Minding my ps and qs

Funny how I don't swear in front of my father. I have sworn in my mother's presence, but not very often; hardly ever more than a bloody or two - perhaps the odd bugger - and almost always felt awkward once I did so. Especially that time I said 'cunt' as an experiment. Having been informed that there is a new audience for this drivel, I will ensure that I display more caution with my language in future writings.

Just returned from a very brief trip to Oswestry, cut short by a combination of snow (which could possibly have prevented us travelling, and which would certainly have meant staring out of a Morda window for a day. Not really recommended) and a rotten head cold (now thankfully on its way out) which has left me with a red raw nostril and a sore eye. The bracing walk to the top of the hill fort on Wednesday morning may not have helped much, even though I am skeptical about cold causing colds. Anyway, as often happens, Oswestry always brings home to me the true brutality of the current political dogma.

I pointed out in a Guardian CiF article once that the town (and I do realise it's not the only place in the country suffering) is an economic basket case. Certainly, recent unhappy events in the retail cursed earth cannot have helped the situation much. Some people I know are currently availing themselves of whatever they are deciding to call sickness benefit these days (DLA, ESA, NFI... Who knows?) and it is salutary indeed to hear them talk about the risk of being filmed by the DWP walking up a hill, which would mean instant loss of the payment because it doesn't meet the criteria of not being able to walk more than 50 metres. My Dad believes that certain pubs are full of the unemployed, who somehow manage to stay in them all day despite only bringing home £45 a week. He may be right, but I think I might end up that way myself if faced with the alternative of watching daytime telly and waiting for signing day to come around.

In addition to that disgraceful state of affairs, I hear that online activity on the new DWP Universal Jobmatch website is now monitored by staff. Failure to conduct enough job searches leads to sanctions of one sort or another, ultimately I suppose leading to the 156 week ban recently introduced. Now, I don't agree that this kind of thing is in any way defensible even in a vibrant job market. The way things are - especially in Oswestry - it is no less than inhuman. Surely there must be some human rights or privacy legislation which can prevent this? How little dignity do you want people to have? All in all it was a rather depressing return to the old haunts, and gave me much food for thought.

To cheer myself up, a routine and slightly disappointing easy win over Fulham after Stoke beat Palace to face us in the next round of the FA Cup. Then it's on to 'Arry's lads at Fortress Loftus Road. No disrespect, but I don't think we'll be feeling too much pressure in these matches. Let's just hope that (snow willing) Spurs give the Rags a good tonking to open things up a bit.

I need somebody

Suitably refreshed (or completely knackered, whichever you prefer) after my trip to Oswestry, thoughts turn with dread to work once again. My last post was all about my first shift as a TA, and I will pick up the thread from there.

Firstly, there's been some discussion about the legacy the Games will leave behind. For me, it feels as if that - once the whole thing is over - reality will come crashing down on all our heads. It's bizarre that the BBC has wall to wall coverage, from 6am to 1am every day, and every single front page is about Team GB. Don't get me wrong, I have a great deal of respect for the sports people who have done so amazingly well for us, and I enjoy almost all of the sports I watch (I find the colour of the hockey pitch a bit dazzling, and I'm not huge on sailing or equestrianism, but the rest are all good) but it does create a rather surreal atmosphere, as though the events in the rest of the world are not actually happening. When it does come  to an end in a week's time, I think there will be a sense of flatness, and it will be necessary once again to confront the impossible conundrum of the European (and world) economic situation. People have also been continuing to die in Syria, and it doesn't seem as if the UN or anyone else has much of a solution  to that either.

Anyway, returning to my theme, the whole question of Olympic legacy was summed up for me when I went for my lunch break last Saturday. Wanting to take myself away a little from the madding crowds, I walked towards a chip shop I could see at the next junction. The man in there told me he was very disappointed because he had been told that the Olympics would make his area very busy, and he was clearly expecting a boost for his business. But it was not to be. Even though he could look out of his window and see the crowds streaming out of the tube station to get to the London Live site, the route there did not take them past his shop. After the Games are over, even those shops lucky enough to have been on an Olympic route will see things returning to their normal dismal routine. Oswestry - never perhaps the most vibrant area in the world - now seems to be in terminal decline, with most of the town centre comprised of empty shops, although the market was more lively than I have seen it for some years. Fundamentally, there just isn't the engine in the economy for things to turn around, and I believe we are set for some truly historic events in the coming months as we watch the disintegration of the Euro project. Sorry to be so depressing.

On my second shift, I have never known time to pass so slowly. The station I was at was designated as a possible Olympic route to the Lea Valley white water centre, but only one intrepid fan seemed to have chosen it on the day that I was there. There were two of us, along with three others from the Revenue Protection team, and we did bugger all the entire day. My colleague, keen to try out his new customer skills and bored out of his mind, asked an old man if he could help. The old man replied:

"Only if you've got a cure for cancer."

Trefonen

As you may be aware (and if you're not - pay attention!) I have a Flickr account.

I am strictly amateur, and use the site mostly to capture pics of my loved ones. However, I do occasionally also record 'social history' in the shape of streets, shops, houses, etc. as they are. It's amazing how things can change without us realising it, and then we are suddenly looking at a place that we no longer recognise.

One such picture is 'Trefonen Road' and it is a wholly unremarkable shot (I'm sure you will agree) of a few windows in Morda, with the street sign clearly visible. It was shot from outside the Miners Arms (Drill, as was) and was taken with a partly sly attitude, serving as a commentary on how dead the area is. Truth be told, there really is bugger all in Morda. The aforementioned pub doesn't open every night; there is a 'social club' next to the football ground, and then there was the shop.

But, as I would guess with most people, vanity is one of the main drivers for my browsing activity, and I was stunned to see that there were over 500 views of my Flickr pictures during a single day one week not so long ago. One of these was my shot 'Trefonen Road' and - looking a little more deeply - I saw that the picture had been used on a travel website, which for some reason provided people with information about the village of Trefonen.

My original description read - 'Morda's only shop. Now closed down' but I felt so bad for the people of the area that I had to change it, and so it says 'Now that this photo has 'gone viral' I feel I should report that the shop is either now open or will be very soon. Happy days!' I believe this to be true

Blizzard

Though it was late May, the wind was as frisky as an autumn gust, driving blizzards of blossom from the horse chestnut trees, which formed a girdle at the bases of the trunks. Up on the road, looking down the sweep of the bank to the bridge over the brook, there were no cars about. It was too early on a Sunday morning even for these country folk to push out their Focuses and Vectras, and so only I was king of the road.

Before breakfast, born of necessity as a doting dad, this walk funnelled me down to the town. I had won too easily my usual game of race a car to the next notable landmark several times and was accompanied only by the sonorous murmurings of wood pigeons in far off copses, and the urgent rushing of the brook beneath the bridge. A literary road this one, graced with plaques in honour of Barbara Pym and Wilfred Owen, resonant with memories of drunken staggering or sober reflection. Sometimes a walk of shame when reviewed in the cold light of day, at others a belly-rippling recollection of innocent shenanigans.

I was not passed by a vehicle until I had begun to crest the bank on the far side of the brook, and was easily able to reach my imaginary finishing line ahead of it. At the last, approaching Edward Street, there was a sign of humanity in the shape of a woman walking the dog. Ron & Mabel's was shut.

Tidied Out or James the Less

A stonking weekend in Oswestry has illustrated most clearly the pleasure-pain principle. Or - as Laurence Fishburne said in the dreadful remake of Assault On Precinct 13 which was shown on TV last night - the Greeks called it Eros and Thanatos.

I forgot about my worries for a while and just plain old enjoyed myself. Whether to do with the moon or other pagan attributes associated with this time of year (admittedly, it is just a little early) rather than of the month, a remarkably upbeat atmosphere was evident in the sleepy little market town, with a free 'festival' (a few fairground rides and a stage, but I'm not complaining) on Friday night, and much carousing till late into the night most nights. Even the winter weather did not seem to dampen anyone's ardour, and I laughed a good deal. It was, in short, tidy.



I will confess to no more or less than some of our elected leaders (past and present) when I say that I may have tried some illegal (though, as we know, this definition is a fluid one, in both a temporal and geographical sense) substances in the past, and I was shocked to find, whilst out on a country ramble, a viable crop of psilocybin flourishing atop Hen Dinas' venerable crown. Whether I picked any must remain open to conjecture, as must the burning question of ingestion - in that will I be able to? Notwithstanding the practical difficulties of a decent 5 hour window, there is also the terror of gazing into my now matured (I use the word advisedly, let me assure you) psyche with its attendant baggage of responsibility and paranoia.

But for now, it's back to reality. I have already crashed and will soon start to burn, faced as I am with the ongoing quest for avoiding switching on the TV, and desperately trying to get motivated to do something other than play Super Mario Brothers on the DS.

Zippin up my boots

Is it only me, or is anyone else getting fed up with all this god stuff in footy at the moment? Has it escaped anyone's attention that the game is now owned by Muslims?

So, only City, Spurs and Chelsea hold that elusive 100% record. Based on yesterday's appalling rubbish, at least one of those three is likely to drop out of the equation before long. Of our players, only Ireland and Adebayor looked as if they could make something happen. Wright-Phillips did a lot of running around, but with limited results; Barry did not look a quality player, as evidenced by the amount of time he had on the ball, and the actual production of something decent at the end of it. Tevez gave his best impression of the waspish Wayne across the road at the Sty, with the crucial difference being that his sting had been removed, leaving an awful lot of pointless buzzing. Bellamy was even more of a waste of space than usual, stuck out on the left wing like that. In actual fact, we should have beaten a truly crap side comfortably, but were fortunate not to blow the game. Pompey had one shot on target and nearly scored from it! I have a bad feeling about the Arsenal...

The other night I was asked to justify my reasons for being a City supporter. Well, I said, I was born in Shropshire, so there were no local teams I could support. Truth be told, Oswestry did have a football team when I was a kid. They played in the Northern Premier League at that time, before committing the unthinkable sin of playing in the League of Wales. and then went into administration before merging with TNS - now known as The New Saints. It would not have been easy to have supported them, though I do of course look out for the New Saints results as they come off the vidi-printer. For obvious reasons, I could not have supported Wrexham, and as far as many of us were concerned, Shrewsbury may as well have been London. Extend that, and you will see why I reacted negatively when asked if I could have supported one of the Midlands teams, like Aston Villa, Wolves or Birmingham. Wolves would have been the least offensive of the yow-yow lot, but it still just wasn't an option, quite frankly.

No, all eyes looked north from Shropshire. In my mind (and in fact, when I return to Oswestry these days, it is still largely the case) there were always loads of City fans, quite a few Liverpool and Rags, the odd Toffee and a decent smattering of Leeds United. The fact of my uncle John's support for City swung it for me, and I guess I grew into the age for following footy at a peculiar phase in history when we were a decent side.

The fact that I was having to justify myself to a Toffee from Stockport is neither here nor there.

Cross Country

A recent trip to Oswestry reminded me of school days, sad to say. Especially walking past the aptly named Muddy Lane. The memories were almost as painful as those of my week at work, but not quite.

In those glory days of Brian Clough and Giant Haystacks (I know full well that Ken Loach and Barry Hines have done a far better job than I could ever do, so I won't labour the point. Although I don't recall any references to cuckoo spit in any of these rightly lauded works) 'improving' sports were considered to involve standing in sub zero temperatures with - let's say - inadequate clothing for a couple of hours; so I must be much improved from where I was when I was 11, although I remain unconvinced.

But, Muddy Lane set me to thinking. These days of health & safety (gone mad!) culture would surely not allow what we went through? In a similar vein to those hilarious viral pics of people in India carrying six hundred bales of cotton on a moped, or dozy Mexicans plonking a ladder on top of a plank balanced on a barrel (you get the picture, I hope) I'm convinced that we would look back on our ignorant ancestors and snigger mercilessly.

You may well say that I am no Gebreselassie. You might even say that I finally struggled over the finish line some 2o minutes after everyone else (a wrong turn at Penylan Lane proved fatal, if you must know, but it did mean that I arrived in the showers just in time for the Griffith Moment...) and tried to pretend that I suffered from asthma. But that would be entirely missing the point. I was wearing a pair of plimsolls which, until fairly recently, could be obtained from Wollys for about £2.50. This seems to be grounds enough for a lawsuit if ever I saw one.

A Tale of Two Halves

Well, I've had a stonking few days away. Chester is, I think, an excellent place to visit, with a compact centre and a lively but not too aggressive social scene. The medieval setting of the centre seems to help a great deal, as does the fact that there appear to be several thousand pubs serving nice beer at reasonable prices. We went to a Samuel Smith hostelry called The Falcon, which was packed, though this was hardly surprising as we obtained five pints of some real ale or other for the princely sum of £7.15. That works out less than £1.50 per pint. Needless to say, too much alcohol was consumed and not enough sleep was obtained - especially as I lost my bearings on the way back to the hotel and ended up walking around in circles for about an hour until I could retrace my steps sufficiently to navigate my way back. But it was a 40th birthday celebration, so that's OK. Among the topics of conversation was the correct pronunciation of margarine - which we were told confidently should be with a hard 'g' because the word derives from the Ancient Greek for 'pearl-like' and the aforesaid Greeks would have pronounced it that way. We remain unconvinced.

We also discussed the phenomenon of the disappearing white dog shit. Something which used to be commonplace in the 70s and 80s is no longer seen anywhere (though we were informed that it does still exit [sic] in Manilla) and several bad science explanations (such as dogs eat less bones, so their excrement does not turn white in the way that it used to) were laughed out of court, and we think we reached consensus that the disappearance is simply down to better poop collection, and that the stuff is not allowed to bleach anymore. I still have some minor issues with this, but am prepared to go along with it for now. We also played travel Ker-Plunk. The hotel I stayed in was a time warp sort of place, friendly enough, cheap enough, quiet enough and clean enough, though one of the towels was frayed. And it was hard to find after drinking 12 pints of real ale.

Oswestry - where my mini holiday started - has been hard hit by the credit crunch as I've said before, but it was incredibly depressing to walk around the town on Good Friday with what seemed like every other shop closed down. The indoor market could almost have been a pisstake of what an economic collapse would look like, and even the Scope charity shop had gone out of business. Nonetheless, I was as always buoyed by the humour and craziness of the people (those I know and those I don't) and enjoyed some good beer time and excellent weather. There was a fire (or gas leak, or something) at the old Woolies and the streets were all cordoned off, though nobody seemed to notice.

Of course, whatever bubble of joy I was in was instantly popped when I got back to the Smoke by fucking City screwing up again. To cap it all, that bastard Clempsey bagged a brace. Fuck City. Up the arse.

Two more days and it's back to work, and it looks like I picked the wrong economic cycle to re-consider my career path, but I can feel a crunch of my own coming on. Maybe I should take up football management.

Golfing with sharks

On the eve of a trip to Shropshire (Mum duties, as Mother's Day stuff didn't arrive - sigh) and then Cheshire (40th birthday celebration for a certain donkey driver) as part of an extended sanity-restoring Easter break, I am taking stock of where I stand, work-wise.

I don't know if anyone who reads this has ever played the sublime Super Mario Bros 3, but if you do, you'll know about the block on which you land - in World 1, Level 2, I think - after jumping on and then booting the tortoise shell and watching it bork back and forth beneath your feet. If you're not careful, the action you instigated will cause your own downfall as the shell destroys the block and you slip dim-wittedly into its path, tumbling backwards feet up with a stupid grin before floating slowly down off the bottom of the screen. Well, that sort of sums it up.

If you have never played the game, and have no intention of doing so, then I guess you will just have to try and imagine the allegorical illustration.

I'm reluctant to go into too much detail, but I always dreaded needing to know anything more about golf than was strictly necessary, and I now feel that this may be a requirement. Ringing in my ears is the 2 and a half hour conference call from this afternoon, and burned into my mind's eye are so many sharp suited fellas with 3G cards worshipping at the altar of commercial service delivery. And an old lady. Crying.

Half Day

After another astonishingly shit display against the 10 cloggers of the Potteries, I despair, I really do. Can there be a lower low to which one could sink (apologies to Michael... Match underway, I wish you luck)? With one obvious exception, I think not.

It doesn't help that the papers are all full of the bloody Rags and their sodding defensive record, with van der Sar's big equine Dutch boat all over the place, while we can't hit the proverbial farm building portal with the proverbial traditional stringed instrument.

To prevent myself from thinking about the dire situation at Eastlands, I propose a solution to the global credit crisis, one which stems from my youth in rural Shropshire. It's a simple answer, and one which may not be immediately obvious to the economic boffins at HMT. I propose that we re-instate half-day closing.

The Honda factory in Swindon commenced a four month closure on Monday, and though this is perhaps a little excessive, it does push all the right buttons as far as I'm concerned. These days, everything is 24/7. We expect to be able to go to a supermarket at any time of the day or night and buy whatever it is we want (as long as we can afford it of course) to buy. But, are we better off as a result? I think you know the answer. No matter how many new niches are discovered, no matter how innovative the marketing men are in pushing their products on to us at every opportunity, we are still in Shit Street. I have noticed the frenzy that seems to grip everyone on those increasingly rare occasions when the supermarkets are set to close for just one day. Surely, if we extended this idea, demand would increase, and we wouldn't all be wondering what the hell's going to happen next.

Every Thursday used to be half-day closing in Oswestry, and the town, which was admittedly hardly ever the life and soul of the party (with the possible exception of Saturday night at Gibbo's) would be closed completely from around lunchtime. I can remember my heart sinking when Thursday came around, because the rigor mortis would worsen, and there would be less than sod-all to do all day. Of course, in those days the pubs used to close at 3.00, re-open at 7.00, and close for the night at 10.30, so the news wasn't all good.

But it's got to be worth a try, surely? Let everyone take Tuesday afternoons off (say), and declare it a weekly bit of dossing about. No football matches, no telly, no bloody shops, just a half-day to listen to your favourite music, draw some pictures, make love, read a book - anything to recharge the batteries and prepare for the remainder of the working week. Who will join me in this campaign?

On the off chance that anyone's interested, the previous post was a little experiment with Plinky, which is quite neat in a way, but also a little spooky and irritating. I may partake further. Let's wait and see.

French Hens

This post has very little to do with the Twelve Days of Christmas, but I am beginning to wish I had never bothered setting up that particular conceit in any case. However, as I am an honourable man, I will at least include some form of nod towards my great concept. The other night, despite missing out on two questions relating to the Christmas song (d’oh!) I still managed to win the Christmas Quiz (along with my Mum) at the Miner’s Arms – or Drill, as it used to be called – in Morda. I am £15 richer, or was for a brief while, and the proud possessor of what I believe to be a box of Matchmakers and what I know to be a gift pack containing a couple of soaps and a flannel, tastefully mounted on a clear Perspex tray.

But, to coin a phrase I seem to have developed the habit of using, the meat and potatoes of what I will talk about is Tad’s funeral, which I attended this week at Wrexham crematorium. And a magnificent occasion it was, devoid of any religious references whatsoever. The body was sent to the incinerator to the tune of Peaches by The Stranglers. It was my second secular funeral, and seems to indicate something of a trend – not that I am by any means a Graveyard Jane; I have in fact just started counting the number of funerals I’ve been to on the fingers of my second hand. One could say that two secular funerals is indeed not a lot, but as a percentage of the total (33% as it happens) it’s fairly high. I felt, along with many I spoke to, that the tone of Tad's funeral was just right, no doubt partly due to the fact that he himself played a major part in the way it was to be conducted. There was no mention of God, but a gentle nod towards those who may feel the need to consult the great Spaghetti Monster, and a good deal of focus on the life of the man, and the way in which those left behind by his passing might deal with his departure. The service was led by someone called 'Phil' who sounded as if he was a semi-professional speaker, and Tad's father, as well as his great friend Magnus, also spoke. If the tone of my own ceremony is similar to this one, and if even a small percentage of the numbers who went along come to see me off, I will be able to rest relatively easily.

On a continuing theme, I was also struck by the accelerating pace of decline in Oswestry. Any small town is more likely to feel the heat of a recession than a large city, and Oswestry was never the most vibrant of places. Now, despite its Subway and its Costa Coffee, despite its M&S and its Top Shop, the place seems to be sinking ever deeper into the slough of despond. It was a bleak picture indeed as I stood in Willow Street.

Soon of course, the Wollies will be closed, and there will be fewer reasons than ever for people to inexplicably park their cars in the town. I fear for the future. I really do.

Pipers piping

Put that in yer fucking bong and smoke it!

Years ago, in Old Ozzer Town, there was a road sweeper who was known as Piper. He was a very short man, I guess in his late 50s or early 60s, and in his hi-viz jacket (which you seem to see everywhere these days, but which were much rarer then) he would trundle his sweeper cart around with a pipe permanently fixed in his gob. He wore bicycle clips, for - when not pushing his trolley - he would be wheeling his old bike along, and thick NHS glasses. Needless to say, the local kids were extremely creative in their cruelty towards him, but that never seemed to bother him over much.

I have a vivid memory from those years. When in a car, I passed him as he was kneeling down outside Kwik Save (one of my favourite shite retail stories is about Kwik Save, but -unless I've already relayed it somewhere, I'll save it for another day) with his little jack russell. The dog had its paws on Piper's knees and was systematically licking the inside of the guy's mouth as he was held around the belly.

Now, I've always been a dog lover, don't get me wrong, but this was definitely going too far.

Chuffing me off

I feel a little guilty about the Sylvia Plath reference in the title, and wish to state that it is not my intention to belittle either the Holocaust or that fine but troubled writer's experiences by using it to refer to the rather more mundane subject on which I'm about to babble. I do remember once, in those Bright College Days, discussing Daddy in a seminar. There was a German girl in the class and the lecturer seemed to have no qualms about asking her what she thought of the Nazi references in the poem. She was rather uncomfortable, as were we, when he asked her about the human skin lampshades and all that stuff. Rather unfairly, I thought, he broadened the discussion to take in the whole post-War German angst thing. She didn't really respond, and neither did anyone else - mostly because the majority of people just wanted to get through the hour and... do nothing, I suppose.

It's something that's always puzzled me, I must say, the lack of participation in seminars when I was at college. I've never really been the most confident person in a group of people, but I would usually say something, however asinine, just to break the silence. 90% of people in the room did not, however, utter word one. Ever. Three years of degree study would pass without any participation whatsoever from them. Odd really.

Anyway, I'm off to the land of Oz on Friday, taking the new Wrexham & Shropshire train from Marylebone. I'm told it's a 'lovely train' and does not require any changes at Birmingham, Wolverhampton, or anywhere else. We shall see if it will be a tidy experience.

Rhydymwyn

Seems I have an opportunity to do some voluntary work at a government sponsored site near Mold in lovely North Wales. I'd never heard of it before, but it seems a fascinating place. Mustard gas and other nasties manufactured by those lovely chaps at Aldermaston (which isn't at Aldermaston after all) or wherever it was that they made them, were stored there up until 1945. It is now in the process of being turned into a greenfield site for the folks of Llay, Hope, Rhosllannerchrugog and other hell holes to walk their pit bulls in.

I will be with a few service providers, and carrying out path laying, tree planting, etc for a two day period. Gets me out of the office, and it's not a million miles from Oswestry. Well, it's 27.6 miles, according to Google Maps. Tidy!

Freddy Jones

You may have noticed the latest banner picture, which bears the name of my home town. I snapped this recently in London's busy West End, at no less august a location than Leicester Square, on the drain covers near the markers for the Commonwealth countries there. I have also noticed them in Paternoster Square and at the housing development on Liverpool Road which used to be the Royal Free Hospital.

They were made by the Oswestry steel fabricators and galvanisers Frederick Jones & Son, and are a 'tidy' reminder of home. I will be making a photo pilgrimage to seek out others and posting them to my Zooomr account. Watch this (and that) space.

Fair play.