Three Men at the Races.

I have not mentioned for some time my continuing difficulties in trying to come up with an idea for my writing masterpiece. The reason being that I do not want to burden my loyal reader, with my lack of progress, whilst he is preoccupied in Pentonville Prison doing solitary confinement.

However having recently re-read the absolute classic ‘Three Men in a Boat’ by Jerome K Jerome and then perchance discovering in a second hand book shop a 1989 sporting parody by J.S.Finch entitled ‘Three Men at the Match’ a journey through the English County Cricket Season I ventured to think that a similar theme could be the answer to my problem.

My main dilemma being that most of my activities invariably involve four people. I could of course blow out Simcock or Biddercome or Spicer from Friday tennis but ‘Three Men on a Court’ is a bit pointless. Alternately I could re-take to the road and write ‘Three Men on Golf Tour’ but that would mean setting forth without either Spicer who’s 4 by 4 we travel in, Fat Al who organises everything and of course provides the trophy or Offenbach who puts us all to bed when we are unable to do so ourselves.

Then as luck would have it Canute my long lost business partner rings and asks if I am meeting him at the forthcoming Chester Races, whilst informing me that he has invited his father along.

‘Three Men at the Races’.

Perfect.

Canute informs me that he is fitting a few ‘Blue Ribband’ sporting events into his schedule between a month on the French Riviera and a couple of weeks in the Dutch East Indies and thinks that it would be useful if we have a bit of a ‘Board Meeting’. He is gracious enough to ask about my recent trips to Pontefract and Wolverhampton where I met with ‘our’ clients and then asks if I would not mind picking his father up on the way to Chester. I agree to do this before actually asking where he needs picking up from. South Sheffield is not, for me, normally en-route to Chester but unfortunately Canute is very persuasive.

I am given, by his son, the telephone number of Canute Senior and thus ring him and arrange the pick up time and point and on the said day arrive and pick him up. In the true spirit of Jerome K Jerome I decide to make the journey an adventure in its own right and so from my bookshelves arm myself with ‘The Readers Digest Book of the Road’ 1967 edition, another second hand bookshop offering.

In 1967 the UK apparently, according to the Readers Digest, had two motorways the M1 and the M6 and a few little bits of motorway dotted here and there but no arteries East to West and certainly no orbital around London. Driving then must however have been a much more gentile pursuit as my ‘Book of the Road’ contains a ‘Roadside Recognition’ section detailing the birds, butterflies, mammals, toadstools, trees and even minerals, rocks and fossils that I am likely to encounter upon my journey. My book also kindly explains ‘The techniques that make motoring safer and more enjoyable’ such as ‘double declutching’ and ‘brake pumping’. And it informs me how to avoid car sickness explaining that I must ‘not allow worn shock absorbers to cause excessive pitching, for children seem to find this particularly hard to bear’. It advises that ‘children get out of the car at filling stations to escape the petrol fumes’ and councils that one should ‘dress the children warmly enough to travel with the window open at any time of the year’.

Should sickness occur however fear not because my ‘Book of the Road’ contains a ‘First Aid for Travellers’ section with advise on how to deal with amongst other things bleeding, fractures and dislocations, shock, bites and stings, burns, splinters and my personal favourites carbon monoxide poisoning, brain injuries, exposure and if you accidentally drive into the canal, drowning. Now what sat nav gives this sort of service?

This invaluable publication even itemises what first aid materials should be packed for a standard journey and I quote, ‘a selection of ready-made gauze and adhesive dressings; two 3.in.by 2.in. pad-and-bandage type dressings; one 4.in. by 6.in.pad –and-bandage dressing; two triangular bandages; two cotton 2.in.-wide-bandages;one 3.in.wide-crepe(stretch)bandage; one 1.5.in.zinc oxide adhesive-bandage; four 2.in.safety-pins;four 1.in.safety-pins;pair of scissors; eyebrow tweezers; bottle of calamine lotion; six sterile wool balls (preferably arranged in a line in a tube so that when one is removed the others remain sterile)’. The aforementioned should, the ‘Readers Digest’ inform me, be stored in an air tight box and every member of the family should know where in the car this box is kept. The last part is not too difficult as the box would be on the front seat where ‘mother’ should be if she hadn’t been left at home to make room for the ‘first aid kit’.

Throughout the journey from Sheffield to Chester I adhere strictly to the rules as detailed in the ‘Law and the Motorist’ section of my ‘Book of the Road’ and refrain from using a gong, bell or siren which I am reliably informed are prohibited.

The journey is quite long as I follow the 1967 route through Bakewell, Buxton, Macclesfield, Knutsford, Northwich, and into Chester via the A51 and throughout the trip Canute Senior talks none stop. He describes his childhood in South Yorkshire, relates in minute detail his period as a evacuee in the Peak District during the Second World War, what those bastards did to his bike in the blackout was beyond contempt, and is in full flow recounting the early period of his career in the postal service as we arrive at the racecourse in Chester.

Chester racecourse is the oldest racing venue in the country with the Silver Bell being contested for in 1540 being racings first recorded prize. Thoroughbreds tackled this course in the reign of Henry the VIII but as it nestles in a bowl between the River Dee and the old Roman walls racing must date back to Frankie Dettori’s forefathers. The racecourse is almost in the town itself and the racehorses actually walk across the traffic from stables opposite the course entrance before parading in the paddock which is in the centre of the track. It really is a unique venue and one of my favourite sporting and certainly racing locations.

Parking strangely enough isn’t too bad and I leave the car the opposite side of the river and walk along the old walls that have a great free view of the racecourse itself. As Canute Senior and I approach the entrance to the main grandstand we have reached the ‘restructuring of methods to deal with fragile parcels as introduced in 1964’.

I spot Canute Junior. He is medium build with wavy darkish hair and sports a moustache he is often compared to Charles Bronson. I’m not sure if this is for his looks or because you have to have a ‘Death Wish’ to work with him. He complains that I am late. I explain about the1967 ‘Book of the Road’ and also point out that the 139 mile detour to pick up his father also somewhat affected my journey plan. The latter meanwhile is merrily conversing about ‘stamp designs in the 1970’s’. Canute ignores him and enquires of me if his father had talked like this the entire trip. I confirm that this has in deed been the case.

“Sorry” says Canute “ I should have told you that he is deaf and talks all the time so people don’t get the chance to talk to him then he doesn’t have to worry about not hearing what they say.” And with that he spins around and stalks off toward the course entrance with his father and me in pursuit.

We have a client with a runner in the 3.15 six furlong sprint so it is usual on these occasions to be in receipt of tickets to the exclusive Owners and Trainers bar, restaurant and stands as well as entry to the saddling enclosure and parade ring. Unfortunately Canute forgot to inform said client that myself and Senior were coming so he is in possession of the only pass to these hallowed areas. He kindly then hands over two tickets to the Members Grandstand and informs us that he will see us both on the concourse inside the racecourse in about an hour as he is enjoying a champagne and caviar buffet at present in the Owners Lounge. As he once more strides away he calls over his shoulder “Can you get Dad some food he’s diabetic and really should eat something” then he disappears into the throng of race goers.

Senior and I in fact indulge ourselves in a very acceptable roast beef sandwich; and whilst he downs a pint of bitter I treat myself to a glass of red wine, unfortunately my only tipple of the day. We then walk through the underpass beneath the actual track that takes race goers to the centre of the course and the parade ring which we can peer into but not enter, unlike Canute.

Chester is a very democratic course, very like those in France, where for the price of a Members ticket one can go almost anywhere so we watch the first race from the side of the rail in the inner course. The track is very tight and is the shortest in distance of any UK course and thus an inside draw is vital, I consequently back the winner out of stall three and am a very happy little punter especially as during the period of the race I learn about ‘the revolutionary gummy labels that were introduced to the Post Office in the late seventies’.

For Race two we cross back to the main grandstand, visit the concourse but see no sign of Canute and choose another low drawn winner which we cheer home from opposite the winning post. As I collect my winnings from ‘Honest Ernest of Bootle’ my client with the runner in the next race taps me on the shoulder. She apologises for the mix up with tickets and explains that Canute has got tied up with some owners discussing the merits of Barbados above those of Trinidad. I knew that it had to have been something important to prevent him reclaiming responsibility of his father. We chat for a while then I ask if she would mind entertaining Senior for a couple of minutes whilst I check the odds against the rails in the Tatterstall Enclosures, where the real punters live. I return shortly and as my client leaves to attend the pre parade ring she whispers to me “Wasn’t it awful what those horrid people did to his bike in the blackout”.

Senior and I then burrow back under the track to see Canute lording it in the parade ring. He does actually watch the race with us and our client’s entry scores a credible third place from an unfavourable draw and I pocket my third win. The rest of the afternoon passes very pleasantly, we all watch the ‘Best Dressed Lady Competition’ Canute finding time for this event and although I have two losses I manage another win in the last to make it a good day in my normally uneven fight against the bookmaker.

Canute then treats us to dinner at a nice little pub near the town gates and when I begin to ask his opinion upon the ‘working practices of sorting offices around 1979’ he realises that it is time to release me from my duties as minder to Canute Senior and says that he will drive the ‘postal champion’ home. I magnanimously accept his kind offer and wander back across the river to my car in a strange eerie silence.

I decide against the 1967 ‘Readers Digest Book of the Road’ and hit the M53, the M56, the M6 and the M62 with unrestrained pleasure.

‘Three Men at the Races’ there’s defiantly a book in it.

'Support the Plump TVR 1'

I have just spotted an article in the press entitled "The Importance of Breakfast" and felt that I should introduce my friend Biddercome to any new reader.

The three readers that I have acquired over the past few months since I started this venture, and by the way I sincerely hope that all three of you will soon be up and about again from your confinement in bed, will not be surprised to learn that my very good friend Biddercome has developed a heart murmur.

If my three confidents will indulge me, I will quickly explain to any newcomer that has found my work and who's computer jammed before they could rapidly exit it, that Biddercome is a chunky' middle aged tennis playing companion of mine who is at present undertaking to write a book on the "Full English Breakfast".

This he is doing by eating the said meal of eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms, sometimes fried bread, sometimes hash browns, sometimes even black puddings, always toast sometimes with jam and always with copious amounts of strong tea in every establishment that serves this feast throughout a large chunk of Yorkshire, Lancashire and Cumbria then scoring the meal and the eatery that served it.

As this is quite an undertaking and he wishes to complete his writings before the ‘food police’ ban this wholesome cuisine, he has now taken to consuming this meal not only for breakfast but for lunch, dinner and supper as well. This appears to be putting some strain on his cardiac facilities as well as bequeathing him the added side benefit of constipation.

One reason I bring this up is because at present he is undergoing various test and as a precaution has been put on beater blockers. He says that he feels already better having taken them for a week or so but is furious because he cannot compete in motor sport events now that he is on them.

Strangely enough he does actually compete in motor sport events, having indulged himself in Speed Hill Climbing in something called a TVR since he took very early retirement. He has participated in this activity over the past few years along with playing tennis, writing his book, doing an archaeology thesis, cycling through Cuba, visiting Daytona 500, learning garden design, discovering the theatre, inter-railing across Europe, learning to bake bread, hiking around Scotland and fly fishing in Donegal.

I personally blame the inactivity and not the greasy food, for his heart problems.

Now surely a man in the autumn of his years isn't going to do too much damage driving up a hill just because he's taken a heart stabilisation tablet after all the last time I saw him compete, and I use the word loosely, they only just about dispensed with the man walking in front of his car with a flag.

As a fellow sufferer in the cardiac department who is supposed to take a bucket load of medication daily I can appreciate his irritation. I would go into the traumas and background of my triple heart bypass some years ago but I don't want to distress my three bed bound readers at this stage of their recovery, so I will leave that story for another day.

Perhaps when they are all back on solids.

I am seriously considering starting a campaign to get him re instated to his rightful place behind the steering wheel. After all this could be the thin end of the wedge for all ‘breakfast loving motor sport enthusiasts’ as well as a worry to pig farmers throughout Lincolnshire.

I may call the ‘struggle’ ‘Support the plump TVR 1'.

I will get Biddercome’s opinion on what form the protest movement should take when he returns from his white water rafting expedition or his hang gliding course or whatever he has allotted to the gap in his schedule left by over zealous officialdom.

However if this offensive against bureaucracy is to succeed my friend may have to make the odd sacrifice, such as forgoing the fourth breakfast of the day, usually taken just before midnight, to show ‘the powers that be’ that he is actually taking the issue of his healthcare seriously.

One Man Went to PR

My good friend Fat Al is a man who possesses the rare quality of ‘self promotion’ without really annoying people. Well not all people anyway.

I used to go every year with him on golf tour to his native Scotland usually with Spicer and the wealthy Offenbach. The latter would spend each evening of the trip vacating hotel rooms because none came up to his stringent requirements whilst the other three of us pushed Scotland nearer financial independence by copiously supporting their whisky industry.

Fat Al, who acquired this nickname because he is fat and called Al, decided it would be an incentive if we had something, other than the unseemly sums of money bet on the outcome of each hole, to play for. He therefore purchased a trophy and after much debate about what name the prize should bear it was decided to call it the ‘Average Yorkshire Golfers on Tour Trophy’. The engravers however made an absolute cock up with the wording and it duly arrived back bearing the inscription of ‘Alvin K Putton Cup’ which coincidentally is Fat Al’s name.

Undeterred by this unfortunate and unexplained mix-up we transported this piece of silverware with us year after year the length and breadth of Scotland. In the early days Al, who is self taught in the art of golf, but has been playing since toddler hood without recourse to changing his 24 handicap, walked away with the cup bearing his name. He gave long, immodest and sometimes largely incoherent, dependant upon the quantities of Glenfiddich consumed, acceptance speeches at the tours conclusion, often to the amazement of the other diners in the ‘Asian Spice House’ in Perth.

As time progressed and Offenbach’s £75000 per annum expenditure on golf lessons began to take affect Fat Al’s hold on his trophy came under pressure. He decided that in the interest of variety and to freshen things up then the cup should not be given for merely winning the overall tour but for acts of skill during the course of the matches. Thus over the coming years he managed to retain the prize for ‘The best recovery shot from behind a tree’, ‘The best recovery shot from under a bush’ and ‘The best recovery shot from off the beach’.

I have to admit that on one occasion I did secure the money bet on each hole when registering a somewhat dubious longest drive. The other three all hit either out of bounds or into the rough whereas I topped my shot which rolled thirty yards under a bridge, my second shot was unplayable, but upon rigorous examination of the course map my playing companions had to admit that technically, for some reason, under the bridge was classed as the fairway so the reward was mine.

Pressure of work has prevented me from touring for a few years. That pressure being that I no longer make enough money to go on tour but I still manage the odd ’home’ game with Fat Al and he has also now turned his not inconsiderable bulk and ‘self promotion’ toward tennis so our paths sometimes cross on court.

He recently donated an ‘Alvin K Putton Cup’ to be played for at the Annual International Tennis Tournament held locally and duly entered ‘his’ competition. Unfortunately this being a prestigious tournament played under the watchful eye of the LTA his suggestion that he should take the trophy by dent of ‘The best drop shot off the frame’ didn’t hold sway.
The cup was the prize in Men’s Doubles for players aged at least twenty years my corpulent friend’s junior. To my chagrined I was roped in as his fellow cannon fodder.
We were drawn to play a Canadian and a seasoned tournament player from the North East. Now before I go further I should explain that my plump partner’s quest for notoriety sometimes embraces the bizarre as when two years ago he adopted a self preferred sobriquet.

We were at a Rugby Club Dinner and a special presentation was made at the end of the evening to an eighty year old doyen of the Club. Now Al could have been impressed by the fact that this sprightly octogenarian had in his youth gained a rugby blue at Oxford or the fact that he had scaled Mont Blanc wearing a woolly sweater and sustained only by a mars bar. He could have been swayed by this remarkable mans war record, an MC, captured at Dunkirk, escaped from Officier-Lager7 dressed as a nun, one of the first on the Sword beach. He could have been impressed with his successful business career and his contribution to the judiciary or for his charitable work within the county. However what really impressed Fat Al was that this man in his young playing days had gone by the nickname of ‘Shagger’. No explanation was given and none asked for. Putton however decided that from that day on he should also be known as ‘Shagger’.

Amazingly for some time, his friends, self included, actually adhered to this request and who knows may well have being doing so still, if his lovely wife had not put her foot down after becoming fed up of him referring to her to everyone he met as ‘Shaggers Woman’.

I mention this now because the names of the players we were drawn against were Randy Smith and George Groper. Al immediately insisted upon resurrecting his Shagger moniker. Thus I played with Shagger, Randy and Groper it was like an audition for parts in the porno version of ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs’. Surprisingly we did win some games from Groper and his Randy partner but were in the end comprehensively beaten. If only this pair had eventually won the ‘Shagger Trophy’ instead of the ‘Alvin K Putton Cup’


Still I am sure that my fat friend will be donating more trophies to more sports in the future and may decide that the former is too good a name not to use.

War is Not in Keeping with Health and Safety

A thought struck me the other day, as they are apt to do once or twice a month. And that thought was how have wars survived the ‘health and safety’ era.

Surely someone in Westminster or Whitehall has spotted the fact that if you randomly supply people with guns, bullets, bombs and tanks it is, on the whole, quite dangerous and must therefore contravene a variety of documented ‘health and safety’ regulations.

After all when ‘bed races’, ‘firework displays’, ‘children’s playgrounds’ and even ‘carol services’ are deemed too dangerous for the publics own good, it seems to me, that arming a spotty adolescent, who has a GCSE in woodwork, with a Lee Enfield is tantamount to being irresponsible.

I pondered that if the United Nations could be persuaded to ‘big up’ the importance of ‘health and safety’ to the Mujahaddin, the antagonists of Iraq and the factotum of terrorists and warring factions world wide, then these bodies may just see the error of their ways and realise that if not more careful they might seriously hurt themselves.

It may be just coincidence but when the authorities in the past began to point out how risky it was to ‘ride a moped without a helmet’ or ‘sit in a car without a seat belt on’, then both the Baader Meinhof gang and the Red Brigade pulled out of hijacking and blowing up planes. I assume that they hadn’t previously realised how dangerous it was just getting to the airport, but when these hazards were kindly pointed out by officialdom, then these playful anarchists realised their waywardness and desisted from all further ill doing.

Of course some may not agree that they became converts to ‘health and safety’ and highlight the fact that most of them were shot or arrested and imprisoned; however had they not been then I am convinced that my synopsis would have been correct.

How therefore could we eradicate conflicts around the world and make it a ‘healthier and safer’ place in line with New Labour. Well firstly we could send Mr Eric Postlethwaite from Barnsley Council Offices out to meet with the insurgents in Baghdad, armed with a clip board and a file relating to the dangers of transporting high explosives in a 1970’s Ford Truck with incorrect tyre pressures.

Obviously this has the added bonus of being a bit cheaper than despatching 2Para and the SAS but may require the taking on of a couple of additional part time typists, strictly on minimum wage, back in South Yorkshire to deal with the extra paperwork, this is no real problem however as costs could be factored in when the next annual poll tax increases are implemented.

Mr Postlethwaite would of course have to train up a replacement to take over his crucial roll of training staff and pupils in the schools throughout Yorkshire in the ways of ‘correct step ladder use’ but there must be graduates out there with sufficient ability and mental fibre to attempt to fill this most arduous of career opportunities or perhaps even a member of the soon to be defunct SAS could undertake it, following suitable tutelage, obviously.
So the answer to ending universal conflict is simple, replace the armed forces worldwide with Civil Servants from the Department of Health and Safety and embrace a future with no more statutes of men like Nelson and Wellington, a future of no more tales of heroics as of Wolfe at Québec or of Gordon at Khartoum, a future of no more memorials to hero’s like ‘The Few’ and the ‘Pals’.

Instead the future will be one of memos in triplicate commending Eric Postlethwaite on a job well done and a future where every man, woman and child is officially certified in the art of ascending a step ladder to the required safety standard and more importantly is fully qualified and adept at safely making it back to ground level with health intact.

Britain 2008 Bring Your Shopping Home Two Tins at a Time!

My friend Simcock is an environmentalist and my friend Spicer, for his carbon footprint, is classed as a medium sized country under the Kyoto agreement. This leads to lively discussions after Friday afternoon tennis especially when Simcock has downed his third locally brewed organic bitter and Spicer is on his fourth ridiculously expensive larger that is distilled and fermented in Scandinavia, bottled in Bratislava and shipped via twelve different distribution points to our pub in the Yorkshire Dales for his edification.

The regular topic of ‘green taxes' was again the subject recently. In my humble opinion these taxes aid the environment not one jot but are there for the sole purpose of boosting the coffers of the Treasury and making Brown look Green instead of Puce. Now taxes don't bother Spicer because if it costs a hundred quid more to fly to Dubai for a long weekend, so be it, he can afford it, or if you get 15% less fuel for your tenner, at the petrol station, than you did a month ago, a trifle annoying but the second bottle of Chablis usually puts it into perspective.

Perversely Simcock also believes that the cost of fuel should be a lot higher so that less people would use cars, he owns three by the way, and thus the planet would be saved from pollution. I constantly point out that the only people to suffer from this approach are the less well off. Spicer would still continue to drive and fly regardless of cost, as would all the people with money, but those trying to survive on low incomes, many of whom live in the country and can only get a bus to the nearest town on a Tuesday at 3.27.p.m. and return on a Thursday at 6.55.a.m, would suffer greatly.

As is presently being proven the increase in fuel costs brings with it the increase in all goods. Electric, gas, food, clothing in fact all of life’s necessities are going up in price at alarming rates. But fear not because the Government are on the case or will be as soon as they have finalised the Casino review, forced upon the population Identity Cards, fought off all opposition to jailing people without charge, conscripted our undereducated and undervalued youth into swearing allegiance to the flag and banned all licensed premises, that they incidently coerced into twenty four hour opening, from selling alcohol, at other than extortionate prices, as a delusionary ideal for eradicating ‘binge drinking’.

The latter is apparently to prevent the violence caused by young drinkers but personally I do not see how this can work as your average white track suited; Burberry capped youth will now have to mug and beat up four people, to acquire enough money for his habit, unlike the mere one unfortunate that suffers at his hands at present. You see politicians and economists have no grasp of reality.

They think that we the public are so naïve that if they rage war against plastic bags, in a spin doctored crusade, to save our planet that we will forgive or not notice the fact that they are doing nothing about old people freezing to death because of a 20% hike in gas and electric bills and are ignoring the plight of the record numbers of families being evicted from their homes because the mortgage companies and banks fear that their current millions in profits may dip a percent on the Dow Jones.

Spicer is of course ambivalent to these arguments and Simcock sanctimoniously defends the ‘plastic bag policy’ as something that must be done for the planets wellbeing. I do not deny this per say and have long argued against excessive packaging in general, but I do take exception to being treated, in my local Tesco, to the type of scorn from the check out staff, that in the past was meted out on child molesters, swindlers of old ladies and supporters of Bradford City Football Club, when I ask for a carrier bag because I have left my 'Bag for Life' at home. The fact that the said retailer has kindly flown me an artichoke three quarters of the way around the world seems immaterial.

In contrast on my recent trip to the Algarve a charming Portuguese lady at the mini-mart around the corner from our rented apartment neatly packed a loaf of bread into one plastic bag for me and a bottle of local wine priced at one Euro thirty into another. I felt quite decadent cheap alcohol and two plastic bags.

I didn't bring it up in discussion though as Simcock would have been disgusted at me for using two bags and Spicer would have been disgusted at me for drinking wine at a pound a bottle and I decided against further confrontation because as you will observe I am not an argumentative character.

'Businessmen Behaving Badly'

I recently received my invitation to The Summer Regional Businessman's Lunch, an event heralded upon the embossed card, requesting the pleasure of my company, as an opportunity to sample fine cuisine, select wines, celebrated speakers and the prospect of networking with the captains of industry.

I am in the main obliged to take issue with this little piece of stationery as my past experience of these events recalls tepid grey food, thin but very expensive wine, boring speeches and captains of industry who in the main would have done us all a favour by remaining corporals.

However there was one exception. Some years ago I attended this very event as a guest of a very good friend of mine who sits high in the UK Rich List. No one knows, including both him and me, why he deems to be my friend but it is just one of life's mysteries.

Our table consisted of seven millionaires, one almost millionaire, me and a golf caddy. I was beginning to feel a little better when the golf caddy informed me that he too had made his millions in business before becoming bored and dropping out to tour the world on the bag of a famous European golfer.

My tennis playing compatriot Spicer was the almost millionaire and Offenbach the eye specialist one of the magnificent seven. Now the latter is a tad elitist, in the nicest possible way. He genuinely believes that everyone spends a thousand pounds on a room at Gleneagles when the urge for a round of golf takes them and that all people change their cars when the initial pile wears off the carpets. So these functions of food produced en mass and wine served not of a certain vintage are not really his scene.

A great deal of alcohol was consumed in the bar of the five star hotel before the guests were ushered into the ball room where lunch was served. Much wine was drunk as various speakers affirmed why it is that I don't attend more of these occasions. The starter came and went along with more wine and the atmosphere in the room became decidedly rowdy. A blue comedian took to the stage during courses but after a short time stormed off because the audience was too rude.

Party hats were on each table and the golf caddy chose a natty looking fez. Nigel a Gentleman Farmer friend of Wren my host thought it a good idea to set light to the tassel and there was a distinct smell of singed hair before the latter put him out with a rather expensive bottle of Montrachet.

As the main course was served an altercation took place in the middle of the room. It seems that one table had thought it amusing to throw ice cubes at another table but took exception when the other table threw an ice bucket back at them. The fight that followed was like a bar room brawl in a western B movie. The Master of Ceremonies was all for calling the police until it was pointed out that one of the tables involved in the scuffle was the police.

Punches flew and bodies and furniture hit the floor and everyone not actually involved in the fracas strained for a good view by standing on the chairs and tables. I found this a bit childish of course, but was obliged none the less to push Nigel off our table as he was blocking my sight of the action. As I did this I felt a tug on my leg and looked down to see Offenbach prodding his food around his plate. "Clarky" he said "Do you think that these vegetables are a bit soggy?"

Alas I fear that the excitement of the above occasion was a one off and subsequent "Lunches" proved to be boring and sober episodes so this year I felt able to decline the invitation and informed the Businessman's Committee that unfortunately on the afternoon of their event I had a pressing engagement to de-flea the cat...

'Money Making Scheme For The Deranged'

I am, as usual, bemoaning the problems that I am having finding a convenient way of making money. My ultimate aim of writing a blockbusting best seller is being obstructed by the reluctance of a suitable subject matter to offer itself up to me.

This is being exasperated by the current worldwide financial crisis not helping the day job, as companies draw in their horns or in my case their marketing budgets. Thus my wife is constantly pointing out to me that in life’s ‘penalty shoot out’ our outgoings, having taken the form of Germany, are beating our incomings, masquerading as England, with arrogant ease.

My precarious financial standing however is not a new phenomenon, it is something that I have managed, with great skill, to nurture most of my adult life. In fact reflecting upon it, most of my childhood was also spent in economic penury, but to be fair I cannot take full credit for that period.

I am not saying that I have never had money, in fact there have been times when I have been quite well off, but I cleverly have always managed to squander it without the encumbrance of wise investments. My wife does despair.

As I drove to work recently I thought deeply about how I could extract myself from my latest encounter with poverty. That day I was doing some promotional work at Doncaster Racecourse so the 3.15. Five Furlong Handicap seemed a perfect solution. Unfortunately as often happens in my experience my horse had a fractionally shorter neck than one of its rivals and it was back to the drawing board.

On the journey home however I remembered a scheme that I had thought up a few seasons ago when my local football team Leeds United were in serious financial difficulties and threatened with administration and decided to discuss it that evening over a few beers with my friend Biddercome. I do all my best work alcohol related.

I was due to meet Biddercome to review the latest stages of the book that he is writing ‘The Full English Breakfast'. It was envy of this venture that rekindled my desire for my own literary endeavour, or un-endeavour as the case unfortunately still is. I was officially there to discuss the fundamental requirements of fried bread. I don't actually like fried bread and much prefer toast however the latter will no doubt be for another day's meeting and further beers and analysis. Having chewed over the fried bread in a manner of speaking we progressed to discussing my potential money earning scheme.

I reminded Biddercome of the conversation that we had had when Leeds United owed in the region of 80 to 100 million pounds some years ago and were threatened with administration and relegation from the ‘top flight of English football' and how they bravely fought their way through all the trials and tribulations.

He not being a footballing fan rather cruelly pointed out that in fact the following year they did go into administration and now languish in the ‘third flight of English football'.

I think it is because he has got short legs why he is so spiteful.

Undeterred I pushed on, did he remember how I had suggested that if every single man, woman and child in the city and surrounding area gave a financial contribution to their plight that they could have been saved. He said that he did vaguely remember and that his response as he remembered it was, that each persons contribution would probably have had to have been in the region of ten pounds and considering that the vast majority of people in the area couldn't give a toss about the team that figure was a bit steep. As he belongs to this silent couldn't give a ‘toss' majority he also considered me a trifle sad for even thinking up ideas of how to save the club. I then said that on the back of that idea comes one to ease my own present day financial burdens.
His interest heightened.

I explained that the operation would be similar to the LU idea except “I wasn’t even expecting a seven-figure sum”.

I worked out that in the area where I live there are several hundred houses within a twenty-minute walk. Now if every household, not even every person, I’m not greedy, contributed a pound a week to the ‘Save Clarkson' fund I would accumulate a tidy living income.

Having considered my comments and consumed another pint of bitter Biddercome enquired “What would the said householders get for their pound?”
Well they would get a personal visit from me every week, to pick up the money and say “thank you”

I would adopt a flexible approach on best day for ‘collection' and be adaptable in collecting 2 contributions during holiday periods so they didn't worry about ‘missing me'.
Biddercome ruminated for quite some time before stating that he considered that I had the nucleus of a good idea but he still felt that my ‘clients' would be happier if their hard earned income was going toward useful charity work like the ‘Gay OAP fund' or ‘Caribbean Holidays for Habitual Offenders'.

He may have had a point but who knows with a bit of tweaking the scheme could still have legs.
However I have decided, for now, it may be better to re-concentrate upon the thorny issue of a subject matter for my literary masterpiece and with that in mind have added “Money Making Schemes for the Deranged” to my list of potential titles.