Posting

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The nicest thing that happened today was a call from Geoff (or Jeff) of Wyke asking me if I had lost my bankcard. He had stood behind me at the Abbey National cash machine which was not working properly. I walked off without taking my card. Geoff pulled the card out, looked me up in the phonebook, and brought the card round!

I was in Bradford to attend the Remembrance Sunday service at the Cenotaph. Christian prayers and hymns, with prayers from 3 other faiths.

Did work on the City Heroes show for Wednesday.

Have had more than usually exciting medical times these last few days. My anger at what I see as bad medical instruction has focused my mind on changes, but not the ones recommended.

Off all the issues about my diabetes my weight strikes me as the one to address first, despite the doctor not even noticing it. It has been creeping up over a year or more. I checked it on an ideal weight chart and I am half way between good and obese. That would matter less if it was not for the fact I am running out of trousers that fit, and losing weight is cheaper than buying trousers (especially important seeing that the reason I was at the cashpoint was to pay in cash to cover the overdraft created in the last few days by a cheque I wrote a month ago!

Si if I eat less I will lose weight, and if I cut out fat and milk in tea and coffee I will lower my cholesterol. That is complicated for a type 1 diabetic though, and involves trial and error getting the insulin right. It is easy to confuse hunger with low blood sugar, especially if carrying the fag end of a cold.

So no crisps or sweets, and a lot less fat. I am not giving up beer, but will not be drinking it at home for a while.
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Remembering Remembrance

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If I do not mention the visit to the doctor’s, on Thursday, that has left me feeling sicker than a hypochondriac, before the end of this blog, it is because I have forgotten, which is easy when a man substitutes a proper diet for one pandering to his doctor’s desire to give him colesterol tablets, like his desire to give me blood pressure tablets, like his desire to give me aspirin in case of heart attack.

Took the knackered standard lamp that was lent by Daragh Corcoran for the UK Hat Throwing Championship. Fewer people commented on the big lump of wood on the bus than have since asked about the people commenting on the bus.

Sat with ex house mate George on the way to Leeds. I;ll not talk about Fred hiding in the bathroom cupboard of the house when women suddenly started stopping there.

I had fixed up a trumpeter for the show on the 11th Nov. She left a message today saying she could not play The Last Post. After BBC Leeds, buying a big Quid’s worth of bananas in the market, and a Quid’s worth of brawn, I went to The Grove for one pint. which turned into 3 because the pretty Swedish, sounds Irish, jazz barmaid knows a trumpet player from Leeds College of Music (from whence the really good musicians came for my 2008 Walburgas, sorry I am too fresh to do a hotlink. google!). Then the bloke working with her vouchsafed the fact he had played The Last Postas a child.

Back home. Met the widow Lita coming home from her nice girl’s school, but had to left her off because of a need to get home and out again for a technical rehearsal at Bradford Cathedral.

The tech went very well. I had written a proper show checklist for the first time, and while it may not have made things much easier as a list, the fact I had done it, and shown it to major players to prove proper thought had been taken, made things easier.

Me, Dave and John doing the slides had been largely sorted on Thursday at John’s house near Denholme. I was not angry or bossy, and I am working with very talented people, including people from the Cathedral, but I am really quite brain stem proud of making this show happen, and today was probably the best day. I knew the ending would leave people at least moist eyed, today’s rough tech convinced others of the fact/.

Then to Corn Dolley with Dave and John. Then Woodman. The Old Vic.
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Empty well

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Yesterday I did a radio interview in the morning and a talk at night, followed by a 3 mile walk home, mostly uphill. I felt ok doing it all, but have paid for it today with another morning of enforced sleep and a fair bit more coughing.

The interview was for About Bradford – Monday presented by Fran Coldrick, John Mitchell on BCB. I talked about balancing alcohol and diabetes, and was a throughly professional piece. I know John of old, especially as he owns the Cricketers Arms in Keighley, one of the best pubs in Yorkshire.

The talk was to the Oakenshaw Church Ladies. I gave them Martha’s Story. My mother’s escape from the Red Army. They were a very good audience, who laughed a lot, especially when I knocked the contents of my water jug into my rucksack (no damage was done).

There is only an hourly service back from Oakenshaw and I missed one by a few minutes, so walked. It was a long climb to Odsal Top, especially with the weight of jumpers in my dried out rucksack. I called in at the Woodman.

Around here pub league nights mean teams of darts, domino, and pool players playing another pub. The Woodman was away at a Buttershaw pub I’ve never been in (I think called the Cap and Bells). The first bloke back told the story that when he parked he was met by two lads in wheelchairs offering to look after his car for money! Who says disability is any bar to taking part in the everyday activities of a community? He refused to pay, and wondered if that was why one of his tires was flat.

There was also a Ann Summers sex aid party going on behind some curtains. They don’t allow men into these Tupperware parties with knobs on, and from the sounds being made by the gang of young women that is probably for the safety of men.
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Tamed virus and Wild Wales

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Hopefully getting well enough to leave the house tomorrow.

My family is good at finding explanations for things, and can seem to do so obsessively. The problem with that is not so much having the wrong explanation (dad has survived repeating explanations that were wrong when he first heard them in the 1920’s); but thinking that the correct explanation for one thing explains everything similar. Illness is the worst for this. The flu through stress idea came from my brother, and certainly explains some of my previous illnesses. I have been under some stress lately, but the most likely explanation for the present illness is that I have caught something, After all I have been staying in a house full of doctors and children, the two tribes most like to be spreading lurgies.

I have been taking the Gladstone cure (retreat to bed with books) and enjoying it. The coughing and sneezing have not been pleasant, but my appetite and alimentary canal have both been working splendidly, the 16 hours a day sleep have been full of splendid dreams, and I have almost reread one of the best books I know:

Wild Wales by George Burrow (1862).

The book is also filling me with poetic fire, and no little Welsh as well. Burrow was born in Norfolk and taught himself at least 16 languages (including Welsh), had a deep love of poetry, quoted Welsh poetry to Welshmen, sometimes well enough for tears, gives a strong opinion about almost everything but, apart from when he is talking about the Pope, always has avoids hurting the feelings. He spent a year in Spain, in the middle of a civil war (The Carlist War) trying to convert the Catholic Spanish to the Church of England (see With the Bible in Spain) yet he gave a gang of Irishman a Catholic Latin blessing because they thought him to be a Father Toban and asked him. I was going to copy out a small part but going a google for Father Toban I found this blog which already copied it out, so I am taking the below from there.

‘Anyway, here’s his account of an incident at Caer Gybi (Holyhead on Anglesea), from where the ferry to Dun Laoghaire still departs. He’s taking a stroll down the pier when he comes across ‘two or three dozen of Irish reapers…well-made middle sized fellows with rather a ruffianly look…[with]…shillealahs either in their hands or by their sides’. His presence provokes ‘a great commotion amongst them’ and he’s approached by one of them:

‘He stopped within a yard of me and took off his hat. He was an athletic fellow of about twenty-eight, dressed in brown frieze. His features were swarthy, and his eyes black; in every lineament of his countenance was a jumble of savagery and roguishness. I never saw a more genuine wild Irish face — there he stood looking at me full in the face, his hat in one hand and his shillealah in the other.

“Well, what do you want?” said I, after we had stared at each other about half a minute.

“Sure, I’m just come on the part of the boys and myself to beg a bit of a favour of your reverence.”

“Reverence,” said I, “what do you mean by styling me reverence?”

“Och sure, because to be styled your reverence is the right of your reverence.”

“Pray what do you take me for?”

“Och sure, we knows your reverence very well.”

“Well, who am I?”

“Och, why Father Toban to be sure.”

“And who knows me to be Father Toban?”

“Och, a boy here knows your reverence to be Father Toban.”

“Where is that boy?”

“Here he stands, your reverence.”

“Are you that boy?”

“I am, your reverence.”

“And you told the rest that I was Father Toban?”

“I did, your reverence.”

“And you know me to be Father Toban?”

“I do, your reverence.”

“How do you know me to be Father Toban?”

“Och, why because many’s the good time that I have heard your reverence, Father Toban, say mass.”

“And what is it you want me to do?”

“Why, see here, your reverence, we are going to embark in the dirty steamer yonder for ould Ireland, which starts as soon as the tide serves, and we want your reverence to bless us before we goes.”

“You want me to bless you?”

“We do, your reverence, we want you to spit out a little bit of a blessing upon us before we goes on board.”

“And what good would my blessing do you?”

“All kinds of good, your reverence; it would prevent the dirty steamer from catching fire, your reverence, or from going down, your reverence, or from running against the blackguard Hill of Howth in the mist, provided there should be one.”

“And suppose I were to tell you that I am not Father Toban?”

“Och, your reverence, will never think of doing that.”

“Would you believe me if I did?”

“We would not, your reverence.”

“If I were to swear that I am not Father Toban?”

“We would not, your reverence.”

“On the evangiles?”

“We would not, your reverence.”

“On the Cross?”

“We would not, your reverence.”

“And suppose I were to refuse to give you a blessing?”

“Och, your reverence will never refuse to bless the poor boys.”

“But suppose I were to refuse?”

“Why, in such a case, which by-the-bye is altogether impossible, we should just make bould to give your reverence a good big bating.”

“You would break my head?”

“We would, your reverence.”

“Kill me?”

“We would, your reverence.”

“You would really put me to death?”

“We would not, your reverence.”

“And what’s the difference between killing and putting to death?”

“Och, sure there’s all the difference in the world. Killing manes only a good big bating, such as every Irishman is used to, and which your reverence would get over long before matins, whereas putting your reverence to death would prevent your reverence from saying mass for ever and a day.”

“And you are determined on having a blessing?”

“We are, your reverence.”

“By hook or by crook?”

“By crook or by hook, your reverence.”

“Before I bless you, will you answer me a question or two?”

“I will, your reverence.”

“Are you not a set of great big blackguards?”

“We are, your reverence.”

“Without one good quality?”

“We are, your reverence.”

“Would it not be quite right to saddle and bridle you all, and ride you violently down Holyhead or the Giant’s Causeway into the waters, causing you to perish there, like the herd of swine of old?”

“It would, your reverence.”

“And knowing and confessing all this, you have the cheek to come and ask me for a blessing?”

“We have, your reverence.”

“Well, how shall I give the blessing?”

“Och, sure your reverence knows very well how to give it.”

“Shall I give it in Irish?”

“Och, no, your reverence — a blessing in Irish is no blessing at all.”

“In English?”

“Och, murder, no, your reverence, God preserve us all from an English blessing!”

“In Latin?”

“Yes, sure, your reverence; in what else should you bless us but in holy Latin?”

“Well then prepare yourselves.”

“We will, your reverence — stay one moment whilst I whisper to the boys that your reverence is about to bestow your blessing upon us.”

Then turning to the rest who all this time had kept their eyes fixed intently upon us, he bellowed with the voice of a bull:

“Down on your marrow bones, ye sinners, for his reverence Toban is about to bless us all in holy Latin.”

He then flung himself on his knees on the pier, and all his countrymen, baring their heads, followed his example — yes, there knelt thirty bare-headed Eirionaich on the pier of Caer Gybi beneath the broiling sun. I gave them the best Latin blessing I could remember, out of two or three which I had got by memory out of an old Popish book of devotion, which I bought in my boyhood at a stall. Then turning to the deputy I said, “Well, now are you satisfied?”

“Sure, I have a right to be satisfied, your reverence; and so have we all — sure we can now all go on board the dirty steamer, without fear of fire or water, or the blackguard Hill of Howth either.”

“Then get up, and tell the rest to get up, and please to know and let the rest know, that I do not choose to receive farther trouble, either by word or look, from any of ye, as long as I remain here.”

“Your reverence shall be obeyed in all things,” said the fellow, getting up. Then walking away to his companions he cried, “Get up, boys, and plase to know that his reverence Toban is not to be farther troubled by being looked at or spoken to by any one of us as long as he remains upon this dirty pier.”

“Divil a bit farther trouble shall he have from us!” exclaimed many a voice, as the rest of the party arose from their knees.’

Borrow departs and there is no further incident. ‘
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Brizzle pieces

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Back ‘home’.

It was a remarkable trip and I am very grateful to everyone who made it possible. I had been meaning to to visit Hugh, Isobel, Patch, Wilf and Jessie for an age. It was really good to be able to visit Richard at the same time. It was really good to see Richard, and be part of a family who not only do not object to eating what I cook and listen to tales and stories, but who thank me for it! And I must remember to mention young Danny and (I think) Joe, who stopped for several nights.

The prompt to actually book the tickets were prompted by thoughts of the sort of meeting that a Catholic would need to confess, but the truth is, probably, that the meeting was planned never to happen by anyone but me.

I felt really quite rough yesterday with what I assume is Stress Induced Cold Symptoms (or SICS), though I am now coughing and sneezing, but that may just be SIIBS (Sod It I’m Back Syndrome. The stress was largely coming from the Council Tax and missing calls about it and other things, and the fact the Tax is not resolved even now, and I have a court appearance Monday if tomorrow’s processing is not in my favour. On top of that I had a call on the answer service telling me I needed to book at my doctors to give another bloody sample. I have no chance of finding out why until tomorrow. It is most likely to be a lost/mistested sample, but it could be to check something, just possibly serious. I was talking to Isobel and her gardener, as they where digging, when I got the doctor message, and I suddenly felt very, very tired.

On the other hand I also made a massive pot of soup yesterday that all praised, including the youngest. I also managed to work out how to play their Wallace & Grommit CD (though it took a good polish with my t-shirt) and Patch then found their Creature Comforts CD. So I spent several wonderful hours on a comfy sofa in a warm room watching telly, luxuries mostly lacking in my house.

On the train back today I started sat next to an old man in the wrong seat. His actual seat said he would get off at Bristol Parkway. I asked him when we had stopped there. He said he was off at Birmingham. The ticket checker asked him for the 60+ railcard to go with his ticket, and he had never heard of it (he said: Never heard of it! I haven’t been on a train for years!). When we got to Birmingham New Street he still didn’t get off, and there was no spare seat now. He said he was going to Birmingham West (to get a train to Carlisle!). Our train did not stop there. I am sure he did get off, but God knows what happened to him afterwards. God knows what he was doing in Paighton, because I am certain now he was booked from there to Parkway. The most shocking question though is who the hell was responsible for booking him on a journey with so many changes without bothering to check he had a railcard and the ability to understand. I hope he got home.

The three people who got round the same table as me at New Street were Karen and her daughters Abby and Holly, and they were really nice. I got given one of great granny’s cakes within the first five minutes! I did show Holly how to make a flapping bird, so in exchange for feed I repaid with giving them the origami virus!

I got home and had to go straight out again to deliver the wage slip (from Bradford Council) to Bradford Council’s Benefit Appeals that should mean the court summons is canceled, I hope. I bought lamb chops and Cava at the mini Tescos, and going to bed soon for what promises to be a well contented and long kip

PS: I found the bank card as well.
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Everything but the cashpoint, and the girl

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A really lovely day, so lovely it was not marred by the two not good things.

The first being the discovery that I have no cashpoint card when I got to a cashpoint (but do have my credit card, which is puzzling. I phoned to check usage, and it has not been used by anyone else).

The second thing was that I was supposed to be visiting another friend in Bath this trip, at their suggestion, but with them giving no date or address. I was sent a txt at 17.10 asking if I could get to Bath tonight. The answer would have been no, even if I had not seen the message until 23.00. Very badly done.

Did the Severn Beach walk again in the morning. Got the wonderful but decrepit single line railway to Bristol. Left my bag at Hugh’s, and set off to check some of the 18 pubs Richard had listed and marked on a map for me.

First was the Micawber, which was not on the list. It had a wonderful cat sat in the window, being stroked by a good looking young lass, infront of 3 handpumps. The cat was a stroke junkie, the pub dog needed only 3 scatches and a pat to roll on its back, the flirting couple at the bar had over 150 years and less than 15 teeth between them (and after he had described having his private parts washed by the home help a voice from the other end of the bar said Good job no one’s eating!.

After that I went to Zero Degrees and talked to the decent barman. After that I discovered no cashpoint card and walked back to Hugh’s.

In the evening had a really lovely dinner with the families, talk, tales, discussion and fun. If I had struggled to get to Bath at no notice for utterly unknown ends, with no money, it would have been worse, even at best.
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Severn Beach and Pilning

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Richard Stedman (aka Stedders, publisher of the Football & Real Ale Guides came came and collected me from Hugh’s this morning. I thought he lived in the posh resort of Cleveden, but it turns out he lives in Pilning, next to the couldn’t be less posh if it tried resort of Seven Beach, which has a bakers; a grocers; a cash machine that charges 99p; a funfair with two stalls and one of those machines that mave 4 year olds backwards and forwards for 20p; and no beach.

What it does have is one of the best short walks in England. Richard took me over the motorway to the new Severn Bridge, by te course of the Bristol and South Wales Union Railway (which took passengers to a ferry pier before the Severn Tunnel was built), and then along the first/last mile of Severn Beach’s sea wall; and that is the best short walk. Whichever was you walk it you see one of the Severn road bridges in front of you, then the other as you walk the curved river bank. You also pass under the new bridge, the supporting wires of which look like fore-aft rigged triangler sails when the light catches then right. You also pass over the Severn Tunnel the ‘town’ side of the bridge, and can feel the trains, but you only see the rusting remains of the pump that used to pump the tunnel dry.

After we got back to Richard’s we sat and chatted. In the evening we went to the Kings Arms for food, but they don’t do any on a Monday. We had Courage Best. We then went to the Crossed Hands, where Richard met a bloke he used to play cricket with (he grew up in the village). The barmaid was cute, called Lyndsey and only works Monday, when she runs a ‘no swearing without a fine’ charity extortion scheme, her judgement being absolute and final. She charged 10p for a bloody, so I gave her 50p advanced payment.

After that we got one of the best donar kebabs I have had from Vasili the Cypriot.
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Man’s work

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Depending on how I tell the story this was either a day of pottering, or a day of doing right good jobs.

Mixed concrete and cut chicken wire to size, so Hugh could block a rat hole in his cellar, and later relay a slab on top of the wall to the tree house (which gives some idea of the size of the house and garden, or perhaps grounds). I then helped him move the patio table to its winter quarters in the ’shed’ (which is big enough to have a ping-pong table and a vine on the top of the stairs to the roof.

Later I cooked a proper Bratfort curry for the family and a family of visitors, the father of whom was Steve and I met at Hugh and Isobel’s wedding in 92 (I know the date because they use a hand painted, wedding gift, dinner service with the year on the bottom). More remarkable is that his wife said she had heard a lot about me. Something I found very flattering.

The curry and the onion and courgettte side salad turned out exceptionally well. Steve had a plate full despite having had a full on mather’s roast dinner, including sproats, just a few hours before.

In the evening I watched Emma on the BBC with the ones who were not play Grand Theft Auto..

 

Brizzle

Set off this morning for a pre-booked trip to Bristol, to visit Hugh, Isobel and family, and Richard Stedman, and see if there are any leads for any of my shows.

Got a Cross Crountry train from Leeds. These trains used to be run by virgin. Now they run to time and do not smell.

It was a good trip. I got talking to Sunderland fans going to Birmingham City, and one called Steve, who has red hair, bought Red Head books off me, and trusted me to post them, as I had none with me.

Hugh met me at Temple Meads station, put my rucksack in his bike pannier, and we went for a pint at a pub called the Ostrich. Walked up lots of slopes. Had a coffee and walked to his house. It was really nice to see his family again after 6 or more years.

In the evening we went to an opera: Rigaletto by Verdi. This is the only opera I had seen (though I have also sung in one). It was decades ago and it left a very nasty memory. Tonight, at the Tobacco Factory, in the round, in a small space, it worked very well. I really enjoyed it. Not enough to make me go to more operas, but more than enough to fog the bad memory.

I met lots of Hugh’s friends, all nice, including one called Ann-Marie, who I had met long ago. She runs a poetry group, but not on as big a scale as I thought.

 

Of cats and corn

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Forgot the best story from yesterday. A school on West Bowling is offering a art words commission for a room they are calling a ‘room for contemplation’. On my way to look at it I popped into a corner shop, Polish I think, for batteries for my camera and a can of diet pop.

When I opened the door a young, black and white cat ran across the front of me and round the corner of a chiller cabinet. I followed it to get the pop (Vimto!) and made cat noises. After a little while the cat came out, sniffed my hand, and settled down for a damned good scratching from me.

When I got up the cat went back below the cabinet, but as I am paying I feel a weight on my new coat. The cat is hanging off the back of it trying to eat a toggle!

Today me and Dave Pendleton did an interview the City Heroes show for the About Bradford – Friday Presented by John Gill, on BCB. It went out live, dave only gave me an hour’s notice, and I had to rush from giving a blood sample at the doctors. So obviously no warning on here and it does not appear to be available on listen again, which is a shame, as it was a good interview.

Took one corn cob from the maize that has grown in my garden. Very few seeds with starch in, and even those not over full, pleasant enough when boiled in potato, leek and carrot soup.

I doubt there will be any blogs for a while.
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