REUNION TREPIDATION

 

Reunions are strange affairs

Full of shadows of events long past

Faces swim at you from the crowd

Faces from the past

Some are old friends

Greyer in colour

Frailer in body

But still recognisable

Someone says

“I haven't seen you for years”

And suddenly you see them as they once were

You swap stories

Exchange remembrances

And the years just melt away

Though at times you grasp for names

In the far reaches

Of your cluttered mind

You pour over old albums

Regimental photos

Or company teams

Picking out familiar faces

“His name was Chisholm”

“What was his first name?”

“George?”

“No he played trombone”

“Tom, Tim, no Jim”

You feel pleased with yourself.

Your trepidation at attending long gone

With the pleasure of old friendships revisited

You are glad you made the effort

 

At reunions and other such gatherings

Amongst the sea of faces

There always appears

As if released from a time capsule

That one person who seems completely unchanged

The “Dorian Gray”

Who makes you feel older than ever

And a little bit envious

But not bitter

You console yourself with the fact

He has a painting of Methuselah in his attic

Plus there was that smug satisfaction you got

When you met the rabble rousers of your youth

That are now the teetotallers

Or those with walking frames

And the special diets

 

Reunions are more than that though

It’s not just about meeting old friends

Some people you never liked

Some you always avoided

Those are the ones who propel themselves

Excocet like from the throng

And act like your long lost best friend

They are the ones you need rescuing from

That cause time to stand still

They ones that caused your trepidation

Who talks incessantly

About everything

And nothing

The ones that cause you to vow

“This is my last reunion”

Or “Never again”

But because the one annoyance

Is the exception to the rule

When next you're asked

You always relent

DIPPED OUT

 

In the dim and distant past

When I was young and free

Going about running and skipping

And we’d all go “skinny dipping”

 

Now the years have rushed past

And have taken their toll

I hobble, shuffling and clunking

And in the pool, I go “chunky dunking”

BEFORE COMPUTERS TOOK OVER THE WORLD

 

Before computers took over the world

A virus was the flu, and a keyboard was a piano

A mouse pad was where a single mouse lived

And a CD was a bank account, and a program was a TV show

The net was something you fished with

A monitor would report you to the teacher

An application was a form to be filled out

And Windows were opened to get fresh air

A hard drive was a long trip in the car

A web was a spider’s home, a cursor used profanity

Memory was something you lost with age

And if you had a 3 ½ inch floppy you’d tell nobody

WHEN I WAS A KID

 

When I was a kid

Life was simpler than it is today

We chose our friends

Based on the things we liked to play

When I was a kid

And we Choose teams in the school yard

If you didn’t get picked

No one thought to play the race card

When I was a kid

Race creed and colour were meaningless

The only “Race issue"

Was arguing about who ran the fastest

HEAD OF YEAR

In the fifties

My greatest fear

Was being called to see the headmaster

Now I’m in my fifties

My greatest fear

Is having to call the headmaster 

SENIOR SYSTEMS

 

In the sixties

We all thought screw the system

Now we’re in our sixties

We all have to upgrade the system

Uncanny Christmas Tales – (006) The Silver Tinsel Tree

Being born in the late fifties I have few recollections of that austere decade, almost all of my earliest memories are from the brasher, brighter and less restrained sixties.

As a result my early memories of Christmas are of a bright and sparkly time when paper chains and the watery colours of paper stars, bells and balls were being replaced by foil and tinsel.

Hence the Silver Tinsel Christmas Tree, looking back it was a quite unspectacular specimen of a tree compared to what’s on offer nowadays, but we loved it.

It stood less than 5 feet tall with its fold down tinsel covered wire branches tipped with red beads to symbolise berries.

However by the time Dad had worked his not inconsiderable magic and covered it with every size, shape and shade of bauble, glass birds with feathered tails, lantern lights, strands of brightly coloured tinsel, chocolate treats and tiny crackers lain on the branches it was transformed and was absolutely stunning,

It was the only Christmas tree I ever knew until my teenage years came to an end when in the mid-seventies I suggested we have a real tree just for a change.

I would never have suggested it if I had realised that it would signal the death knell of the Silver Tinsel Tree as the following year it was replaced by a green plastic tree more akin to those of today.

After my Dad died a few years later the task of decorating the tree fell to me and I realised sadly that I hadn’t inherited his tree dressing skill and was never able to equal him.

I came close one year, in 1983 but I think in the end I merely flattered to deceive.

Thankfully the task has fallen to my wife for the past 29 years, she makes a far better fist of it than I ever could, whether she possesses the necessary skill to transform a Silver Tinsel Tree however we will never know.

Uncanny Christmas Tales – (005) My First Working Christmas

 

I was living in a Stevenage with my parents in the early seventies, in a block of Warden run flats, which were sheltered accommodation for the elderly, and my mother was the Warden.

I attended the School nearby, but I was never what you might call academic, so I left school when I was fifteen, and I left at the end of May and I started my first job three days later, as a trainee groundsman.

However in the November of that same year the family house from one side of town to the other, and the significance of this will become clear later in the story.

The house move didn’t affect my getting to and from work though as the town had a good bus service, operating a flat fare service on circular routes, so I still got the same bus as I did from the old address but from a different stop, and the price was the same, this will also prove significant later on.

As I said this was my first year at work and as a result I also had my first works Christmas party to look forward to, which was on the last day before we broke for the Christmas holiday and we had a little works party in the yard, where a little Christmas cheer was imbibed and a drink or two were consumed.

Now I was only sixteen when Christmas came around and I had only had very limited experience of alcohol and I got well and truly bladdered on Whisky Mac, cider and something unpronounceable from Yugoslavia.

At the end of the boozy afternoon one of my workmates gave me a lift into the town centre and in my drunken state I staggered to the bus station and caught my usual bus, and I managed to climb the stairs to the top deck and in due course the bus set off, filled with Christmas shoppers and a one drunken trainee groundsman.

Probably with the combination of alcohol and the motion of the bus I drifted off on the journey and I suddenly came to and on looking out the window I recognized a familiar sight and I promptly got off the bus.

As the bus drove off, I headed off up the road in the direction of home wishing all and sundries a merry Christmas as I went, not unlike George Bailey in “It’s a wonderful life”.

When I reached the flats I entered through the main doors, passing the Christmas tree in the foyer and headed straight for flat number one.

At the door I fumbled for my key and presented it to the lock, but it wouldn’t fit, so I peered closely at it and it was definitely my door key so I tried to put it in the lock again, but still it wouldn’t fit.

Suddenly the door opened and a stranger looked out at me

“Can I help?” she asked.

“Ah, my name is Paul, and I don’t live here, anymore do I?”

The lady, who was the new Warden, laughed and agreed with me that I no longer lived there.

So I wished her a happy Christmas and made my way back to the foyer were there was a public telephone with a large Perspex dome over it.

My intention was to phone for a taxi but rummaging in my pockets I discovered I had no money for the taxi or indeed a coin to make a phone call, and then as I tried to duck under the Perspex hood I tripped over my own feet and fell into the Christmas tree which ended up on top of me.

The lady, who now lived at no 1, heard the commotion and came to investigate and to my surprise thought it very amusing to find a drunken teenager wearing the Christmas tree.

“Oh dear” she said laughing.

Deeply apologetic, I explained the circumstances of my predicament and the new Warden phoned a taxi for me and even gave me the money for the fare.

That was real Christmas spirit, in the spirit of the Capra classic, and I have never forgotten her kindness and tolerance and try to keep that same spirit in my own heart at Christmas.

CHANGING SCHOOLS

Things have certainly changed

Since I was a boy at school

No one carried drugs or knives

Not even the dumbest fool

Any search of pupils in my day

Would merely have resulted in

The seizure of a handful of fags

And the confiscation of a catapult 

COMIC CUTS

In the seventies

My parents

Begged me to cut my hair

Now I’m in my seventies

I beg my grandson

Not to shave his head 

Uncanny Tales – (022) Linda’s Corker

It was an ordinary afternoon in 1970 when I was in the fourth year of Secondary School at Alexander Park Comprehensive School. 

It had only been called Alexandra Park as long as I had been going there, before that, it was Cecil Rhodes Secondary Modern but as Haringey was such a racially mixed borough political correctness reared its ugly head, long before it was even a thing, and the name was changed.

The racial mix of the area was well reflected in the student body, in fact the School assembly was like a session at the United Nations.

We were sitting at the back of Mr Cooke’s 4^th year biology class.

It was the first class after lunch, and we were watching a very boring natural history film about mountain goats.

Rich and I had taken second sitting dinners which consisted of liver and bacon whereas Wendy’s lunch was made up largely of cider.

“That billy goat’s beard looks like Palmers fanny” Wendy said out of the blue and giggled

“What?” I said taken by surprise

“Who’s?” Rich asked

“Claire Palmers fanny looks like that” she said and pointed at a large brown goat on the screen.

“Seriously?” Rich said

“But she’s so small” I said irrelevantly

Claire Palmer was the smallest girl in our year by a distance, small and plain with straight lank hair and a freckled complexion, looking back she always looked like she should have been a year or two behind us but I guess she stopped growing when her pubic hair started. 

I had known her since junior school, but she was the quiet shy type and I don’t think she said more than a few words to me in all that time.

To be truthful she wasn’t really on my radar but at the moment Wendy made her lurid statement Claire became significantly more interesting.

“She’s the hairiest girl in our year” Wendy continued

“What’s yours like?” I asked taking advantage of her alcohol induced indiscretion.

“Ask him” she said nodding in Rich’s direction

“You’ve been in Wendy’s drawers?” I quizzed Rich in total shock, and more than a little jealously, not because I fancied Wendy, but I hadn’t been in anyone’s pants except my own.

Rich just blushed, so I punched him hard the arm.

I couldn’t believe he’d had his digits among Wendy’s ginger pubes and furthermore that he hadn’t told me all about it, he was my best mate after all, and furthermore he was a real drip and he’d scored before me.

“Linda McLean’s got a corker though” Wendy said a little too loud as Linda turned around and looked straight at me.

 

As we were walking to the next lesson Wendy suddenly felt sick and went off to throw up, Rich had French in the annex and I had German in the main block and it was when I was on my own that I felt a tug on my jacket sleeve.

“What were you lot talking about in Biology?” A girl asked and when I turned around, I saw it was Linda McLean with a frown on her face.

I liked Linda even though she was completely flat up top, but I had to admit I liked her even more after finding out she was more substantially equipped down below.

“What?” I said

“What were you saying about me in biology?” she asked forcefully

“We were talking about the flicks” I lied “Rich wanted to see “Rio Lobo”, John Wayne’s latest and Wendy fancied “Love Story”“

“I heard my name mentioned” she continued, and I shuffled my feet as I struggled to find an answer.

“Well um….” I mumbled “I said I was going to ask you to the flickers, and Wendy said “Great idea, Linda’s a corker”

She didn’t speak for a moment then she said

“Well are you going to ask me then?”

 

That Saturday night on the back row of the ABC Muswell Hill I confirmed Wendy’s assessment that it was indeed a corker and I was left to speculate that if little Claire Palmer was considerably more luxuriant down below than Linda then she must have had to wear bigger knickers.

The following summer at the Durnsford Road Lido I found out first hand so to speak but that’s another story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Uncanny Tales – (021) Where’s Winifred Bliss?

 

It was a blistering hot day in 1969 when the third year of Secondary School started, and Alexander Park Comprehensive School was heaving with familiar faces. 

It had only been called Alexandra Park as long as I had been going there, before that, it was Cecil Rhodes Secondary Modern but as Haringey was such a racially mixed borough political correctness reared its ugly head, long before it was even a thing, and the name was changed.

The racial mix of the area was well reflected in the student body, in fact the School assembly was like a session at the United Nations.

There was however one noticeable absentee in our form room that morning, Winifred Bliss, and it was noticeable because she was a foulmouthed gobby cow.

She was West Indian, though I never knew which island, she didn’t really communicate with the white kids other than to tell you to fuck off.

Our form tutor Mrs Holiday told us that Winifred would not be returning to the school, though she wouldn’t elaborate as to why.

Obviously by lunchtime rumours abounded as to her whereabouts, someone suggested she had runaway to join the circus, another that she had eloped to Gretna Green, the most popular theory was that she’d been kidnapped and held for ransom, which nobody would pay.

It wasn’t until we had drama with Mr Dickens after lunch that the truth surfaced when he stood up in front of the class

“There is some very foolish talk around the school regarding Winifred Bliss” he announced

“So, I have decided to tell you the truth”

The class fell silent and waited with bated breath, for what seemed like an eternity.

“Winifred was arrested by the police during the summer holidays” He said

“What for sir?” Mario asked

“For sleeping with boys” he answered

Sleeping with boys, I thought, what’s wrong with that, though I didn’t say it out loud as everyone else in the class was nodding sagely like they understood, but I didn’t, my brother and I often shared a bed with our cousins, and they were girls but they didn’t get arrested.

I never voiced my confusion to anyone about Winifred Bliss or the fact I used to get a stiffy when I shared a bed with my cousins.

A few months later the penny finally dropped regarding the significance of the phrase “Sleeping with boys”.

 

 

 

Uncanny Tales – (020) Unsuitable Viewing at the Lido

 

When I was growing up in the sixties we lived in North London and one of the things I really loved to do was to go swimming and we were quite well fixed for pools in the area and I would swim until the chlorinated water left my eyes red and sore.

But of all the pools I swam in, the one I loved to swim in most of all was the Durnsford Road Lido, especially during the summer months.

It was only sixpence to get in and for that paltry sum you could stay all day long, which of course I did and I would spend as many days of the holidays there as I could, playing with friends and watching Mad Jack stunt diving off the high platform.

When I first started to go there it was just a joy to spend all the time in the sparkling water.

As I got older, I would come to appreciate the many delicacies on which to feast the eyes upon, delicacies invisible to the eye of the eleven-year-old boy who first visited the pool.

 

On one particular visit after I’d got the maximum value from my sixpence and enjoyed a full day in the pool, I was getting changed and I caught sight of something quite disturbing as an old man stepped out of the shower.

Though when I say he was an old man I should point out that from the perspective of a teenage boy everyone over twenty was old.

But just as he passed me he lowered his towel, though not in a pervy way, and he revealed the biggest scrotum I had ever seen, before or since, not that I had seen a lot of scrota and those I had seen belonged to my peer group so were somewhat pink and hairless.

But not only was this old man’s scrotum huge it was also purple, in fact it looked like a large purple boxing glove.

I was taken aback by the extraordinary spectacle but with my limited knowledge of old men’s genitalia I was left to conclude that I was destined to acquire a large purple ball bag of my own one day, and as I stood there holding my speedos in front of my shrivelled specimen I thought

“If I’m going to get one like that, then I’m definitely going to need bigger trunks”

 

Uncanny Tales – (013) It Happened on Northey Island

 

I can’t remember if it was the summer of seventy-one or seventy two when it happened but “Chirpy, chirpy, cheap, cheap,” was top of the pops at the time if that helps, not that it matters much to the story, it was certainly one or the other.
Whichever it was, it was the summer when the 6th Stevenage Scout Troup set off in a beat up white Ford Transit panel van heading for the wilds of Essex, sitting in the back on wooden benches, like the forms you get in school gyms, with not a seatbelt in sight and the benches weren’t even secured to the bulkhead.

No one with half a brain would dream of doing that today, not that the health and safety Gestapo would let you, but at the time it seemed quite natural and we didn't think twice about it.
We were camping in a farmer’s field for two weeks on Northey Island in the Blackwater estuary close to the town of Maldon.
It was a time when life still held infinite possibilities for our motley crew, Del, the Lawther brothers, Big Pete, Tiny Tears and a host of others whose names have been lost in the mists of my mind.
We were a mixed bunch and we did all the normal Scouty type stuff, pitching tents and digging latrines and that kind of thing and we had to make our own rudimentary cooker.

Each patrol took turns to be on kitchen duty, which included cooking and scrubbing the burnt on black of the saucepans.
One bright spark in our patrol had the idea that if you mixed washing up liquid and washing powder into a paste and spread it liberally onto the base of the saucepans it made them easier to clean afterwards.

What a load of old tosh that turned out to be, what it actually did was make the job twice as difficult as you had to chisel off the burnt remains of the washing paste as well as the normal blackness.
Apart from the usual land and water based activities we also went off on a couple of day trips, one of which was to Southend-on-Sea,

Which involved us all pilling into the back of the Transit and

We were a very unsophisticated bunch of lads so we had a great time by the sea, the Pier, “kiss me quick” hats, amusement arcades and of course the Kursaal.

The Kursaal was an amusement park, the first purpose built amusement park to open in Britain, which had an assortment of rides, like the Rotor and the Wild Mouse, The Cyclone and the Morehouse Galloper all very tame compared to today of course but we loved them.

Apart from the rides and amusements a day out in Southend gave us the opportunity to get some decent food down our necks while we were there.
Then we returned to the island having had a wonderful day out and turned in early.

In exchange for the farmer allowing us to camp in his field, which as I said was on an island, we were required to plant rice grass in the mud banks around the island.
The reason for this was that the Blackwater estuary was tidal water and when the tide was out there was just a great expanse of mud between the island and the mainland, save for a narrow channel.
Unfortunately for the farmer every time the tide went out it was taking some of his island with it, hence the need for the rice grass.
The idea being that the grass would bind the mud together and therefore prevent the island being slowly taken out to sea.
For our part we had to wade out into the mud at low tide up to our knees and plant the afore mentioned rice grass.
Of course the only problem with this plan was that when you put a group of under sixteen's up to their knees in mud the inevitable outcome was a mud fight and we didn’t disappoint.
At the end of the fight we were, without exception, all covered from head to toe in thick black slimy mud, it was fantastic.
After we finished the task of planting the grass we waded back to shore looking like a group of extras from “Swamp Thing”.
We then had the problem of getting clean, now we only had two options, the first one being to wait for the tide to come back in by which time the mud would have set hard or the second option which was to use water from the standpipe that stood in the corner of the field by the gate, which under normal circumstances was used to water the animals.
This we utilised to great effect taking it in turns to use a bucket filled from the tap to douse ourselves down.
I was the last one to go and after I had removed my trunks I stood tipping buckets of water over my head.

As I was the last to go, the mud had all but dried so I found it to be quite stubborn and I had to use several more buckets that everyone else.
But as I was emptying the final bucket over me and with my hands above my head I heard the sound of a vehicle.

I turned around to investigate and I saw a minibus full of Girl Guides drive slowly past the gate.
I had no time to cover my embarrassment or anything else for that matter so I did the only thing a Boy Scout could do under those circumstances, which was to drop the bucket and give the Scout salute.

They seemed quite impressed by this, they were smiling anyway and the Guide leader behind the wheel winked at me.

Two days later we were back in the Transit and heading back to Hertfordshire.

 

Post Script

I would like to take the opportunity to set the record straight in regard to an incident of which I was accused.

I can state categorically that I was not in any way responsible for melting the plimsolls belonging to “Tiny Tears” on the stovetop.

I do confess unreservedly that I laughed like a drain at the time because it was very funny to see the two red rubber footprints on the hot plate but it was not down to me.

It was bloody funny though.

THE WISDOM OF MY YOUTH # 3

 

When I was a child 

I discovered that people in the country

When you waved to the ones

That you could see

Stopped what they were doing

And waved back at me

FATHER

I feel his hand on my shoulder

Reassuringly

When I am unsure of myself

Or hesitant

I see him watch me sagely

When I seek enlightenment

I see him smile with pride

When I succeed

Or with head inclined to comfort

When I fail

He is with me late at night

Watching Bogey and Bacall

I see his reflection on the lake

When I am fishing

And I hear him cheering loudly

Whenever we beat Australia

His smile sustains me

His words engage me

His strength supports me

His compassion inspires me

I shared joy with him

When my children were born

And sorrow when

My mother passed away

He stood behind me

In church on my wedding day

And beside me

At the reception when we toasted

At quiet moments I detect

The fragrance of old spice

Or the acrid tell tale aroma

Of his pipe tobacco

He is with me now

As I write these words

Though he has been dead

For nearly thirty years 

WHEN WE WERE YOUNG

 

I’m fifty years old this year

How did I get so old?

I’m lucky to have survived childhood

It was so dangerous or so I’m told

 

Our cots and toys, brightly colored

With lovely lead-based paint,

No child-proof caps or locked cupboard doors

We actually played in the kitchen how quaint

 

We rode bikes without helmets,

Or any other form of protection

We rode in cars without seat belts

Choosing the front seat without hesitation

 

We drank water straight from the tap

And very often from a brook or stream

We ate sweets with dirty hands

And our milk was topped with real cream

 

We ate full fat chips and bread and real butter

Milk puddings and jam Roly Poly

We drank fizzy pop full of sugar

But we never suffered from obesity

 

When we were out playing in a group

We bought one big bottle of pop

Probably eight or even ten of us

All drinking from the same bottle top

 

We built our own go-carts

Out of bits of scrap, very crude

We’d crash and get bloodied and bruised

Even the odd broken bone but no one got sued

 

In the holidays we played out all day

Getting home before it got dark

We had no mobiles so no one could find us

We did anything and everything just for a lark

 

We played knock-down-ginger and afraid

Of being caught after knocking the door

Our parents wouldn’t get us out of trouble

In fact they actually sided with the law

 

We walked everywhere my mates and I

We even had to walk to school

So if you think things are better today

Then you’re just a bloody fool

 

(This poem is based on an email that was doing the rounds a few years ago. To the best of my knowledge it was not credited to a particular writer but apologies if I got that wrong.)

TAKEN BACK

 

A melody haunts me

Like a ghost from way back

Familiar, remembered

A stardust memory

From yesteryear

A good memory

Of a great time

Of halcyon days

Never to be seen again

I’m back for an instant

Riding the Clapham Omnibus

With girls in cloche hats

And dancing at the Palais

With girls in silk stockings

Watching Morris dancing

On the village green

And noisy steam trains

Thundering into the station

Listening to the band play

In the park on Sundays

Walking my girl home

After a night at the pictures

Sunday lunch at mums

A welcoming fire in the grate

That talk with dad

Before my first date

A simpler time a happier time

But you can’t return

Even if you want to

But you can remember

DINNER SINNER

 

When you’re a kid and dinner tastes good

You can't have anymore. That’s the trouble

If it tastes like crap you have to clean your plate

And you’re even allowed to have double

ODEON

 

When I was a kid

My sister worked

At the Odeon Wood Green

And got me in for nothing

I loved the pictures

And I went everyday

It was a special place to me

Of course it was a far cry

From its Roman namesake

With its grand architecture

And hi-brow classical

Musical performances

But it was a magical place

Where I lost myself

In the flickering shadows

Of movieland

And escaped reality