If I Had The Wings Of A Sparrow...

The last time I tapped out words for this blog, like a chimp trying to compose Hamlet, I made reference to the fact that I was about to take flight in a helicopter. I was nervous but exhilarated by the opportunity to take to the air in such a machine.

Having now done so I can tell you that it’s the only way to fly. None of this malarkey of charging at high speed down a runway in the vain hope of gaining enough momentum and lift so that a tin tube full of eager holidaymakers will be catapulted into the sky. Oh no, this was a gentle rise off the ground and away.

Equally there was no hurtling ourselves at the ground and braking like a maniac, it was a gentle touch down, like a feather dropping gracefully to the floor. The more I consider how elegant helicopter travel is I’m wondering why it hasn’t caught on and why we have opted for the flying metal bird approach.

The manoeuvrability and view is also a factor of why this is a magnificent way to travel. No peering through a tiny porthole to try and see the world below, there’s windows all around, big ones at that. If you want to turn round or fly lower it can be done very easily. The helicopter is therefore the black cab of air travel, whilst the aeroplane is the bendy bus.

My trip took me over Portsmouth, partly so that I could get a view of the place of my birth – the Isle of Wight (hereafter known as the Motherland). It was a clear day so I had a cracking view as we swept over Lee-on-Solent, up towards Portsdown Hill and then back over the Historic Dockyard.

Thankfully we didn’t suffer any bombardment from the ground as the locals below were blissfully unaware that a supporter of Southampton FC was swooping around above them like an emperor in a flying chariot.

The window of the helicopter was open and I was briefly reminded of a football chant, the sentiments of which involve dropping untold excrement upon the poor unfortunates on the ground, but as I’d reduced my solids intake to lettuce leaves and dust to ensure I was below the required flying weight I had nothing to offer in that department.

As it was, no-one weighed me from start to finish. In fact I was heartened to see passengers on earlier flights carrying much more in the way of additional baggage than I. It turns out that I may not have been the one to have eaten all the pies after all, although in my defence I would have made a substantial dent on them given the chance.

So, before I tail off onto another topic altogether, I can conclude that helicopter travel is the future. 

As I look proudly at the souvenir photo of me stood grinning next to this mighty machine with its rotor blades whirling furiously above my head, I can tick another thing off the list and pretend that I am not a middle aged man who works in an office, but I’m in fact the pilot of Airwolf.

Or I’m Noel Edmonds. One of those.

   

Friday I'm In Love

Ever since I left school I was certain of one thing; I would never go back for any kind of school reunion. It wasn’t that I had any particular problem with the place or any of my fellow pupils or teachers; I just didn’t see the point in it.

This self-induced attitude had therefore made me suspicious of reunions of any sort. So when, on Facebook, a group started up, loosely based upon a nightclub in Southampton I used to go to around 1993-1994, the first nightclub I regularly went to in fact, I initially viewed it as a mild curiosity. I could glance through my phone to see that there were photos and posts from people whose names and faces were flickering around in the deeper recesses of my memory and I smiled to myself as I remembered these images from another age.

So I remained a casual and fairly impassive observer of these posts for a while, and wasn’t at all tempted when I saw a reunion was being planned. I figured that it was all such a long time ago and besides, no-one will remember me so it’d all be terribly embarrassing.

However what I did have were some photos of my own to contribute. So I spent an afternoon going through boxes and unearthing the flattering and not-so-flattering faded images of friends of yore, and friends of now from back then when they had more hair and less girth (I include myself in that description).

The nightclub I speak of wasn’t actually a nightclub at all. It was just a night in a room above a pub on a Friday called The Attic but it was, to all intents and purposes for us, our very own goth club. The pub below was a gay bar, which was almost a perfect venue as neither party were bothered by the other and it was always pretty clear which part of the establishment you were from when you went to the toilet.

To those who have not dabbled in goth, of which there are many I’m sure, I have to stress that goths are no more scary or weird a group of people than any other. No-one is drinking blood, nobody has the power to turn into a bat and no-one is sacrificing virgins on a stone plinth. Well, not every night.

I agree that the black hair and pale faces have a slightly creepy edge and not one I went for myself, mostly because black hair didn’t suit my ruddy complexion. I experimented one afternoon and it just looked so appalling that I resorted to red and other colours that have now left me with a somewhat auburn hue. Also, applying make-up wasn’t my strong area so I didn’t do it but I’ll tell you something, any man that paints his face in ghostly white make-up, dons a frock coat, a cape and winkle pickers and walks through a city centre on a Friday night has, in my view, absolute balls of steel and I take my hat off to you, past and present.

Goths are just joined together by their common interests in the music and the literature and the…..ahhh, who am I kidding? Yes, maybe that’s the genesis of it and I haven’t done any research on it but, on the whole, there was just something about the boys and girls and men and women who were goths, or who, like me, flirted around the scene, that I quite liked.

It was a small but busy club and after a while you realised you probably knew everyone in the room, and that was a comfortable feeling. When you went to a pub in town you would often witness a fight, but at The Attic on a Friday night there was no such risk. Yes, I wasn’t alone in getting a bit giddy on snakebite and black and accidentally falling down the stairs, or bumping into the DJ area (which was in effect a table suspended down from the ceiling by chains) but no harm was done.

The Attic unwillingly closed its doors at the end of 1994 so we all dispersed elsewhere, but the vibe of the place has clearly stuck with a number of people for many years, myself included, and I suspect we’ve never found anywhere else quite like it.

So time has gone on and more and more people have joined the group on Facebook, added photos and videos (some of which I was in, much to my surprise – I don’t remember anyone having a camera!!), and joined in the many conversations. People who, whilst I hadn’t totally forgotten them, I’d certainly not thought about for a long time. It’s a weird thing but slowly the memories have manifested into the carefree feeling of the time, the camaraderie, the anticipation of a Friday night. Bear in mind, I was young and going out in Southampton still felt relatively new to me back then.

Everyone has their own place they remain fond of but for me The Attic was the first place I danced, drank, laughed, loved and occasionally fell over (damn the heels on those pointy boots I bought in Salisbury). I remember the many nights when we all crowded on the postage stamp sized dance floor and wheeled around backwards to The Sisters of Mercy or Siouxsie and the Banshees. I remember the way we used to change the words to the songs so that the opening of The Marionettes’ song ‘Like Christabel’ was changed from “She keeps her thoughts in a forest dark” to “She keeps her tits in a thermos flask”. Oh how we laughed.

I remember the night the fire brigade turned up because a nearby resident had not been aware of the injudicious use of the smoke machine and believed that the great clouds of smoke billowing out of the upper windows on a warm summer evening to be a full blown inferno. The burly men with the hose were not impressed.

I remember being sat mournfully outside one evening after being dumped by a girl I’d only known for a few weeks when I was approached by a goth called Robbie who imparted me with some sage advice, “It’s probably her time of the month, mate. Get it sorted!”. Even at the tender age of 19 I knew that these were wise words even if I didn’t, on this occasion, get it sorted. It did, however, cheer me up no end.

And of course I will always remember the night that Ned was upended into a large metal wheelie bin and bundled through the door to the backyard of the pub, only to discover there was a drop of several feet on the other side. Oh well, he lived to tell the tale.

So now I find myself in a strange place because all these memories have come racing back to me like an explosion of sight (mostly black), sounds (mostly ‘She Sells Sanctuary’ by The Cult) and smells (mostly patchouli oil and K Cider).

Each day more and more names and faces from my past are going to the reunion and, actually, I would really like to join them. Yes, it’s not the early 1990s anymore, but these people were friends. We’ve all changed of course, all older, some with kids, some in different parts of the country, but all with a shared memory of a little nightclub down Northam Road.

The sad thing is I’m going to miss out on this night of memories. Not for a bad reason of course, I’ve got a date with three mountains, all for a good cause, but when I’m heading from Scafell Pike to Ben Nevis next Friday night, tending to the inevitable blisters from my walking boots, I’ll be remembering when the blisters came from, yes, those damned pointy boots again.

So, if you’re at the King Alfred pub in Southampton that night, spare a thought for me and my aching feet, but above all have a fantastic night and party like it’s, well, 1994 I suppose.

Shopping in the Past

Whilst mooching within the vicinity of the TV the other morning my attention was grabbed when the reporter mentioned that he was in a shopping centre in Southampton. Sure enough, there he was, stood in the deserted belly of West Quay, the sprawling retail behemoth that sits right in the heart of Southampton City Centre. 

The reporter linked into a piece about how John Lewis in Southampton was re-organising its layout so that shoppers could roam with ease throughout the store without feeling they are crossing main thoroughfares. It sounds like they’ve created a maze of expensive crockery and ladies underwear but I can sort of understand the logic. 

For example, if I were in the Millinery Department and I spot a jaunty hat I like I could excitedly cross the aisle to reach it but, horror of horrors, I risk being mown down by a Hell’s Grandma speeding along in her souped-up mobility chariot. Thanks to John Lewis in Southampton I can now fulfil my desire for jaunty hat-based retail opportunities without the fear of shopmobility rage, or something like that.

When the report finished and they threw back to the lonely reporter, still standing in an empty shopping centre like the last survivor of a deadly plague that has wiped out humanity, he made the passing comment about how supermarkets put fresh fruit and veg at the front of the stores so as to give a good impression of the delights contained within.

It’s true of course, at least in most cases. The exception to the rule is Asda in Totton, just six miles away from the last man on Earth, and most likely the place where the plague started its deadly journey.

I know this supermarket well, my mum used to work there back in the 1980s and 1990s and even I had a brief spell there replenishing the booze aisles during the summer holidays in 1997. It was just the place you ended up going for, well, everything that you couldn’t get in Woolworths or couldn’t be bothered trekking up to Kwik Save for.

OK, so the fresh fruit and veg in Asda Totton is somewhere near the front of the store, I accept that, but the over-riding thing you see when you venture in is clothes. Rail upon rail of cheap, sorry affordable, clothing. I’m not dissing the clothing, I have many articles courtesy of George at Asda including a nice blue shirt that gets frequent wear.

It made me reflect on how bizarre the Asda of the 1980s would seem to a shopper these days. 

Firstly, like all supermarkets back in the day, you couldn’t just amble in. You would have to venture through a turnstile system and push your trolley underneath some orange flaps whilst a smartly dressed security guard in a cap would eye you up and down with some considerable suspicion. If you were under 16, or looked it, then you had absolutely no chance of gaining entry without being accompanied by a responsible adult. There are some prisons these days with far less security.

Right at the front of the store were records and tapes. I used to spend a great deal of time here perusing the chart hits of the day before settling on something I would later regret purchasing. ‘Spies Like Us’ by Paul McCartney, ‘The Only Way is Up’ by Yazz and the Plastic Population, and ‘John Kettley (is a Weatherman)’ by A Tribe of Toffs, were all bought from here. 

Fresh fruit and veg was further towards the back of the store, roughly in the middle. In those days you couldn’t just sling a few carrots in a bag and head to the till as first you had to get them weighed and stickered by your friendly greengrocer who had a little counter of his own. 

If you wanted a newspaper or a book then you had to wait until you finished your shopping and then head to the ‘Browser Bar’ where a lady called Beryl would sell you The Sun or the Daily Mirror, or even Today, that long forgotten newspaper (in colour). I used to spend much time here whilst my parents were trawling around the aisles, perusing the selection of ‘Fighting Fantasy’ and ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ books on offer.

If you were a smoker or had a sweet tooth then you needed to go to yet another counter. This is where the pick and mix lived. Not pick and mix as you know it now; there were no Fizzy Cola Bottles or Fried Eggs recently mauled over by sticky fingered toddlers. There was however Peanut Cracknel, Pina Colada (they were blue and pineapply), Sherbet Lemons and Chocolate Limes, displayed on adult-height shelves illuminated by bright lights, as if they were glittering jewels rather than cheap boiled sweets.

Nowadays we just sling everything in a trolley and if we have to queue more than once we consider it to be an inconvenience. In fact if we have to speak to another human it’s a bit of a pill. Mind you, even I don’t fully understand why I willingly choose to be bellowed at by a malfunctioning self-service till. 

“PLEASE PUT THE ITEM IN THE BAGGING AREA” 

“I’m doing it, for the love of God stop shouting at me, everyone’s looking!!!”

Like most things I write here, I don’t have any life changing point to make other than to reflect on how times change and not always for the better. I suppose what I’m saying here is, I miss not being able to buy ZX Spectrum games, I miss the strong tea served in the smoky café, and I miss having my bags of fruit having a little sticky label telling me what I’ve bought. 

Hell, I just miss the Browser Bar.

Vorsprung Berk Technik

I have realised that I know nothing useful about cars. I like to think that I know how to drive them although those who have been my passengers may disagree. As to what goes on underneath the bonnet I have no idea. For all I know, under the mass of metal that technical people call ‘the engine’ there could be monkeys on tricycles making it move, although I’ve not seen any mention of this in the adverts.

What made me think about this was an occurrence on the way to Southampton on Saturday. There I was, minding my own business, cruising down the A43 at a steady speed when suddenly I noticed a jolt on the accelerator pedal and my speed slowed. It’s then I noticed a little innocuous light on the dashboard. Illuminated was a little picture of a car next to a giant spanner. Even to the mechanically illiterate like me it suggested that all was not well.

The present Mrs Hayward, who up to this point had been sound asleep, was suddenly awake and sat up attentively like a Meerkat, as if some sixth sense had kicked in. I abandoned the A43 at the next junction while Mrs H rummaged around in the glove compartment for the manual to ascertain whether it was my fault so she could shout at me.

This little event has made me realise that, unlike men of yore, in the event of a car-related breakdown I am helpless and have no option but to put myself in the hands of the gentlemen from the Royal Automobile Club. Of course there may also be ladies in said club but I’ve yet to see one fixing cars, and I’ve been rescued by a few now.

So the sad fact is that I know absolutely nothing about how the car moves, apart from putting petrol in it. I have seen under the bonnet and am aware of some key areas, such as oil and water, although this is only as a result of a previous mechanical misdemeanour. This means that I can stare thoughtfully at the dipstick and declare, apropos of nothing, that we need more oil, or possibly water. I am also familiar with screen wash. In fact I would call that my specialist area after the actual driving part.

Other than that my knowledge of things such as tyres, carburettors, suspension, etc, is non-existent and I have to nod sagely and make what I think are appropriate sounding noises when the man from the garage flagrantly ignores Mrs H and discusses the vehicle’s woes directly with me.

I’m good in a crisis though. I know how to stop a car when the engine blows up whilst in the fast lane of a motorway (the A1(M) near Peterborugh on a cold December night – they deployed an RAC man to come and get us, but as he was in Durham he wasn’t a lot of use to us), or at a junction when the cam belt had been chewed off by the monkeys and snapped (A34 on another cold December night – we were towed out of the way by the police and I left the steering wheel locked so the WPC in our car had quite a surprising journey around the roundabout), or when the clutch broke (Danes Camp Way, Northampton – a passing motorist with a fag hanging out of his mouth arrived and investigated our hot engine without starting a fire, much to our relief), or when the handbrake snapped while I was trying to park on a very steep hill (City Road, Sheffield – I had to go and find a flat piece of land to park it on, which if you’ve been to Sheffield you’ll know is quite a challenge).

So, I should learn more about the motor vehicle as, whilst my driving style is sometimes flamboyant a la James Hunt or Lewis Hamilton, I don’t have a reassuring pit crew in easy distance to sort the problem out. Surely the very least I should know, as a man with a house and a wife, is to how to change a tyre.

In the end we solved our most recent problem by following the advice in the manual – by turning the car off and turning it on again. It seemed like a very 21^st century solution.

Maybe the monkeys just needed a rest.