For the avoidance of doubt!

Yes, I know exactly how you feel.  The book sounds good but, then again, it's the author telling you about it so it would, wouldn't it?  How can you be sure that you won't be wasting your time and hard-earned money?  Well, the simple answer is that you can't, but solicitors have a phrase 'for the avoidance of doubt' which they often use when they're about to reiterate something that should be well known to everyone but they just want to make sure.  I thought I might do the same, so here's a run-down of what you can find in 'A Christmas Cracker', available as a Kindle e-book for just 99p or as a paperback that you can give as a gift for 4.99 GBP.

'A Christmas Cracker' is a compendium of seasonal nostalgedy (nostalgia mixed with comedy) observational humour and fiction all designed to make you chuckle and get you In The Christmas Spirit, a condition that gets more elusive with each passing year, if you're anything like me!

1. Coming to town for Santa Claus (nostalgedy) - recalling a trip to Derby in the early 1960s to see Santa.
2. The Fag-End of the Year (nostalgedy) - remember how much easier it was to give Christmas presents when tobacco products and related items were still acceptable
3. It's a Gift! (nostalgedy) - recounting some of the more memorable gifts from my childhood and, I'll bet, yours.
4. Gift Wrapping (nostalgedy) - more about Christmas gifts now and then.
5. By the authority vested in me (observational humour) - what to buy the man in your life (you might be surprised, but trust me, he'll thank you for it)
6. You'd Better Watch Out! (fiction) - Peregrine and Prudence apprehend Wayne, the Anti-Santa.
7. You'd better not pout, you'd better not cry (nostalgedy) - on believing in Santa Claus, or not.
8. The Night Watch (fiction - The Alternativity) - The first episode in the Alternativity series of stories.  The Shepherds debate the meaning of the star and moan about the effect on their sheep.
9. Lessons from Carols (nostalgedy) - about reading the lesson at the Christmas School service and misinterpreting the words of the carols.
10. Sing a Song of Christmas (nostalgedy) - the sheer embarrassment of touring the local pubs as part of the church choir, in full regalia.
11. Yuletide Greetings from the Smith's! (fiction) - you know those annoying 'round robin' letters that sometimes come with your Christmas cards?  Well, I've taken one to its logical conclusion.
12. Crackers at Christmas (nostalgedy) - the Christmas my dad promised to get the Turkey...and the ensuing unpleasantness.
13. The King Thing (fiction - The Alternativity) - the second part of the Alternativity in which the Shepherds meet the Wise Men and neither group are impressed.
14. Time, Ye Merry Gentlemen, Please! (nostalgedy) - remembering pub culture at Christmas
15. The Spirit of Christmas (fiction) - a white-bearded old gentleman finds himself joining the throng on Christmas Day lunchtime in a typical pub in the 1960s.
16. A Room at the Inn (fiction - The Alternativity) - in the eponymously named "House of David' inn, Old Jim has some thoughts on Herod, the Census and paternity whilst hot water and swaddling clothes are needed in the stable.
17. My Christmas Presence (nostalgedy) - how I disgraced myself at a Christmas Day family lunch.
18.  Luncheon for One (observational humour) - on the difficulty of dining alone on Christmas Day, even if you want to!
19. A Stable Upbringing (fiction - The Alternativity) - when the Kings met the baby and everything didn't go quite to plan.
20. Get Away, In A Manger (fiction - The Alternativity) - we hear a lot about the human contingent in the stable, but what about the Ox and the Ass, what did they have to say?
21. Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Mourning? (fiction) - Josiah and Archibald, of Oakshott & Underwood Funeral Directors, discuss Archibald's seasonal marketing strategy.

Will that do for you?  Do you think you might find something in there worth reading?  I do hope so 😁

A Christmas Cracker

For Those In Peril On The Sea

From time to time I have the urge to write a short story about my two hapless undertakers, Josiah and Archibald.  The other day someone recounted a true story to me which I thought sounded exactly like something they might be involved in, so with a few further fictional embellishment, I finished up with this...

Josiah Oakshott, sole proprietor of Oakshott and Underwood Funeral Directors, sat back contentedly in his comfortable office chair.  Happily he cast his eyes around the dimly-lit, oak-panelled room that acted as his workplace.  He loved it here, particularly at this time of day when everyone had gone home at the close of a busy working day and there was only him and his clients in the mortuary, none of whom were likely to disturb his repose.  He stretched a little, settled himself back further into his seat and returned to his study of the accounts.  The peace was, however, rudely shattered by his office door crashing open to admit the dishevelled spectre of Archibald Thurble.

"I've just about had enough and that's straight!"  Archibald announced with the hint of a sob in his voice.

"Archibald!  I thought you had completed your tasks for the day and returned home.  What brings you here, now?  Surely that business with Mrs. Papodopoulous was concluded a good while ago?"

"Erm, not quite"  Archibald shuffled his feet and fidgeted with his black bowler hat.

Josiah was perplexed.  He had tasked Archibald with the simple remit to accompany Mrs. Papodopoulous as she went to scatter her husband's ashes.  Strictly speaking, there was no requirement for the presence of an undertaker at this event, but Mrs. Papodopoulous was a member of a large and rapidly ageing family and Josiah had high hopes of future business.

"I take it that you have experienced some difficulties?"  Josiah asked with a grim foreboding.

"Did we ever!" Archibald said with feeling and crashed down into the chair opposite Josiah's desk, "first she wouldn't go in our car, she insisted that we use Mr. Papodopoulous' 'cause she wanted him to be able 'to take one last spin in it'" Archibald did a passable impression of Mrs. Papodopoulous' heavily accented voice.

"That does not seem unreasonable, given the circumstances, Archibald.  I trust you were suitably sympathetic to her wishes?"

"Oh yeah, I said it wasn't a problem but I wasn't really happy 'cause it's a big car and I've never driven anything like that before.  It was a bit weird having him next to me an' all"

"Him?"

"Mr. Papodopoulous.  She insisted on having the urn strapped in the passenger seat, so he could see out, like.  Mrs. Papodopoulous was in the back."

"Well, again, not entirely unreasonable" Josiah pointed out, "we do have to make certain allowances for the feelings of the recently bereaved, as I have made clear to you on numerous occasions, Archibald"

"Yeah, well, any road, we're travelling down the dual carriageway and we get pulled over by the Police for a routine check"

"Not speeding?"  Josiah asked with trepidation.  He still shuddered whenever he remembered the occasion when Archibald, in an excess of zeal and concern for punctuality, had hurtled past the hearse carrying the coffin, with the ashen-faced family of the deceased clutching each other in fright as he reached speeds in excess of 100 mph in his attempt to reach the crematorium on time.

"Nah, nothing like that.  They were stopping people at random, checking car tax, tyres and stuff. So, they pulled us up and the first thing they asked was, was I the owner of the car?"

"Indeed, standard procedure" Josiah nodded.

"Yeah, but they got a bit shirty when I said I wasn't but he was and pointed to the urn." Archibald crossed his arms and looked suitably put-upon, " I think they thought I was trying to be funny."

"I can imagine" Josiah sighed and reached for his notepad.  From past experience he found that any foray by Archibald into the outside world nearly always required a series of apologies, so he commenced what he expected to be his list of Apologies To Make with 'Local Police' at the top.

"Mrs. Papodopoulous had to get out and explain it all to them.  They were alright after that but they kept looking at me a bit funny, I thought"

"I can't imagine why" Josiah commented, sarcastically, knowing full well the nuance would be lost on Archibald.

"Anyhow, eventually we get back on the road and head for the cliffs where Mrs. P. wanted to scatter Mr. P's ashes.  Only, when we get up there, it's blowing like bugg… nobody's business.  I said maybe we should try somewhere else but she wouldn't hear of it.  So, she gets this bag of rose petals and stands on the edge of the cliff and chucks them over, 'cause she wanted to do that first before we sent the ashes down"

"Seems a nice, romantic touch" Josiah remarked.

"Yeah, well, it's just as well she did, 'cause the wind blew all the petals back and she was covered from head to foot.  She just stood there looking like a giant pimple!"

"I hope you were demonstrated a degree of compassion, Archibald?" Josiah asked with the definite feeling that he shouldn't have entrusted Archibald with this task, after all.

"Of course!" Archibald responded, indignantly, "mind you, you've got to laugh haven't you?  I think even she saw the funny side after we'd cleaned her up a bit.  We got most of the petals back in the bag, so it was alright, really.  I said to her, with it blowing like bugg…erm, blowing quite a bit up there I thought we'd better knock that idea on the head.  Anyhow, she started getting upset and said how as she'd promised Mr. P. that she'd 'commit his body to the waves' like he wanted, so I said why don't we hire a boat and do it that way"

"Very enterprising, Archibald.  I'm pleased you sought a solution"

"Yeah, well, I thought it was a good idea and she got all enthusiastic and said that her brother had a fishing boat, so we drove down to the harbour but her brother had already gone out fishing and there was no-one else about."

"That was unfortunate, Archibald.  What action did you take?"

"Well, the foot passenger ferry was just about to set off, so we piled on that.  I thought we could just dump Mr. P. off the back when we got about half-way across the channel"

Josiah nodded.  The ferry carried foot passengers from the harbour to a headland a small distance away so that they could access the next town without having to drive the much greater distance along the coast.  "A sound enough plan, provided the Ferryman had no objections" He agreed.

"Yeah, well, I told him about it and he took it ever so seriously.  When we got about halfway across, he stopped the engine, came to the back of the boat and lowered the little flag to half-mast.  Then he got all of the other passengers to stand up and made them sing "For Those In Peril On The Sea" while Mrs. P. chucked the rose petals out and I ditched Mr. P. into the drink"

Josiah had a mental image of the assembled passengers standing precariously and singing and had to stifle a smile.  "Were the other passengers alright about it?"  He asked, eventually.

"Well, there was a party of Chinese folk and they didn't seem to know what was going on.  They didn't look at all happy.  I was surprised that the Ferry bloke did all that 'cause Mrs. P. said that Mr. P. couldn't stand him.  Apparently, he always said 'he was a cheating bastard who abused his monopolistic position'" Archibald mimicked Mrs. Papodopoulous again.

"I hope she didn't say that to him"

"Well, no, not right then.  That came later."

"Later?  In what way, later?" Josiah asked with a good deal of trepidation.

"It was when we got back after we'd dropped the Chinese folk off. The Ferryman wanted Mrs. P. to pay for three round-trip tickets and she went off at him, a bit.  In the end he settled on two return tickets and one single on the grounds that Mr. P. didn't come back, which seemed fair"

"I suppose so" Josiah shook his head, he was definitely entering that state of total disorientation which always seemed to come from being in conversation with Archibald.  "All in all, from the sound of things, I suppose it could have been worse" He reached for his notepad and added 'Ferryman' to his list.

"Yeah, if that had been the end of it.  But, as we were driving back, we got stopped again but this time by a different lot of copp…policemen, 'cause we were on the other carriageway" Archibald explained, "going in the opposite direction.  They wanted to know the same stuff, like 'is this your vehicle,sir' and all that"

"And what did you tell them, this time?"

"Well, I said that by rights I supposed it was Mrs. P. who owned it now, and she nodded like, because it used to belong to her husband, Mr. Papodopoulous, but we'd just chucked him in the ocean.  You wouldn't credit how excited they got!  Next thing we know, we're both being dragged out of the car, bent over the bonnet and frisked"

"Oh no!  Poor Mrs. Papodopoulous!"

"Oh, I don't know.  I think she quite enjoyed it.  She certainly had a gleam in her eye when they loaded us on to the van"

"Loaded you on to the van!  Why?"

"They took us to the Cop Sh…Police Station, didn't they? 'Cause they thought we'd done away with Mr. Papodopoulous, you see."

Josiah added Mrs. Papodopoulous to his ever increasing list.

"I presume, given your presence here, Archibald, that this distressing interlude was concluded satisfactorily?"

"You what?" Archibald looked puzzled.

"I guess everything's alright as you're here now!" Josiah all but shouted.

"Yeah, 'cause that Inspector turned up, you know, that one who interviewed me after all that business with Mrs. Anderby and the compost (see Last Rights) and he took one look at me and said he wasn't going through all that again, not for a big clock, and they chucked us out."

Josiah added the Detective Inspector to the list and reflected that this was probably going to cost him at least one bottle of Malt.

"I think, on reflection, Archibald" Josiah said, faintly, as he buried his face in his hands, "that I was ill-advised to entrust you with this particular mission.  It clearly involved a good deal more complexity than I ever imagined"

"Oh, don't fret Mr. O.  It wasn't all bad news."  Archibald said, stoutly, "The Ferry bloke said, for the right money, you can chuck anyone you like off the back of his boat"

"I will bear that in mind, Archibald" Josiah said, resignedly. "I will bear that in mind" He was pretty sure he had a strong candidate on the tip of his tongue.

THE END

If you enjoyed this, you should check out the special Christmas story featuring this pair in my collection of seasonal stories 'A Christmas Cracker'

Fill Your Stockings!

I'm delighted to announce the launch of the paperback version of my Christmas collection of stories 'A Christmas Cracker'.  Now available through Amazon and to order through your local bookshop, this great little book makes the perfect stocking filler at just £4.99 (or equivalent).  What's it all about?  Well, let me tell you...

"Are you ITCS yet? For those who don't know, we're talking about being In The Christmas Spirit here. Before you throw this book out of the window, just remember that this is a state of mind that advertisers and manufacturers try very hard to induce in you, and yet the answer is right here, in this little book. Being ‘In The Christmas Spirit’ is impossible to define. It’s a bit like love, you know it when you’re in it. Philip has gathered together a whole bunch of stories he's written about Christmases past and present, some factual, some fictional, over the years. Some of these, if you’re a regular reader of his ramblings (and we know there are some of you out there...we can hear you breathing) you may recognise from previous collections, although updates have been made where it was sensible to do so. Interspersed with these familiar stories are others that have never previously seen the light of day, including a story featuring Josiah and Archibald, the two fictitious undertakers, written specifically for this collection. We really hope that you get as much enjoyment from reading these stories as we've had gathering them, and that you're ITCS before you can say "Ho, ho, ho!"

Previously only available as a Kindle edition, this is the perfect gift for the baby-boomer in your life, or for anyone who enjoys a good chuckle at Christmas (or any other time for that matter).

Follow this link to the paperback edition:

"A Christmas Cracker"

The 'Pictures of an Exhibition' 2019 World Tour!

DERBY - NOTTINGHAM - 

WALTON-ON-TRENT- ASHBOURNE

Alright, I agree, as World Tours go it's rather limited.  In fact, it only works if you view the world as starting and ending with the East Midlands, which I know some people do.  Also, it depends on you stretching the concept of a 'Tour' to include dates that are months apart from each other (January - Derby, March - Nottingham, October - Walton-on-Trent, November - Ashbourne)  Nevertheless, it's the nearest to a World Tour that I'm likely to get, so...

I've dusted off my 'Pictures of an Exhibition' talk and updated it and now I'm taking it on the road again.  My thanks to the four societies that have taken the plunge and I'm very much looking forward to talking to you next year.

What's the 'Pictures of an Exhibition' talk all about?  Well, here's the blurb "Philip spent a lot of his younger days being urged not to make an exhibition of himself by his parents and yet, somehow, succeeded in doing so.  With a series of pictures and stories, Philip explains how he grew up (allegedly) in Burton upon Trent and lived to tell the tale"  You'll hear a lot of the stories that have featured in the popular 'nostalgedy' collection of books, many of which have previously appeared in the Derby Telegraph.

You can find out all about my speaking offer at Derbyshire Speakers Directory - Philip Whiteland  I've got just two more slots available at the 'expenses only' rate (actual petrol costs plus any parking fees) in 2019, after those have gone there will be a modest fee for any other dates in 2019.

Perhaps I should get some T-Shirts printed ☺

Arkwright's Tin

Do you do anything that you know, in your heart, is absolutely futile?

I don't mean such things as reading this blog, although I accept that there's a good case to be made for it.  No, I'm talking about doing something habitually which you know, full well, is absolutely pointless.  I'll give you a 'for instance':

In my wardrobe, underneath where my shirts and tops hang, there is a shelf on which has accumulated a variety of objects that I can't find a home for anywhere else.  This includes two watches, a portable Sat-Nav of considerable age, a variety of mobile phone chargers (most long since redundant) some cuff-links in cases and various other odds and ends, including a small pouch which did contain cuff-links at one time but which is empty now. 

There is a purpose to this rather tedious insight into my clothing storage arrangements.  Just about every time I get a shirt or top out of the wardrobe to wear, you can guarantee that it will sweep the small pouch, referred to above, from the shelf and onto the floor.  Each time, without fail, I bend down and retrieve this pouch and return it to its rightful position, even though I know full well that it has no purpose and will, in all probability, never have a purpose again.  I call this fixation a nasty case of 'Arkwright's Tin'.

You may recall the classic Ronnie Barker series 'Open All Hours' in which he played the misanthropic shopkeeper, Arkwright?  A wonderful piece of 'business' in the programme was the vicious action of the cash register, which intimidated Granville, his assistant.  The particular bit of genius associated with this was that, every time the cash register sprang open, a tin on top of the register invariably fell down, was adroitly caught by Arkwright and was reverently placed back on top of the register, despite the tin apparently being empty and having no purpose whatsoever.

There are other examples.  I've mentioned before about a saw that we inherited from a favourite aunt.  When it came to us, it was still contained in the cardboard sleeve in which it was, presumably, purchased.  Over the years, this cardboard sleeve became more and more dilapidated by wear and tear, until it evolved into no more than a folded piece of cardboard, which only partly covered the saw, but we still diligently replaced it each time we used the saw.  Only recently has it deteriorated to such an extent that we've finally been forced to admit defeat and put it in the recycling bin (the cover, not the saw).

I've also mentioned before about my mum's vacuum cleaner.  Purchased by my dad, at considerable expense from a very effective door-to-door salesman, it weighed a ton and my mum hated it from Day 1.  It came with a wide range of tools that could, allegedly, achieve a whole range of unlikely tasks, including washing the car.  I don't think we ever used more than a couple of these, and then only for the most mundane of purposes.  Nevertheless, the vacuum cleaner came, when new, in a box with all of these tools arranged around it in various cardboard tubes.  We kept the cleaner and tools in their original box and it lived under the stairs. 

Getting it out of the box was a tricky operation, given the lack of ceiling height, caused by the slope of the stairs above, and the considerable weight of the cleaner.  Every time that you finally succeeded in extricating the cleaner from its lair, the tools arranged around it, now deprived of its support, would fall down into the box, so that each time we returned the cleaner we had the tricky operation of putting the tools upright to create the space for the cleaner and then gingerly replacing the cleaner without knocking any of the tools back down again (which was near enough impossible).  At no time did it ever occur to us to abandon the box and original packaging and just keep the cleaner and tools somewhere else.

I can't believe that we're the only family to have these 'Arkwright's Tin' moments.  Do you do anything like this?  Please let me know, otherwise I'm going to have to apply for one of those specially fitting jackets and have done with it!

Just a reminder that all of the books in the 'nostalgedy' collection (which includes the sort of tripe you've just read) are at their LOWEST POSSIBLE PRICE for the month of August.  Like this:

Steady Past Your Granny's 99p

Crutches for Ducks 99p (usually £2.49)

A Kick at the Pantry Door 99p (usually £1.49)

Giving a Bull Strawberries 99p (usuallly £1.49)

The Things You See £1.49 (usually £2.49)

The Nostalgedy Collection (all of the five books above) £5.45 (usually £8.95)

The Things You See paperback edition £5.99 (usually £7.99)

In each case, these are the lowest possible prices that Amazon will let me set.  Click on any of the titles above to go straight to the relevant Amazon product page.

If you want to augment your holiday reading, grab a bargain for the long winter nights to come or even buy an early Christmas present at a price that won't be repeated this year, just follow the links.  They will never be cheaper

Cheap Phil's

There are many good reasons to buy a 'nostalgedy' book, I would humbly suggest.  Chief amongst these is that, for those of us of a certain age, there's none of that bother of having to remember which character is which or the intricate twists and turns of the plot, for the astonishingly simple reason that there are no characters and there isn't any plot! 

I would submit that this is a boon and a blessing.  If you're like me (in which case, you have my deepest sympathy) you probably find that you rarely have the time and/or inclination to read a book from cover to cover, which is fine if you're reading something that lends itself to dipping in and out but a bother if it's something that requires you to remember a host of characters and their recent shenanigans. 

This is particularly true when you're on holiday when you can easily be distracted by all of the other things on offer or by simply surrendering to the arms of morpheus in the warmth of the sun. 

What you need, in these circumstances, is a series of short, self-contained tales which will amuse but not tax the memory cells.  As luck would have it, I have the very thing for you and, wonder of wonders, for the month of August it will never be cheaper.

For this month only, all of the books in the 'nostalgedy' collection are at their lowest possible price, and this includes the paperback option.  Here's the deal:

Steady Past Your Granny's 99p

Crutches for Ducks 99p (usually £2.49)

A Kick at the Pantry Door 99p (usually £1.49)

Giving a Bull Strawberries 99p (usuallly £1.49)

The Things You See £1.49 (usually £2.49)

The Nostalgedy Collection (all of the five books above) £5.45 (usually £8.95)

The Things You See paperback edition £5.99 (usually £7.99)

In each case, these are the lowest possible prices that Amazon will let me set.  If you want to augment your holiday reading, grab a bargain for the long winter nights to come or even buy an early Christmas present at a price that won't be repeated this year, just follow the links.  They will never be cheaper!

Brace Yourself!

Every year, since we've been able to do so, my wife and I have bought Senior Citizen Railcards with the intention of "seeing a bit more of this country, this year", and, every year, just like clockwork, we realise that we're coming to the end of the Railcard's natural life and that we haven't done anything with it.  Panic sets in and we hunt about for possible locations for a day out, which will go some way toward justifying the expense of the Railcard in the first place.  This is a long-winded explanation of why, a week or so ago, you could find us heading out to the east coast for a day by the seaside.

Where did we go to?  Well, to a certain extent we were retracing the steps I've described in 'The Curse of the Jolly Fisherman' albeit with better weather.  I don't want to upset the City Fathers unduly, so let's utilise a cryptic crossword clue:

1 (across) Confused eg. SS Kens

 Yes, that should save any red faces.  Therefore, we were not going to Mablethorpe or Chapel St. Leonards, despite the undisputed attractions of those rival resorts.

It's been quite a few years since I've been to this particular resort as a destination.  I've passed through it and by it on numerous occasions but haven't actually aimed to spend the day there.  I can now understand why not.  Here are a few observations:

1.  I've Got Wheels!

It must be the mobility scooter capital of the world.  I have never seen so many in one place at one time.  Of course, there's nothing inherently wrong with mobility scooters and for some, they're an essential part of living a relatively normal life.  However, the majority seemed to be employed in moving the morbidly obese from one eating venue to another. What amazed me was not the number but the sheer variety.  As well as the conventional scooter there were also monstrosities bedecked with chrome and faux exhaust pipes that looked like miniature U.S. Interstate Trucks. Some sported trailers, in addition to the scooter itself, containing shopping or dogs or, on one memorable occasion, a full sound system belting out C&W hits.  Often there was a panoply of rear-view mirrors, in the manner of Mods motor scooters, although these clearly had no functional purpose because it is your role, as a pedestrian, to get out of their way, not for them to be aware of you.  There was even a Sinclair C5, albeit pedal-powered only, just think how differently it might have turned out for Clive Sinclair if he had just thought to add on an Interstate Trucker option?

2.  The Smell of the Briny

It isnt there.  We took ourselves to the end of the pier, which is as close to the sea (when the tides in) as you can reasonably get at this resort without getting your feet wet.  My wife remarked that she usually enjoyed the smell of the sea but that this was conspicuous by its absence.  Actually, it might well have been there but, if so, it was completely overwhelmed by the overriding aroma of hot fat.  Deep fried fast food being the principal diet in these here parts.  I imagine that, if you were a vegan, vegetarian or just someone committed to a relatively healthy diet, you would die of starvation here.  As we walked down to the sea front, the eateries were largely focused on variations on a theme of the good old English Breakfast, with small breakfasts, large breakfasts, sausage cobs and bacon rolls predominating.  Then, as we got closer, fish and chips became the order of the day with any number of venues competing to be the best in town (allegedly).  By the time we got to the sea front proper our nostrils were assailed with the dubious combination of doughnuts, burgers and more fish and chips.  Every possible nook seemed to contain a deep fat fryer and griddle and a queue of people eager to partake of something, anything, deep-fried.  There wasnt a lettuce leaf or a vegetable in sight.  My wife expressed an interest in pizza and I told her that she was probably being wildly optimistic, which proved to be true.  We settled for fish and chips.

3. It's a State of Mind

Clearly the resort meets a need, otherwise it wouldn't exist in the form that it does.  As I was wandering along, I tried to imagine just what state of mind you would need to adopt n order to get the most out of the place and I came to the conclusion that you would have to be one of three things:

a)  Intoxicated

b) A child, or

c) Intoxicated and childish

As I've been all three of these at various points in life, I can see the possibility of an attraction and I'll bet it gets interesting late at night when deep-fried anything coupled with a go on the fairground rides, always seems like a good idea.

Overall, it's not the resort's fault that it didn't find favour with me on this particular day.  At another time in life I might well have greeted it like a long-lost friend and looked on it as akin to Disneyland.  Perhaps I should view it in the same manner that I might view an attractive but outrageously clad young lady - as someone who might well have been a dream come true 40 years ago but wouldn't fit the bill, now?

It would seem that we were not alone in our judgement, either.  Having arrived at 13.00 with the plan to head home atound 19.00, we came to the conclusion that we had exhausted the resort's charms by 15.30 and rushed to catch the 16.10 train home.  We were met by a long queue of like-minded souls which threatened to fill the two-carriage train back to Nottingham. 

We left the resort to the whir of mobility scooters and the enjoyment of Groups (a) (b) and (c) and headed back to the relative tranquility of the East Midlands.

We Need To Talk!

I seem to have been going through a phase in which I've been giving up quite a few things that used to occupy my time and now I'm left with quite a bit of spare capacity and no real idea of how I might usefully use it.  After quite a bit of mental arm-wrestling, I've come to the conclusion that a lot of the things that I could do, I don't actually want to do, if I'm being honest with myself, so there seems little point in setting myself up to fail (yet again).

I've tried to analyse what I've enjoyed about the various things I've done in my life, and what I haven't and I've come to the conclusion that what I've really enjoyed (and what I miss the most) is the performance aspect.  When I was a lecturer, I got a real kick out of talking to the class and trying to come up with entertaining ways of conveying information about a subject (HR) which can be quite tedious at times.  I may not have always succeeded, but I did enjoy trying!

I had a sort of 'Damascene' moment regarding this at a 'Poetry and Puddings' evening the other week.  Each member of the audience was encouraged to read a poem of some sort before and after the main event of descending on the huge range of delicious puddings on offer.  I was chuffed to bits that my choice of 'The Lion and Albert' went down really well and caused quite a few chuckles.  I realised that this is what I had missed.

When my first book ('Steady Past Your Granny's' - available as a Kindle edition and soon to be available again in print) came out, I was pleased to be invited to give a talk or two based on the content.  The problem was that I hadn't really done any research into what people expected from a 'talk' of this nature and so I just winged it.  As such, I must offer my profound apologies to the massed ranks of the Burton Civic Society who were the first to suffer.

It was a very well-attended talk and the front row was largely comprised of my friends and family who had dutifully turned out.  I didn't have a script for my contribution, just a list of topics I wanted to cover.  This would be fine except for the fact that, when I'm thinking furiously about what I'm trying to say, I have a tendency to pace and I spent the whole session striding up and down the front row so that they began to resemble the crowd at Centre Court during a particularly energetic rally.  I had no visual aids, so the audience were reduced to watching my stroboscopic image darting madly from side to side as I droned on.  It would be fair to say that I was received politely, if not enthusiastically and I was disappointed to note that one or two of those present had actually dropped off.

After that debut, it was somewhat of a surprise to be invited to do the whole thing again but this time as an after-lunch talk to the Rotary Society in Burton.  You would think that I would have learned my lesson from the previous performance but...I still had no visual aids and no script.  The only saving grace was that, pinned in by my fellow diners on the top table, I couldn't stride about like a mad thing.

The third and final time I was asked to give a talk was to Burton's Probus Society.  This time I decided I would try to learn from my mistakes.  Winging it was clearly not my forte.  I prepared my talk in advance and rehearsed it night and day.  I also took the precaution of preparing a PowerPoint presentation of some appropriate pictures which acted as an aide-memoir to me and gave the audience something else to look at, other than me.  This time I managed to resist the temptation to stride about manically, I stuck to the 'script' and managed to get some laughs.  Admittedly one person was sound asleep by the end of it but, given my previous record, I deemed that a success.

That marked the end of my appearances on the 'talks' circuit.  Pressure of work and other commitments meant that I couldn't really devote any time to it and, to be fair, I wasn't exactly besieged by invitations.  I put my PowerPoint projector to one side and that was the end of that.  Except that now, five books later, I'm hear with quite a few stories to tell and I think I've got some better ideas about how I might tell them.  Obviously, I've still got a lot to learn but the only way to do that is to practice, so I'm putting myself back on the market, as it were. 

If you're in Staffordshire or Derbyshire and you think that you might be interested in hearing what I've got to say, perhaps we could give it a go?  You may have to nail my feet to the floor, of course ;-)

The Column Inches...Away!

Some of you (not many, I'll give you, but some of you) may have been wondering what has happened to the monthly Derby Telegraph column in which I have been rambling about my somewhat chaotic start to my career history?  For the record, the last column appeared in April and it was this one 'The End of the Paper Trail'.

The simple answer is that the Derby Telegraph, in their wisdom, have changed the format of their Bygones page so that, as from 1st May, the daily page is no more and has been replaced by a 250 word insert with a photo.  The Bygones supplement, published each Monday, carries the longer articles written by contributors like myself but, as it's only five pages long, it's somewhat restricted as to content.  As all the former monthly contributors are now funnelled through this supplement, and two pages of it are given over to a local history article by a local historian and one page to a sort of 'On This Day in History' type article, there really isn't a lot of scope for one of my articles to appear, other than once in a blue moon.  The end result is that an unbroken series of monthly articles, stretching back more than ten years, appears to have come to a rather unfortunate end.

I can't complain because I've had a really good run and I can clearly recall the joy of getting my first article in print, never expecting to still be churning out memories from my early years ten years later.  Still, I'll miss the discipline of producing a monthly article and the memories it evoked.

Thanks to all of you who have taken the time to read about my exploits and if you know of anyone who is in need of a columnist - I'm cheap and available ;-)

It's hot! Get yourself a 99 (p special)

For this UK Bank Holiday week only, the newest book in the 'nostalgedy' series has been reduced from £2.49 to just 99p!

What have people said about 'The Things You See...'

"I have read and enjoyed all of Philip Whiteland's books and this book was no exception. But a word of warning. Do not read this book in bed if you don't sleep alone. I got in big trouble because I was laughing so much I woke up my husband. He was not impressed. Especially watch out for the kick towards the end at the Post Office. I shall say no more, other than ENJOY!"  Jonty

"Philip has done it again with The Things You See. I love all Philips books and this is particularly special to me as it mentions a place I once worked. It gives so much detail I am almost back at my desk in the late 70s. Philip's books/kindles are just the job to cheer you up.

Keep writing Philip."  Quintella

"As usual Philip pushes those memory buttons long switched off. His humour makes it a local book that must be read. Off now to finish the last few pages."   Amazon Customer

"...it made me chuckle and successfully took me back in time to wonderful friends and events and a happy life style most of which I had all but forgotten - so well done and thank you..."  KLB

"....I'm thoroughly enjoying it!  It's amazing how much you forget about the past.  Happy times."  LW.

The Things You See...

The Thing With Bing!

If you've got children of a certain age around the house, then you'll know about Bing!  If not, his work may have passed you by, particularly if you don't happen to be an avid fan of CBeebies.

Bing! (and he always comes with his own exclamation mark) is a charming black rabbit dressed in a colourful set of dungarees (which people my age would have called a romper suit in the dark ages).  He has a series of adventures with his friends Sula (an elephant) Pando (a panda) and Coco (another rabbit) which are all little morality tales in which Bing! learns a lesson about behaviour and social rules, which makes him a better rabbit.  So far, so good.

Where it gets a bit odd, in my opinion, is when we consider the carers of these animals.  None of them are the same species as their charges.  In fact, they're not any recognisable species at all.  For example, Flop, Bing's! carer, is an indeterminate brown thing that looks like a favourite toy that's been washed too many times.  Moreover, he, and all the other carers and 'adults' in these stories, is only half the size of his dependant, if that.

What bothers me is that these creatures, whatever they are, clearly run the world they inhabit.  They care for their giant animal offspring and also run the shop, the ice cream van and everything else in between.  What you don't see, ever, are the grown-up versions of the animals of which the children are infants, if you see what I mean.  Clearly Bing!, Sula and the rest have to grow up, at some point, so what happens to them then?  They can't take a position of any responsibility in their world because the small things with funny shapes have got those all sewn up. 

Is it me, or does this have all the hallmarks of a classic, if rather surreal, horror film?

The End of the Paper Trail

It's a little after the event, but here's April's column for the Derby Telegraph in which I wonder whether I've made the right decision.  Something I spend most of my life wondering ;-)

and this is the unedited version:

There was a lot that I really liked about Wesley's in Victoria Crescent, Burton back in the 1970s.  I liked the people and the quirkiness of the building.  I loved the ancient machinery and the odd terms associated with paper manufacture (like reams and 'knocking up').  The only thing I really wasn't happy about was the pay, which was abysmal.

You might wonder why I was bothered about how much I earned?  After all, I lived at home and paid a modest amount of 'board', had no expenses other than my bus fare, money for cigarettes and a few pints (well, quite a few actually).  The answer could be found on a Saturday night at the Transport Club.  Here, in the Lounge, gathered all of my mates and some mates of my mates, along with their respective wives/girlfriends.  This made for a most convivial evening but I found that buying a round pretty much wiped out all of my disposable income for the rest of the week!

It wasn't just about the money, either.  Most of my friends (even Kev) had secured good jobs with the Department of Employment (or whatever title it went by in those days) initially in the Labour Exchange in Cross Street and then in the Job Centre in New Street.  Their jobs had clear career paths, promotion to higher levels was on offer as was the opportunity to try other roles at the same grade to expand their knowledge and experience.  They were perpetually going on training courses.  I barely had enough work to last me through the week and had never been trained to do anything.

On the grounds of 'if you can't beat them, join them', I went to talk to a manager in the Department.  Unfortunately, it soon became clear that the Civil Service's rules of entry were designed to keep me out.  You had to have 5 'O' Levels or their equivalent to join as a Clerical Officer.  Unfortunately, my 3 'O' levels and 2 'A' levels were in the same subjects, which meant they didn't count.  Therefore, if I was to join, it could only be as a Clerical Assistant, the lowest of the low, at a salary even lower than the miserable amount Wesley's provided me with.  On reflection, this would have been a good move but at 22 I was not thinking in the long term, I just needed enough to buy a round on a Saturday night.

My eye was caught by an advertisement for a Cost Clerk at Grants of St. James's in Station Street.  A couple of interviews later, I was astonished to be offered the job as a Cost Clerk/Assistant Section Leader.  What did this involve?  I had no idea and still wasn't sure 2½ years later when I left.  The attraction, to me however, was that I would be doubling my salary, would have a generous allowance of wines and spirits and would be closer to home.  Taking all of that into account, the fact that I didn't know anything about the job seemed of little importance.

I can still remember the day that I left Wesley's.  It was a warm summer evening as I walked out of my office and headed down the loading bank for the last time.  I looked back at the familiar bulk of the Victorian former Crescent Brewery and my heart sank.  Why, I wondered, was I leaving somewhere that I loved and knew so well, just for a few more pounds in my pocket.  I had a sinking feeling that I might be making a very big mistake.

If you're wondering how I got the job at Grants', despite having little relevant experience and no knowledge of what the job entailed?  So was I, but I think it became clear on my first morning when the Department Head remarked that he had seen my dad on his way to work that morning.  As my dad was 'between engagements' and was still in bed when I left home, I realised he must be talking about my uncle with whom, apparently, he was great friends.  You could see his face fall when I told him but he covered it well.

Life Imitating Art?

I went to the theatre at the weekend.  Yes, yes, I know “Get you, how cultured!” and so on.  I didn’t expect to be going, in all honesty, as a consequence of my own stupid actions, or inactions as it turned out.  I’ll explain.

There’s very little, these days, which makes me laugh out loud.  An awful lot of modern comedy, I find,  just leaves a wry smile on the face as you contemplate how clever it was, and that’s about it.  Even fewer things leave me giggling helplessly, with tears streaming down my face.  Therefore, when I had exactly that reaction to “A Christmas Carol Goes Wrong” on T.V. over the festive season, I was determined to repeat the experience.  I was delighted to note that our local theatre was going to be hosting the company’s touring production, “The Play That Goes Wrong”, later in the year and I made a mental note to make sure I got tickets for this. 

Making a mental note, when you have a memory like mine, is a pointless exercise, so although it was at the back of my mind that I really should do something about this, that’s as far as it got.  When I realised, to my horror, that it was going to be on last week, I went to the theatre’s site to see about tickets, only to find it was sold out for the whole week.  Being a mature adult, who recognises that the problem is entirely of his own making… I sulked! 

Without a great deal of optimism, I contacted the Box Office to see if they had a waiting list for returned tickets, and they had.  I didn’t hold out much hope, but I indicated that I would be happy with just one ticket if necessary, or even two but not sitting together.  My name went on the list and I expected to hear no more.  Then on Friday, came the phone call that said they had just one ticket returned for Saturday night and would I like it?  Which is why, on Saturday evening, I was squeezed in between two couples on Row E anticipating a performance I hadn’t hoped to ever see.

Apparently, with pornography, if you watch enough of it you begin to wonder why everyone isn’t ripping their clothes off at the slightest provocation in real life (or so I’m reliably informed, not that I’ve ever…) and there was something of this effect apparent with “The Play That Goes Wrong”.  

Without wishing to spoil the experience, from the moment you enter the auditorium, you’re immersed in the theme of the play because the ‘Director’ and one of the ‘Stage Hands’ are looking for a lost dog and quizzing the arriving audience about it.  This puts everyone on notice that things might not be as they seem which means, as a consequence, that everything could potentially be part of the production.  At one point, an audience member is dragged up on stage to help the ‘Stage Hands’ with a particularly tricky part of the set, and this is clearly part of the whole thing, but then, when everyone had settled down, two people arrived with a member of the front of house staff and the whole audience turned to watch what was going to happen.  There was a conflab between the front of house staff and a couple seated a row or two in front of me and this resulted in them blushingly getting up and moving back a couple of rows to the only remaining empty seats so that the two new arrivals could take theirs.  I’m sure this wouldn’t have been noticed in any other production but, because the whole audience was  on alert for the next thing to go wrong, the couple who had been in the wrong seats actually got a round of applause!  I don’t think it was part of the production, but then, who knows?

The play itself was as good as I’d hoped and I can’t recommend it strongly enough.  When I came out I discovered that I’d almost lost my voice because I had been laughing that heartily, and that takes some doing when you’re on your own and not necessarily in your comfort zone.

After the show, you’re left in this frame of mind in which you’re still anticipating the next thing to go wrong and real life seemed to go out of its way to make this happen.  I joined a small crowd who were trying to get to the Intu centre’s upper car parking floors.  Unfortunately, as we headed time and again for the lifts that would take us there, we found the floor cordoned off by the cleaning staff and we were politely but firmly redirected back on ourselves to find an alternative access.  This happened so many times, I think we were all beginning to despair of ever seeing our loved ones again, but there was this overwhelming sense that this somehow fitted perfectly with the theme of the evening.

When I eventually did get to the correct floor, despite having made a careful note of my parking zone, I had a heck of a job to find it (everywhere looks the same, like something out of a dystopian science fiction movie).  Then I couldn’t find the right exit.  But it was the exit from the car park that finally convinced me that I should be looking out for the hidden cameras which would confirm I was still part of the production.

I pulled up to the ticket machine, wound down my window to insert my ticket and get the barrier to raise, when the machine made a noise like an android being sick and vomited a pile of tickets out and into my car.  I sat there in disbelief, confidently awaiting a manic laugh from stage left.

I’m definitely coming to the conclusion that I’m living out one of their scripts.  Perhaps they could find a place for me in their next production, I’ve a feeling it would be a home from home!

You can find a lot more about Philip's life going wrong, both yesterday and today, in his 'nostalgedy' series of books.  Try "The Things You See...", the latest collection available in print and as a Kindle e-book.

The Green, Green Grass of Home

"Spring is sprung, the grass is riz…" and 'riz' it most certainly is, and will be until the nights start drawing in and the first frosts put a stop to it all.  The grass being 'riz' wouldn't be an issue if we could just smile benignly and watch it wave gently in the breeze, but we can't.  We feel compelled to hack it to within an inch of its life, on at least a weekly basis, and grass, being of a hardy and sporting nature, just keeps on coming right back for more of the same treatment.

I once read some research which indicated that the reason we feel compelled to reduce grass to verdant stubble, in this manner, is because of our prehistoric forebears.  Back on the savannahs in Africa, they relished the closely cropped grassland all around them as it meant that they could spot a predator from miles away, thus making popping down for a swift one at the waterhole less of a fraught exercise.  Actually, saying that 'I read some research' makes it sound as if I spend my leisure time poring over academic reports when, in all likelihood, I probably got it from the back of a cereal packet, but it does have the ring of truth to it.  Why else would we insist on surrounding ourselves with swathes of the green stuff which have no practical purpose?  You might argue that a back lawn gives somewhere for the children and grandchildren to play, in the unlikely event of clement weather, and for dogs to do that which dogs must do, but what about those corner plots on the leafier estates which are cursed with large lawns, to the front and sides, with which nothing can be done at all other than to mow the stuff?

You may have gathered that I am not one of life's gardeners.  Lawn mowing is, in fact, about the limit of my horticultural ability.  When, years ago, I owned a flat, the lawn that came with it was more of a curse than a blessing.  I used to put off the evil day of going to mow until I couldn't see my cat any more when he traversed the patch.  With a heavy heart I would then attack it (the lawn, not the cat) with a strimmer (I didn't possess a mower) and reduce the patch to a series of stubbly hillocks for another month or so.

The strimmer, the electric rotary, the hover and all the rest of the motorised mowing paraphernalia are another reason why I dislike grass-cutting.  There used to be something soporific and quintessentially British about the sound of a manual cylinder mower whirring along on a Sunday morning.  It didn't intrude; in fact it enhanced the stillness of a summer's day.  Now, in our neck of the woods, Sundays sound more like an industrial estate on piece-work.  I'm sure you would get more tranquillity in a blast furnace. 

Of course, it is easy to be hopelessly romantic about the old-fashioned mower.  In reality, it had an unpleasant habit of stopping dead in its tracks, for no apparent reason, thus catching the unwary with a rather nasty blow from the handle to the solar plexus.  This could have resulted in the shattering of the Sabbath stillness with a string of obscenities, if the breath hadn't been knocked completely out of the operator.

I'm not advocating concreting over our green and pleasant land.  Well, not any more that we already seem to be doing.  But wouldn't it be good if we could develop a strain of grass that grew to half an inch in height and then packed up?  Perhaps we could genetically modify it with whichever gene is responsible for male pattern baldness, so that we could at least see some benefit from that?  Alternatively, couldn't we, just for once, let the grass grow under our feet?

You can find this and a whole lot more in the new collection of stories available in both print and Kindle editions - 'The Things You See...'