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.

Firestarter

When I heard that the Olympic Torch Relay was making a brief sojourn through the streets of Bourne I have to say I was surprised. This part of the country is largely ignored by the rest of the world. No-one comes to Lincolnshire for anything much in particular because, well, there’s not an awful lot here. When friends come to visit we usually take them to Stamford, which looks quite pretty and has some fine pubs, and Lincoln, which has a rare hill and a Cathedral, and two (yes, count ‘em, two) branches of Primark.

At a push there’s Skegness but a lot of my friends are from the South Coast so taking them to Skegness is like taking them to Bournemouth in 1979. It has a nostalgic look and feel but it also has the atmosphere of a place where something is likely to kick off, probably a riot between the local mods and rockers. Mind you, I did once buy a very fetching hat from Skeg, so it’s not all bad.

So, I have to say I was impressed that Bourne, one of the many quiet backwaters of this sprawling county was, for one fleeting hour or so, going to be caught up in the circus that is the London Olympics.

The present Mrs Hayward wasn’t impressed. As a long standing resident of this fine town she doesn’t see the point of going to watch some locals run through the streets carrying a flaming torch. According to her, this is something you can see in Bourne on most days, usually when word gets about that there’s a stranger in town.

Mind you, she doesn’t really see the point of the Olympics full stop so this was never going to grab her attention.

Having the Olympic Torch traversing the land has however provoked discussion amongst friends and I’ve learnt many things. Prior to the Grecian pyrotechnics arriving on these fair shores I never realised that it wasn’t a continuous relay on foot. I had imagined brave runners hot-footing it around the highways and byways day and night come rain or shine.

This doesn’t happen of course, the flame gets transferred from place to place by some sort of vehicle, a flame-mobile perhaps, until it gets to the next destination where some random celebrities and a few worthy (and some unworthy) locals jog through the town whilst holding it aloft.

One of the worthy locals running with it today is a personal trainer at my local gym. I didn’t know he was doing it until I saw him jog round the corner, wearing a gleaming white tracksuit and waving at the crowds like he was channelling the spirit of the late Jimmy Savile.

The other thing I had been unaware of was that there were so many Olympic torches. There are thousands of the things. I’d assumed there was just the one, and maybe a couple of spares in case some cack-handed fool drops it, that was passed on from person to person. I still think that should be the case. Yes, it’s nice for the people to own their torch but what would you do with it? It’s too big for the mantelpiece and far too elaborate to be lighting your barbecue with. There’s no need to have one, just a badge and a t-shirt would do as a memory of the day, surely?

The final thing I’ve learnt is that the whole torch relay thing originated at the Berlin Olympics in 1936, which was organised by the Nazi party. So, this relentless procession is something probably dreamt up by Adolf Hitler. I did wonder why ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ was running through my mind earlier. So with that and the Volkswagen Beetle, it proves that not all of Hitler’s ideas were bad. This however doesn’t really make up for the ones that were.

So, just before 9am I wandered not two minutes from my door and watched the whole circus make its way down the road, with loads of whooping and cheering from the permanently jolly organisers, determined to bring a bit of Olympics razzmatazz to a little Lincolnshire market town.

I’m glad I didn’t go into the centre of Bourne to see it, that’s where the crowds would have been and I’ll see the photos of that little extravaganza in the local paper. I savoured the curious juxtaposition of the whole thing bursting through normal streets near my house in an explosion of colour and noise, past the Auction House, the Bus Depot, and the recently demolished petrol station.

Next time I go for a run I can now say that I am running down the same road where the Olympic flame once burned brightly. Maybe next time I go for a run, probably tomorrow, I’ll take some matches and a rolled up newspaper and try to re-live the whole thing.

As a sort of coda to all this, at the end of the procession came a couple of BRM Formula One cars from the 60s and 70s, which were made in Bourne. That was the part that really made me smile, these motorised beasts unleashed on the streets of their home town, proudly revving their engines in celebration. Now that’s a proper sport. Perhaps it’s time for the Bourne Grand Prix.

I must get on to Bernie…….

Terry the Mountain Goat, Part Five - Final Thoughts

On our way back down south on the train we were all awarded with medals for completing the challenge. I didn’t feel like wearing mine as I wasn’t feeling terribly proud of my efforts.

As the journey went on though I soon snapped out of this short spell of gloom and began, with the other teams on board, to enjoy what we’d done. Some would say this coincided with the bar on the train opening for the first time but I couldn’t possibly comment.

We had an enjoyable trip back on the whole. There was a lot of laughter and it reminded me of what had been good about this. The camaraderie amongst teams had been great, the mountains had been challenging, we’d all got soaked to our skin by disgusting weather but we’d all done it together.

In the days that have followed I still feel sad that I only made it to one summit, but immensely proud that I made it to the top of what I think was the worst one, Snowdon in the pitch darkness. If you asked me whether I would do it again I might say yes, providing I can climb all three in daylight. I wouldn’t look forward to another stumble up a mountain at night and in the driving rain.

I’m pleased I walked so far on the second day given my knackered leg and the weather conditions, and I’m delighted that I got so far up Ben Nevis. I would have been more disappointed had I not tried at all.

For some reason I have it in my head that people will judge me for not doing what I set out to do, that it will confirm their suspicions that I was incapable of it in the first place, but I know deep down that these are my own insecurities coming to the fore. I almost feel guilty collecting the sponsorship money for what turned out to be one peak and two half peaks.

However I hope everybody who sponsored me will appreciate how hard it was and I challenge any doubters to have a go themselves in the same conditions.

Anyway, enough of this wallowing in self-pity, regular readers of my blog know that this isn’t me at all. If you’ve read each one of these little missives from the mountains then thank you. They’ve sounded quite serious but it’s hard to capture everything from the trip and throw in my usual flippant remarks. Well OK, I’ve squeezed a few in.

So, it’s time for Terry’s final thoughts should you fancy having a go at this next year……

·      Firstly, ensure you get on with the team around you. I’ve concentrated so much on my own personal battles with these mountains that I haven’t said too much about Neil, Adam and Alan. What I can say is they were a great bunch of lads and we had such a laugh on the train. Those memories will stick with me.

·      Make sure you have plenty of dry clothes on the train. I really can’t stress enough how good it felt to get out of those dripping wet clothes and into something dry.

·      Also, take a towel. Anyone who’s read The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy will of course be aware of this advice already.

·      Take a headtorch with a bright light, the brighter the better, if you’re climbing a mountain at night.

·      Don’t look down.

·      Don’t look up.

·      Make sure you use plenty of insect repellent on Ben Nevis or, like me, you will still be scratching those midge bites for days afterwards.

·      Always accept whisky from a stranger from Derby. It’ll warm you up and your football club is probably doing better than his.

·      Don’t be modest. If you have to get stark bollock naked in front of a carriage full of strangers (including women) then so be it. It’s better than sitting in wet clothes and getting hypothermia.

·      Maybe don’t do the above when you’ve stopped at a station. Commuters tend to stare.

·      Don’t try to climb a mountain dressed as Scooby Doo, or any other cartoon character for that matter.

·      Don’t expect to get a bacon butty at the top of Ben Nevis.

I think that’s all.

NEXT TIME: Normal service will be resumed.