The Main Objective
In which we approach Survival
Of the Final Furlong
A Game Plan?
Well, something like just sit in the sun, or by the fire, or at the bar, even, where ever you are most comfortable, and sort of muse, as the feeling takes you. Think on what you want to remember, or forget, or rewrite. Think on what pleased you, or irritated you; what made you weep, want swell up, or want to hide. Think of what you wanted to achieve, how you fell short, and why?
In my Final Furlong, I have grown comfortable with my own opinions, prejudices, preferences, values, and I feel not the slightest urge to foist them on the other feller. By the same token, I have not the slightest need to hear his.
But we have to start somewhere. Now memory is not an opinion, so it should do as a spoon-in, and I just had this idea that if I were to share mine with any Joe Soap who might be interested, then that might boost my ideas fund, which is at slack water, at the moment, and due to
start makin’ (coming back up) at any mo. And if any kibitzer feels inspired to contribute in similar vein, you’ll find note space down the back end.
Yeah. Memory. I knew there had been some distant voices echoing in the pipes, or down the empty halls, and the first voice is that of my maternal grandfather, unintelligible as usual, with a mouth devoid of teeth, but always accommodating a pipe stem, it was a communication impaired.
Lardy Cake
Teatime, and Grandma had just finished baking bread, and lardy cakes. The lardy cakes were just that- bread cakes with lard in the mix, to keep them moist and to keep them longer. About the size of a tea plate. Grandma was an excellent cook, in that long ago she had mastered the art of feeding a family of seven children, until they all stopped asking for more. As a special treat, there was always a smaller lardy cake for me, though it was still as big as my four year old face, and a good inch thick. It was given to me, hot and greasy from the oven, dusted with salt, and I was expected to run off, outside, and eat it with Joy and Gratitude. In fact, after three bites at most, I was retching. On the day in question, after a few bites, I threw a piece to some birds, out on the cobbles. They seemed quite grateful, so I threw them the whole cake, went back up the passage, and into the house, closely followed by Grandad, fresh home from work.
He had witnessed the lardy cake incident, and couldn’t wait to shop me. He bawled out something of complaint,
by way of greeting, then lead Grandma and me out into the street, to indicate the evidence still being fought over by the birds. No more treats for me. Shame- that was mine.
The fact that Mom had married her soldier boy six months before my birth, but only four years before his death, had left them bit short changed in the righteous resentment, department. They couldn’t blame their own; it didn’t feel right blaming him, but there was I, the little cuckoo in the nest, permanent witness to the shame that had been brought into their family.
Grandad did make one token effort in my direction. For my 5th birthday, he bought me a pair of leather football boots, with studs, and an inflatable ‘case’ football. We lived in a courtyard slum, a tram ride from the nearest park. Because I didn’t immediately run out and organise 21 similarly shod little chums to go on an excursion he wrote me off as a wimp.
Roll on 5 yrs to another childhood memory of a shame, more justified.
Gloria Barrett
Our year was in the throes of the May Queen concert. Each year, a suitable girl- that means reasonably intelligent, reasonably presentable and therefore, worthy- was chosen to be the May Queen. She was normally named after a flower. That year, I think the retiring queen was Tulip- a dark haired, Queen Mary-ish girl in purple, and the new one was a fair, ringletted angel by the name of Carol Arden- Queen Daffodil- in yellow. She had been chosen from a short list of maybe six, all suitably pretty, well spoken, academic- suitably nice girls.
Now at the other end of the scale, that is, in the non-runners, as in ‘not in your wildest dreams, you little toe-rag’, was one girl in particular- one Gloria Barrett Obviously a deprived child from a poor home, dressed
Dressed in rags, shod in flimsy black canvas pumps, even in the deepest winter. Gloria had siblings, lower in the school, and she was obviously detailed to mother-hen them, as and when required. You might say she was a trainee, harassed mother, from infancy. Had she been blessed with a modicum of natural beauty, intellect, or charisma, she might have stood a chance, but no. She looked like a creature with no future.
The poor soul was despised by her peers. For her, the game of ‘tag’ was refined in this way. A child would touch her, then draw away with a cry of ‘Oh no! I’ve got the ‘Barrett’ touch!’ Then as though passing on a disease or a curse, touch someone else- ‘You’ve got it!’ and so the curse was passed from child to child. What fun! For all except poor Gloria Barrett.
She was also despised by our teacher- Miss Nancy A.G. Williams, or Ol’ Lass Williams as we dubbed her. All the female teachers were Ol’ Lass So-an-so, just as all the men were Ol’ Man So-an-so. In usage, these were shortened even further to ‘Lass Williams’ or ‘Man Barlow’. Lass Williams wasn’t particularly unkind to Gloria; she just treated her with contemptuous indifference- until the morning of the May Queen concert.
After assembly, we all hurried to our classroom, and more or less settled in our places, to wait for Miss Williams, and her calling of the register. She soon arrived in her self-important flurry, and after braying her instructions to shut up and sit still, she opened the register and began the roll call.
Kenneth Ansell! Miss!
Carol Arden! Miss!
Margaret Askill! Miss!
Gloria Barrett!
Gloria’s reply was muffled by a muted but definite snigger around the class. Miss Williams looked up, questioningly, then her eyes lighted on Gloria’s pitiful
figure. Gloria had quite long hair, about to her waist. As was quite common practise amongst girls and women not possessing curling tongs, at that time, on getting up that morning, she had bound up her hair in strips of hot (wet?)
rags, so that, after leaving them for the longest possible time, when loosed, the hair would manifest a modicum of waviness. The wretched child had tried, by the only means available to her, to make herself the least little bit presentable, for the concert due to begin during mid- afternoon school, before the whole school, with families, friends, and any school board big wigs who could be reeled in on the promise of an afternoon away from the office, a cup of tea and a butterfly cake.
On looking up to question the disturbance, Lass Williams went into full, incoherent, spraying, braying donkey mode, then found her voice with-
“What are you doing you look like a circus clown get that silly rubbish off your head come out here and chuck it in the basket where it belongs-“ and on and on. The poor child wasn’t even allowed to sneak off to the wash rooms to do it in private. No. She had to be ‘decapitated’ in full, public view, up on the teacher’s podium, while Lass Williams brayed on, and the children were allowed to give full throat to their contempt. They were like hounds at the kill.
I was horrified. I was wanting to shout ‘Leave her alone! She was only trying to make herself look nice for the concert! Why are you being so rotten? Why are you picking on her? Why do you have to be so cruel’
But I said nothing. Oh, I wasn’t afraid of Lass Williams. I was afraid of my class mates. They would have laughed at me. They would have jostled me and Gloria together, in the playground; called me her boyfriend. I couldn’t cope with that. So I stayed quiet. I let them give the wretched girl another miserable day. I was a coward. I kept quiet and the shame hangs every bit on me now as it did then, and
always will. Oddly facing Gloria again is one of the worst prospects facing me.
I did have a sort of revenge on Nancy A.G. Williams, not that it brought me any credit, though it did afford me a grim satisfaction.
A week or so, later, in an art lesson, she told us to paint a picture of a crossroads with a motor standing at the traffic lights. Now I had already built up a reputation as a proper little artist (at least, in my family) so I quickly produced the required cross-roads, traffic lights, and motor. Then, to pass the time, I added a bus stop, then I put a figure at the stop- Ole Lass Williams- to the life! Her sagging bosom, sagging bum, grey bun at her neck, wire specs, plant pot hat, wrinkled stockings (Nora Batty would have nothing on her) Clumpy shoes; I even got her gap teeth and the wart on her chin, and the hairs sprouting from it.
When she saw it, she went berserk! She couldn’t speak! She just made a noise like a pan of mussels boiling over. Of course for her to acknowledge my ‘crime’ would be to justify it. She couldn’t say ‘You cheeky little sod! That’s me to the life!’
Eventually, she just managed to articulate- “I didn’t tell you to paint any figures!” But we both knew who it was, and we both knew I had kicked her good and as hard as I could, in the slats. I was really sorry that I couldn’t tell her why. But even my revenge was selfish and cowardly. I should have challenged her in the classroom at the time, but I kept quiet. It was easier, and I’ll never forgive myself, and I’ll never stop apologising to Gloria Barrett.
More a Discomfort than a Guilt
My mother was born in an inner city slum, grew up there and I lived there until I was 7. Consequently, she (and later, me through her) grew up equating insects with
uncleanliness and disease. Where fresh meat is kept in a coal cellar, woodlice are not friends. There are nice insects- butterflies, bumble bees, but not in our house.
When I was 7, we moved to a council estate house with a big garden, and I was soon detailed to keep grandad’s daliahs and chrisanths clear of earwigs: a cane in each plant. A small plant pot with a twist of grass inside, inverted on each cane. In the morning, remove the first pot to reveal a family of earwigs in the grass. Tip them out and tread on them. Only three dozen more to go.
Another high summer task- pick caterpillars off the cabbages, sprouts, cauli’s (Grandad was a keen gardener) and drop them in a jam-jar with an inch of salt in it. They part dissolved, developing a pale green sludge. I don’t know why, either. Why not just tread on them? Anyway, the point is I was hot-wired in my formative years to kill all insects.
Until. 40 years on, roughly. I had built a short stretch of dry stone wall- a yard length and about a foot high. Being a student of architecture, I had taken particular care with my bonding (a very precise and particular science) and was very pleased with my work. I was less pleased when I saw my pre-school age son and daughter had taken up the habit of demolishing said wall- to search for wood-lice- to play with! I deduced my education was not yet complete. I learned more when I discovered them with snail slime all over their hands and faces.
Clearly the learning at my Mother’s knee had been flawed. I can’t recall the link that made me consider that I had not been as good and dutiful a son as I might have been. I once intimated as much to her and she scolded me roundly for voicing such a thought. In mitigation I can only
plead that my mother had been the most indulgent, patient and loving parent one could hope to find.
Then out of nowhere came a worse clout round the conscious ear. What would my Father think of my treatment of his wife? The prospect of such a confrontation is mind numbing.
I must divert from this vein or I will go mad.
Yer Actual Divertissement
-is what we need next. Moving from the past far and not so far, and the current; in fact, occupying the whole of the Final Furlong, though having its origins long before, being
dear to my heart as to many an old pilgrim, reprobate, wandering minstrel, refugee or bit player.
Actually, we could have a sort of dedication/intro from Dylan Thomas, via… ‘The reverend Eli Jenkins (remembers) his Father, Esau, who, un-dog-collared because of his ‘little weakness’ was scythed to the bone, one harvest, by mistake, when sleeping with his ’weakness’ in the corn. He lost all ambition and died with one leg.
“Poor Dad” grieves the reverend Eli. “To die of drink and agriculture”.’
So our divertissement is the joint pursuit of Bacchus and John Barleycorn. Actually, Dylan Thomas makes me think that now might be a good place to lay in a few acknowledgements. Stuck up the appendiceses, up the back end of the book, they might not get read, so here we go with- My apologies and thanks to William Shakespeare, Terry Pratchett, Dylan Thomas, Paddington Bear, James Joyce, Omar Khayyam, Mike Harding, Brendan Behan, and anyone else holding credit notes on my humble but enjoyable, creative self-indulgence. You’ll each get one in salt as soon as I can reach the bar, subject to the credit system in force.
Now we were about to discuss booze. As a young man, I had much difficulty in finding something I could easily drink, by which I mean something I would happily drink a second of. At the few 17- 18 yr old school Christmas pub crawls, I was a sorry failure. I wasn’t drunk or sick; I was just unenthusiastic.
In my twenties, I was heavily into am-dram (different social circle) so soon learned to cope with G&T and wine. Opposite my flat, there was a ‘Hays’ wine shop. It was staffed by two ‘Katherine Graysons’, and what they didn’t know about wine wasn’t worth knowing, but they had no time for ‘foreign’ pronunciation. They would hold back these few half bottles of Mutton Cadette, for Mr Smalley ‘Now these Tattinjer shampain splits are reduced because one in six is flat, but not in your dozen’.
They introduced me to a Portugese Rose- ‘Arealva’- 7/3d
a bottle, and draught port and sherry from the wooden cask, less than ten bob a bottle.
The strongest wine I ever encountered was the Hungarian Bull’s Blood I was introduced to by one Cliff Christoferou when I designed his ‘Venus Steak House’ for him, in the old Athol Hotel building, in Sheffield. Cliff had a formidable reputation down at the abattoir. Every supplier knew not to bother Cliff with anything but the best, and so he was with wine. The Bull’s Blood was at least three points over normal, so Cliff insisted that if anyone asked for it, the waiter discretely draw the customer’s attention to the caution on the wine list with something like ‘Perhaps your guests might not be aware of…’ All long ago and far away, now.
Twenty years (from which we draw no corks) go whoosh! To find Valerie and me married, spending summers on my houseboat, ‘Walrus’, and winters in Valerie’s house ‘Barneybees’- the Winter Palace. The first summer was largely fuelled on a brew called ‘Charbonier’, red and white, about 30/- a bottle, less a good discount on unopened dozens, shipped from Roys of Wroxham.
By year two we were into home brew, in a big way. Cans of Woolworths ‘Calendar’ concentrate at 47p a can- to make a gallon! Don’t scoff. We weren’t looking for Medailon d’Or; we were looking for continuity. It was perfectly drinkable and readily available. No visitor ever refused a refill, if it was offered. The post men and bin men were always glad of theirs at Christmas, in fact one of the latter crew even lied about the number in their team so they would have an extra bottle to raffle between them.
At maximum production, I had four 6 gallon barrels on the go, continually. Three weeks working in the barrel, one week to clear, then bottled in demi-johns and ready to
drink. When the stuff you bought was 7-8% then this was maybe 5.
Just what we needed, and barring the inevitable steady price rise, that’s the way it went for 10 yrs, until one day, we went to the factory to fill the car boot, as usual, to find the factory almost completely demolished! We had graduated to the factory, when retail outlets had all started turning to ‘quick brew’-supposedly ready to drink in 14 days! Yes, if you kept it on the stove at a low light.
I did make the odd foray into real fruit- elderberry- took too long to brew out the tannin- bullace- okay but for a jammy aftertaste, but the two mothers managed to shift a barrel in a year of visits.
By now the cans all came with little sachets of yeast stuck on top. When I found a bin of cans all reduced as out of date, I learned that this only referred to the yeast, which we replaced, anyway. We took to clearing those, big time, but now even that was gone. End of an era.
Now we get by mostly on supermarket boxes. When pundits in the glossy mags and supplements all froth about finds at 10 or 15 notes a throw, they may impress the weekend drinkers but not us. On a 7 day week programme, continuity is all. Nothing fancy.5 quid a pop or Valerie will settle for Beck’s Blue, and like Mike
Harding’s Huddersfield tramps, I can drink the stuff out of the lamps.
Now this may sound like just a long alcoholic boast to some, but just consider. Yes, I confess it do sound as though I have imbibed more , over the years, than the doctors would have advised, and I admit I always told them what they wanted to hear, but year by year, as I have been drawn into the periodic reviews of the state of my inner workings- what they call the Healthy Heart Review, which I call the Happy Heart Club, the findings, based on blood tests, have only ever been perfect-ish, in fact the last time, the nurse said my results were what she would have expected of a man 20 years younger.
So don’t worry about my drinking; it’s all under control. In fact if Bacchus and John B were ever going to kill me, I think they’ve left it too late.
Now that looks like the best chance ever of a nice change of horses for-
The National Health Service
Well, as the song says ‘Someone left the cake out in the rain’ and we’re hard pressed to decide where to put the knife in, to draw a clear sample.
We’ll play it safe, and start with a bit of previous- the Father- Aneurin Bevan introduced the NHS July 5th 1948. It was based on four principles, free at the point of use, available to everyone who needed it, paid for out of general taxation, and used responsibly. His clarion call was ‘No society can legitimately call itself civilised if a sick person is denied medical aid because of lack of means’.
In practice, for me and mine and similar, this meant that if I awoke with a rash, stomach ache, sickness or pain, I could be taken off to Dr John Drysdale- Hempseed’s surgery in Gell Street, in what had once been a row of fashionable, middle class housing- now all offices
and the like. The waiting room was first off the hall, and had probably been the front, bay windowed parlour. Some 15x12 ft. with an impressive chimneypiece, housing a three bar gas fire, only one of which was ever lit, and that only in the most inclement weather. Did ye no ken the guid Doctor’s Hibernian stock? He was the proud possessor of a battery-powered hearing aid, but was rumoured to be too mean to switch it on. I never believed that, though one was invariably obliged to repeat every utterance.
In the centre of the waiting room stood a large dining table, bare except for a scattering of ancient magazines. Then, scattered around the perimeter of the room, a mixed and motley collection of chairs- easy chairs, high backed,
Windsor, dining, folding, card playing variety, children’s chairs. These chairs comprised the entirety of the furnishings, and filled the perimeter, save for access. The floor covering was linoleum. From a seated position, one could see that the portion protected by the spread of the table was enriched with a printed pattern suggestive of an oriental carpet. Beyond the spread of the table the pattern had been quite obliterated by shoe traffic, save for faint traces behind the chairs.
On arrival, one chose a seat where, hopefully, it would be relatively easy to take stock of who was before you, and who came after. Queue jumping, even by mistake, was to be avoided. One could clearly hear the rise and fall of conversation in the consulting room, next door. No detail but enough to sense when a change was imminent. The Doctor would usher the patient out (no need for a receptionist) usually reiterating his last comment down the length of the hall, then not pausing for breath, turn his head to the waiting room and bark ’NEXT!’
By and large the progression of treatment for me, a child, was usually a tonic (iron?). I was probably anaemic. ‘If it’s no better in a week, come back’. The tonic was a pleasant cherry flavour, so no problem there. If I did go back, I
probably got a laxative, which would speed up recovery no end.
Now most minor problems will sort themselves out in a fortnight. I don’t know if there was a charge for children’s prescriptions, but for an adult it was only a bob. And of course, there were no waiting lists, because there was nothing to wait for- no transplants or such. Sadly, for the first 10- 15 post war years, besides the toll of walking wounded, amputees and the like, there was a steady stream of TB casualties among the ex-servicemen. Some were just modest removal of scar tissue, while some were whole lung removal. The short term survival rate was about 50%, but within 15-20 years, it seemed that the problem of TB among veterans had virtually disappeared,
indeed faded away. When peace had resumed, and demob was underway, a string of workshops and factories for the disabled- ‘Remploy’ had been established, and fulfilled a useful purpose. By the late 50’s, it was superfluous to requirements.
Back in the surgery of the good Doctor Hempseed, the issue of a prescription for me always included this verbal exchange-
“What name?”
“Neil Smalley”
“How do ye spell that?”
“Neil”-
“I know how to spell Neil!”
Scotch, you see? So off I trotted with my ticket for a bottle of cherry syrup. And with the passing of time, technology increased- at a price.
So as Things get Better, Things get Worse
I remember when the system of health trusts was first mooted. It must have been the then Minister of Health, on TV, saying ‘When you have a problem, instead of being
shunted off to some hospital or other, any old hospital, you will be able to shop around and see where you can get the best deal to suit you’.
I thought- ‘so I slip on the ice, say, and break my leg or hip, and when the paramedics arrive (I assume they do, under the new scheme) before we drive off anywhere, I ask to borrow their phone, and have they got numbers for hospitals within say 50 miles, and just hang around while I ring round and see what offers are on this week. Are they going to respond on the lines of-‘ Give us one of your kidneys, and we’ll do you a complete hip replacement, with an optional re-fit in 6 months’.
For us ‘Final Furlong Johnnies’ the situation is doubly ‘piquant’ (or saucy) in that we don’t just ask ourselves ‘Will things improve’ but ‘Will things improve in time.
*
Another Fine Mess You got Me into…
The NHS is teetering on the brink. The staff at all levels are striking for more pay, and while they wait, they pass the time looking for new jobs. The unions seem hell bent on turning the NHS into a Kamekahzi outfit, and to cap it all, we now read that the ‘alpha males’ are sexually assaulting the females, and have been for years, all complaints being stonewalled.
We are told the cash problem is the result of, was it 35 years? of cross party government mismanagement. So what were the union leaders doing all that time? Sleeping? of their ceremonial junketings? They should have bee
They should have been chiselling at it from day one, or week one, month one, year one? Recently, on TV news, Mick Lynch (RMTW) repeated this 35 year moan. What was he doing? Rumplestiltskin in panto?
No Choice but to Strike
It is right and true that every man has the right to withdraw his labour- to strike, but it is also true that any strike costing or harming the public is not only unjustified, but unproductive in that it fosters ill will. To say that the public do not suffer is just facile. If x% of the work force can stand idle with no detriment to the public, then why are they employed? To say ‘I have no choice but to strike is nonsense. If I accost you and your wife in the street, brandish a gun, and say ‘Give me £1,000 or I will shoot your wife’, you say ‘I have no money. I can’t’. I say ‘I warned you’. Bang! Your wife is dead. Who is responsible?
Manny Shinwell, sometime union organiser and long time socialist MP was right when he said ‘The Unions have lost their way’, and that must have been over 50 yrs ago.
I can remember three separate occasions, when news that the government of the day had agreed to the union’s demands. In each case, the union leader’s response was not on the lines of victory for his members; it was on the lines of bringing down the government. I can’t remember any more detail so you can conveniently dismiss it.
On those Thursday evenings, I was out with everybody else, banging the bin lids, and wouldn’t hesitate to do again, if it came back into custom. Without the angels in
the NHS my wife and I would not have survived the last three years. Stark truth. Setting aside her breast cancer (clear) and my skin cancer (clear) Just talking on the phone (Hello Neil, it’s Joan at the surgery) it’s like talking to your aunty- they’ve know you all your life, and they still care.
However, from the NHS barge, the jump to the politics pontoon is about as short as its going to get, and the way I’m rabbiting now, the sooner we jump, the better, so- Now! Ah! Sorry. Forgot to mention the sticky stuff, underfoot.
“I always leave politics to hands less capable than my own”- George Saunders, British, 40’s& 50’s film star.
Which Loonies are running the Bin this Week
Yes, we do have a choice, quite a big and varied one, but I think that’s only on paper, to satisfy the stewards, sorter thing. In practice, they’re all from the same bland bloodstock. It would seem that the character’s all been bred out of them. John Smith , Douglas Hurd, Robin Cook, Nigel Lawson, William Haigh, Shirley Williams, Harold Wilson, even ‘Supermac’, Ted Heath, Barbara Castle, Kenneth Clark, Blair, Maggie. Oh we cursed them all in their turn, in their time, but you knew they were there. They each did their job in their own way, in spite of opposition. Can you see anybody bothering to blow up Matt Hancock or Gavin Williamson? Not worth the powder.
Look at some runners and riders, recent and present. John Major and Theresa May. Both honest and trustworthy, but not quite enough bite. Rishi Sunak and Keir Starmer. Two very nice gents- honest, straight, but again- no teeth. Sunak always looks as though he’s expecting a ding round the lug, and Starmer looks like a frightened vole. No matter where you look, there’s no one you’d trust to do the job, and far too many you wouldn’t trust with the tea money. You will notice I make no mention of Ronald MacDonald’s stunt double. Thought it
best not. Nor the daughter of the surgical appliance factory owner. Can’t remember who that was, now.
What I would like to see is Starmer give way to Angela Ledbury as Party Leader. She’s got the fire and the teeth. She could change Maggie’s sovereign from blue to red, but she would need some sort of support team, and it just isn’t there.
Next target.
There is a sort of corrosion pervading all aspects of modern society, and it manifests itself in many ways.
Swearing and Sex in the Media
Even pre-school age I was aware of swearing, in the inner city slums of Sheffield. I had soon picked up the whole vocabulary (not necessarily the meanings) but no one needed to tell me there were times and places, and otherwise. For instance, men never swore in front of women.
The parents of my friend, Bernard, were members of a working men’s club, which organised Sunday fishing trips,
into Lincolnshire; 2 dozen or so men, plus Bunny and me-gratis- just along for the ride, the sun and fresh air. Now before we set off, there would be the odd female turn up, for whatever reason- consulting on time, rehearse arrangements for the evening, pack-ups for the day. While these females were in the area, the air was clean, but as soon as the door closed, the engine roared to life, and the coach drew away, it was like somebody had changed the radio channel. They swore. Not emphatically; jut as if more, different tiles had been added to the scrabble bag, But further, Bunny and I knew that this new licence did not extend to us. Had we tried it, we would have been cautioned as to the viability of further trips. Elsewhere, in the company of our peers was where we ‘relaxed’, but again, not with girls present.
At the end of the day, on arrival back at the club, when the driver switched off the engine, the swearing switched off too.
This ‘freedom of obscenity’ gradually spread into newspapers and ‘civilised’ magazines, over a number of years. I would challenge you to pick up any Sunday colour supplement, find an interview with a pop star, politician, or ‘personality’, and there will be the *** treatment somewhere. It’s almost an obsession to show that one is ‘in the flow’. The saddest one I ever witnessed was a Parkinson interviewee. I won’t name the lady, but I’m sure she would have been better spoken in the company of her acting subjects.
Why does so much news copy depend on sex? Why does so much TV advertising depend so much on busty ladies shimmying their assets- from pants pads to armpit horticulture? Even news cameramen are becoming more adept at interviewing shots posed across cleavage.
Of course it’s so easy to say ‘This old geezer is obsessed with sex, himself, like a geriatric Mrs. Whitehouse. I’m 82! I don’t have the stamina for obsessions. Breathing in and out, standing up and down, trying just one stick instead of two, and not letting my feet go into spasm on the corners, chewing, controlling my sphincter, and my bladder muscles, not staining my shirt front, and not being too much of a trial to my dear wife- these are my obsessions! If you’re lucky, you’ll learn all about them, one day. If you’re luckier, you’ll look out and wonder if that’s the buffers up ahead, and if you’re even luckier still, you won’t see a thing. Well, just how lucky do you think you want to be?
Try daytime TV for some relief. Some of the ads are even better than the quiz shows. For a couple of quid, you can cure a few kids of clefts, or blindness, rescue a few cats and dogs, win a postcode lottery, in which 22 good causes each receive a minimum of 32% of the proceeds(!), or if you have two hundred and fifty million notes going spare you can have your very own world class footballer, to sit on the
end of the mantelpiece. I think they’re asking the wrong people. They should clap a 20% tax on all transfer fees- players and clubs, buyers and sellers. That would dry a few eyes, slake a few throats, give a few homeless a Christmas indoors, all found- save a few cats and dogs, ‘appen.
What is the world coming to? Clapped out cliché, but I don’t hear any answers. Let’s have a breather. Bit of peace and quiet’
What about Prayer?
Having spent so much time in part one with the case for a supreme creator, then communication, or prayer, must signify. For me, it quite easily falls into two categories, the first of which is encapsulated in the one word- thankyou- or two words if you are to believe some, though this lap top is happy with one.
Every time I finish a painting, I say ‘thankyou, Father’. I am always fully aware of what my gift means to me, and I’m not just thinking about having been able to avoid proper work for most of my life. I’m thinking of all the times I could have perished, but survived. That’s all you get on that score. The other side of the coin concerns what I’ve asked for, for myself at least, which is mainly nothing. In fact, until fairly recently, all I ever asked for was the grace, or the wit, to accept and appreciate what I was given. It’s only in the last year or two, as my mobility has deteriorated, that I ask for help, simply to lessen the load on Valerie’s shoulders.
With age comes the differentiation between energy reserves and pain. Pain is with us from the cradle. Energy is, too, but in the beginning energy seems inexhaustible, or at least very easily topped up as and when required.
It is only with the passing of time that we come to realise that energy must be husbanded, safeguarded; its source must be preserved. But inevitably, the resources are reduced. More and more we have to plan our outlay of energy. Make a mistake and there is a forfeit to pay.
So now, on a rare occasion, say I rise from the table awkwardly, as I did recently, lose my balance, and fall, not drastically, but gently and slowly down, until I find myself flat on the floor, unhurt, laughing, even, but while Valerie and our visitor look on anxiously, I must calmly consider the best way of rectifying the situation. After a few tentative forays into movement, I find the right approach and, with help I am up and right. Exhausted, but unhurt.
Pain, by comparison, is a mere bagatelle. The pain barrier is just an object to be pushed aside. Pain becomes another currency to pay with. ‘Do I really need that box from that shelf, or shall I save the pain and spend it on something more important?’ Many a time, I say to Valerie ‘It’s only pain’.
When I was first applying for a ‘disabled’ blue badge, they wanted to know, by their tick-boxes how far I could walk against the pain. I tried to explain that it all depends on motivation. If I’m going to the end of the street for a paper, I’d just as soon wait for someone else to go, but if I’m going
to Land’s End for a serum to save my grand-daughter’s life,
I’ll be back for tea and if you want more it will be late bed time.
But of late, I confess to seeking aid just to ease the pain in Valerie’s eyes, and to keep my pain off the floor, ‘cause the pain hits the floor when I do. Yes I pray for those in need, in despair, in pain, in grief. My one still small voice may not do much good, but joined with others, it might mean something.
Now let’s Lift it with Something Arty
Sometimes, at social gatherings, among strangers, I use a particular opening gambit for conversation, by apologising to a lady- ‘I’m sorry if I seem to be staring, but I’m a painter, and I’m allowed to look at beautiful people and things, in fact, it’s almost an obligation. Beauty is to be appreciated’. Usually, it’s accepted for what it is. If not, just drop it.
I think it must have been in GCE French that I encountered a tale about Rodin. It’s a short piece, so it must have been one of those exercises where you read a passage, and then discuss it ln yer actual French, so it must have been short, and it must have been legit. You’ll see why I’m stressing this, when you read it.
The author had been Rodin’s guest for lunch. Over coffee, the guest asked ‘Do you ever grind to a halt- exhausted for inspiration? Rodin paused, held up a cautionary hand, then called out ‘Nanon!’ which was the name of the servant who had served the meal. Nanon re-appeared and came to stand by her master. An ox of a woman, ageless, timeless, dull looking. Plain as a barn door. Without a word, Rodin reached down to the hem of her skirt, hauled and rolled it up at the near side until, with one hand, he was exposing the dull, off-white, mottled
thigh. With his other hand, he grasped a large portion of her strangely unblemished flesh. Then he spoke.
“Je retrouve la marbre…’- I rediscover the marble.
A shocking story to some, but not to me. Perhaps Rodin’s spur was a vision of the Arch Sculptor Creator shaping the marble of the original flesh, or the Eternal Potter throwing the pristine mud destined to serve as vessels for his creation, or yet again, the sweet smelling pear apple or olive wood, yielding the thin moist ribbons cast up and over the blade of the plane.
Did you know that fruitwood is self-lubricating? That’s why it’s used in cog wheels, rack and pinion, water wheels and such. Even such lowly daubers as I, in moments when the Grand Art Master has allowed us some small measure
of success, it is so easy and tempting to almost imagine one might be pl…No.
Oh, I didn’t think an illustration was advisable for this tale.
A Nice Read
Was there ever anything more relaxing than cosying up with a familiar story?
We all have a clutch of books which we read over and over again. Mine are Black Beauty, Eugenie Grandet (Balzac- set book GCE) As Time Goes By (prequel novel to film- Casablanca) anything by Pratchett, under Milk Wood, any Brendan Behan, Finnegan's Wake (not the whole thing- just my own dramatization which is less than 10% of the original), and all of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. His poetry is so heartbreakingly crafted. What a pity that he never found faith. With love as an added boost he would have soared even higher. We’ll let him talk us out of this piece-
‘Tis all a chequer board of nights and days,
Where destiny, with men for pieces, plays
And hither thither, moves and mates and slays
And one by one, back in the closet lays’.
Non Secquiteur, or,
‘Did You want Me to Open a Tin of Fruit?
I had an aunt who, if you visited her on a Sunday afternoon (a once popular time for visiting) would produce tea and biscuits, and only then enquire if you would like tinned fruit. A tin of Bartlett pears or Cling peaches with a tin of Carnation cream would be the normal scope of Sunday offering.
So let us look at diet. Sadly, some people never see food as anything more than staying alive. Food is to be enjoyed, especially now we have more time to devote to it. I’m not just talking about eating it. I’ve always enjoyed shopping, unlike most men, probably because I have spent a more than average portion of a man’s life, being self sufficient. A friend was telling me about getting his call-up papers for National Service (I was just too young). I said I would have found it hell. He said, ‘I thought if I’ve got to do it, I might as well enjoy it, so I did’. Without thinking about it, I just took shopping the same way. Living with Mom and Grandma, both widows, I couldn’t get away fast enough, so you might say I grew up and away, at the same time. Of course I soon learned that if you’re hungry, the answer is, shop and cook!
Even within the confines of food banks and such, cooking and eating can still be a source of great satisfaction, because you have a way of hitting back. There is real satisfaction to be had in buying three for the price of two if it’s something you genuinely need and use. One of my best sights at the moment, is a three year old vine in the garden, which is bearing fruit for the first time. I didn’t
expect anything to come of them, but they have ripened and they taste perfect! About 7 or 8 bunches. Now the grandchildren have discovered them, they won’t last long, but no matter. And Valerie’s courgettes have been a serious threat to Sainsbury’s this year.
Over the last decade or so, I’ve sustained serious losses in the dental department. I can operate with the existing originals but it takes longer. I’ve always leaned more towards fruit than veg, and even now, if left to my own devices, I would rather slice and fry an apple or a pear than eat green beans.
Of course we don’t have to keep to meal times if it don’t suit. Valerie doesn’t actually eat during the night. Well she might occasionally accommodate the odd wee slice of toast, rarely, but she has always had the capacity to rise
at any dark hour, have a tea supping fest, with visitors, even, then resume slumbers. Of course this is compounded by the fact of her post mastectomy (clear to date) requiring rigorous tablet timings and when to sit up and how long for, but she’s a game girl; she’s managed to absorb it all seamlessly into her tea ceremony. I am blissfully unaware. I sleep like a Christian.
Concerning Nine Bob Notes and Such
Here’s another belly ache coming on- a gripe. This time about sexuality. There’s a lot of people making a lot of noise about things we sorted and grew up with and lived with, years ago-even when some of it was illegal.
First salvo- just to let you know where I stand- if it’s got a willie it’s a bloke; if it’s got a pussy it’s a lady- that is scientific fact, what is defined as normal. Even with a scalpel and a bag of pills, you can’t change the meaning of the words. If you don’t like what you’ve got, what you are,
Possibly, somebody can help you but I can’t. I was brought up to treat ladies with respect, not because they are the
weaker sex; they’re not. That’s a myth, but because they are vulnerable by their nature and/or position, even if it isn’t always appreciated. I remember entering a John Lewis Store, and turning to hold the door for the lady I knew was coming in behind me. As she passed, without looking, she hissed ‘Don’t patronise me, you chauvinistic bastard!’ I was too stunned to respond.
With regard to the ‘Me too’ and the more recent doctors/consultants abusing/raping nurses, there are people and legislation who can change all that, and they should be made to do so.
Second salvo. There are homosexuals and lesbians who believe they have the right to ‘recruit’ converts to change their sex. Sometimes they do it through schools, without consulting parents. These people must be made to mind
their own business, and their odious scheme must be stamped out.
Third salvo. Camp is dead. In the early days, in the hands of Larry Grayson and the likes, it was very funny, sophisticated, not so far behind Noel Coward. Now it is just brash, noisy, uncreative, vulgar and offensive.
In my pre-school years, living in one of the houses ‘out on the street front’ as opposed to in one of the yards, were two elderly ladies, two very ordinary, unassuming, unremarkable old ladies. They were known as, and referred to as ‘the Aunties’. Addressed as Aunty May and Aunty Mildred, they were loved and cherished by all, and they loved the children, who all had the freedom of their little house. I believe they had been Belles in their time, and each had memories of handsome swains who now lay in some foreign field. Perhaps they had become fused together, in their grief, each clinging to something which could not be torn from them. It was supposed that they were lesbians. It was never discussed or even mentioned. That’s it. End. Did they know that although what they were doing wasn’t ‘natural’, it wasn’t illegal, because when Queen Victoria was presented with the bill to sign, prohibiting lesbian activities, she refused to believe such
behaviour occurred saying it didn’t happen and therefore the bill was superfluous to requirements.
When my own cousin (six years my senior) decided she was safer and more comfortable with her own sex, and so set up house, about 20 yrs ago, with a woman, ten years her junior, they were probably unaware of the debt of thanks they owed to Queen Victoria.
I have no problem with ‘gays’ save resenting their miss-use of the English language. ‘Gay’ was a very useful word; elegant, pretty. Now it’s just a mucky joke with all the fun squeezed out of it. Not so long ago, I heard a prominent gay individual having the gall to suggest that a new word was required because of all the unsavoury connotations
now attached to ‘gay’. How the hell did he think that came about?
I have no difficulty with civil contracts, but I object strongly when a man alleges to be married to another man. It is no more possible than to marry a dressmaker’s dummy. The same goes for two women. Why can’t they be ‘partners’? That’s perfectly logical and reasonable. Unmarried heterosexuals happily talk of their partners. In law and in faith, a partnership can be regarded with the same weight as a marriage, but husbands are men and wives are women- again, normal, legal, literal facts.
Rum, Sodomy and the Lash
Now when a ‘royal’, on behalf of the Royal Navy, names a new vessel, I’m sure they still say ‘God bless her and all who sail in her!’ Given that we are not so naïve as to believe that those ‘traditions’ cited at the head of this item have been completely abandoned; updated, maybe, as Churchill suggested, with ‘rum, bum and concertina, but surely they persist to an albeit unknown degree? So we still invoke God’s blessing on the adherents while at sea, but the
Church of England will not have them bring their propinquities ashore. ‘Now my lads, leave your dirty habits in your ditty bags by the gangway, and you can retrieve them on your return’.
The church says what happens at sea stays at sea, but when you come ashore, we will have you clean, celibate and fragruent.
And this all not with-standing developments such as the ‘60s Naval lesbian witch hunt (or should that be ‘Wren Hunt’?); oh yes, after a few years legal wrangling, the Admiralty threw up their hands with cries of ‘Mia Culpa’, after which they have dragged negotiations for compensation over 30 odd years - due to be finalised
sometime in ’24, then all that’s left is to decide which chest it comes out of.
Wa’ss’ee Doin? Who does this Geezer
Think ‘e is? Bletherin’ on.
I suppose a lot of you will think I’m getting in with a last chance at anything I can think of. Not so. What I’m trying to do is to divide up my baggage, to use a popular cliché, between what I can afford to leave behind, emotionally, and what I must take with me, because what stays here must be dealt with by someone else, viz my descendants. Oh yes, some of it they will find very engaging, and some probably upsetting.
Shortly after my Grandfather died, his widow called a family assembly, to witness the disposal of his personal effects, which were stored in a box the size of an attache case, such was the extent of the collection. Grandma sat before the roaring fire of the Yorkshire range, the box on her lap, and proceeded to draw out items one by one, and to decide on a recipient for each. I received a WW1 soldier’s Book of Common Prayer, as issued at the behest of Queen Mary.
At one point, Grandma withdrew two tied-up bundles of WW1 post cards- those lovely things- all satin, silk, lace, ribbons and embroidery. Each bundle was as tall as wide, so in they could have numbered two or three dozen, in all. Before anyone could register anything at all, she had pitched them into the inferno, murmuring ‘Nobody wants these’. There was a sharp intake of breath, all round, but it was too late. They were gone.
Before throwing any more treasures onto the fireback, we must define the extent of our authority, and possibly even apportion and delegate it, before acting rashly. Of course, treasure is one thing; skeletons are another. The nearest I can come on that score is a very small matter.
There was some doubt as to my maternal great grandma’s- shall we say- record keeping- with regard to her marital and domestic arrangements, official and/or otherwise. To be fair, the good woman was generally considered to be permanently ‘away with the fairies’. My Mother knew the truth of it; her elder sister didn’t, so she never ceased to poke and pry and question and quiz. It vexed her all her days, that my Mom knew and she didn’t. Mom always affected ignorance, but not with too much conviction. That would have spoiled the game. As I recall, the old lady had married one, lived with another, then another, but in what order, I don’t remember.
We are approaching the end of our-adventure? No. Let’s say ‘skirmish’. The adventure is yet to come, yet to be even programmed. As far as we are aware, we aren’t even booked in- wired up- even scheduled. Time, then, for an-
Entr’acte
Although I didn’t know it at the time, this was from the last of my dark days. I had settled on ‘Walrus’ (converted landing craft- think opening of ‘Saving Private Ryan’) opposite Thurne village dyke, quite resigned to become the
strange, reserved fellow who sold paintings to the tourists, assuming such a venture were viable. If not…?
Advent
These thin, blue mornings, I look out
from my wheelhouse And see Old Man Winter
inching his way on bony elbows
Across the marshes, every day, a little closer.
His flinty eyes catch the morning sun, and throw it back,
In a thousand icy splinters.
His dank breath hangs in the dykes,
And about the flanks of the grazing cattle.
His long, thin, rush-rattling fingers stretch
From up and down river, inching, day by day
To embrace me in his freezing hug.
But I have set my barricades of warmth and light
Though he sleep the night on the cabin roof,
He will not get in to chill my bones and ice-burn my throat
Though I daily strip the strands of his icy hair
From my woodpile, and gouge with axe and knife
His steel mirror fingernails from out the necks of
My water cans, he will not drive me from my home.
I intend to hang on to the little I have.
This simple affair of glad sights and soda bread.
Evil, murderous winter will not make me give it up.
I know he will be hard to convince, as he hurls himself
In cold screaming tears at the lantern of my nights,
But I shall sit by my fire leafing through my mind,
Taking comfort from the sparking of thoughts of those
Who have warmed me by the fires of friendship and love.
In time, I have drained the cup of many kisses.
I have joined that glorious feast
Where flesh is shared but not consumed.
I have warmed my hands in the fires of a woman’s hair.
Their fires have left pleasant scorch marks on my soul.
And now in this winter beyond years, they have left in me
A goodly store of memories layered beneath the skin,
To gently feed my senses, and to keep my heart alive
In this last, long hibernation.
The following Spring, I met Valerie- my Love.
Last Post
I have one more banner to unfurl. Well two, in fact, but irrevocably woven together, around which to assemble my cohorts of defence and support. First is Christmas. I know that Christmas is doing very nicely thank you, and any apparent scheme for encouragement is somewhat
facetious, on my part; it is the reflection of our valuation, in the perception of those with whom we leave it that concerns me. Though considering what little meat we have on the bone, to begin with- an un-married,(teen-age?) virgin mother, working class; elderly, self-employed, craftsman father. A travelling group of angel/troubadours claiming patronage of aristocratic astrologists? and a star which is, indeed to be perceived as a star not a planet, so must be zillions of miles away, yet which can direct, confirm and confine its attention to the area a single domicile. All in all, not much to go on, unless you include a few, debatable, archaic, religious prophecies.
And yet, despite a paucity of documentation, and downright persecution of its adherents, the ‘story’ remains as popular as ever. So evidently doesn’t need support from you or me. Besides, as I have intimated more than once, that is not my field.
Although Christmas is not the premier Christian ‘focus’ for want of a better word, Easter eclipses it, having slightly more evidence, and holding life over death as its core feature. Yet for direct effect on people’s behaviour, Christmas leaves it standing. Even the dullest, hardest,
most insular, unfeeling, selfish wretch cannot help but show some minute spark of softening towards his fellow man; fleeting, miniscule, unintentional though it may be. Folk of all other beliefs celebrate Christmas, not in an alternative, competitive form, not as a substitute, so what? A joy of some sort, clearly. And I weary of those who complain that some choose to take the ‘effects’ of Christmas- the parties, gifts, decorations, but leave out the core origin. Folk forget that all the trappings were stolen by the Christians from the Pagans, to entice them to sign up, to put bums on seats ‘You want holly, mistletoe and ivy? We do all them. Yule logs? Yo! Feasting- geese, mince pies, figgy puddin’ mulled ale and wine? In you come! Presents, song and dance? This is the place!’ And what
about this fondness for light parties? Nothing to do with replacing Halloween or Divali. ‘Course not, yer ‘onour!’
We all have a selfish streak, but we also have a streak that likes to please, likes to help, likes to see other get an occasional bowlful of comfort and joy.
And that is why I believe we should all try to nurture an inclination to perpetrate the tenets of the broader, Christian Christmas ethic. Dickens put it more succinctly when he had Scrooge’s nephew say “-and though it has never put a penny piece in my pocket I say ‘a Merry Christmas to everyone, and a Happy New year!’
A Last Wisp of a Long Gone Christmas
From the deepest, dustiest, darkest corner pocket of my gander-bag comes this Christmas fragment, with its whiff of cordite. It can’t come with me. It must stay and be seen. It’s not my grandad’s; he would never speak of any of it. I must have read it somewhere. It comes from France or Belgium, Christmas 1914, no, it’s not that story, sorry.
A mule train was hauling supplies of ammo, surgicals, winter wear, and food plus a smattering of ‘treats’, including a side of pork; maybe enough for a company, in total. The manpower element was probably four muleteers for eight mules, a couple of guards for their eyes and ears, and a sergeant in charge.
They took a shell which killed every man and animal. It happened in a stretch of nowhere, so didn’t attract immediate attention. First on the scene were a couple of private soldiers, whom we will call Tommy and Bill, and the first thing to catch their eyes was the sergeant’s corpse lying face down over the side of pork, in an apparent gesture of protection. Alas, all the gallant gesture had achieved was to drench the slab of meat in the sergeant’s own blood.
The two squaddies slavered at thoughts of frying bacon and chunks of bread dunked in hot bacon fat. Bill was a bit squeamish at the thought of the blood being included
in the menu, until Tommy won him over with “Wot’s a drop o ‘blood? It’s sergeant’s blood! It’s all in the army!’
They tried a token soaking and scrubbing, but their first secret meal dispelled all their qualms. When a man’s backbone is chafing his stomach, niceties just fly away.
In time, they began to feel that by taking in the sergeant’s blood, they had, in some mysterious and meaningful way, infused a spiritual promotion from lowly private soldiers to the heady sanctity, if not the authority of the non- commissioned ranks.
Last Post, Second Banner
Santa Claus. Yes. He needs a leg up. As the world spins faster, childhood seems to become shorter, and his opportunities seem more and more fleeting. This is a great pity, because as innocence is squeezed out of children earlier and earlier in their lives, as they become swamped by technology, they are ‘hosed down’ with supposed sophistication, in fashion, in taste. They are ‘influenced by
gods of power, of hollow ideals, and the spectres of sexual saturation stalk them, like wolves after lambs. If you are saying ‘rubbish,’ look through any newspaper and count how many articles are sex orientated.
Children need that time of magic, simplicity, straightforwardness; that time before they have to start questioning what is going on, fending off their peers who are bursting with what is new and smartest, what one must have and what everybody ‘reckons’.
*
A Winter’s Tale
Farms and farming are gathering popularity a-pace on TV- Winter on the farm, the Farming Year, the Farm at Christmas, and so on, while in the bookshops here in Cumbria, at least, there is a steady stream of delightful books in similar vein.
This final anecdote, though of the same nature, is a good bit earlier. Maybe in its vocabulary there is a hint of the 30’s. A box of random note books, diaries, bundles of loose leaf notes and such in a market auction. Fascinating to skim through; not generally interesting enough to keep. It just swam up through the depths of memory at the tinkle of a bell in the previous tranche.
A few miles north of Keswick, there is, or was, what we would now call a farm shop, where they had a small menagerie- to whit- a camel, pygmy goats, alpacas, donkeys, pot-bellied pigs, a pair of reindeer and so on, all to encourage children to loiter, giving their parents more time to spend money.
Now, it fell out that the two reindeer were to become three, but as the time drew near, it became apparent that all was not well. When the carrier from Carlisle next came by, his opinion was sought. Francis Kerns was of travelling stock, and considered wise in such matters. His verdict was serious. The unborn was not lying right, in fact it was back to front; a matter beyond his ability. But fear not. He was planning to meet up with an acquaintance (for business purposes) in a couple of days’ time. This gent was a one-time breeder of reindeer, and the carter was confident that Sam (his name) would be eager to help. This was indeed good news for one little lady in particular, the
11 year old daughter of the farm, for she, Polly, it was, who served as nursemaid to the little menagerie.
So it was with a happy heart that she burst through the door, when her father hailed a stranger. Starting up the paddock drive, between the two enormous horse chestnut
trees, she saw a man leading a reindeer as a pack horse. Before starting off down the drive, she nipped back to pick up her satchel containing pad and pencils. Polly was an avid artist of no mean talent. She would sketch anything and everything. She saw nothing that wasn’t worthy of record, as you are already learning.
Farmer, David, with wife, Elspeth, and Polly, all greeted the stranger, and he was quickly hustled off to see his patient. He soon confirmed the carter’s verdict, and proposed that he move into the loose box where the patient lay, set up his stall/operations room, and with Polly appointed as his assistant cum liason officer, he suggested that the parents just carry on with their business, and if anything further were required of them, it would be requested.
The next morning, when David and Elspeth, having heard nothing from anyone, rushed out to the stable. All was quiet and still. They crept in to find Polly deep in sleep in a bed of hay, half wrapped in a horse blanket, her open sketchbook cradled in her arm. Close by, the new-born deer calf was being suckled by his proud mother. Of Sam Redman or his beast, there was no sign.
No other information was ever forthcoming. All we are left with is some scraps from a talented young girl’s collection of remarkable sketches, with her one extraordinary observation.
*
On the Firing Step- Under Starter’s Orders- What You Will
That’s it really. Howsabout ‘Stand not on the order of your going’ as
we’ve no idea what the order is- that being the point, in a way.
Try this: You’ve got maybe up to 20yrs to come up with a snappy one liner for an exit line. The winner gets to choose his own ‘Happy-for-Tabs’, that’s gerrin’ off’ music. Anything you like except ‘My Way’ or ‘Bright Side of Life’. Oh, and every entry gets the ‘Six Chrome Handles Award’.
Can’t say fairer than that. Or (cue Dibbler-) That’s cuttin’ me own throat’.