Ok. Where to start?
With the driver I suppose ... no, wait! Let's talk about the weather first.
I was windy, cold and it was raining. I was at times very nearly blown off my feet and I was very cold. So cold, in fact, that if I had needed to go for a leek, a search and rescue unit would have had to be called in order to find my todger (hold your thumb and forefinger approximately half and inch apart. That'll tell you how cold I was)!
And it rained! Although just saying 'it rained' makes me feel as if I am doing it an injustice! I mean, I could not see more than 30 or 40 feet through the driving rain and it came down so damned hard that it bounced back up and under my coat soaking my trousers all the way up to my backside. Anyway, it rained!
Right, let's get back to the driver.
He looked thin and haggard and had a Dracula-like V of hair that seemed to creep down his forehead each time he blinked. In my mind I named him Bela (after Bela Lugosi). After several minutes of our journey, I renamed him Pothole Charlie due to the fact that he successfully navigated his was from stop to stop via every pothole on the road! And there were many on that thirty-five minute bus ride.
Passengers of note, and there were a lot of them getting on and off, were Mr. Steroid, Granny Gymnast and Goth Girl XXL.
Let me start with Goth Girl XXL. She wore, as you would expect, those ridiculous boots covered in chrome studs and the clothes in the traditional Goth colour of black. Her coat was an old army greatcoat inexpertly dyed ... black, believe it or not. Goth Girl was HUGE ... it is quite possible that there was another X in there somewhere ... so there was little chance of her ever buttoning her coat up against the cold. Beneath her coat she was clad in black T-shirt and black jeans, both seemed to be straining as if desperate to hold her bulk in some sort of shape other than that of a gelatinous blob.
After she purchased her ticket she began to struggle down the narrow aisle to find a seat. Sadly she never made it to a seat as, try as she might, she could not squeeze her bulk through, much to the amusement of my fellow passengers and to her annoyance. For the remainder of her trip she remained standing, grumbling continuously at the poor standards of our buses.
Next there was Mr. Steroid, or Man-Mountain if you prefer, who sat near the front of the bus occupying two seats with his muscle bound body. Despite the weather, he wore nothing but tracksuit bottoms, a sleeveless muscle shirt and a small (too small for his size) denim jacket that was full of 'designer' holes. Above the collar of his jacket a huge triangular muscle rose up, eliminating any prospect of a neck, to the base of his skull giving a good indication of what lay beneath his clothes. Actually, now I think of it, even his ears had muscles!
And last, but not least, there was Granny Gymnast. She was a small, dinky woman. Frail looking and unsteady on her feet as boarded the bus using a zimmer-frame. I clearly heard her speak to the Pothole Charlie as she flashed her bus pass.
"Will you wait until I get seated before you drive off?" she asked.
I couldn't hear Charlie's answer, but judging by Grannies smile, it seemed to be the one she was hoping for, so she proceeded to try and find a seat.
She had hardly managed two tottering steps up the aisle when the bus jerked forward and moved back into traffic.
Grannies zimmer-frame slammed onto the floor at the same time as her feet left it and continued to rise as her head went forwards and down. She was half way into a perfect handstand on her zimmer-frame when, at a speed you wouldn't expect from a chunk of beef of that size, Mr. Steroid was up and diving towards her,
He caught hold of her with one muscular arm around her almost horizontal waist and pulled her to him.
Goth Girl laughed and shouted "Nice one!" as Mr. Steroid righted granny and assisted her to a seat. He then went and remonstrated with the driver.
Granny composed herself and said "Well that's one that'll amuse the grand kids when I tell 'em".
At the next stop I had to get off and was thus destined to miss the rest (if any) of the on-board entertainment.
Had I known that bus journeys could be so much fun, I would have never bought a car!
Friday, 9 December 2011
Wednesday, 7 December 2011
Mr. Atherton's Cat
Buster was a strange animal!
Approximately seven years old, he was a silver and black cat with a red collar on which hung a brass name tag and a bell.
Oh yes, he had attitude too.
Sharp teeth, sharp claws and attitude! Definitely attitude.
No one touched Buster but Mr. A. Limbs could be lost by anyone not in the know.
But he was strange in other ways too.He would, for example, accompany his owner Mr. Atherton* to the local pub on a regular basis. Back in 1976, they were a well known pair that were often seen together in The Coble pub in my home town of Newbiggin by the Sea.
I was told by Mr. A. himself that Buster had just turned up one day on his doorstep shortly after the death of his wife ... Mr. A's, not Buster's ...and as no one had claimed him, he moved in and became a household fixture.
Between 1976 and 1982, the year Mr. A passed away, I often sat with them in the pub and shared a pint, ever hopeful of a time when I could stroke him without forfeit of an extremity.
But, after Mr. A passed away, Buster disappeared. No one ever found out where he went.
Some years later, about 1989 or 90, I passed the house where Mr. A. used to live. I knew that a young couple had moved in a few wears earlier, but had never met them.
As I walked by, I looked towards the front door and there,on the step sat a silver and black cat. It wore red collar on which hung ... yes you've guessed it! ... a brass name tag and a bell.
I was curious, or nosey (whichever you prefer), so I went to door and knocked. The cat just stared at me.
A woman in her thirties answered and I proceeded to enquire as to the name of her cat and where he came from.
She said he was approximately seven years old and they had found him on their windowsill one day and he had never left. His name was ...
"Buster!" I blurted.
She seemed surprised. So I told her the story of Mr. A.
"Now that's really odd" she said. "Our Buster follows my husband to the pub too".
We chatted for a few more minutes before I said my goodbyes and headed off on my way.
It must have been the same cat I thought. Maybe the Buster I knew was a lot younger than we'd thought.
Over time, the story of Buster slipped my mind, just as many things have before and since.
In 2005 when I once again returned to my home town for short visit to family, I found myself in need of a cold beverage and, being near The Coble, I popped in for a quick drink.
I could not believe what I saw. In the corner sat a man, perhaps in his seventies, and under the table at which he sat, lapping at a saucer of water, was a silver and black cat wearing a red collar on which hung ... sing along now ... a brass name tag and a bell.
"Buster?" I said.
The cat left the saucer and sauntered across the hideous red carpet and began rubbing himself against my leg.
I bent down and went to stroke his head but that beautiful little kitty transformed himself into a hissing ball of fur, teeth and claws. I barely managed to pull my hand back in time.
Yep! That was Buster!
But how? He would be well over thirty years old!
He should have been a long dead kitty.
The barman said "You've not met Buster before then. We all know how dangerous he can be".
I told them the story that I have just told to you.
Everyone just stared at Buster!
There were, if my memory serves, quite a few mutterings of "It can't be!" and "Impossible!"
All I know is that this cat was ... and I mean really was ... just as I remembered the Buster I first met in 1976.
* This tale, with the exception of the name Atherton (as I can't for the life of me recall his true name), the fact that my dates may be a little out (but not much) and maybe it was another one of Newbiggin's pubs and not The Coble they frequented, is absolutely true. I kid you not! But I will leave it to your own good selves to decide if such a story, by any stretch of the imagination, could be true or not.
Approximately seven years old, he was a silver and black cat with a red collar on which hung a brass name tag and a bell.
Oh yes, he had attitude too.
Sharp teeth, sharp claws and attitude! Definitely attitude.
No one touched Buster but Mr. A. Limbs could be lost by anyone not in the know.
But he was strange in other ways too.He would, for example, accompany his owner Mr. Atherton* to the local pub on a regular basis. Back in 1976, they were a well known pair that were often seen together in The Coble pub in my home town of Newbiggin by the Sea.
I was told by Mr. A. himself that Buster had just turned up one day on his doorstep shortly after the death of his wife ... Mr. A's, not Buster's ...and as no one had claimed him, he moved in and became a household fixture.
Between 1976 and 1982, the year Mr. A passed away, I often sat with them in the pub and shared a pint, ever hopeful of a time when I could stroke him without forfeit of an extremity.
But, after Mr. A passed away, Buster disappeared. No one ever found out where he went.
Some years later, about 1989 or 90, I passed the house where Mr. A. used to live. I knew that a young couple had moved in a few wears earlier, but had never met them.
As I walked by, I looked towards the front door and there,on the step sat a silver and black cat. It wore red collar on which hung ... yes you've guessed it! ... a brass name tag and a bell.
I was curious, or nosey (whichever you prefer), so I went to door and knocked. The cat just stared at me.
A woman in her thirties answered and I proceeded to enquire as to the name of her cat and where he came from.
She said he was approximately seven years old and they had found him on their windowsill one day and he had never left. His name was ...
"Buster!" I blurted.
She seemed surprised. So I told her the story of Mr. A.
"Now that's really odd" she said. "Our Buster follows my husband to the pub too".
We chatted for a few more minutes before I said my goodbyes and headed off on my way.
It must have been the same cat I thought. Maybe the Buster I knew was a lot younger than we'd thought.
Over time, the story of Buster slipped my mind, just as many things have before and since.
In 2005 when I once again returned to my home town for short visit to family, I found myself in need of a cold beverage and, being near The Coble, I popped in for a quick drink.
I could not believe what I saw. In the corner sat a man, perhaps in his seventies, and under the table at which he sat, lapping at a saucer of water, was a silver and black cat wearing a red collar on which hung ... sing along now ... a brass name tag and a bell.
"Buster?" I said.
The cat left the saucer and sauntered across the hideous red carpet and began rubbing himself against my leg.
I bent down and went to stroke his head but that beautiful little kitty transformed himself into a hissing ball of fur, teeth and claws. I barely managed to pull my hand back in time.
Yep! That was Buster!
But how? He would be well over thirty years old!
He should have been a long dead kitty.
The barman said "You've not met Buster before then. We all know how dangerous he can be".
I told them the story that I have just told to you.
Everyone just stared at Buster!
There were, if my memory serves, quite a few mutterings of "It can't be!" and "Impossible!"
All I know is that this cat was ... and I mean really was ... just as I remembered the Buster I first met in 1976.
* This tale, with the exception of the name Atherton (as I can't for the life of me recall his true name), the fact that my dates may be a little out (but not much) and maybe it was another one of Newbiggin's pubs and not The Coble they frequented, is absolutely true. I kid you not! But I will leave it to your own good selves to decide if such a story, by any stretch of the imagination, could be true or not.
Friday, 2 December 2011
I Could Have Been Concussed! I Could've! Honest!
I am getting old!
You can tell when age catches up to you because you start recalling happier times ... the days of your youth ... on a more regular basis.
Well, when I say 'happier times', I really just mean earlier times! They weren't all happy or without pain.
Yesterday, after my wife took a little bruise inflicting tumble, unbidden came the memory of a fall of my own.
Whereas I should have been giving her some sort of comfort, I was in fact recalling an incident from my Army days which involved stairs, a full backpack and some slow motion body surfing.
It was one of those occasions where our leaders decided to test our reaction time to an emergency.
It was, as it always seemed to be, about 2 am and sirens were blaring across the barracks and indeed across the whole town.
The German population must have really loved us!
Now, when you hear those sirens, you are meant to leap from your bed, don you combat clothing and all your kit and go to a designated point within the barracks where a roll is called before we draw weapons and prepare to move out into the field.
What actually happens is this:
The sirens blare so you turn over in bed and pull a pillow over your head.
You wait until there is a banging on your door that you can ignore until it becomes a violent kicking action accompanied be manic shouting and swearing.
You eventually get out of bed and wander around the corridor asking other bewildered, would-be sleepers, if it really is a 'call out' or was it a fire alarm.
After some clarification, which still isn't clear, you clamber into your combat clothing and boots, grab your gear and head off to the assembly point. This can take quite some time due to the fact that you have to return to your room several times to retrieve those forgotten, but necessary, items of combat gear that you meant to have packed some months ago but never actually got around to.
Anyway, this time, as the wailing of the sirens finally faded, I was already on my feet, dressed and fully equipped. I was ready to go to war!
Woe betide those bad guys!
At this point I should mention red lead paint!
It's what the army uses to paint flooring and sometimes walls. It's easy to clean and difficult to scuff. And it was all over the floors of the armoury building.
It was raining that morning and I was one of the first to respond. Some others were sent to chase up late comers and I was told go to the armoury, draw my weapon and then return to the parade square and begin marshalling vehicles into position ready to move out.
There were steps in the armoury building leading down to the heavy steel armoury door. It was open and one or two men were already grabbing rifles.
Did I mention the red lead floors and the fact that it was raining?
As I reached the top of the stairs I slipped. My feet shot out from under me and I hastily grabbed the hand rail for support. As I did so, my heavy backpack began to drag me down backwards. I pulled hard on the hand rail and tried to jerk myself forward and upright again.
I over did it! Gravity took control!
And I began to slowly topple forward towards the flight of stairs!
In my panic, and in a desperate attempt to minimise the pain and damage that was sure to follow, I dropped to my knees but my forward momentum and the weight of my backpack carried me over, head first onto the stairs.
I landed chest first with a groan and a gasp as the air was knocked out of my lungs.
Then I began a slow motion descent of the stairs on my stomach. All the way to the bottom.
Twenty rib bruising steps later my head, thankfully still steel helmeted, hit the edge of the open armoury door.
I was stunned.
And I couldn't get up!
The kit on my back was just too heavy.
I was lucky though! I really was ... in more ways than one.
Not only were my injuries limited to bruises ... mostly to my pride. But, as a precaution, my CO refused to let me take part in the call-out drill.
Whilst the rest of my unit were all vehicled-up and moving towards an unknown woodland location to begin manoeuvres, I was safely tucked up in a bed in the camp infirmary ... for observation, you understand.
I could have had delayed concussion.
Hmmmm! I might still have it!
You never know.
You can tell when age catches up to you because you start recalling happier times ... the days of your youth ... on a more regular basis.
Well, when I say 'happier times', I really just mean earlier times! They weren't all happy or without pain.
Yesterday, after my wife took a little bruise inflicting tumble, unbidden came the memory of a fall of my own.
Whereas I should have been giving her some sort of comfort, I was in fact recalling an incident from my Army days which involved stairs, a full backpack and some slow motion body surfing.
It was one of those occasions where our leaders decided to test our reaction time to an emergency.
It was, as it always seemed to be, about 2 am and sirens were blaring across the barracks and indeed across the whole town.
The German population must have really loved us!
Now, when you hear those sirens, you are meant to leap from your bed, don you combat clothing and all your kit and go to a designated point within the barracks where a roll is called before we draw weapons and prepare to move out into the field.
What actually happens is this:
The sirens blare so you turn over in bed and pull a pillow over your head.
You wait until there is a banging on your door that you can ignore until it becomes a violent kicking action accompanied be manic shouting and swearing.
You eventually get out of bed and wander around the corridor asking other bewildered, would-be sleepers, if it really is a 'call out' or was it a fire alarm.
After some clarification, which still isn't clear, you clamber into your combat clothing and boots, grab your gear and head off to the assembly point. This can take quite some time due to the fact that you have to return to your room several times to retrieve those forgotten, but necessary, items of combat gear that you meant to have packed some months ago but never actually got around to.
Anyway, this time, as the wailing of the sirens finally faded, I was already on my feet, dressed and fully equipped. I was ready to go to war!
Woe betide those bad guys!
At this point I should mention red lead paint!
It's what the army uses to paint flooring and sometimes walls. It's easy to clean and difficult to scuff. And it was all over the floors of the armoury building.
It was raining that morning and I was one of the first to respond. Some others were sent to chase up late comers and I was told go to the armoury, draw my weapon and then return to the parade square and begin marshalling vehicles into position ready to move out.
There were steps in the armoury building leading down to the heavy steel armoury door. It was open and one or two men were already grabbing rifles.
Did I mention the red lead floors and the fact that it was raining?
As I reached the top of the stairs I slipped. My feet shot out from under me and I hastily grabbed the hand rail for support. As I did so, my heavy backpack began to drag me down backwards. I pulled hard on the hand rail and tried to jerk myself forward and upright again.
I over did it! Gravity took control!
And I began to slowly topple forward towards the flight of stairs!
In my panic, and in a desperate attempt to minimise the pain and damage that was sure to follow, I dropped to my knees but my forward momentum and the weight of my backpack carried me over, head first onto the stairs.
I landed chest first with a groan and a gasp as the air was knocked out of my lungs.
Then I began a slow motion descent of the stairs on my stomach. All the way to the bottom.
Twenty rib bruising steps later my head, thankfully still steel helmeted, hit the edge of the open armoury door.
I was stunned.
And I couldn't get up!
The kit on my back was just too heavy.
I was lucky though! I really was ... in more ways than one.
Not only were my injuries limited to bruises ... mostly to my pride. But, as a precaution, my CO refused to let me take part in the call-out drill.
Whilst the rest of my unit were all vehicled-up and moving towards an unknown woodland location to begin manoeuvres, I was safely tucked up in a bed in the camp infirmary ... for observation, you understand.
I could have had delayed concussion.
Hmmmm! I might still have it!
You never know.
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