would I am sure have presented no problem.

‘Yes it is: a jolly good runner too. Very pleased with it. I have the log book and purchase receipt, if that would be helpful. Would you like the dealer’s details – I could put you in touch, if you want?’

‘Thank you sir, but that won’t be necessary … but as you mention receipts, do you have your receipt from the Total garage in Torrishome for a ‘puuurchaaase’ (he deliberately elongated the word and pronounced it ‘…chase…’) earlier today?’

‘Indeed I do, officer’

That’s it: just enough, not allowing anything which might constitute ridicule or condescension, be taken down and used as sarcasm against him and with enough confidence and bottle to suggest they might be dealing with someone who can ‘handle themselves’ (verbally, I mean: my Dad’s never been much of a bareknuckle fighter, and Tae Kwon Do at 60 proved a bridge too far.)

To be fair, he still had no idea what this was all about.

‘It seems’ (said Bad cop) there’s the small matter of a tankful of fuel ….’

The rest of the sentence was left hanging in the air.

My Dad still hadn’t cottoned on – why should he?

‘And ….’

Good cop: ‘Well it seems you didn’t pay for it’

‘I did!’ My Dad reaches into his pocket and pulls out his Thin Lizzy ‘Live and Dangerous’ tour wallet. Both cops raise an eyebrow. He hands them the receipt … for a quarter of Lemon and Barley sweets. Nothing more, nothing less. Ooer … Looks like Dad’s going down.

‘I told him!’  Dad protested ‘Pump three and a bag of sweets’

He had put in the required fuel and went to pay. As he entered he did indeed say ‘Pump three and a bag of sweets’ the CCT tape clearly picks it up. It turns out the dopey idiot in the shop has cloth ears; doesn´t hear my Dad say ‘Pump three’ and as far as he’s concerned then sees my Dad hotfooting it away at a fair old rate of knots – or at least as fast as the Ka will allow. Full of nicked fuel.

As if!

The whole mess sorted. My Dad offers Bill and Ben a tea.

‘No thanks Sir, we must be getting on’ ….

Then almost surreptitiously …

‘So did you see Lizzy then, Sir?’

‘Yes. Yes, I did. At the Free Trade Hall in Manchester, If I remember correctly’ (He does. 19th March 1976. Supported by Graham Parker and the Rumour)

‘Best live album ever,  ‘Live and Dangerous’

‘You know …’  Said Bad cop, again leaving his sentence floating in the air:

‘Mybrother reckons they never planned to release ‘Whiskey in the Jar as an ‘A’ side at all. It was recorded as a joke …’

‘And yet that’s the song that people instantly associate with them. Strange, isn’t it Sir?’

Good job they didn’t ask him about all the tiles in his shed!

© Andy Daly  2010

One Size Fits All Joke

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I thought you might like to amuse yourselves with this ‘One Size Fits All’ joke, while you wait patiently for ‘Getting A Kick Out Of Picasso’.

Instructions: Say the following (preferably to an audience)

“Hey, this pasta isn’t ‘al dente’ … ” Then add punchline provided … “Its Al Pacino”

It may work best if you can use it in some stereotypical Italian/pasta context, but this is not essential. Give it a try yourself, now. First-timers, take  it slowly. It’s trickier than it looks. Remember that the key to greatiming comedy is.

All done? Wonderful. Now below is your introductory set of punchlines. Use them as you see best: where you think they will get the most laughs.

Or, don’t use them at all. Think of your own punchlines. It’s even more fun

“Hey, this pasta isn’t ‘al dente’ It’s:

Al Jolson    Al Gore    Al Murray     al-Qa’ida    Aldi

Alcoholics Anonymous    Al Green (‘Let me say that si-i-i-ince, since we’ve been together…etc’)

Al day and al of the night    Al Jancovic (Man is he weird)    Alabama

Al Di Meola    Ali float like a butterfly, Sting like a bee    Ali Baba and his 40 corrupt British Politicians

Al Capone (‘guns don’t argue …’)    Aluminium    Al get that later

Bollocks to this I’m off to bed.

Wiz and the D’Oyly Carte

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Sorry. Slip of the keyboard. The title should read

‘Wiz and the Oily Car’

So apologies if you were expecting a bit of light Opera. Still, you may as well stay and have a read now you’re here.

On leaving  Sudbury Town Chawkey, Wiz and Yours Truly moved up from our cosy little rented semi, to the leafy environs of lovely Ruislip (pron: Raiy-slip)  heart of ‘Metroland’ –  specifically, a place called Eastcote (pron: Eastcote) –  Acacia Avenue, if you must know, where we took possession of a fine, large though dilapidated detached house. We got beautiful light, polished wooden floors, acres of space, prehistoric gas heating, a kitchen ceiling which sagged alarmingly and wilderness back and front. If nothing else, a great party venue.

Here, we  (Marión, me: a couple) Chawkey (aka  Charles Stewart Hawkey, schoolmaster of the parish of Redcar) and Wiz (aka Ian Vickers, Pirtek hydraulic hose expert originally of Nunthorpe, Middlesborough) had what, speaking for myself though I think all will agree was an idyllic, largely hilarious and very special time. A shared experience, which continues to bind us as lifelong friends.

In this damp, but sunny eccentric house which used to be rented out to US servicemen posted at the nearby West Ruislip base – which explains why the kitchen sported an immense 1960s American fridge; but not the surfeit  of motor vehicle engines buried beneath the grounds – we laughed, and laughed at  jokes – the sillier the better, tall stories, tales, and many many funny incidents, which one day I will recount in full. However here’s one to whet your appetite.

Wiz bought himself a fancy car, a white Triumph TR6. A British classic. Straight six, gleaming white, Spoked wheels, walnut dashboard, the lot. I used to love how the windows in the house rattled in their frames in response to the engine’s guttural roar. Which they often did, as the car rarely ever went anywhere.

Wiz’s TR6 as I will always remember it: Stationary

You see, what Wiz didn’t realise as he handed over his hard-earned cash for the classic car in question, was that he was in the process of buying the car for which the term ‘mechanical gremlins’ seems to have been invented.

 

Look at the quality. It’s a shame I never saw either of them turn

 One day Wiz says he’s got an oil leak. Not unusual: me and Chawkey both drive Ford Cortina Mk 5’s (I had graduated up from the Marina coupe by now) So someone always has an oil leak. In fact, the drive is so covered with oil it is impossible to distinguish the original ‘crazy paving’ pattern. Maybe not such a bad thing I  hear you say.

Anyroad, Wiz, having carefully observed the run of oil on the car’s underside and the distribution of droplets is of the opinion that the culprit is the rear differential. And so, one saturday he puts on his overalls and goes to work as follows. You do follow?

Well to cut a long story short, by the end of the afternoon, Wiz has reached his goal. Gingerly, he takes the differential unit away from the drive and axle assemblies and cupping it carefully, makes to empty out the oil, measure it and see how much it has lost. Highly organised throughout the afternoon’s labour (It would have cost you £420 in today’s money) Wiz has not thought about the practicalities of this aspect of the job.  What could he use to measure it? He thinks a while then goes into the kitchen, takes the kitchen measuring jug and carefully fills it with the syrupy black contents of the differential and its housing.

 

Wiz’s brow begins to knot. He consults his workshop manual.

“Bollocks! It’s got exactly what the manual says it should have in it” Down to the very last drop. “Errr… So it’s not leaking oil from the differential then?” I said, trying to sound helpful. “No it’s not bloody leaking from the differential then” “Oh, I wonder where …” But you can see from Wiz’s face he’s not after help from the mechanically-challenged such as Yours Truly.

So, with a heartfelt “Fuck it” Wiz re-traces his steps and re-assembles and replaces the various components. Miraculously, everything  fits, nothing is missing, and he has not been left with half a dozen parts which do not seem to have a home.

By now it is early evening. As he tidies away after his long day’s efforts, Wiz happens to open up the boot (or trunk if you prefer) of the car, to put away some scraps of fabric which he has been tearing  up to use as rags.

“You bastard!”

Not one to normally get het-up over things we are all naturally concerned as to what is the matter.

What is the matter is that Wiz has found his oil leak. It is coming from a five litre can of Castrol GTX which has upended itself and courtesy of an ill-fitting lid is slowly oozing oil which has been finding its way out of the boot and onto the axle via one of the boot drain holes!

Isn’t it great when it happens to someone else!

© Andy Daly  2010

Today’s star word: surfeit (Thanks Norm!)

CSE, TVEI, NVQ, GCSE: I talk to B and E over a BLT

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Okay, now then, first of all, let me introduce you to B and E. We’re having lunch in a cafe in Westfields, the huge shopping centre in Shepherds Bush. They are both on BLTs and coffee while I am re-arranging the currants on my sticky bun to resemble a ‘Happy Face’. Retired now, B and E have spent the bulk of their working lives in the teaching game. Not only that, but  specifically with some of its most difficult and challenging individuals. They did this (and moreover did it extremely well) by being well-organised, stimulating their charges’ interest by approaching topics or subjects from a point of view which allowed them the opportunity to engage, and by treating their students with respect.  However, I don’t want any mental images of ‘bearded (both of them) yoghurt-knitting, wet, woolly-thinking liberals’. Far from it. Snappy-dressing Rock ‘n’ Rollers, they approached the classroom with principles and attitude and certainly didn’t suffer fools gladly. I’m making them out to be a bit of a double act, but of course they weren’t. Apart from a brief spell when they taught in the same school, they did not work together.

The first story is from E and is a cautionary tale for all those with a calling to work in the schools’ inspectorate (still known, as far as I am aware as OFSTED) and comes from the time she worked at Chantry, a special school for ‘maladjusted’ children as it was known then. She had a particularly difficult group. Almost impossible to get settled and concentrating on anything. That was until she introduced them to a bit of sewing or perhaps more correctly, needlework.

For miracle of miracles; when she got out the sewing kit and once they had got bored with trying to jab each other, they simmered down and got into some basic techniques. It must have had some kind of therapeutic effect.

Well, it was into one of these lessons one jolly morning that a school inspector purposefully strode and took up her position to observe the lesson.  Apart from making ‘V’ signs behind her back, raising their eyebrows a lot and huffing, coughing, sneezing and ‘hiding’ swear words in them as they did so (Bbbbhhhbitch!  Aahhaahhaahhaarsehole!!)  the kids completely ignored the visitor. Meanwhile, E explained to the students what they had to do, and they got started.

A relative calm descended. E went around, helping out. As she did so Mrs. Inspector takes it upon herself to poke around and give the students the benefit of her expertise. She stood and looked for a long time over the shoulder of one of the boys, which had the visitor even the slightest scrap of awareness of body language and the intimate classroom dynamics of such a teaching situation is the boy she would have made a point of steering well clear of.

“Oh no no no!” said the inspector. Silence. The students looked from one to another, open-mouthed.

“Oh no no no! That won’t do. That bit there. It isn’t straight ..” You could hear a pin drop.

Without looking up the boy replied: “Yeah? Well you’ve got a fucking big nose, but I wasn’t gonna say  nothing” 

And so you have it. The fundamental flaw in the process of inspecting and reporting on schools, their teachers and the students in their care. Employing inspectors with Fucking Big Noses.

And for those of you who haven’t worked it out yet, ‘B’ is ‘Bill’ as in My Mate Bill, and E his wife Eileen. 

Notes:

CSE: Secondary Certificate of education

TVEI: Technical/Vocational Initiative

NVQ: National Vocational Qualification

GCSE: General Certificate of Secondary Education

BLT: Bacon lettuce and Tomato Sandwich

© Andy Daly  2010

Yet Again

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Yet again, ‘Good Friday’ turns out to be a bitter disappointment. It wasn’t ‘Good’ at all. In fact it was bloody awful most of the time.

There was one Golden Nugget, however, which made me laugh like a drain. My eldest, 18 years old, fit as a butchers dog, is vacuuming the room, giving me a hand tidying the house. As he works he is listening to his I pod: Loud. Mainly to drown out my Aswad CD: Even Louder.

‘That’s interesting…’ I thought. ‘Why is he doing a ‘dummy run with the vac?’ I motioned to him to stop, which he did. Sarcastically, I said: ‘It works much better when it’s switched on’

Immediately, he pulled off his headphones: ‘Oh no! How long has it been like this?’

 ‘I haven’t heard any noise for about 15 mins’ I said.

“Bugger” it. said As he bashed about in the cupboard, that means I’ve got to do it all again!

He had ‘hoovered’ almost the whole of the downstairs of the house without turning it on!

Bless him! Now if only he would do something about those soppy jeans he wears halfway down his arse …

Scruckshelishelcquerlup

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It is morning, and whilst lying in bed, awake waiting for my tablets to kick in, I hear my youngest son in the bathroom (next door) going through his daily gargling routine, This lasts for about 4 minutes:

“scruckshelishelcquerlupwaschushashushscruckshelishelcquerlupwaschushas hushscruckshelishelcquerlupwaschushashushscruckshelishelcquerlupwas chushashushscruckshelishelcquerlupwaschushashushscruckshelishelcquer

lupwaschushas hushscruckshelishelcquerlupwaschushashushscruckshelishe

lcquerlupwaschushashush  …..aaaahhhhgglllleee aaaahhhhgglllleee

aaaahhhhgglllleee  (this is the back of the throat bit)

Wuwwulllmmnllleeeaaaahhhhggwuwwulllmmnlllleeeaaaahhhhgglwuwwulllmmnlll

Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!…………..pwryyyrrtt! (this is the spit)

……………….Heeeeeeeuuuugh! …. pwryyyrrtt!” (another spit)

I am thinking, I’ve got a drum and bass line that would go perfectly with that!

He’s got a routine for everything: a brushing teeth routine, the mouthwash routine (as you now know) the anti-perspirant spray routine (not one to be caught in the middle of !)  The ‘don’t care hair’ routine. You know, I never knew it took so long to perfect that ‘Just dragged through a hedge’ look. Still, …. He is worth it!

Meanwhile, back in bed, I practise my rigorous exercise routine. I open and close my right eye five times, then repeat with the left. As they say: No pain, no gain. That done, I cast one of the aforesaid eyes (the left – as it happens) to the other side of the room and it alights on my walking frame. Okay, it’s a zimmer frame, but it has got ‘Go Faster’ stripes, metallic paint and polished chrome.  I don’t use it much; as you can see by all the washing hanging off it.

I can just imagine it:  The Harrow and Hillingdon Area Health Authority enquiry:

“Mr Daly, would you care to explain to us once again, exactly how you came to break your hip. On the day in question you didn’t use the walking frame that The Health Authority provide you with, because it was (He refers to his notes) ‘Full of washing’ “

“Yes Sir, that is correct, Sir, I …………”

 © Andy Daly  2010

The Things We Say. The day I met Noddy

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Well, thank goodness Diff was awake – I knew he’d get it, and first too.

He did.

Dear reader, let me introduce you to Mr. Douglas Futers, Popular Music aficionado extraordinaire. He knows everything about everything and  has been to more gigs than we’ve had collective  hot dinners. He’s seen Hawkwind (‘Silver Machine’ Remember?) 742 times and is now deaf as a post.

Of course! It was Noddy Holder, the band was Slade and the record, the evergreen ‘Merry Christmas Everybody’ a hit for the band first time around, Christmas 1973 (Flares, Strikes, ‘For mash say Smash’ and Advocaat)

If you didn’t know, and although you probably really couldn’t give a shit, I’m going to tell you anyway; the story is that this seasonal ditty which has etched its way into our national consciousness, along with Turkey, old St. Nick and Dicken’s ‘Christmas Carol’ was in fact recorded over a blistering hot week in New York, late summer of that year. Apparently, Lennon (that’s John, Liverpool, musician not Aaron, Spurs, winger) was in the next studio recording ‘Mind Games’ at the time.

The song was a hotch-potch of snippets that Nod and Jim Lee had lying around. They were given the final touch, it is reported when (I love this …)  Nod “After an evening out drinking worked through the night at his mother’s house in Walsall to write the lyrics, which he completed in one draft.” You see? a genuine slice of British Popular Culture. Bowie, meantime, earnestly doing his Willliam Burroughs’ ‘cut-ups’ must have been wondering where he went wrong.

Anyway, it just so happens that last week I had occasion to be in Birmingham. We took our eldest up there so he could attend an Open Day at Aston University, which is, in case you don’t know slap-bang in the centre of town. Wouldn’t have been my choice personally, it has to be said. To me, Brum has always been where people speak with a speech impediment rather than an accent; A place to be avoided at all costs, using one of the myriad motorways which appear designed expressly for such a purpose.

Anyway, we drop Laddo off, and from where, when we’ve turned the corner, he makes for the lecture theatre to hear all about International Business with Spanish. Or, if he were more like me at that age, make for the nearest pub, to really start ‘getting the taste’ for the West Midlands and the good folk therein.

We’re left with a couple of hours to kill, and as we’re over the road from the ‘Bullring’ Birmingham’s infamous shopping centre we decide to nip in and take a look. Well: pleasantly surprised is the reaction. They’ve made a damned fine job of re-inventing the ‘old’ Bullring which I last saw in about 1979, and was, let’s face it not only an eyesore, but an earsore, armsore and legsore it was so bad. Not so today. In fact it looks like every other modern shopping centre in whatever city or town you care to mention.

I was still pondering this transformation in the Bullring gents toilets, whilst drying my hands. I was using one of these new-fangled blown air hand driers. Similar to,  but not the Dyson airblade, it looked like an open letterbox in the wall. And, it was pretty pathetic: a brief vision passed before my eyes of the Facia of this thing being removed to reveal two wheezing old men blowing through it from behind. This nightmarish thought was soon banished by an awareness that someone was standing behind me…

I turned and looked. It was only Noddy Holder! The owner of the best pair of lungs this side of the Mississippi Delta!

What to say? I can’t come over all fawning fan – I’m nearly 50: No, no, no that won’t do. What about a ‘cooler’ approach? Drop in a ‘Blokey’ comment which might initiate a conversation.

That’s it! I figured.

Of all the things I could have said or asked him – such as ‘What was it really like to work with Dave Hill?’

‘Why the Mirror Hat, Nod? and how did you keep it on?’

Failing that, ”Ere Noddy, you know when Don Powell lost his memory, were there ever things you told him that hadn’t happened, just for a laugh?

No, of all the things … What do I venture forth with?

    “These hand driers are about as much use as a chocolate fireguard”

He looked at me and snorted a snort which was somewhere half way between ‘Yeah’ and ‘What the **** are you talking about?’ – I’m still analysing it.

….and made his way out.

Moral of the story: Be prepared! Get a notebook, list everyone famous you would like to meet. Add 2 or 3 questions for each and carry it round with you at all times!

© Andy Daly  2010

Wildlife Photography

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In which a family of kingfishers manage to trick a former Art teacher into rejecting a process-led model as a metanarrative of a discredited Modernist formal orthodoxy. It also features some spectacular stunt flying, courtesy of the Red Sparrows.

It has slowly become apparent to me that I’ve been had. Done over.  Hook, line and sinker, I have been stitched up like a kipper by … a family of kingfishers

Why? Because I have failed to listen to my own best advice and have allowed myself to be seduced by Product at the expense of Process. I know! …  Me! The Process Kid! ….Me! who has spent a lifetime  teaching a process-based model (I’m getting more and more angry as I write this) Me! a signed and fully paid up champion of a process-led aesthetic. I can’t believe it. Tricked, out-witted and out-manouvered … by a family of bloody kingfishers. I mean, they’re only 6 inches tall with a brain the size of a pea!

The Readers Digest Book of British Birds describes them as ‘mainly sedentary’ and confines the bulk of its entry to an almost obsessive interest in the spectacular colouring, superlative flying, and dramatic diving. Ha! Where are the warnings that this orange and blue – alright – ‘turquoise’ critter will quite happily lead the unwary out onto one of the most treacherous visual arts battlefields of the Modernist era and leave you beaten and bloodied for your troubles? Where does it suggest that it might be wise to re-aquaint yourself with Walter Benjamin before you go birdwatching?

Here is my story.

I take my bike from out of the shed and leave the house I share with my wife and two children, at work and school respectively. And why do I do this? … well … it’s because  we’ve got the bloody builders in. They have just ‘knocked through’. Any sign of a dustsheet? No! Any respect for personal space? No! Any interest in the fact that I too may have some objectives I’d like to acomplish –  preferably before sunset and so therefore really cannot  spare the time to make another cup of tea and listen to another ‘Clumsy Tony’ anecdote. No!

So I’m going for a bike ride to escape, because if I hear that fucking dopey roofer sing ‘Karma bloody Chameleon’ one more time I swear I’m going to pound his brains to mush with one of his own roofing tiles.

And so to the park (tip) at the end of our road.

Just listen to that … Silence! … (Well silence that  is if you filter out the playground noise from the school, the trains passing on the Met. line, the plane landing at Northolt, the coarse chatter of the jackhammer from … Oh gawd!..  Our house by the sound of it)

And so I’m off. A quick three lap burn up of the ‘Nature Reserve’ This presents a major test of skill and nerve as you try to avoid the dog crap everywhere, and today? … well, let’s head off down past the park and along the brook (sewer) and back again.

I’ve got to say, all joking apart, that in the dappled sunlight under a flaming canopy of Horse Chestnut, Ash, Hazel and a couple of Oak and Beech, it is extraordinarily beautiful down here … and quiet. The Parrots look a bit out of place though. There’s a … (collective noun for parrots? a squawk? –  sounds alright) There’s a squawk of parrots, about 6 in total who divide their time between the park and the big old tree behind our house. Escapees, I guess. A novelty at first, they are now right up there with the dopey roofer on my hate list courtesy of the bloody awful racket they make: that’s all seven of them.

I am just imagining what roast parrot might taste like and indeed how it might compare with roast roofer (I suspect a parrot, no matter how well fed might present a challenge in feeding a family of four. The roofer, on the other hand has been nicely looked after and …)

Bloody Hell! See that? A kingfisher! Brilliant!

Wonderful! One of my favourite birds as a child. Not that I ever saw more than about three. Seeing a kingfisher gave me an electric thrill (and still does) as the streak of sapphire and orange flashed past, seemingly unconcerned, but busy nevertheless.

Who would have thought it?  On smelly Yeading Brook. I saw it again the following day and again and again. I was surprised talking to local dogwalkers, regulars along the brookside path, that although ‘vaguely aware’ of the bird’s existence at some time or other, no-one had seen it (or them) this season. Yet I, having begun to observe the bird’s pattern of behaviour and favourite branches on which to perch, saw it two, sometimes three times a visit.

I resolved to bring my camera, which I did (oh how I rue the day!) There was a lot of activity that morning: I’d seen it two or three times – It had of course occurred to me that there could be more than one: a pair? I was on the verge of leaving when right out of the blue/turquoise/saphhire whatever you want to call it, close by the lower entrance to the park it landed on a branch overlooking a bend in the brook. It was about 70 yards away. Against all odds, which included a standard 50mm lens – no telephoto and uncontrollable shaking as I tried to focus (In fact, if the truth be known, I had a quite incomplete grasp of the procedures for focussing my Canon 450D for having had it for two months, I was too lazy to have read the instruction manual) The shot was an accident: I was pressing the button for a meter reading and overdid it. I got another one in, but with a shutter sound like a skoda car door slamming – that was it. The kingfisher was off!

 

Can you spot it?

 But I had it! After thoroughly testing the image manipulation giant that is Photoshop CS3 (Extended) I had it!  Okay, it wasn’t exactly David Attenborough: but then I wasn’t on his kind of money.You had to look hard deep into a mess of trees, riverbank, undergrowth but there it was the unmistakeable shape of a kingfisher. Ha! I was about to prove to everyone that this was no fig roll of my imagination…

But it was also to prove my undoing … My dissatisfaction with the quality of my kingfisher picture,  which despite all the power of Photoshop was still grainy and fuzzy, began to be replaced by a growing conviction that here was an opportunity to extend my range as a budding photographer. Yes! It was time to move on from those interminable artsy ‘coffee table book’ guitar pictures( http://www.andydalyphotography.co.uk/  in case you’re interested. I accept Pay Pal and all major credit cards) Let’s face it, any clot with a serviceable camera and a spotlamp could do them – you just had to remember, Do ‘em in black and white and don’t forget: Loads of shadows! No: this was real photography: wildlife photography.

And here, dear reader is where the wheels began to come off. I can hear myself thinking, althoughI never actually uttered the words, but sure enough, like so many of my wayward students over the years I thought them. Words which are enough plunge even the most experienced, hard-bitten, battle-scarred Art teacher into a trough of despair:

“But I know exactly what it’s going to look like”

I know, I know …. Me, the Process Kid! As I sit now staring at words on the screen I can barely believe it. But there I was, a week later, armed with a telephoto lens (courtesy of E Bay. Incidentally, I picked up a delightful plaster cast of the Leaning Tower of Pisa and a complete Morris Marina workhop manual at the same time. Who says it’s a Global Car Boot Sale eh?) and assorted camouflage garments, more usually associated with members of fanatical paramilitary active service cells: ready to do battle with the kingfishers for the ultimate Kingfisher photograph ….

[A small hollow in a sandy bank overlooking Yeading Brook and a family of Kingfishers are sitting around, reading the morning papers and childrens’ comic supplements]

Oh God! Here he is again!

Who’s here again, Darling?

That idiot. You know, the one with the camera.

The one with the wooly hat? You’re too hard on him. You should stop teasing him and leave him in peace.

Leave him in peace? What about us? What about him leaving us in peace? I’ll leave him alone when he stops invading our privacy. Three times last week…three times. You know what I’m like about my fishing –

[The children pipe up] Oh yes! We all know what you’re like about your fishing. We’re not allowed to talk..

We’re not even allowed to breathe!

Now, you two, come on…What your father is saying is that he just enjoys his privacy..

Exactly! Alone. So I can think and unwind and relax. Without having some half-baked would-be ‘wildlife photographer’ sticking his zoom lenses into my beak. And anyway, where do you think your meals would come from if I weren’t allowed to ‘dip this beak’ unhindered?

I caught one yesterday!

That was not a Minnow.

What was it then?

Well, it wasn’t a fish … Now let’s leave it at that … Oh God!

What is it now? You’re ever so tetchy these days…

It’s those bloody parrots, again. I wish someone would sort them out…send them back to where they came from.

But Dear, you can’t say that…

I just did. Okay! So who’s coming to have a bit of fun with old ‘David Attenborough’ then?

Me!

Me!

Me!

Daaad?

Yes, sunshine?

Do you think he knows there’s five of us?

Hmmmmm…Difficult to say… I think he knows there are at least two.

Remember yesterday, when you and Mum had already gone up to bend in the river with the wooden platform, but when I flew past, he went in the opposite direction?

Yes, that was odd. I just don’t think he’s very observant.

…He’s always half asleep

Yes, I’ve noticed that, Dear. I don’t think he gets enough rest…

Rest?! Oh for pity’s sake woman, we need to get rid of him, not mother him. I want my peace and quiet back.

Dad! Let’s try and get him to drop his big camera into the river

Yeeeaah!

And how are you going to do that?

Oh it’ll be well easy … Did you see when he dropped his hat in the river?

That’s right:  So far …Let’s see …  His gloves went in….

… his hat …

… (Twice) …

… His lens cap …

… and he got bitten by a dog! …

[Together] Twice!

It is easy! All you’ve got to do is make him wait till he starts to get tired…

It’s best to sit quite high up

… and behind him. He still thinks we only ever fly or perch low along the course of the river.

Watch him. Watch his shoulders.  After a while he starts to go into this position and his shoulders hunch over.

What’s ‘hunch’?

Y’know, go all rounded

Then it’s time to fly… Straight at him if you can

Yeaaaah!

He goes all shaky! It’s dead funny.

Okay? We all ready? You staying here, Love?  Oh! Before I forget, I’ve left an article out for you… might like to read it. I thought it was quite good. It’s a frank new appraisal of Benjamin’s ‘Work of Art In An Age Of Mechanical Reproduction’ In fact, I think it will throw more light onto the near polarisation of the visual arts and the acendency of a Post Modern,  pluralist aesthetic for the end of the twentieth century. See what you think. Okay kids? We off?

Chocks away!

[Some weeks later. The Builders have now gone]

                                                               …. ready to do battle with the kingfishers for the ultimate Kingfisher photograph.

 [Reader]: So?

What?

[Reader]: So where is it?

What?

[Reader]: The ‘Ultimate Kingfisher Photograph’?

You see, people don’t realise just how difficult wildlife photography is. They just think that the photographer turns up, whips out their camera, Click! Click! Home in time for tea and crumpets. No way! It requires methodical planning, deep knowledge of the habits and environment of the subject and consumate camera skills. Never mind thinking … aperture?… exposure?… focus? … ooops, lens cap off … when there’s a kingfisher flying at you. It needs to be instinctive … it’s raw!…It’s man versus beast in an extreme and hostile environment.

[Reader]: ‘Extreme and hostile’? What? Yeading Brook? In Roxborne Park?

Yeah … err … it’s pretty hostile. I came close to losing my hat in the drink on one occasion.

***   Kingfishers 1 ‘David Attenborough’ 0   *** 

 [Reader]: So how long have you been waiting for this ‘ultimate photograph?

Let’s see, where are we now? March .. That will make it uhmm …  Five months … it’ll be five months

***   Kingfishers 2 ‘David Attenborough’ 0   ***

 [Reader]: And how many pictures have you taken?

Oooooohhhh loads!

[Reader]: Of kingfishers?

Two

***   Kingfishers 3 ‘David Attenborough’ 0   *** 

[Reader]: So your original image and two new ones?

Ahhh ..  No. My … errr…original shot and one new one.

***   Kingfishers 4 ‘David Attenborough’ 0   ***

 [Reader]:  It must be spectacular … the other one? It must be if it’s your ‘ultmate kingfisher photo’ Can you describe it? I’m fascinated by the notion of it being a battle between man and nature in order to wrest the image you want exactly as you thought it was going to look. That must be some result eh? The suspense is killing me … Thanks … No, don’t see it. Ahhh! That’s because I’ve got it upside down … no wait …. No, Still don’t see it ……..what the hell am I looking at?

Well … can you just see behind that branch…?

[Reader]: You mean that blurry brown line?

Hmmmmm…It’s that spot of blue …. Juuuusssssst ……. there!

*** Game Set and Match: Kingfishers ***    

Epilogue

Never has the pursuit of artistic endeavour so exausted me. Never has so much time been invested for such little reward. How could I let myself walk into such an obvious trap? One which, because of my training and experience I should have spotted from the outset.

My ‘Ultimate Kingfisher Photograph’ hangs on the chimney breast (I tell people it’s one of a series of abstract paintings I’m working on – sort of diffused spatial enquiries … ‘Yes, they can sometimes look like out of focus photographs. I’m glad you spotted that’) My misery is complete when the Dopey Roofer decides he likes it and offers to buy it.  It reminds him of the lighting effects used at last year’s Ministry of Sound New Year Party. ‘It was sick man, I’m tellin’ yah I was well out of it’.

I let it go for £5:49 with which I buy a new wooly hat. The house is cold and lonely, the wind whistles through the gap in the front door, making a sound like a maddened wailing banshee. I’m beginning to miss the builders … they weren’t that bad after all.

 

Cause of all the trouble

  

‘The Ultimate Kingfisher Photograph’

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