Apr 27 2011

No More Marching Up The Hill?

A chunk of the past, I thought, as I stopped at the bottom of the hill and saw the boards up. Even though the evidence was right in front on me I couldn’t believe it!

In the early eighties the Duke was a regular haunt for Blameworthy and I, but unlike a lot of people, we rarely went out drinking in the town at weekends. The pubs were too busy then. We spent an average of two to three nights a week in the Duke, breaking it up for visits to one or two others we particularly liked at the time.

We guzzled a lot of 2Bs then.

We indulged in many a long conversation or argument, both of which were never taken seriously. To be honest, we never remembered what they were about. So our theory was we didn’t vary the conversation night to night, probably just the same things over and over again.

Needless to say, we couldn’t prove the theory as we’d forget the results of any test conducted.

What we would have said to anyone who told us then that the price of a pint would go to about three quid, give or take, I’m not sure; although the news would be greeted by the need to order another pint! However, early on the eighties it got to fifty pence a pint (after a recent smash and grab by the government of the day; the same representatives who in opposition condemned a similar raid on the poor, defenceless drinker by the previous government); quite high enough!

Although any increase in the nectar of life is enough to reduce most hardened drinkers to sob – preferably not into their beer because that tends to dilute it – we tried to be positive about it.

‘That’s a two pence increase,’ Blameworthy sighed.

‘I know, I know,’ I sighed back, agreeing with him. Usually within the first few beers we were always amiable with each other.

‘Still on the bright side, it’s easy arithmetic, isn’t it. Two pints for a quid. Less fiddling with change, particularly when we’re less capable of dealing with it.’

I nodded. We raised our glasses and tasted the beer, satisfied it was as good as the last time. After all, that was what the evening was about. Ensuring the standards of beer. We were CAMRA members; it was our duty, no matter how unpleasant…

On those nights we drank an average of nine pints. I think back and wonder how, with that amount of ale in me, did I get any decent sleep and get up for work in the morning? It probably didn’t help matters that I often persuaded the hapless Blameworthy to divert to the Indian takeaway for a curry before going home.

I was and still am, very fond of curry, and foisting this fondness onto Blameworthy was unfair of me. Still, all credit to the chap, he usually had one with me. I like to think it was a result of his natural camaraderie, but I’m sure the influence of the aforementioned nine pints may also have been a contributing factor.

He did, in fairness, push me towards late night pizza’s, especially at the bottom of the town. Not that Old Fitrambler needed much pushing when came to the matter of shovelling food into the gob.

The good thing about pizza’s is they don’t cause such volatile and fruit-some flappy woof-woofs to emerge from the rear end; unlike spicy curry. It was probably why no one else in my family ever went into the Fitrambler bedroom after a drinking Session; well, at least they didn’t unless armed with the appropriate mask and aerosol…

Boarded up windows. I shook my head…

Now, standing outside the Duke, with these thoughts travelling through the old noggin, I knew it was extremely unlikely Blameworthy and I would clock up any more memories in there.

I cannot remember the first landlord who served us when we first ventured in there. I do recall, during this era, one particular landlord. He was rather a large chap, big barrel chest, black beard, with long hair brushed away from the forehead but hung down to the shoulders. He always seemed to wear the same navy blue turtle-necked sweater, with sleeves. He affected a grumpy manner which seemed to suggest he’d little time for anyone.

I think his name was Francis…

However, he was alright to Blameworthy and I. To be fair, he was hardly likely to fall out with two of his prize guzzlers…

His girlfriend, if memory serves, was petite, a startling contrast to him. I cannot recall her name.

Yes, Francis. He did try and get me involved in his sideline of selling cleaning materials over a couple of free pints to little success. Pyramid selling I believe it’s called nowadays.

Occasionally, we get a game or two of darts in, but it wasn’t the best of places for the game.

The board was close to the bar and the whole pub is little more than a couple of rooms of a corner house. This made visits backwards and forwards to the bar for beer rather perilous.

As a player, you need to be alert to the movements of other inebriated drinkers with only their next pint on their minds. So a patron straying by unexpectedly could lead to an accident.

And wouldn’t most of us take at least a little offense to a dart in the lug hole, no matter how unintentional…

I believe it the dartboard had several homes over the years, due to the odd shattered glass or associated injury. Or perhaps that was a coincidence?

Looking back to the mid-eighties, our visits became less and less frequent to the Duke, or indeed anywhere. Blameworthy went through a period where he didn’t want to drink in the town. Neatentidy and I tended to meet in other pubs in Old Town, so the Duke, for want of a better expression, fell out of favour.

Most of nineties I seemed to spend in the Glue Pot – currently still a haunt of mine – but it was mainly once a month as the decade went on. I rather pursued an unsustainable course with my finances – I got into debt – and was forced to restrict my drinking… and indeed most other activities which required the folding stuff…

This monthly visit became quite a tradition and on day trip to London I met Gloom-Laden, who eventually joined us on the monthly pilgrimage. In fact he took Blameworthy’s place when Blameworthy took a long sabbatical.

In the early years of this century, I re-established contact with Neatentidy after an absence of about six years.

Our first meeting place was the Glue Pot. Movenon and Pontyview couldn’t make it.

It was a good evening, and one which felt as if the gap years hadn’t existed.

I joined the Wednesday trio to make it a quartet and the Duke was visited every so often. Sometimes, at the kind condescension of Movenon we stayed for most of the evening. However, as befits the man, he always manages to get us to at least a second pub.

It wasn’t a favoured place, and I later learned Neatentidy wasn’t all that keen on the beer…

Boarded up windows. I shook my head…

The text telling me the bad news came through from Wellread. Now, I’m not for one minute suggesting Wellread is in the habit of telling fibs but I just didn’t want to believe what he was telling me. Even when I read a passing mention in the Swindon Advertiser, an article which referred to the re-opening of The Globe, I still didn’t want to believe it. So I decided to see for myself.

In the nineties, Gloom-Laden joined the fray, but he was, from certain remarks, not a great lover of the place or the beer.

‘Like soapy water,’ I believe was one comment directed at the beer.

We conducted most of our monthly drinking sessions in the Glue Pot.

What provoked the latest revival was the knock on effect of Blameworthy arranging a drink with the gang in the Glue Pot. Gloom-Laden was invited but didn’t turn up. However, a second meeting was arranged, this time at the Duke, straight after work.

Blameworthy had told me that old friends of his, Mr and Mrs N. Thusiastic had taken over the place – quite peacefully and legally, I might add – and were trying to run it as a going concern. Not easy when one considers the small size of the place and that it can offer little beyond the prospect of a good pint; the average drinker these days wants more.

N. Thusiastic, though, still kept his job, leaving most of the running to Mrs N. Thusiastic, until they were sure they could make it work.

I turned up at 5.30pm Friday, straight after work. Blameworthy was already there talking to the effervescent  Mrs N. Thusiastic. However, N. Thusiastic was still at work and didn’t join us until later in the evening.

I was told the Kingsdown was on. A strong-ish ale and one I decided to pass on. About four or more of those and my plans to get up early the next day would go of the window; in fact drinking Kingsdown all night would probably stop me getting up early Sunday morning!

After the disappointment of the last get-together I was hoping that Gloom-Laden would have turned up. I was especially keen on seeing the chap after a gap of some years. But he decided to decline, fearing too heavy a drinking session.

Just over half way through the evening, N. Thusiastic joined us. I commended him, as I had his good lady, on the improved quality of the beer.

‘I’d gone off 3Bs lately,’ I told him, ‘but this is the best 3Bs I’ve had in ages.’

Obviously that pleased him. But it was true, what I drank that nigh had restored my faith in the brew. He offered me a free pint but (uncharacteristically) I refused. I’d reached my limit for the evening.

While I was finishing my last pint I remember hearing N. Thusiastic tell Blameworthy it was him who’d given N. Thusiastic a greater interest in pubs and beers, which expanded beyond the Good Beer Guide. My own interest in Real Ale began under Blameworthy’s guidance….a story for another time…

Blameworthy was quite reluctant to take the credit on both counts; a tribute to the man’s immeasurable modesty.

Some weeks later, the gang got together for the Chippenham Beer Festival, including Gloom-Laden. The following day Blameworthy and I had a Sunday lunchtime beer in the Duke. A review of the previous day’s activities…

Blameworthy arranged another session on the following Friday. Again, this was directly after work. I’d been afraid I wouldn’t be able to make it. Work had caused quite a few late evenings. But make it I did.

Unfortunately, Blameworthy couldn’t make it. So I spoke to Gloom-Laden most of the evening.

He said he didn’t like the idea of a hung parliament, nor a resulting coalition government. Unfortunately for the old curmudgeon, there was a hung parliament and we did get a coalition government.

Over the next six months I dropped in on a Wednesday with Neatentidy before we went on elsewhere, depending on whose choice of venue it was. Although there was one occasion when the standard of the beer slipped, for the most part I enjoyed the beers there.

But in recent months, possibly as many as five or six we haven’t been in the place.

Sometimes you think things will be around forever but all things are transient and before you know it another part of your life has gone.

No more marching up the hill.

On the bright side, I do have a lot of good memories of that old public house…

Boarded up windows. I shook my head sadly as I walked away…

Apr 1 2011

A Touch Of The Tartan

Fitrambler Goes Native

I got into work quite early after New Year’s day. Just as I was about to make the tea, Topman asks me if I’d like to go to Scotland to deliver mail. Never been to Scotland. Never been on a plane…double tick box job…
So, I was at Bristol Airport by 5.30pm, packed and ready.
Security was an experience. Off with the coat, walking trainers, belt, all objects like wallet, ID, mobile phone, hand luggage in a couple of totes. They went through separately.
Fortunately, the trousers stayed up. I put the belt back on as soon as I got my stuff back, followed by the trainers.
After a wait of about an hour, we were checked through to board the plane.
It was smaller than I expected, seating room wasn’t great. We settled in seats and after ten minutes the plane began trundling along the runway, picking up speed until it took off…
Wow!
I felt I was on drugs, getting light-headed; almost making victory signs and going ‘hey, man…’
However, after five minutes my stomach felt queasy…
The plane finally levelled off and the stomach settled down. The urge to fire my lunch as projectiles died as well.
Less than an hour later we landed, which felt just like taking off. We collected our bags, the hire car and were off to the hotel less than half an hour away. By now I was beginning to feel hungry. It’d been eight hours since luch. A hungry Fitrambler isn’t a pleasant site to behold!
We checked in, then off to our respective rooms. Fifteen minutes later I was in the bar. No decent beer, so I decided on the Guinness.
A few minutes later Topman and the gang arrived so we walked to the restaurant for a nosebag.
Looking at the prices on the menu I balked a little but the guts were still doing somersaults, so I’d have paid almost anything.
There were three of us at the table. The curry looked appealing but as I’d be on the streets for hours delivering mail tomorrow I had doubts. It’s bad enough getting caught short after drinking too much liquid, but…
I was convinced by Topman it wouldn’t be a problem.
The meals arrived and tasted ok. Topman was right, the curry wasn’t that powerful nor was there much of it. The curry was in a container the size of a pub ashtray. The rice was about the size of scoop of vanilla ice-cream. I used more calories eating it…
The meals were walloped back (three mouths, thereabouts), then we went to the bar. I managed three pints of Guinness before getting to bed at around mid-night.
All to report to breakfast at 7am.
The alarm on the mobile phone went off. I tried to ignore it.
By 6.15am the mobile won. I got up, staggered tiredly to the shower and woke myself up suddenly. It was the sudden, powerful needles of cold water on the vitals that did it! I pointed the nozzle away until the water (amongst other things) warmed up.
Breakfast was more up my street. Self-service job. I slapped two pieces of bacon, two eggs, two hash browns, two bits of black pudding, a couple of helpings of baked beans and mushrooms on the plate and went back to breakfast table.
I said a round of good mornings, then tucked in.
‘Like watching a piranha fish strip a man down to the bones,’ mumbled Topman.
I washed the lot down with two glasses of orange juice, a mug of tea and was ready to go in ten minutes.
Topman and I teamed up. We headed to the Delivery Office in Dunfermline, about half an hour’s drive away.
We got there to find snow and ice all over the car park and patches of dirty snow and ice along a lot of the main streets. The temperature was minus five.
We found a place to park and trekked to the DO.
That first day we sorted mail. Topman wasn’t a happy bunny. Nor was I. We wanted to go out on delivery…
When we left for the day the old tum was groaning. Not breaks since breakfast,, so on the way back we stumbled upon a Toby Carvery.
Fitrambler in paradise!
By 5.30pm we were back at the hotel, showered, changed and back off to the Toby. Topman and I wanted to try out the only real ale there, Deuchars IPA. I think we got through four pints before the urge to move on set in.
We took a walk to a pub recommended by the bar man. Corstorphine Inn. It was packed and noisy. But a good pub for watching football in…
Another couple of drinks and Topman said it was time to get something to eat. So, Snappy, Topman and myself made our way back to the hotel.
The meal was much like last night’s, I avoided the curry and tried the chicken, with carrots, potatoes and a sauce.
‘How was the chicken?’ Topman asked.
‘It was more like a cooked budgie…’ I muttered, ‘But it tasted ok.’
Topman smiled, so did Snapper.
Across the road, being close to a large window, we could see The Porterhouse, a steakhouse. Maybe the food would be better.
A couple more drinks and it was bed time.
I got back to the room, took a warm shower and then got into bed.
No sooner had my head hit the pillow than the alarm was going off…
6am.
I tiredly stumbled to the bathroom, took a shower to wake myself up, (without attacking the vitals this time) then dressed.
At 6.30am, I was tucking in a breakfast that was a repeat of yesterdays, except I drank two glasses of orange juice to help strike a healthy balance…
By 7am we were off to Dunfermline.
Forty minutes later I got my wish and I was on the streets of Dunfermline, delivering mail. A new adventure for old Fitrambler.
I didn’t mind being on my feet for most of the day. The thing which worried me was working quickly and efficiently enough. There were a dozen bags of mail to get through.
The first house made me groan. There was a large letter, cardboard stiffener in it which said ‘do not bend’. All very well, but the letter box although above average size, it wasn’t wide enough to get it through.
Being conscientious I didn’t bend but instead put a card through the door saying they’d need to collect.
That first day on the streets taught me a few lessons. The first is you can’t wear gloves. With them on I found I couldn’t sort out the letters for the next house. Twice I dropped the first bundle and was lucky they didn’t hit a mud patch. I spent valuable time re-sorting them. So off came the gloves. Fortunately, I got used to the cold.
Another thing I learnt, don’t sift out the letters for the next house when walking, not while there was ice on the ground.
Twice I watched it rain letters as I sat in a patch of ice.
We worked without breaks. The large breakfast served me well.
Around 5pm, back to the hotel to shower and change.
At 7pm we set off to the City Centre and parked close to a row of about five pubs. Seeing them old instincts surfaced and I wondered if I could sneak away to have a half in each, purely for research purposes.
However, Topman was keen to seek out the cheese shop he’d been to the last time he was there. So we found the shop. I was tempted, but held back. Not far from there was a whisky shop.
Get thee behind me Satan!
The cashmere scarves were tempting and this time I didn’t resist. The problem was which one to get? There were ones which were pattern pink, straight forward pink and a tartan pink? I saw one two shades of pink. I bought it.
‘Bought something,’ asked Topman.
His nose was in the bag before I could stop him.
‘Pink?’ he exclaimed.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Glad we don’t have to share a room.’
‘It’s a present for the Pink Lady.’
‘Oh.’
Throughout the evening we had to stop for Snapper to catch us up or look round to see where he’d got to!
Snapper is mad-keen on photography and was never more than a few inches from his expensive camera.
So, every so often we had to call him up. It was like being out with a dog who kept stopping to sniff around!
Eventually we doubled back to the pubs I spotted earlier. There was the Last Drop, Maggie Dickson’s Pub, The White Hart didn’t have any decent real ale, but just as despair was setting in the fourth, The Beehive Inn, had working hand pumps.

Beehive Inn, Edinburgh

One of the great things about having Topman for a boss is he’s keen on real ale. So, we tried this pub.
Old Peculiar and a Scots ale called Fail Lair. I had the Old Peculiar and Topman the Fail Lair.
We had two pints each their, but Snapper and Badge stuck to non-alcoholic drinks.
The Black Bull was a temptation but Topman had to drive and so we made our way back to the hotel. Just as well as it was another early start in the morning.
I was in bed by 11.30pm…
Although it might’ve seemed like an early night it didn’t feel like it the next morning.
Groaning and muttering I dragged myself to the bathroom, took a shower, brushed the teeth and got dressed.
Breakfast was the piled high usual and we were off. We covered an area only a street or two away from where we were the day before.
Topman dropped me off with a large mail pouch.
First up was two lots of 3 story flats. Steps. These days I don’t like steps any more than I like hills. Not good.
The block I tried first I couldn’t get any of the residents to answer their buzzer. How the hell would I get in. What did the normal bloke do? Sighing I put them to one side and went to the next block and pressed a few buttons. The pouch was quite weighty so I wanted to get rid of as much mail as I could. Maybe that’s why they loaded you down so much, so you’d get it through the letter boxes quicker.
By the fourth button my back was hurting a little and I leaned against the door. Big mistake. I’d assumed it was locked.
Two minutes later after deciding the stairway ceiling could do with a coat of paint, I got up from the floor and got my mail back into the pouch. Fortunately, it was banded well, so it didn’t fly all over the place.
I delivered the mail, then decided to go back to the first block and try the door – conventionally by pushing at it – to see if it was open. It was so I delivered.
The pouch didn’t feel much lighter but it was a start.
Then I started on the odd numbers of the main street. The front door looked out onto the pavement, no gates to mess with.
81…83…85…89…
Huh?
I doubled back to check I hadn’t got it wrong and shoved the letters in the wrong letter box. It’d be embarrassing to knock on the door and ask for the letters back!
But no, number 87 wasn’t there. I looked a couple of doors before it and a couple after but it hadn’t been moved.
Hmm. I frowned.
Then as I put the letters to one side in the still bulging pouch, I got another three houses up to find another number was missing.
I stood still for a moment, scratched the noggin. This was Dunfermline not the bloody Bermuda triangle! A few more houses delivered to, and another bugger had disappeared.
Then at the end of a block of ten I found an alleyway. I walked down it. If anyone said anything I’d hide behind my role as a postie and claim ignorance.
The alley was about ten feet. First thing I came across was a few children’s toys in a small garden, in the distance to the left I saw the two blocks of flats I’d delivered to earlier. Further left was the
answer to a mystery.
At the top of about twenty odd steps were two doors next to each other. As I walked up the steps I found the missing houses, or rather flats.
I moved out into the main street again and continued to deliver the mail, nipping down allies as was necessary.
Once at the end of that street, I crossed the road having done all the odd numbers and began on the evens.
For the next few houses everything went smoothly. Then another house went missing….
64, 66, 70, 72, 74…
No 68?
Bugger!
I was scratching my head as a short old man in a cloth cap and overcoat seemed to be making a bee-line for me. The determined, serious look on his face got me a little worried. I felt I could see complaint all across his face.
He made some sounds for a few minutes, I thought he was clearing his throat but he’d actually started talking.
‘Pardon?’ I said.
‘Oh, you’re English.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, up from the far south.’
‘Ah, I thought you were no Paul, our usual postman.’
I explained why I was there and he nodded attentively.
‘How’re ye finding the round.’
‘Confusing.’
‘Aye, ye would.’ He pointed to the houses, odd numbers, I’d done earlier. ‘Flats. All on ‘em. Dinna use to be. I’ve here since 1925…’
(I felt like saying it was time he bought a house, but held back.)
‘….made them into flats, got rid of a few houses up there.’ He pointed to where I’d come from. ‘And ye’ll find this lot on this side are the same.’
I nodded. ‘Finding the numbers is difficult too.’ I told him and mentioned about number 68.
He grinned. ‘Aye, see that wee alleyway.’ He pointed to it, no more than a one person entrance. I nodded. ‘You’ll no see the number properly, covered in dirt. But down there is no. 68.’
I thanked him. He waved my thanks away. ‘I was a postman, started way back in the forties. In those days it was a different game, they’d Inspectors. Bastards they were, all dressed in black. Little Hitlers. If you turned up at the delivery office with just one piece of uniform missing, or your shoes no shiny enough, then it was away home, no point in signing on.’
He told me his name was Stan and lived in number 62, if I’d any more problems with missing houses.
I walked back, got no 68’s letters delivered, then looked out for alleyways, no matter how small when numbers seemed missing. I went down quite a few alleys, up twenty odd steps – always seemed that number – and often found doors but not all of them numbered. In some cases it they had a front door and a back door within a few feet of each other.
I got to chat with a receptionist at a psycho-therapy business. She helped me find an oddly titled house across the road.
As I was delivering the last few houses from the pouch, Topman rang me, asking me where I was and then he told me to wait there and he’d come to me.
We finished a little early that day and checked out of the hotel once we’d all freshened up. It was time to make the journey home.
Unlike the flight to Edinburgh airport, there were loads of people at the check in and we went through a zig-zagging queue. It seemed to take ages.
Then there was security, where belt, wallets and money and the like had to be put into totes.
Unfortunately, I left my watch on and some change in my trouser pocket.
Alarm bells rang and I was pulled over to one side.
Needless to say, Topman and all my colleagues looked suitably concerned.
(Yeah, right, they were holding their stomachs. A bloody great laugh!)
He searched me. First by hand, patting my sides…then he ran this electronic rod-like thing all around me. A vision on him slipping on surgical gloves went through my over active imagination. Fortunately, he seemed satisfied there was nothing else to set the alarm off so an exploration of my orifices wasn’t deemed necessary.
I wasn’t disappointed, oddly enough.
Red-faced, I joined my colleagues.
Then it was a wait before we could board the plane, and when we did, there was a delay while they fuelled it. I was getting bored with the waiting. There seemed to be a lot of it with plane travel! It didn’t make me anxious to travel by plane again.
We eventually took off and I went through the ‘high on drugs’ feeling until the plane levelled out.
An hour later the adventure was over. I’d ticked a few more boxes. I’d been on a plane and visited Edinburgh and Dunfermline, albeit briefly…
Wish I’d knocked off those pubs the day before, though…
Mar 18 2011
Quote

Fitrambler's hasty exit..

It was the third day on my annual jaunt to North Wales when I’d decided to explore Colwyn Bay and had spent a couple of hours walking around. I rather like walking and at the time I was very into it for health reasons. I’d been told by the doctor to get exercise and so here I was, even on my holidays, exercising.

It was about 2pm when I decided to eat the small lunch I’d bought myself in Morrison’s. I found a small bench just outside but in a shade.

Not too far away, while I was eating and reading The Independent, I glanced up and saw a bloke in a wheelchair. He was quite disabled, thin, slightly twisted, whose hands gripped a control, one on each of the arms of the wheelchair. I felt a little guilty as my mind compared him to the Davros character from Doctor Who…

He was talking to a bloke in a suit. I don’t know how long the chat with suit had been going on for but the suit sudden dismissed the chap in the wheelchair with an irritated wave of his hand.

I quickly looked back at my newspaper, perhaps he was asking for money? Whether he was born like that or had an accident that put him there I didn’t know.

I’d polished off the first sandwich and washed it down with Evian mineral water, when I got a feeling I was being watched.

I looked up in mid-chew and a few feet from me was the bloke in the wheelchair. He was looking directly at me. I smiled, being an amiable sort of chap, especially when all feels right with the world.

He took it as his cue. He flicked one of the levers on the wheelchair and moved to within a foot of me.

‘Hello,’ he said.

Not the most original of openings but my ‘hello’ in reply wasn’t exactly a classic either.

‘Do you live here?’ Wheelchair asked.

‘What on this bench,’ I replied, smiling.

Wheelchair frowned. I don’t think he quite followed me on that one. I wondered if he was also mentally disabled? Then felt I was being unintentionally cruel.

‘Do you live in Colwyn Bay?’ he repeated his question.

He was alright mentally, just thought it was a crap joke!

‘No, I’m on holiday,’ I answered him.

‘What staying in Colwyn Bay?’

‘No, I’m actually staying in Llandudno, B&B for the week. Audley House.’

‘Oh. I live here.’

‘Ok.’

‘Have you got much of your holiday left?’

I noticed that he couldn’t keep his head too still so he never seemed to be looking directly at me. That was alright but it meant I kept getting tempted to look over my shoulder…

‘About five days,’ I told him.

I thought he was going to suggest we pair up for the rest of the week. It didn’t appeal to me as this holiday was about spending some quality time with my favourite person – me!

He seemed to get distracted. He looked down at my feet and then said: ‘Are those new training shoes?’

I frowned. Odd question, but I answered. ‘Not exactly, they’re walking trainers, very comfortable for walking. I do quite a lot of walking. Normal trainers wouldn’t cut it.’

‘Oh, they look comfortable.’

‘They are.’

‘Would you mind if I felt the inside of one…’

I paused for a second trying to wondering if I’d heard correctly.

‘You mean take one-off.’ (Yeah, I know, stupid question, but I was a little puzzled by the request.)

‘Please.’

I paused, visions of me handing over the trainer and him doing thirty in the wheelchair as he made off with it. I shrugged the stupid fantasy out of my head. Besides, he’d got two feet…

Feeling a little odd, I unlaced the trainer, then handed it to him. He checked out the inside with one hand.

‘Feels really soft and comfortable…’

‘They are…’

‘Good for walking in…’

‘They are…’

He gave me the shoe back and I put it on lacing it up. A little silence built up while I was doing it.

‘Are you married?’ he asked once I’d sat up again.

It was my turn to frown; the question seemed to come out of the blue: ‘No,’ I answered. ‘Thought about it a bit lately, after all most of my friends are, and it isn’t fair that I should be so happy…’

I got a smile for that one. Not all duds.

‘I’m not married either,’ he told me.

‘Ah,’ was all I could think of saying.

‘It’s not nice being on your own…’

‘Never really bothered me,’ I said, truthfully.

His attention wavered a little before he carried on.

‘It’s lonely not being married.’

‘Something that’s never bothered me,’ I replied.

‘I wish I was married.’

‘Well, maybe one day…’ I responded, trying to be optimistic or polite, I wasn’t sure which.

‘It’s not good being on your own. It’s frustrating.’

I suddenly felt a tingle run the length of my spine. It was a warning but it wasn’t telling me what it was warning me of?

‘Well, I don’t think about it.’

‘It is though. I get very frustrated.’

‘O-K…’

‘Do you get frustrated not being married.’

‘Not really.’

‘I mean when you’re married there are things you can do, aren’t there?’

‘Um, yes,’ I responded but the warning was flashing red in my head as I was getting a feeling I’d figured out where things were going…

His hands moved off the controls that gave his wheelchair movement and he showed them to me. They were clenched with little mobility. A pang of sympathy worked through me.

‘I get frustrated and I can’t do anything about it, not with these hands…’

‘O-K…’ I said again, a little more slowly…

I didn’t like what was now going through my head. I could almost guess what was going to come next and not just because there was a voice in my head going ‘warning, warning, danger, danger,’ in a voice very like the robot from ‘Lost In Space’.

‘I can’t relieve my frustration…would you mind helping me? We could go somewhere private…’

It took only took the smallest fraction of a second for me to reply but it seemed like longer.

‘Rather not,’ I sort of croaked, thinking to myself that if I was going to call on the services of the five-fingered widow, then it wouldn’t be for him.

He didn’t look too embarrassed as he said: ‘I hope I haven’t offended you. You didn’t mind me asking?’

‘Let’s just leave it there,’ I answered, looking at my watch. ‘Goodness, I have to be somewhere…’

I could have added ‘anywhere, just anywhere.’

As I shoved the remains of my lunch into my bag, he made a retreat, zig-zagging between the crowds, which rather suited me…

I walked rather rapidly in the opposite direction to find a bus stop, having decided I would eat the rest of my lunch on the way back to Lllandudno.

I hoped I could get one of the rare single seats…

The Man Who ‘Liked’ Trainers

Feb 24 2011

Five Rounds Rapid! (A Tribute To Nicholas Courtney)

Nicholas Courtney as the Brigadier

Doctor Who is a program I’ve watched from its inception in 1963 to the present day.
It’s one particular program I played as a kid, with me in the role of the Doctor (of course). In those days, though, The Doctor was played by William Hartnell.

Velocipede will no doubt have some memories of those days when a large branch twig played the role of The Doctor’s walking stick and I tried to do a William Hartnell impression. Or it could be Velocipede would rather forget the impression…

I don’t remember what companion Velocipede would’ve played but it would’ve been male. There are some things Velocipede was not prepared to do, and dressing as a girlie is one of them, no matter how much he admires and respects me… Well, okay, that last bit might be an exaggeration. Let’s say Velocipede and I get on extremely well…

The back garden of my house was the inside of the Tardis and the gate leading out into the road was the new planet to explore. I suppose there are parallels to the constant use of the same quarry in the 70s when Jon Pertwee and Tom Baker played the role at various times.

During the 1st Doctor’s era, there was an actor called Nicholas Courtney, who played Space Security Agent Bret Vyon. During this period he’d played quite a few bit parts in TV but probably couldn’t have conceived of how his association with this particular TV Series would pan out…

Although I have flashes of memory of the epic twelve part story in which he appeared I don’t remember it in great detail; although I do particularly remember the story had the second appearance of another character I liked. The Meddling Monk, played by the late Peter Butterworth.

Not long after Patrick Troughton became the 2nd Doctor, Nick Courtney was hired to play the role of Captain Knight in the 1968 serial ‘The Web Of Fear’. However, by a quirk of fate, the actor who was to play Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart dropped out and the director offered Nick this role. Later that year Nick was re-hired for the Cyberman serial ‘The Invasion’, in which he reprised the role of Lethbridge-Stewart, but now promoted to the rank of Brigadier.

When Patrick Troughton gave up the role as the 2nd Doctor and Jon Pertwee was appointed the 3rd Doctor, it was decided to exile the Doctor to Earth. For this, UNIT was given a larger role and thus Nick Courtney began a six-year regular stint on the series.

From my point of view, this was a patchy period. My favourite (still) Doctor had left and I didn’t get to see a lot of the 3rd Doctor until his final season, supplemented by a few repeats.

At this time I also discovered Target Books which were publishing novelizations of Doctor Who scripts. Other than repeats, it was the only way to enjoy the stories; no video or DVD in those days.

The first one I read was an adaption of the ‘Colony In Space’ script by Malcolm Hulke which was re-titled ‘Doctor Who and the Doomsday Weapon’. I must’ve been 16 years old. It brought me back to the fold.

The First Target Dr Who Book I read.

When Pertwee left and Tom Baker took over, I only managed to catch the second 4th Doctor story, ‘The Ark In Space’ on a repeat showing. It wasn’t until his 3rd season that I began to watch regularly again.

Unfortunately, the Brigadier’s association finished when Tom Baker took over as the 4th Doctor, during his second year in the role. The 4th Doctor travelled more and more in time and space so UNIT, it was felt, had run its course.

But Nick Courtney’s association with the series didn’t end there.

The character and the actor was brought back in the 1980s, when Peter Davison was the 5th Doctor. The two actors worked together in two of Davison’s earlier series, the comedy ‘Sink Or Swim’ and the light drama ‘All Creatures Great And Small’.

He appeared in two serials with the 5th Doctor. ‘Mawdryn Undead’ and ‘The Five Doctors’, the latter story reuniting him with Patrick Troughton’s 2nd Doctor, and at the end Jon Pertwee’s 3rd Doctor. The late William Hartnell died in 1975 so his role was taken by Richard Hurdell. This added to Nick Courtney’s portfolio of Doctor Who actors he’d worked with.

I remember enjoying these two reappearances of the Brig, the better story being ‘Mawdryn Undead’, a Brig working in a boarding school with no memory of the Doctor(s).

His final time in the series was with the 7th Doctor in the story called ‘Battlefield’, the last broadcast series of the classic era of Doctor Who as it’s now called. I remembered being a little sad at the rumours that were going around that the Brigadier was going to be killed off. Not a happy Fitrambler, but it was also reported that he’d go out in a blaze of glory.

It was around this time Niceman and myself attended a Doctor Who convention. I’d never been to one before for the series or indeed any other series, (and haven’t been to one since) but this one was being held at a hotel not five minutes or so from where both Niceman and I lived.

It was at this convention in the late 1980s I met Nicholas Courtney and feel, on reflection, that when people classify him as a gentleman, I understand why.

I was at the bar, trying to get served, and although I was next in line, the bloke behind the bar ignored me and went to serve Nick Courtney. However, he pointed in my direction and said I’d got there before him. I tried to say I didn’t mind but he stood his ground. I got my drinks and offered to buy him one but he politely declined, telling me he was part of a rather large round.

Yep, that’s it, told you it wasn’t momentous, nor lengthy, but I did speak to him. Ok, not that impressive.

Colin Baker was also there. I got to stand close to him and say hello. Then there was David Banks who played the Cyber Leader in many of the eighties serials…

Still not impressed. Please yourself!

The ‘Battlefield’ story was broadcast and the rumours of his demise proved to be untrue. I was relieved but also, a little disappointed. It would’ve been nice to have the old soldier go out in a blaze of glory.

He next played the role in a Children in Need skit, whereby he was reunited with the 3rd, 4th, 5th and 7th Doctors and worked for the first time on-screen with the 6th Doctor, Colin Baker.
Dimensions in Time (1993) was about fifteen to twenty minutes long and was an attempt at a form of 3D TV, which is being banged on about a lot more these days.

His last appearance in the character was in the series, ‘The Sarah Jane Adventures’. That was in 2008, the serial was ‘Enemy of the Bane’. I have yet to see this serial but it will happen…Ok so I’m sad. I can live with it…

Final appearance as The Brigadier, out of retirement.

But now, due to his death at 81, the Brigadier, won’t get the chance to star in the New Doctor Who. A shame but there are plenty of his stories on DVD from previous seasons to relive…

R.I.P Nicholas Courtney (1929-2011) and his alter ego, Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart.
Splendid chaps, both of them!

This post replaced the intended post “A Touch Of The Tartan”, which will be published soon…

All images are used for information purposes only and the copyright remains with the owner.

Jan 23 2011

A House Of One’s Own

When I thought about it, I wasn’t all that enamoured of the place, but ‘needs must’ as some fellow once said; don’t know his name, just know he said it. Probably the same chap who comes up with all sorts of sayings that are trotted out all the time.

I looked from the outside noting it was the tenth house within a terrace of about twenty. Some things were rather good. Liked the lean-to at the front, liked the mini roof across the bay window and the entrance. Always quite fancied a Bay window.

It was Dad Fitrambler that noticed the place. I wasn’t looking to moving that much closer to the town centre. But the place was the right price. Anyway, taking a deep breath, we rang the doorbell and a few seconds later it was opened by a tall, thin man.

“Mr Fitrambler?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

He showed Dad and I in. The first thing that caught my eye was the second door. Not the usual arrangement. Outer door, then inner door, creating small porch. No, this one, great big thing with a solid black pig-iron knob, letterbox and keyhole, solid wood, leaning against a wall. I deferred comment.

Taking things in some sort of order, he showed me the front room. It actually looked like a very small bedroom.

“There’re two rooms downstairs, so there is, and the front room has our lodger in,” he said in an Irish accent, which either made him Irish or someone who’d liked doing Irish accents. “We spend most of our time in the back room…that’s me and my girlfriend…”

“Ok,” I said, as he led us through.

In the back room, also rather small, was a settee against the wall on the left as we walked in, a sideboard to the right wall, a TV in the corner near to the only window in the room. On the same wall, but the other end was a door which led to the kitchen and another door to the right of that which was the stair cupboard. Other than that from the TV, there didn’t seem to be much light in the room.

His girlfriend was on the settee but I tried not to notice her. She was obviously comfortable and as such was showing rather a lot of leg.

In all fairness I’m as partial as the next man to a measure of thigh but wanted to keep focused on the house.

The man showed Dad and I to the kitchen. I guessed it was only fractionally smaller than the one I was used to. But I did find the dominant red and white colour scheme a trifle sudden…

We left the kitchen and he took us upstairs. The first room, was what used to be a third bedroom, was now a bathroom which made it very much bigger than average. The ceiling sloped at one end and was artexed. On the wall immediately right was a full length mirror, screwed in with four parts to it. On the left was the frosted glass window and to the left of that was the wash basin. In between was a hanging basket of real flowers. Couldn’t work out why you’d have them in the bathroom but each to their own.

Then there was the back bedroom.

“He’s not in at the moment,” said the Irish Owner, “away home for the weekend. He’s a salesman.”

Another lodger, I thought. Didn’t like the sound of that. Hoped they’d be out before I moved in.

I noted the room was a lot smaller than what I was used to. That also applied to the front bedroom.

Having seen the house and decided I could live there if I had to but wasn’t over keen, we got to the front door again; and the big one, near to it, leaning against the wall.

Dad was chatting away about the house while I just stared at the door. It looked a bit too big to be the replacement for the front door. Perhaps he was a door salesman.

Irish Owner caught me staring at the door. “Aye, that’s the wee door we were going to put up but never got round to it. Sell it to you for fifty quid?”

I smiled politely and refused. The current front door looked like it had enough life left in it. At that point we left. Dad was keen. I had mixed feelings.

We saw a couple of other houses but most of them were small in the kitchen and bathroom departments.

“Not enough room in the bathrooms to swing a cat,” said Dad, after we saw the latest.

I had to agree. Although the expression ‘not enough room to swing a cat’ made me realise why cats were so weary of human beings. Always a little afraid they’d be used as a primitive measuring device.

No wonder dogs were more friendly and casual, they weren’t under threat of being swung around by the tail. And bloody grateful for that to, no doubt.

So the sale of my old house went through and by September, some three months later, the latest dwelling was ready for me to occupy. I took a few days off work and with Dad did a few bits and pieces around the house prior to moving in on the Saturday.

One of the first things we noticed on getting the keys was how untidy they’d left it. Reminded me of a Game Show where you have so much time to do something and then when the time runs out you stop where you are.

Every room had a black bag half-filled with rubbish of some sort. The kitchen cupboards were empty except for crumbs and three Jacob’s Cream Crackers. Well, two and half, really, as one had got a couple of bites taken out of it before being put back.

Half a pint of milk was going off in a bottle on the kitchen sink. All the light bulbs were gone.

The crackers I discovered after I opened the second cupboard door. The first was a little stiff so I felt I needed to put a lot of effort into the second one. Unfortunately, the second had a loose handle so my hand shot out quickly catching poor Dad on the conk.

Now my father’s got a cracking sense of humour but it diminishes somewhat when his conk is bopped. While rubbing his nose he gave me a severe stare.

“What the bloody hell are you playing at?” he retorted.

“Wasn’t playing at anything. Handle’s loose,” I defended myself.

“We’re supposed to be clearing up, not messing about,” said Mum as she approached the kitchen doorway.

“He hit me on the nose,” Dad defended, but sounded like a little sneaky child.

“Not deliberately…” I responded, sounding equally childish.

Mum sighed and went back into the other room which was in need of a clean. Minutes later, a truce was called between Dad and I, we went into the back room. It was cleaned of all rubbish. That was Mum, she only seemed to walk into a room and a few minutes later it was immaculate. I used to dread going to the toilet in the middle of the night, and coming back to find the bed made…

So we ventured upstairs and to what turned out to be the worst room of all. The bathroom.

The potted plants, both hanging ones and ones on the window ledge were gone and the mud from the pots had been walked into the carpet. There was a hole about a quarter of a centimetre in the ceiling near the sink where the basket had hung. The mirrors were gone and holes where the screws went were prominently displayed.

More cleaning!

The following day with all rubbish removed, Dad decorated the downstairs rooms, that is, emulsion on the walls, repainted the frames of the doors and the skirting boards.

It was a little cold that day so dad suggested putting on the gas fires. I made the effort but couldn’t get them to work. It didn’t bode well.

“They don’t work, “ I told him.

Dad stopped what he was doing and sighed, gave me a look of ‘do I have to do everything’ and then tried himself. Ten minutes later…

“They don’t work,” he told me.

Not new information, I thought, but said nothing.

Then Dad said. “Is the Gas turned on at the meter.”

I shrugged. We checked under the stairs for the Gas Meter, in the kitchen and even in the cupboard in the bathroom. No meter. Then we went outside and saw the little white box. We managed to get it open only to discover there wasn’t a meter inside it; just two unconnected pipes. New ones, though.

This was pre-mobile phones, so without a landline connected I decided I’d ring through to the Gas Company on Monday.

We finished up at about 6pm and went home. I’d move in on the Saturday.

On Saturday I moved in. All furniture was in place by 4pm. With not much daylight left, Mum and Dad left and I was alone in my new dwelling.

One thing I discovered quite quickly in the house was although the bathroom was a lot larger than conventional bathrooms, the ceiling was lower than I was used to and sloped.

When performing a quite natural function, as a chap does standing up, one lowers one’s head to make sure the aim’s ok. As soon as I moved my head to look, my forehead scraped across the sloping ceiling with its rough artex and took a layer of skin off.

I managed to avoid that the next day but when taking off my t-shirt I scraped the old knuckles across the ceiling taking a layer of skin off one set.

All male visitors who used the Fitrambler bathroom were warned to mind their heads. Unfortunately, most of them thought I meant when they entered the bathroom so were surprised they got in without trouble. Of course, the sloping roof got them.

For a couple of weeks afterwards you could tell who amongst my male friends visited the new Fitrambler dwelling and who hadn’t by the piece of loose skin on the forehead….

Monday and back to work. By about late afternoon I found time to ring the Gas people about my missing meter. I spoke to a very polite woman.

“There’s one registered to the property,” was the response I got.

“Sorry, but there isn’t one there. I looked all over the house.”

“Well, our records show you have an active meter at your house.” She confirmed the number with me again and then repeated her statement only to add: “Have you looked outside. Often it’s in a white box….”

“Yes, checked the white box. Nothing inside except two new tubes connected to nothing. Meter is there none!” I said, trying to emphasise the point.

However, she still insisted there was and to prevent the whole conversation going the whole way of a Monty Python sketch, I promised to check again that night.

I left work that night, got home and made my tea. Couldn’t cook anything because I didn’t have a cooker. Got rid of the old Gas cooker because there weren’t any gas pipes going into the kitchen. Top of the list, buy a new cooker.

Within an hour of being home I searched the house again from top to bottom. Still no Gas meter leapt out a me crying:

“Bah, yoo-hoo I fooled you, here all the time!”

I decided I’d insist the woman herself come out and have a look. And that sarky remark about it being in the white box outside. Dad and I checked and it wasn’t. However, just so that I could say I’d checked again and be telling the truth I went outside and opened the box…

There, in the failing sunlight glittered a brand new Gas meter. I shut the door then opened it again. It was still there. Perhaps I was going crazy?

I rang Dad Fitrambler up. Told him and he was puzzled as he reminded me he’d checked the white box as well. It hadn’t been there.

We decided in the end that the box was fitted between the time we first looked and the time I made the call to the Gas people…

Bedtime and I’d got no more than four hours sleep when there was a banging on my front door. I was sleeping in the front bedroom so could see the reflection of a flashing blue light. I trundled downstairs.

I opened the front door. “Yes?”

Confronting me were two policeman. Both wearing their hats.

“Mr Irish Owner?”

“Er, don’t think so, but in my dreams I’m so many things,” I tried to quip.

The talking policeman had an expression of someone who sucks sour lemons as a hobby.

“Are you Mr Irish Owner?” he demanded.

“Er no. No, he moved away.”

“Really?”

“Yes, just little old me here now.”

“You sure you’re not Mr Irish Owner?”

“Absolutely positive…”

I was getting worried so I moved quickly and got my wallet and showed him my driving licence and cheque book. He still looked a bit dubious but the evidence was stacked against him.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said in a tone that precluded any feeling either way.

I got back to bed but it took me a couple of hours before I was able to get to sleep. I kept wondering what Irish Owner had been up to? Why were the police after the chap. Constable Sour Lemon seemed to be very serious. Maybe it was murder?

I sat bolt upright. The overactive imagination had kicked in and I was wondering if there were bodies going to be buried under the floorboards or in the garden…

I sniffed, and couldn’t smell rotting flesh, not that I knew what rotting flesh smelt like?

The next morning, feeling tired, I got ready, ate breakfast and heard the post plop onto the floor. I put the dirty plates into the washing up bowl and picked up the post.

The first letter contained a cheque from my insurance company; a refund on my endowment. £300. Just in the nick, as they say, as most of my money for the month had been absorbed in the move, paying for new curtains and nets and so on and so forth. Was beginning to wonder how I was going to manage with three weeks left to payday? Now I knew.

The second letter was from the Gas Company. It told me I owed them £106.92 for gas used. I baulked at that. Hadn’t been able to find the damned meter let alone use the bloody gas. Only three gas heaters in the house and hadn’t used any of them. Have something to say to those people when I got into work.

The third letter was in a brown A5 envelope with a white sticky label which I didn’t read straight away. Inside was a colourful catalogue. For a minute or two as I stared at it, I thought I was still asleep…

There were pictures of whips, anal bungs, leather masks with zips, leather clothes with zips. Well, if I was half asleep, the pictures woke me up. I think it was my imagination working overtime on the anal bungs that got the old eye liquids going…

I looked at the label on the front and saw it was addressed to Lodtoo. Ah, I thought, the lodger in the back bedroom. Irish Owner did say he was a salesman.

Another day at work and I got home fairly early, just after 4.30pm. By 5.15pm there was a knock on the door as I was half way through my tea.

I growled, almost literally. It’s where dogs and I have something in common. We don’t like people interrupting us while we’re eating or go anywhere near our nosebag.

I opened the door and it was the TV Rental Company. Oddly enough, the TV Rental Company I hired my TV and Video from.

“Come to take your TV and Video back,” he grumbled.

“What?” I expounded, puzzled. He repeated what he said but in a more irritable tone than before. “Any particular reason,” I asked, feeling it’d be nice to know.

“Non-payment,” was his short response.

I frowned even deeper. “Non-payment?” says I, “I’m up to date.”

“Not according to our records, sir.”

“Well, your records are wrong and I can prove it.”

I felt a little sorry for him as it was cold outside and let him into the narrow hallway. In the back room I opened a drawer in a cabinet and got out my latest bank statements. Once back with the chap I showed him the payment details on the Direct debit.

He frowned hard at me. For a few seconds I thought he was going to accuse me of some elaborate fakery.

“Mr Fitrambler,” said he.

“Yes,” acknowledged I.

“Mr Fitrambler?” he repeated, irritably.

“Yes, yes,” I replied, a little puzzled.

“You’re Mr Fitrambler…”

“Eh, yes, thought we’d already got there on that one…”

“Not Mr Irish Owner?”

“Er, no, he moved out two weeks ago…”

He sighed, shook his head and made for the door. “Thanks for wasting my time,” he muttered.

He slammed the door behind him. I stood there quite stunned, trying to figure out how I’d actually wasted his time?

I went back to my tea, which, luckily, was something cold.

In work the next day I managed to get through to the Gas Company and after half an hour, managed to persuade them that I hadn’t used £106.92 worth of Gas in 6 days. It hadn’t been easy…

That afternoon I played 5-a-side football, a rather reckless thing to do as I hadn’t played for over ten years. It was one of those things where you forget that to keep going in a fast-moving game like that you need to be training regularly. At some points throughout the game I was almost blacking out.

I decide to take the easy route – or so I though – and go in goal. It’d been my favourite position in my school days.

Just before I did, the current chap in the position tried to save a really well-hit slammer of a shot. He was successful but only by getting his face in the way. Seeing his nose squash across his face, blood spurt out over the deck. Well, I had to look away.

And I’d just volunteered to go in goal? I was now wondering how wise that was!

By the end of the game I’d got away with scrapes to the knee, and let in ten. Fortunately, not one ball tested the strength of my conk.

That evening I relaxed as best I could with my aches and pains and decided to get an early night.

By 3am I was graced with another visit from the boys in blue.

I walked slowly from my bed, downstairs and to the door like an arthritic old codger and opened the door. Two policemen on the doorstep. Fortunately PC Sour Lemon was nowhere in sight!

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but are you, Mr Lodtoo?” asked a polite young policeman.

“Er no.”

“Does he live here?”

“No, no, they moved out a couple of weeks ago.”

This time I supplied them with a forwarding address. I was getting a bit fed up with the visits.

“Thank you, sir. Sorry to have troubled you,” said PC Polite.

So Lodtoo was a bit of a villain. Perhaps the anal bungs were illegal or something.

I went back to bed and was tired with all the aches, fell asleep fairly quickly…

The next morning, still feeling bad, I decide to have a long soak in the bath before going to work. I’d turned on the emersion heater when I had my early morning walk to the toilet at 6am, so by the time I got up for good at 7.30pm the water should’ve been hot. I set the bath running, then found the water was cold.

Checked the emersion heater and it was stone cold. The light was on so it wasn’t the electrics. I sighed, boiled the kettle twice and got enough water for a full body wash. Not easy with the aching muscles.

Spoke to Dad Fitrambler and he suggested it could be the element in the emersion heater. We’d get one sorted out at the weekend.

It was the Friday that the hall lights played up. Flicked the switch and the light would stay on for a couple of seconds.

Then, not long afterwards, while I was relieving myself of surplus fluid the bathroom light popped and made me jump.

A few minutes later, with a mop and bucket and torch, I cleaned up the resulting accident from the popping light bulb!

The trouble with the bathroom light was that it’s a fish eye style bulb. Fortunately it was easy to remove and after a few days without light I managed to remember to get it replaced.

That still didn’t put right the hallway lights but I’d a temporary solution for them, discovered quite by accident. Trying to switch them on, they did their customary two second flash so I thumped the wall in frustration. They came on and stayed on!

Fortunately, they switched off in the conventional way.

Although we’d agreed to replace the element in the emersion heater the first Saturday after it failed it was actually three Saturdays before it was replaced.

We drained the emersion heater, which went well and then with a special spanner, took out the old element.

Since his late thirties, Dad Fitrambler’s had shaky hands. So much so that tea is served shaken not stirred from the tea-pot. As a painter and decorator, the need to keep a still hand and make sure the paint was applied in straight lines when cutting in was important. Oddly enough, the shaking never stopped his accuracy.

But, while he was trying to connect the element wires the shakes were at their height. It took a little longer to do the job.

I watched the shaky hands for a while and then said:  “We’d make a cracking pair of bomb disposal chaps, wouldn’t we?”

The serious atmosphere was destroyed instantly. Dad lost his concentration and we were laughing for what seemed ages.

Needless to say, the element was eventually fitted. And it worked beautifully for three months and then the electrics went and I was without bath facilities again.

There’s lots of blokes about who are real DIY enthusiasts. You know, ‘Do It Yourself’? Me, I’m more of a GSE sort of bloke. You know, ‘Get Someone Else’. After all, why should I be selfish and deprive someone who obviously loves doing that sort of stuff?

It’s like gardening. Can’t stand it. Contrary to popular opinion, old Fitrambler here has done a fair bit of it over the years but not on anywhere near a regular basis that it needs. So if someone who loves it feels the need to step in and do a spot, who am I to stand in the way of their pleasures?

Within the next month, the bathroom light was working again, I’d got the hallway lights working, the leather catalogues had stopped arriving and so had the early morning police visits.

No visits from repossession blokes, nor were there Gas meters that took off for little holidays and all was peaceful in the new Fitrambler dwelling.

I looked back while sipping a hot, strong cup of Earl Gray, and thought there’s been quite a few oddities since moving into old 53. But, thinking about it, they weren’t all that bad. After all, it’s not like the ceiling or roof had fallen in…

Funnily enough, that thought was far more prophetic than I could’ve imagined at the time.

Dec 24 2010

A Christmas Gloom-Laden

Stave I

Humbug, I say!

It was Christmas Eve, early morning and Gloom-Laden was trudging through the snow on his way to work. His tousled hair collecting snowflakes.

Although wrapped for the inclement weather, he shivered every so often. For the fourth time now, as he walked, he nearly slipped over, looking to the casual observer as though he was doing some sort of drunken breakdance.

“Bloody snow,” he exclaimed.

Around him were all the usual glitter of Christmas decorations in shop windows, the lights above him although not lit, showed preparation for the season. People hurrying as best they could through the chilly and icy conditions, some with easy some like Gloom-Laden with odd stop for a touch of break-dancing…
Gloom-Laden hated Christmas, he hated snow and he wasn’t all that keen on break-dancing either. To be perfectly honest, Gloom-Laden wasn’t all that keen on many things. Most things made the poor chap depressed, and those that didn’t tended to upset him…

But Christmas it was and Gloom-Laden was trying to get through it as best he could…

Children around the shopping precinct on one of their many inexplicably long holidays from school, played with others in snowball fights.

Gloom-Laden slipped past (almost literally) them, and onwards to work.

It was a bad day. A very bad day. Not least after the phone call he received last night.

“Mr Gloom-Laden?” asked a female voice he recognised.

“Mrs Blameworthy, long time since I’ve had the pleasure,” said Gloom-Laden.

“Yes, I’m sure, but enough of that sort of talk over the phone…I’ve some very bad news to tell you…”

“I already know it’s Christmas!” exclaimed Gloom-Laden with a sigh.

“It’s going to be a very unhappy Christmas…”

“It usually is,” sighed Gloom-Laden.

“No really bad. Blameworthy has died.”

Gloom-Laden’s mouth turned down even more at the corners. That certainly was a shock.

“He met his unfortunate end while undertaking research for a forthcoming book on unspoiled pubs of England…a dedicated man was my Blameworthy…Anyway he was making his way to the ‘Cock in Hand’, a fully intact Victorian Gin Palace in South West London, when he crossed the busy six lane carriageway with a copy of the Good Beer Guide in one hand and England’s 1000 best Churches in the other when he became distracted and was struck violently between the shoulder blades by a runaway horse-drawn dray belonging to Thronk’s Brewery of Cheam. His foul-mouthed outburst spooked the two massive shire horses even further, causing shed their load of forty-four firkins of Fuggle’s Finest Flagship strong ale, this swept him off his feet and he sailed on a tidal wave of ale, into the gutter directly outside the pub. As he staggered into the road, dripping with four hundred gallons of ale, he was hit full in the chest by a huge, wooden hogshead of Entire Butt Imperial Russian Stout. Blameworthy – arms outstretched – never had a chance. He was crushed hopelessly onto the road surface like an ant.”

Gloom-Laden said nothing for a full minute. It wasn’t so much the news of the death of a friend that caused the silence but the calm (and rather long, it must be said) way in which Mrs Blameworthy reported it.

“Well,” said Gloom-Laden.

There were mixed feelings perambulating in his rather intelligent noggin.

“Lucky bugger…” he mumbled.

“What?” snapped Mrs Blameworthy.

“Uh, nothing, nothing, it just made me shudder,” recovered Gloom-Laden.

“Well, I’d just thought I’d let you know,” said Mrs Blameworthy and promptly hung up.

And so Gloom-Laden was on his way to work, his heart heavier with misery than ever…

Within ten yards of his place of work, a voice called out to him.

“Gloom-Laden!”

Gloom-Laden turned, a little too quick so break-danced a second or two, then saw his friend Tolerant.

“Oh it’s you.”

“Isn’t this lovely?” exclaimed Tolerant, happily.

Gloom-Laden was hard pushed to know what around him at that precise moment was ‘lovely’. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen something he’d describe as lovely.

“What?” Gloom-Laden retorted.

“The snow!” insisted Tolerant.

“Huh.”

Tolerant smiled, he knew Gloom-Laden of old. “The snow and it’s Christmas…”

“Humbug!”

“Humbug?” queried Tolerant, “how can you say such a thing at this time of year?”

“Humbug I say and humbug I mean!” insisted Gloom-Laden.

“But it’s Christmas!”

“And?”

“Well…”

But the explanation waited as a member of the Salvation Army stopped to speak of them.

“Collecting for the poor and homeless,” said the woman.

Tolerant took out his wallet and gave generously. The woman smiled at Gloom-Laden. It had little, if any, effect.

“Waste my money on the poor and homeless, you are joking. It’s people like you that keep them the way they are. Make them work for a living, earn the money and then they might not be poor and homeless…”

Tolerant felt a little sorry for him. “Be fare, Gloom-Laden, the woman’s only trying to help…”

“And that’s the trouble. If you help the bloody poor then they don’t help themselves. Humbug to them as well!”

With that, Gloom-Laden retreated into work.

Tolerant followed shortly afterwards and Tolerant re-opened the conversation.

“I don’t know how you can be so miserable at a time like this…”

Gloom-Laden mentioned about his telephone call from Mrs Blameworthy. Tolerant was visibly shocked. He was at a loss for words…

The death of his friend served to abate any further attempts by Tolerant to try to persuade him about the joys of Christmas!

Stave II

Gloom-Laden arrived home a little after 8pm and shut the door behind him with a resounding thump. He sighed as he hung up his coat. He made himself tea, surfed the internet to check upon his savings accounts, where he’d squirrelled away money, then decided to relax for the evening. He treated himself to the rather good Stilton cheese he’d tucked away, with a rather excellent port to wash it down.

Half-way through his enjoyment he heard another noise coming from the kitchen…

Gloom-Laden froze for a second or two, still holding the bottle of Port, ready to pour another measure.

What was that noise? It sounded familiar…

Behind him, the living room door flew open and then the sounds grew louder. He felt too much fear to turn around. Was this a burglar? Was this a thief that had come to rob him?

Thump, thump, thud and then the rattling of what sounded like glasses. Gloom-Laden placed the port bottle back on the small table beside him. He managed to move his head a little as the noise drew level with him and what he saw nearly caused him to faint. A ghostly figure walked a little past him, pushing a large beer-barrel – the cause of the thump as every so often he dropped it upon the floor. From his position he caught sight of the white figure first at waist level, which solved the mystery of the rattling glasses; for around the figure’s waist were fixed several pint pots which clashed with each other every time the figure moved.

What sort of devil was this, he wondered.

And it was then Gloom-Laden moved his eyes to gaze upon the pale, ghostly face and was shocked further to see the features of Blameworthy, his old drinking partner!

“What? What? WHAT?” was all Gloom-Laden could say…Then. “I must be drunk and seeing things.”

“No, no you’re not…” the ghostly Blameworthy paused. “…well, yes, you’re pissed, but you’re not seeing things. It is me, Blameworthy, come to give you a warning,” said the ghostly figure of Blameworthy, with a wail.

“But, Blameworthy, old chap, you’re dead. Mrs Blameworthy told me so…”

“And so I am,” he continued to wail.

“How did you get into my house!” demanded Gloom-Laden.

The ghostly Blameworthy frowned. “Like all ghosts…walked through the bloody walls. Never mind about that,” he said irritably, then returned to the wailing. “I’m here to deliver a warning…”

“I’m not sure I like the idea of you coming and going just as you please in my house! I mean, what if you suddenly walked through the bathroom wall while I was in the bath. Or my bedroom while I was…”

Blameworthy held up his hand suddenly, a look of disgust crossing his ghostly features. “Stop it, stop it! It’s bloody bad enough being dead and doomed to be like this for all eternity, let alone having those sort of images flying around my head…Let’s get back to the warning, alright!”

“If we must…”

The ghostly Blameworthy sighed. “I haven’t got long, can I get on…”

“Why are you carrying a beer-barrel and those pint pots around your waist?” asked Gloom-Laden.

“I’ll come to that, it’s part of the warning!!” cried an exasperated Blameworthy.

“Well get on with it. I want to go to bed!”

Clearing his throat Blameworthy re-attuned his voice to wailing pitch.

“It was my love of beer, my mean pursuit of pubs to the exclusion of all else. Being mean to others by making them travel great distances to pubs, at the same time pretending they were close by. Putting them through walking assault courses to get to the little gems I’d sorted out. It was the pursuit of beer and pubs that led to my death. And so I’m cursed to carry a beer barrel and the pint pots around my waist for all eternity…each day they get heavier….”

“Pint pots and a barrel of beer…” muttered Gloom-Laden.

Blameworthy flicked something into the air and caught it in his mouth. “And an endless supply of pork scratching’s…not all bad, eh?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me?” sighed Gloom-Laden.

“Because your obsessiveness with depression and despair along with your meanness will be your undoing. You too will be cursed to end your days like me, walking eternity, burdened with your life time sins…”

“You’re not actually making a lot of sense…”

“You will understand,” Blameworthy wailed.

Gloom-Laden’s frown deepened as he sighed. “Could we leave out the wailing bit. It’s getting to be annoying.

“Part and parcel, Gloom-Laden…” Blameworthy paused, thought for a few seconds. “Where was I? Ah, yes, you will understand…tonight you are to be visited by two spirits…”

“Um…”

It was Blameworthy’s turn to be irritated. “What?”

“Well, something tells me I should be visited by three spirits…”

Blameworthy threw another port scratching into his mouth, scrunched then once he’d swallowed, replied: “Normally, yes, but they’re had this spirit election and the new blokes in charge have announced thirty-three per cent cuts across the board…”

“You’re joking!”

“No, this new lot’s meaner. They’re even making me pay higher duty on the beer I haven’t got…say it’s for the good of my health; work that one out!”

“Now I know you can’t be serious…”

But before he could say anymore, Blameworthy wailed above Gloom-Laden’s voice: “My time is up. When the clock strikes mid-night you will be visited the first spirit….”

Blameworthy walked towards the door, Gloom-Laden reached for the port, then looked back to see Blameworthy was gone!!

Gloom-Laden swigged some more of his port. Perhaps he was drunk, perhaps he was hallucinating.

Finally, with a jerk, Gloom-Laden sat bolt upright. Had he just dropped off? Or had he been asleep for some time and now just woken up? He looked at clock. It was just after 1pm. Blameworthy or whatever that was who came before him was obviously wrong as neither spirit had visited him…

No, the Blameworthy visit was just a dream. His lips moved a millimetre upwards from their droop, the nearest he came to a smile. He got up from his chair and decided it was time for bed. As he crossed the floor he saw something on the floor. A beer mat, with Dolman’s XXX Old Toe Curler; a strong ale that Blameworthy was fond of.

He swallowed hard. Surely not, but the evidence was there. He never had that beer here. Blameworthy had to have been here.

Stave III

It was 1am when Gloom-Laden went to bed but for some reason, a while later, he was sure he woke to the town hall clock striking 12 midnight! Surely that wasn’t possible!

Had he slept for nearly twenty-four hours and wasted part of his holiday?

He looked at the clock beside his bed and saw that it was indeed mid-night…

He got out of bed and went to the window. There were few people about, few lights on but then visibility wasn’t great with the fog outside…

From behind him he felt a chill in his otherwise warm room. He turned and there was the spirit Blameworthy warned him of.

“Oh God,” muttered Gloom-Laden.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past and Present…” said the ghost, with an obligatory wail.

Gloom-Laden wasn’t accustomed to Woo-Wooing in his bedroom at midnight in his bedroom; or indeed, truth to be told at any time.

He set eyes upon a shadowy figure. It was dressed in black, a robe with a large hood, which swept down to where the feet would be.

The spirit repeated his introduction. “I said I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past & Present…”

Gloom-Laden sighed. “Surely that should just be Christmas Past?”

The ghost sighed. “The cuts… had to take on another job, but don’t get me started on that…anyway, I’m the ghost of Christmas Past and Present…”

“So you said. And?”

“What?”

“I said, and?”

“And what?” said the Ghost.

“Precisely. You’ve just claimed to be the Ghost of Christmas Past & Present…”

From beneath the cowl the skull became a little visible.

“Claim? Claim? I don’t claim anything….” It began only to be interrupted by Gloom-Laden.

“Yes you do, you said you’re the Ghost of Christmas Past & Present.”

“Yes, CPP to my friends. Anyway, I don’t bloody claim it, I am.”

“Got any identification?”

“What d’you mean have I got any identification. Look at me!”

The figure spread his arms and made a particular point of highlighting the skull face, while resting most of his weight on one leg..

“How do I know you’re not some idiot playing a joke?” responded Gloom-Laden.

The spirit paused as he digested the remark. In all the hundreds of years since he started the job no-one had said that to him before.

“Playing a joke? Playing a joke? I don’t do jokes!”

Gloom-Laden sighed with uncharacteristic sympathy. “No, I know what you mean. They’re supposed to make you feel good, provoke a laugh. Lots of it about this time of year, everybody grinning, acting really cheerful. Can’t stand jokes myself or Christmas…”

“Precisely!” exclaimed the Ghost.

“Glad you agree.”

“What? No, I don’t agree.”

“Changed your mind, have you?”

“No, I didn’t agree in the first place.”

“You did, you said ‘precisely’ in response to my decrying the futility of Christmas…”

“No, no, that wasn’t what I meant. I mean you act miserable…”

“No act, I can assure you, I really am depressed, miserable and don’t consider life worth living!”

The Ghost sighed. “You’re mean with money…”

“Well I’m certainly not going to waste it on other people to make them happy when it does not do the same for me! Not going to give you any just dressing up silly…even if you are playing a joke. Student, are you?”

The ghost frowned. “I’m not playing a joke. I mean do I look like someone playing a joke?”

Gloom-Laden shrugged. “To me you do. Not a very funny joke, mind you…Then again I’ve never understood student humour…”

“I’m not playing a bloody joke!! And for your information I’m not a student either.”

“Educationally lacking are you? Never mind, university education’s overrated anyway…Look at the idiots it produces, only got to take a good look at the politicians we have got to see evidence of that… Not that primary education is anything particularly spectacular either…Or higher education…or any state education…”

“Shut up!!”

“Why?”

“Because we’re getting away from the point. You were told I was coming, weren’t you.”

“Yes, but then, people keep going on about Christmas is coming as though nobody has ever thought it is, despite the fact that it happens this time every bloody year! God, it’s so tedious! Then we get all this ‘isn’t everyone wonderful and how I’ve always like you…’ ‘Oh and have a piece of paper with snow, glitter, rose-cheeked children on it, or snowmen’ just to prove how nice I am, along with big smiles and wishing you a happy Christmas in a supposedly sincere, caring way, when for most of the year I couldn’t give a toss whether you’re dead or alive’….”

CPP (to his friends) was frozen to the spot, his sockets wide, not quite able to take it all in. Where was the fear, where was the regret. He’d got out of his grave this evening with a funny feeling; something had told him it wasn’t going to be his day. He’d felt it in his bones of which, of course, there were numerous…although he’d left those back at the grave…

“…then there’s all this aren’t you my best friend…” continued Gloom-Laden, “…let’s all go out for a meal together, put on silly hats, have our halves of Shandy or single glasses of sherry and act silly and out of character just because it’s Christmas! Not that anyone really thinks about the alleged true meaning of Christmas; where lots of people believe some really, really nice chap was born; a bloke whose only wish in life was to see peace on earth and everyone being nice to each other….Look where that got the poor sod? Nailed to a bloody cross, that’s what being nice, cheerful and decent gets you…”

“You think that’s all down to Christmas?” asked CPP.

“That and life in general. It’s all depression and misery.”

“What about man basic goodness,” asked CPP.

“Huh,” Gloom-Laden exclaimed, pulling the sheets up around his throat. “You don’t get out much…Doesn’t exist, all false…”

CPP sighed as he realised they were getting off the subject. It wasn’t going to be easy this year, the bad feeling was really haunting him, so to speak.

“Anyway,” he said, trying to get things back on track, “come with me…”

“Out in the bloody cold, you must be joking! I’m warm enough where I am!”

CPP insisted: “You have to come with me…”

“Who says?”

“What,” replied CPP, unsure.

“Who says I have to go with you; on what authority?”

CPP hesitated. This wasn’t at all like all the training courses he attended…

“But I must show you Christmases past.”

“Show me here, if you must, not that I’m interested mind you. After all, what’s the point of bringing up the past? We’re living in the present…”

“To show you how happy you were, how Christmas brought joy, the good will to all men…’n that…” trailed off CPP, as he saw Gloom-Laden’s morose expression become even more morose. “It will show you the path to happiness, kindness and generosity, good will to all men…”

“How?” said an unconvinced Gloom-Laden.

“Well, by showing you the way you were once happy, to show how you’ve lost your way…”

“Maybe it’s a paradox, have you thought of that?”

“What?” asked CPP, slowly getting quite irritable.

“Maybe I like being miserable, maybe I’m happy when I’m miserable…”

“You can’t be happy being miserable…that’s a contradiction..”

“Or a paradox.”

“No, it’s bloody contradiction!!”

“Same thing!”

“No it isn’t…”

“Look it up in a dictionary. Paradox, contradiction, absurdity, irony…” went on Gloom-Laden.

“Ok, ok, let’s just say the words mean the same…”

“They do…”

“Alright, they do…” said CPP, trying is best to hold back anger and irritation, “it’s my job to…”

“Jobs.”

“What?”

“Jobs. Remember the cuts. Only two of you now.”

“I know, me and Christmas Future…”

“Christmas Future and I,” corrected Gloom-Laden.

CPP said through gritted teeth: “Both of us to make you mend your ways.”

“Bit unfair, though.”

“What is?” asked a puzzled CPP.

“The cuts. How is it that you ended up with two jobs and old Christmas Future kept his old job with no extra responsibility…?”

CPP thought for a few moments. “Well. Past and present are closer than the Future. Felt it was a better division of labour that way…”

“Not fair as far as I can see. You get two jobs and old future gets one….”

“Well, we all have to do our bit…”

“Only your bit is a lot larger bit than Christmas Future…”

CPP frowned, thought about it. “Well, you could put it that way. But the hours are the same…”

Gloom-Laden raised his eyebrows. “It gets worse. Not only two jobs but you’re expected to do them in a shorter time. They saw you coming, didn’t they…”

“What d’you mean,” said CPP through narrowed eyes, a spark igniting in his brain.

“Well, not only did they dump two jobs on you, make you do the job in a shorter time but they’ve even convinced you to be happy about it. You’re bosses would do well where I work…”

CPP stroked his chin. “Hmm. I suppose I do have to work a lot harder than old Future….”

“And let’ s be very honest here. Who is it that goes first, lays the groundwork that makes it easier for Christmas Future…if you ask me then your friend has got it rather easy. He was let off extra duties, and carries on as normal…”

CPP nods slowly. “Never really got on with the boss, you see. Always felt he didn’t appreciate me…”

“Well he’s certainly proved that by the way he’s treated you. I feel depressed thinking about it, God knows how I’d feel if it happened to me….”

CPP sat down on the edge of the bed, head in hands. “You know, I never thought about it before, but I’ve never been appreciated. No matter how hard I work, whatever I do, never get much thanks for it…the boss hates me, really hates me….”

Stave IV

It was twenty-five minutes later than a rather depressed CPP left Gloom-Laden alone. Gloom-Laden was feeling tired. It was gone 3am and he fell asleep with very little trouble.

It was what seemed like minutes later that he was awoken by another figure in the room. Tiredly, he looked at the clock to see it was mid-night again. He sighed, beginning to feel as if he was experiencing his own version of Groundhog Day.

He wasn’t surprised to see another spirit, one looking a little older than the previous one he’d managed to send away..

Christmas Future looked at the rather podgy man in the bed. He wasn’t all that happy at the depressed and bitter way young CPP spoke to him when they crossed over shifts.

Christmas Future wasn’t a happy at all and believed the reason behind it was the clever sod in the bed. Just let the little bugger get clever with him, oh yes, he’d know what suffering was all about if he tried that!

Christmas Future – who was decidedly against diminutives of title or name – knew exactly how he was going to open up his session…

“I suppose you’re Christmas Future? Ok, get on with it!” asserted a fed up Gloom-Laden.

The spirit signalled for Gloom-Laden to follow.

“Oh no, not in this cold…”

Christmas Future pointed a spindly finger at his gown more firmly.

“No!” insisted Gloom-Laden.

Gloom-Laden paid little attention to the glaring eyes of Christmas Future, not impressed by this new ghost’s taller, darker look, or it’s silence.

One of the things which had always been in the job spec for Christmas Future was the brooding, enigmatic silence, which usually helped increase the fear and anticipation laid down by CPP. But it didn’t quite get the obedience required when faced with this bespectacled depressive.

“I’m not really going with you anyway, it’s all bogus, so just do the illusion here…”

Keeping his thin-lipped mouth as tightly shut as possible, he pointed an angry finger at the wall. A picture formed which to Gloom-Laden almost felt he could step into it.

It showed a darkened house. There was a man talking to another man, one had on an overall. A logo with the sub-message of ‘House Clearances’.

“Nothing much worth anything in ‘ere, mate. Burn the bloody lot, I would. Even the cheese in the fridge is rotten…”

“Stilton, actually…usually looks mouldy.”

“Yeah, I know, but Stilton don’t wear fur coats, do it?”

The man grimaced. “What about his wine collection. He was always boating about it…”

“Nothing there, mate, empty bottles…drank it as soon as he bought it. Some old betting slips, a few books…”

“Ah,” said the other man. “He was fond of books, very well read. Any first editions?”

“Not even a 101 edition. Worthless paperbacks.”

“So nothing here of value, nothing to mark him out?”

“Well, no, you’d think no one had lived here…although…”

“Yes…” the other man said, anxiously.

“Well I did find a beer mat…”

“A beer mat?”

“Yeah. Dolman’s XXX Old Toe Curler. Give you five quid for it. My mate collects beer mats. It’s an early version…”

“ A fiver?”

“Might get him to pay a tenner…”

“Hmm. All those years and a tenner. I knew he was a tight-ass but…”

The picture began to fade…

Gloom-Laden frowned. “So, what this shows me is that I lived a life and had nothing left when I died, nothing to connect me to the house or to the fact that I’d ever lived? And that anyone who inherits my estate will get very little…” frowned Gloom-Laden.

The ghost inclined his head as he bowed slightly.

“Hmm,” said Gloom-Laden rubbing his chin. “Seems the perfect way to go. Why should any other bugger have the benefit of anything I have worked hard for? Get it, spend it and enjoy but never bloody share it….”

It wasn’t the reaction Christmas Future was expecting.

In an irritated sweep of his hand the picture changed to that of a dark and dank graveyard…

Slowly, amongst all the gravestones the picture seemed to focus on one…an unkempt, rotting gravestone. Gloom-Laden squinted through his thick glasses, his expression soured even more.

“Can you go in a bit closer, can’t see that.”

With a suppressed sigh the ghost of Christmas future pointed his figure irritably. It would’ve been better if they’d gone there, like he wanted to in the first place.

The picture enlarged, drawing the gravestone closer. Gloom-Laden could see the faded writing on it a lot better now.

GLOOM-LADEN
Born 21st July 1971:
Died just after lunch, Christmas day 2010.
Beloved of no-one…

Christmas Future looked at Gloom-Laden for his reaction. Gloom-Laden just shrugged.

“So what?” he retorted, then, “Can I go back to sleep now?”

The ghost pointed again at the gravestone which became even larger on his wall, his arm and finger shaking…emphasizing the point.

“Yes, I know. I’m going to die. Can’t come soon enough for me!”

The Ghost lost control; not able to believe anyone could be so casual about dying. “But you’re going to die tomorrow!”

Gloom-Laden raised himself from his bed. “So you can speak then?”

Christmas Future slapped a hand over his mouth in sudden panic. Then he realised it was pointless and spoke again.

“Bugger!”

“And swear.”

“Yes but I’m not about to die,” responded Christmas Future, a little smugly.

“No, but that would be pointless as you’re already dead!”

“The point is it’s no good you lying there, acting as though you don’t care…”

“I don’t,” said Gloom-Laden, “and even if I did care, all that you showed me was a load of rubbish.”

“Rubbish? Rubbish! That’s your future, matey, what’s in store for you….” said Christmas Future with folded arms and a nod of his head.

“No it isn’t”

“Yes it is and I should know. I’m the Ghost of Christmas Future!”

“So,” said Gloom-Laden, thoughtfully, “I’m going to die tomorrow and that’s it?”

“Getting through, now is it, eh, good.”

“So, I might as well have a good night’s sleep then.”

“No, no, no! You’re supposed to start changing your ways!”

“Haven’t got time, I’ll be dead before it can do any good.”

“Not if you mend your ways.”

“Then I won’t die?”

“Yep.”

“So you haven’t really shown me my future.”

“Yes I have…”

“The bit where I’m dead, but you said that can be changed. Well, that means it’s not a fixed point then?”

“Fixed point? It’s what’ll happen if you don’t change your ways.”

“So what’s my future then?”

“I’ve just shown it to you!”

“You haven’t, you’ve just shown me something that might happen or rather what you guess will happen if I don’t take your advice…” argued Gloom-Laden.

The Ghost looked hurt. “Guess? GUESS? I don’t bloody guess, I know, matey.”

“Well, not really, you’re only showing me something that might happen…”

“If you don’t mend your ways…”

Gloom-Laden looked dubious. “That’s playing the odds. Pretending to know something then putting in a little clause that says if it doesn’t happen it’s because of something else someone did…You didn’t use to write the Astrology column for the Daily Rambler, did you?”

“No I didn’t, wouldn’t be seen dead writing that sort of trash!”

“It’s not far removed from the stuff you’ve shown me.”

“I resent that. What I’ve shown you is an accurate vision of the future, matey.”

“But it isn’t, you said so yourself.”

“No I didn’t…”

“Ah, you did, you said it was the future I would have if I was to continue as before. But if I change my ways then it won’t be my future.”

“That’s right.”

“So what you showed me might not happen.”

“If you change your ways…”

“So it’s not immutable?”

“Well….not exactly, I need to know what you’re doing.”

“But isn’t that like the weather man looking outside to tell you the weather.”

The Ghost thought about that then. “No, no it isn’t. That’s telling you what’s happening now. I’m telling you what’s happening in the future.”

“Not very clearly, though. It might be this, if you do that, or might be that way if you do that. Not very convincing, is it? And it’s not as if you’ve got that much to do, is it?” exclaimed Gloom-Laden.

The Ghost frowned. “What d’you mean, not got much to do? I’m bloody busy, really busy, the work’s piling up.”

“Well, if you say so,” responded Gloom-Laden dubiously.

“It’s not because I say so, it’s because it is…so.”

“If that’s as accurate as your predictions for the future…”

“There’s nothing wrong with my predictions for the future,” screeched the Ghost.

“Except you can’t honestly say which one I have to look forward to.”

“Yes I can, it just….”

“…depends on what I do. Everybody can work that out about their future, don’t need you to tell anyone. Still, I suppose it passes the time for you, stops you getting bored.”

“No chance to get bored with all the work I’ve got to do.”

“Seems to be your friend does most of it.”

“What?”

“Well, he goes first, softens them up, then you go in a do the easy bit…and it doesn’t have to be accurate!”

“His job isn’t that hard…”

“Well, on it’s own it might not be, but he got lumbered with two jobs. Past and Present and you got off lightly with just Future and you can’t seem to pin that down with any degree of accuracy!”

“Two bloody easy jobs? He wants to try mine.”

“Still two jobs to your one, and you don’t have to be accurate in yours. He’s got to check out the past, make sure he’s got all his facts and then present it. Then the same for the present. All facts as opposed to your rather limp ‘might be’ futures!”

“I work just a hard and I resent the comment ‘limp’ and the words ‘might be’, for that matter. My predictions are accurate!”

Gloom-Laden said: “Then you yourself do not have that much faith in the Future you present people. I mean a prediction is a statement of what somebody thinks will happen in the future…”

Wide-eyed, the Ghost stuttered: “Well…well…well, yes, yes, it could be said. But mine are well grounded. Solid.”

“Not very solid if they can be changed, are they?”

Having rarely felt anger and frustration, or indeed needing it in his job – the Ghost shook a little. There was this irresistible need flowing through him to commit an act of violence. He hadn’t faced anyone like this portly little twerp before. All his past clients had been supine in nature with a good dose of regret and fear but this sod, this bloody sod!

Stave V

It was about an hour later that the ghost of Christmas Future left having got no further forward.

It was another time and place that a Ghostly Supervisor went amongst his reports to find a CPP drinking what seemed to be an alcoholic beverage, looking depressed and telling everyone around him who’d listen, that he wasn’t appreciated and even if he had been it was all pointless anyway and he might as well be dead. Despite appeals from said colleagues that he was already dead and so it was a mute point, CPP continued his self-pitying wail.

Christmas Future was quite silent, save for the thumping noise he made every three seconds after he head-butted the wall…

The Supervisor decided it was going to be one of those Christmases!!

Stave VI

It was at 7am sharp that Gloom-Laden arose from his bed to find it was Christmas Eve once more. He checked his clock and calendar again. No, it was Christmas Eve. Or was it for the first time.

Gloom-Laden frowned. Something about poor old Blameworthy being dead…

Once he’d had his bath and breakfast, he lifted his telephone receiver and called Blameworthy’s number. The voice of Blameworthy answered. Gloom-Laden quickly put down the receiver.

Ha ha, so he was alive, it was Christmas Eve once more and so the whole thing had to be a dream…

But the experience changed Gloom-Laden. No more did he decry Christmas and its associated trimmings to those who loved and cherished Christmas; to those who wished him Merry Christmas. Oh no, Gloom-Laden formed a club, a very special club for those who were like-minded and moaned and groaned and complained together about those over-enthusiastic ticks who claimed to love Christmas so much.

It was called the “Bah Humbug Club!”

(With apologies to Charles Dickens and thanks to Blameworthy…)

Nov 30 2010

A Shock To The System

“You’ve had a heart attack, haven’t you?” said Dr Calm.

I didn’t say anything for what seemed a long time but was only seconds.

“Have I,” was my reply in a subdued pitiful voice.

“Yes…” added Dr Calm, then: “…do you know when that was?”

He was the bloody doctor, shouldn’t he be telling me?

“Let’s have another look at your blood pressure…”

He fitted the device, pumped away, and I felt as though my upper arm was being sliced in half. He frowned, sighed, frowned again.

“Oh dear,” he sighed.

I opened my mouth but no sound came out so he didn’t hear what I wasn’t saying.

“Hmm,” he muttered, frowning.

He wrote down on his blotter 200/150. I don’t know whether I was supposed to see what he’d written but I did.

The average blood pressure reading for a healthy person is 120/80.

“I think it would be a good idea if you go to the hospital to get checked out as soon as you can…” said Dr Calm.

I was still in panic mode. I’d had a heart attack. Not even fifty yet. Was this the slippery slope to meeting Mr Death?

I thought back to how it all started. Back in January of that year, 2006, a friend died suddenly. He was only forty-six. It made me think about my own health and how I’d got unfit and overweight over the last half-dozen or so years. I was nowhere as healthy as I though the friend was, so how much trouble was I in?

“Hardly knew him,” Neatentidy admitted, “only met him the once but he seemed such a nice bloke. Can’t believe it. He looked healthy…I’d have been less surprised if it’d been you…”

I stared at him. “Thanks.”

“Well, I mean you’re a bloody lot unhealthier than him. You’re overweight, not all that fit anymore…”

“Alright, I’m not fit.. and know I’ve got a little portly over the years…”

Neatentidy snickered.

“Alright, fat,” I admitted, reluctantly.

“Perhaps you ought to see the doctor, maybe he can put you on a diet…”

“I’ll have you know I’ve lost half a stone since Christmas,” I told him.

Neatentidy frowned. “How much do you weigh now?”

“Twenty-two stone….”

“Bloody hell. You still having the late night Indian takeaways, the ones that fill a casserole dish?”

“Might be,” I replied, “might not be

Neatentidy exhaled breath, then grinned. I didn’t really see the humour. Neatentidy raised a doubtful eyebrow. “No more takeaways?”

“Given up takeaway curries.”

“That’s good, I suppose…so no more takeaways..”

“Well, sort of.”

“Sort of?” responded Neatentidy, suspiciously.

“Yeah, Chinese takeaways now, they’re less fattening.”

Neatentidy looked at me suspiciously. “What Chinese.”

“The mega-meals.”

“Three different dishes, plus rice or noodles with five free spring rolls.”

“Well, yes. But they’re mini spring rolls…”

“Mrs Neatentidy and myself sometimes have those and we have difficulty finishing them and there’s two of us.”

He was making me feel guilty. I’d thought Chinese takeaways would help. After all, you don’t see that many fat Chinese?

I drank more beer and thought how much a good takeaway curry would go down later.

I got back onto the subject of the doctor’s.

“Trouble is, I want to go, so that if there’s some problem, then it can be caught quick. But I’m not sure I want to know if there’s anything wrong, especially if it’s bad…” I said.

Neatentidy shrugged. We drank more beer and I put thoughts of the doctor and my health behind me as I sank the sixth pint of the evening.

I didn’t think much about getting a doctor’s appointment for another two hours; not until after the last of my casserole dish of curry was wiped away by the remains of a Nan bread…a touch of indigestion or something worse giving me pains across my chest?

Sleep never came easily that night…

I couldn’t put it off forever so I made an appointment, late March, about six weeks after Niceman died.

It was a woman doctor I saw first. I talked through with her about the possibility of having what could be termed a human MOT…I mentioned about how I felt lately, the overweight, lack of fitness. We talked diets, that there were pills on the market that she’d consider prescribing that could help me lose weight. It all sounded a bit off to me.

Finally, she agreed a blood test might be in order. So I booked a nurse’s appointment to have a blood test the following Tuesday…

Tuesday came and I managed to live through the previous evening to the 10am appointment without allowing anything but water to pass my lips…oh the pain…

The nurse was friendly. She took my blood pressure, then the blood sample was taken.

I asked about the blood pressure but she didn’t tell me the reading. It wouldn’t have made sense to me then anyway.

“It’s a bit high…”

“And that means?” I asked.

“The doctor might put you on tablets…I’m going to suggest you have an ECG…is this Friday ok?”

“I’m on leave this Friday, so yeah, not a problem.”

It wasn’t, Friday marked the start of just over two weeks leave.

Friday I was packed by about 11am and put a Tesco’s bag in each coat pocket and bounded down to the doctor’s surgery. I was feeling quite good. Another few pounds in weight lost and I walking a lot more…

Once I was called in, the nurse smiled at me, we exchanged pleasantries about the weather, like you do…

“Right, Mr Fitrambler, if you’d like to strip to the waist.”

A few minutes later the nurse sighed and shook her head at me.

“From the waist upwards, Mr Fitrambler.”

“Oh, right,” I said and put my trousers and pants on, then took off my jacket and shirt.

“Lay down on the bed, please.”

I did. She began to put sticky pads over my chest, arms and ankles. After that, she attached wires to the pads and then the wires to this oblong box thing.

Within a few minutes she was fiddling and shaking the device. She couldn’t get a reading. She tried eight times, then excused herself. She came back a few minutes later.

“Let’s try this one,” she told me.

She tried three more times and got a reading. I got dressed and was about to go when I got a touch of the Columbo’s. I’d been watching a lot of DVDs from my Columbo – The Complete Series which I’d got from Amazon.

“Just one more thing,” I said, “The nurse I saw Tuesday said I should have my blood pressure taken.”

She smiled, and took my blood pressure, then frowned: “Oh dear.”

Oh dear? Huh? I hadn’t got to grips with complex medical language. She got me to wait another five minutes, then took it again.

“Oh dear,” she said again. Then: “I’m just going to see the emergency doctor. If you’d just wait…”

So I waited and ten minutes later I was taken through to the emergency doctor, Dr Calm. He got me to sit down in a chair near to him, then looked up from the ECG graph and told me about the heart attack…

So there I was, waiting for Dr Calm to finish the letter I was to take to the hospital…

Heart attack? Me? Surely not. I didn’t want to believe it but why would Dr Calm lie?

Dr Calm interrupted my thoughts. “You need to take this letter and hand it over to the Doctor at the Acute Assessment Unit .”

I took the letter, mumbled a thank you and shuffled off to the hospital like an old man.

When I got to the hospital I found that the AAU was closed so I’d have to go to A&E.

I was there for a couple of hours before being seen. When I was it was by a nurse who got me to lay down on a bed, then attached a blood pressure monitor on me.

It was about another hour before the staff seemed to pile in.

“Strip to the waist.”

“Take deep breaths…”

“This won’t hurt…” It did!

“Do you see spots in front of your eyes?”

“No.” At least not until they shoved flashlights into my eyes.

“Get breathless when exercising.”

“I don’t exercise…”

“When you walk for lengths of time; going upstairs..”

“Yes.”

“Need to do an ECG.”

“Had one at the doctor’s practise…”

“We need to do one here..”

“Move to the left…”

“Move to the right.”

“Any pains in the chest.”

“No.”

“Get headaches?”

“Not often. Rarely get headaches…”

This went on for half an hour. Then everyone left…silence…all those questions but no answers…

A couple of hours later the nurse showed up again. I told her I need the toilet.

“Do you want me to show you?” she asked.

“Not really, I know how, I’ve been to the toilet many times..”

“No, show you the way..”

“Thanks.”

Twenty minutes later I was back. An hour later the nurse was back again.

“They should call for you soon for your x-ray….”

When the x-ray was over and I was back in my curtained cubical it was another hour before the nurse came back and this time with a wheelchair.

“We’re taking you to the ward now.”

“The ward?”

“Yes, you’re being admitted.”

“Admitted…” I was doing a Parrott impression.

“Yes.”

I felt like snivelling. Yes, I know, snivelling isn’t good a 48 years old but I felt I’d a right to snivel…

A bed, what was wrong with me, was I in danger of another heart attack? This was it, this was the end. I didn’t have long to go. They were going to make me as comfortable as possible to just wait for the end…

Oh brilliant, I’ve just ordered the Full Colour series of Roger Moore as the Saint and I’m not going to see one bloody episode! No this couldn’t be. I refused to go. Besides, I hadn’t seen the second series of the new Doctor Who. It started in sixteen days’ time.

At the ward, top floor, I’m wheeled to a bed. The rows on either side are occupied by old people – wrinklies; mostly women. No disrespect, but being put in a ward with people who should be nearer to God than me added to my already highly developed sense of doom.

Curtains were drawn over one bed and I thought the worst for whoever was behind the curtains. Well, I did until I heard three short farts, then one almighty rip-snorter of a fart from behind the curtains.

“We have lift off,” I muttered to myself.

A minute or two later an old woman was helped back to her seat.

I thought that after six pints and a curry old Blameworthy and myself would’ve given her a run for her money in a farting contest…

The only positive I noticed was I’d got a window seat – well, bed – overlooking sparsely developed countryside. Shortly afterwards a nurse came by and gave me a pair of very washed and worn pyjamas. I wondered how many people had died in them?

I put them to one side and sat in the seat next to my bed. I thought about Mum and Dad Fitrambler. They were expecting me in Devon tomorrow.
I decided I needed to call someone so I rang my sister.

She trained as a pharmacist and worked as one for a number of years.

I told her about my day.

“Oh dear,” she said.

See, I was right, it’s a medical term. She’s got medical experience so she can use it too!

“I’ve had a heart attack and my blood pressure being very high.”

“So what are they doing?”

“A lot of tests. I’m supposed to be seeing the doctor soon. I think I’m here for the weekend.”

“Oh, told mum and dad?”

“No, not yet, didn’t want to worry them. Not until I know what it’s all about…”

It wasn’t too long after that little chat that the doctor turned up.

The doctor looked like the actor Richard Griffiths, the bloke who played the detective, Henry Crabbe, in “Pie In The Sky” TV series, except the doctor had a goatee beard.

For a second or two I thought the whole of the day was a dream…no heart attack, no health warnings…

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Fitrambler,” said the doctor. “We’ve run tests and discovered a few things. Firstly, your blood pressure is way too high. This has caused a problem with your heart…”

“You mean the heart attack?” I said.

“Actually I’m talking about the long-term effects of having extremely high blood pressure. By having high blood pressure you’re making the heart work harder than it should. This has caused an enlarged heart…” Dr Pie paused, to let what he said sink in. “…although the heart is a muscle, getting bigger doesn’t make it more efficient…”

“Ok.”

“If the heart enlarges too much, gets too big, then there’s every chance it will burst…for want of a better expression…”

I stared, I would’ve liked a better expression but it wasn’t forthcoming. So I asked: “What do I need to do?”

“The first thing is to get your blood pressure back down to normal, this will drop the workload of the heart, help it towards returning to its normal size…hence we need to get you onto tablets. We’ve ordered a supply from the pharmacy but will have to keep you in if they can’t fill the prescription before they close…”

Part of me felt a little better. Being kept in wasn’t for as a bad a reason as I’d begun to think it was.

“You’re very overweight and from what I can gather very unfit…”

Coming from someone the size of Richard Griffiths, I felt there was more than a little irony in his comments. As is only natural, I tried to defend myself.
“Well, I was 22.5 stone at the beginning of the year, I’m down to 21.5 stone now…”

Dr Pie seemed to ignore this. “You need to lose weight and get more exercise. Perhaps join a Gym…take up cycling…”

I frowned. Was he bloody mad? I’d had a heart attack, for Christ’s sake, surely the last thing I needed was to overdo it by going to a Gym or getting on a bike. I wasn’t far off 50, getting on a bike at my age surely would be fatal. I almost felt like asking to see his certificates!

“…anyway that would help your condition,” he continued. “Do you smoke?”

“No for 15 years,” I replied.

“Drink?”

“Well, about six or seven pints a week on average…” I told him…

“Hmm,” Dr Pie said, a slight disbelief in his tone.

There was a horrendously long fart from behind the curtains opposite me again. Both Dr Pie and I looked in that direction for a second or two then we both looked back at each other again as though nothing had happened.

“If the supply of tablets arrive tonight then you can go home. But make sure you get your blood pressure checked before you go…” he said and then walked away.

At around 9pm, I got my medication and was released. I got some fruit and least fattening sandwiches from the Hospital Shop and then got the next bus home feeling a lot happier…

What I didn’t know at that point was that in thirteen days I’d be back in hospital again….

Oct 10 2010

The Immutable Gloom-Laden

“Ah, Fitrambler, old chap,” says Gloom-Laden, pleasantly.

Mr Gloom-Laden in one of his happier moods.

“Gloom-Laden, old boy,” I replied, amiably.
“What are you having?” Gloom-Laden asks.
“Same as you, I think,” I respond; there’s only 2Bs or 3Bs available.

Apart from sounding like a Toff’s convention, it’s an amiably start to an evening. And why not? It’s been roughly seven years since we enjoyed a drinking session with just the two of us.

Gloom-Laden pays for the beer. Arkells 3Bs. An ale I find rather inconsistent in recent years. Earlier this year the Duke of Wellington produced some good quality 3Bs, but my last couple of visits found it rather under par. In the Plough, Old Town, it never tastes right to me although Mr Neatentidy rather likes it.
As Gloom-Laden paid for the beer, I looked around and some memories played across my mind. The Clifton, where we’d agreed to meet, was a pub off the beaten track. Back in the 1980s it was a pub Blameworthy and I spent a fair amount of time in, along with the Duke, the Baker’s in Emlyn Square. Those were the days of the nine pint sessions, two to three nights of the week. I often think fondly back to those days. I also look back and wonder how the hell I made it into work, the next morning. At our peek we did that two to three nights a week.

In those days there were two bars in the Clifton. Blameworthy and I used the Public bar and often played darts.

The basics of the layout, besides taking down the dividing wall hadn’t changed that much. Like most pubs these days there was an absence of cigarette smoke, but the smell of beer, stale and fresh.

The Clifton

The bloke serving behind the bar is about late twenties, a little older than Blameworthy and I when we used this place regularly. He looked a lot taller than either Gloom-Laden or myself, but after a minute I got the idea the floor behind the bar was raised a little.

The bar curved around the seating area so wherever you are you can be seen from the bar. In the 1980s when I drank in there, it was a two bar pub, but the wall separating them is long gone.

We decided to stay in what would’ve been the old public bar, not far from a dart board and a pool table.

Gloom-Laden and I sat down not too far from the bar. It seemed to a quiet night.

The evening was organised by email, the first sent when I was on holiday in North Wales. I followed through a couple of weeks later. Gloom-Laden had broadband these days, something I tried to convince him of the virtues of back in the early part of the decade. He had not been keen then. He also doesn’t own a mobile phone; possible one of a dying breed.

“If I’d a use for one I wouldn’t hesitate but to get one, but I don’t,” Gloom-Laden said.

For our first meeting in years I suggested The Clifton because it was in the same street where Gloom-Laden lived.

The pub wasn’t all that busy, but then, it was only about 6.40pm.

We settled down. The beer wasn’t bad. I was expecting worse.

I remembered it was Blameworthy who suggested Gloom-Laden and I would get on. We’re both amateur writers; his efforts lay in the short story area, whereas mine have always been in the novel-length area.

I remembered our first meeting. It wasn’t the best of starts as I was rather rude to the poor chap. It was because I was forced to sit next to Gloom-Laden and I’d have preferred to have sat alone…

So, when he tried to make conversation I was exceptionally rude.

However, whether by fate or chance, the incident didn’t stop us from becoming friends.

Another trip arranged by Blameworthy not so long after put me in the presence of Gloom-Laden. It was a trip to the beer festival being held just outside Gloucester in Winchcombe, Postlip Hall. Or more accurately the barn a short distance from the Hall. I would’ve preferred it to have been just  Blameworthy and myself but…

Mr Blameworthy

Well, let’s be sensible here. There was beer to be drunk, a place to see which I hadn’t seen before. What could I do but make the sacrifice and accept a stranger in the camp? A social obligation!

With the assistance through the course of the day and much of the evening of a minimum of 12 pints of beer (maybe a few more) I decided Gloom-Laden wasn’t a bad chap after all. I think, among all the other subjects we discussed I recalled our first meeting and I apologised.

We arranged between us to meet up in the Glue Pot for a session outside the usual monthly one. If I remember correctly, the usual monthly one began to fade and just Gloom-Laden and I got together on a monthly basis; with a guest appearance by Blameworthy and others from time to time.

Over that period of about half a dozen years Gloom-Laden and myself had many a long discussion, many a long argument and many a drunken stagger home. Of those many arguments over the years on various subjects from books to films, politics and people. I probably won most of them. Not because I was necessarily right or cleverer than Gloom-Laden but purely because memory held up better than his and so I usually got him on what can be best described as a technicality…

Sneaky? Absolutely, I admit it, but not proudly so.

I did learn a great deal from Gloom-Laden and read quite a few of the books he recommended; one in particular was The Warden by Anthony Trollope. I became quite fond of that author.

I tend to believe what brought to a close these regular meetings was when I brought others from work to the sessions. That and the fact that we drank more than he liked to in a session. Plus being what is tactfully described as being visually challenged, the walks home from the Glue Pot were rather awkward. As a good friend I should’ve been more sensitive to that and ensured he got home safely as I’d done in the past. I know believe his excusing himself from the sessions was, in no small part, my fault.

Mr Fitrambler - too many beers, perhaps?

Of those walks back to Clifton Street served as a platform for great debates, sometimes arguments, depending on what the subject we were talking about was when we left the Glue Pot. Or, if we extended the evening by having a curry in the Jewel In The Crown. Gloom-Laden often liked it to a couple of writers who use to take long walks and discuss matters, J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis…a rather nice thought…

I guess it was around 2001-2 that the gap began.

Time moved on and I often thought of re-establishing contact, but the nearest we came to that was the occasional accidental meeting around town, forestalling his walk home.

However, it was the indefatigable pub sniffer himself, Blameworthy, who kick-started the reunion. Although even his not inconsiderable persuasive powers took three attempts before Gloom-Laden elected to re-enter the scene. Well, Gloom-Laden is nobody’s fool…he knew what the possibilities were of rolling home the worst for wear after a session with both Blameworthy and myself…

It was at a Beer Festival the reunion began (as described in an earlier blog scribbling “The Chippenham Beer Festival”) and was the total opposite of our first meeting.

A second and third meeting followed, one in the Duke and one in the Wheatsheaf (both a matter of record on this blog) before a gap began again.

While the Pink Lady and myself were enjoying the delights of North Wales it struck me Gloom-Laden and myself hadn’t arranged a session of just us two; a chance to hit some of the topics of yesteryear or introduce some new. Besides, I felt it would be a bad thing let things go again…

So, through email – have you tried catching a pigeon in North Wales or training a seagull to do a pigeon’s job? – I suggested we meet up…hence the evening I began to describe earlier in this narrative.

The date, 1st October. The place, The Clifton. The time, 6.30pm.

As always seems to be the case when I need to leave work early, fate conspires against me. I didn’t get away until 5.40pm. By the time I caught the bus time was moving on.

Then there was the ubiquitous flood of teenage brats slowing down the bus as they charged on. Peace was disturbed.

So, it was after 6pm when I got to town.

There were several routes to the Clifton and I chose the easiest. I wasn’t feeling particularly energetic.

Within a few hundred yards of the Clifton, I see the familiar figure of Gloom-Laden striding towards the pub.

We talked work for a while, then we talked about the election, and how the coalition had lasted a lot longer than expected.

Unlike the old days the subject of politics could be covered without any argument. That’s not to say we agreed, but there wasn’t a heated argument over our differences.

Our talk covered the iPad and the Kindle. I pointed out that I hadn’t fully given up on the printed word; there were books that would be in my collection, ones which no electronic device could or would replace.

“It’s getting nearer to what I predicted,” exclaims Gloom-Laden. “That you won’t actually have real collections, real libraries. It’s all be virtual and you just download what you want.”

Years ago the idea of not having things as a physical collection bothered me. I still feel a little the same way, a liking of ownership. However, I am okay with the Kindle form of ownership.

“Right about that one but there is still a sense of ownership with the Kindle and the application of the same name which runs on the iPad….” I responded. “Even if you delete books off the Kindle you can download them again at no extra cost. The Kindle is broken, or stolen, then it can be deactivated and when you buy a new one then you can download the books again onto the new Kindle – no charge as you already own them.”

I do not think Gloom-Laden was sufficiently impressed to charge off and buy one but he was not against the principle. He still prefers the printed word. I cannot blame him from that. Although, he may have felt I sounded suspiciously like an advert for the Kindle…

In amongst our talks on old times I confessed that some nights after a curry as I’d left him at his house, I dropped off on the way home at the Chip Shop in Curtis Street. I bought large chips and fish cakes. How I could justify that I don’t know but there are stories still doing the rounds about the amount I could put away. I think I was a human vacuum cleaner for food in those days.

I couldn’t manage both these days – possibly struggle with one – but not having tea that evening did make me think a bag of chips would be appealing.

After nearly two hours Gloom-Laden went to the bar for a third pint. The pub had begun to fill up, there was a dart match on. One of the bar staff moved the pool table to a spot near to the bar, freeing up room where the dart board was.

It reminded me of the days when Blameworthy and I played darts in that pub. It never seemed so crowded in those days; but then when we played darts that often seemed to be the case; most seemed to be in the lounge bar.

Tonight, it seemed like a Jockie Wilson Convention, looking at the size of the players; even the women seemed rather on the portly side – to put it politely. One exception was a woman in a wheelchair, blonde – from a bottle – who I placed in her sixties but in good health. Well, ok, except for the wheelchair. She manoeuvred it very well. Also, in between throws she taught the pub dogs the shaking hands trick for a treat.

As always when an evening is going pleasantly, it seems to reach the end too quickly. We only drank four pints in just over four and a half hours.

I think, on reflection, the only thing missing from the evening was a further four pints, a large drunken attempt to eat a curry, several arguments…

However, I think neither of us missed any of those things.

We did, however, reach an agreement to do it again, sometime in the future….But hopefully with the presence of Blameworthy.

Then it was home but not before stopping of for pie and chips; a nod to previous sessions, perhaps? Actually, more like the fact I hadn’t had tea and not a lot for dinner…

But it was rather nice.

Many have often asked the question of why is Gloom-Laden called, well, Gloom-Laden.

The man is a pessimist and this often comes right to the fore after a considerable amount of drink. There is also his feeling that every trip Blameworthy is arranging, has arranged will or has gone wrong.

On occasion he’s been correct, a train has been missed and we are late getting home or things have gone very wrong throughout the day. These things only add to his air of pessimism.

In total fairness to Blameworthy, the level of cynicism and negativity Gloom-Laden expresses is totally out of proportion. We’ve only had few problems on our numerous trips with the tenacious beer guzzling Blameworthy.

And there are the times, when feeling the worst for drink, he talks of his plans to kill himself. Or of how pointless life is and why should any of us really bother?

I often think that the man finds the period between birth and death an inconvenient wait…

But during his less morbid moods, which are far more frequent than he’d like to admit, he is excellent company…

I, for one, looking forward to raising a few beers with him at our next meeting; but then, I would, wouldn’t I…?