The pub pianist

So while on the subject of pubs I am reminded of The Kings Arms in Horsforth, which in days of my youth was what could only be described as “a traditional boozer”, a Victorian public house with furnishings to match – and a pub piano player on a Saturday night.

The art of the pub piano player is now all but lost, and alas the only place you are likely to see a pub piano player is on an episode of  “Eastenders” where the producers often try and convince us that your average cockney pub contains at least one piano player every evening and that the whole pub will simply not go home until they have all stood tearfully around the piano for a rousing chorus of “Knees Up Mother Brown”.

“Alright ? Don’t see much of you in here…”

OK so its only fair, after criticising various Otley pubs yesterday its only fair that I should recount my bar-work experiences.

You see our Uncle Ralph was catering manager at the world famous Headingley stadium, for ever, and as soon as I looked old enough (note, perhaps not actually old enough, you only had to look old enough in those days) he gave me a job working behind one of his bars in the ground.

View from the bar…

Its hardly news that running a pub in these Isles is not the lucrative money-raking life long pension plan that it used to be, but a report in The Independant simply confirms that today.

Off-sales are usually the scapegoat, publicans blame cheap booze in supermarkets and cling to the belief that millions of bottles of cheap French beer are imported every day and distributed around housing estates with an efficiency only matched by the Co-op milkman – strange that I’ve never been offered any, or found booze to be cheaper in France than here, but still, if “they” say its so then it must be.

Thats my clean licence that is…

Last week the DVLA finally pulled their finger out and returned my drivers licence.

Not that they’d revoked it or anything, its just that, almost exactly two years since we moved into theis house I’d decided that it was time to inform them of the fact, return the licence, get the address details changed on it and so on…

Seems a bit hypocritical to criticise them of dragging their heels in taking two weeks to get it back to me after I’d waited two years to send it to them, especially when they threaten you of £1000 fines if you don’t inform them within five minutes of moving house…

Illustration Friday – Theatre

Hubble bubble, toil and troub…BE CAREFUL BARRY YOU’LL HAVE THE BLOODY LOT OVER !!!

Meet the C2C Fools – Rodney

Look what happens when you reach “middle age”, see how the waist expands, see how the hair receeds, see how the hangdog expression remains long after you intended it to leave ?

It happens to us all, Don Mclean can still sing his own superb lyrics though.

But todays post has a dual purpose, for today is also Number One in a series of  “Meet The C2C Fools”, a series in which I shall introduce my eight companions on the upcoming torture over 147 miles in July, and obviously advertise the cause some more – I learned all of Dans best tricks from last year.

Today may look like Don McLean, but I assure you that this is our number one in the “Meet The C2C Fools”, for this is Rodney, the last one to confirm his attendance, well done Rodney, we’ll tell you what its all about on July 17th.

Its true, Rodney can’t play the guitar, nor can he sing, and he doesn’t have quite as much hair as Don McLean anymore, but in all other respects he is the spitting image, nearly.

Rodney is our medic, a very highly thought of medic in his speciality of anesthesia, he is a very important man in that world of gas, needles and addictive liquid substances, but to us he is a short, fat, bald mate from school who is never on time and who reminds me frequently how I once conspired to cut his head open in an ill-concieved game of blind mans buff one wet playtime, look Rodney, its been forty one years for gods sake, let it drop will you.

I haven’t a clue how we will manage to filch a bike small enough for Rodney to ride, a childs bike will probably have to suffice, a childs bike in pink with tassles on the handlebars, and stabilisers, but what he lacks in physical stature he more than makes up for in physical presence for Rodney is frequently the loudest person in the pub of a night, his laughter is addictive, he raves like a loon, he is the life and soul of any party, we need him to boost our flagging souls with laughter on this journey into the unknown, but I just hope he turns up on time, you’d better turn up on time you little shit, are you listening ?

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On 17th July nine 52 year old non-cyclists who hate cycling will attempt to cycle the width of England in two and a half days, OK we’ve deliberately picked her narrowest point but its still 147 miles and thats a long time to have a sore bottom and not be able to scratch it properly – and by cruel coincidence its the hilliest part of this country too. This superhuman and frankly, stupid, effort is done on behalf of the Sue Ryder Care charity following their wonderful care of our dear friend Chris in the last three weeks of his life in March of this year. Please give a little and I’ll think of you a lot

The blagging starts here…

Unashamedly I am on the scrounge.

This summer, on the weekend of 17th to19th July to be precise, I and eight other 52 year olds like me will be riding the 147 mile Coast to Coast cycle route from Workington to Sunderland, Irish Sea to North Sea, on bikes of course, I’m sure you’d already worked that bit out for yourselves.

Two and a half days to ride almost 150 miles with eight companions who have not even considered sitting on a bike since they were children. I myself have of course got some history with this cycling lark, I have ridden to Copenhagen for instance, thats in Denmark, thats a long way away, but that was eleven years ago and the bike lay where I chucked it in the garage upon my return – until recently.

Smithy and I have been practising most every night, we have been up and down my training hill until our bottoms were red raw, but the others ? I don’t think they have even given it a thought yet, the ride will be long and it will be painful but what we lack in experience we more than make up for in inspiration, for we are inspired by our recently departed friend, Chris.

You see we are all of the same age, we all grew up together, we all played football as kids together, our motley group is what is left of a sunday league football team from the 1970’s, we socialise together, we raised our families together, my friends are very dear to me and I’m sure they feel the same, in fact I know they do.

On Friday 17th January 2009 we were all out for a pint in The Junction pub in Otley when Chris said that he felt dizzy, I was stood opposite him and he looked more than dizzy, he looked as though someone had switched the light off for a few seconds, we sat him down, within two minutes he was fine again.

The following day the same thing happened on the golf course, and so he went to see his doctor who referred him immediately to the Leeds General Infirmary.

After scans and lots of tests Chris was told that he had two tumours on his brain, one of which was operated on immediately, a biopsy of this showed that it was a very aggressive form of cancer and the second tumour was in a position that could not be operated on.

He was offered chemotherapy but warned that it would likely be ineffective and would make his last few weeks insufferable, yes they told him that at best he had a few weeks left to live, then they sent him home to spend his time with his wife and two daughters, and us.

We managed to take him out for one last night at his favourite pub and he had an unforgettable trip to Elland Road to see his team Leeds United play, we had lots more stuff planned for him but before we had time to arrange it all he took a turn for the worse at the beginning of March and was admitted, paralysed with pain, to Wheatfields Hospice in Leeds, one of the Sue Ryder Care hospices.

We’re still not sure what magic they weaved in there but the next day he received the ten of us as visitors and for the next three weeks we gathered around his bed to torment, tease, and reminisce with him, all the while the magic potion that is palliative care was administered by the Sue Ryder miracle workers in order that he could stay conscious, pain free and alert to us all.

We laughed those visits away as only a group of lads can but each time that we left and gathered at a nearby pub there was only deep concern, and a few tears, especially from Smithy who in all respects is a big soft sod.

We last saw Chris on a lunchtime visit on Tuesday 24th March and it was obvious that he was slipping away from us, and yet still able to listen, and to whisper his responses to our jokes and then finally reprimand Smithy for his soft girly double handed handshake as we left, to which Smithy kissed him, I told you he was a soft sod – there were tears outside.

Chris died 24 hours later leaving Sue, Helen and Rachael.

When it was first mooted that we might like to do something in Chris’s name on behalf of Wheatfields Hospice I tentatively suggested the Coast to Coast only because I’d been reading about it that week – it was instantly accepted as the challenge by the lads, I still don’t think they know what they have accepted to do, but hey, its bloody booked now.

So heres the blagging bit.

You’ll notice that to the top right of this page is a “JustGiving” button, click it and put some money in the kitty, please, any small amount, no one will point.

Do that and I’ll think of you for one mile of the journey, just you, it will be like our own special little psychic contact, like that scene in “Close Encounters of a Third Kind”, you’ll be sat at home at some point on those three days and you’ll hear that five note refrain – that’ll be me, thinking of you, really it will be just like that, I’ll be suffering trying to ride up a big bastard hill in The Lake District and you’ll be sat at home listening to me in your head, swearing at things as I slowly, painfully ride by them, just don’t get children to sponsor me for I do tend to swear an awful lot when I’m suffering, I mean, like Joe Pesci in “Goodfellas” or Steve Martin at the car hire desk in “Planes, Trains and Automobiles”, really, just like that.

The JustGiving site will spirit away your generously donated money and deposit it firmly into the Sue Ryder Care bank account thus ensuring that their miracle working can continue for other patients like Chris, for free, without question, without reference to creed, colour or religion, they just do it, without question, based purely on need – when you need them they are there waiting for you with their magic bags of stuff to make your last days bearable, I am in awe of them, in awe I tell you.

Oh yes, and if you are a British tax payer then the JustGiving web site will, if you tick the GiftAid box, add 25% to your donation, this being the tax that you’ve already paid on your earnings being given to the charity by HM Government, isn’t that nice ?

And finally, I will also be selling some paintings to raise some money for Sue Ryder Care (again via JustGiving), on a “You Pay What You Think Its Worth” basis, more of this later.

Thank you for reading this far

And so I bought a place of my own…

The Queens was my happy home for three years , three years worth of cooked breakfasts every morning, three years of lager for tea, some may suspect that my confused eating habits for life were moulded during my time at The Queens, I don’t know, I was just enjoying myself too much.

Then came the fateful day.

The day, precisely six years after I had first been transferred to the North East when our head office suddenly realised that they hadn’t made all of the Leeds staff redundant six years previously, there was a survivor from the cull, and he was still living in a hotel in Whitley Bay and claiming on expenses for it every week, the cheeky bugger.

What fire alarm ?

And so it came to pass that after spending August 1980 in Corfu I returned to the haven that was Whitley Bay, scene of numerous evenings sat chewing on the gristle of a rat pie, scene of the now fire blackened Maroo, and I made the momentous decision to live at The Queens.

The Queens was the pub at the end of the road where the two aforementioned luxurious guest houses were located, I knew The Queens as our local pub, I knew that the nightly rate to stay at The Queens was in excess of that which my company were prepared to pay, their limit of £7 a night covered the two dosshouse guest houses with cash to spare, but it fell short of what the landlord at The Queens wanted.

Which is a fair indicator of the huge gulf of quality that existed between those dosshouses and the proper Hotel that was The Queens – I negotiated a rate at £7 per night, my absolute limit in the petty cash tin, but for my £7 there would be no evening meal, just bed and breakfast.

The one where he sets fire to his guest house…

I stated previously that I left the Per Mar for The Queens, but that isn’t quite true, for there was another Guest House that I inhabited in the week inbetween the Per Mar and The Queens, seven doors up the road from the Per Mar it was called The Maroo.

I had to leave the Maroo under a cloud.

It was a real cloud, of smoke, for I set fire to The Maroo, accidentally, one night.

It wasn’t my fault