Cider and Stupidity

I was giving my daughter and son-in-law a lift to a party the other Saturday night.  As we were driving along, I remarked that I rather liked early Saturday evening, as the streets are full of young people in their best outfits, all full of hope and expectation for their night out before… “that’s dashed by cider and stupidity” my son-in-law chipped in.  I thought this was such a good phrase, and so accurate, that I just had to steal it for this article.  You see, if anyone’s hopes and aspirations were frequently dashed by cider and stupidity, then it was me. 

August is a trying month for most students.  By now, everyone should have had their ‘A’ Level and GCSE results and I really admire the bravery, but question the wisdom, of those students who were bold enough to open their results letter on live national television.  It was just as well that I was not placed in that situation when I received my GCE and CSE results back in August, 1970.

There were not many subjects at which I excelled at school, but English was definitely one subject in which I consistently did well, mostly because I enjoyed it.  English Literature was a favourite of mine and I was generally expected to achieve a good Pass in my exam, so much so, that I had been accepted to study the subject at ‘A’ Level at Burton Technical College.  Anglesey, my school in Clarence Street, did not have a Sixth Form.  In fact, the Fifth Form that I was in was a relatively recent addition, and it was still the case that the majority of students left Anglesey, with no formal qualifications, at the end of the Fourth Year.

The exam was scheduled to take place on the afternoon of a hot, early summer, Thursday.  Thursdays were my dad’s pay day and I had fallen into the habit of meeting him at The Union in Union Street to get some pocket money, scrounge a cigarette or two and, I regret to say, have a pint of cider.  This had not been a problem in the latter weeks of the school year, as we did not have to attend school, although we were expected to be at home, revising.  Whether it was wise to call in at the pub immediately before an important exam, I’ll leave you to judge.

The main problem with English Literature is that you need to be able to quote extensively from the works that you have been studying, to demonstrate your understanding of the texts.  I have always had a poor memory but I had tried to memorise a few relevant quotes for the exam.  Unfortunately, a pint of cider, on a relatively empty stomach, and on a hot day, is not a wonderful means of improving one’s mental capacity.  Sitting in the oppressive heat of the examination room, it was all I could do to stay awake, let alone recall choice quotes from Macbeth. 

To add to my distraction, there was a bee mooching around on the window next to my desk.  I have always had a horror of being stung and now, in my alcohol-induced haze, I was transfixed by this insect.  Try as I might to concentrate on the question, my mind wandered and my eyes remained glued to the bee and its meanderings.  I could only recall two of the batch of useful quotes that I had tried to commit to memory and was reduced to using these over and over again to support a wide range of points in an ever more tenuous fashion.   

Needless to say, my work did not achieve the standard expected and, in that August, I learned to my horror that I had actually managed to fail an exam that I was supposed to go on to study at ‘A’ Level.  It was only thanks to the understanding nature of Burton Technical College, and some relatively reasonable results in my other exams, that I was able to carry on with my studies.

The first collection of stories - "Steady Past Your Granny's" is now available in Kindle e-book format at Amazon UK and Amazon USA

Win a signed hard copy - 2nd Edition of the quiz

Heard about Steady Past Your Granny's?  The little book that's been a surprise hit on Kindle? I'm offering a signed hard copy of the book to the first correct answer, received by 23.59 BST on 14th August, 2011, to the following cryptic-ish question, the answers to which can be found in this blog.  To make it a little easier, I have put links to the posts, and the dates of the relevant blog posts, in brackets:
What is the connection between a recent venue for a walk (The Hills Are Alive-ish, August, 2011), a little-heard film in Belper (Three for the Flea-Pit Part 2, March, 2011) and a device that perplexed my grandmother (At The Setting of the Television, November, 2010)?
In the event of more than one correct entry, the first one drawn out of my rather disreputable hat will win the prize.  If no absolutely correct entries are submitted, the nearest entry to the correct answer will win the competition.  The author's decision is entirely arbitrary, often wayward and decidedly final!  Post your entry as a Comment, which will only be published after the deadline. Good luck!


And the answer was:  Eric Idle


To explain, the recent venue for a walk was Rutland, a little-heard film in Belper was "A Hard Day's Night" starring The Beatles, and the device that perplexed my grandmother was the television.  The connection was Rutland Weekend Television was a sequel to Monty Python's Flying Circus devised, starring and written by Eric Idle.  From that show came the spoof group, 'The Rutles' (oddly similar to The Beatles) with Eric Idle and Neil Innes.


No winners I'm afraid, clearly I'm making these things too complex!

The Hills Are Alive-ish Part 1

Do you think we could bring an action against the OS Map people under the Trade Description Act?

The reason for this question is my last Walking Weekend.  I could have put that better, as I sincerely hope it's not my last Walking Weekend.  I mean the Walking Weekend myself and three like-minded mates pottered through a few weeks ago.  I think I've mentioned these before.  They basically consist of a couple of days of healthy exercise and country air, punctuated by bouts of over-indulgence with food and drink (but not necessarily in that order, as per Eric Morecambe).  This year we invaded Rutland.

My issue with the OS is that their maps lead you (well, me anyway) to believe that little treasures are to be found scattered hither and thither across the landscape, only to dash your hopes when reality and the map description don't quite match up.  For example, on our main walk, one of my friends (who is a published historian, and knows what he's talking about) encouraged us up a particular hill with the promise that we would soon be passing a 'medieval village' according to the map.  We toiled over stiles and sheep droppings, until he told us, excitedly, that it was 'just over there'.  Now, I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this:

"So, where's the village then?"  I asked.  "That's it" our Historian said, with some exasperation.  "But, there's nothing (expletive deleted) there!" I pointed out.  "Ah well, if you know what you're looking for..." He said, with an air of authority, "I suppose you were expecting people in costume or something?" he chuckled.  To which the answer is, no, but I would have expected some evidence of ruins over and above a gently undulating landscape!  I'm afraid I'm a little cynical, having been caught like this before many years ago, as I will explain next time.

The first collection of stories "Steady Past Your Granny's" is now available as a Kindle e-book at amazon.co.uk or amazon.com

Win a signed hard copy!

Heard about Steady Past Your Granny's?  The little book that's been a surprise hit on Kindle? I'm offering a signed hard copy of the book to the first correct answer, received by 31st July, 2011, to the following cryptic-ish question, the answers to which can be found in the book:

Take the name of the window cleaner's son, add it to mum's place of work to get a High Street name that sounds like it might be a good home for a psychopath, I sink? 


In the event of more than one correct entry, the first one drawn out of my rather disreputable hat will win the prize.  Post your entry as a Comment, which will only be published after the deadline. Good luck!

Well, this didn't exactly engender a stampede of contestants!  In fact, no entries were submitted so the signed copy lives to fight another day.  If you were remotely interested in the answer, it is as follws:


"Walter Smiths Family Butchers"


This is derived from Walter (window cleaner's son) Smiths (Smiths Refrigeration was the workplace of my mum) and I talked about the psychopathic overtones of being a Family Butcher in the chapter "I Sink Therefore I Swam".  Another competition to follow which will this time be based on the blog so that no-one has to purchase anything.

Cruisin' - Part 3: Piped Aboard?

Continuing the story from Cruisin' Part 2 - Buffet the Waistline Slayer (I know, I know, I'm sorry)

Still on the subject of my recent cruise, there is just one more incident I should share with you that clearly demonstrates how preconceptions can colour your judgement.

When we first booked the cruise, we were a little miffed to be told that the offer price only allowed us to determine the minimum standard of the cabin, not the location.  Therefore, when the details of our booking finally arrived, we hurried to the deck plan to see where our fortnight would be spent.  We were somewhat surprised to find were on Deck 2.  To put this into perspective, if we had been one floor lower we would have been sharing the staff quarters.  In an effort to look on the bright side, I reasoned that the lower you were on the ship, the less movement you would experience in rough seas.  I accept that I can be quite irritating when I have these ‘Rebecca from Sunnybrook Farm’ moments.  My wife viewed the idea with deep suspicion and was convinced that a good storm would have us consorting with the marine life rather than enjoying a view of the Mediterranean.

In addition to our trepidation re the cabin, we were also less than confident about the dining arrangements.  We had clearly requested, right from the start, a table for two at the second sitting.  This was based on the fact that I am deeply anti-social and prefer to share my dining experience with as few people as possible.  In a perfect world, nobody would be there at all, including me.  When we checked our booking we discovered that we had been allocated the first sitting and, despite lengthy email correspondence between ourselves and the travel agent in which we were assured that the mistake had been corrected, the fact that the cruise line’s website showed otherwise gave us little confidence.  All of this background is important if you are to fully understand what follows.

Came the day, and we checked in at Southampton.  Sure enough, we discovered that our restaurant booking was for the first sitting and, apparently, nothing could be done about this until we boarded the ship and threw ourselves on the mercy of the Maitre D’.  Not a good start.  Then, arriving at our cabin, we opened the door only to be met with the sight below through our porthole.

You will understand that this immediately confirmed our worst suspicions about being located so far down in the ship’s pecking order.  Clearly, we had been assigned to the bilges.  Armed now with not one, but two legitimate complaints, we stomped up two floors and joined an orderly queue of aggrieved passengers at the Customer Relations desk.  A very helpful young man (they all are to me these days, young that is) listened sympathetically to our tale of woe but explained that we would need to speak to the Dining Room staff about our meal arrangements and also told us that the cruise was fully booked, so there was no opportunity to change our cabin to something less submarine.  He passed us on to another of his colleagues, who repeated the same information but made the observation, in a confident French accent, that “as there is so much to do on the ship, you will spend very little time in your cabin” which I thought rather made a nonsense of paying a supplement for an Outside Cabin.  However, I did notice that both of the crew members seemed somewhat perplexed by our description of the pipework visible from our cabin window.  Having placed us on a lengthy list of fellow deluded optimists who hoped to change cabins should some awful disaster occur that precluded the rest of the passengers from turning up, we set out to beard the Dining Room staff in their den.

Another lengthy queue greeted us at the Dining Room.  However, as the cruise line obviously had considerable experience of this situation, they had stationed on of their staff at one side of the queue to chat to the supplicants and see if any of their problems could be addressed without the need for the Maitre D’ and her complex computer screen.  To this end, he was calling people out from the queue in turn.  When our turn came, my wife went to talk to him, but two men behind us beat us to it and were already heading over.  As any Briton will know, jumping a queue is a heinous offence, up there in the lexicon of crimes with coughing in someone’s face and belching in front of the Queen (I don’t mean because it's her turn, you understand).  I’m sure that if capital punishment was ever brought back and the range of crimes that would attract such punishment were to be voted on by the general public (and wouldn’t the tabloids have a field day with that?), queue-jumping would be up there in the Top 10.  Anyway, my wife, who does not take such things lightly, and whose patience had already been stretched to the limit, announced loudly “Have I just become Scotch Mist?” at which the offending parties guiltily returned to their former places in the queue, but not without informing us that they had fought in WW2, and one had been injured in Korea.  I must admit that it was a surprise to learn that the previous unpleasantnesses, involving the Third Reich and the Red Menace, were primarily to allow us the freedom to jump queues.

As you may imagine, the devil-may-care holiday spirit was certainly not in evidence by the time we had compromised on a shared table in the second sitting, and we headed gloomily back to our pipe-festooned berth.  Opening the cabin door, we were astonished to find a clear view of Southampton harbour and the sight of a boat, adorned with pipe-work and evidently some sort of supply vessel, heading away from the ship.

We both collapsed laughing, realising that common sense should have told us that we could not possibly be looking out at the assortment of pipes that had greeted us.  We also appreciated, looking down at the sea below us, that the waves would have to reach tsunami proportions before our view became submarine in nature.  Apart from having to share a table for dinner, God was in his Heaven and all was right with the World – well, at least our little bit of it.

You can find a version of this story in the new compilation A Kick at the Pantry Door and more stories from The Slightly Odd World of Phil Whiteland in e-book format - Steady Past Your Granny's  and Crutches for Ducks

Cruisin’ Part 2 - Buffet, The Waistline Splayer

Continuing the story that commenced in Cruisin' Part 1

I have a weakness for buffets.  They call to me.  I have mentioned before that I don’t seem to be equipped with a ‘STOP’ button like everyone else, which can be a fairly serious problem when it comes to buffets (see Enough is as Good as a Feast).

For new readers, I am on a cruise.  More accurately, for anyone thinking that this article is an open invitation to lay waste to Whiteland Towers, I was on a cruise at the time of writing.  Broadly speaking, breakfast on cruise ships is mostly served in a buffet style, likewise lunch, but dinner can be formal dining or a buffet again.  I did say broadly speaking (and you can get pretty broad however the food is served).  I’m sure that many of you are shaking your heads sadly, reflecting on the sad decline in standards and recalling the good old days when your personal manservant would serve you elegant morsels on exquisite china as you climbed into your First Class lifeboat and he returned, with a winsome smile, to play ‘Nearer My God To Thee’ with the Ship’s Orchestra, the waves lapping around his ankles.  They don’t make cruises like that anymore.

My problem with buffets is that I want everything, and large portions of it.  If I’m served my meal, I’m usually reasonably content with the choice and quantity.  I might look askance at the quantity of vegetables hiding under the principal item (having usually been drizzled, tossed or embraced by something else) but I’m usually perfectly satisfied at the end.  But a buffet invites, no, positively encourages you to excess.  You know full well that one scoop of anything is probably sufficient, but then you decide to have another, just for luck.  Ideally, having selected the focus of the meal (roast meat, fish, curry or whatever), plus a form of carbohydrate (potato, rice, pasta and so on) and some vegetables, that should be the end of it.  It never is. 

If you’re like me, you can’t resist having a look at what else is on offer, and then you see something you really would have liked instead of your first choice.  Of course, you can’t put it back now and to abandon it would be wasteful, so instead you add the alternative choice to your existing meal, which then requires another form of carbohydrate and perhaps those vegetables and some sauce?  You know you’ve overdone it if you’re struggling to carry your plate back to the table.  After all, in 30 minutes or so, all of that weight is going to be inside you.

I’m even worse with finger buffets.  The problem here is that each of the items on offer does not, in itself, represent anything very substantial.  After all, one sausage roll is not going to weigh anyone down.  So there is a temptation to have just one of these, oh and perhaps another one as they’re very small, and, of course, one or two of those and a bit of that, and so on.  The end result is a mound of pastried, battered and breadcrumbed morsels that would provide enough calories to keep a typical family well fed for a week.

I’m just glad that I packed the trousers with expandable waistlines.

Find out how the cruise nearly didn't happen at all (complete with pictures) at Cruisin' Part 3 - Piped Aboard?

You can find this, and many other stories, in the third collection of 'nostalgedy' tales 'A Kick at the Pantry Door' available now at Amazon UK and Amazon.com

Cruisin' - Part 1

 At the time of writing, I am on a cruise.  By the time that you read this, however, I will be back at home, sulking fit to bust.  You may say, with some truth, that this hardly makes for a contemporary account and I would have to agree.  However, I do take the view that advertising my absence from home via the internet would, perhaps, be a little unwise and a boon to the criminal fraternity.

This is my fourth cruise to date.  The notion of cruising seems to divide people quite markedly.  There are those who would happily spend the rest of their lives on a cruise ship (and, indeed, if you have the necessary funds you can now do so) and there are those who regard cruising as a sort of perversion.  I once mentioned, in an unguarded moment, that I quite liked cruising to a client of mine and he treated me as if I had gone over to the dark side.  Cruising used to be the preserve of the idle rich, now it’s more the preserve of the idle retired, although there is quite a range of ages present these days.

The principal focus of cruising is food.  Lots of it.  The single-minded devotion to this cause came as quite a shock to me on my first cruise.  I like a bite to eat with the next man, but I felt positively anorexic in comparison with my fellow travellers.  On a cruise, you can eat 24 hours a day, and many regard this not so much as an opportunity, as a challenge.  The other day, I heard a passenger recount how, when her husband refused to get up at 4.00 am to get her a slice of pizza, she ate everything in the mini-bar as an act of revenge.

 

Gordon Gecko’s observation that “Greed is Good”, could usefully be adopted as a motto by a cruise line.  Unfortunately, this tendency toward self-indulgence can manifest itself in other ways that can be less than socially desirable, always assuming that you believe that eating enough to keep a small impoverished nation going for a month or so is socially acceptable in the first place. 

An army of very polite and attentive people, of all nationalities, are permanently on hand to attend to your every whim.  The outcome of this is a ship-load of people who have become used to being treated as adored children by over-indulgent parents, and who therefore react petulantly when their wishes are thwarted in any way.  This can be a rather unattractive trait.  Moreover, being waited on hand and foot by people who have a tendency to call you “Mister Philip” (in my case) can bring on a touch of the ‘Old Colonials’, particularly in those who suspect that this should always have been the natural order of things.

Please don’t misunderstand me, I quite accept that not all cruise passengers are like this (before the complaining comments start arriving thick and fast).  I have, on my travels, met many charming, interesting people and have been happy to share a drink or a meal with them.  Unfortunately, I have also had more than my share of the other sort, including one pernicious old git, on my first cruise, who delighted in reducing the waiting staff to tears.  He was accompanied by an equally rude young lady who was his paid travelling companion (presumably because no-one else in their right mind would willingly have spent time in the same hemisphere as him, let alone the same ship).  One evening even she had clearly had enough of him and gave him a higher dose than normal of his tranquilisers so that she could go out dancing whilst he slumbered.  Regrettably, the dose was not sufficient to do humanity a great favour and he was back at his arrogant best the following day.

In addition to those who find getting into a lift, side by side, something of a challenge, there are those who are sleek and purposeful.  Not the fitness fanatics (although anyone prepared to climb two flights of stairs could reasonably be described as a fitness fanatic in this company) but the smokers.  On either side of one open deck, a game band of sad-eyed individuals brave the prevailing wind and flecks of foam to consume their duty-free nicotine.  I’ve come to think of this area as ‘Death’s Waiting Room’.

In some ways, I have a certain admiration for this group.  You really do need to be made of sterling stuff to be a smoker these days.  No more the cushioned comfort of the ‘smoking room’ with brandy and fine cigars.  Today, you’re lucky to have a half-constructed shed in which to enjoy your roll-up.  In answer to those who say “well, if the conditions are that bad, why do they do it?”, I can only say, as an ex-smoker with a long history of tobacco-related products behind me, because they enjoy it.  This is something that the anti-smoking brigade refuses to acknowledge, often seeing smokers as obdurate fools bent on self-destruction, which may well be partially true.  Nevertheless, I can honestly say that I enjoyed most, if not all, of the thousands upon thousands of cigarettes I consumed and the habit is, of course, tremendously addictive.

I can, however, clearly remember one cigarette that I did not enjoy.  Way back in the early 1970s, when Spanish tourism was just beginning to flower and General Franco was still in charge, it was theoretically impossible to buy tobacco products from anywhere other than a state-licensed tobacconist.  In reality, there was a thriving black market in UK and US cigarettes and most bars could provide you with a limited range from underneath the counter.  However, if the police had been showing an interest, or if the bar-tender just didn’t like the look of you, then this source could dry up and, with the duty-frees long since consigned to the ashtray, you were forced to the State Tobacconist.  I seem to remember that these kept very restricted opening hours and imported cigarettes were quite expensive.  However, the native Spanish brands could be had for a song (presumably in an effort to protect Spanish businesses).  I had bought a couple of packets of these domestic brands as a sort of emergency buffer if all else failed.  Sure enough, the morning came when the Benson & Hedges had run out and the only thing available to provide that first rush of nicotine was the Spanish brand.  I ripped open the packet and placed the odd-smelling tube in my mouth.  Not ideal, but beggars can’t be choosers, I thought.  I lit up and took the deep drag of the truly addicted.

I honestly thought that my chest was going to implode.  My lungs seemed to go into shock and my chest walls tried to gang up with my spine to make a break for it via my throat.  I clutched at my chest and had to sit down.  I began to wonder if I would ever breathe again and, for a while, that did not look like a safe bet.  Eventually, the evil effects of Franco’s Revenge subsided and I was able to crawl out on the balcony and whimper a little.  Of course, anyone other than a dyed in the wool smoker, such as myself, would have stubbed the offending article out and thrown the rest of the packet into the nearest waste bin.  I, on the other hand, regarded this as a minor setback and a major challenge.  The Spanish Gaspers came back with me to the UK as a sort of bulwark against ever being fag-less and, in due course, were consumed on those occasions when there was more week than wage.  So you see, if you’re prepared to tolerate that sort of discomfort in order to satisfy your addiction, a little hypothermia is nothing.

There's more about the cruise and cruising at Cruisin' Part 2 - Buffet, The Waistline Splayer

The first collection of stories - "Steady Past Your Granny's" is now available in Kindle e-book format at all Amazon sites, and you can find a version of this post in the new collection, 'A Kick at the Pantry Door' also available on all Amazon sites.