Morrish and the monkey canes

I remember when karaoke was all the rage whereas now it’s THE QUIZ. A prerequisite for participating in the former was being so drunk that all efforts could be forgiven. An absolute necessity of success in the pub quiz is being stone cold sober. There are some further interesting sociological comparisons between the two activities: in the days when karaoke was king, one would probably have been what was then referred to as a ‘regular’ at the pub; karaoke being simply an excuse to become more sloshed than usual. How the alcoholic ingestion of the great British public has evolved over the years as cirrhosis becomes the ‘must have’ accessory of the new 24/7 millennium. The young lie prostrate on weekend city streets whilst the middle-aged are downing yet more and more wine and vodka in the comfort of their homes. So the quiz is an excuse to get out into the social atmosphere of a pub - where there are no regulars - for reasons completely alien to the raison d’etre of such establishments.

Here we all are in the Red Lion for their inaugural quiz evening. Further observations: each team consists of members of a mixed age, this being necessary for those wishing to answer questions in all categories. The drinks on the table comprise a mixture of cokes, lemon and limes and other non-alcoholic beverages essential to being ‘on the case’. A great deal of time is given over to choosing the team name, ensuring that the pen works, nominating someone with clear hand-writing skills to fill in the answers and ensuring that no other team are using an I Phone. This is serious business. Last week at St Peter’s Finger, it was all down to the person who knew the recorded weight of the largest pumpkin ever nominated for the Guinness Book of Records. We were out by over 100 kilos!

The picture round is a disaster. Marty Wilde was apparently Tony Bennett. Our Shirley Bassey turns out to be Gina Lollabrigida (spelling mistakes are not counted). Zsa Zsa Gabor was Barbara Windsor…I told you that! Strangely, from the depths of somewhere, we were successful with Arthur Mullard. Who? We catch up on current affairs and collapse momentarily on sport; but only because the quiz-master gave us an incorrect date and because the only two racehorses we’ve ever heard of are Red Rum and Shergar. Neither of these apparently won last year’s Derby. There’s a short interlude for the smokers to leave the building and an announcement that Rudy is at the bar doing tarot readings for only ten quid a pop in the next room. Can he tell us if we’re going to win?

Despite the fact that we don’t know the weight of the world’s largest sheep…247 kilos… which, bizarrely, we wrote down but subsequently altered, Morrish and the monkey canes win by a mile. Thirteen quid is ours for the taking, the most difficult task of the night being how to divide this between five. It seems a lot of work for such a pittance but it’s the glory that counts.

Resistance

Just back from a weekend at the house of my ancient parents where a visiting aged aunty is also in situ. When I say aged, I mean in years: father is 84, mother is 81 and Aunty Grace will be 80 in October. So that’s a combined 245 years and it took me longer to calculate that than it does for Aunty Grace to tot up who owes what in the weird card game she taught us. Or amass the total number of pills they take between them for various ailments; all of which are seriously debilitating and none of which hinder their chosen lifestyles.


Arthritic hands can no longer knit. No problem: we’ll just move on to appliqué, patchwork and cross-stitch. Slipped sciatic discs cause sleepless nights but dare not intrude on bowls. Bad knees may warrant a second thought with regard to eighteen holes of golf but only momentarily: we can walk the first nine and take a buggy for the rest. Infections and contagions are rampant but dismissed in the light of line dancing and creative writing. They aren’t even a consideration in the decision of whether to engage with overseas’ male friends on the part of Grace who seems to be under the impression that she’s just turned fifteen. The house remains spotless, the vast expanse of garden is pristine and wonderfully complicated meals appear with regularity, chosen with care from a veritable library of cookery books.

Who do these people think they are? Have they no weaknesses? Can’t they just behave quietly in their dotage? This generation don’t know the meaning of ‘chill out’. It’s positively exhausting being in their company. Aunty Grace complains of ‘feeling lazy today’. What she means is ‘relaxed’ but it’s not a word known in their vocabulary. The ‘lazy day’ comprises a five hour yomp round Warwick after which I have to lie down quietly in a darkened room.

Throughout the weekend, I listen to them talking together. It’s tricky for an outsider because an inability to maintain related conversation might be the only crack in their armour. This holy trinity share two things in common: they each have a view on anything and everything and they all possess a malfunctioning hearing aid.

All of their many interests, experiences and opinions are voiced simultaneously and often without a common theme, apart, of course, from the maintenance of bathrooms about which there is a heated debate. This concerns the option of keeping cleaning materials available versus the eyesore of doing so when you could easily wipe down the shower with a handy flannel. I have no contribution to make as I am sharing a bathroom with Grace who resides in the anti-flannel camp. She has taken over all potential spare space with more toiletries than might be imagined in a Boots’ warehouse. It’s ok. I put my soap-bag in a small hitherto undiscovered corner. I go to bed at 11.30 and nod off quietly to the sounds of her gurgling and swishing and dripping followed by that weird howling noise that the toilet makes. I am woken up at 8.30 the next day to more swishing and gurgling and shut the window so that the Sunday-morning-sleeping-in neighbours don’t have to experience the weird howling noise that the toilet makes which is currently drowning out the pleasant sound of the village church bells. Has she been in there all night I wonder?

It’s only slightly noisier than the previous evening when the three of them were in musical competition tuning in their hearing aids. Late night three-way conversation on the efficacy of Lanzarote versus the tastiness of streaky bacon versus the current drabness of Marks and Spencer is hard enough to follow. Accompanied by tired hands rubbing against ears, it’s virtually impossible: ring, ting, screech. It’s a regular Tubular Bells. Is this where Mike Oldfield got his inspiration? Did he make millions purely by the inspired addition of a mandolin whilst observing his own relatives?

I drive back to Dorset for a bit of Sunday third generation experience. The man-child is cleaning. Always a worrying phenomenon to intrude upon when one has been absent.

Did you have a party? I ask warily
Why are you here? comes the welcome
I live here

I look around for something to eat. Were I at my parents’ house, I would probably find the odd Lobster Thermidor and Isles Flottant in the fridge. No such luck in this establishment.

Do you fancy eggs on toast.
Is there any bread?
Yes, but I can’t read the date says the visually impaired mother
Doesn’t matter as long as it’s not blue comes the student mantra
It’s blue
What about those slices underneath?
No, they’re not as blue as the others

Eggs it is then. I might have a bit of a nap after this.

The old red flag

A hot summer’s day in deepest Dorset finds us walking along a leafy lane accompanied by the Ulster Prison Officers’ marching band. What strange surrealism is this now? Only a few hours later, we will retrace our steps in a tranquility that will suggest this has been nothing but a dream. The thousands of folk that are gathered along with television crews and those making documentaries in these con-dem(ed) times will, apparently, have vanished into thin air. For now, however, this is Tolpuddle at the climax of the Martyrs’ Festival.

Firstly to the church and the grave of James Hammett who was the only one to return to and stay in Dorset where, for his troubles, he died a lonely death in the workhouse. If only he could have foreseen how his life and those of his comrades would be celebrated. Here is a Methodist leader, come to lay a wreath which, inexplicably, has disappeared at the last minute. No problem, says the good lady vicar of the parish as she graciously gives him hers. Here is an aged and fragile Tony Benn, unrecognizable now in any other context. Here is an upbeat Billy Bragg who will congratulate the Bristol Socialist Choir on their rendition of two of his songs after Hammett’s descendants have laid their flowers. In the corner of this sunny churchyard, I wonder at the relevance of all this. Then I remember that I’ve just lost my job.

The grand parade, which is seemingly endless, is a magnificent spectacle regardless of one’s politics. Apart from the Socialist Workers’ Party who, by tradition, must look threateningly miserable, everyone is happy. Smiles as wide as the many coloured and beautifully crafted banners abound. There are balloons and streamers, kites and flags, dogs and pushchairs and all types of bands. They say it’s the biggest festival Tolpuddle has ever witnessed. I wouldn’t know….it’s my first. There is a slight delay to the parade’s commencement as an aged gentleman waving a huge flag of England refuses to move from the front of the leading band. No-one knows if this is a protest and, if so, what against. Two whipper-snappers from the local police force arrive in seasonal rolled-up shirt sleeves and manage to persuade the trouble-maker that there is every possibility of him becoming flattened in the immediate future.

Following the suitably shortened speeches, we later sit amongst good-natured crowds in the glorious sunshine listening to Billy Bragg. The red wedge has taken over the mantle of Mr Benn. Between songs, he preaches, shouts, advises and deals vociferously with a small band of hecklers who feel that Billy’s sold out with his celebrity appearances on Question Time. Largely, I don’t care. I am too busy enjoying the music, the sun and the crowd as I look out over the green fields of Dorset through a row of huge bright red flags.

Here is Billy, almost a child star, unique amongst his contemporaries for insisting on singing live on TOTP. His voice is even sronger today!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xjUA3RU4B8E

Dreaming Spires

Outside the King’s Arms, with glasses of refreshing lemony lemonade, Leonie asks if I’ve seen who I’m sitting next to. Now who? In Bath the other week I found myself squashed under an umbrella with Fabio Capello. I bet there’s not as many folk seeking his autograph these days as there was then. I look round as casually as I can and there at the other end of the bench is Alan Bennett. He is speaking in French about free wifi connection in Paris. Next thing you know, it’ll be Robert de Niro talking Italian in Lidl. Am I to be continually stalked by the rich and famous?
I study Alan Bennett. He seems thinner and younger and is not wearing the trademark blue shirt, green tie and v-necked pullover. This means little as Capello was not dressed in his M & S suit and was, therefore, in disguise. However, the bottoms of Alan’s trousers are grubby which leads me to believe that he is a masquerading doppelganger.

It’s not him I whisper. Leonie is undeterred. As Alan Bennett gets up to leave, she asks:
Are you Alan Bennett?
Who? asks Alan Bennett.
Alan Bennett replies Leonie
No says Alan Bennett, but thank-you for asking.

In the Botanical Gardens, we are hunting the Snark. As you do. Ten actors from the ‘renowned’ Shiplake College in Henley are doing a raucous turn with a Bandersnatch made from ripped-up bin bags. And very amusing it is too. We trail after them in the city’s heat and, after it’s all over, small out-of-control-screaming children chase the actors in and out of the bushes. We sit on the brown remains of the lawn and eat melted ice-cream in tubs. Mine is honey and stem-ginger flavoured. A straw would be useful at this point.

When I arrived earlier, it took me three attempts to work out how to get into the Westgate car-park. Round and round and round we go and where we end up nobody knows. Eventually, I pulled into the ground floor and found a space. Whilst I was busy texting Leonie to inform her of my location, she pulled into the space next to me.
Couldn’t have done that if we’d arranged to she notes.

Much later, after the grand day out and the evening’s open-air performance of Romeo and Juliet, we are walking back to the Westgate behind a man with a bottle. When he starts shouting at nobody and throwing things in the road, we both become wordlessly syncronised: slowing down and retrieving our car keys from the depths of our bags ready to stab him in the eye. This is a strategy I taught my daughters when we lived in Boscombe. Arriving safely at the Westgate, we discover that the cost of retrieving our cars is greater than the price of a return train ticket to Oxford would have been.

NB. There have been some offline comments relating to the previous blog. Name and shame I say.

Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn't there

Actually, it was 8.30am last Sunday and the man in question was certainly there on the landing, in body and wearing only a pair of boxers, but sadly not in spirit. I was making a move upwards with the intention of taking a shower. Another one of those pointless conversations at which our family are so adept ensued.

What are you doing?
I heard a banging noise
I’ve been listening to banging noises since you came in at half past five
I think there’s someone in there
Where? The airing cupboard?
I think there’s someone in the bathroom
Well, who could it be?
I don’t know
Well, why don’t you open the door and find out?
I’m not sure
Well I’ll open the bloody door then. I want a shower.

At this point, some dawning of memory obviously kicks in.

It’s alright mum
No it’s not bloody well alright. I want a shower.
I’ve got it under control
Got what under control?
I’m not alone

Now some sense of understanding kicks in with me

Is there a woman in the bathroom?
Yes
Who is it?

Memory not so good at this point.

For God’s sake Jack. I want to get to the boot sale.

The boot sale is very good. I am stocking up on Christmas presents owing to the fact that I won’t be able to buy anyone anything good once I become an impoverished student for the third time. I also bought myself a Beanie Baby pterodactyl in pristine condition with label attached for 50p. I arrive home and show my goodies to Jack. He informs me I have purchased a collector’s item and will make a killing. I will be able to buy proper Christmas presents. We rush to the internet and discover that the going rate for Swoop, the pterodactyl is 99p. That’s 49p profit which will be negated by the postage for selling it on eBay. Jack’s not looking too good.

So who was that in the bathroom then?
I’m really sorry mum
Was it Sami?
No it was Laura
What, big Laura?
No. The other Laura
Where did she go?
Big Laura came and got her
Where does she live?
I don’t know. I was trying to help her out
Oh. Is that what they call it now? This house is too small for that.
I’m really sorry mum.

21

   It comes to something when the guests arrive with their own television. What’s the big deal? I thought it was just the man-child that moaned about living with the smallest TV in the world. It’s big enough to get Judge Judy on. What more do you want? Apparently, quite a lot. Most people arrive at 21st birthday celebrations with a card and the odd crate or three of beer. Not my son’s friends. I open the door to find a long-haired attractive being……I remember you when you were eleven……barging in and knocking all my prized pictures out of the way, with some electronic monstrosity which must be placed on the decking under the awning that, after three years, we have just worked out how to download………in the old-fashioned sense of the word.


The sitting room is in darkness due to the new shade-inducing, green-and-white-extension and man-child rushes off to the Turkish Spar, not for more beers, but to purchase apples-oranges-lemons to go in the Pimms.; which, incidentally, I overheard him ordering with specific requisites for it NOT to be the winter version. It’s 30+C in Dorset; we don’t want any of that spicy nonsense thank-you. Conversation about old Istanbul is exchanged and the man-child is much impressed to discover that the Turkish contingent a) know we’ve been to Istanbul because b) they know his mother. He’s 21 for goodness’ sake. When is he going to realise that I always get there first? And c) he comes from a family where we’ll talk to anyone and everyone.

The football is, of course, a disaster. But, actually, it isn’t really. These young men, sat on the patio, with their French omelettes, their Thai chicken crisps, unlimited but un-abused quantities of alcohol and a selection of well-meaning family and friends are of good spirit. The nonsense that is the England team is quickly replaced by the cuisine of the day: ribs, burgers, chicken, bacon and a selection of the finest salads. The strange sun beats down and another match is due. I retire to my bed temporarily. When I re-appear, the garden is spotless. Hanging baskets have been replaced; not an item of rubbish is to be seen. I get up the next morning ready for work and meet the man-child, who, no longer is a child, arriving back from his evening’s entertainment.

In old Istanbul

First meetings
In the Blue Mosque, overwhelmed by the vastness, the low hanging-many-candled chandeliers and the peacock-turquoise-immaculately-cleaned-oriental carpet, I stop to lean on the wooden barrier past which infidels are forbidden. Bare-footed and shrouded in a selection of the un-coordinated body-covering cloths designed for tourists, I am surprised to be engaged in conversation by a man in his sixties who I had failed to notice amongst the grandeur.

Do you like it?
It’s amazing.
How many times have you been here? Three? Four? Five?
It’s my first time.
Your first time?!!!!!!
Yes. I’m sorry.
You should’ve come twenty years ago.
Why?
We would’ve been twenty years younger then.
Yes, of course.

A small beautifully-formed boy….perhaps a professional model….dressed in the pristine white and fur-trimmed garb of a goblin sultan, poses for a million photographs with people he has never seen before; nor will he ever see again. He sits. He stands. He kneels. He does whatever the American women want him to do. There is something vaguely unsettling. I wonder whether he is sold in the sultry Turkish night to do whatever men want him to do. He never smiles.

This is my son. He has been here before.
Yes. The young know what to do. They travel.

Medication
Walking across the city, there seems neither sense nor direction to the traffic. Horns sound incessantly and pointlessly. Most vehicles are at a standstill. Every time we stop to point out our potential destination on our meaningless map to some hopefully-helpful local, the answer is always the same: 200 metres. Aiming for the Spice Bazaar, we mistake the venue and wander into the gloom of a number of stalls and shops which are clearly not aimed at European travellers; the so-called civilised beings in this ancient cradle of civilisation. Here are boxes and crates packed to the brim with ducklings, kittens, puppies, baby rabbits and veritable flocks of unknown, small-and-colourful crushed birds. We peer into the darkness of an open door where four men are crouched on the ground eating their bread and tomatoes from a cloth under which a million chicks vie for air and attention.

A young woman stops to choose a leech from one of many large jars containing every moving size and shape you could want. If you did want. She points out the offending ailment, apparently just below her right knee, to the leech doctor. The medical man, for, according to the hand-written sign, he is the doctor/professor, is in his early twenties and sports blue jeans and a luminous green tee-shirt but no sign of a stethoscope. He plunges his naked hand into the squirming-shrinking-expanding blackness of the jar and expertly withdraws an appropriately-sized leech, knocking away the others that are clinging to his wrist. He pops the creature into a half-full bottle of water. Yesterday, Jack mentioned that we should always check that the seals on our water bottles are not broken.

Mistakes in the heat
Sitting on the roof-top terrace in 30C with the mad-dogs-and-Englishmen who are watching football through the window, an unannounced waiter brings a small dish containing something bright orange and wet. It bears a passing resemblance to the stringy cheese which was on offer at breakfast this morning. I break off a small corner and put it in my mouth. It tastes as awful as a piece of soggy serviette might. This, in fact, is because it is a soggy serviette which has been kindly delivered for me to cool myself with. Well, I’m almost sure that’s what it is, but now that bits of it are clinging to my forehead and neck which I’ve just wiped I’m having doubts. When I rendezvous with the man-child, he asks:
What’s all that orange stuff in your hair?

Shopping
Jack has been to Kapili Carsi before so should know better than to become involved with an expert carpet salesman. Finally realising that taking even the smallest of rugs on a plane is a non-starter and having exhausted all his flying carpet jokes, Mustapha Sale persuades Jack to make a strange purchase: a leather cover for a pouffe. We don’t own a pouffe. The following day, in the Spice Bazaar, my son makes the accompanying purchase. Not a bag of stuffing, but a bright blue hubble-bubble pipe with some allegedly apple flavoured tobacco. I dream of the man-child sitting on his un-stuffed pouffe in Swansea, high on the hubble-bubble. Dressed in his Scheherezade outfit, he regales an enchanted female stick-insect with tales of the Arabian nights.

Interlude
Sitting in a small side-street in this city of 1001 cats, we could be in many places. The south of France for example; specifically, Nyons. From the windows of the imposing four-storey-sunflower-yellow-painted-colonial-type-open-shuttered building to our right drift the cool sounds of all-that-jazz. Suddenly, we are brought back to semi-reality by the onset of the call to prayer that resounds from every ancient wall. A plate of tenderly reared lamb, marinated since time immemorial and cooked to perfection with sweet black plums arrives. It’s an old Ottoman recipe and because it didn’t say this on the menu and the menu was the only one in Istanbul without pictures, I am inclined to believe this new piece of information. It may possibly be one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten.

Weird and wonderful
Around 120 of us have managed to find our way to the cultural centre which seems to have been deliberately located in the most obscure point possible. We tried asking several people along the way for directions including two police officers. None had the faintest idea where it might be but all thought it was about 200 metres. Finally, I ask a man who is slicing meat from a dead leg kebab pole. First right, first left says he. And so it was and ever shall be. We have come to see the whirling dervishes. There is no sign of them and I ask the man-child whether they might be whirling so quickly that we can’t see them. Five men and a woman, wearing hats tall enough to cover Marge Simpson’s hair, commence the world’s longest song: 15 minutes of drumming, chanting and flute playing. From behind the red curtains come five more beings. They, too, have the Simpson hats plus long black cloaks wrapped around floor-length white robes. About 10 minutes of bowing takes place and I have the strange feeling that I’m at some cartoon graduation ceremony. Suddenly, they start to turn. Arms outstretched, right palm open to receive the messages from above, left palm down to pass the messages to the world, they spin and spin and spin. They stop without a trace of dizziness in evidence and bow gracefully to each other. Then they are off again: turning and whirling, faster and faster until they are five spinning tops of which only the odd flash is caught by the untrained eye. It is mesmerising and is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. They stop and an elderly man from the group of musicians recites at length and from memory from the Koran. It’s over. The dervishes have left the building.