My early, very early, years seemed to me to be a very good arrangement. I knew where I was with them and the consistency was conducive to a happy state.
The first house I ever lived in was number 113 Commercial Road, Swindon. I was actually born in Seymour Clinic on the corner of King’s Hill and Kent Road, Swindon on 17th November 1957. Oddly enough, very few history books carry this momentous date in history. Though, come to think of it, even I rarely celebrate it these days, either.
So from Mummy Fitrambler’s womb to 113 Commercial Road, obviously a bigger place in which to play; something I was going to gain a great deal of pleasure from in those early days.
I have to confess I don’t know much about my days in Number 113, other than it was a little crowded. Living there at that time was Granny and Grampy Fitrambler, Uncle Fitrambler and Mummy and Daddy Fitrambler. This would no doubt account for us moving to larger premises some eighteen months later.
The place we moved to was a relatively new council estate, created, rather like me, in the 1950s. Number 3 Ripon Way, to all intents and purposes was where the memories really began. Then, there was no such thing as the dual carriageway, the Queen’s Drive was single lane road and a rather large piece of grassy land between it and our house.
The estates of Park South and North went as far as Shaftesbury Avenue and beyond Shaftesbury Avenue there was nothing but fields and an old farm-house. Eldene and Liden didn’t exist.
But in those days of youth there were the fields. But these were no go areas until I, and my friends of the time, were in double figures. It didn’t mean we didn’t go to these areas, it was just that we shouldn’t.
One of my earliest friends in those days was Velocipede, who hadn’t long moved in. He and his family were from the North and therefore, as far as I was concerned, had a funny accent, especially his mother and father.
We became great friends and shared many adventures based around the popular science fiction shows and comic books we consumed at an alarming rate.
I think I was approaching about four and a half years old when my cosy existence was first threatened. The darkness came and enveloped me for about thirteen years.
School reared its ugly head and its evil mouth enveloped me.
As far as I was concerned, being at home with the family was fine by me and I didn’t want to upset the status quo – I’ve always tried not to cause trouble. I was happy with Daddy and Mummy Fitrambler, Granny, Grampy and Uncle Fitrambler. I needed little else.
I’d heard of school of course, knew a few children that went, but no one then really explained the purpose of school? Why get up early in the morning to go to a place you didn’t know, especially in winter when it’s cold, when you can stay in the warm at home?
I didn’t really get an answer to that!
Then there was what you would do for the hours you were in this strange building. Apparently some adult would bang on about things you didn’t really want to know but for some weird reason were expected to learn. Why do that when you could be at home playing games you wanted to play?
I didn’t really get an answer to that!
You would also be amongst other children at a strange dinner table in the middle of lots of other dinner tables with other children, eating dinner prepared by strangers. Why would I want to do that when Granny Fitrambler prepared very good food at home?
I didn’t really get an answer to that!
Here’s the thing, as the school had hundreds of other children in it, did they really need me to go? After all with the other hundreds of children, surely they wouldn’t miss me?
I didn’t really get an answer to that!
What I was told, I remember, was that if I didn’t go to school then there were these men who’d come and take Daddy Fitrambler away to prison for a period undisclosed to me. (It wasn’t an easy decision for the young Fitrambler to take.) If it was to be a short period of time, like the time Daddy Fitrambler spent at work, then maybe not attending would be not so bad…
But, I was led to believe Daddy Fitramber would have to be away for a very long time and I didn’t like that idea. I was rather fond of Daddy Fitrambler! Besides, if he was away in this prison place, then who’d read my books and comics to me? You have to have a sense of priorities in life, I mean you’ve got to think of these things!
However, looking back, I must say that although I love my father I do feel rather miffed he hasn’t ever thanked or even acknowledged the thirteen year sacrifice I made to keep him out of prison!
So, young Fitrambler was left with no choice, I had to go to school or Daddy Fitrambler would be taken away. (And of course there would be no one to read my comics and books to me). So, being, as I see it, a reasonable sort of chap, I compromised. My idea of a compromise went something like this…
I would turn up.
That was it. I would turn up everyday for five days a week and sit in the classroom. To me it was the simplest solution to everyone’s problems. Once my time of sitting there was over, I would, of course, go home. A plan of the utmost simplicity and fairness, I thought…
Unfortunately, I hadn’t realised the extent of the selfishness of the education system. The compromise wasn’t enough for them. I had to do something while I was there. And not only did I have to do something, but it was the sort of something that I wasn’t particularly interested in.
Pretty soon I was beginning to feel vindicated. I was right, this school wasn’t all that pleasant and it certainly wasn’t going to be fun!
One thing they wanted was for me to learn to read. Well, how stupid! Why would I want to learn that? What was the point? It was of no use to me. I did try to explain this but it was explained to me that life would be difficult without being able to read.
“Why?” I asked, for I was a curious little chap then.
“Well, you like comics, well if you learn to read then you can read the comics.”
“Dad reads me my comics.”
“Ah, but what if Dad isn’t there?”
“Then I wait ‘til he is.”
“But it’d be better if you could read them yourself, wouldn’t it?”
“But then what would Daddy do?”
So, despite their best efforts, I didn’t learn to read – well not right then. I would take home the book they’d given me to learn from. I’d get Daddy to read it to me over and over, then memorised what he said on each page and when the teacher called me up for reading I would recite what was on each page through memory of what Daddy said rather than any recognition of the actual words.
Then, by accident, Teach turned two pages over and that threw me. We always read in order, so I was found out. Teachers can be nasty, deceitful people!
If that wasn’t bad enough, Daddy suddenly decided I was old enough to learn to read and wasn’t going to read my comics to me (traitor!). No, from then on I would have to learn to read for myself. He’d help me with words but would expect me to be able to learn. Can you believe that, after the sacrifice I made to keep him out of prison! The ingratitude!
So Fitrambler the younger was on his way to getting an unwanted education. It was blackmail of the highest order. There was no way I was going to allow myself not to be able to understand the adventures my favourite comic book characters were having each week. I’d have to learn!
Of course in with all this was the other children. There were one or two I got on with rather well. Unfortunately, there were several bands of children I didn’t get on with and they decided to elect me as their kicking and punching bag. (I think the election was done by a show of hands and exclamations of ‘Yeah, go on, do it, beat the crap out of the ginger haired bastard!’)
At that time there were only two children bullied as I remember. One was a coloured child from the West Indies, and the other was me, the freckled, skinny, ginger-haired child. Both of us had one thing in common, there were no others like us. In his case it was the skin, in mine it was the freckles and ginger hair!
It was during those few years in junior school that Mummy Fitrambler was caused some embarrassment – other than reports telling her and Daddy Fitrambler that I was intelligent but lazy – when the teacher stormed out of the class at home time and approached my mother. She told Mummy Fitrambler I was the laziest boy she’d ever know, couldn’t get me to work. Mummy Fitrambler wasn’t happy.
I wasn’t too happy then either. That particular day I’d worked quite hard. Old Teach had read a story and then asked us to write what we’d heard and I liked the story so much I worked very hard to put it down on paper. Of course, that day was laced with a liberal dozen of thumping’s from the enemies I made by just existing.
Ah yes, the memories flow. I wasn’t lazy at everything as far as school was concerned. Oh no. Within a short space of time my geography improved, my stamina improved and my sprinting improved. But then, the incentive was there to improve those skills. Either that or find a way to deploy Superman’s power of invulnerability…
To explain, the geography improvement related to where I was, the layout of the streets around me and all the various ways I could get home. Very good for out-witting the groups of children who wanted to give me my daily thumping after school. The stamina and speed were also a great advantage in out-running those children after me to give me my daily thumping.
Learning not to go through narrow alleyways which could be blocked at the end by one’s enemies, always ensure you take a seat where you have a good view of everyone and no one can sneak up behind you…always avoid groups of people, three and upwards…
Even today I tend to avoid groups of people or am weary of them and change course…
Of course, the kids grew out of the bullying, and so by 12 years old it was practically over, all bar the shouting…of insulting names. By then, I’d learnt to read and write very well. I still read, predominantly, comics, American ones with the superheroes in but at around 14 years old I read a book which really encouraged me to move onto books. “Rex Milligan’s Busy Term” by Anthony Buckeridge.
It was around this time that I began to improve at art and English. The interest sparked from comics. I wanted to write and draw my own comics, so felt it was pretty obvious I should teach myself these subjects, which I did. Spoken English hadn’t been much of problem as I started talking at eleven months, holding a reasonable conversation at around then; apparently amusing my next door neighbour no end. Art and written English I hadn’t been all that good at but now felt there was a reason to learn and so did to a reasonable standard.
So I began illustrating my own comics, writing the scripts as I went along. Then, when my aforementioned interest weighed more heavily towards books rather than comics I began to attempt to write books.
I still didn’t like school much, I still found it oppressive. But in the end there were things about it that gave me access to an education I wanted rather than the one they probably wanted to give me.
I always remember my father always telling me that I’d look back on my school days as being amongst the best of my life. It was a thought that rather terrified me. I considered that if my school days were going to be the best, then I was in for quite a shitty little life.
TELLING TALES 
Bugger, I forgot the Big L!
And one could never accuse you of vulgarity Gloomladen, could one?
Laughing is vulgar. A wry smile should suffice.
There was an unintentional spelling error in that last comment which I’m sure Ivy Compton Burnett would have been amused by. Are you smiling knowingly now GloomLaden, or still laughing alone at Shitterton?
We could really do with someone to take up the post vacated by Mrs. Gowithit and provide some wordly-wise, womanly balance to this blog. I’m beginning to find GloomLaden’s undiluted supercilious pseudo-intellectual claptrap a little wearing.
But if you are smiling knowingly alone does anyone actually hear the suppressed laughter you are too repressed to emit.
And I wasn’t actually laughing at Shitterton, but surely even you would find Bangers Whistle amusing.
You just keep laughing at Shitterton, Blameworthy, while I contine to smile knowingly over an Ivy Compton Burnett. I think we both know – by which I mean that I know – which of us comes out best from the arrangement.
Whether it is wiser is debatable, it depends what is meant by ‘know thyself’. Many people seem to avoid it entirely, but Ivy would have had no knowledge of their sort. I bet she would have wet her knickers laughing had she known about Shitterton though, as long as she could be sure she was alone. As I’m sure you did if you care to admit it.
Here is a pompous intellectual witticism from Ivy Compton Burnett:
‘Know thyself’ is a most superfulous direction: we can’t avoid it. We can only hope that no one else knows.
Funnier – and wiser – than Shitterton, n’est pas?
I apologise for my low grade sense of humour, but it was that sort of website. Next time I will search for one administered by pompous intellectuals who find humour in places where us mere mortals fail to see the joke. Towns such as Stroud and Tetbury doubtless reduce high-brow toffs such as yourself to gales of laughter. I rather liked Nipplelicker and Lower Intestine as well, but I knew you would think I had made those up.
Butt of Lewis and Thorax make me laugh most. The sheer irrelevance of Thorax is poetry. Some of the oo er innuendos are a little tiresome, especially when read all together.
Back on the subject of village names, I found a website which lists thousands of allegedly funny ones; these are the best of the bunch in my opinion: Amble-by-the-Sea, Bachelor’s Bump, Banger’s Whistle, Booze Moor, Brokenwind, Butt of Lewis, Cock Alley, Cockintake, Cold Christmas, Cow Roast, Dumb Hope, Faggot, Flash Bottom, Foul Anchor, Heaven’s Door (there’s also a Knockin), Keith Inch, Lower Down, Pidley-cum-Fenton, Scratchy Bottom, Shittington, Skirl Naked, Snowhope (GloomLaden should live there), Splatt, Tarts Hill, Thorax, Two Pots, Upper Bleeding, Upper Thong, Westerley Waterless, Wetwang, Wigtwizzle, Wooden Box and Yelling. My personal favourite, and I couldn’t even begin to explain why, but you would have to travel a long way to top Frisby-on-the-Wreake. The best of the contenders from USA would include Piss Pot Island, Gobbler’s Knob and Crappo. Fans of Half Man Half Biscuit will know all about Lord Hereford’s Knob, but may not be aware that there is a green hill not far away known as Fan-Y-Big.
Congratulations on getting the new job, Fitrambler. I suggest you start as I mean you to go on; by hating every minute of it. All jobs are an an appalling waste of time, except that of beer taster at the Freeminer Brewery in the Forest of Dean.
Congratulations Fitters on getting the new job, which I gather from your tweets will start tomorrow. I would imagine you will now be suffering from that post-holiday depression as well as the ‘getting towards the end of summer’ melancholy that everyone except GloomLaden suffers from, he being too depressed about everything else to notice another nail being driven firmly into his coffin. At least you don’t have those three hour drinking sessions in the bar to contend with while you learn your new duties.
I suppose whatever name you mention, there’s someone out there who would find it funny. I rather like Fanny Barks in Durham but I don’t suppose anyone else would find that funny. The way these increasingly narrow comments work just makes you want to go on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, all the way down the page until your enthusiasm wanes.
Can’t beatthat. But I remember, when first reading Beckett’s ‘Rough for Theatre II’, being suprised at his mention of Wootton Bassett, a place name he must have found funny. And I suppose it is if you are less familliar with it than we all are.
We may have exhausted song titles but you could have started something else here with place names GloomLaden. Apparently there’s a village in the Shetlands called Twatt!
Still not as good as Nether Wallop in Hampshire, which is a real village.
Actually, I think it might enliven the English coumtryside a good deal if more made up names were used for real places. Peter Tinniswood’s Witney Scrotum ought to be real, as ought Chris Morris’ Treagle, Barnt Green and Pibney St Vitus. And since Hardy’s Wessex is the only thing making any money in that area, they should abandon the real names for the fictional ones. And Stanley Middleton – which could itself be a placename – should have his Beechnall appended to a real place.
It’s a small settlement which was created by the Huguenot weavers who settled there in the 1700s, at the height of the wool trade in the Stroud valleys. At the centre of a maze of lanes – seemingly going nowhere but back where you started, and built on 1 in 3 hills – the Chalford area is a motorists worst nightmare. I don’t need to make these names up, there are enough of them on the maps to last me for what remains of my miserable existence.
Do you know, I have only just spotted that GloomLaden has regained his capital L? It must have happened a couple of blog posts ago but went unnoticed by me. It’s not so much a name as a brand these days. I used to be very particular about the spelling until the man himself dropped the big one in the middle. It won’t happen again; I shall be more careful in future. Or shall I just call him Big L?
You’re making place names up again!! France Lynch? Sounds like some a blonde gansters moll in a 5th rate Guy Ritchie British ganster flick circa 1998.
Went out at lunchtime to find the King’s Head at France Lynch, a pub I’ve not been to in about 20 years because it’s nigh on impossible to find. Only about 25 miles from Swindon but you have to drive 100 miles on single track roads to get to a small alehouse situated halfway up a mountainside in a lane the width of your back passage. We found it without the aid of satnav or maps. I can’t read the map while I’m struggling to keep us alive on precarious roads, and a map to Mrs. Blameworthy is about as much use as the musical score for Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony in terms of navigation. Two churches, a steam show at Fairford and a visit to see John at the Red Lion rounded off the day. Death is still ahead, and little in the way of hope, but at least I was distracted for a couple of hours until I read your comment.
Uh oh, as the Americans say. Mr Fitrambler’s tweets indicate that he is rather losing patience with some loud and heavy drinking fellow train passengers. I’m afraid I am guilty of violating the silence of trains while drunk, though at least my rants tend to be quite highbrow, disquisitions on Bertrand Russell rather than Russell Brand. Blameworthy can also pump up the volume when tanked up and en route. We’ll have to be careful of the decibels when next letting the train take the (condsiderable) strain.
Yes, as American readers used to have to wait on the New York docks for the latest instalment of Charles Dickens’ The Old Curiosity Shop to be shipped in, we wait with bated – not to say bad – breath, the latest news from Wales. Unlike you, Blameworthy, I am content to lead a quiet life, attending to a little business with my turf accontant this afternoon. How much nicer than having to yomp up a Malvern or go off the beaten track in search of the kind of pub where the service is more bitter than the ale. It is high time we all subsided gently into wing back chairs, accepting that youth is behind us, death ahead and hope not there at all.
I’ve just checked my drinks cabinet and it’s empty; it’s always empty. Actually, I don’t have a drinks cabinet. I thought the whole point of drinking was to travel hundreds of miles to guzzle down a pint of beer that tastes exactly the same as the one you could have got in the pub just across the road from home. It’s the time spent finding it that’s important, and the elaborate planning. Talking of which, with the summer coming to an end, perhaps we should be thinking about another gang outing. That’s if we still have a gang and not just a trio or a double act.
Feeling slightly bereft in the knowledge that the Fitrambler tweeting from North Wales will come to an end today. I’ve had a fairly uneventful week at work but have been rushing home to get the latest instalment on the blog. Shows what a quiet life I lead. The last tweet reminded me of those old Batman episodes, leaving us all on a knife edge. Although in Batman’s case it was often a circular saw blade inches from the testicles. Is Fitrambler still on that bench in Llandudno? Did the Pink Lady ever come out of the kitchen shop? Had the whole of North Wales sold out of Mint Magnums by the end of the week? I can’t wait for the forthcoming blog post: Mr Fitrambler and the Great North Wales Button Hunt. Have you been doing the Welsh accent all week Fitters?
Although I dtink every night, I do have booze about the house that I never touch. I have quite a lot of good Scotch which I dislike no matter how good it is, a bottle of cava which I am slightly ashamed of as it is chav champagne (chavpagne?) and two bottles of gin, a drink I used to go in for but now seldom touch. No malmsey, unfortunately.
But I did want to connect something to it – my main reason for having a television is to watch DVD’s. Not an interesting post, this, but you did ask.
We sound like a very dubious bunch of solicitors: Blameworthy, Fitrambler & Gloomladen.
If it’d been a keg beer evening when we drank those 10 pints – if I could’ve drunk 10 pints of keg – then there wouldn’t have been the real ale drinking partnership of Blameworthy & Fitrambler and we wouldn’t have adopted young Gloom-Laden….
Fitrambler
All that beer drinking didn’t help either, and whose fault was that?
Good evening, Mr G.
The only alcohol I’ve had was the bottle of Claret I polished off in a few days, roughly two glasses a night. Strangely that bottle and it’s friend had lasted three months untouched. Even got a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey which is over half full that’s been in the Fitrambler household for over 6 months.
Still, not a totally reformed character as there are the Wednesday weekly drinks & a monthly gathering.
Fitrambler
I think the button days you recall was the beginning of my increase in weight. The truth cannot be avoided. When I was in the Banking sector I walked to work and back and never ate much dinner times. One meal in the evening from Mummy
However, when I joined the Delivery Company, I had a roll break time, three course lunch (under a quid in those days) in the canteen, big meal in the evening.
It should’ve came as no surprise that my weight went from 13.5 stone to an average of 15.5 between 1979 & 1997, when it again crept up to it’s highest level of 22.5 stone.
Not good at all.
Fitrambler
You don’t actually need the scart lead to make the TV work though, surely. Only if you wish to connect something to it. Metaphors and similes linking beer and electronics just don’t work for me, sorry.
I’ve never been an electronics expert. I like to draw my metaphors and similes from a broad range of disciplines. Besides, I once bought a telly without a scart lead and regretted it.
Since when have you been an electronics expert Gloomers?
I was about to ask if the buttons purchased in Holyhead were to replace those on the Fitrambler shirt, which all came adrift under the pressure of those enormous breakfasts and winged a pair of passing seagulls. I can remember sitting opposite you at work many years ago, and living in constant fear that your shirt buttons, which were stretched to the limit, would finally break free of their moorings and hit me straight between the eyes. In those days the pressure came mostly from all the cups of coffee you used to guzzle every day. I’ve decided to withdraw my comment though, in gratitude for your activities with the airbrush. Apologies for my part in the dispute. Regards to you and the Pink Lady; enjoy the rest of your holiday.
Good lord! A beerless Fitrambler! Surely beer is an essential component to make the thing go, like scart leads used to be for televisions.
Yeah, no beer. The Pink Lady is not a daytime drinker. Come to think of it she isn’t much of a night time drinker either. Although our first meeting in the Glue Pot some five years ago did result in her knocking back two pints of Guinness -she didn’t bother with halves all that often.
There are certain ailments that don’t make alcohol an easy option. I have mentioned that it’s never been an easy option for either Mr Blameworthy or myself but we bravely persevered. The words did not impress; nor do stories of our adventures.
Couldn’t even get the slightest of smiles when I did the fist in the air and stood up doing a South African accent when I said “Deganwy”. Women don’t seem to quite get the male sense of humour.
But fruit dinners, chopped apple, melon, pineapple, orange kiwi, grapes have been the staple for mid-day snacks, laced very occasionally with 1 mint Magnum after the Gt Orme walk & two thin slices of a dark chocolate bar by lindt. Dark chocolate that is 85% cocoa because The Pink Lady is dairy intolerant.
She has been for some time trying to get the concept of moderation through to me but that has been as easy for her as it has for me to teach her the benefits of the Internet, apple computers and other such devices from the same company.
Some progress has been made on either side but there is a long way to go!
However, my biggest problem with the Pink Lady is that she talks sense -something that really finds me somewhat defenceless when seeking to explain or justify what I’m doing or going to do!
Still I’m hopeful of a beer in the Linx tomorrow night with the Pink Lady one side and a pint of W J Lees on the other.
Be seeing you,
Firambler the beerless.
There I was Fitters, thinking you and the Pink Lady were searching all over North Wales for chocolate buttons and now I hear you have found what you were searching for in a sewing shop! The chips must have gone down nicely, but what’s all this about fruit for dinner and no beer?
Has anyone out there become as fascinated as I have by the Fitrambler tweets? It strikes me that he and the Pink Lady have embarked on an eating tour of North Wales? Mint Magnums, apple turnovers, massive breakfasts, jelly babies; do they have a target for the most calories ever consumed in a Welsh week? Not even time for a quick half in the pub in between all the munching. I’ve been out to the Bell at Aldworth today; currently standing at number eight in the Blameworthy Top English Pubs list. I had a dish described as ‘Salt Beef of Old England’, while Mrs. Blameworthy chose the fresh crab rolls. Now, I’m no expert, but I wasn’t aware that you could catch crabs in Berkshire. Anything exotic up there in Llandudno Fitrambler?
The Curse of Gloomladen struck at dawn on the day of the Worcester Beer Festival. Having struggled to raise myself from the bed on a miserable gunmetal grey morning and trekked purposefully down to the station in driving rain I didn’t think to check the monitors to see if the 7:16 train to Gloucester was running on time. The queue to buy tickets was surprisingly long for such an early hour but I waited with only mild irritation until I got to the head of it, only to be told that the Gloucester train had been cancelled and would be replaced by… well, nothing really. Faced with the choice of waiting two hours for the next train or paying twice as much to go via a longer route, I decided to get the train to Bristol and change there. Had I gone home to pass the time before the next Gloucester train I doubt if I could have raised the required enthusiasm to return to the station two hours later. Not being able to face the smug Gloomladen countenance on Monday morning if I didn’t make it to the beer festival, I felt obligated to continue in the face of adversity.
The dark skies and persistent drizzle on the journey to Temple Meads suited my mood, but I remained naively optimistic that the rest of the day would go to plan. As the Malvern Hills came into view the rain cleared and the sun broke through. The train was worryingly punctual at Worcester Shrub Hill and after a twenty minute visit to the cathedral I arrived at the festival on the stroke of eleven just as the gates were being opened. After heavy rain the previous week, part of the racecourse was flooded and there were a couple of springer spaniels joyfully splashing in the water in the mistaken belief thet they were swimming in the Severn. The marquees had been set up on the ballast base of the car park this year but, not being on level ground, some of the rainwater had seeped in under the canvas and turned parts of the ground into something of a quagmire. The first hour at the festival was excellent, being relatively quiet with plenty of spare seating. I was astonished by the spectacle of the cider and perry stillages which went the whole length of one wall, although it was noticeable that very few punters were gambling with their futures by drinking any of it, preferring to kick off with a few of the weaker beers. As Gloomladen would have predicted, some of the beers had sold out on Friday night but there were still around 175 remaining, enough for a modest lunchtime session.
By early afternoon a large crowd of boozers was filling the marquee and the muddy floor was becoming rather treacherous, so I made my way to the Dragon for a swift pint of Jaipur IPA before boarding the train to Malvern Link at Foregate Street Station. The day had turned much brighter by this time and the hike across the common to the Nag’s Head was quite pleasant with North Hill looming large ahead.
I walked on into the centre of Great Malvern to visit the priory, not to seek redemption but to pray for the strength to make the long climb up to St. Anne’s Well. Despite having visited Malvern Priory countless times over the years, I never cease to marvel at the stunning beauty of the stained glass windows which are some of the best in Europe. The medieval terracotta tiles are also worthy of note and I could indulge my current passion for misericords by crawling along the choir stalls on my hands and knees to study them. Fortunately the choir boys were absent on my visit.
The rain had started again by the time I made it up to St. Annes, so rather than risk the energy sapping ascent to the Worcestershire Beacon in the open, I chose to walk the three miles to the Wyche Cutting along the ‘Pensioner’s Path’ in the shelter of the trees. There are some pubs which I feel honour bound to visit whenever they are inside my radar and the Chase Inn and Wyche Inn are two of my favourites, having the added advantage of being within a mile of each other. I also enjoyed a pint each of Wood’s Shropshire Lad and Malvern Hills Brewery Black Pear; two excellent local beers as good as anything at the festival.
Having walked back downhill and across Malvern Common I arrived at Great Malvern station with plenty of time to get the little sprinter unit which would take me back as far as Bath, arriving long before the last train to Swindon departed. Not being able to change trains without nipping out of the station and up the hill to the Star for a swift pint of White Friar, I also found it impossible to pass up the opportunity of a pint of Exmoor Gold in the Old Green Tree. These are two of the very best pubs in England. The train from Bath to Swindon was on time and the journey home passed quickly without major incident. I arrived home at the respectable time of 9:30 feeling somewhat drained, having passed an enjoyable day doing what a man of my age and condition should really have stopped doing at least ten years previous. Having overcome the initial obstacles it was a great day out. Such a shame that Gloomladen chose to stay at home.
I now have a very vivid image in my mind of you at the age of 18 months, lying in a pram with a joint in one pudgy hand and a sucky bottle half full of Vodka in the other. I can hear you hurling abuse at the passers by as you chuck your toys over the side. A gang of eight year old lads gathers around the pushchair as you struggle to mouth the words “I’ll show you mine, if…” moments before the projectile vomiting kicks in. Happy Days!
I enjoyed my 6th form years as well but possible for very different reasons then you, like most of my early years I can’t remember a lot of it as I was likely drunk or stoned.
I’m glad to hear things have picked up since your schooldays. I quite liked junior school, hated being sent away to boarding school at eleven but then really enjoyed the 6th form years. Over all, I think that if we had to deal as adults with the intensity and extremity of some of our school age experiences, we would mostly be analysis.
They were outside of school, in those days, and particularly picked up when I began my long association with Mr Neatentidy. I have some great memories of the times we had together then and a great deal of great times since then.
Meeting Mr Blameworthy brought forth a whole raft of new exeriences and with those life became more fun and interesting. Even working for the Company I work for now, has gained many a good time and memory.
There are of course happy memories of meeting Mrs Blameworthy, and Mrs Gowithit and Mr Gowithit.
And I’ve enjoyed many a good time in your company, Mr Gloom-Laden, and also learnt a great deal.
There have been black spots but unlike school which felt like a whole black patch, the black spots outside of the school years have been few.
Fitrambler.
I believe you are correct. The photo was tacken when we took the train to Cornwall and stayed in a holiday village – no balloons to stop us when we tried to leave, though. I think it was owned by your sister and brother in law.
If memory serves, we had to either go up a hill to the train station or up a hill on the journey back from the train station.
One lunchtime, Sunday, I believe, we walked to a country pub, but no pictures by myself as I didn’t take the camera. You, however, might have done. I think the holiday would have been around May 1991.
Fitrambler
I’m guessing that the current header photograph was taken near Newquay in Cornwall.
So when were the best days of your life?