The day he messed his pants

The day that Stuart Ackroyd accidentally shit in his own pants without noticing is a day still fresh in mind, well it would be wouldn’t it ?

We were a gang of five or six, sometimes up to eight, often just three, neighbourhood kids, eight to ten years old, our ground was two or three streets which stretched laterally across the hill until the road stopped at a wire fence and there, on the other side, stood what was left of Moseley Wood.

It was soon to be built on, the summer of 67 those woods were our playground, we knew every inch of them, which trees you could climb, which trees you couldn’t climb, which trees only Stuart Ackroyd could climb for he was the one who you dared when you couldn’t do it yourself.

The worst errand…ever

“I want you to go to the chemists for me” spaketh my mother when I was young.

My heart sank, errands for your mother were bad enough, but the chemist was a no-no, there are things that women buy in chemist shops that grown men should not tinker with, let alone young boys, in fact men tend to steer a wide berth around chemist shops in the same way as we do doctors surgeries, such things are best left to women.

“Come back” my mother shouted as I made a dash for the door, “You were full of promises before I bought you the bike…”

Whats your mum’s Divvy Number sonny ?

That was the worst part of running an errand for your mum -trying to simultaneously remember what it was she wanted you to fetch for her – and the Co-op divvy number.

I didn’t have a bike of my own for a long time, all my more affluent friends had bikes long before I did which meant that I usually had to run alongside them whenever they cycled off somewhere, “We’re going for a bike ride” they’d all shout from the comfort of their mechanical steeds, “are you coming ?” they’d add, knowing full well that I didn’t have a bike.

“I’ll just run alongside” I’d reply knowing full well that I’d keep up until the end of the street and the start of the big downhill that was Green Lane, then turn round and go home to berate my mother for not buying me a bike as requested last week, and the week before, etc, etc.

Video Saturday – The Fugees

Bet you thought I’d be the last one to include a hip-hop group on his blog didn’t you ?

Sitting at the outside bar at Club Rockley Barbados on your own in the evening’s very quick twilight, waiting for the restaurant to open, sipping at this evenings first free ice cold Banks’ lager, you had a choice of two artists to listen to, Bob Marley or The Fugees, and after a while they all merged into one and even if you could block out the soudtrack then one of the waitresses would sing it to your face while she served you.

I bought The Fugees “The Score” cd at an airport HMV store somewhere, still have it, quite like it.

The soundtrack of two years, 96/98 in which the business went wierd and we were in demand in the Carribean, very wierd, seems like a dream now…

Know Your Prime Ministers – Lloyd George

Inspired by a recent episode of the BBC’s excellent “Who Do You Think You Are ?” when supermodel Jodie Kidd discovered that her great-grandfather was a right conniving bastard rather than the titled Baron that the rest of the family thought he was, I’ve decided that its time we delved into the annuls of time and uncovered the truth behind some of our most famous political leaders.

And in celebration of the Jodie Kidd family saga today we investigate a British Prime Minister who only spoke English as a second language – David Lloyd George.

Now this was funny to watch…

So we get our local gas fitter around to charge us an extraordinary amount of money to fit the pipe that the other gas fitter had removed last night, back on.

And he connects our brand new gas hob and gas comes out and all is fine in the world again, we pay, he goes, we wave him goodbye.

And then Suzanne says “So when you get your bonus are we going back to Comet to get that double oven ?”

My money has a habit of spending itself

It was all going so well, an unexpected bonus from work, some money from the anniversary, a windfall from a bank account that we’d forgotten about and some weekend “standby” payments from henceforth…

But then something breaks, and your money gets spent on something you thought you already owned.

My mobile rang while I was out today, it was Suzanne declaring a state of emergency at home because she could smell gas, I was on my way back home anyway and arrived within ten minutes…

The Red Lion at Burnsall

Sometimes scanners put highlights where highlights don’t exist, sometimes they put shadows where shadows don’t exist. My scanner has lodged a protest at being confined to a cupboard for too long and is now inserting shadows and highlights at random intervals that I can’t be arsed to edit out.

Anyway, The Red Lion at Burnsall, top end of Wharfedale, The Dales Walk goes right past its door, Dan may even have quaffed a sly beer at its outside beer quaffing tables, yes, we now know why he was always last.

Its also a damn nice restaurant and hotel too, its where we went for dinner (ie the lunchtime dinner, ie the Yorkshire version of dinner) last Wednesday, damn fine pub, excellent example of its genre.

Of parties and drinky-poos…

Following the Friday night fun at The Old Ball Suzanne and I walked down the hill to The Fox for a little Saturday night celebration of our silver wedding anniversary with some specially selected friends – ie those who we knew would bring presents and buy beer.

Amazingly I managed four pints of cooking lager, ie the very “normal” stuff that is not over-strength, followed by a nice long G&T – this is at least 100% more alcohol than I have been able to drink at one session for at least two years – and amazingly I suffered no after effects the next morning, maybe I am cured of my alcohol intolerance, or maybe the cooking lager really was as weak as piss like everyone told me.

When did it become normal ?

I must have missed it, sometime back in the midst of time when I stopped attending pubs on a regular basis.

The practice of young men sharing a toilet cubicle, I missed the moment when that became socially acceptable.

In the last two times that I have ventured out for a wild night out with the young things I have personally witnessed such a thing happening in front of my very eyes and on each occasion the party in the toilet cubicle has been broken up by a burly doorman and/or burly landlord.