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.

The First Day in a New Job Does it Dictate Your Future Career?

Canute rang me the other day to give me an update from Antigua on a cricket match he happened to be watching and an analysis on rum punch, as I had just returned from a day working at Sedgefield Racecourse in County Durham and the only respite from the driving rain was when it eased off to allow the snow to fall, then I was not so happy to hear from him. Canute is loosely speaking my business partner, though he spends great swathes of the year swaning around regions of tropical beauty whilst I put on a fourth sweater because I cannot afford to turn the radiator up another notch.

I have mentioned in a previous article that he tells everyone that I taught him all he knows, this is because I showed him the ropes at a company that we both joined shortly after leaving our respective universities. I had this privilege because I had approximately three months more experience than he did, and this started me thinking about the impact that a first day in the job can have on a person.


When I joined the company in question I was put in the care of a gnarled, middle aged and slightly bitter sales veteran whom I had to meet on my first morning at 6.30 a.m. in Scunthorpe, which luckily for most of you reading this, is a place that you will not have experienced, it's a bit like downtown Mogadishu, without the charm but with a Woolworths.

I cannot remember how I got there at that un-godly hour, with no transport, but do remember a day slogging around the high spots of Northern Lincolnshire and South Yorkshire until at 8.15. p.m. being deposited in front of a rather shabby terraced house in Mansfield, a place that made me long to be back in Scunthorpe, and told that this was where I was to stay for the one week duration of my 'representative training'. My tutor thus drove off, still gnarled, a little more middle aged and even more bitter than on first acquaintance.

I went up a short path covered in a frosty moss that would have aided the preparations of the British figure skating team and saw the sign in a fairly grimy front window announcing "Mrs Persona's Guest House No Vacancies". Surely this was a good sign, after all a guest house in Mansfield, not a noted tourist destination, that was full in mid February, must be doing something right.

I imagined the aforementioned landlady as a cheerful Italian momma dispensing huge portions of pasta to happy guests, this would be followed by a few glasses of Chianti, a Grappa chaser and off to bed in a cosy little room that radiated the warmth of the owner's native Sorrento.

I rang the bell, the door opened and I was immediately bitterly disappointed. The lady was Italian, but not cheerful and welcoming. She informed me that I was too late for a meal, which if it had tasted anything like it's lingering after smell did not disturb me too much. She then grunted something which I took to mean follow her and we ascended four flights of stairs to a room in the attic. As I peered into this dark broom cupboard I could not help but notice that it contained three camp-beds. The one nearest the door and the one furthest from the door had clothes strewn over them and there were muddy boots on the threadbare carpet along with rucksacks and bags.Two construction workers hard hats perched on the only chair in view.

Now I do not profess to being the brightest person in the world but something did not seem quite right to me. I therefore quizzed my host upon the nature of all these possessions and wondered if in fact she was just showing me some sort of store room and my cosy little bedroom with an air of the Mediterranean was in fact tucked away somewhere else within the residence.

She seemed quite affronted and snapped that this was my room and that I had the privilege of sharing it with two gentlemen from County Cork who were helping build the nearby bypass and she had never had any complaints before from guests brought to her by my, "gnarled, middle aged, bitter guide to all things sales representative", obviously she didn't quite use this terminology but I guessed that she would have wanted me to paraphrase for her.

By 8.45.p.m. I had rung my mentor from the only phone box in town not vandalised, obviously not withstanding the broken windows and the smell of urine, and told him that, though I am actually in the main quite fond of natives from the Emerald Isle, I would not be residing in his charming town that evening and discovered from him where his first call was the following day stating that I would see him there. Then by foot, bus and train I made my way back to North Yorkshire got my father up in the middle of the night and blagged his car from him and almost immediately set back off to Nottingham to restart my career.

Awaiting me was my tutor and the Area Manager who had been rung in somewhat of a panic by the former. Nothing like this had ever happened within the company before. To be fair the Area Manager was a little shocked by my tale and even apologetic he was unaware that for year's trainee's had been subjected to accommodation that was like that Orwell had experienced in "The Road to Wigan Pier", and my trainer was consequently sanctioned for it.

Thus I went down in the annals of that company as a bit of a rebel. To show that they had no hard feelings after just three months they removed the training of staff from the gnarled one and gave it to me!

Canute was my first recruit. I met him off the train from his native Barnsley at Leeds station at 9.30.a.m. we had a leisurely coffee, and then mooched around some city centre bookshops, that was our business, book sales, and then we had a pub lunch. At three we nipped into William Hill to see what had won the Novice Hurdle at Uttoxeter and by 4.30. p.m. I had him back on the train, complementary copy of "Confessions of a Window Cleaner" in hand, so he would be back in Barnsley in time for a quick John Smiths Bitter' at his local pub before his mum had the Cottage Pie on the table at seven o clock.

He went on to be a senior manager with that company before becoming managing director of a subsidiary of one of the countries largest distribution companies; he then sold this to an international conglomerate becoming a multi millionaire. He then out of boredom came into business with me. I on the other hand remained the rebel and made and lost money until arriving at my present position of poverty fuelled manic depression. Obviously the experience of the first day of someone's career must have a profound life long effect.

Friday Evening With the Famous.

Much as I enjoy my Friday evening, after tennis, sessions at the pub with my usual partners I thought recently that it would be a change to enliven the occasion and decided to invite some interesting famous people along.

I booked the back room of my local, got Biddercome to organise some food, set out a few tables, stocked the bar and off we went. Spicer, Biddercome, Simcock and myself arrived early and eagerly awaited our guests, keen to see who, from the many invited, would actually show up.

The first to arrive was a chubby little Welshman who staggered a bit as he entered the room. He glanced quickly around spied the bar and made a beeline for it. “Who’s that?” whispered Simcock. Being a teacher he is by far the least intelligent of my friends. “That’s Dylan Thomas, the famous poet.” I answered “You’ve been to Wales go and talk to him”. He dutifully crossed the floor to do so, as two of the prettiest men I have ever seen flowed into the room, wearing smocks and silk scarves. Lord Byron and Percy Shelly had arrived. Behind them a nervous little figure with a rather large nose and huge spectacles peered in. “Isn’t that Woody Allen?” said Spicer, the film officiado of our quartet. “Yes go and make him welcome” I said.

Biddercome looked a bit sheepish. “What’s wrong?” I enquired. “I’ve laid on pork sausages and bacon” he muttered. I should have known better than leave the food arrangements to the author of “The Full English Breakfast”.

By now the room was filling up, a moustachioed American confidently strode across to us and introduced himself as Mark Twain, he then quickly fell into conversation with James Joyce and G.K.Chesterton.

Simcock appeared at my shoulder “I’m struggling with Dylan Thomas” he said “I asked him about Wales and he said “Wales is the land of my fathers, and my fathers can have it” then he got stuck into the booze” Then Simcock got excited “Great I see you’ve invited Lawrence Llewelyn Bowen”. I tutted “That’s Oscar Wilde”.

I was really pleased to see Winston Churchill arrive but a bit perturbed when George Bernard Shaw came in accompanied by his friend Lady Astor knowing that the latter had a definite “history” with our greatest ever Prime Minister.

Spicer was now between Woody Allen and the pair of pre Raphaelite poets, he was relating his Thursday afternoon golf round to them, hole by hole, a ritual that we have to put up with every Friday. Byron looked at him rather disdainfully and intoned “Prolonged endurance tames the bold!” then stomped off. Catching the tail end of this conversation G.K.Chesterton stroked his curly locks and stated that in his opinion “Golf is an expensive way of playing marbles!” Mark Twain standing nearby seemed to agree stating that “Golf is a good walk spoiled!” I could see that Spicer was about to get combative so sent Simcock to smooth things over. “I’m a chess man myself” said my Cornish friend. “I failed to make the chess team because of my height!” sighed Woody Allen dolefully. I decided that it was a good time to get the food out.

As Biddercome emerged from the kitchens with plates of, well, “breakfasts” I noted that the bar area was pretty occupied and the drinks supply was taking quite a hammering. “I’ve just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that’s a record!” I heard a slurred Swansea accent inform the room. Lady Astor a renowned prohibitionist muttered something about alcoholics. “An alcoholic is someone you don’t like who drinks as much as you do!” mumbled Dylan Thomas and set about his nineteenth straight whisky.

Shelly and Byron appeared very conspiratorial in the corner glancing, at regular intervals toward the flamboyantly dressed Oscar Wilde. “I think they are gossiping about you” said Spicer to the playwright at which the Irishman replied aloofly “There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about and that is not being talked about!” and he strode toward the food table. There he found Biddercome’s sausages not quite to his liking. “I like my food dead. Not Sick. Not dying. Dead!” he shouted dramatically and stomped off to the bar.

Biddercome was beside himself but calmed down when Winston whispered to him in his gravely tones “I like pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equal!” and with that he helped himself to a huge plate of bacon and a portion of sausages that Biddercome himself would have been proud to consume.

Woody Allen and Mrs Astor were next to serve themselves. The American comedian was not so impressed though stating “The food here is terrible” and adding “The portions are too small!”

On seeing Mrs Astor tuck into her sausages Byron snootily said to his friend Shelly that “A woman should never be seen eating or drinking unless it be lobster salad and champagne the only true feminine and becoming viands!” No wonder Biddercome has never come across him at The Little Chef just outside Kirby Lonsdale.

I felt that the evening was not going too well when I heard a bored sounding George Bernard Shaw utter “Alcohol is the anaesthesia by which we endure the operation of life!” and Mark Twain downing his third Rye seemed to agree, muttering “Sometimes too much to drink is barely enough!” I signalled to Simcock to get the cheese out quick.

Personally I thought it was quite a good and acceptable selection but James Joyce was less than complementary growling “A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what’s cheese? Corpse of milk!” Spicer whispered that he must be a Vegan. Byron and Shelly strode over and prodded at the Camembert, poked the Double Gloucester and sniffed at the Stilton then without a word left all unselected. “The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese!” G.K.Chesterton imparted through a mouthful of Mature Cheddar.

By now Dylan Thomas had fallen off his bar stool, Woody Allen was taking his own temperature and Oscar Wilde was thumbing through a Yellow Book and then it really kicked off when Lady Astor suggested that Churchill had imbibed too much whisky to which he replied “I may be drunk Madam but in the morning I will be sober and you will still be ugly!”

I signalled to the boys that it was a good time to leave and we quietly sneaked out. We went to the downstairs bar and I said “I don’t think that we’ll do this again for a while”. Unsurprisingly they all agreed and we then stared contentedly at the new barmaid’s bosom.

It's in the Jeans.

As somewhat of a fashion guru, in my own imagination. I was a little annoyed recently when a so called expert intoned on BBC Radio that men over the age of thirty should never wear jeans. Many long standing acquaintances of mine actually believe that I was delivered attired in said garments.

Now I have to admit that my thirtieth year came and went quite some time ago, an occurrence incidentally that my wife insists that I have never fully recovered from, so obviously I must have been offending this member of the Stasi Fashion Police for a good few years.

However I was so incensed with the cheek of this statement that I felt compelled to call a special meeting that evening of the "Men of a Certain Age- Wharfedale Chapter".
Just for convenience this was held at the local pub.

Six of my tennis playing compatriots thus turned out at very short notice, proving once more how supportive, loyal and bored they all are.

I quickly noted that four of them plus myself were sporting jeans of varying styles and was about to vent forth in a tirade against the fashion spokeswomen whose comments earlier in the day had generated this get together when I realised that she may have had a point.
Spicer is six feet six inches tall and out of an act of politeness and friendship I accept his word that he weighs no more than seventeen stone. He carries it in the main well for he is an all round big man, but I realised that evening that he was too all round and big to suit denim.

I viewed Biddercome. He is a short person but not only that, his legs are actually his shortest bit, his dedication to researching gastronomically the full English breakfast for his literary debut necessitated jeans of a fuller nature and to be honest at close inspection they proved a tad un-flattering.

Morgan is a slightly taller version of Biddercome and I noted that his variant of the popular leg wear resembled the bottom half of a plumber's boiler suit and Winston, he is an accountant, I was shocked to discover had actually ironed creases into his iconic symbol of cool.

Thinking quickly I expertly began a heated debate about Gordon Brown , the credit crunch, the escalating cost of fuel, the barmaids low cut dress, global warming and just to keep Biddercome interested Cumberland Sausage.

Thus they never suspected my real reason for the gathering.
As I wound my way back home that evening after several beverages I began to worry and reflected upon my findings. Was the judgement of the Radio fashion expert a universal truism or was it just my friends, but not necessarily me, who looked unbecoming in jeans.

What if it was a universal truism? What would I wear? Could you still buy cavalry twills?

Fate then stepped in as a bus passed by with a poster on its side advertising the "Rolling Stones" new album. There in all his bejeaned glory was Mick Jagger, if faded holey denims were good enough for Mick then they were certainly good enough for me. Thus my wardrobe was saved.

I do have to confess however to averting my eyes from Keith Richards and Charlie Watts, but needs must. Trousers are very expensive.

It's Not a Lie It's a Business Expense!

I have to admit that I am not the easiest person to employ and that is why for many years now I have run my own businesses. I am not the best timekeeper in the world and am often described as not so much laid back as comatose. A friend once sent me a card paraphrasing Kipling, it said, "If you can keep your head whilst all around lose theirs, you probably don't understand how bad the situation is!" He could have had a point. The great corporate machine is not for me but one thing I do really miss with a passion is "the business expense account!"

Now being in sports marketing and also having an interest in corporate entertainment, leisure and travel I am sadly aware that companies expense budgets are not as they used to be in the good old days of the 1970's and early 1980's before Margaret Thatcher introduced pragmatism into the marketplace. In those halcyon times not only was I a Young Turk but I worked for men of vision, men who were not afraid to manipulate an expense sheet and squeeze a claim until it squeaked.


The first of these, Bill Tree, was a man to whom I owe a great deal. He was to mentor me in both business and life, I was a youngster from a mining village and he taught me about food and wine and how to be confident in any company. I was two years out of college and walked out on my job in book sales after a series of fallouts with a particularly nasty bully of a manager. Jobless, I spotted an ad for a Sales and Marketing Representative for a Containerised Shipping Company. I applied and as luck would have it was offered an interview at a hotel about three miles from where I lived. I spent the morning preparing for this important interview by watching England bat against Australia in the Test Match at Lords and then walked, because my company car went west with my resignation, to my appointment. With no knowledge of shipping whatsoever and just a couple of years work experience behind me my prospects were not great.

Bill was Marketing Director of the company and he interviewed me along with the MD a lovely gentle man in his sixties called Andy Holding. I felt that it went pretty well but I'm not sure that I would have been offered the post if Bill hadn't at the end asked, if by any chance I knew the latest score in the Test Match. An hour later having dissected John Edrich's century and the promising, frighteningly fast but erratic bowling of Australia's Jeff Thomson and England's prospects for their winter tour to the West Indies I had the job.

It turned out that Bill was a cricket fanatic and both he and his brother Jim who was General Manager of the company were exceptional players. The company was expanding rapidly and after a relatively short time working in Liverpool I was very swiftly promoted to Regional Manager for the North East with my own office and staff in Leeds. Not long after taking this post I got a phone call from Jim Tree. His tone was serious "Bill's asked me to ring you. It's about your expenses," he said. Immediately I assumed that I had overstepped the mark and then he added "They're not high enough. You're making the rest of us look bad. Take Dee out more." He never had to tell me again.

For several years I entertained clients royally at Headingley and Old Trafford, at York and Chester Races, at Elland Road and Anfield before sadly the company closed due to its Middle Eastern owners withdrawing their funds with the escalation of the troubles in their native Lebanon.

My wife and I then moved to live in Bath and I came under the wing of an even greater artist in the field of business expense sheet manipulation. I was Regional Sales Manager and Andrew was my immediate superior. He would visit us in Bath and Dee and myself would join him for dinner at 'The Hole in the Wall' in George Street and 'Harvey's' in Whiteladies Road Bristol, establishments that even twenty years ago cost 50 per head, you may have noticed the lack of an actual client on these occasions but both Andrew and myself felt that they would only be intrusive.

The company we worked for was an early pioneer of the fitted appliance market. A huge German conglomerate, they threw money at the UK Division in a successful attempt to quickly establish themselves as a market leader. Expense claims that now would get laughed out of court wafted their way over the North Sea to be passed without quibble. Petrol used to be bought with Shell cards and no one ever checked mileage against purchases. Rumour has it that one salesman in deepest Wales did a deal with his local garage and actually bought his wife a car over a period of time on his petrol card. We took Dealers on trips up the Nile and to Las Vegas. We hired out the Orient Express and whilst with them I even flew on Concorde and have the bed socks to prove it. We organised massive exhibitions and product launches. On one such occasion at a top hotel in Stratford upon Avon we were encouraged to invite wives and girlfriends. Over a three day period we were close to drinking the establishment dry. We had corporate suits to wear for this event and Andrew liked his so much that he ordered two.

I remember those men of vision with great fondness and reflect upon those happy times when binge drinking was not frowned upon but was just called a business lunch. As I listen to the doom and gloom on radio from Mr Gordon Brown about the credit crunch and ring out my company tea bag for its fifth outing of the day I regret that the Golden Age' of frivolous spending in the name of commerce may never be seen again.

To Be or Not To Be a Doggy Person.

I was out for a walk recently across the famous moor close to where I live, I realise that me walking, will come as a surprise to most people who know me, but according to my heart surgeon I am supposed to do it to aid some vascular do dah or something. So during the three quarters of an hour a month that the rain stops, I usually venture out. On this particular day I was sat on the first available bench, which was pretty much in the middle of nowhere, contemplating the runners and riders in that afternoons hunter chase at Wetherby when Offenbach loomed into view.

He had with him two dogs. I was quite shocked, they were obviously new acquisitions. Now Offenbach is a wealthy eye specialist and a pretty pedantry being, so I never actually saw him as a doggy person, with all that walking in bad weather, muddy paws on the furnishings and especially the pooper scooping. However I suppose a black Labrador and a West Highland terrier do enhance his country gent image. We chatted for some time whilst the dogs slavered all over my trousers, covered my raincoat with mud and left a nice urine smell on the legs of the bench. I thanked him for their attention and he then moved on.

Now you may have spotted that I am not a dog lover. My wife and I have had three cats, at separate times, throughout the duration of our marriage. These three creatures have kindly allowed us to wait on their every need over that period and in the case of the first two even gave me the added bonus of paying out huge vet bills but at least they have never required me to yomp miles over a frozen moor in sideways sleet, at ungodly times of day and night whilst requiring me to scoop their poop.
In the past I always felt that you were either a dog person or not a dog person and I would definitely have placed Offenbach in the latter. However he is the third of my friends of late to make me review my past convictions on this matter. The other two also have far greater reasons to not be in the dog loving camp.

Barry is a native of the town where I have lived for almost twenty years, he is my age and an ex rugby playing backpacker who twice circumnavigated the world before returning home to marry and raise a family. In his youth he courted a very straight laced daughter of one of the towns many respected upper middle class families. One day he called to see her at the elegant Victorian Villa where she lived with her parents. He rang the doorbell and her mother answered it resplendent in twin set and pearls. She left him standing in the doorway whilst she went along the hall to collect her daughter. At this precise moment the family's pet Jack Russell terrier torpedoed toward the open door leapt into the air and wrapped its jaws around Barry's testicles and there it hung. My friend folded into a silent scream like the Munch painting whereupon the dog dropped off and calmly trotted out of sight. The mother and daughter then reappeared to see their visitor standing there clutching a damp crotch, mouth open and eyes streaming. The look on their faces implied that explanations were a waste of time so he limped out of the girl's life forever. She apparently went on to marry a merchant banker and the mother, thereafter, forever crossed the road if she ever saw Barry in town. Sometimes she had the Jack Russell with her and Barry swears that it always grinned smugly at him. Now if that is not reason enough to shun anything canine for the rest of your days I know not what is, but recently Barry went out and purchased a Scottish terrier, go and figure.

The other friend confounding my theory is a magazine managing director and publisher who works in London, lives in his native Cambridgeshire, boats around the North Norfolk coast and regularly visits my part of Yorkshire where he worked, resided and unfortunately for him and his family became friends with me and mine some years ago. Whilst visiting us a couple of years ago he was subject to a very unfortunate incident at our most prestigious local hotel. Guy had, by default, recently inherited a dachshund named Molly from his parents and this new addition had accompanied them on the trip. The dog was taken for a walk on the moor by her new owner and upon returning to the hotel the two of them were unexpectedly confronted in a corridor by the hotel managers Great Dane. Now, as unlikely as this seems, the Great Dane took an amorous interest in Molly. Guy swept the little dog up and made a bolt for his room with the randy brute in pursuit. He thumped desperately on the room door and Sally, his wife, answered, assessed the situation, snatched the dachshund from him and slammed the door closed. A sexually frustrated Great Dane in a confined space is not what a five foot eight English graduate needs. Luckily however the hotel Manager arrived just in the nick of time, the wedding plans arranged but the nuptials not quite concluded. I think that Guy and the Dane have stayed close and still exchange cards on Valentines Day. Again my thoughts would have been to get that dachshund adopted as fast as possible but not only did Guy keep it but when it sadly passed away he replaced it with two Yorkshire Terriers. This being the only saving grace in my eyes the fact that he goes for such manly breeds.

So it would seem that a none dog person can in fact become a dog person at some stage of their lives, but until mans best friends can learn how to scoop for themselves, then I am afraid that I for one am not for converting.

Welcome Back My Old Friend Pinot.

I read a quote some time ago from Henry Youngman the English born comedian who was better known in the United States of America. He is said to have stated that when he read about the evils of drinking, he gave up reading.
For a few weeks recently, through some medication counter-reaction, I myself was obliged to abstain from the demon alcohol and during that period, whilst I didn't give up reading, I found that I never actually wrote anything and was also a right old grump to boot.

My theory therefore is that great writers must need a little jungle juice from time to time to stimulate their creative talent. Now I hesitate to include myself with such alumni as Dylan Thomas, Ernest Hemingway, F.Scott Fitzgerald, Truman Capote and Edgar Allen Poe but they were all outstanding literary giants and the odd tipple never did them any harm. Well not withstanding early death, suicide, hospitalisation, arrest and madness but let us not be picky here.

So counter-reaction defeated and armed with a bottle of Bulgarian Pinot Grigio, £2.99 special purchase from the Co-operative, I resettled at the keyboard. I sipped half a glass and though I began to feel a little perkier the screen annoyingly remained blank. At that point my teacher friend Simcock rang to complain about a new boy who had recently arrived in his class and obviously did not cut the mustard. I gathered this from his comment that somewhere in the rural wastelands of Britain "some village was missing its idiot".

By the time he had rung off, the bottle of wine was more than half empty so surely some resulting literary masterpiece would swiftly germinate. Sadly not, however I did take a call from Biddercome who in writing his own epic "The Full English Breakfast" had hit a wall on how best to grade black puddings. The route of a writer is a tortuous one. Having sympathised with my cholesterol bound friend I noted that the wine had almost gone and not a word to show for it on my pc.

Luckily I had "special purchased" more than the one bottle so glass replenished I tried again to recover the lost muse only to be interrupted by Spicer ringing to ask me to record some programme for him whilst he was away on one of his many jaunts abroad. I didn't take too much notice of where he said he was going, it was either rafting up the Amazon, the Chechen Khan Province of Mongolia or Tenerife, I forget.
Fat Al my Scottish friend then rang me to reopen the wounds of Murrayfield and no sooner had he rung off than Canute, my so called business partner, rang from Mexico to tell me what a great day he had just experienced, horse riding along a sandy beach as the waves lapped the shore and the sun dipped into the Gulf of Mexico. I had earlier returned from a day watching horses, trained by our clients, disappear into a murky drizzle at Uttoxeter, with the added bonus of betting on the one that fell when three lengths clear at the last. Still someone had to go to Mexico.

The second bottle of Bulgarian had now been drained and to be honest I no longer cared whether I was writing or not, however one thought did occur to me, was it the booze that I had needed to rekindle my writing endeavours or did I just need to change my phone number so that I could get the odd two minutes between inane phone calls to actually jot something down.

I decided whatever the reason not to push any further at the barred door of inspiration that evening and contented my self with studying the Racing Post for the next day's runners and riders at Carlisle and it would have been rude to the good people of Glenfiddich not to sample a tot of their amber liquid whilst doing so.

You Know That You're Having a Bad Day When You Get Shot Before Lunch!

As I passed through the security checks at both Doncaster Airport in the UK and Faro Airport in Portugal, on my recent holiday, the alarms went off. Obviously my worldly positions, phone, watch, belt, coinage and anything else remotely metallic were already sat neatly in a plastic tray so the security staff, with more good humour in the Algarve than in South Yorkshire, it has to be said, methodically checked over my boots, shirt and jeans. They tousled my hair, either in a touching display of fondness or perhaps to see if it contained a weapon of some kind, I prefer to think the former, and then shrugged and sent me on my way.

Now I could have explained that it may have been the piece of metal embedded in my right leg, the result of a shooting incident, that caused the machines to react, but that could have labelled me as a possible undesirable and delayed me getting to duty free.

This foreign body in my right calf is there because some years ago my wife was doing some work in Skipton, a pretty little market town in North Yorkshire that advertises itself as "The Gateway to the Dales"; we in our household now refer to it as "The Badlands". It was a Friday shortly before Christmas and Spicer's wife had ordered him some state of the art DVD player from a store in the afore said town and asked us if we would mind collecting it as we were going there anyway. My wife went into the store to sort out the paperwork and I went to collect our car from its parking place. As I walked past a public house called The Cross Keys' I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my lower right leg. Now strangely, as it had never happened to me before, I knew immediately that I had been shot and screamed this fact out to an old couple who were walking by. I assume that she fainted not through my language but the sight of my blood. Having ascertained that there was no more lead flying in my direction I took out my mobile, propped my self against a wall and called the police. "Right Sir you say that you have been shot" said a very polite voice on the other end of the line. "Yes officer" I replied equally politely, just as my mother had brought me up. "Right could you bob round to the station and report it" says he, "No officer I suggest you come to me!" says I, this time perhaps a tad less polite. "Right Sir good idea. We'll have someone there shortly" he concluded And bless them they did.
It was obvious that the shot had come from the public house and the police soon established that the landlord's teenage son was the culprit with a powerful air rifle. He had damaged half a dozen cars, various road signs and me.

I rang D, hobbled to the car, drove to the electrical shop, loaded Spicer's bloody hi fi and set off to Airedale Hospital where we spent the next six hours. The pellet was too deep in the muscle to remove, so the doctor suggested leaving it in there and see what happened. What did happen was that it is still in there.

After a quick phone call, Spicer's wife arranged to collect the girls from school for us and being a Friday, Spicer organised a substitute to play for me at tennis that afternoon. Apparently they were well into the second set before Biddercome asked Spicer why I wasn't playing. "Oh he's been shot" the latter stated as though it were an everyday occurrence. "Is he dead?" asked Simcock "No" said Spicer and they then carried on and went to the pub afterwards without giving it a second thought. Bless them.

So as you can see the incident itself was the result of a schoolboy prank but the consequences have ever since been quite interesting. If people only know that you have been shot, and not the actual shooting circumstances, then your life takes on a whole new persona. For instance a few weeks later, against my wife's better judgement, and whilst I still had a pronounced limp, I played in a Law Society golf day as a guest of a solicitor friend of mine. As no one knows much what I do for a living anyway, then an air of mystery surrounds me normally. Mark, who at that time was mostly overseeing house conveyances, introduced me to his lawyer associates as a client who had recently been shot, and suddenly his esteem took a boost in their eyes as they assumed that he must be representing some gangland overlord. We both spent the afternoon being fawned over and wined and dined, one guy even carried my golf bag for me.

On a similar tack Canute, my business partner, and I were recently experiencing a difficult business meeting with a prospective client who was really haggling about our costs. I then received a text; I should actually have turned my phone off but had forgotten to do so. It was only from my teacher friend Simcock, who I had been winding up earlier in the day, he wrote that if I didn't behave that he would get his chemistry students to melt my car. The prospective client asked me if the text was important, I explained that it was from someone threatening to torch my car and surprisingly the meeting was then quickly concluded with us obtaining exactly what we had asked for. I said to Canute that next time we could tell him that I had been shot and we could up the bill by another twenty percent.

On a serious note though, I do realise that many tragedies have befallen families due to gun incidents, even involving air rifles, I really sympathise with people not so lucky as I was and do appreciate that I was fortunate that my encounter was not more serious.

'Celebrity' My Career Path for the Terminally Idle!

I recently became aware of a website and business that offers anyone the opportunity, at a cost, to become a 'celebrity for the day'. Apparently the service provides your own 'star' entourage, jet set lifestyle and even includes your very own intrusive paparazzi, presumably they will make an absolute nucence of themselves to neighbours, friends and family, so at least that is a well worthwhile expense, in my opinion.

This site could be a boon to all like myself who have decided to become a celebrity for a living although having to pay for the priveledge may somewhat defeat the objective.

I am still seeking a suitable subject for a 'best seller', as detailed in an earlier post, with which to launch my writing career. Having shared this trauma with the two brave insomniacs who may have read it I now feel encouraged to impart the anguish that I encountered when I decided to become a Celebrity' for a living.

My two sleep deficient readers may remember that I was encouraged to take up the pen or more accurately keyboard, with spell check, by my tennis playing friend Biddercome's foray into the world of literature "The Full English Breakfast". As I write he still is agonising about the merits of fried eggs above scrambled and whether, because he has a big match forthcoming in the veterans club championships, he should reduce his sausage intake to twenty-four a week.

My own efforts to come up with a subject matter to earn 'Nobel' accreditation thus stalled I decided instead once more on becoming a Celebrity' as the way to earn my fortune and pass the time until the literary muse finally decides to visit me. I have in the past reasoned that being a 'Celebrity' could not be so difficult and perversely you don't even have to be that well known or to have actually done anything of any worth to merit the title, well not in a vast majority of cases anyhow.

We in the UK as I am sure is the case in America and most countries of the World have a glut of reality TV programmes, a surplus of gossipy weekly magazines and a surfeit of trashy redtop newspapers all of which are populated with dozens, neigh thousands of 'Celebrities' that certainly no one of my acquaintance has ever heard of. Surely therefore there is room for one more person to sup at the table of fame, fortune and bad behaviour.

I decided to discuss my plans with my tennis playing, I use the term loosely, inner sanctum and did so after one Friday session. Spicer had just returned from two weeks in Egypt, his third holiday of the year, and was looking for a fairly elusive victory, last time he won flares were new on the fashion scene. This day he and I took on Simcock and Biddercome. We won the first set convincingly and were four games to one up in the second then years of supporting Tim Henman took effect and we snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. In fairness Spicer did strain his tan during the third set.

Once settled in the bar after the match I ventured to ask their advice about my new career plan as a 'Celebrity', strangely enough they saw nothing perverse in this. They have known me a long time! Biddercome asked if I hadn't become a Celebrity' last year. and Simcock stated that he was sure that there was some TV correspondence that I had received and vaguely remembered that we had discussed it after a few beers some months earlier. I said that Yes this was not the first time that I had taken the title 'Celebrity' and yes there was some television mail but this had in fact been a reminder from the TV licensing people and a communicae from Sky asking if I wished to subscribe to a further '74 unwatchable channels.'

Spicer actually then was quite astute by pointing out that my downfall in the past at becoming a Celebrity' was that the only people aware of my status were the four around the table and my family whom I had felt obliged to inform lest they were door stepped and harassed by the scribe from the Wharfedale Herald'. The big dentist, for that is what Spicer is, big and a dentist, pointed out that this lack of publicity could have been the reason for holding up the lucrative offers of work from programming executives and delaying the public the opportunity of seeing me stuff artichokes with Gordon Ramsey, dance with a chicken for Simon Cowell or go head to head (metaphorically speaking) with Mr Gay UK' and Edwina Curry in a variety of amusing reality TV specials.

Weighing up the implications of the effort needed to gain this added exposure I decided that maybe my decision to shelve the writing path may have been a bit hasty and perhaps I should try harder with uncovering a subject matter for my literary masterpiece. What about a study of this very phenomena "Please Big Brother I want to be a Celebrity get me into Here" I'll add it to the list of possible titles between "Barnsley Football Club" and "32 Recipes for Battered Mar's Bars".

After all working to become a Celebrity' wasn't what I had in mind. Was not being shallow, fickle, untalented and egocentric enough to achieve this goal after all it got Gordon Brown the job of Prime Minister, for the time being at least.

The Way to Cheap Travel Dot Com!

I am still wracking what brain I have for a subject suitable for my life changing writing project so when at a recent winding down session after Friday afternoon tennis doubles the topic of travel came up I thought could this be the solution.A guide to cheap travel, surely it's never been done before!.

Myself and my playing companions had been winding down for quite some time and were on our fourth pint. This being a local beer in the case of three of us, and a ridiculously expensive imported lager in the case of Spicer, my tall bearded dentist friend. The game itself, which I am sure that those of you who do not get out much are desperate to know about, had been a tad one sided.

My teacher friend Simcock was away on half term holiday and forgoing his normal exciting bike trip around South Yorkshire had ventured to his native Cornwall. There he was experiencing the swell of the Atlantic upon fine Cornish beaches, enjoying scones and clotted cream, eating meat, potatoes and selected veg crimped into an exotic shaped pastry and sucking up to an octogenarian aunt who’s will is up for review. Biddercome was in the Lake District deep in research for his book "The Full English Breakfast" desperate to try out every greasy café in Windermere before his remaining two arteries clog up and this meant Spicer and I were joined by Leverite and Offenbach from our pool of ‘players of a mediocre standard with nothing better to do from 4 p.m. on a Friday’.

Offenbach is the recipient of the prestigious ‘Most Expensive Reconstructed Backhand Ever Award’ at the recent star studded ‘Friday Tennis Awards Ceremony’. He is an extremely wealthy eye specialist who, just for good measure, had the sense to marry well. He was this day allotted to the tender care of Spicer who had just returned from a short holiday in Majorca, breaking him in gently for his all out one man assault on the ozone lair which will follow throughout the rest of the year. I partnered the very useful Leverite, another teacher, who is so skinny that when putting the elastic bandage on his troublesome knee in the changing room consequently doubled the size of his leg.

Myself and Leverite triumphed 6-2, 6-1, 6-1, 6-1. We then had an early bath! The match resembled a confrontation between Manchester United and Rochdale or more realistically Real Madrid and Cleckheaton Women’s Institute. Offenbach at one stage however did hit a backhand volley of such perfect execution that the £20000 he spent to obtain this technique seemed almost worth it. Regardless of the score this would ultimately remain Offenbach’s only memory of the afternoon much like some years ago when playing golf with Spicer and myself he hit a perfect five iron approach shot. "Perfect back swing, perfect contact, perfect follow through" he was proudly heard to mutter. "But the ball is in the lake" said I. This in his opinion seemed totally irrelevant and not a little rude of me to point out.

Back to the winding down and talk of travel. Simcock in Cornwall, Biddercome in the Lake District, Spicer just back from Majorca and Offenbach going the following day on a skiing holiday to Switzerland, the cost of which would pay off the national debts of Turkmenistan and strangely enough I myself had been offered that very morning an opportunity of a cheap holiday to Portugal.

My cousin has a timeshare on the Algarve that he was due to visit later that month, on his allotted dates. Due to some domestic inconvenience he was unable to do so and rang to ask me if I wanted to go in his stead. Obviously I was keen to do so but at first he offered me no discount, however upon me reminding him of the teenage incident when he inadvertently ended up in his mother’s frock and his sisters earrings and high heels he rather generously offered it to me for free. You can’t beat family bonding.

Thus over the following weekend my wife and I began the task of sorting out flights, transportation to the airport and hire car at destination.

No problem with the miracle of the internet. Well not if we had started six months earlier or had a budget the size of Offenbach’s. The budget is a bit of a problem of late due to many of my clients following Gordon Browns monitory policies to the letter and subsequently going bust, add to this hyper inflation especially at Tesco, a bank manager with a humour bypass and some extremely erratic riding from the jockey on the favourite in the 2.15 at Sandown Park the previous Thursday and I found myself embarrassed to the extreme in the ‘folding notes’ department.

We were seeking the budget holiday to end all budget holidays. Obviously I had secured the accommodation for free but as I had no youthful indiscretions, to the best of my knowledge, with which to blackmail the executives of Jet 2 or Ryan Air then we had to trawl through hundreds of web sites to find air tickets, within our meagre means, out to Faro and back to the UK.

In the old days, when I could afford holidays and choice in fairness was more limited, we would pop into a Travel Agent (remember them?) tell them our destination and a week later tickets would turn up at our home, Manchester to Barcelona depart date – Barcelona to Manchester return date, included car parking vouchers at airport, collect Hire Car from 'Euro Nice Very Cheap Little Car Ltd' at Barcelona Airport, all very simple and civilised all I had to do was drive to and from the airport.

Now of course we have the joy of doing it for ourselves on the internet. For the following ten days my wife never ate or slept but after that period she emerged triumphant, if a little frayed, from the study with the holiday arranged.

Departure - Taxi to local station, train to Leeds, train to Doncaster, bus to Doncaster Airport - arrive six hours before departure at airport with no facilities in early hours of the morning - sneak past closed sign and sleep fitfully on 'Costa Coffee' setee, flight Doncaster to Faro, no hire car available, bus from Faro Airport to Faro Station, train from Faro to Portimao, taxi from Portimao station to Hotel.
Spend first five days recovering from journey.
Get Hotel staff to organise a hire car for us from 'Euro Because You Didn’t Book It Earlier We Can Fleece You Ltd'

Return- Drive to Faro Airport, flight Faro to East Midlands Airport, bus East Midlands Airport to Derby station - arrive just in time to miss one train wait 2 hours plus half hour obligatory delay for another, train from Derby to Leeds - pre booked seats taken by chav family enroute to ASBO (Anti Social Behaviour Order) convention, train from Leeds to local station, taxi home.

What could be more simple, or enjoyable?

Thus a few days later we did all of the above and strangely enough it was enjoyable! in a slightly masacistic way.