tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54875338747998878872024-03-21T08:55:46.892+00:00Musings of a Nobodypafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.comBlogger102125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-81769965844136278742014-09-28T23:25:00.002+01:002014-09-29T00:20:31.130+01:00Now you know why my twitter background looks like it does.<span style="font-weight: bold;">Right, it's been a while, but let's do this thing!</span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">5tjsbfjbg n vnf dvjfdgjbjbjf bvn ncv
ndf jgm vnmf dvjdfvjzv dnfmv nds v,d vnmf dvn xzvm,n dfjv d vnfd jb
fdjvbj cm,n xjkn nfjd vnmc bnmf djhkd fvjn cxmnv ndf vkf vzcl vnmfd cnx
nmf bn vnmc xnmvnd jck vbjkfd vnbmc mnbx xnm bnm bnm n cn vnxc vjn n
cnv d cxn vn dfcb cauliflower n vjxz vnc vbnmc gd vsdkfh vdf vhf
dskcf dkjsf vj svn cn v fhd vncvnf dv vjdf vjklr vdfc vzv fhv hdf vh
bkjf x vng hv hd cx vnx z vdf vgh v,cz vjhfbjz jkf vjk dfj jv jdf vkg
vh xghb vdf vs;f dvhsvjcnjnfkxnvknbgfjdvj xd
fcvjkndsncfjks;ncvjkdvjfjjs;ncjjdf jk vj jk jkf jkf cjjs vjksbvj vj
vjjb;s vjk jlkds vjg b</span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Maybe I don't have it anymore . Hang on, let me try that again...</span><br />
<br />
Ok, I think I've got it. <br />
<br />
It's really hard, actually, to get back into the rhythm of writing one
of these. I've struggled to come up with anything and the one time I
did get a bit of a flow going I realised after half an hour that <a href="http://musings-ofanobody.blogspot.com/2012/03/yeah-yeah-ive-heard-it-all-before.html">I'd already told that story</a>. It's possible that my memory is even
worse than I keep claiming it is on here. <br />
<br />
Anyway, after long consideration I decided to ease my way back in with
an easy one. A short one. A 'let's get this over with so I can get back
to watching Parks and Rec' one. So I decided that I'm going to treat
you all to another taste of my ridiculous abortive attempts at writing
fiction. Last time we went down this road I showed you a short story I
started late one night and never went back to, but this time I have
something else in mind. Yes, I'm going to show you a piece of a script
I started writing, many moons ago. You lucky lucky people you.<br />
<br />
So without further ado, I give you scene two of Nine Tenths.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="sceneheading" id="ENOr5000" scenenumber="3" scenestr="3" style="font-style: italic;">
INT. PLANE cabin. day</div>
<div class="action">
<span style="font-style: italic;">The Pilot, DAVID LEE, and the Co-Pilot, SIMON NELSON, are in
their seats preparing for take off. Checking instruments, flicking switches
etc. DAVID is a handsome black man in his late 30's, tall, fit, obviously
someone who looks after himself. SIMON is the exact opposite; short, balding,
beer belly. </span><br />
</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
SIMON<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
You reckon we'll get a chance to see the sights this trip
then? Or is it gonna be another cot at an airfield job.<br />
</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
DAVID<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
You know the score mate. He doesn't like to hang around once
his business is done so we need to be around as and when. <br />
</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
SIMON<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
Yeah, yeah. I just wish he'd slow down a bit. I've flown to
more countries since I hired on with him than I did with BA and I've not seen
more than a concrete shack and a few trees in any of them. I became a pilot to
see the world, you know.<br />
</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
DAVID<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
Not for the women then?.<br />
</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
SIMON<br />
</div>
<div class="parenthetical">
<br /></div>
<div class="parenthetical">
(laughing)<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
Well, them an'all. <br />
</div>
<div class="action">
<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="action">
<span style="font-style: italic;">The door to the cabin opens and SARAH NAISMITH, an attractive
blonde in her late 20's, dressed in business attire, steps in, bearing cups of
coffee. </span><br />
</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
SARAH<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
Here you are fellas, thought you'd be ready for these.<br />
</div>
<div class="action">
<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="action">
<span style="font-style: italic;">The two men accept them gratefully</span><br />
</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
SIMON<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
Haven't you got enough
to do as his Lordships PA, without sniffing around the hostess' job?<br />
</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
SARAH<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
Tell me about it. Kelly called me, all of 10 minutes ago
mind, to say that she's stuck in traffic and won't be making the flight.
There's no time to call anyone else in so muggins here has got to bite the
bullet. As per. This isn't what I had in mind when I took this job. <br />
</div>
<div class="action">
<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="action">
<span style="font-style: italic;">The men laugh and after a moment SARAH joins in.</span><br />
</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
SARAH</div>
<div class="parenthetical">
<br /></div>
<div class="parenthetical">
(continued)<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
I know, I'm a moany cow. It's just that this job was supposed
to be a stepping stone you know? I thought once he saw what I could do, he'd
give me a shot at something more.<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
Oh well, back to the grindstone. Oh yeah, meant to say, he's
bringing the family on this one, so you'll probably be getting a visit from the
little one at some point. That a problem?<br />
</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
DAVID<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
Nah, she's always welcome. Just as long as she doesn't bring
that other one with her. For someone standing to inherit millions, she can be a
proper moody bastard</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
SARAH<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
She's alright. She's just got a lot on her plate that's all.<br />
</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
DAVID<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
Yeah, must be a tough life.<br />
</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
SARAH</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
Look, you'd be surprised, alright. She's not had it as easy
as you might think. Anyway, I'd better get back. See you later alright.<br />
</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
DAVID<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
Yeah, see ya.<br />
</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
SIMON<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
Later.</div>
<div class="action">
<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="action">
<span style="font-style: italic;">SARAH leaves the cabin and the door closes behind her. </span><br />
</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
SIMON<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
Touched a nerve there mate.<br />
</div>
<div class="character">
<br /></div>
<div class="character">
DAVID<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br /></div>
<div class="dialog">
Ah, bollocks to it.<br />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">And that's the end of scene three of
Nine Tenths. It would have been a cracker as I'm sure you can tell.
Alas, my inability to finish anything I start means that no-one will
ever know. </span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
</div>
<div class="dialog">
<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="dialog">
<span style="font-weight: bold;">See you next time when I will, hopefully, actually have a story from my past to share with you all. Until then, bollocks to ya.</span><br />
</div>
pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-46144136172253616582013-12-09T02:49:00.000+00:002013-12-09T02:49:04.158+00:00Slice of toast, yo! Is that too much to ask?<span style="font-weight: bold;">I am typing this at ten minutes to five in the
morning, having been up all night in order to get my sleep pattern back in
order, on account of having slept through, well, Sunday. This happens a lot,
and has done for many years; no matter how many plans I make and how many
alarms I set, my subconscious has apparently decided that nine times out of
ten, I am going to sleep through the seventh day. </span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">What are you gonna do, eh? </span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Anyway, to business!</span><br />
<br />
I've mentioned a couple of times I think, though I can't swear to it, because my memory is shot; a gentleman by the
name of Bob. My cousin Ian would stay with old Bob regularly, on account of he
was an old friend of the family, and when he did he would hang out with us.
Much of that hanging out took place at Bob's house.<br />
<br />
Now, Bob was a wee bit... crotchety. He was a heavy smoker, liked a drink, and
spent most of his time in a pub, or a betting shop, or in his favourite chair
watching the racing to see how much money he'd lost this week. He was,
essentially, the living embodiment of the Northern Grandad cliche. All he
needed was an allotment.<br />
<br />
His many trips to the betting shop and the pub meant that Ian, and by
extension
myself and my siblings, had free, unsupervised run of his house on more
than
one occasion; something we never failed to take advantage of. Now don't
get me wrong; we didn't run amok and set fire to his curtains and
smash holes in his walls to spy on the ladies who worked in the shop
behind. No
no, we would never do that. What we did, as many an unsupervised child
is wont
to do, is make a hell of a mess and eat his cupboards bare. Until one
day, he
said we couldn't. <br />
<br />
Now, such an edict would not be a big deal you might think. You <span style="font-style: italic;">might</span> think that, but you'd be wrong. You
see, when I arrived at the house Bob was nowhere to be seen, having already
made his pilgrimage to whichever den of iniquity he would be patronising that
day, and it was just me and Ian. So naturally, I made for the food cupboard.
Until Ian stopped me. What The Deuce! He was under strict instructions not to
allow me to eat anything. I took this as a personal insult and said that if I
wasn't allowed any food then I was going home. Where eating between meals was a
shooting offense (and meals themselves weren't always forthcoming), so yeah,
I'm not sure what I was thinking there.<br />
<br />
Of course, as all tiffs do when you're a wee nipper, this one burned out and
was forgotten within a few hours. By everyone except Bob. Bob had come home and
found Ian there alone. Naturally curious as to why Ian wasn't hanging out with
me, he got the story from Ian who, not having developed my finely honed, and
slightly ridiculous, insistence on lying through my teeth to every adult query
regardless of whether I actually stood to gain anything by doing so, told him
the truth. <br />
<br />
Cut to me arriving at Bobs later that day intending to pick right back
up where I'd left off with Ian that morning. I didn't even get to the
door, because Ian came rushing out as soon as I got through the gate
and tried to shuffle me straight back out again. It was a valiant
effort, but he wasn't quick enough and lo, who should arrive on the
scene, looming in the doorway like some kind of crotchety old man
Colossus but Bob himself. Dude was ready to cut a bitch; Ian slinked
off back into the house; I was completely oblivious and had no idea
what was coming/<br />
<br />
Long story short (shut up) I got the earful of a lifetime about
respect, about the value of money, about abusing the privilege of being
a guest in someone's home... all sorts of things that, really, my own
parents would have taught me if they weren't utterly incompetent in the
field of child rearing.<br />
<br />
Of course, I didn't see it like that at the
time; I just thought he'd gone off the deep end and sort of sullenly
submitted to the dressing down before spending the rest of the day
making senility jokes. <br />
<br />
Because I was a knobhead.<br />
<br />
Obviously.<br />
pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-78906165530417379882013-11-25T04:06:00.004+00:002013-12-02T00:24:53.325+00:00HELLA COOL 100TH POST SPECTACULAR, BITCHES!!!!!!! <span style="font-weight: bold;">So, this is the 100th post on MoaN. I
just thought I'd mention that because I keep looking at the title and I
can't shake the feeling that it's a little bit vague. </span><br />
<br />
100 posts sounds like a lot until you, you know, actually think about
it for more than a second and realise that it totally isn't a lot.
There are people posting daily, and even a weekly blog; which MoaN
ostensibly is, though you'd never know it from the erratic way I was
posting, before I just abandoned it altogether; would notch up 100
posts pretty quickly. <br />
<br />
No, 100 posts is not much of an achievement at all. What it <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span>
is enough of a milestone that when I noticed that I was sitting on 99
it gave me a shove to round that shit off. So this is me, posting for
the 100th time.<br />
<br />
Right, that's that done. Now I'm off to watch some more porn. Hmmm, Zoe Britton...<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">*Ahem*</span><br />
<br />
No, of course that's not it! When have I ever come on here and not
rambled for f*cking ages? Never, that's right. Gold star for you. But
what am I to speak about? I don't want this to be a regular post where
I rustle up some traumatic memory from my childhood; it seems like
after such a long gap a catch up post is in order. But what great and
significant things have happened to me since last I clogged up your eye
sockets? <br />
<br />
Well, I'm still living in the same place. Still pining over the same
woman who won't give me the time of day (I know it's sad but if you
knew the woman in question you wouldn't blame me; she lovely). Still
doing the same job... Ooh, I did get a pay rise which means that yes, I
am now earning more than minimum wage, but no, I'm not yet achieving my
lifelong dream of cracking a grand in take home pay. One day, f*ckers,
one day!<br />
<br />
Er... I've read a few books. Watched a lot of TV. Is that interesting
at all? Probably not right? This shit is harrrrrrrd, I'm starting to
remember why I stopped doing it in the first place. <br />
<br />
I started watching Breaking Bad recently, about a month after everyone
watched the finale, cos that's how I roll. It's cool so far. No
spoilers, now!<br />
<br />
This is degenerating fast...<br />
<br />
My boss followed me on twitter. I closed my account then reopened it
and blocked him. It seemed like the thing to do. Later my mother
followed me on twitter. That shit didn't stand for long either. Begone
woman, and never darken my virtual doorstep again!<br />
<br />
Ok, it's official, it's impossible to fill a post with stuff about my
life, even when you have nearly a year of stuff to work with. God I'm
dull. So if I do keep the blog going now that I've revived it, and I
make no promises; or more accurately, threats; on that score, it'll be
back to telling stories about my childhood. I'm told that's moderately
entertaining, in a Lifetime Movie, schadenfreude-esque way.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">So until then, whenever then is, I'll leave you with this; Pessimism is realism. Optimism is insanity.</span>pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-39427570864282793452013-05-06T02:28:00.000+01:002013-05-06T02:28:27.102+01:00Rubbish Dreams<span style="font-weight: bold;">Howdy, y'all. How's it hanging? Yeah? Great! </span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Anyway, to business!</span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br />
I had a dream the other night about Joffrey (from Game of Thrones, as if you
needed telling) showing up at my work and trying to drive the wagon. He crashed
it, and then started threatening people with a sword, so I had a swordfight
with him. I wasn't trying to hurt him; I just waited for him to tire himself
out and then I talked him round from his tantrum and convinced him that instead
of throwing his weight around he would get on in life much better by asking for
help. I promised to teach him to drive the wagon, and he threw away his sword.<br />
<br />
Now, first things first, I can't drive the wagon. I can't drive a car, so I'm
not going near that big fucker. <br />
<br />
Second things second, there is no way in Hell I'm getting involved in a
swordfight. That's not how being a quivering coward works.<br />
<br />
And third things third, my subconscious mind clearly doesn't understand Game of
Thrones, because Joffrey is a fucking sociopath and no amount of calm talk from
me is gonna convince him to do anything but chop my bloody head off.<br />
<br />
All of that aside though, the thing I took away from that dream is that my life
is <span style="font-style: italic;">really fucking dull</span>.<br />
<br />
Think about it. My dreams; the subconscious minds sorting and cataloguing of
the days issues and events, considered that the most important things we needed
to discuss were my job, and a TV show. <br />
<br />
It wouldn't be so bad if it was a one time occurrence but having it
happen every night, or at least every night that I retain anything from
my dreams, is just pouring salt in the wound. The most recent dream
that I can recall, for instance, involved my giving marriage
counselling advice to famous screen couples; in the warehouse at work,
of course; and then someone coming in and looking for ice creams, so I
had to help them find what they wanted in the big supermarket style
chest freezers that we had apparently had installed in our shed for
storing bags of plaster and sheets of plywood. <br />
<br />
Now, this last one at least had the excitement of the ice cream hunt,
but for the most part it was still people from TV shows turning up at
my work. As if there is nothing more to my life than that.<br />
<br />
Sadly of course, there isn't; TV and work really do account for
something like 90% of my waking life. I'm no great expert on these
things, but I'm pretty sure there should be more than that. Right? I
mean, I have acquaintances; not friends, never that; and they all seem
to have things that they do... playing football, running, gong out to
get drunk and cheat on their partners... <br />
<br />
I'm not unhappy in my life. I'm not saying I'm happy either; I don't really <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> happy; but it's not like I'm in some fog of crippling despair. I just have moments sometimes when the <br />
utter pointless blandness of my existence is brought into sharp relief
and I face the chilling realisation that I don't really affect the
world in the slightest. The day after I die, I'll be forgotten. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">There's a cheery little bit of waffle for you. Come back next week when I'll talk about dead pets and serial killer victims.</span>pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-70383349532767419972013-04-22T01:04:00.000+01:002013-04-22T01:22:12.370+01:00Back. Again.Howdy y'all!<br />
<br />
I haven't posted on here in ages. I told myself I was taking a couple of weeks off blogging in order to build up a bit of a cushion of posts, for this blog as well as the others I so enthusiastically began and then couldn't keep up with. Turns out, taking time off just meant no deadlines and no deadlines meant no pressure and no pressure meant I had no reason not to watch just one more episode of Doctor Who and... well... you get the idea.<br />
<br />
Cut to four months later.<br />
<br />
I don't want this blog to die. I don't want <a href="http://theimpossiblequest.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">The Impossible Quest</a> (wed), <a href="http://soapsaregoodtoo.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">Soaps Are Good Too</a> (tue/thur), or the <a href="http://untitledblogaboutstories.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">Untitled Blog About Stories</a> (Fri) to die either, so I reckon it's now or never. I probably won't hit all my deadlines, and it's unlikely that they'll all update every single week, but I'm gonna get <i>something</i> up, most of the time.<br />
<br />
Yeah, yeah, I know, you've heard it all before. Trust me though, I proper mean it this time. Honest, guv.<br />
<br />
<br />pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-71709445802959310852013-02-07T01:30:00.002+00:002013-04-29T03:27:04.719+01:00The Jigsaw Lady: Part Deux<span style="font-weight: bold;">Who remembers the <a href="http://faplad.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/jigsaw-lady.html" target="_blank">Jigsaw Lady</a>?</span><br />
<br />
It occurred to me the other day; as I was trawling through my terrible terrible
memory for any bits and pieces I should mention from my Primary School years,
before I finally up sticks and move on to the Secondary phase of what I
laughingly call my education; that I had never told about the slightly weird
(at the time) and possibly tragic (in hindsight) little postscript to my tale
of the kindly old lady who did jigsaws and played Scrabble.<br />
<br />
It was a good long while after our initial meeting with the lady in
question; we had moved on with our adolescent lives and had, if I'm
honest, completely forgotten that she existed. Until the day I turned
up to 'call on' Ian and found the dustbins stuffed full of jigsaw
boxes, and the bin alcove overflowing with them too. There were
hundreds of the things.<br />
<br />
Of course, being the intrepid Sherlockian geniuses that we were, we
immediately deduced/jumped to the conclusion that they must have come
from the old lady over the road who loves jigsaws. Stands to reason, am
I right?<br />
<br />
Ian's weekend guardian, the delightfully crotchety Bob*, insisted that
we go and find out what was going on and why was his yard suddenly full
of someone else's rubbish and also what was she doing next Friday night
and did she fancy going out for an Indian? So off we trotted.<br />
<br />
Her back gate was wide open. Her back door was wide open. Her curtains
were all shut. Noises were emanating from her house; scary,
bangandclash noises; and suddenly we were much endowed in the shaky
scaredy-catness. I nudged Ian to go in, he backed off and nudged me
forward, the curtains upstairs twitched and we both ran like buggery. <br />
<br />
I don't remember what we told Bob; maybe we made something up, maybe we
told him the truth, maybe he lost interest and never actually asked us
again; but the fact is we never did get to the bottom of what had
happened. We convinced ourselves that we knew; the story we told
ourselves, because we were cruel little shits at heart, was that the
old woman had gone senile and/or completely barn owls.**<br />
<br />
Looking back of course, it's far more likely that she had died, and
that the noises and the dumping of her beloved jigsaw stuff in
neighbours yards was just her family/landlord clearing out her house
(and being a bit cheeky about it); if we had looked in a few other
yards, I'm sure we'd have found piles of stuff there too. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">So that one very pleasant day that we
had spent with her was to be our only. I wonder if she ever watched out
of her window, to see if we were coming to say hello, and wondered why
we never did. I hope it never hurt her feelings too badly. </span><br />
<br />
* Bob is dead now. This has just occurred to me, as I was writing this
post. He was in his 80's at the time, and not in the rudest of health,
so yeah, he's dead now, and probably has been for some time. I don't
know why I felt the need to add that here but... yeah. <br />
<br />
** Barn Owls is TM <a href="https://twitter.com/BrendanFromBeer" target="_blank">Brendan Kingston</a> of the <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/Unspoiledpodcast" target="_blank">Unspoiled</a> podcast. If you
don't listen to that, you most definitely should. Read A Song of Ice
and Fire first though, fair warning.pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-39368714721300256422013-01-27T15:47:00.006+00:002013-01-28T00:19:42.047+00:00Insert witty play on a Shakespearean quote here<span style="font-weight: bold;">I had occasion a couple of weeks ago,
to walk out of a room in disgust, halfway through a conversation. This
happens more often than you might think, in my place of work, because
the majority of my colleagues have some rather...unpleasant, I suppose
is the word, attitudes when it comes to, let's see;<br />
<br />
Race/Immigration<br />
Women<br />
Homosexuality<br />
Children/Corporal Punishment<br />
<br />
And so on. They're tits, basically. <br />
<br />
</span>The incident I'm talking about this time, was one involving '<span style="font-style: italic;">fucking gypsies</span>'; a favourite source of frenzied mutterings of late.<br />
<br />
The thing is, I agreed that the people being complained about; the aforementioned '<span style="font-style: italic;">fucking gypsies</span>',
were in the wrong in what they were doing. I had been quite irate with
them myself. The difference though,was that I was angry over the
behaviour of a small group of people who happened to be Travelers. My
colleagues, I suspect, cared about the behaviour only so far as it
allowed them the opportunity to have a rant. They were falling over
themselves to top each others vile slurs. Which I won't repeat on here,
cos this is a fuckin family blog, bitches!<br />
<br />
What was this terrible behaviour, I don't hear you ask. Well, I shall
tell you. It involved (horrible cliche alert, I'm sorry but it's what
actually happened) horses. My place of work is directly opposite a
large area of public grass, which is used by the kids to play games and
the people of the adjacent estate as a dog toilet. Oftentimes, of
late, horses have begun to sprout up out of the ground there. (Not
really, they're put there by their owners) <br />
<br />
On this particular day, a group of young lads arrived on said area of
grass to install two horses. Stakes were duly staked into the ground,
ropes were duly tied to said duly staked stakes, and horses were duly
tied to said duly tied ropes which had been attached to said duly
staked stakes. Or that was the plan. What actually happened was that
the horses bolted before being tied, ran across the main road and
trotted, calm as you like, into our yard.<br />
<br />
I won't go into too much detail about what happened next because it was
essentially a Benny Hill sketch for almost two hours, but suffice it to
say that the lads got on their mobile phones and pretty soon our yard
was swarming with a large number of people attempting to corral a
couple of horses who were, to my untrained eye at least, absolutely
fucking terrified. They <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> didn't want to go with these lads. <br />
<br />
After they had been caught and ropes tied to their necks, they were led
out of the yard. One of them obviously knew the game was up and went
quietly, guvnor, but the other; smaller, so I'm gonna assume younger,
and therefore possibly more scared (I'm projecting human qualities here
but fuck it, it's how it seemed to me) was having none of it. It braced
with it's back legs and no amount of pulling on the rope or pushing on
it's arse was shifting it.<br />
<br />
Shall I tell you the ingenious method that was applied to get this
horse moving? Don't answer that, because you might say no and that'll
be awkward when I do it anyway. Here goes.<br />
<br />
They drove into the back of it with a pick-up. They DROVE into a HORSE.
Only slowly, mind you, so that's something, but they fucking drove into
a horse with a pick-up truck. Come on! <br />
<br />
After they got the horses out of the yard they herded them, still using
the truck up the arse technique, across the car park of the supermarket
next door, and onto the main road that leads to their camp; obviously
having given up on the idea of putting them out to graze on the public
land. And do you know what happened then? They lost control of the
little one again, and it bolted.<br />
<br />
We watched from the canteen window as this horse ran up and down and
across a busy main road for what seemed like forever, with these lads
chasing after it. It would have been hilarious if not for the ever
present threat of a major traffic accident and the fact that when it
was caught it wasn't going back to a particularly well cared for life.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">So that's what happened. Were these
people Travelers/'Fucking Gypsies?' Yes they were. Was I angry about
their behaviour and treatment of those horses? Yes I was. But the two
were not related. I know of a hell of a lot of people; more than I'd
like; who have proved time and time again that they are not fit to
own/care for animals, and it has nothing to do with their social/ethnic
group. Some people are just tits.</span> <br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">And that's why I walked out of a
conversation in disgust. Not because I didn't believe the people in
question were in the wrong, but because I thought they were in the
wrong for reasons that had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that
they lived in a caravan.</span>pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-63527197851155131402013-01-21T12:39:00.002+00:002013-01-21T12:39:56.141+00:00Snow (Cos I'm An Original Bastard)So yeah. it's snowing here.<br />
<br />
Snowing when I went to bed last night, snowing when I got up, snowing when I left for work and snowing when I arrived.<br />
<br />
I hate snow.<br />
<br />
Our yard at work is under a cover of the stuff, and when we arrived w found the manager (God knows what time he'd gotten in), shoveling away like a little trooper. Of course, being a shirt and tie walla he wasn't having much luck, and we came to his rescue. An HOUR later, we cleared a moderately decent car parking area, then we gave up.<br />
<br />
Since then the coffees have almost reached double figures and I'v read a good chunk of my book. Other than that...<br />
<br />
Yeah, I hate snow.pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-69233819722159435742013-01-13T07:27:00.003+00:002013-01-14T00:56:59.184+00:00Why hast thou forsaken me?<span style="font-weight: bold;">A lot of posts on here have focused on
my Primary School education and it seems that someone up there likes
them because every time I think I've exhausted that particular avenue
something else comes up to keep me waffling away on that very subject.
Case in point; </span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Remember when I had a <a href="http://faplad.blogspot.co.uk/2010/10/repressed-memories.html" target="_blank">sudden batch of memories</a> that I couldn't reconcile with
the story of my life? Yeah? Well I've had another one.</span> <br />
<br />
At some point after I left Langley Park Primary School; an event which
coincided with the end of my parents marriage, and which I remember
well, I returned there for a brief time. The thing is, I've no memory
of <span style="font-style: italic;">living</span> in Langley Park again, or indeed of <span style="font-style: italic;">when</span> this might have happened. <br />
<br />
You see, when my parents split we moved in with my Aunt. From there we
moved into the worlds friendliest street (TWFS). And from there; in a
development that the blog hasn't reached yet, but probably will soon;
we moved to the next town up the road and the house that would be my
home for the remainder of my childhood. <br />
<br />
I have no memory of any breaks in that timeline.<br />
<br />
I'm going out on a limb here and saying that it must have happened
around the time of the shift from the Aunts house to TWFS, but that's
pure guesswork on my part, based on the fact that I distinctly remember
the head teacher, when we were in his office on our first day back at
Langley, telling my mother off, in quite stern tones, about moving us
from school to school on a whim. That to me tells me that it must have
been fairly soon after we had left. I may be wrong, but it's all I've
got to go on.<br />
<br />
Anyway, the timing of the event doesn't matter; I just thought it was
interesting to point out how utterly incompetent my memory is. No, the
point of this post is that the over-riding event that stuck out when
this period floated to the top of my memory recently, was embarrassment.<br />
<br />
I had a friend, who has been mentioned on MoaN before, during the
Langley Park years. His name was Peter and in my very early years he
was, most certainly, my <span style="font-style: italic;">best</span> friend. So when we returned to LP School, I immediately started to hang around with him again. In my mind, we were <span style="font-style: italic;">still</span> best friends. <br />
<br />
In fact, another of the crystal clear incidents was of us getting on
the bus to go for swimming practise and me rushing to sit next to him;
one of the adults on the bus saw this and asked me if we had been
friends when I was at the school before. "Yes Miss", I exclaimed.
"We're <span style="font-style: italic;">best</span> friends!" The look on his face when I said that made me cringe.<br />
<br />
It was the same at break times. I would hang out with him and his group
of friends; a group of friends that he hadn't had before I left. One
day, one of them asked me why I always hung around them and told me I
should go away and play with someone else. My reply was a rather
plaintive "I don't know anybody else, though."<br />
<br />
I should have taken the hint. Inside, I did; I knew full well that he
had moved on and was not nearly as invested in our friendship as I had
been. On the outside though, I kept pretending I hadn't noticed. The
truth is that after we left LP the first time I always still thought of
him as my best friend. I always assumed that we would go back one day
and he would be there and we would pick up where we left off. No-one
that I met at my new school came close, in my eyes. So to think that he
had just... <span style="font-style: italic;">forgotten</span> about me, would have broke my heart if I let it.<br />
<br />
The brief stint back at LP Primary was exactly that; brief. Soon it was
all change again and back to Chapel Street Primary, and a reunion with
the <a href="http://faplad.blogspot.co.uk/2011/03/first-day-at-new-school.html" target="_blank">Brancepeth Boys</a>. A reunion I have no recollection of, if I'm
honest; there's that shitty memory again.<br />
<br />
Remembering this tiny little moment in my life; one that I had perhaps
repressed all these years; has actually shone some light on one of the
most long lasting of my personal 'not a real boy' quirks. That being,
my inability to <span style="font-style: italic;">assume</span> that I'm welcome anywhere.<br />
<br />
When I was at Comprehensive School, I always ate my lunch with the same person (<a href="http://faplad.blogspot.com/2012/10/near-death-experience-but-not-for-me.html" target="_blank">Chris</a>); <span style="font-style: italic;">if</span>
we arrived at the dining hall together, or if he arrived after me. You
see, if we arrived together we'd stand in line together and get served
together and go to our table together and... you get the idea. If he
arrived after me, he would get served and then he'd look around and
find me and join me at my table. Simple. If I arrived after him
though...<br />
<br />
I'd get served, look around for him, see him sitting at whatever table,
with whatever people, and... head in the other direction, pretending
not to see him. Because after all, he was talking to those other
people, so why would he want me to interrupt? I <span style="font-style: italic;">knew</span> that he sought me out if he arrived late, so obviously <span style="font-style: italic;">wanted</span> to sit with me, but for me to instigate it... wasn't gonna happen.<br />
<br />
Even now, in my adult life, I can't sit down next to someone I know on
a bus, or walk across to someone I know if I see them in the street.
I'll go over if they see me and beckon me over, but I'm never gonna be
the one to instigate contact. I just don't have it in me. At least now
I know the roots of that particular social inadequacy; only 97 more to
go.pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-73768202481534582172013-01-03T06:15:00.000+00:002013-01-07T00:30:29.142+00:00It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's the same old shit on the blog.<span style="font-weight: bold;">Well, I'm back. Took December off from most of the blogging stuff that I do and
last week, well, last week was New Years week and who can be bothered, right?
So it's been a while.</span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" /><span style="font-weight: bold;">
Never fear though, because I'm all set and raring to go now, for another year
of embarrassing confessions, knee jerk rants about things I don't understand
and of course, everyone's favourite; horrifying glimpses into my depressing
childhood. </span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br />
Easing us back in gently; and by us, I mean me, because I always
struggle to start this shit again after I've had a break; by-product of
my chronic laziness, I suppose, for which I have an official Doctors
note, so you aren't allowed to <span style="font-style: italic;">tut tut</span> at me; I thought a quick bit of waffle about what I got up to over the break would suffice. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Christmas</span><br />
<br />
What did you get up to over Christmas? Eat too much? Get drunk? Course
you did, no need to deny it, we're all friends here. I, of course, <span style="font-style: italic;">didn't</span>
do those things, being both a contrary bastard who refuses to
participate in societally mandated 'fun' and afraid of alcohol, which
doesn't agree with me.<br />
<br />
Instead, I hid myself away like the emotionally stunted hermit that I
am and attempted once again, as I do every year, to sleep through the
whole wretched affair. Didn't succeed mind you, because I never do, but
one day...<br />
<br />
Why didn't I succeed? Family of course. No matter how much I protest,
they will insist on including me in their nonsense and this year was no
exception. So, I was picked up and ferried down to the scene of the
festivities, went to sleep until the food was cooked, ate the food,
made mindless small talk when I had to; which wasn't often, because I
went to sleep again once I'd finished eating; and then got home in time
for Doctor Who, which is the important thing. Obviously. <br />
<br />
Oh, and this happened<br />
<br />
<iframe width="480" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/nD1JxoJeA1k" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<br /><br /><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">New Year</span><br />
<br />
Slept through it. The end.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">There you go, a relatively painless
first post of the year I think; although feel free to tell me otherwise
in the comments if you want to, because if you don't tell me when you
think I'm shit, I'll never impr... hahahahaha... I'm joking, I'm never
gonna improve. You can still slag me off in the comments though, I
don't mind.</span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">I'll be back next week. No idea what I'll be writing about, but I'll be back. Until then, Au Revoir, mon, er, reader people.</span>pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-82294351433066684842012-12-02T18:15:00.003+00:002012-12-03T00:07:56.026+00:00Fat Lads Are Good Lads<span style="font-weight: bold;">Howdy y'all. Welcome to another
edition of 'Paul's defective memory vomits forth some random
occurrences from his youth in no particular order.'</span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">This week my memory is jogged by
something I wrote last week. After mentioning Buckshot George; the
older boy we hung out with/harassed; being somewhat on the larger side,
something went ping in my head and I was suddenly awash with thoughts
of a lad in my class that I was quite good friends with for a brief
period there. His name was Sam (it wasn't), and I'm a little ashamed
that I've never thought to mention him on here before, and also that it
took thinking about 'fat' kids to make me remember him at all.</span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Anyway, let me tell you about Sam...</span><br />
<br />
There are two major things that I remember about Sam...well, actually
there are three, but we won't go into the feelings I had about his
older sister. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">The first</span>, is that we had, for
a while, an arrangement where every Monday night we'd go to each others
house for tea. One week I'd go to his, the next he'd come to mine,
etc... I remember that whenever I went to his, there would be a huge
meal laid on, and when he came to mine it'd be beans on toast or
bangers and mash. At the time I thought that his other was going to
special trouble because I was there, and my own mother was letting the
side down by not reciprocating; now I realise that that was just how
the two families ate.<br />
<br />
One weekend, from out of the blue, my mother announced that he wasn't
to come up that Monday, or any subsequent Monday for that matter. No
explanation was given; he simply wasn't welcome. Now, I was completely
at a loss as to why this lad was my friend at all, so I was convinced
that my telling him that he wasn't welcome at my house any more would
send him scurrying away. Plus, what would I actually say? How do you
tell someone your mum doesn't want them in your house?<br />
<br />
I went to school that Monday, and I put it off all day but as home time
rolled around I knew I had to say something. Little hands sweating
rivers I took him to one side, not wanting to be embarrassed in front
of anyone else, and told him. He took it well, so well in fact that you
might almost think he didn't really care one way or the other, the
swine.<br />
<br />
Next day though, he had a message for me. If he wasn't allowed at my
house, I wasn't allowed at his. Fair's fair, I suppose, but I did have
a little moment of sorrow that I wouldn't see his sister any more.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">The second</span> major thing I
remember about him was the time we were preparing for Christmas at
school, and each class was assigned a certain piece of the decorations
to make for the hall. We were instructed to create giant cows, to hang
up in the 'maids a'milking' section. Easy enough you might think;
especially since we were provided with the huge cardboard cutouts and
all we had to do was paint them.<br />
<br />
WRONG! Some of the sights we came up with were like something from an
Italian horror movie from the 80's. Which, considering this was
happening<span style="font-style: italic;"> in</span> the 8-0's, is probably appropriate, when you think about it.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing though; his table produced a cow that's spots were...
well... I basically told them that they had painted a cow with measles.
Which was funny. Once. The 2nd time, not so much, the 3rd time not at
all, and by the 10th time I'd made the cow with measles joke the
frustration was ready to boil out of their nostrils. So of course I
kept going.<br />
<br />
That breaktime, he threw me up against a wall, backed into me with his
not inconsiderable bulk, and started pulling on my arms over his
shoulders. Am I describing that right? He was crushing me and
stretching me at the same time. God knows what any adults passing the
fence must have thought of this scene of torture, with one boy
screaming in agony and the other yelling that 'my cow doesn't have
fucking measles!' <br />
<br />
Still, I'm sure it brightened up their day.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Those are my two most enduring
memories of 'Sam'. We stayed friends through all of Primary School, but
when it came to Comprehensive School he was one of the 'friends for a
while out of habit but just another face in the corridor after a while'
group. I'm a little saddened at that, now that I'm thinking of it. </span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Anyway, no idea what I'll be talking
about next week. You'll have to click on to find out. Until then, don't
forget to eat plenty of cheese.</span>pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-64549251576314664272012-11-23T00:25:00.002+00:002012-11-26T00:18:12.375+00:00Losing Touch, the Comprehensive School Way<span style="font-weight: bold;">Hiya! Still waffling about my school days.
Have a read, if you like. I don't really care to be honest; if you're seeing
this I've already got the view statistic, so you've exhausted your usefulness
to me. Mwahahahahaha.</span><br />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ahem...</span><br />
<br />
Last week, I spoke of my induction trip to my future Comprehensive
School, from my final year of Primary. I focused on the embarrassment
of being locked in a confined space with a bunch of people with only me
knowing that I had burglarised said enclosed space a few scant weeks
earlier. There was another aspect to that trip though, that I never
talked of. The sadness factor.<br />
<br />
I started at Chapel Street Primary in the second year of Juniors (Year
4 to you modern types) after my mother left my father and blah blah
blah; read about it <a href="http://faplad.blogspot.com/2011/03/first-day-at-new-school.html" target="_blank">here</a> if you like; and when I did there was a lad in
4th year (Year 6, and that's the last time I'm doing the conversion for
you) who was, to put it bluntly, fat. Does that seem unduly harsh?
Well, that's because it is. It's true though, and though it brings me
no pleasure to say it, we made much mockery of him.<br />
<br />
The mockery was meant, however, in good humour. We liked him; in large
part because he was pretty much the only one of the untouchable 4th
years who would give us the time of day. Admittedly, the time of day he
gave us was usually filled with us attacking him and attempting to
wrestle him to the ground. Because he was large. Do you see? Of course
you do.<br />
<br />
I've often wondered, looking back on this big boned fellow who made
such an impact on my life as a youngster but whose name I can no longer
recall; let us call him Buckshot George, for 'tis a good name; whether
it's more likely that he enjoyed our company, and the constant
wrestling matches at every break and lunchtime, or that he just took it
because he felt he had no choice and was crying on the inside. Who
knows? <br />
<br />
Of course it's also possible that he knew we weren't being deliberately
malicious, and chose to accept our 'friendly' mockery because the
people in his own year were not quite so well meaning in their
treatment of him. I certainly think that had he had many friends his
own age, he'd probably not have been so willing to spend all his time
with us.<br />
<br />
Anyway, regardless of whether he genuinely liked us or he hated the
very bones of us, the fact was that when we came back for 3rd year and
he was gone; whisked off to the dreaded Big School, we were gutted. Now
what would we do with our breaktimes? So when the time came for us to
go on this trip to aforementioned Big School, I got all excited. I
would see Buckshot George. Yippee!<br />
<br />
You know where this is going right? We got there, we did our tour, I
served my sentence in the interrogation chamber/made some cupcakes in
the Home Ec. labs, and when it came time for lunch in the big fancy
cafeteria I saw him sitting at one of the tables and made sure to catch
his eye as we went past and... he looked at me like I was, well, it
wasn't distaste or disdain in his eyes, it was incomprehension and
confusion. Basically, he didn't have a fucking clue who I was. <br />
<br />
That, my friends, will rip your guts out. <br />
<br />
Of course, we all know that that's what happens when you go from
Primary to Secondary education. It's the line from Stand By Me, about
(and I'm paraphrasing) your best friends become just faces in the
halls. Sad but inevitable. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">I don't know if you can tell, but I'm
quite reluctant to move on to my secondary years on this blog. It's
because I genuinely don't want to leave the Appleton Crescent/ Chapel
Street Primary/ Brancepeth Boys years behind. They don't sound like
much when I describe them on here, but they really were the best years
of my life, and remembering them for these posts has brought many a
smile to my face.</span><br />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">So in that vein, next week I'll tell you a tale of another friend of mine from Primary. </span>pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-45572677064998130502012-11-17T22:55:00.002+00:002012-11-19T00:01:46.813+00:00Guilty Conscience<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>
<span style="font-weight: bold;">I don't know how it is in </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">your </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">country;
he says, in a blatant attempt to have an excuse to mention his
mahoosive* audience in the US, Germany, and the Ukraine; but in the UK,
when you near the end of Primary School (age 11), you are taken on what
is called an induction visit to the school you will be attending for
next, and final, five years</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> of compulsory education.</span><br />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Or at least, that's what happened when
I was a lad. It's probably all changed now, most things have. Anyway,
this is the tale of what happened when I went on my induction trip.
Enjoy. Or at least do your best to fake a fair approximation of
enjoyment. For me, yeah?</span><br />
<br />
It had been decided, via whatever arcane sorcery is used to decide
these things, that the school I would attend would be a little place
called Parkside Comprehensive School. Now Parkside was a little bit
unique (I KNOW THAT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE DON'T SHOUT AT ME) as
Comprehensive schools go, in that it was split over two separate
locations; not a few streets away or even on opposite sides of town,
but in two separate towns. <br />
<br />
The first two years would attend classes in one town and then years
3-5, or 9-11 as we were constantly told we must refer to them; this
being just about the time that that whole new numbering system was
being implemented; would attend classes in the larger complex in the
other town. <br />
<br />
Now you would think that since the point of an induction visit is to
get you acquainted with the world you're about to enter, we would visit
the complex that took first years. However, the teachers were boxing a
bit clever, and in what I'm sure was just an attempt to save on bus
fuel it was decided that all of the local Primary schools would take
their pupils to whichever complex was nearest. Which meant my class
would go to the larger complex. Which meant I shat my pants.<br />
<br />
Now, the idea of going somewhere I'd never been, to meet people I'd
never met, who would essentially be controlling my life for the next 5
years, would have been anxiety inducing enough to have me waking up in
the night in a cold sweat for weeks in advance; which meant I <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span>
didn't need anything else to worry about on top. I had it though, in
the shape of a little thing called 'oh shit, what if I give the game
away paranoia.<br />
<br />
You see, the school we were about to visit was <a href="http://faplad.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/hardened-criminal.html" target="_blank">this school</a>, and the events in question were still very much fresh in my mind. The whole thing was doing my anxiety no good at all.<br />
<br />
The big day arrived and we all trooped from one school to the other;
single file, teacher at either end of the train, hold hands to cross
the road, stop sniggering back there boy; and when we arrived we were
met by one of the most intimidating figures I've ever known. He was the
Head, whom I shall call Mr J, and I can't tell you why we all felt such
instant fear when we met him. He was tall, dressed really smartly, had
a head of silver hair, and was incredibly well spoken, so perhaps we
thought he was a Bond villain, but I don't recall him doing anything
particularly nasty or strict. In fact, I don't recall much of anything
about him, because he was always a big fan of delegation, leaving his
Department heads and heads of year to do all that awful 'dealing with
kids' malarkey.<br />
<br />
We were split up into groups and told that each group would only be
touring a fraction of the school. This boosted my spirits somewhat;
what were the chances that I would be in the group that...oh, home
economics you say? And that's...cooking, right. So the kitchens then?
Brilliant.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcLsD2kd029RYwGzKcIEXStm7RTVZj6N5VMotnL7hYlQIRRlXTcH3wV8jjlXlAQ_nK-3P_w0IL1wvO9Fn1e1-MaN2ricdRKydDnZYyFRc8lJzGUmy3dsXz5PN5ou1L4j2XFiTwua0wWvI/s1600/window+of+entry.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcLsD2kd029RYwGzKcIEXStm7RTVZj6N5VMotnL7hYlQIRRlXTcH3wV8jjlXlAQ_nK-3P_w0IL1wvO9Fn1e1-MaN2ricdRKydDnZYyFRc8lJzGUmy3dsXz5PN5ou1L4j2XFiTwua0wWvI/s320/window+of+entry.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They've knocked down and rebuilt huge swathes! Didn't recognise the place. That's the spot though.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My arse has never been clenched so tight in all my days. We went
through the doors and my eyes went straight to the spot where we'd
taken the microwave (it had been replaced) before swiveling to the
window we'd come in through (it had been repaired) and then, in a fit
of panic, to the teacher doing the tour to make sure he wasn't looking
at me (he wasn't). <br />
<br />
You see, in my head, this was all too much of a coincidence. The fact
that we had come to this school rather than the one we'd actually be
attending, the fact that I just happened to be on the group that came
to this particular section of the school; I was convinced it was some
weird, elaborate sting operation to out me as the great microwave thief
of Olde Willington Towne. Nonsense, obviously, but the mind will play
tricks.<br />
<br />
We spent half a day in those bloody kitchens, baking cupcakes. Now I
liked cupcakes as much as the next pre-pubescent boy but I couldn't
quite get into the spirit of the exercise. Can't think why. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">And that's the tale of what happened
to me when I went on an induction visit to a school I wasn't even due
to start at for another two years. I hope it wasn't too boring. And if
it was, keep it to yourself, yeah? There's no need to hurt anyone's
feelings. Tata for now.</span><br />
<br />
*Given that non-English speaking readers are probably relying on google
translate or similar, I should probably tone down the made up words,
eh? Although when you think about it, aren't all words 'made up'? If
they weren't, we'd all be pointing at trees and saying Ug, am I right?pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-86100231613825610032012-11-17T22:40:00.000+00:002012-11-17T22:40:53.597+00:00The Beginning of the End<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">As much as I enjoyed the bulk of our time in the worlds friendliest street
there were, of course, occasional bad times, due perhaps to the rest of the
world being jealous of our idyllic lives and conspiring to ruin our fun, out of
pure spiteful malice.</span><br />
<br />
One such occasion was when the wasteland which acted as our playground, and
which we so cherished, was cruelly ripped from us by the Dread Lords of
property Development Hell. Yes, it was sold. To be built on! <br />
<br />
Outraged, we were. Outraged, and vocal about said outrage. Also, 10. Apparently
the desire of a bunch of delinquent youths to play on some condemned waste
ground did not trump a development deal worth hundreds of thousands. I know, I
was shocked too. Still, whining made us feel better.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN2ULCe0NTdPfs4vTdYmwXtoTR86OiAy7oELoVI-sr7rJRiwWqrOLejuTZcWLNoTfVSgIYVVXBL_7yZJOyDjFIIS8T-9jhGllEODF2Y3Qz32p_spkrU8DUZUSIdaX-QeRxADn0hFkRtLU/s1600/maquis.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN2ULCe0NTdPfs4vTdYmwXtoTR86OiAy7oELoVI-sr7rJRiwWqrOLejuTZcWLNoTfVSgIYVVXBL_7yZJOyDjFIIS8T-9jhGllEODF2Y3Qz32p_spkrU8DUZUSIdaX-QeRxADn0hFkRtLU/s320/maquis.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">May possibly have had a more worthwhile cause than us. Slightly.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Of course, as anyone who was ever a mischievous imp (badly behaved
little shit) will tell you, there are other ways than verbal to
register disgust. Like, and I'm just brainstorming here, wholesale
vandalism. As the nights drew in we would sneak from our homes (say we
were going out), approach the building site with all due stealth (run
across the road) and bring down the mighty wrath of the righteous (tear
open a few bags of cement before getting bored and playing Somme in the
foundation trenches). Oh, as covert resistance went, the Maquis had
nothing on us. Of course we didn't couch it in those terms, being
uneducated louts.<br />
<br />
Besides, The Next Generation hadn't even started on BBC2 yet.*<br />
<br />
After a while a night security guard was assigned to the site. I'd like
to tell you that it was because of us, but since we did about as much
damage as a gnat trying to bring down Chessington World of Adventure,
it seems far more likely to have been something to do with the older
kids getting drunk and trying to hot-wire a jcb.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKyZBA1mAQeKlTMc1U8QiV7cGrhiF3lFGqr6-TQ2_xfOPXk5JvkuH7vhsR3oG2e-jYHyy_lY1ZjmYmUPtNsj_JhjooGUXGBQdu2-FlvpecveI9-dPXtyvdzbE77iMqfY993Pvt5cM36fI/s1600/jcb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKyZBA1mAQeKlTMc1U8QiV7cGrhiF3lFGqr6-TQ2_xfOPXk5JvkuH7vhsR3oG2e-jYHyy_lY1ZjmYmUPtNsj_JhjooGUXGBQdu2-FlvpecveI9-dPXtyvdzbE77iMqfY993Pvt5cM36fI/s320/jcb.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Our resistance
movement had failed; the building work continued apace and soon enough,
the wasteground was gone.<br />
<br />
It may seem a small thing, but looking back at that time now, it's
obvious to me that that construction project was the beginning of the
end for that sense of community we all loved so much; the friendliest
street in the world was doomed.<br />
<br />
*Eh? Eh? Because Maquis. Oh, suit yourself.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-24638073258892697772012-11-11T22:08:00.001+00:002012-11-12T00:11:44.153+00:00Please make it go away<span style="font-weight: bold;">I'm not sure when it happened, but there came
a time in my life when I found that I could go days, weeks, even months,
without any kind of major emotional meltdown or panic attack. I wasn't cured of
my various neuroses and hang-ups; I doubt I ever will be, in truth; but I had,
at least, managed to settle into a routine that meant I could avoid all those
things that were wont to trigger them.</span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Unfortunately, no good thing lasts forever and
last week I was brought crashing down to Earth when my cosy little bubble of
trigger avoidance and a well honed fake personality was popped by unavoidable
work related issues.</span><br />
<br />
Exactly one week ago today I was scheduled on what's known as a 'refresher'
course; something which you are required to undertake every 3 years or so, if
you wish your license to operate a forklift truck (FLT) to remain valid. Since
my employment pretty much hinges on my being able to drive a FLT, there was no
way out of this.<br />
<br />
Now, as anyone who regularly operates these miraculous machines will tell you,
there is nothing simpler. Let's face it, a one man vehicle whose gears are no
more complicated than Forward/Neutral/Reverse, has a top speed of about 15
miles an hour and is primarily (always, in my case) driven on private land with
a minimum of traffic to worry about, is never going to require NASA levels of
expertise to drive. So the problem wasn't so much proving that I was capable in
order to get my renewal rubber stamped; it was the accompanying drama that was
messing with my head. Allow me to take you through the many ways I hated last
Monday.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Short Notice</span><br />
<br />
The course was on Monday; I was informed about it on the previous Friday. Since
I wasn't working on the intervening Saturday, that meant I had zero days to
piss about on the trucks practicing all those little things that you do to pass
the test, then never do again until you have<span style="font-style: italic;">
another</span> test. Don't be shaking your heads; I don't drive, but I bet
there are plenty of examples of that kind of thing with you car lot.<br />
<br />
As I say, the test isn't all that hard regardless, but someone with my anxiety
levels need all the help I can get to be prepared, and this wasn't. Help,
that is.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Location</span><br />
<br />
As in, anywhere I haven't been before. Every previous time that I've done this,
it's been at my home branch, with people I knew. What this means is that
they're people I'm relatively comfortable faking a certain level of friendship
with, or at the very least a kind of low level 'jokey' enmity.<br />
<br />
This time though, thanks to branch closures, openings, redundancies and
re-hirings and high staff turnovers, the staff at our branch no longer have
synchronised licenses, and no-one else was due. So off I was shipped to another
branch, to interact with strangers for a day. Helpful.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Everything about the day itself</span><br />
<br />
On arriving at work I was immediately bundled into the managers car and whisked
off on my way. Now, being stuck in a car with <span style="font-style: italic;">anyone</span>
gets me jittery after too long; I only have a limited supply of 'small talk' in
me. And of course, this being early morning, and the branch we were headed to
being in the middle of a busy retail area, the traffic was horrendous; you'd
think people had jobs to get to or something; so that added a good while to the
journey.<br />
<br />
As people go, my current manager is less problematic to speak to than some, on
account of how he started shortly after me when we were both essentially kids
and I've known him all the way through his climb up the ranks, so he's kind of
'one of the lads'. If this had been any other manager I've ever worked for I'd
have been clawing at the door to get out. <br />
<br />
Even so, the bulk of our conversations; just like the bulk of my conversations
with everyone; are very 'hit and run'; I like the freedom to leave a room when
I'm out of material. And yes, I do practice <span style="font-style: italic;">off
the cuff</span> remarks ahead of time, and keep a store of them for future use.
Being spontaneously witty doesn't just happen you know.<br />
<br />
He steered the conversation to music, television, politics, sport... some of
those things I know a little about, others I know nothing about, but none of
them are things I'm willing to express an opinion on to someone without first
knowing <span style="font-style: italic;">their</span> opinion, so I can gauge
what I think the level of... look, I can't explain this, but suffice to say I
overthink everything and I wouldn't make a very good dinner party guest.
Eventually I got the talk back onto work, which is pretty much the only thing I
feel truly comfortable talking about, and since he; for reasons unknown, but it
may be down to heavy drug use in his formative years; seems to actually respect
my opinions and agree with my ideas when it comes to how to run a branch, I was
on steady ground.<br />
<br />
Until we arrived at the branch...<br />
<br />
First impressions I had were that the staff were all numpties and the place was
a shithole. Of course, even I am not so oblivious to social niceties as to
think that those would be acceptable conversation starters, so I was knackered.<br />
<br />
We (myself and the two people also doing the course) were locked in an office
with the instructor, but not before he had found time to announce that this
would be an all day thing, rather than half a day, which was what we had been
told. What this meant was that my managers business in the area would be
concluded and he would be leaving earlier than me. He said that he would come
back for me at the end of the day, but then the instructor said that he
lived...somewhere...I don't know, places I don't live in are all the same to
me... but the gist was, he would bring me half way so my manager wouldn't have
to brave the tea time rush hour.<br />
<br />
Unbelievable. So I now had that to look forward to.<br />
<br />
The session began and I thought I would be safe for a while; these things
usually consist of a bit of a lecture and some safety videos made in 1972 in
which a bunch of stuntmen die horribly. No call for small talk there.
Unfortunately, our instructor had other ideas; we were going to listen to his
stories about meeting famous footballers (number I'd heard of: 0), look at
pictures of his grandson (how many times can you say 'yeah, cute' and seem
genuine?), hear stories about all the many businesses he'd
owned/co-owned/founded as a favour to a friend (quantity of bullshit detected
in said stories: a hell of a fucking lot), and so on and so forth. The others,
both fully rounded individuals capable of holding down a conversation without
gagging on their words, were fine. Myself, not so much.<br />
<br />
At one point, and I can't believe I did it, I joined in the conversation. It
had turned toward fireworks, and they were all agreeing with each other about
how much they hated them and I thought, hang on, I have something I could say
here that is actually relevant! So I told the tale of someone I know having
been scared by a dud firework hitting her window. On topic, and vaguely
interesting, I thought.<br />
<br />
Maybe it was just my paranoia; it was almost certainly my paranoia; but they
seemed to listen politely enough then get back to their own chatter as soon as
politeness allowed. I spent the next hour sitting there, stewing over my words
and trying to figure out what I'd said wrong, counting how many different ways
I'd embarrassed myself, and working out how much longer this hell could go on
for. They, for their part, went back to talking about football.<br />
<br />
Lunchtime arrived and after I inquired as to the nearest shop that I could get
some food from, since I hadn't brought any, since we had been told this would
be OVER BY FUCKING LUNCHTIME, I set off. Only to be stopped by instructor man,
who offered me as lift. LEAVE ME ALONE!! I wanted to scream at him, but of
course I didn't. I'm too afraid of confrontation for that. So my blessed
relief; my little bit of alone time that was going to be my walk out to the
shop; was taken from me.<br />
<br />
What is the 'done thing' when someone you don't know gives you a lift to the
shop and then needs to use the cashpoint? Do you stand and wait with him? Or do
you head in ahead of him? If you stand and wait, are you being too clingy? Are
you saying that you can't go to the shop by yourself? If you do stand and wait,
you have to then walk round the shop with them, making smalltalk, feeling self
conscious if it takes you longer to find something than them. But if you go in
alone, are you being rude? Are you saying you don't want to be seen with them? <br />
<br />
Welcome to my head. In the end, not knowing which was the 'correct' response, I
went with the one that required me to speak the least, and headed straight in
alone.<br />
<br />
After lunch was a load more waffle about getting shirts signed by football
players etc... before we finally, well after 2pm, went out to the trucks. Then
we spent another hour standing in the cold while he made various phone calls. <br />
<br />
Someone: It's a bit chilly eh?<br />
Me: Just a bit, aye.<br />
(Repeat) (Repeat Again) (And Again) (And Again...)<br />
<br />
That was the conversation for the afternoon. Riveting stuff. <br />
<br />
When we finally rated his attention again, he told us a tale about a man 'in
his fucking 30's, a fucking grown man' who upon making the same simple mistake
several times, was chastised by the instructor. 'In the end I grabbed his
fucking leg and dragged it off the pedal. Then he burst into tears, I couldn't
believe it!!!' <br />
<br />
Here's the thing, if you'd pulled me up for making the same mistake over and
over again, and then grabbed my leg, I wouldn't have started crying; I'd have
told you to fuck off; but only because I'm a better actor than that other guy.
You can bet the house I'd have been close to tears. <br />
<br />
The practical tests themselves were over in about 5 minutes once they
actually started. Then it was back indoors for a written test based on
information we should have covered on the morning but didn't because he
was too busy name dropping and then home. With him. In his car. I was
genuinely terrified. I have this knee twitching thing that happens when
I'm uncomfortable and it was going a mile a fucking minute the whole
way home. He kept talking about stuff, and I kept ignoring him;
literally, I was beyond the point of caring what he thought anymore. I
practically jumped out of his car when he got me where we were going.<br />
<br />
And do you know what? When I got in my manager's car for the second leg
of the journey, my mood being immediately apparent to him, he asked how
the day had gone and I told him. He found my torture, and it <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span>
torture for me, every second of it, funny. Not because he's an
unpleasant person; he isn't. But because we come from a background, and
work in an industry, that simply doesn't take that kind of thing
seriously. <br />
<br />
Which is why, after a few minutes, I switched on fake me and laughed along. I should have known better than to do anything else.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">It's been a long one this week, even
by my standards; I apologise. I'm not sure I've fully gotten across how
upsetting the day was, either; I read it back and everything seems so
petty. Either way, I've gotten it off my chest and I can go back into
my bubble, until the next time.</span>pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-76886687978841366372012-11-04T23:29:00.000+00:002012-11-05T00:01:57.253+00:00Things wot I do<span style="font-weight: bold;">I post internet twaddle 5 days a week. I mean,
I post to twitter pretty much every hour of every day, ever, but I post actual,
worked at, pre-planned, 'content' to the internet 5 days a week. I know!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">I've become pretty adept at sticking to a regular schedule; I know I missed one
last week but it was the first time in ages and I only missed it because I have
a li... hahah joke, I only missed because while I </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">had</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> written something it just seemed
rubbish to me, no matter how many times I rewrote it, so I gave up. It'll be up
this week, for definite. Probably still rubbish, but you know...</span><br />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">
Anyway, the current schedule is as follows:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline;">Monday</span><br />
<br />
This blog. This one here. Musings of a Nobody. MoaN. Interesting fact (not
really), but I didn't make the connection between the initials of the blog
title, and the act of complaining, until long after I chose said title; wasn't
planned at all. I'm pretty sure it was some kind of lesser deity; most likely
the God of Meaningless Coincidences, I should think; playing silly beggars with
my head. Yeah, that's definitely what happened.<br />
<br />
The main focus of MoaN is, ostensibly, my life. More specifically, the story of
my life, from <a href="http://faplad.blogspot.com/2010/09/my-first-memory.html" target="_blank">my very earliest memories</a>, to the present day, in roughly
chronological order. It's proven cathartic, but also really really difficult,
on account of how my memory is really really shit. I persevere though.<br />
<br />
Of course it's not just about my past. This is where I come when I feel
compelled to post a knee jerk, irrational rant about something I'm completely
unqualified to have an opinion on; it's where I come on the rare occasions I
want to join in a short lived internet meme; and now, it's where I come when I
want to make people, who may read one or two things of mine, aware of exactly
what I do and when. Because I'm a view-whore.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline;">Tuesday</span><br />
<br />
Tuesday is my day for making <a href="http://soapsaregoodtoo.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">not very funny jokes about soap operas on an episode by episode basis</a>. I say soap operas, it's just the one; Dark
Shadows is it's name, and it's actually pretty good (but don't tell
anyone I said that).<br />
<br />
The plan was to do two soaps, and alternate between them on Tuesdays
and Thursdays. This is still the plan, but it won't happen until the
new year, and it won't be originally announced Prisoner: Cell Block H.
It seems that there are considerably more fantasy/sci-fi tinged soap
operas than I had first thought, so in sticking with them I'll be
adding <span style="font-style: italic;">either</span> Strange
Paradise or Passions to the blog on Thursdays. I haven't decided which
yet; if you have a preference feel free to let me know.<br />
<br />
For now though, it's just Dark Shadows, and it's just Tuesday. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline;">Wednesday</span><br />
<br />
Wednesday is the day I <a href="http://theimpossiblequest.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">talk about sci-fi and fantasy television</a> mostly, and occasionally about my relationship with it. <br />
<br />
Full of spoilers, doesn't know whether it wants to be serious or
piss-takey and can't decide between being a discussion of the behind
the scenes aspects, straight reviews, or just waffle. Some would call
it wildly inconsistent, I call it providing something for everyone. And
if nothing else, there's usually a picture of a hot actor or actress. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline;">Friday</span><br />
<br />
I write about stories I've read on my<a href="http://untitledblogaboutstories.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank"> untitled blog about stories I've read</a>.<br />
<br />
Here I attempt to analyse books and comics in my own instantly
recognisable style, which blends a desire to seem intelligent and an
air of pretension with a limited vocabulary and insights gleaned from
one chapter of a 'how to write' book that I vaguely remember skimming
in 1987.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline;">And that just leaves Saturday</span><br />
<br />
On Saturday I post grainy videos made on an incredibly cheap camera to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/faplad?feature=watch" target="_blank">youtube</a>. Often they are my thoughts on having watched a shit show for
month, other times they are of me reading Mr Men books, and still other
times they are of me just waffling rubbish. I call those last, my all
conquering assault on the interwebs. Because I'm deluded.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">So there you have it. My internet
schedule. I'd say I hope you check out all the stuff I mentioned, but
I'm not a totally deluded fool and I know you have lives to lead, so
I'll just say I'd love it if you could give one new thing a try. These
things take a lot of time, and while I mostly do it for the love of it I'm not gonna lie to you, a few more readers/viewers would be nice
too. (I'm well aware there's much better stuff out there than mine, so I'm not holding out much hope, but allow me the fantasy that this might work, ok? Cheers)</span><br />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Next week on here it'll be back to me talking about my real life. And when that happens, you'll be </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">wishing</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> I was still waffling about the internet.</span>pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-91475716297331364782012-10-29T02:43:00.002+00:002012-10-29T02:43:56.163+00:00Blaming the black kid.<span style="font-weight: bold;">Last week I introduced my 'Paki' friends, and
talked about how I was raised in an environment where such words were... not
condoned, so much as not questioned at all. I had my reasons for bringing up
the McA's that went beyond a surface glance at the issue of racism in '80so
Britain, or rather, my reason; the eldest of them was to be my patsy in a very
near miss with the law.</span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">This is that story. (I tried to pull some stills of the area from google street view to illustrate this post, but the surrounding area has been flattened and re-built and the Speccie itself extensively remodelled and it made me cry because my childhood is gone so you'll have to do without)</span><br />
<br />
I can't remember whether I've talked on here before about the level of
'mischief' we used to get up to at The Spectrum Leisure Complex (or
Speccie). I know I've alluded to it, but genuinely can't recall whether
I've done a post that delves into the specifics. What's more, I can't
be bothered to check, either.<br />
<br />
Suffice it to say, our activities; knocking on office windows, running
through the ski lodge screaming at the top of our lungs, changing the
scores on those little flipboard things during vital bowls games, and
pressing the emergency stop button on the rope that pulled ski-ers back
up to the top of the slope; did little to endear us to the staff there.
We thought we'd keep getting away with it forever. We were wrong.<br />
<br />
Twas a day like an other, that it all kicked off. And by a day like any
other I mean we were torturing the poor bastards. It was fairly
obvious, in hindsight, that we were pushing our luck; they were
watching us much more closely than normal, and had chased us more than
once; but rather than take that as a sign that we should cool it for
the day, we were energised by it. The bigger a reaction you give
misbehaving kids, the more they like it and play up to it; that's just
science. <br />
<br />
But then they got clever.<br />
<br />
You see, whenever they chased us, we'd scatter and bolt for home. Then
we'd wait five minutes and head back. So, we're strutting through the
gates for the tenth time that day, all laughing and full of our own
daring, when suddenly, we're surrounded! They're coming out of the
buildings, from behind trees, from the side of the gates behind us to
block exit... we were fucked. So the panicky, but still fun, scattering
began. Twas pandemonium. Glorious pandemonium. <br />
<br />
Of course they were never going to catch us all, even as mob handed as
they were. The area was too large, the kids too nimble and the exits
too numerous. They were pissing in the wind. Except... well, except
for the fact that I was finding the sight of all these slightly out of
shape (ironic, given what they did for a living) adults having rings
run round them so much that I wasn't actually running myself. I was
just standing and laughing. At first it didn't matter, because no-one
tried to grab me; the instinct being to go after the ones who were
running; but eventually a couple of them did come for me and, although
I did make a last minute bolt for it I'd left it too late and got
nabbed. Silly me!<br />
<br />
Of course these days it would have never happened. In today's age of
kid gloves and fear of recriminations the idea of grabbing and
detaining a bunch of kids would never be countenanced but we were
living in different times (The 1980's! I'm well ancient!) and I'm
surprised they stopped short of cuffing me around the head. That was
understood though; you misbehaved, sure, but you knew you'd be for it
if you were caught; it was all part of the game. In this case though,
once my collar was well and truly felt, I was just marched to the
office of the manager; a fairly gruff fellow with whom I had so far
managed to avoid any dealings with. Gruff as he was though, I wasn't
intimidated; I was 10, I had no fear.<br />
<br />
He told me that my parents would be informed and that I would 'get a
hiding' from them, which if nothing else marked him out as a good judge
of character; he told me my school would be informed and I would be
ridiculed in assembly, as if being told off in assembly would do
anything other than boost my reputation; and he told me that he was
going to call the police.<br />
<br />
That one gave me pause. You see, we weren't all that far removed from <a href="http://faplad.blogspot.com/2011/07/hardened-criminal.html" target="_blank">this incident</a>, and I was still very much entrenched in my 'all cops are dickheads' phase. I was also, <span style="font-style: italic;">don't laugh, </span>convinced
that they would be out to get me after the way I had humiliated them in
our previous encounter. Fucking Al Capone over here. If Al Capone was
10, and innocent. Sort of.<br />
<br />
Talk of police involvement prompted my next brilliant move. Yes, I lied
about my identity. Foolproof! Of course, I hadn't seen The Usual
Suspects at this point, so i didn't claim to be called Slazenger
Reebok, but I came up with something almost as good; I gave the name of
the eldest lad in our old friends, the 'Paki' family. Well, obviously.<br />
<br />
Why did I choose him? I could have chosen Ian, my cousin; I could have
chosen Wayne, my best friend. Both of them had actually been among the
gang of us causing mischief. Or I could have chosen any one of the 20
lads in my class at school. I could even, were I feeling particularly
not stupid, invented a name. Instead, I chose him. I'm not saying I did
it because I knew my Mother wouldn't mind me getting him into trouble,
or because I thought that him doing something wrong would be more
believable, given his background; I'm not saying those things, because
I genuinely don't think that was my reasoning, at the time. I'm willing
to bet it was a factor, sub-consciously, though. I had been, at least
partially, indoctrinated into the racist ways of my community.<br />
<br />
"Right, stay here and don't move. I'll be back in a minute" he tells
me, and wanders off, locking the door behind him. Locking the door
behind him! He kidnapped me! What a prick, eh? Anyway, once he was gone
there was no way I was sticking around; I filled my pockets with pens,
a ruler, and several million paperclips, and was away out the window.
Oh yes, you aint holding me for long! <br />
<br />
I have no idea whether he ever phoned the police, or indeed whether he
ever had any intentions of doing so, but to the best of my knowledge
the McA's never received a visit from the boys in blue since the lad in
question knew what I'd done, because I told him, and he found the whole
thing hilarious; I'm sure he'd have thought differently if he'd had to
deal with his parents after a visit from the police.<br />
<br />
My whole 'daring escape' thing, thankfully, was considered 'cool'
enough by my friends to negate any lingering naffness caused by being
the only one daft enough to get caught in the first place, which was
nice. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">And that's my trip down memory lane
for this week. Not one of my finer moments, but not my worst either.
There would be another case of me trying to talk my way out of trouble;
also including stolen pens, as it goes; about a year later, and in that
case I would do something that would have lasting repercussions for my
whole family; not to mention it makes me sound like a callous dick. </span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">So look forward to that one.</span>pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-49165013877828257412012-10-21T02:25:00.003+01:002012-10-22T00:28:53.197+01:00Some of my best friends are...<span style="font-weight: bold;">I've been re-reading a lot of posts on
here over the last few days; and when I say a lot, I mean all of them;
and I've reached the unavoidable conclusion that I have completely
skipped mentioning a family that lived near us for the entire time we
lived in Appleton 'worlds friendliest street' Crescent. I speak, of the
McAloons (or MacAloons, I don't really know). </span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br />
The McA's were, as you probably <span style="font-style: italic;">wouldn't</span>
expect, a family of...well...I don't really know what descent. I was
going to say Pakistani there, but I realised I don't know that for
sure. At the risk of sounding incredibly ignorant and possibly racist,
I now realise that I had them down as pakistani in my head because we
always referred to them as Pakis. I know, I know, just shoot me now. <br />
<br />
It was never intended as a derogatory thing, at least when I said it. I
honestly thought that it was just a racial descriptor; although I
didn't use words like racial descriptor; because that was what my
mother always called them. This was also in the days when you would be
sent to the 'Paki shop' for a pint of milk, so it was a very commonly
used phrase, and as a child, who heard it all the time, it never
occurred to me that it was insulting or offensive. How times change,
eh? <br />
<br />
Whether the Macs were of Pakistani descent, or some other race of
darker skinned individuals, doesn't really matter. I just thought I'd
point out their non-whiteness in order to a) point out what always
seemed to me the incongruous name; again, I didn't think in terms like
incongruous, I just thought it was funny; and b) to highlight the
casual racism that was so ingrained into society at that time, at least
where I lived. <br />
<br />
You see, my mother would often, in her darker moods, forbid us to hang
out with them. She rarely had a reason, but the word 'dirty' would
often be uttered. I was too dense; or if I'm being kind to myself, too <span style="font-style: italic;">innocent</span>; because I never quite <span style="font-style: italic;">got</span> that. I know...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Anyway, the Macs were our mates. Which
makes the tale I'm going to tell next week one in which I act like a
bit of a tit. They didn't mind though; they thought it was a good laugh.</span>pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-66164197861457703312012-10-14T18:55:00.001+01:002012-10-15T00:53:20.864+01:00Near Death Experience (but not for me)<span style="font-weight: bold;">Last week I reintroduced Chris to this
here narrative of my life with the intention of telling you a story
about him this week. It wasn't until after I'd posted that, that I
realised the story in question was another jump ahead in my timeline.
My memory is a fucking jigsaw, with half the pieces missing and the
rest chewed up by a particularly salivarous puppy dog. (Is salivarous a
word? No. Should it be? I'll leave that to you to decide. But the
answer is yes.)</span><br />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">In the end though, I decided to go
ahead with the story. Partly because I'd said I was going to, and I'm a
man of my word goddammit, but mainly because I resigned myself to the
conclusion that the 'staying to a logical, chronological order on this
blog' ship had sailed a long time ago. So here we go.</span><br />
<br />
Chris lived 5 or 10 minutes walk from my house*, but his visits; and
mine to his home; were infrequent at best. I guess our solid bond at
school fell foul of the 'out of sight, out of mind' rule. Probably not
all that strong a friendship then, at it's heart.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM_a5MA_Oj12ydmm2uAhFqAN_mDYg59xSSAEFInmULibJnYcF4xaJnS4UlRwLbs4xmJKn6cEv8gVoBELrckaj9jKG8eP9CpqJMtntfxj0mTfB-HzZKIjdwqpK-QBgM-DIuU0FT-2Bj5EE/s1600/c64.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM_a5MA_Oj12ydmm2uAhFqAN_mDYg59xSSAEFInmULibJnYcF4xaJnS4UlRwLbs4xmJKn6cEv8gVoBELrckaj9jKG8eP9CpqJMtntfxj0mTfB-HzZKIjdwqpK-QBgM-DIuU0FT-2Bj5EE/s320/c64.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Commodore 64. Legend.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When he did visit, it was usually to use our computer. You see, his
house was very much a console house, bedecked with all the latest Sega
Master System equipment, whereas we had a... Commodore 64! Oh yeah,
suck it, bitches! He was fascinated by the novelty of it having a
keyboard. I, on the other hand, would have preferred not to have a 45
hour loading time to play a game, so I know which I'd have chosen.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQG42zjQJRgi4CGV4jGqRJn7Pfs9o8oQ7lAbeBrs5Z4LLlLmPbqBKxXg8uVzXTMdQ1MUbcX10lr1VNdRqdjUGyc6FEPhTFzCchtlZ3GQyE7sRMBDEHlamr9cGmBbzYShX0qH3M5GMKfkI/s1600/master+system.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQG42zjQJRgi4CGV4jGqRJn7Pfs9o8oQ7lAbeBrs5Z4LLlLmPbqBKxXg8uVzXTMdQ1MUbcX10lr1VNdRqdjUGyc6FEPhTFzCchtlZ3GQyE7sRMBDEHlamr9cGmBbzYShX0qH3M5GMKfkI/s320/master+system.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Master System</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Anyway, that's not important; what's important is that on one of his
visits, he almost died.<br />
<br />
Now I don't know; because I can't remember, not because it was some
great mystery; how the situation kicked off, but to put it as bluntly
as I can... my brother went apeshit. Absolutely batshit crazy. With knives.<br />
<br />
He didn't use knives at first. Chris and I were stood outside my house,
because he was getting ready to head home, when my brother came
barreling out and started hitting Chris. Now, we did what any normal
person would do when a 5 year old attacked them. We laughed.<br />
<br />
Then he went away and came back with a handful of knives. And we did
the sensible thing. We laughed some more. I mean come on, who would
take that seriously? Which is not to say that I don't recognise that my
first instinct should have been to take the knives from him for his own
safety; and I did try; but we were certainly never scared for
ourselves. He was little more than a toddler! <br />
<br />
Even when he started throwing knives, we were still laughing. Chris at
least had the sense, as the seeming target of the bulk of the anger, to
hide behind one of the 2 trees that stood beside my house (and were
perfectly spaced for use as goal posts, just as an aside) but he was
chuckling merrily while he did it. What can I say? We were
young(idiots).<br />
<br />
Le bruv took to throwing knives at the tree, but he soon got bored and
went back inside. We checked out the tree after he'd gone and there
were some pretty nasty gouges. My bro had a throwing arm as a nipper!
Chris went on his way unscathed, but from those gouges it would have
been a very different story if just one of those knives had connected.
I'm not saying he'd be dead, necessarily, but I guarantee he'd have a
pretty bloody nasty scar.<br />
<br />
You're probably wondering where my Mam was during this. Your guess is
as good as mine. She had any number of people to whom she would 'pop
over for 5 minutes to say hello' and we'd not see her for the day.
Saved on teabags.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">And that's the story of how my mate
Chris almost died. Hope you had fun. Join me next time when I recount
the time I met the BFG, but didn't go with him, on account of my big
ear phobia.</span><br />
<br />
*Long after I met Chris, I visited his house for the first time and was
taken aback to learn that he lived 10 seconds away from where I lived
when I first met him, when I first joined his Primary School. We would
both head off home in opposite directions, so I assumed he lived miles
away, but our two routes looped around and met at the far end.
Extraordinary. How did we never bump into each other?<br />
<br />
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<br />
I think his Gran lived somewhere on that red line. Either that or he was going a hell of a long way round to avoid walking home with me. The shit.pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-30085729885659234472012-10-13T20:52:00.000+01:002012-10-13T20:52:29.478+01:00The thing is...Jimmy Saville eh? Who'da thunk it? Well, apart from <a href="http://t.co/yXffxZFv" target="_blank">Mitchell & Webb (just past the minute mark)</a>.
And pretty much everyone else, when you stop to think about just how
little convincing people took of his guilt. <br />
<br />
I mean, I know that a<span style="font-style: italic;"> lot</span> of
stuff has come out at this stage, but even when the whole thing was
just starting to kick off, people seemed to just accept it. Was that a
collective 'yeah, thought so' about Saville, though? Or just an
indication of how jaded we as a society have become when it comes to
this stuff? <br />
<br />
Murdered kid? Parents.<br />
<br />
Jovial entertainer with family man image? Wife beating sex pest.<br />
<br />
Famous and eccentric? Paedophile.<br />
<br />
It's just how we see the world now, isn't it? Or is that just me?<br />
<br />
Not that this post is intended as an indictment of that attitude, or
for that matter a defence of Saville. No, what this is, is a rant about
<span style="font-style: italic;">certain</span> opportunistic
publications. To be exact, The Sun. We all know about The Sun. No-one
needs me to tell them about it's excesses and slightly <span style="font-style: italic;">off</span>
politics. I mean, it's no Daily Mail, but only because it doesn't trust
it's readers to have the intelligence to understand a Mail article. And
how damning is that?<br />
<br />
The Sun is running a campaign. A campaign to strip Paedo Saville, which
is apparently Jimmy Savilles name now, of his knighthood. Why? I know
why, but first I want to express my thoughts about the notion of
stripping Saville, posthumously I might add; posthumously in this case
meaning the same thing as redundantly; of the gong.<br />
<br />
First of all, I know pretty much everyone has decided that he did what
he's said to have done. But on paper at least, and in the eyes of the
law, he was never convicted of the crime. Nor, I should think, will he
ever be. I have no idea of the legalities of trying someone
posthumously but even assuming it can be done, <span style="font-style: italic;">what would be the point</span>? It's never going to happen, is it? And if it did, you can bet that The Sun would cry foul about the waste of CPS resources.<br />
<br />
But if he's never technically been found guilty of the crime, then how
do you justify stripping the knighthood? No doubt some will say that
this is a 'special case', but the law doesn't allow for special cases,
and nor should it. If Saville can be stripped of the gong because we <span style="font-style: italic;">think</span> he committed crimes, then so can others. It's a slippery slope.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">I have a colleague who delights in posing me </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">what if?</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">
scenarios to test my opposition to the death penalty. What if loads of
people saw them do it? What if it's on cctv? What if they confess? If
there's no doubt at all... What he doesn't get is that if we execute
someone for murder based on cast iron cctv footage, or multiple eye
witness accounts, or even a confession, </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">we execute them for murder</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">.
That is the operative phrase. Execution is an accepted punishment for
murder, and that is what the law books will say. It will not make any
of the other distinctions he so gleefully recounts.</span><br />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">(Of course his argument presupposes
that certainty of guilt is the only factor in my objection, which
completely ignores the fact that </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">I just think killing people is wrong</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">.)<br />
<br />
</span>Sorry, went on a bit of a tangent there. My point is that the
law isn't known for it's subtleties; it's one way or the other. So
unless we want people to be punished because lots of people <span style="font-style: italic;">think</span> they did something, leave Savilles knighthood alone.<br />
<br />
The Sun doesn't really care two figs about taking away Savilles
knighthood though, do they? Of course they don't. They know that saying
paedo on the front page will sell papers; they know that railing <span style="font-style: italic;">against</span> 'paedos' will win them points with their readership; and they <span style="font-style: italic;">hope</span>
that by pandering to the masses in this ridiculous manner they can claw
back some small degree of public sympathy after a couple of years of <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> bad press.<br />
<br />
That's what this is. People don't like them. Some people have not much
cared for them for a while but these days it's not just Scousers with a
(perfectly understandable) grudge; a massive swathe of the population
is turning on them. And this is their way of trying to counter that.<br />
<br />
'Look everybody, we aren't the bad guys! Look at us, standing up for
justice! We're leading the charge in your names, to strip a man who
doesn't care anymore of a bauble that meant next to nothing in the
first place! Aren't we just the heroes of the people? <br />
<br />
No. You're not. You're rabble rousing, glory seeking, opportunistic
scumbags. And I say this not out of any great hatred, as some seem to
have, of the tabloid press as a whole, which serve a purpose every bit
as important as the broadsheets. I say this as someone who is sickened
by this one particular act of trying to score points off the suffering
of countless children across who knows how many years, all while
claiming to be the good guys. Shame on you, Sun.<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br />
<br />pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-54087297397952083842012-10-06T22:45:00.001+01:002012-10-08T08:21:58.587+01:00Swimming Lessons<b>Patterns are weird, right? And by that I mean the patterns we invent in our
heads, not real patterns, which are down to maths or physics or astrology or
something.</b><br />
<br />
As adults the things we convince ourselves of tend to be at least partially
believable and based on solid, if incomplete evidence. Any British person who
watches more than, say, 4 American TV dramas, and has taste, will probably come
to the conclusion that US drama is all awesome and great and 100x times better
than it's UK equivalent. Of course, this is only because they produce so damn
much of it, and only the cream of the crop gets imported over her. Well, unless
you count The Closer.<br />
<br />
As children though, the connections we make can be less defensible. And less
sane. Take my theory about people called Chris all having immense swimming
talent.<br />
<br />
Our primary school had a set up whereby once a week they'd bundle us onto a bus
and take us to the local Comprehensive School, in the next village, which had
the luxury of a swimming pool. There we'd take swimming lessons and earn, I
don't know, badges? Belts? Certificates? I can't remember, don't worry about
it, it's not important.<br />
<br />
During these lessons I soon realised that the two best swimmers in our class
were both called Chris. Chris A; who was a bit arrogant and full of himself,
and known as 'the black kid' because it was the 80's and that's what black kids
were called back then; was incredibly fast, but tired easily and was only any
good over short distances. Chris K: Brancepeth Boy and possibly my best friend
in the world; couldn't pick up a head of steam if Jaws herself were bearing
down on him, but he could go on<span style="font-style: italic;"> forever</span>.
Seriously, that lad never got tired.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing though. I was convinced, on the evidence I'd accumulated
through a few hours of watching 2 guys who happened to have the same name, that
ALL people called Chris must be good swimmers. <span style="font-style: italic;">Obviously</span>. I wasn't 5 or 6 here people, I
was closing in on double figures. I was also, in certain respects, incredibly
dense. What can I say?<br />
<br /><b>
There's no real point to this story; no great revelation that will lead you to
an epiphany which will, in turn, change your life for the duration of your days
and lead you to better the world for all humanity. It was just a way to gently
reintroduce Chris K to this blog, because it's been a while since last I
mentioned him and in next weeks post he's going to have a near death experience.<br />
<br />
Oh, and it allowed me to have a dig at The Closer. Always fun.</b>pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-81887606953003413522012-09-23T05:07:00.001+01:002012-09-24T00:07:16.114+01:00Kids are people too.<span style="font-weight: bold;">Kids eh? What a bloody drag they are. Always
wanting to talk to you, and expecting you to listen; always doing things wrong
and expecting you to show them the right way; always killing neighbourhood cats
and hiding them under their bed.</span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Bloody nightmare, is what they are.</span><br />
<br />
When I was a wee nipper, my mam had a few select phrases that she drew on
whenever dealing with children. Any children. Didn't matter if they were her
kids or her friends kids or random kids she saw in the street. Said phrases
were...<br />
<br />
WHAT?!<br />
<br />
Pack it in!<br />
<br />
I'm telling ALL of you!<br />
<br />
WHAT!?<br />
<br />
For fucks sake!<br />
<br />
and of course...<br />
<br />
WHAT, MAN? Jesus!<br />
<br />
I'm not saying she struggled to relate to children. I've no way of knowing
because I never saw her try. <br />
<br />
WHAT?<br />
<br />
WHAT? was the one that got me the most. The vehemence that she could snarl it
was shocking to behold. It would come, usually after you'd made about 20
attempts to get her attention. I think the tone was meant to indicate
displeasure at the fact that you hadn't taken her ignoring you as a hint, and
buggered off. The thing is though, once you'd gotten the 'WHAT?!' response, she
would immediately go back to what she had been doing, and show no interest in
what you wanted to say. So you'd try to get her attention again, and it would
take ages again, and then you'd get the 'WHAT, MAN!? Jesus!'<br />
<br />
Here's the thing though; you never stopped trying to get her attention.
Because you don't, do you? As a kid, you rely on adults for so much, so
the option wasn't really there to just walk away and leave her to
whatever 9hour gossip session or marathon soap opera omnibus was so
important. Had she simply acknowledged our presence, and answered
whatever our query was to begin with, she'd have had her peace a lot
sooner.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Pack it in!</span><br />
<br />
Parents tell you off when you do something wrong. Am I right? Well, no,
as it happens. In my experience, and I concede that not all families
are the same, parents tell you off when they notice you doing something
other than sitting cross legged on the floor with your eyes on the
ground.<br />
<br />
As related above, it was very difficult to get my mother to focus her
attention on you. But if her focus happened to land on you by chance;
perhaps as she passed you in the hallway, or when she, God forbid, had
to go out in public with you; she was a nightmare. If you were running
about, or talking loudly, or kicking a ball, or... <br />
<br />
Now, I know what you're thinking; the above could all be signs of
misbehaviour and I'm probably exaggerating out of spite but I can
assure you that that is not the case. If you moved an inch, or made a
sound when she was in the wrong mood, the cry would go up for you to
'Pack it in!' and once that happened if you weren't essentially a
statue then you were for it.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">I'm telling <span style="font-style: italic;">all </span>of you!</span><br />
<br />
I'm not going to lie to you, dear readers. 'I'm telling <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span>
of you' caused more beatings and groundings than any other factor in my
childhood. Try as I might, I just couldn't not argue back when that one
came into effect.<br />
<br />
Regular readers of this blog will know that arrogance and an
expectation of obedience when you haven't earned it is a bug bear of
mine. In my adult life I've had more than my fair share of run-ins with
various superiors at work over things they've said and done which I've
considered stupid, or just wrong; as a child it was teachers and my
mother. Nothing epitomised that whole thing more than when one child
did something wrong and <span style="font-style: italic;">everyone</span> was reprimanded because she was <span style="font-style: italic;">too fucking lazy and disinterested</span> to spend a minute to find out what had actually happened.<br />
<br />
Anyhoo.<br />
<br />
You're probably wondering what my point is here, right? Well, I'll tell
you. It's about respect. It's about my attitude toward children. And
it's about societal assumptions. Allow me to explain.<br />
<br />
Children are not, so far as I have been able to ascertain, idiots. Or
at least, no greater proportion of children are idiots than adults. It
always astounds me that so many people seem to go through life assuming
that children are somehow beneath them when they themselves were
children once; do they not remember what it was like, what they
themselves were capable of? Or is it that they do, and are simply
treating children the way they do because that's how they were treated
so that's the way it is. Paying the misery forward, so to speak.<br />
<br />
If a child speaks to me, I listen. I listen, I consider what they've
said, and I respond. I respond in exactly the same way I would respond
if I were talking to an adult. It has never, in all my years of doing
it, backfired on me. And why would it? What do we think will happen if
we treat someone with a modicum or respect and human decency before
they've been alive a certain number of years; a number which people
can't agree on from one country to the next?<br />
<br />
As a result of this, children tend to like me. Whoda thunk it?<br />
<br />
But now, I've found myself being told that this is a BAD THING. That by
treating children the way I do, and therefore having them think kindly
of me, I'm opening myself up to allegations of, well, you know. This
had; perhaps naively; never occurred to me before it was pointed out by
a colleague of mine. <br />
<br />
I had been talking about taking my goblin nephew to an after school
sport thing at a local park, run by the local Sure Start group. It was
a very informal thing, with the volunteers essentially dumping a
shedload of kit on the ground and letting any kids that showed up run
wild with it for a couple of hours. I was pretty much the only adult
there, with every other parent seemingly perfectly happy to let their
kids, some as young as 3, head there alone. <br />
<br />
It was at one such session that I first encountered two girls. I won't
name names, but one was in the Goblin's class at school, which would
make her about 6 or 7 at the time. The other was apparently in nursery
school. They were regularly sent to the park unaccompanied, on sport
nights and also when no adult supervision, however nominal, was
provided. The 6 year old was in charge of the 3(4?) year old. And doing
about as good a job as you might expect.<br />
<br />
It was when I witnessed the older girl getting incredibly frustrated
with the younger and start to hit her, repeatedly, that I stepped in.
Over time, pushing the young girl on the swings, playing bat and ball,
or just letting her lead me around by a skipping rope, became a regular
thing. The older girl was able to go and play without the
responsibility she so clearly shouldn't have had, and the younger was
perfectly happy too. . By all accounts, or at least if the Sure Start
workers were to be believed, the little one was much calmer and better
behaved when I was around, and much more responsive to me than she'd
ever been to them. I thought I had done some good. In fact, I still
believe I did.<br />
<br />
This was not how my colleague saw it. In his eyes, I was opening myself
up to all sorts of allegations and should stop having anything to do
with these children straight away. He told of how when he worked in his
front garden there was a young lad who would regularly come over and
try to strike up a conversation, and he would refuse to engage and tell
the kid to go away, because he didn't want a 'name'.<br />
<br />
Was he right? Because all I could think of when he told me that was,
how shit must that kid have felt? He tried to make conversation with a
neighbour, had done nothing wrong, and yet was essentially told to
bugger off. And we wonder why kids act out?<br />
<br />
I thought about what he'd said a lot. I'm incredibly self conscious at the best of times so the idea that people might think <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span>
of me filed me with dread. But you know what? The very next time I went
to that park I pushed that girl on the swings. Because how could I not?
How would she have felt if I didn't; if I suddenly, after weeks of
being her friend, and talking to her, and counting to ten and chasing a
ball, started to blank her?<br />
<br />
So I said fuck it, and carried on the same as before. I refused to let
fear of what 'society', in it's tabloid press fueled hysteria, might
think of me, change the way I treat the young people I encounter.<br />
<br />
Am I
wrong?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-53521793524027029092012-09-17T15:07:00.002+01:002012-09-17T15:26:56.299+01:00A Grand Day Out<span style="font-weight: bold;">A little over a week ago, I went to see Dredd.
But we'll get to that</span>. <span style="font-weight: bold;">First let me
tell you about the day I had in the run up to watching the film.</span><br />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
Because I am me, and therefore pathologically
incapable of planning ahead or having any kind of workable time management
skills, I just left the house when my bits of housework were done and headed
off to Darlington on the basis that there was bound to be a screening at some
point round about the time I got there. Surely.<br />
<br />
3 and a half hours I had to kill. <span style="font-style: italic;">3 and a
half hours</span>! In <span style="font-style: italic;">Darlington</span>, of
all places.<br />
<br />
Of course, with loads of time to kill there's only one logical thing to do; so I
bought
some pringles from the pound shop and sat on a public bench to tweet about how
I had loads of time to kill. Which was when it happened. Attack of the Spider!<br />
<br />
Have you ever sat and watched a spider run up and down your arm for ages? It
goes up. It goes down. It goes up. It goes down. It goes
up... I can thoroughly recommend the experience for it's therapeutic
properties. There's more to life than spider athletics though, or pringles for
that matter,
so I roused myself and headed into the town centre.<br />
<br />
As I passed through one of those little tunnels under the road that I
can't remember the name of but come in very handy when buskers don't want to
get wet in rain showers, I heard a woman bemoaning, in very strident terms,
that something 'was not her bloody fault!' I say bemoaning in strident terms.
What I mean is yelling at the top of her lungs. As I drew closer to the as yet
unseen woman it became apparent that whatever it was she had done wrong, it had
involved her being put under pressure to make a decision, in a split second.
She's not good under pressure, and the other (unheard, and at this point, as
far as I knew, possibly imaginary) person should know this and stop haranguing
her (she actually said haranguing, I was gobsmacked) about this stuff.<br />
<br />
Turns out the person getting shouted at was a child, of about 8. Who, seemingly
oblivious to her distress (or possibly just not knowing what haranguing is),
continued to calmly explain that he didn't like that kind of ice cream and
wouldn't be eating it, thank you very much. I moved on.<br />
<br />
In the market place there was a man. He was hanging off a lamp post and reading
scripture, very loudly. Apparently, and I wasn't aware of this so he's taught <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span> something at least, we are all dust in
the eyes of God. He went on to explain that it is a sin of presumption to think
yourself anything more than said dust. Now, I'm not a particularly religious
chap, but I find it hard to fault the logic there. Moving on.<br />
<br />
Cafe! Sat in the really cramped cafe with ultra uncomfortable seats and read a
bit of my book (A Serpent Uncoiled, by Simon Spurrier, if you must know, and
it's effing marvelous) whilst eating chips, beans, and FISH FINGERS! I hadn't
had fish fingers in years! Why don't I eat fish fingers anymore? I love fish
fingers! Cafe got extra busy so I left as soon as I'd finished eating, rather
than carry out my plan of staying and reading for ages while nursing my coffee
and looking sullenly at the staff as they made passive aggressive attempts to
move me along by wiping <span style="font-style: italic;">around</span> my cup
and 'accidentally' bumping my seat.<br />
<br />
At this point I was running out of ideas to kill time and still had 2 hours to
go. Things were looking desperate. I'm not saying that Darlington has nothing
going for it; there are two licensed
sex shops with a wide variety of dvd's to suit all tastes, after all. Sadly,
and you'll know this if you've ever been in a high street sex shop, they are
massively expensive, so not really an option; it's weird, but I have no
embarrassment about going in to those places and buying stuff, but if I go in,
wander around and then leave empty handed I feel like a dirty old man and get
all self conscious. Explain that, Frasier!<br />
<br />
Anyway, I decided to go on a mission. Many moons ago when A Dance With Dragons
came out I didn't buy it because there was no rush, on account of how I wanted
to re-read all the previous books in the Song of Ice and Fire series first.
When I finally did get around to buying it, it had gone from the shops.
Obviously. I have all the others in hardback; no way was I buying this one in
paperback. So with this time to spare I went on a search of all the charity
shops and second hand book shops I could find. <br />
<br />
I didn't find the book second hand, although I eventually <span style="font-style: italic;">did</span> pick up a copy in a publishers
clearance shop, but what I did find was a shop purporting to be given books
away! I went inside, it wasn't a scam! Apparently all the books had been
rescued from landfill and they just wanted them to go to a good home. You could
help yourself! Is this a thing? I approve! <br />
<br />
Anyway, I spent a good while after that sitting on a park bench watching a
bunch of squirrels prancing around without a care in the world, and a bunch of
drunk men be very threatening to various passers by who wouldn't give them a
cigarette. Then off to see Dredd I didst gambol. After a quick stop at the
poundshop for some more pringles and the old 3 cans of pop for a pound deal.
Because have you seen how much that shit costs in the cinema? I'd like to!<br />
<br />
Dredd was, as I had hoped; but wasn't, if I'm being honest, wholly expecting
given what had happened last time someone made a movie of this character; a
bloody brilliant film, full of lashings of hardcore violence, blood splatter,
one liners and things blowing up. Just what the Doctor ordered. Although I was
a little distracted by the fact that a member of staff sat near me for over
half the film. Was he watching me eat my pringles? What <span style="font-style: italic;">are</span> the rules about bringing your own food
to the cinema? WHY IS HE LOOKING AT M...Oh, it's fine, he's gone.<br />
<br />
After the movie I went to the bakers, got a pasty, a chocolate eclair and a
bottle of water and then headed for the bus home. On the way passing a <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> creepy human statue performer who, I'm
not afraid to admit, well put the shits up me. A performer I might add who was
in Newcastle two days ago when I was there. I saw her from a distance and
after thinking it was a strange coincidence, then discounting that on the basis
that coincidences don't exist and coming to the conclusion that she must
therefore be stalking me, I steeled myself to pass her. And I <span style="font-style: italic;">still</span> crapped myself when she waved as I
went past. Anyway, back to a week ago...<br />
<br />
Hard as it is to believe, all that waffle above <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> meant to be funny. I know, I know. But I'd like to end on a serious note. If you'll indulge me?<br />
<br />
Whilst sitting on the bus awaiting departure I heard a shout, from the
pavement outside. A mans voice, slurred, shouting about how "that's a
nice bag love, how much was that, darling?" I looked up, already having
become engrossed in my book again, and say two men bearing down on an
attractive young woman, leering like nutcases and obviously drunk. The
woman put her head down and carried on walking. <br />
<br />
They followed. I watched, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my
stomach and a nagging voice in the back of my head saying " do
something." I didn't. They followed her along the street, asking about
her clothes, her bag, how she was doing; all at high volume and all
while leaning in extremely closely. She looked terrified, and increased
her pace. I still did nothing.<br />
<br />
When she neared the corner, she actually started to run, and
disappeared from sight. The drunk men stood and laughed for a couple of
seconds... then one nudged the other and they <span style="font-style: italic;">started to run after her</span>.
I watched the other people on the street; surely one of them would say
something? But no. I told myself that I should get off the bus and
follow; try to intervene... but I didn't, and the bus started to move,
and I told myself I couldn't help now anyway and besides, she'd be all
right. She would just go into a shop until they got bored, or she would
flag down a security guard in the precinct or...<br />
<br />
Even if the woman was in no physical danger, and I'm in no way certain
that she wasn't, she was definitely distressed. And I did nothing; not
because I didn't think those men were in the wrong, but because I was
scared. I wanted to intervene, but I wanted to not get punched more. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">I'm ashamed of my behaviour, but I'm
not going to lie to you, I think I'd probably react in exactly the same
way again if the situation arose. I guess that's just the kind of man I
am. A coward. A coward, and a shit. </span><br />
<br />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br />pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-72506883255806341622012-09-02T13:21:00.000+01:002012-09-03T14:28:00.157+01:00Dumped<span style="font-weight: bold;">It may have felt like it at the time but
Maurice was not a permanent fixture in our house. He came, he went, and
occasionally he would stay the night during his 'went' periods because that's
the kind of soft touch my Mother was when it came to him, but there </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">were</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> extended periods when he wasn't around. During
these times my Mother would even pay lip service to the notion that she and he
were done by getting together with other men.</span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br />
One such 'filler' relationship actually managed to progress to the point of us <span style="font-style: italic;">almost</span> moving in to the guy's house. It was
never made official, and we never gave up our own house, but at one point we
spent a good few weeks staying with him without setting foot in our own home.<br />
<br />
Now, on the one hand, this could be seen as a bad thing, because moving in with
him would have meant leaving behind our house on The World's Friendliest
Street; a place that I was genuinely happy. None of the shit from my life prior
to moving there had gone away, my Mother had not suddenly morphed into Ma
Walton and Maurice was probably an even worse Father figure than my own waste
of space Dad, but none of that seemed to matter all that much, because I loved
living in that place. How would I cope with leaving that behind? <br />
<br />
But on the other hand, moving in with him would have meant that we could
almost, <span style="font-style: italic;">almost</span>, convince ourselves
that Maurice was finally no longer a factor in our lives.<br />
<br />
In the end I made my decision on how I felt about the whole thing on the fact
that he lived further away from our school. Which meant getting up earlier and
walking further. Uphill! The indignity! <br />
<br />
Of course, all the worrying and soul searching would eventually come to naught,
because in a scenario all too common, we came back from school one day to be
told that we were going home. The relationship, which had seemed perfectly fine
that morning, was over. Oh, and Maurice was there to help us move our stuff.
Now there's a surprise.<br />
<br />
I felt sorry for the guy, to be honest with you, as we all trooped out of his
house and he said his forlorn goodbyes to each of us individually. I mean aside
from the, admittedly pretty major, character flaw of actually seeming to think
something of my Mother, he had seemed like a fairly decent chap. Certainly in
the weeks we spent in his house he had managed to restrain himself from any
fits of ultra violence, so he had that going for him. He knew the situation
with my Mother and Maurice going in though, so I suppose you could say he
brought it on himself.<br />
<br />
So anyway; we trooped off up the horrible big bank that took us home and upon
arrival we quickly settled into our old routines. Maurice's 'helping with the
bags' shockingly turned into him staying the night, which in a mindblowing
twist that <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> certainly never saw
coming, turned into him living with us. Fair play to him though, he made an
effort. It must have been, oh, at least a week before his fists started flying.<br />
<br />
In truth, I was fairly content with the way things turned out. I was back in
the house I loved, surrounded by the neighbours I adored. None of the rest of
it seemed to matter all that much; my hatred of Maurice settled back into a
sort of background hum of seething resentment, I tuned out the bulk of my
Mother's psychological torture and even my sympathy for the dumped boyfriend
faded pretty quickly. I don't think I thought of him at all after maybe a
couple of days.<br />
<br />
Cest la vie.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">You may have noticed that throughout this post I've never mentioned the
boyfriend's name. I'd like to tell you that it was an effort to protect his
anonymity (although I mentioned Maurice's name a lot; but then he is a dick so
maybe I just don't care about protecting him?) but in truth it's because I
don't remember his name. </span><br style="font-weight: bold;" />
<br style="font-weight: bold;" /><span style="font-weight: bold;">
That's right. This poor bloke, who's life, and heart, was chewed up and spat
out by my oh so lovely family, doesn't even merit my remembering his name.
That's just </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">shit</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span>pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487533874799887887.post-70685967572352416562012-08-27T14:12:00.000+01:002012-08-27T14:12:11.408+01:00Twins of... Uncomfortableness<br />
<h1 id="U0in2eXZLPpr" res="http://celtx.com/res/hUmek6U0X1YP/U0in2eXZLPpr">
<br />
</h1>
<b>
This week, a couple of guys I think I mentioned very fleetingly a fair few
posts ago, but never really went into detail on.</b> <br />
<br />
Outside of our core group of friends; me and my siblings, Wayne and
Lisa, and my cousin Ian when school was off; their were a number of
people
who kind of came and went from our circle over the few years that we
lived in
Appleton Crescent. Two of the shorter lived additions to our posse were
a pair
of twins called M and R. <br />
<br />
The twins moved in to a street <span style="font-style: italic;">near</span>
to us, which in itself made them kind of
outsiders but we tolerated their presence, because that was the kind of
tolerant people we were; sort of like a prototype for the Benetton
campaign, or the multicultural society in microcosm. Anyway, they were
a bit of a novelty, because they were being raised by a single parent;
not in itself odd, round my way; but it was their DAD. Much
consternation was to be found in our little mindheadscapethings as to
how that had come to pass. Parents lived together for a while; maybe
married, maybe not; one or the other would cheat and then the Dad would
disappear from the kids lives altogether. That was the natural order,
this whole set-up smacked of wrongness.<br />
<br />
M&R's Dad did his best to fit in with the other single parents on
the estate, soon settling into their patterns and routines and he
quickly had staples like 'spending all the family allowance on booze
and fags' and 'random bouts of frenzied violence' down to an art form.
So I suppose you have to give him props for that, eh?<br />
<br />
Joking aside, I'm sure the guy had his reasons for being how he was.
Certainly, if you spent any amount of time with his kids you would get
the definite feeling that some bad shit had happened in their family. I
never got to the bottom of whether their mother had left them, or died,
or was in prison, or what; I don't think it was a big secret, I just
never bothered to ask; but things were obviously not right in their
house. Trust me, I know a bit about things not being right in the home.<br />
<br />
R was the main reason for this nagging feeling. M, for the most part,
was a fairly happy-go-lucky chap, always ready with a quip and a smile,
but R... R was a psycho. <br />
<br />
Now, I know, I know, it's not generally a good idea to throw around
terms likes psycho, or nutter, without knowing the background to the
person's behaviour. But I'm not attempting to make a psychiatric
diagnosis here; I'm using the term in it's commonly accepted form. i.e.
The guy was unpredictable, violent, and scary as hell when he turned.<br />
<br />
Also, limber. I remember one occasion when we were all hanging out on
the waste ground 'playing football' (dossing around while a ball lay
nearby, pointedly ignored like so much sick in the gutter, until a
parent passed by and one of us made a desultory stab at maybe coming
within a foot of it with a kick; WE ARE GETTING EXERCISE, SHEESH) when
from out of nowhere we heard a scream. And it just kept going and going
and going. It was R, and I shit you not he screamed, non-stop, as he
ran all the way down the street, crossed the road, hurdled the barrier
onto the wasteground, crested two mounds of rubble, ran a bit further
and then leaped into the air and <span style="font-style: italic;">kicked his brother in the head</span>. It would have been amazing, if it wasn't terrifying. I mean, I'd have been fucking knackered half way down the street.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing though; after the kick had been delivered, he just... deflated. The screaming stopped and he just sort of <span style="font-style: italic;">sagged</span>.
Then he called M a dickhead and walked off, hands in pockets, looking
about as dejected as I've ever seen a human being. The whole situation
made me feel very uncomfortable, I'm not going to lie.<br />
<br />
I have no great insight to end on here; M&R didn't live in our area
very long, and when they left we never heard from them again, so I've
no idea how their lives ended up. But they've stuck in my head, that
incident (and one other) in particular, for 2 decades, and I often
wonder how they got on. Sad fact is, I'd bet money on the police being
involved.<br />
<br /><b>
That's it for this week. I'd say I hope you enjoyed it, but we all know
that's a vain hope. I'm hoping to be back next week, but we'll see. Ta
Ra for the noo then.</b>pafladhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12628162708011904221noreply@blogger.com0