Wherever I Lay My Hat........

I don’t know whether it’s nature or nurture but somewhere deep within me there’s a Romany spirit. Not in a Big Fat Gypsy Wedding kind of way, I’m not likely to buy a caravan or aggressively manhandle women in a car park; it’s more wanderlust.

One thing I’ve learnt about myself over the past few months is how easily I settle into a routine, and that makes the flighty part of my brain quite cross, and so I always have that urge to up sticks and see another part of the world.

I suppose I could have gone backpacking when I was a younger chap but it didn’t appeal. At the tender age of 17 I’d discovered beer and girls and the thought of holing up in a bivouac in a desert didn’t seem as appealing as the new world I was exploring in my own back yard. It’s also not about just visiting somewhere, but moving lock, stock and barrel somewhere for a year or two, and to really live somewhere, warts and all.

I can only guess this may have something to do with the fact that I lived in three places before the age of 12. To a young and expanding mind this sets out the stall for how you live your life, constantly on the move. That need for a change of surroundings becomes the routine.

I never really moved that far, but there was always a change of school involved, and so that created challenges in maintaining friendships and having a sense of place, but I don’t think it harmed me. If anything it made me less clingy to one location because my childhood memories were scattered around.

So, for no good reason I’ve compiled a quick assessment of Hayward Homes past and present. All the places I lived and the ups and downs. Or the downs and ups, we’ll see how it pans out.

Calbourne, Isle of Wight

Technically I didn’t live in Calbourne, I lived at a place called, according to the map, Five Houses, but Calbourne was the nearest village. There weren’t actually five houses there. There were two and one of those as I’ve mentioned before was haunted. Also, the place was overrun with spiders, woodlice and other creepy crawlies, it was a good bike ride to get to my friends’ houses and there was an Alsatian who used to come and shout at me. 

On the plus side however there were fields, and countryside, and so many places for a young lad to play. Farmers’ fields were just massive play areas and I have very fond memories of the place. Had I reached my teenage years there it would have probably driven me insane as there was nothing much to do, unless I was going to become a farmer, but that didn’t happen, which is a relief as I can’t milk a cow and the smell of manure turns my stomach, so all to the good.

Nursling, Hampshire

Technically I didn’t live in Nursling either, but again it was the nearest village. I lived on Foxes Lane. It’s not there anymore; it’s now a B&Q car park. When I did live there though it was like Calbourne but with added fun. A motorway had split Nursling in half and we were on the abandoned side. Next to our house was a steep embankment. This could only mean one thing; a length of blue string tied to a tree meant that I had a makeshift abseil rope.

Behind our house there was a patch of what we called ‘the wasteland’ where I used to play with friends. It was a fairly uneven patch of land but the tour de force was what appeared to be a large crater. Many hours were spent speculating what may have caused it, a crashed spaceship being our favourite option, and we’d go searching for the aliens that were obviously now hidden out in the nearby Industrial Estate.

There was plenty of countryside on our doorstep, and a railway track, amazing for someone who came from the Isle of Wight. I accept that there’s a railway line on the Island but not like this one. These were exciting trains that went to exotic destinations, like ‘that there London’. There were some horses in a field opposite the house who I used to feed cow parsley to (not sure if I was supposed to), and there was an abandoned road we discovered where we could cycle up and down with abandon. Also, when I got older and braver (about 10) and my parents were out, I could cycle to Redbridge station and catch a train to Southampton on my own. My parents never knew, and that’s what made it all the more exciting.

Totton, Hampshire

Totton felt amazing when I arrived there as a tender 11 year old. It was only a normal town with houses, and streets and shops but I’d never lived in one before. When I finally left, in my twenties, I realised I’d been there too long as I’d grown to hate it. Everything about it just seemed to annoy me, the miserable, ageing shopping precinct, the large Asda dominating the town centre with the same faces behind the tills that were there when I was a kid, and the lack of a decent public house, one that wasn’t filled with aggressive track-suited chavs, all meant that I still to this day slightly resent visiting it.

It did, however, have its plus points. All my friends were a stone’s throw away, it’s close to Southampton and public transport links were, in my day, good. Having a big Asda was actually quite handy, and I was always slightly impressed by Eling Quay. There’s Totton looking a bit run down and sad, but walk a couple of streets and there’s Eling with it’s boats and church, and tide mill, and pubs. It was an incongruous sight, but a very welcome one.

Leicester, Leicestershire

I loved Leicester. On the surface it’s a fairly standard East Midlands city but it became my home when I chose to go to university there in the 90s, to the point that my visits home during the holidays became less and less frequent.

I can’t pinpoint what I loved exactly, maybe it was the convenience of a city, the freedom to be away from my folks, the many wonderful pubs, the many friends I made, a lot of whom were residents of that fine city rather than my fellow students. The only reason I left was because I ended up living on my own in a grim studio flat after my degree course, flitting between temp jobs, and I realised I needed to save some money, but it was a wrench and I remained a very frequent visitor for the next couple of years.

After years of pining for Leicester I recently realised that the flame has dimmed and it’s been consigned to the back of my mind as being ‘that place I used to live’. Leicester has changed, the pubs I drank in have closed and, in some cases, bulldozed to make way for the future, and with it my memories and fondness have faded, just a little.

Sheffield, South Yorkshire

Sheffield was the city I cheated on Leicester with. I made new friends, drank in new pubs, and rode on the tram system, even once going as far as Halfway just to see what was there. Not much, as it turned out.

I’m fond of Sheffield and for some reason it felt like a thrill to live there but I’m a sucker for dramatic views, and my bedroom window in the attic of an old stone house on a hill meant I could see all across the city below and all the way up the hill on the other side. It was magnificent.

The atmosphere of the city was always great and of course Meadowhall is on your doorstep for all your retail opportunities. Myself and the present Mrs Hayward were tempted to move here after I finished my course, but she got offered a job near her home in Peterborough and so fate played a hand in my next move.

Stamford, Lincolnshire

When the (at the time) future Mrs Hayward and I first moved in together it was in a little house by Stamford railway station. In the brief 18 months or so we lived there we got married so I have a lot of fond memories of that time. I also have a memory of streaking naked around the little court of houses we lived in, so ecstatic was I that Rowetta had been voted out of The X Factor. I may have had a little bit of alcohol before venturing on this scheme and the amount of heart attacks I caused to our elderly neighbours is unrecorded.

I still love Stamford, it’s a beautiful looking town and I would move back there in a heartbeat. The only down side is the cost of houses. For the same price as our barely two bedroomed house by the station, you could buy a good sized family house in, somewhere, er, well, like…..

Bourne, Lincolnshire

Ah yes, the hometown of the present Mrs Hayward. Say what you like about it, and I often do, it’s a nice little town with a couple of decent pubs and a motor racing heritage that was celebrated the other weekend with a cavalcade of old cars being driven by the likes of Damon Hill and Sir Jackie Stewart.

There’s also nothing nicer than driving back home after a day in ‘that there London’ to the tranquillity of the countryside. I don’t have to lie in bed at night listening to lorries rumbling past or police sirens or goods trains loaded up with gravel, the most you hear in the dead of night is the occasional Owl hooting in the distance. OK, so one night a Fox was outside screeching and it scared the be’jesus out of me but that’s about it.

The slight downside is the travel. If you want to go anywhere you have to drive for half an hour before you come to a decent road, and if you want to catch a train you have to travel back in time to the 1950s as the line has now long since gone. If you want to catch a bus you can, but only on every second Tuesday, and then only if the moon is on the wane. Bourne. You’ll never leave.

So that’s it. That’s where I am. In deepest darkest rural Lincolnshire. Those itchy feet though, they’re getting itchier, and no amount of athlete’s foot spray is going to cure that. The Romany in me wants to hitch up his caravan and move on. Time to stick a pin in a map and see where I end up? Perhaps, but I suspect that if I suggest leaving Bourne to the present Mrs Hayward she might just stick a pin in me. Ouch!!

Looks Familiar

I never really understand it when people say that someone has 'one of those faces'. I’m not sure what it would mean to have ‘one of those faces’ although I suspect it’s not a good thing. My face has so far got me through life without too much embarrassment. More importantly it got me through school without being beaten up, despite the glasses, and I went to a rough school so it’s a badge of honour as far as I’m concerned.

It has been claimed that my face resembles those of a couple of famous folk. Some charming friends claim I look a little like Elton John, although I don’t see it myself. I wouldn’t mind being a few quid behind him although I don’t think I’d enjoy his lifestyle, that would be a little too camp, even for me.

The same friends have also suggested that I look like the former writer of Doctor Who, Russell T Davies. Now this one I see. It’s a pity there’s no ‘Stars in their Eyes’ for writers of TV sci-fi, I would win hands down, and I just wish he would do something naughty and salacious as that might open up the opportunity for me to make some money as his lookalike.

Take a look for yourself, what do you think?

Having said that, Russell and I have the same look as 99% of all Doctor Who fans. Seriously, if you ever see the attendees at a Doctor Who convention it’s like witnessing the birth of a scary clone race of bespectacled middle aged men. The geeks will inherit the Earth, although all they’ll do is hunt down obscure British actors who played bit parts in old Jon Pertwee episodes so they can get their autographs.

I’m not often mistaken for anyone else but it seemed to happen quite a lot in Leicester. Well twice, and quite close together.

When I blogged last time I mentioned Leicester Market and this reminded me of mistaken identity number one. There I was, wandering through the covered area of the market, near the little shop that sold knock-off electricals, when I became aware of a strange little man following me. He reminded me of a modern day equivalent of Baldrick, short and grimy with hair stuck flat to his head. I figured he was either being weird and walking too close to me or he was about to mug me, either way I strangely decided to bring the matter to a head and find out, and so I stopped dead in my tracks. As did he.

I turned to look at him, not sure quite what my next move was going to be but he broke my train of thought by saying “Hello”. I figured that muggings don’t usually start with such social pleasantries so I said “Hello” back but then I had to ask the obvious question, “Sorry, do I know you?”

He believed he did, “Victoria Park” he said. I considered this for a moment. I knew where Victoria Park was, I’d been there once for a Radio 1 Roadshow but that was about the limit of my knowledge of the place, other than it looked like quite pleasant with people walking their dogs or kids having a kickabout on a Sunday afternoon. My new associate obviously thought I was being a little coy and decided to prompt me. “The toilets?”, he enquired.

The present Mrs Hayward says you can tell what I’m thinking by the look on my face. Baldrick must have got the message pretty quickly as I could barely stutter the words “I’m sorry but you have really got me mistaken for someone else” before he disappeared in embarrassed haste back into the crowded market. I stood there aghast for some time, horrified that he thought that I was someone he may have had an illicit liaison with in a public toilet. Who did he think I was, George Michael? Really, I’m not that sort of boy at all. I know I drank a lot when I was a student and got into all sorts of situations but that was definitely not one of them.

Sadly, as if to fly in the face of my protestations, mistaken identity number two starts with an encounter in a public toilet. Well, a pub toilet to be precise.

I used to go to a pub called ‘The Victory’ on Welford Road every Sunday night, sadly it’s not there anymore. I had joined a successful quiz team and we soundly thrashed the locals every week much to their disgust. Whilst visiting the loo one night I was contemplating the answer to a particularly difficult geography question when I became aware that the guy to my right was staring at me. Just to explain to any ladies reading, when you’re standing exposed at a urinal this is not the done thing. It’s not toliettiquette, if you were.

I glanced across as if to say ‘stop staring at me’ when the chap, a tall man with a brown bushy beard, said “Hello”. Having learned nothing from my previous encounter I politely said “Hello” back whilst rapidly finishing what I was doing. As I was in the confined space of a pub toilet I decided to keep things cordial so when he asked me how I was I said “Fine, how about you?”

“Not too good” he said, “my Dad died the other week”.

“Oh” said I, “I’m sorry to hear that”. My brain was screaming at me to shut up, I didn’t even know him let alone his father.

He went on to ask me if I still drank in ‘The Mailman’. I’d never drunk in ‘The Mailman’ in my life but rather than tell him this I just said no, which was, in some respects, true. I tried to concentrate on washing my hands but he kept talking. He asked if I’d seen much of Dave recently. I knew someone called Dave and I hadn’t seen him recently, so regardless of whether mine and his Dave were one in the same, which was unlikely, I just said no.

He then asked me the killer question. “Do you still play with the band?”

This should have been my opportunity to say, “You know what, I think we’re at crossed purposes here, I don’t think I’m who you think I am”. That would have been the sensible thing to do. However, thanks to several pints of Everards Tiger (our winnings from the previous week) my brain decided that I’d gone too far and I may as well carry on with this charade. I was as surprised as anyone when I heard myself say “No, not for a while”.

Band? What band? I didn’t even know what instrument I was supposed to play or what the band was called. On my way back to the table he persisted on questioning me about people I didn’t know and I tried to be as evasive as possible until he left, which was after a good five minutes of him being stood by my table of friends, all of whom were becoming more and more baffled as they listened to our conversation.

When he eventually left I explained to them how this had all come about and they thought it was all quite amusing. So there it was, a funny pub story to tell people. Except it didn’t quite end there. I kept seeing him, in different places, and we’d have the same conversation about people I didn’t know and bands I’d never played in (I played the drums apparently).

The final time was when I was working behind the bar of a pub called ‘The Vaults’. He turned up at the bar, I served him a drink, and we started the usual ‘going nowhere’ conversation but I had nowhere to escape to. After a while another guy joined him and he decided to introduce me. He explained how I was Dave’s mate and I used to be in the band. The other chap looked confused. I think he knew straight away that I wasn’t Dave’s mate at all and could see that the nearest I had ever come to being in a band of any sorts was when I played the triangle at Sunday School.

They eventually retired to a table and I could see some animated conversation going on and they occasionally looked over. I suspect this was the evening that someone put him right and I do wonder what he made of my elaborate, if accidental, deception, because I sure as hell didn’t know how I’d got there. I was just being polite. Eventually I left Leicester so I never saw him again, which probably worked out well for both of us.

I suppose in both cases there’s a lesson to learn; if you are mistaken for someone else it’s probably best to own up to it straightaway. Otherwise you risk being arrested for lewd acts in a public toilet or asked to step in when the band’s drummer is taken ill, and with my sense of rhythm that really is a bad idea. 

Mind you, I got to do an encore.