Playing out

I grew up in the countryside on the edge of Oldham where it becomes Saddleworth. My house was surrounded by fields which were brilliant to play in. No street corners for me.

In the front field there were the remains of an old house - now merely a cellar open to the elements in the side of a hill. This was one of our many dens. My friend Damian and I cleared it out, put a roof on it made out of old plywood boards covered in grass and finally installed the piss pipe so we could urinate inside and it would drain outside. Very civilised as far as I was concerned. This den met an untimely end when one of the stinky goats decided that it wanted to eat the roof and promptly fell through it.

In the same field there was an old shed which we also made into a den. We found lots of old wire grates which we used to construct a run around for a local jack russell - I'm not sure how pleased he was with it but it entertained us. There was also, strangely, an overturned wooden boat which had briefly been used as a den by Damian before I was on the scene. It was on top of this boat one summer evening that I told my cousin Peter a horror story. The story naturally involved the boat itself and a thunder storm and was so clearly terrifying that Peter burst into tears and ran back to my folks house.

Continuing on the den theme there was also the cellar of my house. Originally accessed from a trap door under the stairs in my house however by the time we moved in a door had been put on the outside of the house and the stairs down into the cellar had been bricked up. Damian and I slowly but surely over a number of weeks removed a few bricks from the bottom of the stairs and managed to get into what was the old stone staircase. This is where we stashed porn magazines liberated from the local tip as well as other treasures. In the main body of the cellar there were old stone shelves built into recesses in the wall which had originally been a cold store for meat and other produce pre refrigerators. We however covered the front of these openings with wire mesh and connected this, via a dodgy old transformer, to the mains electricity. The reason for this was so that we could contain ghosts, behind the wire, once we caught them. Sadly the outcome was a couple of electrocutions and no ghosts.

In one of the fields at the back of our house was another derelict farm building only revealed by a hole in the ground which was a cellar entrance - do you see a theme here? When you ventured down the hole you found yourself in a brick room with rubble on the floor and a curved ceiling above. This place didn't last long as a den because it was a bit too spidery for us. We did have fun burning the spiders though.

The least successful dens were in the corrugated sheet metal garage at the back of my house. One was rubbish because it was actually on the roof of the garage - I wouldn't recommend it. No shelter from rain, a bit blowy and on a slope. Crap for a den really. The other was in the back of the garage. Damian and I set a fire in there one afternoon. My dad, upon seeing billowing smoke spewing forth from the front of the garage, ran in to rescue us without realising that we had escaped through the secret loose back panel once again to safety. I think he nearly died putting out the fire... He wasn't best pleased either way.

Rosemary

I used to work for MORI Telephone Surveys - or MTS for short. The offices were on the edge of Clerkenwell in London and I worked there for just over two years. They were interesting times and, without wanting to sound dramatic, they were also life changing times.

I was one of three people interviewed for two roles as research executive. They initially offered the jobs to the two other candidates and told me that unfortunately my services would not be required - that's until one of the people didn't turn up to work on their first day, or any other day after that... Not the best way to get a job but I took it all the same.

The woman who ran MTS was Rosemary. She had started her career in research - as far as I remember - working as Bob's assistant. I only ever met Bob once - an American who desperately wanted to be British or at least to have a knighthood or some such accolade. Previous to working for Bob's MORI I believe she worked at Colombia pictures with her husband Donald and also for Greenpeace at some point - but that was all thousands of years previous.

Rosemary had a wicked sense of humour and was somewhat eccentric. On my first day at work she took us all out and got me drunk - little did I know that this would be a regular occurrence - and when I say regular I mean most days. She smoked and if anyone wanted a cigarette we would go and smoke in her office with her - it was whilst smoking in this office with her that we saw the twin towers of the world trade centre come under attack and collapse after being hit by two aeroplanes. She had some funny stories - like falling down the back of a filing cabinet whilst trying to retrieve some papers and being rescued by the actor Sidney Poitier who grabbed her ankles and hauled her out. She used to have an office cat which lived in the bottom of the filing cabinet - and a range of spirits which lived in the top of the same filing cabinet. When one of Rosemary's cats- Trotsky I think - had developed diabetes she joined an online group called Sugar Cats, well who wouldn't? And who wouldn't travel to America to meet up with the sugar cats team and go sky diving with them?

Rosemary once invited us all for a weekend away in Walton on the Naze up in Essex. It was a boating weekend and was incredibly drunken.

Chris & I slept on one of the small boats in what felt like a coffin - my face was about six inches from the top of this box and condensation kept dripping onto my face throughout the night. - Chris was not happy. We ached the next day whilst sailing around the estuary the next day.

I remember Chris Downham playing his guitar and leading a sing along to Van Morrison & Beatles songs at sunset on the deck of a boat. It was a good time.

Rosemary died in the last year that I worked at MTS. She had travelled up to the forest in Essex where her husband was buried, sat at his graveside and injected herself with a massive overdose of insulin which she had kept to one side since his death. She had always said that when the time was ready she would do it herself and that she never wanted to be sick. It was her time and her way.

http://www.sugarcats.com/communications_area/message.asp?message=589309890&messageboard=967975216

Frog

The most horrific thing happened on Saturday whilst I was gardening. I had taken over the mowing of our unusually hilly lawn from Chris - we were road testing our new flymo with it's ferocious full metal blade - and had worked my way towards the bottom of the garden, close to the blair witch project remains of our bonfire.

As I absentmindedly mowed over a patch with a dip in it where the grass was a little longer I felt something unusual - a thud and an interruption in the sound and feel of the mower. I looked down to see a frog. A large frog at that. It was just about in one piece but I had ripped into its flesh and I could see the deep tear in its back legs and a huge gash across its side where entrails were now peeking. I looked away in shock and said fuck.

I looked back and the helpless thing was still moving - not mobile but definitely moving and I could see its wide eyes looking around wildly. I said fuck again - a few times this time. I felt shocked, guilty, sad and a little bit panicky, it was very upsetting. 

My first reaction was to make it more comfortable before it died which it was inevitably going to. I put on a glove which I had been using to pull thorny brambles up with and picked the frog up. I took it to the bottom of the garden with the intention of putting it in the stream. I threw the frog down to the water and even before it hit the stream I knew that this was a bad idea. 

As it sank in the water I could see it struggling to swim to the top for air but obviously didn't have the strength - or indeed the ability with it's damaged body - to do so. I watched it twitching on the way down to the bottom of the stream where it must have drowned. I walked away feeling terrible and a few seconds later went back to the edge of the stream. It was still there on the bottom but now not moving. Chris started the lawn mower up again so I went back to where I had maimed the creature and did a quick check through all the remaining long grass for more wildlife. When I returned to the stream a little later the frog had gone.

Update

On 13th August last year I copied a letter on here which was sent to my grandmother and described the last hours of her first husband's life before he was shot by a sniper. I just found the following photograph and eulogy. Margaret Jean was my grandmother.

Click on the picture to see it properly.

Cat Concepts

I've been thinking about cats. Specifically about their outlook on the world. It's well known that cats have a problem with the concept of mirrors but it occurred to me this morning that they must have trouble with all sorts of things. Dustbins for example - I told Gilbert off today for routing through the bin in the bathroom whilst I was brushing my teeth without realising that cats just don't understand rubbish. To them it's just play things in a container - not that they would understand that a container is something to put things in...

What do you think they make of coasters or gloves or something really far out like tumble driers or Southport? No wonder Gilbert is constantly scared and Moochie lives in a perpetual state of confusion.

Naked dancing, flower petal baths and missing persons

Ready for a tenuous link? Well here goes...

I met Chris nearly thirteen years ago in a nightclub in Manchester.

The first time Madonna ever performed in Britain was at this nightclub

The song Madonna sang was Holiday

I am now going to write about holidays.

Ta daah! *takes a bow*

As the song goes:

If we took a holiday,

took some time to celebrate,

just one day out of life,

it would be, it would be so nice.

And they are nice aren't they? Holidays? Well on the whole... I'd steer clear of Malta though - we made that mistake last year.

Towards the top of the list of holidays has to be Thailand. Bangkok was a bit ropey but we were jet lagged, incredibly tired and we only had one day there but Koh Samui was brilliant. It rained for the majority of the holiday which was a bit of a bugger but the up sides more than made up for the downs. There was a beach party one night (the half moon party - I suspect that this was a rip off of the full moon party but fun all the same) There were pick up trucks collecting people and Chris & I jumped on one of these with Sophie and Nathan - a couple we met in the swimming pool - and trolleyed off into the hills. Half an hour later after winding through woods and hills we pulled up on a rough piece of ground which opened onto a small bay. There was a huge fire in the middle on the beach and to one side a massive, colourfully lit up pyramid. Music boomed out across the beach and there was a make shift bar on the other side where we stocked up on vodka redbulls. We danced right the way through till dawn and watched the sun rise out of the sea.

On the other side of the day the sunset at Cafe Del Mar in Ibiza was quite special - granted the sunsets weren't brilliant when we were there but the place itself a unique experience. Last time we were in Ibiza another place that we discovered was Bambuddha Grove. http://www.bambuddha.com/ Stunning food and amazing music. We left feeling like we had just had a three hour massage.

In Bali we fed giant fruit bats Coca Cola. Chris and I also shared a couples massage. It was an odd experience to say the least. Starting with the elasticated disposable knickers - not flattering but at least you maintained a shred of dignity. The two Balinese ladies giggled all the way through. We lay on our respective massage tables and the massage began. 

After a long and thorough massage the ladies daubed us with some kind of tropical porridge and then rubbed it into our skin thus providing an all over exfoliation. After a good rubbing one of the ladies giggled and ushered us both - in our paper and elastic knickers - towards a bath. A bath, I might add that was large enough for two, filled with luke warm water and oils and with flower petals floating on the surface of the water. They left us in the flower bath with a refreshingly cold lemon and ginger tea and exited the room. This is when the giggles began. And continued for the next ten minutes quite uncontrollably. The whole experience was finished off with a naked dip in an outdoor jacuzzi accompanied by a glass of water flavoured with cucumber. That was the only massage I have ever had.

Our first holiday together was nearly twelve years ago and we went to California. Chris knew someone at Sony records who knew someone in San Francisco who had two friends who rented a room in the Mission district of the city. We were collected from the airport by the friend of the Sony woman who drove us at break neck speed down the freeway and into the city where she deposited us in the kitchen of a couple with a room. One was French, the other was Brazilian, they gave us a set of keys, showed us our room and told us to use the house as our own before buggering off out for dinner. San Francisco was cool - aside from the day that we got off the subway at the wrong station and when we asked a policeman directions they warned us to hang on to our bags. Very comforting. I lost a gold lighter that my brother had given me for my twenty first birthday in a night club called Universe.

We left San Francisco and headed south via Santa Barbara and LA and eventually found ourselves a few days later in San Diego. Here was another odd meeting - the woman that worked at American Express travel in Manchester where we bought our flights had a cousin in San Diego. We turned up in La Jolla and were welcomed by Peter, his Chinese boyfriend Stan and Peter's six year old son. We stayed there for four nights with complete strangers who were absolutely wonderful and treated us like best friends. They took us shopping, we all went for sushi, they tried to take us to a nudist beach which I politely declined and they barbecued for us. The highlight as far as I was concerned was the night at the club on the Mexican border. There was a fierce drag queen on stage and a competition. I entered the competition. To be a competitor I had to walk on to the open air stage in front of about two hundred drunken queens in nothing but my underwear. I then climbed into a glass shower cubicle where I was soaked in cold water and just to complete the hideousness I then danced for the screaming (baying?) crowd. I came second. I did not win $100. There was no second prize.

My final story this evening is thus: Picture the scene... An art deco hotel in Miami's South Beach. A restless night's sleep for Chris. I arise from my slumbers to Chris's saying - I don't understand how we leave Miami in four hours, get a connecting flight in New York and arrive in Manchester two hours ago when my dad will be waiting for us. In short we had not taken back the hire car, we had missed our flight to New York and subsequently our flight to Manchester, Chris's parents were panicking and by this point routing through our personal belongings back home and my parents had registered us on a missing persons list in the Miami Dade area. Utter chaos had ensued back in England. The outcome - four more days in Miami. In hindsight a good result all round.

Eliza Risk

On Thursday afternoon a friend of mine died in a car crash. Eliza wasn't a close friend, I knew her through Alison, but I have know her for a number of years and she was a friend all the same. She was twenty eight, apparently she was on her way back from seeing clients in East Yorkshire when her car was involved in a crash with two others. One of the other drivers also died.

Eliza was a wild card, always enthusiastic, loved a drink (an admirable quality in my book), funny and incredibly sharp. She was very important to Alison and she was, as far as I could see, a rock for her. She will be missed incredibly by many people.

Maria! Maria!

For the last week and a half I have swung calamitously from one hangover to another via extreme excesses of alcohol and absences of sleep. It all began last Wednesday with a trip to London. Half cut before we arrived we quickly checked in, dumped our bags and headed into Soho. A bottle of wine in the first bar, an early meal and another bottle of wine in the next, two killer cocktails each in the next and then beer with Christian before jumping on the tube and going to the Brits.

Sadly (ahem?) we missed U2 because we were late and drunk and really needed a wee. We did however see Duffy - who was very small and very far away despite her quite large head, Girls Aloud - great stage show, shame about the music and Take That - although technically I did not see them because I was refueling on white wine and trying to convince the bar lady that she should take my five pound note even though it was now cleft in twain.
I nearly wet myself when Estelle and The Ting Tings came on together (secretly I am a thirteen year old girl) and the Pet Shop Boys were very exciting and quite brilliant.

After the show finishes we trollopsed down the stairs and straight to the tube. I seem to remember getting off at Piccadilly Circus but I can't be completely sure. I do remember going to one of my favourite bars - The Friendly Society - and was pleased to see that they had been partially re-vamped. Many of the Barbie dolls had been removed as had the fur on the wall of the grotto and the ceiling is now adorned with a large selection of Trolls.

I do not remember what we drunk there but I do remember that when we were asked to leave (the bar was closing - it was nothing personal) we still had a drink each in our hands. This is when Maria came to the rescue. Maria told me that she had owned the bar since it opened - strange because of all the random nights that I have spent in there I had never seen her.

Whilst socialising with the adorable and slightly curious Maria we were introduced to two chaps (I think one of them works there and the other is a DJ but for all I know they were Russian political activists with a penchant for sea horse meat - I was so drunk by this point.) These chaps then led us across Soho on a magical mystery tour and took us to another bar where I think I danced a little bit and I may have had another drink but that escapes me - which is exactly what we did soon afterwards. 

We discreetly did one and headed off toward Trafalgar Square, down the Strand and to a club which Chris had sorted out guest list places at. Heaven - as I'm sure you can guess by the name - is a gay club. Normally. Last Wednesday night however it was more of a black R&B club. So we went to be frisked, wandered through the metal detector doorway to ensure that we had no weapons (I'm gonna stab you man!) and I think Chris discussed the guest list. The rest of my time in there was a bit of a whirl. I vaguely remember pushing my way through a very packed bar area, I actually do remember dancing badly in one of the bars and apparently Chris gave me some money to buy another drink which I found in my pocket the next morning. We didn't stay there long for some reason. We left through the brick lined arches narrowly avoiding a bitch fight which was about to break out between a couple of young ladies and at this point I don't remember much at all - the lions in Trafalgar Square - being cold - a book shop on Charing Cross road? And then it was morning! Ta da!

The Cool Kids

As I have written previously, pubs have played a pivitol part in my life and just so you know - so have night clubs... To think about it my experiences in nightclubs seems interesting and varied but in reality I just got wrecked and danced strangely whilst wearing a variety of fashion statements.

My first night club at the age of sixteen was Henry Africa's in Oldham. I distinctly remember wearing a shirt, tie and jacket because that was what my dad used to wear when he went to night clubs - in the late sixties... I spent many a pointless night in there drinking blastaways (a pint glass with one bottle of castaway mixed with one bottle of diamond white - I've always been classy.) and pretending not to look at Stan the man (the stripper) and vice versa pretending to be interested in Sexy Sue (the other stripper.) One of my enduring memories of this place was Alison going arse over tit on a wet patch on the dance floor and flashing her undergarments to one and all as she lay there splayed across the middle of the dance floor.

I used to go to a club called Ambition - again in Oldham. This was known as Oldhams best alternative night - it was actually Oldham's only alternative night. The music was quite a range from Metallica, Nirvana and Rage Against The Machine (who I insisted on calling rage against the washing machine much to the chagrin of the alternative fans) to Blur, Adam Ant and Madness. There were lots of people with long hair, lots of people with shaved heads, lots of ripped jeans and a sea of Doc Martins. I fit in there very well...

Bowlers was interesting. A club that opened at eight and closed at two, sold no alcohol and had a massive following right the way across the north west. You were frisked by the doormen - who were terrifying - and the only words you needed to make a new friend for life were "What's your name? Where're you from? What've you had?" Which invariably would be answered with "Alright mate, I'm Gaz from Warrington. I've had a gram and a pill. Safe, I'm going for a dance now." I would leave Bowlers dripping with sweat and once even had an imprint of my tartan trousers on my legs when I undressed later that night.

I remember going to Sankeys Soap in Manchester for the first time - it was very exciting at the time! I didn't know where it was so we jumped in a taxi and had him drop us off. He pulled up outside a closed door at an old warehouse on the wrong side of Great Ancoats street and said here you go. There was a funny little, rough looking pub on the opposite corner which we went into for a pint and about twenty minutes later came out to find a queue outside the little door. We eventually went in through the door to a courtyard and then into the building. The music started incredibly slowly - almost a just a deep drum beat and over the course of about an hour slowly sped up and people started joining the dance floor. A couple of hours later I was dancing to very hard, very loud techno.

One of my favourite clubs was Paradise Factory in Manchester. I went there for the first time on my twentieth birthday and hadn't ever seen seen anything like it. On one night in there I found myself dancing with a roller skating nun called Sister Marta and a giant piece of toast called Mrs Crusty. I nearly got kicked in the face one night by Fernando doing high kicks in his high heeled platforms - Fernando is now April. There was a guy there every week who must have been in his mid sixties. He was called Tony and he always wore a dinner jacket and bow tie and smoked what looked like huge joints firmly jammed into a cigarette holder. I also remember a woman who was a regular who wore a long trench coat and had big eighties hair. Underneath the trench coat she just wore a skimpy bikini and she looked and danced like one of the women from that Robert Palmer video.

On the door was Nicki Pennington who always had a clip board for the guest listers and grilled everyone else about their gay credentials. She would ask if you knew that this was a gay club, then she would ask if you were gay, then she would ask which magazines you read - which you would have to reply Gay Times and Boyz magazine - well you could hardly answer New Scientist and The Times Sunday supplement could you. She would finally ask you what your favourite page of Boyz was and the standard answer had to be - the back page. That's where the naked man picture was. Whilst waiting for this grilling you would be entertained by Lady Lola who would tease people in the queue and give out lolly pops. I believe she went on to be a producer for The Trisha show.

Also amongst my favourites is Space in Ibiza - not so much inside but definitely the outside terrace. There's something spine tingling about dancing, off your tits, in the middle of the day and watching an aeroplane coming screaming over your head as it goes in to land at Evissa airport down the road. You can read the letters on the bottom of the plane and everyone throws their hands in the air as if to touch it as it comes in. It's thrilling.

I met Chris at the Hacienda in Manchester on one of their Flesh nights. I've still got the ticket. It was called Flesh FC and had a football theme. I was dancing up on the stage when I turned around and saw him there. He was the boy I had been dancing with at Paradise Factory the week before but hadn't spoken to. Fate or just the small world of clubbing in Manchester in 1996? That was the first night that I went to Danceteria at Central Park. A dirty, nasty club if ever I've been to one. It started at midnight on Saturday and closed at ten thirty on Sunday night. Oil from the Chorlton Street car park above would seep through the concrete ceiling and stain your clothes as it dripped through to the club. I far preferred The Breakfast Club which ran from three till six after Paradise Factory had closed. No booze, just soft drinks and coffee and after a quick sit down and chat the dancing would begin again. This is where the cool kids went - and I was one of them. What happened?

She seemed pleased...

For about five years I have been looking for a family recipe for stuffing. After hunting high and low on many occasions I finally gave up and then on Friday I found a letter from my mum in which she had written the recipe! It was quite odd reading a letter from my mum that I hadn't read since before she died but quite comforting at the same time. I found the letter inside an old diary from when I was a teenager and after reading the letter had a quick flick through the much scrawled pages of the diary. It is full of gems...

Monday 20th January 92
It's 11.39pm, mum and dad are in bed already and Robert's snoring - wish he'd shut it. Hadn't done my maths homework for school and I still haven't. I've just been gluing monsters, men and dogs on the ceiling...
Mr Turvey asked Matt Haynes if his thirteen colour biro was a vibrator or a pen - ded funny.

Thursday 13th February 92
Last weekend I went to Jonny's - his mum wasn't there. Me and him and Darren got rat arsed. Darren porked Simone.

Tuesday 19th January 93
Nearly got in trouble because of my foul mouth again in Biology 'cause that cunt Haynes put prit stick in my hair and forehead - little bastard.

Wednesday 5th May 93
I'll start with what's going on with me & Shan. Last Friday I saw her after school and we were in the church yard on the steps, I ended up fingering her - she seemed pleased.


There are some notes in there from when I did a week's work experience at Oldham hospital:

Fri 9.20am Woman fallen suspected fracture of sternum
10.15 am Outside N wards meeting Harish in approx 15 mins, he'll probably be late.
This nurse is doling out coffee from this big jug with a ladle. Half of them are having it in beakers with mouth spouts like babies, it's really sad to see these women deteriorate like this.
Harish is talking to some doc at the bottom. This big fork lift has been shifting a big concrete planter about. I'm in N now There's this old lady whose wig has fallen off - total baldness.
Harish just asked me if I'd had a late night because my eyes were all frogged up.

Other notes from my work experience include:
Old biddy had arm put back in shoulder socket.
Contact lens stuck in eye
Bead in ear
One bad fracture, bone sticking out of leg.
Stroke - didn't see it
Heart attack - just missed it.
Thursday - sod all so far.

Splat!

It's funny the way things happen isn't it? Until two weeks ago I had never heard the word spork before. Now they're everywhere - I don't know what's going on. I saw them again today in a shop window at lake Windemere. I have obviously seen them before and also used them but I never knew their name.

Another repetitive theme of late has been road kill. Last Sunday on the walk to work I was shocked to see a cat on the side of the road which had been hit and killed by a vehicle. It's legs were stiff and sticking up in the air, there was blood and meat coming out of its side and the poor thing's face was split right open. It was, as I have written, shocking. The next day its appearance had changed. It was now missing anything that resembled a head and now looked more like meat and less like a cat. There were bones clearly visible - strangely lying separate from the rest of the body - and almost a smear of ginger fur over the double yellow lines. Bit by bit the cat has disappeared over the week. I think it's very sad that somebody's pet just didn't come home one day.

Since last Sunday I have seen a flattened fox, a stiffened squirrel, a run over rabbit and a splattered seagull.

Pandora's Box

I haven't eaten meat for over fifteen years. I don't have a problem with people eating meat - it's just something that I choose for myself. I know quite a few people who have been vegetarians and have gone back to eating meat after a length of time. I don't think that I will ever do that and as time goes by my conviction grows stronger. I still cook meat for Chris or guests and I have occasionally questioned this - particularly at key moments such as when your hand is inside a chicken and your fingers are gradually separating skin from flesh in order that the stuffing can go in.

I will still make a point of watching documentaries about animal slaughter and this is what sparked me off today - last night's television programme Could You Eat An Elephant? in which two chefs travelled the world sampling meat which in this country would be taboo. I have always maintained that if you are happy to eat cows or chickens there is some hypocrisy in refusing to eat cats or monkeys. The chefs in question ate snake's heart - still beating at the bottom of a glass of vodka, cheese which had been extra matured by maggots and the living maggots remained in the cheese and were part of the delicacy and dog amongst other meats - although they weren't particularly happy about meeting the dog livestock which were caged up in very tight confines. They refused to eat monkey, likening it to looking like a butchered baby, elephant and sewer rat - although free range rat as they termed the ones from fields did not disgust them to the same extent.

Another television programme that fascinates me is Kill it, Cook it, Eat it. in which - as the name suggests - animals are slaughtered then cooked and then served to the people who watched the slaughter. Until recently I had never seen the slaughter of turkeys or geese and it was bizarre to say the least - once the bird had been put in a cone and its head electrocuted its wings slowly and spookily rose up in the air behind its back as if still alive.

It was a documentary that finally convinced me to stop eating meat. It was called Pandora's Box and it was an expose on British abattoirs. It highlighted some of the malpractice that occurred in badly run slaughter houses in the UK. Included were cows that were not stunned sufficiently and were still conscious whilst being tethered up by their back legs and bled to death. Chickens which were still alive and badly mutilated in the head area whilst being dipped in boiling water in order that their feathers could be plucked more easily and then, still alive, having their feet chopped off. After seeing this documentary I knew that I couldn't be sure that the animals that I was eating had been treated correctly and processed humanely and therefore I couldn't eat them any more.

Chicken face

Everybody has awkward moments in their life. Take me this morning for example, I had to phone up Prowler and have a heated discussion about why my bottle of poppers and erm... magazines hadn't been sent through their mail order system despite my ordering them a couple of weeks ago and chasing it up with an unanswered email. The nice young man at the other end kindly informed me in gentle (camp) tones that my card had been declined, they had emailed me on my other address and if I cared to pay now they would dispatch the porn immediately.

Many incidents from yesteryear stick in my mind, such as the time at primary school when someone pulled my trousers down whilst I was standing on a chair at a high window thus flashing my bare bum to the entire class and the excruciating moment when I called Mr Melican, my second year history teacher, mummy. I am still cringing now...

That little anecdote, however, segues nicely into the queen of embarrassing moments - my mum.

There was the time at the post office when she felt something uncomfortable on her leg and shook it to try to alleviate the problem only to fling a pair of knickers out of her trouser leg and across the floor of the post office. Such tumble dryer mix ups were a source of hilarity in our house - I mean, who can resist laughing at someone with a sock stuck to the back of their cardigan by the awesome power of static electricity. Then there was the time that my parents were at one of my school's parent's evenings and she realised the importance, half way through the evening, of getting dressed with the lights on. She was wearing a lovely pair of kitten heel shoes, identical to each other in every way other than their colour. One was blue and one was green.

My favourite however was the heroic moment that she lurched to the rescue of a baby that was about to topple out of a trolley at Tesco only to realise upon successfully completing the heroic rescue that said baby was made out of plastic.

Maybe it's something about mums - my friend Janine's mum spent a couple of hours shopping around Chester with a substantial piece of chicken firmly stuck to her spectacles after putting them down on the table during lunch.

Buckley has made a few such faux pas in his time too. In a supermarket in Sale he picked up kangaroo steaks, started singing the song from Skippy the kangaroo and turned to me, steaks thrust forward and asked in a sing-song voice "Do you like Skippy?" Trouble was that I was a couple of metres behind him and he had just serenaded a stranger with kangaroo meat. My favourite Chris moment though was the train journey back to Manchester. He trotted off to the loo for - well let's call it a sit down - and dropped the loo paper on the floor. It was at the precise moment, whilst trying to retrieve it, when he was head to the floor bare bum pointed at the door that he discovered, much to his chagrin, that he had failed to lock the door - swoosh it opened. Chris remained in this position until the unwitting spectator had moved on, so as not to be recognised and then had to do the walk of shame back through the carriage to his seat.

My friend Janet... well there's potentially a whole other post about her. The tin of green paint on head, the man with the stutter that she offended and, as I remember, asking the customer at Habitat when her baby was due despite the fact that she had already had it. La la la la la la...

Samantha from Burnley

When we first moved to Preston we went to Chris's chairman's house for drinks one evening. He lives in a lovely house overlooking Stanley Park in Blackpool. As we were leaving one of his neighbours was shouting coo-ee and doing high kicks in the front garden. Turns out that this bloke was otherwise known as Betty Legs Diamond and was the headline act at Funny Girls in Blackpool. Chris's chairman tried to reciprocate and made a valiant effort to high kick back at him but when you're in your mid sixties and you've had half a bottle of red wine this can appear quite graceless. Betty put me in mind of a transvestite I met two August bank holiday's ago called Samantha from Burnley. Samantha from Burnley was a bus driver during the week and came down to Manchester at weekends to get all trashed up and drink pints of bitter.

I love trannies - not drag queens, just trannies - especially the ones who look like they've just come off the building site and put a frock on for the night. The librarian ones you see standing quietly in the corner on a Wednesday night on canal street talking to the teacher ones - all tweed skirts and cheap pearls. The cocky ones who've gone a shade mad with their human hair wigs and plumped for a shade of maroon that will show off their glittering cleavage enhancer and the married ones who are out for the night with their ever so understanding wives.

I can't imagine wanting to dress up like that - either as a lifestyle thing like a transvestite or as an entertainment thing like a drag queen. I did once wear a skirt on my head though when I was five years old.

Savick Brook to The Bamboo Take-away

On the far side of the roundabout, across the road from the old Victorian bus stop and the Spar corner shop is the Plungington pub. This marks the top end of Plungington Road and the main stretch of my walk to and from work. So far this is the most interesting part of Preston that I have found. This evening there was a large group of people in the Nippon yoga and martial arts centre, most of them looked quite uncomfortable. Perhaps they were about to take their first class. The Happy Haddock had also attracted a large group of people but this group seemed far more relaxed and jovial.

At one of the beauty shops a little girl sat grinning at a table in the window, hands outstretched, whilst the smiling assistant painted her nails. Her mum watched on, head crammed under a hair dryer. This evening, as I walked past, the butcher on the corner was bringing his sign in. At the bottom of the hand written sign read the legend 'Sausages on special offor!'

I suspect that there was an egging incident last night - I counted five of them broken on the pavement at various intervals down the street. Not sure what happened to the sixth - maybe it hit it's target. There are always lads bombing up and down the road in Novas and other such boy racers - I suspect the eggs emanated from one of these.

At the bottom end of the street, before you get to the university, the street suddenly gets busier with take aways, charity shops, food shops and student rental estate agents. I'm tempted by the doll with knitted dress loo roll cover in one of the shop windows. I turn left at the Bamboo.

Dover Beach

When Ray Bradbury wrote, in 1951, about televisions that covered an entire wall of a room in his novel Fahrenheit 451 do you think he thought that this would happen? And that the output from those televisions would be so consuming and pointless? When his character Montag questioned the misnomer 'living room' do you think he thought that what he wrote was more prophetic than science fiction?

Walking home from work recently I was being nosey and peeking in people's houses. It struck me that practically every house had an oversized television in the corner blaring out meaningless quiz shows and soap operas, that the viewers had more time in their lives to watch the events of fictional characters in a fictional landscape than to do something worthwhile with their own time. I am as guilty as most in this. I go home after a day of trying to convince strangers that they should buy my product rather than my neighbours and watch television - and not usually something that I choose to watch but just something - anything. I rarely learn anything from it and it never provokes an emotional reaction. I can't remember that last time that I questioned anything or had my thoughts provoked from watching television.

Is this a good use of my time? I don't think so. It concerns me more when I equate time with life and I ask the question - Is this a good use of my life? If I learned anything from my mother's death it was that you can't expect to live a long life - it just might not happen and so I should try to make more of my time / life.

In Bradbury's novel Montag provokes an emotional reaction from one of his wife's friends by reading the last two stanzas of a poem called Dover Beach which was written by Matthew Arnold. The poem was written soon after the author honey mooned on the south coast of England and begins with an air of optimism mixed with melancholy. This feeling diminishes as the poem progresses and he reflects on, amongst other things, the retreat of faith in the modern world (this was written in 1867 by the way.) I particularly like the final stanza which seems to be a call to his new wife to stand strong together in a bleak and dark world.

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Agaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

I Thank You

When our mum died my brother Robert, who writes songs and is a musician, wrote a piece which he sang at her funeral. This is it.

I Thank You

.

Whisper

I hear a finely spoken line

Though we'll miss her

She'll always be in our minds

Now I wonder

If things could have been changed

And I honour her

Till the end of my days

.

So mum, goodbye

Is all that I can say

And please thank her

For all the happiness she gave

Time gives memories

For all that we do

For this I thank you

I thank you

.

Till the end of my days

I'll honour her

If things could have been changed

I wonder

Though she'll always be in our minds

We'll miss her

And I say these finely spoken lines

In a whisper

.

So mum, goodbye

Is all that I can say

And please thank her

For all the happiness she gave

Time gives memories

For all that we do

Richard, Matthew, dad and I

We thank you

Girls Girls Girls!

In a previous life I kissed girls. Many and varied were they. Some hot, some not so. Some interesting, some not so. Some good experiences, some not so. 

There was Michelle who worked for the police and had a terrible reputation, there was Gillian who was a swimmer and an accomplished self harmer, Orietta Lorenzini was wonderfully naive and once did a naked dance around my bedroom about a day or so before she sought out the morning after pill. 

Kristel was a quarter German and had a terrible time with spirits bothering her at train stations. She was best friends with Shan until we split up and I started seeing Shan. Shanaz was, as I remember, a bit hairy and I occasionally helped her brother Shabaz with his homework. 

There was Rebecca - not to be confused with Becki who I did not go out with - who was lovely but short lived because she was the sister of my best friend who was not best pleased when he found out. In turn she was not best pleased when, before I ended the relationship, she found out that I had been kissing Phillipa. She found this out when she saw me kissing Phillipa when, by chance, she found herself sitting five rows behind us at the cinema. Terrible timing. 

There was Alison who I am still friends with now - I stole a crumpet from her parents' house and had a moment in the car park at the back of the dentist which resulted in gravel encrusted knees. Another one that I am still friends with now is Claire - she had the misfortune of going out with two people called Richard who both turned out to be big old gays. 

I seem to remember a rich girl who fell down the stairs and broke her arm when she stuck it through the banisters on the way down - perhaps Sarah? I can't remember. There was another one whose name I forget but I do remember that she was a Christian body builder.

As an aside I would like to post this photograph in remembrance of Eartha Kitt who died on Christmas day 2008.
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