“Congratulations,” said Atkins. “You have won the ‘Shit Garden of the Year’ trophy.”
“For the second year running,” I added, holding up the trophy, an old car tyre that Atkins had sprayed metallic gold.
“Oh it’s you two twats again, is it,” said the proud winner. “Why don’t you fuck off and mind your own business.”
“Cluck cluck,” said one of the hens, as if in agreement with its master’s sentiments.
“It is our business when your garden brings down the whole tone of the neighbourhood and wipes God knows how much value off the properties in the immediate vicinity,” I said.
“One of which is mine,” said Atkins meaningfully.
“There’s no law says I have to keep my garden tidy,” said the man. “This isn’t a council house.”
“Obviously, otherwise you’d have been turfed out of it years ago,” I said.
“Fuck off,” the man said, and slammed the door in our faces.
I threw his trophy on the pile of junk already in the garden. It increased it in volume by about one per cent and in value by about fifty per cent.
“Looks like it will have to be Plan B, Terence my boy” said Atkins.
****
May 25 2008. LEG OF LAMB.
“This leg of lamb,” I said to the young girl assistant in charge of the ‘reduced to clear’ gun at the Co-op Late Shop. “I see it reaches its sell-by date tomorrow.”
She looked at the label. “That’s right. May 26.”
I was making an attempt at getting a supermarket assistant to put a ‘reduced to clear’ sticker onto something that hadn’t yet outlived its shelf life. Not wishing to be too brazen about it by asking her to reduce the price of something still some way to being out of date, I had picked on something that would soon be receiving a sticker in the normal course of events. I checked my watch. “Well it’s nine forty-five p.m. now and you close at ten,” I said, “So it’s very unlikely that anyone will buy it now. And tomorrow you’ll be putting a ‘reduced to clear’ sticker on it. So I was wondering, if it isn’t too much trouble, if you could see your way to putting one on now?”
I was going to write ‘You would have thought from her expression I had asked her to show her arse in the High Street’ but it occurred to me that most girls of her age do now show a good proportion of their arse in the High Street in the normal course of events, and to show all of it wouldn’t make a great deal of difference; so I will just say that she looked at me with absolute amazement. “I can’t do that!” she said.
The answer I’d been expecting so I was ready for her. “I am not a rich man,” I said, “as you can see from my clothes.” (I had taken the trouble to dress in the oldest clothes I could find and before entering the Late Shop and had lain down and rolled over in their car park, which added to my shabby appearance.) “So lamb is a luxury for me, unless it’s a bit of scrag end. However it is my dear wife’s birthday tomorrow and ever since we were married forty-odd years ago I have cooked for her a leg of lamb dinner with all the trimmings to celebrate the occasion. Sadly I lost my job five years ago and have been unable to find employment since. Even B&Q turned me down. Things have been a bit tight to say the least. Despite that I have always managed somehow or other to scrape together enough money to buy a leg of lamb for my wife’s birthday treat. And I managed to do so again this year but this morning the gas man called and threatened to cut us off if I didn’t pay an outstanding bill. I hadn’t got enough to pay it without the leg of lamb money so I had to use that. Besides, if I hadn’t we wouldn’t have had any gas with which to cook the leg of lamb, and at least by paying the gas bill we would have heat to warm our brittle old bones in the twilight of our years, even if we were hungry.”
“You could have cooked it in the microwave,” the girl said, helpfully, after a pause.
“Re-possessed long since with the barbecue,” I replied immediately, and added, just in case she should suggest them, “Along with the electric frying-pan and the Primas stove.”
“What a shame,” she said, with genuine concern.
“Yes,” I agreed. I went for the jugular. “But a greater shame is that this is the last time I would ever be cooking a leg of lamb for my wife’s birthday, as the doctor has given her only six weeks to live.”
A tear actually ran down her cheek. She looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was looking, then quickly put a ‘reduced to clear’ sticker on the leg of lamb and wrote ‘£1’ in the price column. Then, with the same eye that had moments before shed a tear, she winked at me, kissed me quickly on the cheek and was gone.
The leg of lamb was lovely. The Trouble did it with a butter, breadcrumbs, garlic and fresh rosemary crust along with roast vegetables.
****
June 19 2008. SHIT GARDEN OF THE YEAR 2.
Today saw the culmination of Plan B of ‘Shit Garden of the Year’. The plan was put into operation two weeks ago when I phoned the owner of the aforementioned shit garden. The call was answered by the titleholder’s wife.
“Hello?”
“This is the High Peak Borough Council, Mr Lloyd speaking, Public Affairs and Events,” I lied. “Could I speak to your husband?”
“What for? Only he’s doing his pigeons and he doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s doing his pigeons.”
“Well whatever he’s doing to his pigeons, legal or otherwise, I can assure you it will be worth his while to tear himself away from them for a short while.”
“I’ll have to see what he says.”
“It will probably be ‘Coo’,” I said, but I think she’d gone. Half a minute later the man of the house, Mr Broadhurst, came on the line. “What do you want?” This uttered in a tone as suspicious as a milk bill.
“Princess Anne, the Princess Royal, is visiting the borough two weeks hence and Her Royal Highness has expressed the desire to visit a typical house within the borough. We held a raffle and your house came out of the hat.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“Hello? Are you still there?”
I heard the woman’s voice in the background. “What is it? What’s the matter, Norman?”
“Two fucking princesses are going to visit our house!”
I saw where he had gone wrong and put him right. “No, it’s only the one princess. Princess Anne and The Princess Royal are the same person. And I don’t think she’ll be doing any fucking either, this isn’t Fergie we’re talking about here.”
“No.” A pause, then, “What do we have to do?”
“Not a thing. Her Royal Highness has expressed a wish that you shouldn’t go to any special trouble. I believe it’s usual to offer her a cup of tea. And maybe a cucumber sandwich.”
“Get a cucumber next time you go to the Co-op, Deidre.”
“And perhaps she could partake of the refreshments in the front garden if the weather is clement?”
“Right. In the front garden.”
“Now you’re not to go to any special trouble,” I warned. “The Princess is quite adamant on that point and wouldn’t like it.”
“No. No special trouble.”
“And a word to the wise. Keep it to yourself. We don’t want the neighbours gawking.”
“Right.”
“I’ll confirm the arrangements to you by letter.”
Atkins and I went round to the Broadhurst’s house at the appointed hour this afternoon. The garden, of course, was immaculate; vultures working round the clock couldn’t have stripped it off the sundry detritus more efficiently. To complement it the exterior of the house had been cleaned up and newly painted, the windows sparkled. Red, white and blue bunting decorated the façade. It looked a real picture. A small crowd, maybe about a hundred and fifty, many with small union jack flags, had gathered. The owner of the ‘Shit Garden of the Year’ and his wife were at the open doorway, all smiles, he wearing a shirt and tie for the occasion, awaiting the arrival of Princess Anne. I don’t know how long they wait
ed, Atkins and I gave it five minutes then left, a job well done.
****
July 2 2008. PANACHE.
If I have to make the short journey into the town centre and don’t fancy walking I quite often use the local half-hourly bus service. Not only is it free to pensioners but it saves getting the car out and allows me to indulge in one of my favourite pastimes - listening in to people’s conversations. Very often this is unrewarding, unless you’re interested in the latest state of someone’s haemorrhoids or the price of minced beef at Morrisons, but occasionally you hear a gem. I heard one this morning.
“Oh I like your hair,” said the old dear.
“Do you like it?” said the other old dear seated next to her.
“Yes, it suits you. With your thin hair. Never been much body in your hair, has there.”
“My mother was the same, my mother always had thin hair.”
“I know. Where did you have it done?”
“That place on Union Road. Our Muriel put me on to it, they’re ever so good and they give you a chocolate digestive with you tea.”
“I like a nice chocolate digestive, I must give them a try. What are they called?
“Oh....What is it now?....my memory!....Hot Pot.”
“Hot Pot? I’ve never seen a hairdresser’s on called Hot Pot and I go down Union Road regular.”
“No, not Hot Pot….. something like Hot Pot……..Tater pie.
“Tater pie?”
“No, hash. Tater hash.”
“Tater hash?”
“No, but something very similar to …… Pan hash! That’s it. Pan hash. Definitely.”
“Pan hash?” The old dear thought for a moment, then said:” You mean Panache you silly old fool, it’s pronounced Panache.”
****
September 12 2008. FAITH HEALER.
I’ve suffered with anal pain for the last few years. It’s bearable, but when it’s bad it’s as though someone is sticking the end of a cricket stump up my bottom. Thankfully it’s only the blunt end as yet but that’s bad enough. I’ve tried all sorts of things in the hope of getting rid of it; conventional medicine; acupuncture; homeopathy; hypnotherapy; aromatherapy: even therapy without a prefix; all to no avail. Last week I read in the local freebie newspaper that a faith healer, a travelling evangelist, was to visit the area. He would be attending the local Revivalist Church next week and would be laying hands on and curing the illnesses and maladies of anyone who cared to come along. The bottom of the barrel having been reached, I went along, albeit more than a little-self consciously.
It was without any doubt the most weird, most embarrassing experience of my life, and we are talking here of a man who was once caught masturbating in the lavatory when he was fourteen years old by his nineteen-year-old sister.
The room in the Revivalist Church was almost full, at least a couple of hundred people seated on the twenty or so rows of forms that in the absence of pews provided the seating. Most of the people in attendance seemed to be fit and well, indeed hale and hearty, and almost all of them had a look about them, a joyful light in their eyes that seemed to say ‘I’ve got religion’. I noted that the vast majority of them were women. I’m saying nothing.
In an effort to be as inconspicuous as possible I sat myself down on the back row. A man with even more joyful light in his eyes than the others immediately pounced on me and asked me if I’d come along to be cured. When I admitted I had he took me by the arm, dragged me to my feet and ushered me to the very front row. On the way there he told me he had seen the faith healer, Roy something or other he was called, Todd I think, perform his miracles on many occasions and he was sure he’d be able to help me no matter what was wrong with me. I might have shared his confidence if he hadn’t walked with a pronounced limp. He sat me down next to another five people who had come along in the hope that the faith healer would be able to cure them of their afflictions.
The meeting started. The vicar, or whatever the Revivalists call their main man, the Head Reviver possibly, got things under way. No sooner had he welcomed everyone and gone into his sermon than a woman sprung to her feet and shouted “Hallelujah!” Then a man jumped up and shouted “Praise the Lord!” The Head Reviver smiled, looked fondly at we in the front row and explained. “That’s how we do things here at the Revivalist Church. No one is afraid to express their feelings; if we feel the urge to praise the Lord we just do it, we don’t hold back.” This seemed to free-up a few more of the congregation, who were perhaps a bit more reticent than the ones who’d already let it all hang out, because almost immediately another four sprang to their feet and “Hallelujha’d” and “Praised the Lord.”
This went on for the entire time the Head Reviver was speaking. At one point there were more people standing up and praising the Lord than there were sitting down and listening to the Head Reviver, who was by now wasting his time because even I couldn’t hear him properly and I was only sat about a yard away. Then, to wild applause, the faith healer was introduced. When everyone had settled down he spoke of the last time he’d visited, some months previously, and of the people he’d cured on that occasion. Cue joyful shouts of “Hallelujah!” all round. He went on to regale the enthralled congregation with his recent exploits in America and beyond, as well as in this country, and told of the thousands of people he’d been able to help with the gift given to him by the good Lord, which all went down very well and brought forth even more ‘Hallelujahs’.
He went on to ask if there was anyone here tonight who needed his help and if so would they stand up. Looking at each other a bit self-consciously, especially me and the severely bow-legged woman sat next to me - that’ll test him I remember thinking - we got to our feet. The faith healer went to the first of us, the woman on my other side, asked her name and asked what was wrong with her. She said she had a chronic bad back. The faith healer laid a hand on her back and addressed the congregation. “Our comrade Jennifer has a chronic back condition. I want each and every one of you here tonight to concentrate as hard as you can on my hand so that the goodness given to you by the power of the Lord may course through it and into poor Jennifer’s back.” Total silence for about twenty seconds. I chanced a glance round. Every eye in the place was on the faith healer. Every face was wreathed in concentration, every brain summoning up the power of the Lord. The faith healer’s eyes were cast heavenwards, his face a picture of both agony and ecstasy. He suddenly took a pace back, almost a stagger, as if knocked back, and shook his head as though trying to clear it. Then he looked at poor Jennifer, tenderly. “Tell me Jennifer, how is your back now?”
She put an explorative hand to it, moved it up and down a little. “It....it’s a bit better,” she said, a little unbelievingly, then, with more conviction. “It’s a lot better. Yes, a lot better, I can hardly feel the pain at all now.”
Gasps of incredulity from the congregation.
“That’s the power of the Lord’ the faith healer proclaimed. “The power of the Lord has cured Jennifer’s chronic bad back.”
Wild applause, more “Hallelujahs and “Praise the Lords.”
I was next in line. I must admit, having witnessed the miracle that had just taken place, that I had begun to have little more hope than previously. The faith healer turned to me and asked my name. I told him. “And what is wrong with you, Terry?” he asked. “I suffer from anal pain,” I said. This seemed to throw him. Probably because it was the first time he’d ever been confronted with such an ailment.
“What?” he said.
“Anal pain,” I repeated. I wasn’t speaking very loudly as I was naturally feeling more than a little embarrassed about the whole thing, but quietly as I spoke the faith healer spoke even more quietly. “Is there anything else wrong with you?” he asked, in an almost furtive manner, tinged with hope.
“No” I said, “just the anal pain.”
Even more embarrassed about it than I was, which is saying a lot, he turned to the congregation and said: “Terry has..
..a pain. I want each and every one of you to concentrate as hard as you can on my hand so that the goodness given to you by the power of the Lord will course through it and into Terry.” Then he put his hand on my bottom. Gingerly is too positive an adjective for the manner in which he did this, and his hand wasn’t there for anything near as long as it had been on poor Jennifer’s back, about one nanosecond at the most I would guess. I was definitely short-changed on his trance-like state too - it was more a rolling of the eyes, in fact he may well have been rolling his eyes, I was certainly rolling mine - as he’d no sooner gone into it than he came out of it. Then he said, “I’m sure you’ll be a lot better now” and moved on to the woman with the bow legs. When he saw her he almost came back to me but he was in luck because it turned out she’d come about her migraine.
I don’t know if he managed to cure it because I’d had enough and got up and made my way to the exit. As I was going through the door a woman on the back row turned to another woman and said, “He’s walking a lot better now isn’t he.”
****
November 30 2008. SPORTSWRITER OF THE YEAR.
Today, whilst in the dentist’s waiting room waiting to have a tooth extracted, I came across an article in the Daily Telegraph in praise Michael Parkinson. Apparently he used to write a sports column for that newspaper and the article included extracts of his work. I read it through and a few minutes later had the tooth extracted and there is no doubt that the former experience was more enjoyable than the latter. This didn’t surprise me at all, no more than the news that Parky was once ‘Sportswriter of the Year’. Indeed if I were to be told he was the ‘Sportswriter of the Century’ I wouldn’t question it, since if he is only half as good at sports writing as he was at fawning over film stars and pop personalities on his tiresome chat show then his sports-writing skills will be of the highest order: -
Stairlift to Heaven Page 11
