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!!

Low & Mighty

I have come to the conclusion that I am either the most common, run of the mill, Mr Average you are ever likely not to notice, or that I am an abhorrent, mutated, freak of nature.

Some of you will have already formed an opinion but hear me out, I’m going somewhere. You see the thing is, I went out at lunchtime today to look for a new suit. Nothing special, an everyday, run of the mill suit for going to work and sitting at my desk and pressing buttons and, well, we’re not here to talk about the nature of my work.

I wasn’t looking for an expensive suit, just a cheap one. The cheaper the better. So I ventured to a local large supermarket who I was confident would be able to furnish me with just the very thing.

I mean, what better place to go, with their huge square feet of retail opportunities, surely I would be spoilt for choice of colours, shapes, and sizes? Well, that is, apart from my size it would seem.

Now I don’t think I’m an unusual size, a bit short in the arm maybe, but not so much that anyone has ever mistaken me for a Velociraptor. 

However, try as I might, not one suit jacket was available in my size. If I’d been some long-armed giant I would have been well catered for. They had lots of suit jackets for these mythical massive-chested gangly creatures, but nothing for someone a bit smaller.

Let me be clear, there’s no way I can ever be described as petite either. The last shirt I bought was a medium size (a fact that had me dancing about and whooping with such glee in a changing room that other customers were concerned that I was either being attacked by a troupe of boisterous but well-meaning Vikings, or that I was having some sort of operatic-themed seizure, but that’s another story) so I’m smack-bang in the middle of average sized clothing for men of my demeanour.

So there you go, case solved, I’m Mr Average but one who’s turned up to the shop too late to get any clothes that fit him.

The thing is, as I’ve mentioned, my size has recently, well, shrunk a little. This I understand to be a good thing. After all, no-one says to you “Have you put on weight?” Well, not unless they’re an elderly relative. They seem to revel in that kind of socially challenging behaviour.

However the thing is that even when I was a little portlier around the midriff, I still struggled to find clothes. So have the rest of the country’s men shrunk with me or, well, what? 

So I have a choice. I either need to shrink further so that I am the size and shape of Yoda from Star Wars, or that I grow upwards and outwards so that I become Mr Creosote from Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life.

It’s hard to know which way to go, but after a recent trip to an all you can eat buffet restaurant last week I think it might be easier to slide down another “wafer thin mint” and get clothes shopping.

I can always trim the sleeves down.

The Sound of the Underground

Well hello. It's been a while but I needed a break to refresh and seek inspiration. Which seems baffling when you read the inane ramblings my blog posts are more renowned for.

Mostly I write about quite minor events in my life and extrapolate them into something vastly more interesting than they actually were, or in some cases more dull than they actually were, but I try. You've got to love a tryer.

That doesn't mean that real life doesn't rumble on in the background. The big things, both good and bad, amazing and devastating, sometimes in the blink of an eye. However I'm not one to rant and rave and make a drama, or at least I try not to, and so here I am with the little things, the inconsequential things I love to write about and remember because life is so fleeting, and the memory so prone to forgetfulness that this is the only way to capture the crazy parts of the day.

That's really about as deep as I get. I hope you enjoyed it.

So, in brief, here are the things I've learnt since the last time we interacted.

1. Cheeky Monkey has a real name. You remember Cheeky Monkey. He's the guy from my last, somewhat unsavoury, post in August. I never doubted he had a real name but I didn't know what it was, or want to know it. Anyway, it's Barry, and on Monday he's making stew, or that's what I overheard. Unless I misheard it and it's Gary and he's meeting Stu, one or the other.

2. It's okay to tap dance on a packed tube train. I watched an unnaturally God-loving chap move swiftly from preaching love to the carriage to suddenly dive into a full Roy Castle inspired tap routine. He even had tap shoes on. I couldn't help but smile, especially as a whole carriage of commuters were desperately trying to ignore him in the way that they do. This does lead me to speculate quite what would inspire a London commuter to look up from their Kindle, or their phones, or their shoes, but I guess you'd have to create quite a commotion.

3. Dithering can be good. My iPhone pinged the other day to tell me I could download a software update. 'Laters', I thought. I need to use my iPhone for far more important things, like checking out the latest trends on Twitter, or identifying what commercial plane is flying over my house, or checking in somewhere on Foursquare to maintain my mayorship of a nearby postbox, all far more important than measly software updates.

By the end of the day I was glad of my indecision when I learned that the new version of the software, iOS6, if it had downloaded at all, would most likely have wiped all my contacts, deleted all my songs, replaced my Facebook profile with that of a 59 year old grandmother from Alabama, posted my photos on the most wanted list on the Interpol website, replace all maps with a rough drawing of a stream and a forest next to the words 'Here be Dragons', and finally explode in my pocket thereby rendering my trousers aflame.

I'm hoping Apple fixes this before I accidentally find myself pressing the wrong button and downloading this iPhone Armageddon. I trust Steve Jobs to sort this out. Sorry, he's what…?

So that's it. Still here. Same old me. 

See you next time?

The Curious Tale of Cheeky Monkey

A recent innocent Facebook post of mine sparked much intrigue and comment. It wasn’t meant to. I’d been enjoying a nice ale or two at my local pub’s beer festival and was just making observations about my surroundings.

What had generated interest was my mention of a local character who frequents the pub quite often. To me, he goes by the nickname of ‘Cheeky Monkey’. He’s probably not aware that I call him this; however it’s because of something he once said that has led to this jolly primate-based moniker.

I have to say however that it is an incongruously harmless nickname given how he got it. I shall digress, but I must warn you, it is not a tale for the faint hearted, easily offended, or those of a tender age. You must look away now. Go! Shoo! You won’t like it, please, I urge you to go and read one of my other posts.

Have they gone? Then I shall begin.

Some years ago I was having a nice evening with some friends in the same pub one Saturday evening. During the course of the evening I ventured to relieve myself in the Gents. Not unusual thus far. As a brief explanation, the Gents in this particular pub are a little unusual. They are essentially a corridor, with two doors at either end, and a bank of urinals and a couple of sinks against one wall. There is also a separate Gents with just a couple of cubicles not that far away. So, men can enter and exit the toilet from either end of this narrow room.

Upon my arrival there was one man already stood at one end of the urinals. Using the appropriate etiquette I went to the opposite end and, without any acknowledgement or conversation, I went about my business. Very shortly after I’d arrived, the door opened and a third gentleman joined us.

He too followed the appropriate etiquette and stood by the urinal in the middle. This however is where his use of these unspoken toilet rules went completely out of the window, if the toilet had a window, which this one doesn’t. It’s kind of land locked in the middle of the pub so to speak.

Our new comrade at the urinals decided he had to engage someone in conversation. From my experience, in these circumstances the instigator of random conversation with two unknown gentleman who, by the way, all have their tackles out, is usually a little the worse for wear, hence the unnecessary and flagrant breaking of the rules. I believe that this was also the case here.

Usually however the interaction is brief and of no consequence, but this chap had very different ideas.

“Have you seen the graffiti in the cubicles about Cheeky Monkey?”, he asked to no-one in particular.

I hadn’t, but in any case I assumed he was talking to the other chap so said nothing and continued to stare intently at the white porcelain tiles in front of me, however the blistering silence that followed this query made me realise that I was wrong. He was addressing the pair of us. I glanced across to my right and made brief eye contact with our new companion.

He was a short chap in his late 40s with sandy coloured hair and a playful grin on his face. I glanced away as he looked over to our colleague at the opposite end who had now ceased to urinate, a common effect of being interrupted in mid-flow that inadvertently proves man’s incapacity to multi-task, although I think this particular effect is much more instinctive and primeval, as if preparing for an attack.

Our new colleague decided to let us into his big secret.

“I’m Cheeky Monkey” he declared proudly.

Good for him, one might think, although it turned out that Cheeky Monkey had some rather unsavoury habits. I won’t quote him verbatim but, in brief, it turns out that Cheeky Monkey is happy to lend a hand to other men should relief be needed. He also seemed keen to assure us of his hygienic credentials and payment structure.

“It only costs a fiver. I’m very clean, I use Vaseline”.

By this time I too had frozen to the spot and had ceased doing what I had gone in there to do. I was now planning a swift exit by the nearest door. However, Cheeky Monkey, unabashed and amused by his little announcement had managed to continue to pee with ease and was now zipping himself up and lurching away from the urinal. To my utmost relief he headed in the opposite direction to me and was just passing behind the other chap when, apropos of nothing, he decided to embrace the poor guy from behind, emitting a cheery “Way-hey!” in the process.

It was a brief embrace but one that could have gone two ways. Another man in this circumstance might well have turned around and firmly stated their objection to this unwelcome contact by punching his lights out. However you have to consider that he had his old boy in his hand and therefore would have to generate a punch whilst ungainly flapping about downstairs, and given the sales pitch from Mr Monkey himself, some unfortunate confusion may have ensued.

In the end the guy froze to the spot and Cheeky Monkey just went on his merry way.

All that was in my mind was, ‘there but for the grace of God go I’, relieved that Cheeky Monkey had not headed my way.

Neither of us spoke for quite some time as we resumed our call of nature and washed our hands. Once we had finished we found ourselves heading in opposite directions, and as we passed we gave each other a silent knowing look that said, “What the hell just happened there?”

I went back to my table of friends and immediately spilled the beans about Cheeky Monkey. I’m not sure if the other guy did, but I do hope so.

Since then I’ve seen Cheeky Monkey many times in the pub, but we’ve never spoken. In fact I don’t think that, even if he remembers what he said, that I was one of the people who he said it to. Of course I’ve always pointed him out to other friends and told the story. Well, why not, if you’re going to declare to complete strangers what you’ll do to them for a fiver with a jar of Vaseline then you deserve to be talked about.

In retrospect I don’t believe that Cheeky Monkey was in fact the Cheeky Monkey of the graffiti fame. You wouldn’t normally shout about it if you were. I think he was just a bit giddy after a few sherbets and thought it might be funny to say that he was. At least, when I see him in the pub with his wife and kids, I sincerely hope that is the case.

However, to me, and my friends, and to probably a load of other people he and I don’t know, he will forever be Cheeky Monkey.

When you’re next in town, look out for him. No, really…..!!!!!

The End of the Line

The British are known for many traits. Our stoic reserve in a crisis, our plucky have-a-go attitude, and our ability to stand in a queue for hours. OK, so we probably have the silver medal in that latter event, coming second to Communist Russia, but since they’ve become a little more relaxed these days (which is a sidestep to gloss over my ignorance of the intricacies of Russian history and politics) we are once again contenders. The problem is, you can take things too far.

Queuing for a bus is acceptable. Queuing for tickets for a gig you’ll never get tickets to because online touts are wilfully and imaginatively abusing the system is acceptable. Queuing at the supermarket at the self-service checkout is acceptable, if sometimes confusing due to the layout. Should there be one queue or two? The norm in these circumstances is usually one of course, and heaven help the person who tries to set up a secondary queue when there’s one already in place, the stares and the tutting is horrendous.

The one place however where the traditional, stand-in-a-line queuing system should be ignored in favour of a looser arrangement is at the bar of a public house. Years and years of frequenting hostelries by us, and our fathers, and their forefathers, should have taught us this simple lesson.

A bar is long and wide, therefore we stand where there is a gap. If there’s not a gap, stand behind whoever is being served and a gap will soon emerge. There’s an unwritten etiquette about it. Yes, some people will exploit this system and so you have to be polite but assertive. I always attempt to be fair in these situations myself, I check my surroundings out and ensure that I’m not jumping in. I make eye contact with new arrivals to stamp my territory and when it’s my go I make myself known. It’s an age old custom which must be preserved.

Hence why I have become disconcerted by an alarming habit that seems to have formed at my local. There are some people, the sort who only frequent the pub on a Saturday or Sunday lunchtime, who seem to have started queuing at the bar as if they’re waiting for a bus, in a big long line. The first time I saw it I was utterly bemused and gobsmacked at the same time. There they were, about 20 or so adults queuing down through the public bar.

I didn’t know what to do so, on this occasion and despite the fact I knew it was so, so wrong, I joined this ridiculous queue. All the time I was urging us closer in my mind, hoping that no-one else would file in behind me as that meant the queue would get longer and the whole charade would persist.

That particular episode was the worst I’d seen it. More recently I found myself in the same position but the queue was half the length. I knew that I shouldn’t make the same mistake twice, especially when I could see so much unused bar space with numerous members of staff available to serve. They too seemed utterly bemused by the unnecessary line that had manifested in front of them but were also being too polite to say anything.

I decided to make a stand and I began to bypass the queue. Two men at the back of the queue saw what I was doing and felt the urge to make a comment, and I heard the use of the word “queue jumper”. I turned to them, and I could see that they, like me, were men of the world. They weren’t here to order Burgers, or Bangers & Mash , or Turkey Dinosaurs and a Fruit Shoot, they just wanted a good pint of fine foaming ale.

I asked them when they’d ever seen people queue like this in a pub before. They conceded it was unusual but used the Homer Simpson defence, “It was like it when I got here”.

“Ah”, said I, “but by standing there you’re only making the situation worse, more will come and queue behind you. It’s time to break ranks. Are you in?”

They looked at each other nervously, but after a brief moment they agreed. It was time to make a stand. So, we started to move to the vacant areas of the bar but, being British and being naturally polite, we made sure we took others with us. We weren’t here to push in; we were here to ensure that centuries of tradition were not being thrown out of the window.

Within moments normal service had been resumed. Our bold move had ensured that, finally, we were all standing at the bar waiting to be served in the normal fashion, not queuing round corners as if we were waiting at the Post Office to buy stamps. It was a truly liberating moment.

Personally I blame the identikit chain pubs for this. They’re not all the same I agree but some enforce a queuing system for ordering food with a roped area so as to shepherd the punters around for maximum efficiency. These are the kind of establishments where the entire bar staff refer to everyone, man or woman, as “guys”, but these are not pubs for intelligent free-thinking adults in need of refreshment.

Throw down your shackles and embrace the chaos. We all have to spend too much time feeling obliged to stand in an orderly line for different things, but the pub is just not the place for it.

Worse still, you don’t want your kids to pick up this weird queuing system from you. They need to know the proper pub etiquette so that when their time comes, they too will know the feeling of being stood at a busy bar, keeping an eye out for the faintest glimpse of the varnished wood serving area in front of them and squeezing their hand into the gap to make contact so as to slowly but firmly claim their place.

They need to learn from you that once they get to the bar that they should be stood, empty glass in one hand, a bank note in the other, and a look of anticipation in their eyes. They need to feel that frisson of excitement as to whether they will be served next, they need to learn the confidence to speak up when it’s their turn, and the humility and respect to let someone else be served who was there before them.

And, to badly mis-quote Rudyard Kipling, tell them that then, and only then, will they become a man (or woman), my friend.