Yesterday's blog was a kind of homage to the the 1970's
Today's is a kind of Nod to 1981
In 1981 I was a bank clerk!.....and a very BAD bank clerk.
I was young.....had a beard and haircut the spit of Joey Scarbury's,dated girls and never once balanced my till in 18 months.......
I was only thinking of those faraway salad days last Saturday....as a patient a colleague was looking after turned out to be a fellow clerk from those old National Westminster Bank Days!
Funny that I recognized her.....she hadn't got a clue who I was, then laughed loudly......it's Richard isn't it?...I was invisible even then!
Anyhow enjoy Joey Scarbury....... Andy Gibb and the towering transvestite introducing him are a blast!
If you didnt enjoy the first video...try this one!
love the fat guy at 22 seconds
It brought back many memories of a social event that seems to have gone out of fashion somewhat since I was a boy, a fact that probably cannot be generalized, I know as last night's party, was probably not really an exception to the rule.
As a child, the house party seemed all the rage.
Father was in charge of the bar, which was set up either in a corner of the kitchen,(not the best area because bottlenecks of drinkers vrs diners would occur) or more likely was organised in a hastily constructed "pub bar" area in the living room or Hall!.
Some relatives and family friends were posh enough to have their own purpose built, full time bars, complete with plastic pineapple ice buckets, optics and decorative glass drink stirrers (My Uncle Fred being an ideal example) but my father generally preferred a sort of impromptu, amateurish affair!
At some parties my father would organize optics for the spirits (to reduce expensive bingeing), the old fashioned party 4's and party 7's for the beer drinking men from the conservative club.......(complete with those "proper" beer drinking glasses ( see below)
There would be sherry for the "ladies" Bottles of Gin and Martini for my mother, Auntie Greta and Auntie Marjorie and the horrendously sweet Advocaat, the only drink that would be sipped by my grandmother.
Lemon slices and cherries in small jars would be lined up with military precision on the kitchen units, and would complement the colourful finger food, which had been prepared , in some cases 24 hours before hand.
Pineapple and cheese on sticks, sausages ON STICKS...... miniature pickled onions ON STICKS.... miniature sandwiches ON BLOODY STICKS.... the food was a triumph of engineering!
There was Vol-au-vents filled with grey looking mushroom filling, grey looking prawn cocktails, pate and crackers and a whole collection of peanuts, crisps and bread sticks, all arranged in their own glass dishes or else collectively displayed in "nibble" containers, those with four or six individual parts to them.
The "sweets" were laid out nearby.....and these my mother would really excel at.
Sherry trifle ( groaning under the quart of Bristol Cream), home made brandy snaps, filled with whipped cream and left under the hot kitchen lights for hours as well as home made sweets and the odd black forest gateaux all stood proud on the paper tablecloths
The family and friends started to arrive from 8pm. The television would be turned off and the noise of talking, the occasional shriek- the result to a mucky comment- and laughter would increase in increments until midnight, when the alcohol effects would be at its highest.
My father would invariably do something silly. (run into the party in his underpants, slobber all over the most attractive lady at the party.....proclaim undying love to his best friend Fred)...There may have been a small family spat at sometime, but generally this was missed by me as a ten year old...I noticed other things....like just how much the smoke from cigarettes and cigars filled the brown and yellow living room, or just how much my Uncle Arthur acted like the suave ladies man, Terry Thomas .
1970s house parties were exciting, frantic, lively and even then, all rather silly affairs.......
I feel I have neglected the animals just a little this week. Brother's house, old friend's reunion, Manchester, Work all day yesterday and work tonight.....it all feels as though I have not been around here....mentally and physically....and that feels a little odd.
Despite some dreadful weather, I decided to spend a little time in the field, and It was lovely to forget the badness of last week, even though I have been soaked to the skin.
Margie .throwing a strop worthy of Violet Elizabeth Bott
My first stop was the pig pen. The only reason I chose them first was that I could sit inside their shed out of the rain, so after pouring some pig nuts onto the earth I made myself comfortable on the floor of the hut. BIG MISTAKE! No 12 and Margie ( the former 21) bounced over like a couple of overgrown puppies and started to stuff their fat faces on the pig food, but as number 12 is now a huge boar and not the timid little piglet we first got to know and love, competition between the pigs was bound to lead to conflict . Every time Margie tried to take more that number 12 thought she was entitled to, he would knock her out of the way with a sharp nudge of his snout. After four or five of these rebukes, Margie literally stopped dead squinting her sharp little piggy eyes at number 12 and with murder obviously in mind, she stamped her little trotters like a two year old madam , then proceeded on what can only be described as a mother of all temper tantrums. Squealing like ( well.... like a pig)...she bounced around the enclosure biting at plants, fencing and her water bucket with a savagery which was just a little frightening and not content with biting at inanimate objects, Margie hurled herself into the shed, stamped her trotters again and took a mouthful of my pants firmly in her mouth and shook me like a dog.
I acted quickly and slapped her hard, which seemed to stop her hysterical tantrum for a second, but then, after looking at me in astonishment for a moment, she let out another scream and ran out into the enclosure for yet another performance...... All the while number 12 remained calm and unruffled....... We have brought up a monster!
Camilla and Badger are slowly letting nature separate them (although having said this, every night they still share the same house)....Daytimes Camilla follows the bigger girls devotedly, trying to ingratiate herself into their good books. The older geese are not ready to accept her fully, but I have noticed that they are more comfortable in the presence of a prettier and more graceful companion. By the autumn I hope that the four geese will be sharing the goose house together......
and talking of sharing- the rather knackered Phyllis Diller (centre) and Jane( the araucana) are still comfortable in their own little nunnery, away from the advances of the miniature cockerels and bullying from the bog standard hybrids. Phyllis is actually losing more feathers......and has a physique only a mother could love....
Are ANY of my animals normal? answers on a postcard...please!
You know the sort....someone who seems to relish confrontation, at the expense of others and with scant disregard for their own credibility and dignity.(well that is just while under the influence of alcohol!)
My mother was a bitter and belligerent drunk at times.which was an even worse thing to be as her conversation would zig zag between self pity and aggressive goading...not the nicest of combinations to be involved with
On my way out of the hospital tonight I ran into a couple of drunks, who were being shown the door by a somewhat elderly security guard and a couple of porters... Both men were up for a fight, albeit a verbal one, and the amount of abuse and venom that spewed from their mouths was revolting, not just because of the language ("fuck" seems almost an innocuous word nowadays).. no it was the level of aggression that I found so upsetting to witness.
It was as though, the whole of these men's anger reserves were being unleashed, towards complete strangers, strangers that had done nothing more that not accept or agree with their behavior
A middle aged domestic also on her way home stopped briefly to help.and spat out the question "would you speak to your fathers like this?"
But it fell on deaf ears....
"I haven't got a dad" One boy sang out triumphantly.
as the other laughed like a hyena before he told her to "shut the fuck up!"
Oh how I wish that these two, over a morning cup of coffee and a couple of slices of toast, could sit down with their families to watch this little interlude at the hospital.....
sober shame....that is the order of the day......
Mind you.....Sober drunks tend to remember nothing!
I find it slightly ironic that American Hurricanes are called after the "ladies" When us Brits get the news that "Katrina" or "Hannah" is on the way. it kind of lulls us all into a false sense of benign anxiety! Irene is a name derived from the Greeks....It's original meaning , ironically is "peace" Let's hope that hurricane Irene , turns out to be a peaceful squall My thoughts are with all of you bloggers out there on the Eastern Seaboard Be safe CNN Hurricane Info
Manchester was a good idea.
I got there at midday and immediately met up with Hazel who now lives ten minutes from the city centre.
We caught up with things, drank good coffee and ate nice cakes.
In lovely sunshine we ambled around the city art Gallery on Mosley Street and over a pint at her student watering hole she listened all about my shitty week and Constance with uncomplaining eyes.
Manchester council has recently adopted the New York tagline of I "Heart" MCR (I love Manchester)...from every window and in every shop the poster is being displayed and this clever marketing ploy seems to be hijacked by the city population in response to the recent riots.
I said my goodbyes to Hazel then crossed the city to meet Nigel over at the Cornerhouse arthouse Cinema
We went to see In a Better World . A Danish fairytale of a movie about grief, growing up and vengeance (The Danish title Hævnen actually means vengeance)
A impressive film with some great performances from the two boys in the movie as well as the rather sexy Swedish actor Mikael Persbrandt go and see it! 8/10...It gets you thinking way after the credits have rolled
We dissected the film afterwards, drank a few glasses of wine, ate dinner and chilled out all very normal and all very therapeutic ......and after a coffee in Town this morning and only 24 hours from leaving Trelawnyd I was back home feeling more positive and a little more human.
A neighbour called over when they saw me, and asked if I had "got over that horrible business of the weekend" as if that losing a dog was equivalent to say having an altercation with the milkman! I felt ok enough to smile gently at their remark. People that have not owned dogs have no idea of just how painful the death of one can be......a fact reinforced by the next comment I received
"at least you have three others!"
Two days ago I would have flew at the remark..today I just smiled thinly.
Without meaning to sound pretensious, I think Rudyard Kipling's poem perhaps sums up the way a dog keeper feels when a pet dies...it's worth repeating I think..as it says so much more than I could
The Power Of The Dog
by Rudyard Kipling
There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie--
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.
When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find--it's your own affair--
But...you've given your heart for a dog to tear.
When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!);
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart for the dog to tear.
We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long--
So why in Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?
Today I am letting Chris take charge of the animals,and I am off to Manchester for an overnight break with friend Nigel over in Manchester. I have already told him I am need of a break, so the order of the day is a trip to the art house cinema "The Cornerhouse", a few wines, a fair amount of fattening food and a great deal of frivolous chatter.. I need to re group just a little and laugh a lot......my tolerance is low at the moment
