Alice

One of the nicer aspects of life at the Happy Harbour Retirement Home is that on those sadly inevitable occasions that one of us relocates to the Great Rest Home in the Sky, a new resident is introduced to us at the dear departed’s wake.

          Taking leave of a loved one, while simultaneously welcoming a new friend might be thought an endearing touch, symbolic of the Happy Harbour’s compassionate philosophy, but endearing touches, compassion, and symbolism are anathema to Miss Starkey, the Havens’ proprietor and commandant, who seizes the opportunity to share the cost of the wake with a welcome party.

          Our most recent departure, Begonia Crump, late of Room 14, was a scarcely mobile, dust-encrusted nonagenarian, whose passing had triggered bitter conflict over control of the remote in the television lounge. Despite the outward protestations of grief, Begonia was generally unloved, and Miss Starkey’s introduction of Alice MacArthur as Room 14’s new occupant, drew a twitter of approval from the residents, along with a stage -whispered “Tart” from Miss Lashley (Room10), which I took as her acknowledgement that it takes one to know one.

          Veronica Lashley is my Intimate Associate, currently estranged, but beneath her expensive smile and immaculate coiffure lurks the dark soul of the street-fighting pole dancer she once was. She speaks as she finds, and mostly she finds wanting.

          “Mrs MacArthur looks quite smart,” I murmured, “vivacious, and with an excellent taste in walking-sticks.”

          “Smart my arse, Georgie, I know her. That’s Alice Homer that was. Rat-Arsed Alice that was barmaid at the Samson, and had to marry Willie MacArthur in a hurry. She’s had a face lift, but it’s her.”

          Alice Homer and the Samson rang bells, and I experienced a sixty-odd year flashback to the dark alley behind the Samson, chips in newspaper and Alice.  And yes, if I squinted through half closed eyes, and made generous allowance for the passing years, Alice it was.

          Close up, she looked a bit lived in, but apart from the walking stick, scrubbed up nicely. She didn’t recognise me, but her eyes widened when I mentioned the Samson, the alley, and the chips in newspaper.

          “Was that really you?” she giggled, “all those years ago?”

          “Sometimes me,” I said, “but by no means exclusively, if what they said was true.”

          She blushed, prettily, tongue-tied.

          “We must have a chat about old times,” I said, “and see if we still have things in common.”

*

          Polish Petra, my named carer and confidante, was sceptical about me moving on Alice, and was firm with her advice.

          “Don t go there, Georgie, she’s trouble on a stick, that one.”

          Petra was right, I knew, but with Miss Lashley off limits, and nothing else in prospect, a dalliance with Alice seemed harmless. Although still hazy about our youthful acquaintance, she was sympathetic towards a liaison, provided it involved no financial outlay on her part.

          “It’s my 75^th birthday Thursday week,” she said, “you can take me to that Cute Crustacean fish restaurant in Pershore.”

          That suited me; fish and chips seemed an appropriately modest investment for a first date, so I phoned the restaurant to book a table and ordered cod and chips twice to save time on the night.  The restaurant guy laughed. “We’ll see you Thursday week. sir.”

*

          Taxis are unnecessary when one possesses a bus pass, and the unexpected surprise of a bumpy half-hour bus ride to Pershore rendered Alice speechless with excitement. She was still emotional on arrival, so I took her for an aperitif first, to restore her equanimity, although I hadn’t reckoned on restoration costing me a bottle of St Emilion. Cod and chips but no pudding, I’m afraid, Alice

          The Cute Crustacean turned out to be that sort of trendy, dimly lit, place that induces involuntary hyperventilation of the wallet. It certainly struck fear in to mine. An impressive sea-life aquarium was set in to one wall, and the waiter seated us at an adjacent table and gave us menus.

          “Skip the formalities, mate” I said, “I ordered cod and chips twice when I booked. Get frying.”

          The waiter lifted a contemptuous eyebrow. “Cod and chips is not an option here, sir. The Crustacean is not a chippy.”

           “No problem then, love,” said Alice, “Fruit de Mer twice, please, with seared scallops to start and a nice bottle of Chablis.”

          Alice was well down the Chablis when the scallops arrived, so she ordered another bottle. She was now totally relaxed but I was in shock because I knew that the bill already exceeded the contents of my wallet, and my credit cards are only for decoration. Then the second Chablis arrived so I poured myself a large one, and decided to go with the flow.

          While we ate, we watched the activity in the aquarium, and Alice became fascinated by a malevolent looking lobster that was lurking in the corner.

          “He’s watching us,” she said, “he’s trying to get our attention.”

          “He’s thinking of making a break,  Alice,” I joked, “he’s discovered he’s on tomorrow’s menu.”

          “Oh My God, Georgie, is he. We should call the RSPCA.” I thought she was joking until I saw tears in her eyes, but it was only when she struggled to her feet and tried to embrace the lobster through the glass that I realised that she was borderline plastered.

           “Oooo, Georgie, I need the loo,” she said, “but my legs have gone all floppy, you’ll have to take me.”

          It’s difficult to look nonchalant when supporting a legless septuagenarian, but Alices’ walking stick suggested disablement so nobody noticed. I got her down the corridor, bundled her into the ladies, heard the door lock and waited.

          And waited; then I knocked; then I called. “You OK, Alice?” No response.

          Bugger, I thought, the old dear’s flaked out.  What happens now?

          I knew I should fetch help; there was no knowing what state Alice was in. On the other hand, the shenanigans involved in extracting her from the loo would make us late for the last bus and I’m too old for rushing while lumbered with a blitzed old biddy on a walking stick. More to the point, fetching help would inevitably culminate in a distressing no-win argument about the bill, and I’m too old for stuff like that as well.

          The notice on the door by the ladies offered a solution. ‘Emergency Exit – Push Bar to Open’, so I pushed the bar and legged it for the bus stop.

*

          Alice arrived back by police car about 1.00am, and the commotion roused the Home . She’d been discovered, moribund, in the ladies, and the police had been called because she couldn’t pay the restaurant bill. Nor could she explain her presence in the toilet or the restaurant, but was adamant that she’d organised the escape of a talking lobster who had appeared under the khazi door and asked her to flush him to freedom down the loo. The police weren’t charging Alice, but wanted to talk to the little old guy seen with her in the restaurant, who’d abandoned her without paying

          “Oooo dear, Georgie,” said Petra. “Lucky for you! I saw you reading in your room earlier when I brought your tablets in.”

          Thanks, Petra, I thought, that’s what carers are for. I owe you one. I just hope I’ll be able to afford it..

The Trail to Cousin Myrtles'

            Fat Abe’s Gas Station was a dirty yard at the far end of Rotting Possum‘s dusty main street. It was littered with oil drums and long-dead tyres and in a corner was a battered pick-up loaded with crates seething with raucous chickens.  It boasted a couple of dilapidated gas pumps, a rickety shed with shame-faced pretensions to being an office, and a wooden bench upon which floundered the gargantuan backside of one of the fattest guys I’d ever seen.

            “You Fat Abe?” I bawled, to make myself heard above the chickens. “I’m Harry Homer, Myrtle Homer’s cousin from England. I’m just off the bus from Memphis and Myrtle’s arranged for me to pick up her vehicle here to take on to Coyote Falls.”

            The fat guy stared through me for a moment, then took a long drag on a huge cigar before thoughtfully delving his fat fingers in to the stubbly depths of his multitudinous chins.

            “Yup,” he admitted, “I’m Fat Abe, but right now Mister I’m closed.”

            “Closed?”

            “Closed,” He waved his cigar dismissively. “Break time, Mister, I’m all closed up.”

            “OK,” I yelled, “so, any one here who can help?”

            “Nope, been here on my own all morning an’ I’m all tuckered out, so y’all have to wait till my break’s through.”

            “Guess you’ve had a busy day then?”

            Fat Abe pondered, before blowing a large, perfectly circular smoke ring, which slowly disintegrated over my face in an evil-smelling fog.

            “Nope, y’all my first customer today, Mister.”

            “Well then,” I said, coughing politely amid the smoke, “how about I pick up Myrtle Homer’s car now, and then you can keep going with your break as long as it suits you?”

            “Nope,” said Fat Abe, “If I do that, I’ll have folk a-turnin’ up here all hours, just to suit their convenience, y’all gotta wait, Mister.”

            “OK, OK!” The long, hot, bus ride from Memphis had left me grouchy, “so just tell me when you’ll reopen.”

            Fat Abe favoured me with another smoke ring. “About half an hour, Mister, if I’m feeling amiable.”                   

            “Don’t put yourself out on my account,” I murmured.

            I heard sniggering behind me, and turning, found a small shifty-looking crowd of townsfolk eying me with curiosity. I decided to play things cool.

            “Anywhere I can get a drink while I’m waiting?”

            Fat Abe pointed down the side-walk. “Zak’s Bar’s just down there apiece; Zak’ll rustle you something, if he‘s feelin’ amiable.”

            “Thanks for all your help,” I said.

            I pushed through the batwing doors in to the Zak’s Bar, followed by the street crowd, and found  more shifty folk clustered around the bar and tables. The bartender eyed me suspiciously.

            “You Zak?” I asked.

            “Guess I’m Zak,” he said

            “Beer, Zak,” I said, “if you’re feeling amiable.”

            Zak reached for a bottle, bit off the metal cap and pushed the bottle towards me. “What brings y’all to Rotting Possum then, stranger?”         

           “I’ve come from England to visit my cousin in Coyote Falls.”

            This statement provoked a buzz of excitement and a pimply woman wearing tattered dungarees shouted, “Coyote Falls? Y’all a-goin’ to visit Cousin Myrtle Homer?”

            I was surprised “Yes, but how do you know that it’s Myrtle Homer who’s my cousin?”

            “Well,” said Zak, “nobody but Myrtle Homer do live at Coyote Falls, an we all a-knowin’ Myrtle Homer, cos Myrtle’s our cousin too. We’re all cousins round these parts, Mister, ‘ceptin’, of course, if y’all a McNamara who ain’t cousins to no-one but themselves an’ all of ‘em downright onery”.

            Zak slapped his forehead, dramatically. “Jeez, if Cousin Myrtle’s our cousin, and this dude’s Cousin Myrtle’s cousin, then he gotta be our cousin too!” This observation provoked uproar, and people crowded around, slapping my back, poking my ribs and shouting ‘Welcome Cousin,’ ‘Dang me,’  ‘Lawksamussy,’ and similar rustic phrases. The pimply woman tried to kiss me, but she was ugly and had B.O., so I ducked. I was extremely shaken by this unexpected outbreak of cousins and thought that Cousin Myrtle might previously have mentioned them.

            "Lawdy" shouted Zak, "I never knew we had an English cousin. There’s nobody in Rotting Possum ever bin further than Catfish Creek, this is more excitin' than a whole mess o' molasses."

            "My hubby Joe always said we come from England way back," said the pimply woman. “Old Zeke Homer, Joe’s Daddy, swore that the Homers was English lords who high-tailed it out ‘cos the King had a mind to be a-sawin’ their heads off.”

            “ Old Zeke Homer died of moonshine poisoning,” scoffed a man. “He talked eyewash mostly. The Homers weren’t never lords, not even in Catfish Creek, but come a-runnin’ up here from Missouri after Huckleberry Homer done shot the Sherriff there.”

            This debate on the Homers’ ancestry was interrupted by the wail of a klaxon. “Hey, that’s Fat Abe’s break time finished,” said Zak. “Y’all better get off quick, Cousin, ‘afore he shuts for dinner.

            I left the bar immediately, trailed by all my new cousins. Fat Abe was still on the bench, puffing a cigar and cradling a can of beer. I sighed. The thought that this elephantine degenerate was probably a blood relative was humiliating..

            “I’ll take Cousin Myrtle’s vehicle, now,” I said, “if it’s convenient.”

            Fat Abe fingered his chins for a moment. “Guess that’s OK, Mister. Looks like y’all next in line, anyway.”

            Fat Abe felt in his dungarees pocket and threw me a key, then pointed to the chicken-laden pick up. “There y’are Mister, all gassed up and ready. Myrtle Homer will be most appreciative of you deliverin’ her chickens.”

            I stared at the pick–up in disbelief. The clucking was deafening and I could almost touch the smell.  The interior was filthy, the upholstery torn, and I was sure I could see daylight on the passenger side where the floor was rotting away.

            “I‘m not driving that,” I said. “Not with all that clucking and chicken stink and anyway that truck’ll disintegrate before it gets out of town. And I understand the road to Coyote Falls is none too good?”

.           “Not exactly a road,” said Zak “It’s just a track as far as Deadmans Creek, then y’all gotta take care you don’t get stuck in the swamp. Them water snakes don’t take kindly to bein’ disturbed, and Cousin Jethro swears there’s ‘gaitors in there . Somethin’ ornery took his leg off a while back anyways. After the swamp, it’s straight over Skull Mountain an’ through the pass, an’ if there ain’t no McNamaras a-waitin to blast your ass, it’s a straight run down to Cousin Myrtle’s.”

            “I can’t drive that,” I whined,  “don’t you have a car I can rent?”

            “Nope,” said Fat Abe. “Had one, but the McNamaras’s shot it up on Skull Mountain. Cousin Elmo Homer got lucky that day, the cougars finished him off afore the McNamaras got to him. Now Mister, y’all better get them chickens a-movin’, cos Myrtle Homer’ll be dang-blasted ornery if they ain’t in Coyote Falls by nightfall.

            “Best take ‘em, Cousin Harry,” advised Zak. “Cousin Myrtle do get badly riled when she’s crossed and there ain’t no accountin’ what’ll she do when she catches up with y’all.” 

            I left Rotting Possum with the cheers of my new cousins scarcely audible above the noise of the chickens. The pick-up lurched and bounced alarmingly along the deeply rutted trail and the gear stick had a mind of its own, often preferring a different slot to the one I’d selected. The dust was choking me, and the constant jolting was exhausting. However, when I reached Deadmans Creek, an hour down the trail, the  ruts became a quagmire concealed beneath standing water,  Several times I left the vehicle to check if it was safe to proceed, and was subjected to attacks from squadrons of mosquitoes, cheered on by the chickens.

            It was late afternoon before I cleared the swampland and commenced the winding ascent of Skull Mountain. The trail had reverted to its rutted state, making progress slow, and the sun was setting when I eventually drove through the pass and began the descent to Coyote Falls. I hadn’t got far when I saw a notice by the side of the trail:

WARNING

This heres McNamara country!!

HOMERS SHOT ON SIGHT

Yall got that?

So high tail it out RIGHT NOW!!!!!

            Although the notice was intimidating, I was more concerned about the pick-up parked beside it, the tall bearded man sitting on the bonnet with a shotgun over his knees, and the three armed, bearded men who were standing grinning at me with malicious anticipation.             “My oh my,” said the man on the bonnet, “if that ain’t Myrtle Homers old pick up. Are you in there, Myrtle Homer?”

            One of the men sauntered over and peered in at me “Sure don’t look like Myrtle Homer, lots purtier than Myrtle Homer.”

            Everyone except me laughed.

            “Not Fat Abe come a-visitin, Padraig?” asked the man on the bonnet.

            “Nope, Shamus” said Padraig, “lots purtier than Fat Abe, too.”

            Shamus slid off the bonnet and strolled over, his hand cupped round his ear. “Now, what’s all that cluckin’ there, Padraig? I do believe I’m hearin’ chickens.”

            Shamus examined the chicken crates, casually poking at the protesting birds with the barrel of his shotgun.

            “Well now” he said, sorrowfully, “looks like Miss Myrtle got some new chickens, so soon after we hijacked the last lot, too; some folk don’t never learn. And who might you be, Mister?”

            “I’m Harry Homer, Myrtle Homer’s English cousin, just passing through. Sorry to be a nuisance; if you could point me in the right direction...?”

            “ Oh my,” said Shamus, “here’s us all a-lyin’ in wait for Homers and one drives up and surrenders.”  He looked at me, thoughtfully. “Don’t seem right to be a-shootin’ him straight off, though, him bein’ a stranger an’ all, an’ not knowin’ our ways, t‘ain’t hospitable. Not much fun for us neither.”

            “OK, Harry Homer,” he decided. “Myrtles place is down the trail a-ways. You get goin’ now, real quick, cos me and the boys are a-countin’ to ten, then we’re a-comin’ after you and gonna shoot y’all stone dead afore y’all get to Myrtle Homer’s. One……….”

            I didn’t hear “two”, as I was already careering wildly down the trail with the Mcnamaras, whooping excitedly, chasing me down in their truck. In my mirror I could see Shamus on the back of his vehicle, firing at me over the cab. Shot was peppering my pick-up, and hysterical squawking from the chickens indicated that they were taking heavy casualties. Then, unaccountably, the McNamaras’ pick–up swerved and overturned, catapulting Shamus head first in to a bush. Down the trail in front of me a small figure was brandishing a large rifle and jigging about triumphantly.

            I drove down and stopped beside the figure, a tiny grey-haired woman, who seemed to be incredibly angry with me.

            “Lawd save us, Harry Homer, y’all got my chickens shot, yer dang dumb fool.”

            So this was Cousin Myrtle. Padraig had been right, I was lots prettier than she was.

                I followed Cousin Myrtle in to her house and was astounded to find Fat Abe, reclining in an easy chair, drinking beer and blowing smoke-rings.

            “What the hell are you doing here,” I asked.

            “I’m a-visitin’,” said Fat Abe. “Myrtle Homer is my Mummy, Cousin Harry.”

            So Fat Abe was my cousin; my humiliation was confirmed. “But how did you get here before me?” I asked.

            “Cousin Young Sherriff Seth brung me in his sheriffs helicopter, Cousin Harry; cuts out all that crap with the trail, the swamp an’ the McNamaras an’ all.”

            “You came by helicopter,” I yelled, “and I drove the pick up? Couldn’t you have brought me as well?”

            “ Sure could,” said Fat Abe, “but if we’d had given y’all a ride in the helicopter, who in hell would’ve brung Mummys chickens?”

1988 words, plus 

ON THE DAY OF ATONEMENT

I’ve always found the senior citizens cinema show on Wednesday mornings to be an ideal venue for widow-shopping. It’s a cheap morning out for an elderly widower, £3.50 for a top feature film plus coffee and biscuits, and is generally patronised by that better class of widow who seems to be particularly susceptible to my old-fashioned charms. One needs to be alive to one’s opportunities, of course, and it was my quick thinking, watching a screening of ’Atonement’, that enabled me to pull Daphne Murgatroyd.

            The situation arose during that scene in which a lucky fellow was tangling steamily in the library with Keira Knightley. The audience was engaged in a tense bout of communal heavy breathing when the moment was shattered by a loud embarrassed giggle from the woman next to me which elicited much foot shuffling and self-righteous ‘shushing’ and ‘tutting’, causing my unfortunate neighbour to attempt to fold herself up inside her tip-up seat. I seized my opportunity and patted her arm comfortingly. “Please don’t distress yourself, my dear” I whispered, “you are obviously a lady of some refinement, so please don’t let the reactions of these uncultured people distress you.”

             Daphne, as she later introduced herself, smiled at me gratefully through the gloom, and I followed up my first advance at intervals throughout the film, so that afterwards she enthusiastically accepted my offer of a two-for-one pub lunch, a speculative investment on my part of £12.30, (plus tip) and afterwards she agreed to come back to my room at the Happy Haven Retirement Home for coffee and cake. I smuggled her in through the side door to avoid confrontation with my close friend, Miss Lashley, (room 10) who for reasons I do not understand,is under the misapprehension that she exercises proprietorial rights over me.

            I should explain that I have harboured unrequited fantasies regarding Veronica Lashley since she took up residence two years ago but, disappointingly, she sees herself as the Happy Haven’s Virgin Queen. with me as some sort of Walter Raleigh figure. Sadly, I have realised  that my ship has no chance of dropping anchor in Miss Lashley’s harbour which is why I occasionally indulge in a little buccaneering on my own account, hence lunch with Daphne. We reached my room undetected and I put the kettle on.

            My lack of progress with Miss Lashley has persuaded me that at eighty three I have neither the time nor the attention span to faff around with the niceties of wooing, or whatever they call it now. I also had my lunch investment of £12.30 (plus tip) to protect, plus the £3.50 outlay for the cinema, so I made my move even before the kettle had boiled, tentatively embracing Daphne as she stood gazing through my window.

            To my surprise, her response to my embrace was so positive that the passion of her kiss dislodged my upper denture at the very moment that I was gulping for air. The denture shot to the back of my throat, temporarily choking me, and Daphne, alarmed by the discovery of an unrestrained foreign body in my mouth, sprang away from me with a frightened cry and toppled backwards over my footstool.

            Our cries of distress attracted the attention of Polish Petra, one of the carers, who burst into my room followed by a furious Miss Lashley and a twittering gaggle of rubbernecking residents.

“Ohmygod, Granpa Georgie,” said Petra, as she surveyed the carnage, “you’ve really done it this time haven’t you?”

            I had

            The paramedics put Daphne in a surgical collar and carried her to the ambulance on a board. Although she had by now regained consciousness, she didn’t wish me goodbye, so I assumed that our brief relationship was at an end, as was my association with Miss Lashley. That’s another £15.80 (plus tip) down to experience, I suppose.

            Miss Starkey, the Happy Haven manager, now has me on 24 hour lockdown, only leaving my room for escorted toilet breaks.My case has been referred to the local council and social services, but they couldn't find anywhere else to take me after the last incident and I guess they won't have any better luck this time so Starkey is stuck with me, like it or not. I'll lay low for a while until the dust settles or at least until I get a better-fitting denture.

The Frogspawn Viking

             The life of a geriatric recluse can sometimes be challenging, and my solitude was recently disrupted by local yobbos shouting abuse and hurling missiles at my windows. I responded defiantly by turning my garden hose on the brain-dead rabble, but with hindsight soaking Fat Kev Blenkinsop was a dumb move. Kev slipped over and knocked himself unconscious on my gatepost, which infuriated his neanderthal mother Toxic Tilly, who shook her gigantic tattooed fists at me and angrily prophesied my imminent death.

            I gave Tilly two fingers and retired triumphantly to my sitting room to partake of something comfortingly alcoholic. The room was in semi-darkness and I had an uncomfortable feeling that there was someone there and peering through the gloom I was alarmed to see a shadowy figure lounging in my best armchair.

          “Who the hell are you?” I yelped, thinking that one of the yobs had gained entry, “and what are you doing here?” 

          “ I’m moving in,” said the figure. “The situation at my current accommodation has become intolerable, so I’m requisitioning this property forthwith. My need are few and will not cause inconvenience."

           I switched the light on and discovered that my intruder was not one of my tormentors, but was some sort of fruitcake. He was bizarrely attired in a long gown worn over chain-mail and sported a peculiar two-pronged beard. Oh, and a helmet encircled by a crown.

         “Who the hell are you?” I repeated. "And what's with the fancy dress?"              

          He puffed his chest out. “I’m Sweyn; Sweyn Forkbeard. King of England. Pleased to meet you."
         This guy was obviously barking, possibly dangerous, so I was wary. “I see," I said, "that's interesting.In all honesty I can't say I've heard of you, Sweyn. King you say? Is the Queen doing a job-share?”

          The fruitcake growled indignantly.“I was declared King of England in 1013, after I’d given Aethelred the Unready a good kicking. It was big news at the time."”
          I thought it best to humour him. " Sorry, Sweyn, a bit before my time."
          "Your loss," he shrugged. "I only reigned for five weeks anyway, so I suppose you might have missed it. But I was a well-hard Viking, and if you'd met me you'd have remembered it, matey."
          I peered closer at Sweyn. He certainly looked well-hard. Also sinister, creepy, and … insubstantial! Not transparent exactly, but undeniably translucent. Spectral, actually.

         “1013?  That‘s a while back, that would make you...?”

         “Dead is the word you're searching for.”

         ”My condolences," I said. "I thought you looked pasty.”

         “Not surprising,” he said, “I’ve been dead since 1014 but I’ve been stuck here ever since over a dispute about my after-life destination.”

          I am often in dispute, so I sympathised.“These things happen, what’s the problem?”

         "Visa trouble.  I was a Christian convert but when I died Heaven denied me entry on account of my pagan roots and the pagans refused me Valhalla because of my Christian connections. My case went to an arbitration tribunal and I’ve been hanging out, invisible, in what's now 64 Acacia Avenue ever since. Invisible, that is, until Toxic Tilly Blenkinsop and Fat Kev moved in.”

        Sweyn shuddered. "It was terrifying.Fighting, drunken parties, drugs, loud music, all day, every day. The stress was unbearable and gave me anxiety attacks which developed in to ectoplasmic eruptions, wisps of vapour at first, increasing in frequency and virulence until I became intermittently visible.”
        “When Tilly first saw me, she put me down to the LSD, before realising that I was a business opportunity. She scammed me a dead man’s National Insurance number, disability allowance, a car on the mobility scheme and she even gets carer’s allowance. I have a social worker.” Sweyn's  insubstantial lip quivered uncontrollably. “A bloody social worker. Toxic Tilly scares me witless and I’ll never de-materialise with her around.”

        Sweyn’s Viking’s bravado had completely dissipated, and I felt a sudden affinity with him, resisting the urge to pat his translucent shoulder. “I know all about Toxic Tilly, Sweyn, I have problems too.”

        Just then we were interrupted by loud bangs and splintering noises, which I correctly judged to be someone kicking my front door in. Then the living room door burst open to reveal the hideous immensity of Toxic Tilly herself.
        “Good grief,” moaned Sweyn, frantically filtering himself through the back of the armchair in an attempt to hide, “it’s her.”

         Toxic Tilly loomed menacingly above me and cuffed both my ears with her huge fists.”That’s for hosing my little boy, arsehole. I was going to smash your furniture and break your legs for that, but I've just received my eviction notice, so me and Fat Kev are moving in here and I’ll need you fully functional to do the skivvying.

        She glanced in surprise at Sweyn. “Not sure why you’re here Whiskers, but get yourself out of that fancy dress and into your jeans and sweat shirt. I want you looking disabled and deserving before the social worker arrives.”
       So the Blenkinsops moved in, partying and fighting and requisitioning my income. I was bullied in to doing all the household chores while the well-hard Viking curled his spineless self in to the foetal position, and whimpered endlessly, too terrified of Tilly to just disappear off out of it.

       Then I had my brilliant idea.

       The plan was to ratchet Sweyen’s stress levels up so high that he would transcend translucency and actually coagulate. Once sufficiently substantial he would behead the Blenkinsops with his newly coagulated sword and I would bury the bodies in the garden. No one would bother to question their disappearance. The police and social services wouldn’t believe their luck, and Sweyn and the murder weapon would fade quietly away.

      But this plan failed.

      Despite our efforts Sweyn didn’t coagulate beyond a state of gross decomposition and the stench was appalling He closely resembled frogspawn, and sometimes bits of him fell off and trod in to the carpet, and neither he nor his sword were capable of delivering anything more lethal than a slimy wet slap.

     Then Sweyn had his brilliant idea.
     He got me to grass Tilly up, anonymously, over claiming for Sweyn using a dead guy’s identity, although I neglected to mention that Sweyn was dead anyway.  The benefits people arrived mob-handed along with the police and Sweyn’s social worker. understandable doubts about Sweyn’s wraith status were soon dispelled when he removed his head and put it under his arm, a cliché, admittedly, but startlingly effective. There followed a brawl involving Tilly and Kev and two transit loads of police, and now the Blenkinsops are doing time for benefit fraud and GBH. Result!

       I now have the respect of our estate as the man that did for Toxic Tilly. Sweyn is still here, but is flickering intermittently and becoming more insubstantial by the day. He hovers in my armchair, droning on about his well-hard Viking days, though I know him for the wimp he really is.

      My book, ‘Sweyn Forkbeard, The Last Viking King of England’, will be on sale at Christmas.

           The ghostwriter won’t get a mention.

Taking the Waters

It’s rare that one is granted a duck’s eye view of the world, and even rarer to experience the simple pleasure of sprawling idly in a babbling stream, contemplating the uncertainties of life, as the waters flow and eddy unconcernedly about one’s buttocks.

It wasn’t a conscious decision that found me and my bicycle prostrate in the depths of  Broughton Green ford, just a too-fast downhill approach and an injudicious touch on the brake, resulting in an involuntary flying header in to the middle of the ford. I landed with a splash and a thud on my left side and lay musing for a while, none too pleased with how the day  was turning out. You silly old fart, I thought, what if you can‘t get up? You must at least have broken your hip and you’ll probably go in to shock and drown where you lie.

I tried looking on the bright side. I was wearing clean underwear, so my widow wouldn’t be shamed in the mortuary when she identified me. And anyway, with luck, a motorist would find me and have sufficient compassion to stop and help, and not to drive round or, more likely, over me. On the other hand, if the driver was some harassed rural mom in her 4 x 4, late for the school run, that would probably be more than an elderly cyclist could expect, so I decided to try and vacate the stream before I was flattened beyond recall.

Surprisingly, tentative limb-waving indicated nothing obviously amiss about my person, so I picked myself and bike from the waters, waded to the shore and examined myself for signs of terminal injury while the water trickled slowly from my shoes and clothing.

I couldn’t believe my luck: not a mark on me, and no bike damage either. I’d got away with it this time, but I’ve had an uncomfortable feeling recently that the Grim Reaper is close by, loitering with intent, just looking for the chance to stuff his scythe through my front spokes. Best be more careful in future

Reflections on my 80th Birthday

21 was better.

21 was a bloody sight better.

The Gospel Truth

Recent Facebook pictures of a snow-covered Gospel Pass in the Black Mountains of Wales,reminded me that I'd laboured over there in the 120 km (76 miles) Welsh Marches Audax in April 2009.

The route contained 1600 metres of climbing, including some hilly stuff round Herefordshire, before scaling the Gospel Pass and dropping down to Hay on Wye, leaving an easy run in to the finish at Monkland near Leominster.

  I’d upped my mileage before the event but was fully aware that my 72 year old legs were in danger of being ripped off over the climbs and that I wouldn't be able to stay with the younger riders much past the first check at about 30 miles, I knew I could average about 14mph, on reasonably flat terrain, but the group I set off with was averaging 16’s after about 5 miles, uncomfortably fast for me, and I was on my own before the ride had really started.

I pinched this picture of the Gospel Pass off a website. If I remember correctly I took my own camera on the ride but when I came to take my panoramic views I found the battery had expired. 
I understand that the pass is the highest road in Wales. On the day I thought it was a bloody sight higher.

  I experienced an intense period of indignant distress at being shelled out so early and contemplated a return to the headquarters. But I rode on for a while, fantasising about the dreadful retribution that a Just God would wreak upon my erstwhile companions, and eventually reasoned that my early humiliation hadn't altered my plan, I just had to ride further on my own than I had originally calculated.

The ride to the first check was actually hillier than I had anticipated, and I had to walk a couple of short steep stretches, although I caught and passed a couple of stragglers, favouring them with a supercilious nod and a grunted greeting to leave them in no doubt of my superior standing in the cycling hierarchy.. 

  When I reached the first control, a cafe, some of my previous companions were still there, lolling about with coffee and cake and other fripperies, but I just got my card signed,and carried on, knowing full well that I would be overtaken again on the way to the second control at Hay on Wye. I was carrying an energy drink and cereal bars, so that I didn’t need a sit-down stop.The others passed me on a long grinding hill, a few miles after the café, and I was on my own again.This second section was much hillier than the first, several long hills interspersed with some welcome descents, but eventually I reached the start of the Gospel Pass.

          
  The pass is about eight miles long, up a very narrow road, with a drop and a widening valley to the right, giving some stunning views. It's a steady climb at first, but becomes a lot steeper as it approaches the summit. The days's previous climbs had done no favours for my geriatric legs, and I adopted my usual climbing style of sitting back, engaging 28 x29, swearing profusely, and hoping for the best  Eventually, after plodding for what seemed like half the morning,I came out on to open heath land, with a glorious view over the countryside that I’d just ridden through. A few hundred  more yards of steady climbing took me to the summit of the pass where there was a fantastic view towards Hay-on-Wye and across the Wye valley to the west.

 I caught up with the others at the café at Hay who, predictably were just leaving as I arrived. prompting a non-cycling customer to question the extent of my popularity. The ride back to Monkland was fortunately flat and I got through the last miles, pretty well knackered but in reasonable order.

I used this ride as preparation for the Beacon RCC 94 mile Cotswold Journey Audax, later that year, which I completed on my own, and without stops, a tactic that got me to the finish within the time limit..Just because you cant keep up with the kids doesn't mean you can't go out to play.

Shooting One's Mouth Off: The Veteran Cyclist's Occupational Hazard

Me and my stomach trundling round the Beacon RCC 107km Cotswold
Outing Audax in 2011

I've always talked a good bike ride. In my younger days, tucked comfortably behind my pint among a peloton of like-minded associates, I would hint, only half-jokingly, of my potential as world road champion and Tour de France prospect, and aged 17, filled with euphoria following a couple of top six road race placings, briefly believed my own publicity. After my National Service, I reluctantly abandoned my Tour ambitions, but even then, enthusiasm and over confidence for the coming season led me to make some unrealistic pronouncements, and an injudicious assertion, in the presence of the then President's lady, that I would that season destroy the club 100 mile time trial record, cost me a fortune in Green Goddess cocktails twelve months later.

      The eventual petering-out of my unremarkable racing career resulted in a shift of emphasis from forecasts of future glory to nostalgic accounts of past 'achievements'. Now decades away from reality, bog basic winter Reliability Trials like the Weston and Back and the LLangollen and Back, along with the 'characters' that were my clubmates have become the subject of myth and legend, embellished as they have been with unlikely anecdotes involving fixed-wheel training rides with brick-filled saddlebags and tales of derring-do during Bacchanalian youth hostel weekends. Some of these tales have a basis in fact, but at this distance in time I'm not sure where fact ends and fiction begins.

      Wittering on about the old days, and how bloody good you were, is the prerogative of geriatric cyclists, and although it's invariably accompanied by an attitude of disdain and derision concerning the abilities of the current crop of younger riders, it generally does no one any harm. However, this week, inspired by daughter training for a half-marathon running race, I had a momentary aberration and posted on Facebook my intention of riding the Beacon RCC 107km Cotswold Outing Audax in aid of the Prostate Cancer Charity.

      I'm not exactly regretting it, but...

      I've been round this particular Audax numerous times, and five years ago, aged 72, completed the 160 km (94 mile)Cotswold Journey which actually included hills, thankfully absent from the Cotswold Outing. So doing the Cotswold Outing again seemed like a damn good idea until I realised that I'm now 77, haven't done many miles since my prostate diagnosis in 2011, and no single ride of more than 35 miles in the last two years.

     While I was reflecting on the discrepancy between ambition and ability, and the potential consequences of having shot my mouth off, the till on my Just Giving page was ringing enthusiastically, with £240 donated within hours.  So, like it or not, I'm riding the Cotswold Outing Audax. 

      Fortunately, I'm not such a prat as I sometimes make out. (I'm not!) and have come up with a Training Plan, designed to get me round the course in relatively good order.

     It is foolproof, and based on 63 years of cycling experience, and if nothing else, will get me out on the bike regularly over the next 15 weeks. 

     I know exactly what I'm doing.

     What can possibly go wrong?

f you'd like to donate you;ll find my Just Giving page at:http://t.co/PUhFfH1BfN

      

It's Bloody January, again.

This is what you look like when you know you are about to take your 77
year old self out  on the bike, in to the cold, wet, and an annoying south-westerly,
 for no reason other than you'll have a bad conscience if you don't. Why doesn't
someone tell me I don't have to do it? 

As today there was no appreciable rain, nor gales, nor even the suggestion of an icy patch, I felt honour bound to open my 2014 cycling campaign, the 62nd consecutive year of my Battle of Attrition with the bicycle.
     I am aware that this a battle that I can no longer win, and even as I dragged the Trevor Jarvis from the shed, where it has been lurking with malevolent intent since early December, I was still nurturing an unreasonable hope that the tyres had rotted away and the rest of it had been consumed by rust.
     The worst that had occurred was a soft tyre, which, spitefully, responded to the application of the track pump, and I was soon on my way and immediately aware that my legs had no real inclination to participate in the venture. However, this is a standard reaction for first time out, even for the fitter individuals, so I changed down a gear and pretended to enjoy it.
     It took me about a mile to realise that the route that my brain had planned was inappropriate, inclining far more towards the vertical than my recalcitrant legs considered fair, so I skulked off down a side road and did three laps of a flattish circuit instead There was a nasty south-westerly breeze which tried to knacker me up down one side of the circuit and the tail-wind bits, which would normally have me in paroxysms of delight, I failed to appreciate, being generally in the throes of a near-death experience. However, I'd planned to be out for an hour, live or die, and I ground out an hour and ten minutes, just to show who's boss.
     Noticed that there actually  is some rust, bubbling up on the Trevor Jarvis' top tube. Be interested to see which rusts through first, the frame or me.


     

A War of Attrition

This is the closest I can get to a photo of me having direct dealings
with Attrition, taken Oct 3, 1954 in the Worcs. CA Hill Climb up
Beacon Hill, Lickey. Time 2min 43.8 sec. Only a cyclist will know
just how much agony you can pack in to less than three minutes effort. By
the look on my face I'm at the stage when red-hot needles are being
 jabbed in to my thighs I'm gasping for air, can taste blood in my
throat and I just want it all to stop. Great when it's over!

My sixty-plus years association with the bicycle has always had more than a touch of love/hate about it. Even the act of taking the bike from the shed has always carried a certain amount of nervous apprehension, wondering what the day had in store, and if a race, or hard training ride was involved, I often achieved a high state of anxiety, as my body anticipated its merciless subjection to a great deal of pain and suffering that it would much rather do without.

Once in to the ride, the early anxiety was replaced by the grim reality of the moment: the need to hold the wheel of the rider in front, to react to the attacks of those who would seek to rip your legs off by increasing the pace to inflict unbearable levels of pain, while you pedalled through the agony, whimpering inwardly, desperately straining to keep your front wheel no more than six inches from the wheel in front, because you knew that if that ‘elastic’ broke and the gap widened to a foot, a yard, a bike length, that your race was over and you were dead, buried, and in your own mind at least, deeply humiliated.

At least it was nice when it was over, and if you were in at the finish with the chance of a high placing, there was a certain satisfaction to it all, the fact that you had not only competed successfully with others, but that you had won the battle with yourself, pushed your body far past its comfort zone. I suppose I enjoyed it. Sort of.

Fifty odd years on from those days, I still feel that apprehension before I hoist my 77-year-old arse on to the saddle. Though I mainly ride alone now, it doesn’t mean I can bumble about willy-nilly. There are pedal revs to maintain, average speeds to aim for and hills to climb. Some hills, once relished as challenges, no longer feature in my ride plans, but unfortunately other climbs are now appearing in places where climbs never before existed. Apologies for hills, some not more than 100 metres long  that I would once have taken in the big chainring, but which now, week by week, with a display of shameless malevolence, seem to develop ever-steeper gradients.

I once enjoyed hills, the steeper the better. When I was young, and 9 stone wringing wet, I enjoyed powering my way to the top, mostly leaving my bigger companions in my wake. There was an exhilaration to be had in dancing on the pedals, pushing yourself through the pain to top the rise, a great sense of achievement. These days, fifty years down the line, and, for various reasons, weighing in at 13stone, even a long drag or minor climb becomes my personal War of Attrition.

No pedal dancing now, sit back on the saddle, grab the brake hoods, select a gear that you can turn reasonably comfortably, and on no account look at the top of the hill. Instead, fix your eyes on something a little way ahead, a drain cover, a telegraph pole, and ride to it. Just before you reach it, select another point a little further on, and move towards that. If the gradient steepens, change down a gear and Think of England, but concentrate on pushing the pedals round, and try to ignore the red hot needles penetrating your thighs and the apparent death-rattle that is your breathing. Swear as loudly and as often as necessary. Repeat gear changes until no further sprockets are available and then whimper pathetically, pray and redouble your efforts while willing the bike upwards. On no account look for the top of the hill, just keep pedalling, gasping and swearing. Eventually the gradient will ease, you've reached the top and you may permit yourself a laugh of triumph or a sob of pain, dependent on your mood.

I have to admit that I keep away from major hills now, no point in being stupid, and in the reasonably benign terrain I use, there's nothing I can't get up, albeit sometimes in a state geriatric disrepair. But I do know, realistically, that one day, next year, the year after, on one hill or another,I'm going to have to climb off and give it best. That will be traumatic, and will set off some soul-searching as to where I go from there.

But right now, I still enjoy it. Sort of.

An Old Grudge Remembered

I shall be operating the Welford-on-Avon Control at Beacon RCC’s Cotswold Audaxes on Sunday week. I’d intended riding the 110 km. event but a lack of miles in my elderly legs persuaded me to run the check, an activity allowing access to unlimited cake and coffee and enabling me to hand out unwanted cheer and advice to the legless and luckless as they pass through Welford.

      I’ve successfully completed this event many times, although not always without personal trauma. At the start, a few years ago, I momentarily thought I had been struck partially blind, before realising that the problem was the surprising absence of the right-hand lens of my reading glasses, which I needed to follow the details on the route card, clipped on my handlebars.

      There followed a voluble, if forgivable, tantrum. I could just about read the route provided I peered through the remaining lens and kept the other eye shut, but it was obvious that riding one-eyed, for 70 miles, was impractical, hazardous and potentially terminal, so I needed to ride with someone capable of reading the sheet. However, my friends, unaware of my plight, were long gone, and after a few miles I found myself alone at a junction, borderline berserk and vainly trying to decipher the route sheet hieroglyphics. But just as I decided to call it quits and go back, Johnny showed up.

      Johnny is older than me, a long-ago pro racer of considerable reputation. (he was reserve for the Great Britain Tour de France team in 1955) He was alone, having suffered a Senior Moment at the start, turning right instead of left from the HQ and ending up well down the wrong road before he realised his error. (The previous year he’d locked his car keys in his car at the headquarters, and had to break the window to get in, but that’s embarrassing for him, so I won’t mention it)

     Anyway, his eyesight was adequate, so we teamed up, and made good time to the first check at Honeybourne and on up the nasty little climb past Hidcote. I faltered a bit towards the top, but Johnny kept going, and as I watched him go I was mentally transported back almost fifty years to a road race, which incorporated two very hard laps of our club’s Little Mountain Time Trial course. 

      On the first long climb, up Stanford Bank, the bunch split in two, and I found myself in the wrong half, along with Johnny and twenty-odd others. After we’d topped the climb, a chase got going and we were moving well, though the leading group were out of sight. Thirteen miles on, at Knightwick, our bunch was still intact, but the long, steep, climb up Ankerdine followed by the hard grind to Gt, Witley, created havoc, and by the time we started up Stanford Bank for the second time, Johnny and me had dropped everyone else, and we could see the leading group about half a minute ahead of us on the climb, I congratulated myself on being back in the race with a chance, unaware that I was about to witness the darker side of human nature.

      I’d just upped my pace slightly, to steadily close the leaders down, when Johnny came past, out of the saddle and sprinting. Before I reacted he’d bridged the gap and joined the leaders, leaving me wallowing indignantly down the road. The whole group was out of sight again before I reached the top, and I didn’t see another soul until the finish at Hartlebury, 30 miles and a lifetime of suffering later. 

      Johnny did wait for me in the Audax, though, well, at least until that nasty drag up the last six miles when my legs expired quite spectacularly, but then, what’s the point of finishing an event not feeling knackered? If I’m paying nine quid for a ride, I feel it incumbent upon the organiser to provide me with my moneys-worth of pain. As I’ve got older, long rides have become a war of attrition, the objective being not to go belly up before the finish, but to feel quietly smug because you haven’t. Therein lies the enjoyment, possibly.

      At the Audax finish, I reminded Johnny of his un-gentlemanly conduct on Stanford Bank all those years ago. He claimed not to remember it, but I do, and it’s there, right at the top of my long list of cycling grudges. 

      I’ll save the others for later.

One For the Road

My old friend is in need of TLC and pewter polish. No
expense will be spared.

I have, by good fortune, rediscovered an old friend.   Ferreting in a cupboard, among  the detritus of abandoned cruet sets and gravy boats, I came across my old pewter tankard, the loyal companion of my early manhood, and silent witness to the sometimes deplorable progress of my youthful rites of passage.

    I first met my friend, strangely, in Baghdad, during my National Service in 1956, and felt an instant attraction. Inside, on the glass bottom, was etched what I thought was an ancient Mesopotamian hieroglyphic, but which turned out to be a dartboard. Thereafter, my tankard accompanied me nightly to the NAAFI, variously accommodating Carlsbergs, Tuborgs and William Younger's Double Century, and adding, I felt, a certain je ne sais qoi to my image and establishing my credentials as a would-be exhibitionist.

     On return to 'civvie street',  my tankard joined in wholeheartedly with my cycling activities, Attached outside my saddlebag, it would bounce along quite happily on club-runs to the lunchtime pub stop, the lid clattering excitedly over uneven surfaces, and be ready for use again when we arrived for the Sunday evening pub session. And, of course, it was an invaluable accessory in the cycling-club party scene, a popular feature of the 'social season' in the early 1960's, and an activity which received my enthusiastic support.

This is my tankard in action in its halcyon days. Am I making a brilliant
intellectual point to someone? Or am I rat-arsed?

     On party nights I would leave home attired in my best Italian suit, winkle-pickers, and 'Frank Sinatra' trilby, clutching my tankard and with a Party Seven beer can tucked under my arm.

     Party Sevens were the forerunner of today's dinky little lager cans, cans that don't hold more than a gnats' wotsitful. As the name implies, a Party Seven contained seven pints of beer, and as each party-goer was honour bound to provide one, we never ran short. However, the 'Seven' did have certain drawbacks, the first being that it was almost impossible to open. There was nothing as fancy as a ring-pull, and it was necessary to make two holes in the top to get at the beer. This top, I swear, was constructed completely from war-surplus armour plating, and the only way in was using hammer and punch, necessitating powerful smiting and a liberal use of deleted expletives, offering considerable danger to kitchen work tops and tiled floors. The reward for success was invariably a reluctant trickle of fizzy, metallic-tasting, liquid which somehow managed to go flat before it hit the bottom of the tankard. Only the most dedicated party-goer could drink the stuff, and glass demi-johns of rough cider were a favoured alternative. The girls, of course, utterly refused to drink the beer. God knows what they drank, I never took them anything.

      I can't remember when I split up with my tankard. When I got married I suppose, lots of things change when you get married, not always for the best, though perhaps I shouldn't say that. All I know is, it wasn't me that stuffed it in the cupboard with the old cruets.