Best Of Luck Mick & Carole

Great story told to me last night. I thought I’d share it with you.

Now, normally, when there’s a funny story to tell, I’d be expected to hide the names of those involved, but for this, I think I’m gonna name the names. It’s about time they had a real good laugh, even if it is at themselves.

Mick Basterfield has recently been in hospital. He has been having heart problems and will be going in for bypass surgery in October (all being well). Of course, we all wish him the very best of luck and we pray that God is on his side.

He’s been taking various tablets to help him, one of which, thins out his blood and prevents it from coagulating too rapidly. This is all good and above board. All very well for his heart and everything, but…… what if you get a nose bleed? How about you cut your hand open? Or, as in Mick’s case, what if you get an abscess under one of your teeth and it starts bleeding in the middle of the night?

4 O’clock in the middle of the night, and Mick is hovering over the bathroom sink, trying to stop a bleeding tooth that simply will not stop.

When the daytime eventually arrives, Mick and his partner, Carole, take a trip to Sandwell General Hospital. Mick, at this point is feeling very down. His health has been poor for a while now and this feels like another kick up the arse that he doesn’t need. Carole is tired. She’s done enough worrying for the two of them. Her employers have been complete arseholes and have made this time that she needs to be strong for Mick a difficult and more stressful time. Anyway they soldier on and take the trip to Sandwell Hospital where there is the inevitable waiting game.

Eventually, Sandwell Hospital’s staff, have to make the decision that they can’t treat Mick’s problem themselves. A dentist is needed and the best solution, as far as they are concerned is for Mick and Carole to get on the next bus to Birmingham and visit the Dental Hospital. Mick, at this point, is resembling Dracula, as blood runs constantly from his tooth, down his chin and all over his collar. He’s holding a bandage to his face and a collecting cup, to try to collect the blood and spittle, but it’s a mess. He doesn’t want to have to go by bus. He doesn’t want people looking at him on the bus. It’s embarrassing and he knows he’ll feel uncomfortable but he has little choice. He’s feeling weak now and needs to be sorted. Besides, Carole insists that they go.

They arrive in Birmingham slightly lost. Birmingham is a big place and like most of us, they had no idea where to find the dental hospital. They took directions from passersby and eventually saw a newish looking building that had been described to them with the legend “DENTAL HOSPITAL” in large, friendly lettering. What they failed to notice was the arrow beside the sign which was indicating a building about 100 or so yards away.

This is where the Gods of Comedy & Tragedy swapped rolls and allowed Comedy to take hold of the situation. Comedy (with the help of tiredness) blinded their eyes to every sign other than the one that said “PATIENTS ENTRANCE”.

At last, they thought, they were finally here.

They approached the receptionist and explained that Sandwell Hospital had sent them there for treatment, as they themselves didn’t have the qualified staff to deal with the treatment needed.

The receptionist nodded and with a slight note of confusion added that Sandwell should have checked first, because they “only had one appointment left for a “walk-in”, but never mind, take a seat, we’ll call you in as soon as someone is able to see you….”

They sat at the nearest available spare chairs and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Carole & Mick sat patiently waiting for someone to come and see them. Mick was still nursing his bandage and cup. Carole was absent-mindedly looking around the room and wondering, quietly to herself about the advertisements on the walls and the Television set hanging on the wall.

All of the adverts seemed to be about HIV and other sexually transmitted diseases. Posters for Condoms. Phone Numbers you could call for help and advice about dealing with your partner – if you have AIDS. The TV set was on a loop of advertisements all about the same thing. HIV, AIDS, GONORRHEA, SYPHALIS and CHLAMYDIA, PUBIC LICE and SCABIES. Puzzling. Very puzzling.

Carole’s mobile phone rang. It was Davina, Carole’s daughter, enquiring as to the situation.

“Oh Hello, Dear. Yes, were okay. We’re at the Dental Hospital now, just waiting to be seen”

The receptionist looked sharply at Carole, as if she’d heard her say something that she didn’t understand. Carole didn’t stop talking to find out what the strange look was for, she carried on relating the day’s events to Davina whilst next to her, Mick continued to hold his jaw.

A while later, a strange Asian gentleman came and sat next to Carole. He was smiling and wobbling his head in the way that some of them do. A bit like those toy dogs in cars where the head is free to wobble in an exaggerated way. He was smiling and looking and wobbling his head. Carole shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Mick clenched his jaw. Poor bloke. He was properly miserable.

After a while, Mr Wobble-Head moved away and the receptionist called for Mick to go through to the next room, where someone would deal with him. At last. After a hour and a half’s waiting. Hurray.

Carole waited and watched the Chlamydia advice video.

A deep voiced doctor in white coat sat Mick down and asked the nature of his problem.

“Well, I’ve been sent by Sandwell Hospital because they cant help me.” Doctor Deep-Voice nodded. “My mouth has been bleeding since 4 O’clock this morning and I need it fixed.” Doctor Deep-Voice started to look a little bemused. “ They said to come here to the Dental Hospital”

“Mr Basterfield” said Doctor Deep-Voice, “This is not the Dental Hospital”

Mick looked at the doctors face to see if he was hearing this correctly.

“Mr Basterfield, this is the SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASES CLINIC”

Mick and Carole eventually found the Dental Hospital and after 3 teeth out and 12 stitches, he’s fixed. Well, as far as his bleeding gums are concerned, he’s fixed.

Mick. We all wish you well with your forthcoming operation. Thanks for giving us a good giggle.

Rhyl.

When I was a kid, Rhyl was one of the places you went to as a bit of a treat. Either as a whole week's holiday (Wow!) if you were lucky, or for a day trip.

Rhyl was almost on a par with its big brother, Blackpool. I say almost, because it was never quite as cool as Blackpool. Blackpool had the Tower and three Piers, which in kids calculations, put it higher in the TOP-TRUMP rankings that you played out your life to.

Rhyl had plenty going for it though. The Fun-Fair, Beach, A Pier, Promenade Sweetie Shops, a Replica Sydney Harbour Bridge over the Estuary, Fun-Fair, erm.......... , Fun-Fair....... well, I guess our expectations were lower then.

It was enough for us though. The very mention of the name Rhyl had you all begging at your parents knees.... “Can we go? Pleeeeeeze? Pleeeeeeeeeze? Can we? Can we go Pleeeeze?”

We had great times there.

My junior school, Locarno Road, in Tipton, took us on a school outing there once. We went by train. It was a great adventure and would never, ever be allowed, in these modern times where health and safety squeezes the bejesus out of life.

Can you imagine the scene? Two school teachers in charge of thirty or so nine-year-olds, marching from the school to Tipton, Owen Street Train Station. One teacher leading the way, the other at the back, making sure everyone kept up. We were all Duffle-Coated, Scarfed and Hatted. The teachers made us all hold hands as we crossed the roads. It was excellent. The train was one of those with the corridor running along the one side and individual compartments for 6 or 8 passengers. We had a brilliant time.

I remember a trip my family took in the late summer of 1977. There are reasons why I know precisely that it was 1977, but I don't wanna go into that too much here, for fear of digging up ghosts, but to paint a little picture – here's the scenario:-

In the Summer of 1977 (Jubilee Year) my Mom & Dad had an acrimonious split-up that resulted in my Dad burning the house down. Unbelievably, and for reasons she can never explain, my Mom accepted my Dad back.

My Dad's parents took us (the whole family) to Rhyl in a maniac attempt to patch a leaking dyke with sticking plasters.

We “holidayed” in a tiny “Chalet” (more like a garden shed) on the holiday park (“Sunny-Dale” or something like that) to the East of the town, on the way to Towyn, just over the replica Sydney Harbour Bridge.

None of them (The Grown-Ups) had any money. The “Chalet” was powered by an electric metre which swallowed 50p's at an alarming rate. This meant blackout for the majority of the time.

My Grandfather wasn't beyond turning his hand to a bit of dishonest work to pay his way, so the idea was hatched set up a little business venture for the week. I became an early morning cockle-picker. Bright and early every morning, I was awoken and sent to help the old bastard clear the beach of any cockles left washed-up by the receding tide. This amounted to quite a few, actually. I remember struggling to drag the great big bags of cockles back to the “Chalet” which was now turned into a cockle processing factory.

Memory fails to tell me exactly how the cockles were disposed of, but I imagine the old turd going from pub to pub, doing the rounds. Selling his cockles for a shilling a bag.

The funny thing is, my memory of that holiday remains quite a fond one. Its a little like an old film that captures a certain time and place that can never be again.

Anyway. The point is, Rhyl was a great place to go. Accessible, clean and fun.

As young adults, Austen, Too-Tall-Tony, Phil The-Fluter and me went to Rhyl for a jolly-boys weekend.

I say young adults. Austen and I were about 20ish. Tony and Phil were a good ten years older than us, but supposedly “up for the crack”.

They weren’t up for anything at all, as it turned out, but Austen and I were of an even more mischievous nature than we are today. We went out on the piss and took Tony and Phil with us.

At about 1am, they called time and we all went back to our digs.

After wrecking their beds and making enough noise to raise Satan, let alone the rest of the hotel, Austen and I decided to go back out.

More drink. More girls. More fun. That, at least, was the plan.

We exploded from the hotel onto the promenade to find that Rhyl had gone to bed.

Now. I don't know whether you've ever been to Rhyl yourself, but along the promenade, on the beach side, there were a series of water features. In my mind's eye, it was like a long, snaking, paddling pool that weaved its way from one of the major amusement buildings to the roadway on the promenade. A couple of hundred yards in length. It may not have been anything like that of course, as I was smashed out of my skull. It may well have been two or three separate features. I really don't know.***

We decided to go for a midnight swim. Skinny dipping.

So, we folded up our clothes (in a heap) on a bench and took to the waters.

Starting at the one end, we paddled and swam and ran through the water, climbing over the obstructions that separated the pools every thirty or so yards. Laughing our heads off, freezing our tits off and making a right bloody row.

We were having the time of our lives when the police turned up.

A young shy policeman and a very confident young WPC shouted to us that we should get out of the water.

We did and went straight over to them, still in our nakedness.

First they made us fetch our clothes and then, just as I was expecting to get arrested, they sent us to our hotel room with a stern warning.

We went quietly. Until we reached our room that is. As soon as we got in the room, it was time to wreck Tony and Phil's beds again.

We had a wonderful time. Tony has since passed away (God bless him) and I haven't seen Phil for donkey's years but I bet Austen remembers our adventure. How could he forget?

*** I have since looked, without success on Google, Google Images and Google Maps to see if I can work out what this water feature thing was. It certainly wasn't recognisable on my later visit with Chanel. I have no idea other than I recall it being between our promenade Hotel and the sea wall. I have a feint memory of us going behind the sun centre building, onto the sea wall to have a piss into the sea but even that is a very poor, dull memory.

Many years passed and I forgot all about Rhyl. I started a family and even had a brief career. Rhyl was never mentioned and never thought about.

And then one day I bought something off Ebay which I had agreed to collect (it was an Ice-Making Machine for the pub). The address was Betws-y-coed which ain't very far away from Rhyl.

I had the splendid idea of collecting my Ebay purchase on a Sunday, which was a day when I would not be needed at the pub until evening. I usually took Chanel (my daughter, who was then about 10/12 years old) out on a Sunday, and this looked like a great opportunity to take her to see Rhyl for the first time.

So. That's what we did. We set out for Rhyl, via Llangollen (to see the “Horseshoe Pass”) and Betws-y-coed. On the journey I told Chanel all about the many times I had been to Rhyl. About the Cockle-Picking, The School Trip, The Skinny Dippers and explained how I had always seen Rhyl as Blackpool's little brother. She was very excited about the fun-fair and I must admit to a feeling of excitement myself, for seeing the place again.

The route I had taken, had thrown me beyond Rhyl and so I came upon the town from the west, heading eastwards, first through Towyn and then on to Rhyl.

The first of many memories came bouncing into my conscious as I saw first of all, the caravan park, “Sunny Vale”, ah yes. That was it's name. “Sunny Vale”. Hmm.

And there was the little club-house belonging to the caravan park, where we used to share a bag of crisps and a “jubblie-pop”.

I looked, but couldn't see, the sand-dunes, beyond which I had Cockle-Picked.

And then came the Estuary bridge. Oh.... I took a double take at what I saw.

It had two Arches, in the Sydney Harbour Bridge style not one. Hmmm.

Funny how the memory paints it differently. I remembered my brother, Paul, catching a small, flat, fish from off the bridge. Our Grandfather claimed this, the only catch of the day thus far, and promptly cut it into 4 pieces. The catch had now become bait, with which we proceeded to catch a couple of eels, which became that evening's meal.

I drove on past the funfair which wasn't there. It wasn't a funfair any more. It was a development site. I looked at where the motorised go-carts once entertained us. Not there.

The no-longer-there Log Flume which towered above the far side of the no-longer-there funfair, failed to catch my eye.

I found somewhere to park the car and we had a little wander around. We were both devastated. Chanel was broken-hearted that there wasn't the funfair that I had promised. In fact. There wasn't anything. Rhyl had become a ghost.

I had the uncontrollable urge to get away. I couldn't bear to see the place in such ruin.

Every other building, along that once proud promenade, was boarded up. The whole town ached with decay.

On the way home, we stopped for something to eat and I apologised to Chanel for wasting her time.

“It's okay Dad” she said, “It's not your fault – you should've bought an Ice-Maker Machine from Blackpool, shouldn't ya Dad?”

I understand that the towns committee for Rhyl has eventually woken up and things are being done to restore some basic tourism to Rhyl. Too late though, I think. Far too late. And yet Rhyl has a lot to offer, the beaches are great. The surrounding area is steeped in history, just around the corner is Rhuddlan, a magnificent castle, built by Edward 1^st (Longshanks) in the 12^th Century, to control the Welsh. There's plenty to see with the many seaside resorts, one after another along the coast. Prestatyn, Towyn, Colwyn Bay and the spectacularly frozen-in-time Llandudno.

I'm gonna make a promise to myself that I'll visit the area again, probably next summer. Spend a few days there and capture whatever memories are left over before its too late.

When YOUR OWN NAME is not your own.

Facebook. It has it's good points but by Christ does it have its bad points.

I am lucky enough to be friends (and not just Facebook friends) with Wreckless Eric. You may or may not have heard of him, depending on your musical tastes but Wreckless Eric was one of the heroes of my youth. He was one of the STIFF record label stable that included Ian Dury & The Blockheads, Dave Edmonds, Lene Lovich, Nick Lowe, Dr. Feelgood, Elvis Costello, Madness, Kirsty MacColl..... I could go on.....

Wreckless Eric was to his parents and contemporaries, plain old Eric Goulden. To the rest of the world he is, and will always be Wreckless Eric, composer and performer of the great “Whole Wide World” (amongst others).

I've been a fan since those great days when we all purchased records instead of downloading them from a file-sharing site for free. Vinyl was king. I had 3 paper-rounds plus a Saturday job, so I was a great customer for Woolworths and Graduate Records (Dudley). I was a happy record shopper and absorbed every far-reaching strand that music reached out to. I had my phases as a Punk, A Rocker, a Mod, a New Romantic, everything you could name, I've been it. Good God. Thinking back. I must've looked a bit of a freak. Well. I'm sure I did, as much as I'm sure I still do now.

Wreckless Eric has been a friend since he played a gig at my pub, The Dolls House, in March 2010. I've seen him and his excellent wife and co-performer Amy Rigby a good few times, whenever they are in our area. They are FANTASTIC. No other way of describing their art.

Last gig of theirs that I went to, Eric said “Hi Kris” to me from the stage when he spotted me amongst the audience, right by the bar. I felt like jumping up into the air.

We keep in touch by Facebook. It's useful for this as you can let everyone know what you're up to and what is having effect on you.

He is following the progress of my Band, Pearl Necklace and has offered help whenever we feel the time is right to record. He is a friend now, as well as still, one of my heroes.

Today, after doing the tiny bit of work I had to do, I opened up the computer and went to Facebook. Checking up what's on peoples minds. Passing comments and passing on news. I saw a status from Eric Goulden which was complaining that the powers that be, within the Facebook organisation had altered his account details from WRECKLESS ERIC to his real name.

What right do these people have to decide for Wreckless Eric that he must be Eric Goulden.

I am appalled.

Firstly, do they not understand the concept of a stage name? Are they so shallow?

Are they also saying that I now must call myself Christopher John Tarplee rather than my preferred moniker of Kris Misery-Guts Tarplee which I feel better expresses my inner self. Surely it's up to me? You can call yourself whatever you want to and I'll call myself whatever I want to. Surely that's right. Surely.

I've recently put a “presence” on Facebook for my band, Pearl Necklace. The idea being that everyone who wants to know more about us can easily look us up and keep abreast of whatever we are doing or wherever and whenever we are gigging. What happens now then? How do we sort this one out? Pearl Necklace as a single person doesn't exist, obviously. Do I have to close the account? Or maybe the little Napoleon at Facebook would allow me to keep it, so long as I changed my name by deed to Pearl Necklace. Trouble is, Pearl is a girls name and I'm still a boy.

Oh shit. It has just become clear to me.

I'm gonna have to seriously consider my musicianship over my gender and whether I give up as the singer in a Rock and Roll Band and keep my testicles, or disappear for a few weeks, have my swingers lopped off and my sword de-porked. Call myself Pearl Necklace and carry on with the band.

I'm being silly, of course, but so are Facebook.

What's the point of it?

They accuse Wreckless Eric of being fake. Not a bit of it mate. Not a bit. He's one of the most REAL people you can meet. Fake, he most certainly is not.

If (and I ain't checked up either way) Cliff Richard had a Facebook page do you think he'd be forced to change it to Harry Webb? Would my Mom still love him if he was Harry? I don't suppose her devotion to him could ever be moved after all these years but would she have ever followed Harry Webb the same way she followed Cliff? Impossible to answer but food for thought. Imagine if she'd been so compulsive about Cliff when I had been born. Jumping Jesus. I might be Cliff Tarplee. Feck me with a stick.

Come on Facebook. Show some sympathy and some taste. Lets not be simpletons. Lets put a bit of perspective to work here.

Wreckless Eric Forever.

There's no choice in Healthy Choices

Have you ever had a bag of chips from a chippie that cooks in the good old fashioned way, using Beef Dripping to cook the chips, instead of the modernist Vegetable Oil?

If you haven't, buddy, you ain't lived.

In those golden times before every fecking thing you ate was poisonous or at least dangerous, food actually used to taste of something.

It's been a hell of a long time now, so most of you wouldn't remember, but thankfully, I'm quite old.

I can quite clearly remember how delicious chips were, cooked in Beef Dripping, plastered in salt and vinegar and wrapped up in newspaper. Even better were the Batter Bits (odd shaped left-over scatterings of batter that had been tipped into the fryer). Batter Bits were often just given away free with your chips as a bit of a treat.

Eating a bag of chips in the street was fantastic. You tore away at one end of the wrapped up chips. I wonder why it was always known as a “bag” of chips when no-one ever used a bag back then, but nonetheless, a bag of chips it was and is.

School dinner-breaks on cold winter days were actually a delight thanks to eating a lovely bag of chips from one end of the bag. Total concentration. As you and your mates wandered back towards school, blowing on your fingers as they absorbed the heat from the chips. Steam rose from the opening, filling your nose and making your other senses useless as your single-minded determination to get every last delicious morsel out of the bag took priority over everything else.

Those precious days are gone, it seems, forever, and not just for me but for everyone. We live in a society and time where you're not allowed to eat things with any real taste to them. This is of course because of fats and cholesterols and healthy lifestyles and such nonsense.

How long before your local chippie is barred from offering you salt on your chips?

Things have gone too far to be redeemed now and I may as well acknowledge that I've gotta give up this, that, and the bloody other, whether I want to or not. The things that make me mortal and who I am are the things that I enjoy and have enjoyed. Eventually, we will all be identical and live without salt, sugar, milk, butter, chocolate, eggs, chocolate eggs, alcohol and sex. It's a future we allow to creep upon us, like a slowly moving shadow, crossing the land. A future that I simply don't care for but must accept.

We had to say goodbye to another outpost of the past today. A place of deliciousness which has succumbed to the inevitable.

My wife, Jo and I were out shopping and having not yet eaten for the day, decided on the age old love of Traditional Fish & Chips.

There is (or rather was) a great little chippie in the High Street of Blackheath, Rowley Regis called, rather smashingly, “Batter-Bits”. The name itself won me over instantly with its tug-of-love to the past. What was amazing about “Batter-Bits” was that they cooked their chips in Beef Dripping. Jo and her Mom used “Batter-Bits” every week as part of their shopping ritual together, often bringing back a bag of Fish & Chips for me.

It was always delicious. Beautiful chips. Beautiful Fish in exquisite batter. Fabulous Peas and fabulous gravy.

So we popped in there today for a sit-down meal of Fish & Chips, Peas & Gravy. I was so looking forward to it that I could hardly wait to park the car.

We walked into the shop expecting to see Chris & Gemma, the girls who work there but instead received a greeting from the new owner, an Asian gentleman with a neatly sculptured goaty & tosh.

“Good afternoon Sir, Madame, can I help you?......”

Jo and I looked at each other. “Where's the.... er ….. lady?” Jo enquired.

“Lady is here!” said he. “She in back” and he pointed toward the rear of the property to where the back kitchen area was.

We looked but could not see either of the girls we knew, only other young Asian men wandering about trying to look like they knew what they were doing.

Under New Ownership read the sign. Hmmm.

“Do you still fry in Dripping?”

“No Mate.... Dripping no good. Not healthy. You need look after yourself Ennit? Healthy Lifestyle Choices Ennit”

“Hmmm.... Mate. Listen” I offered a little advice of my own. “I made a Lifestyle Choice when I came into this shop with the intention of eating Fish & Chips....... Ennit”.

I didn't continue with the discussion as, as much as I enjoy preaching, I know instinctively when my congregation ain't listening.

We ordered our meal regardless of the expected disappointment, hoping against hope that it would be what we wanted.

It wasn't.

The chips, although the equal to any chips you can buy elsewhere in Blackheath, were just that.

Just the Equal. No longer The Best.

And there ain't no use in complaining because I can't back up my argument with data and statistics. I have the whole horrid pansy-mamby-pamby brigade against me and only my opinion for me.

I used that Chippie because I loved the REAL TASTE that touched my soul and reminded me of my childhood.

I made a lifestyle choice about cholesterol before I entered a fecking Fish & Chip shop. I don't want this or any other healthy choice. I want to be able to make a taste choice. There are 3 other Chip Shops in Blackheath, all already cooking in Vegetable Oil. I already had that choice and had made my choice.

So. I will submit. I will give up another of those things that please me because someone, somewhere has decided that I need a healthy choice which in the end means I have no choice at all.

Goodbye “Batter-Bits”. As a great man once wrote, “....... goodbye...... and thanks for all the fish.

Oh My Aching Back :o(

I've suffered from this poorly aching back for three weeks now. Its just about sent me mental.

Its all my own fault of course. The pain is due to mechanical failure of my bones, who's epic job it has been, to support this colossal weight for all these years.

The bones are trapping the nerves as the muscles push and pull against each other, compensating, first on one side and then the other until the whole orchestra of pain is reaching the crescendo of Last Night Of The Proms.

So. This afternoon, I stood in just my badly fitting boxer shorts looking out the window while a bloke I'd only just met, looks me up and down, tut-tutting not quite to himself and muttering “Hmm. Yes. Looks like its mainly on the right hand side”.

I stood there in his surgery while he asked the usual questions about my diet and alcohol intake.

To be fair, he wasn't, or at least didn't seem to be too judgemental. I think I was as honest with him as I could have been.

“Do you take regular medication?”

“I should do, but I don't” I confessed. I should take Blood Pressure and Cholesterol tablets but without someone standing over me, making me take them, I just don't seem to get around to taking them.

“And Pain Relief? Ibuprofen?”

“No. Not Ibuprofen. Co-Codomol. Prefer Codeine”.

“Ah..... on prescription! So you've seen your doctor about this?”

“Erm... No. The Co-Codomol are someone elses”.

“So you are happy to take someone else's medication but not your own”

Thank you Doctor, for understanding how things are on planet Tarplee.

Nick Simpson is his name. Registered Osteopath. He's the guy who, this afternoon has cavorted with me on a couch. He wrestled me in a “Big Daddy” style, but a “Big Daddy” that has already convinced his opponent that you should help him out some, by first letting him put your legs and arms in curious scissor positions.

I think he had me in what they call a “half Nelson”. He bent before me with his one arm and shoulder holding my legs, his other arm and shoulder holding my shoulders, with his knee to my groin. Then he just sort of pulled me apart in the way you might try to open a giant 6ft Christmas Cracker if you were on your own. It took a few “rocks” back and forth first of all, perhaps while he lulled me into a false sense of security.

And so, sufficiently lulled and with my worry mingled with shyness that I'm butt naked, apart from my ill-fitting boxers and there's a man touching me almost everywhere, he cracked me.

The noise was considerably louder than any of us had expected. Even Nick looked a little frightened by the sound.

I had pains just about everywhere.

Both my legs had decided to display their dis-satisfaction, by refusing to allow Nick to bend them where he wanted them. Spasms of violent cramp had me almost kick the poor fella in the face.

I'm home now and I'm now in severe pain, as he said I would be. I'm to expect this to come and go over the next few days but not to panic. If I still feel like even Stephen Hawking could beat me up the stairs, this time next week, I'm to give him a call. In the meantime, he's off on his holidays. Skiing.

Thanks Nick. Have a nice trip. And Oh Yes. Be careful. Wouldn't want you hurting your back.

Godbye JB's – RIP

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Last night JB's closed its doors for the last time.

Its a tragedy for live music in the Midlands. Another venue, one with a great tradition and history, bites the dust.

I first went to JB's in around 1984. I had left sixth form and started work at Drainage Castings. The younger lads in the warehouse and offices often mentioned this “Night Club” called JB's.

I was, of course, keen to see all of the clubs in our area. It was sort of expected of us to go to Night Clubs – to pay over the odds for watered down pissy lager whilst wearing the very latest in faux-designerwear (bought for a couple of quid from Dudley Market). We'd stand around, near the bar, eyeing-up the girls in their faux-designerwear, hoping to get laid (without having to spend all our wages on said girl in faux-designerwear). As you can imagine, we had very little success in that area, but trying was important thing. The thrill of the chase. Oh, happy days.

One Friday night, Boz and I went to Dudley looking to get laid. We popped in one or two of the trendier pubs and found nothing more interesting than a Jukebox to amuse us. “Fancy trying JB's?” asked Boz.

“Yer..... Why not.... The guys at work go there from time to time. They might be there tonight. - Yer. Its worth a look I suppose.....” and off we headed in the direction of Pathfinders where we knew JB's to be lurking, hidden from the daylight, crouching, out of the way on someone else's car park.

Boz and I had gone to Dudley dressed in our usual uniform of faux-designerwear. Boz had really gone to town though, having been convinced that his “Italian Waiter” style suit with short double-breasted jacket and pleated trousers were what were required to get laid in Dudley that evening. I wasn't quite that trendily dressed and felt quite comfortable in my electric blue cardigan. We hoped we were adequately dressed for this “Night Club”. “Hope we can get in” we agreed to each other.

We paid our way into JB's, handing the money over to a giant bearded guy who looked like his previous job had been at Altamont. We were only just entering the place and already it was as dark as hell. The walls were black. There was little, if any light. I looked at Boz who was now biting his lower lip. Suddenly a door burst open and we were flooded with light and the familiar stench of the Gents. A guy wearing a mechanic's all-in-one overall walked out the Gents looking at us as if we were aliens. He must have been thinking “Feck me, look at these two, … what have they come as?”

He soon got bored with looking at us and headed through a door into the main room where the Bar ran the length of the back wall. We followed him tentatively. Tentative. That's exactly the word to describe us.

I went to the Bar and asked for a Cider for me and a Coke for Boz (who rarely drank alcohol then, and never does now, clever lad).

Firstly, I was a little surprised to receive the Coke as a can, without even the offer of a glass. In Night Clubs I was accustomed to glasses. Secondly, I was shocked out of my eyeballs to be given my Cider as a can. It was a can of SPECIAL VAT Cider. I looked along the bar at everyone else drinking happily from their cans. Okay, I thought. No big deal. Its a can. Its Okay. Relax. Nothings gonna hurt you.

I passed Boz his can of Coke and he looked at me frantically. “Er”.

My thoughts exactly Boz. Er.

“Do you think we're a little over-dressed mate?” He asked.

“Maybe a touch, yes”.

The music filling the place was very loud. I hadn't got a clue who it was or even what genre it was. It was just very loud. We stood around awkwardly trying not to look at anyone.

Eventually the band appeared on the stage and started playing their very loud stuff. I hadn't got a fecking clue. I decided that the safest thing to do was have another can of SPECIAL VAT.

While the band played their stuff I looked around the room at the fantastic collection of posters adorning the walls. I particularly liked the one of Shane MacGowan. It was the poster that advertised Rum Sodomy And The Lash by The Pogues. He was wearing a Napoleon’s hat and tunic and his teeth were spectacular. I was transfixed.

Another great poster hanging up there was for Sisters Of Mercy. Brilliant.

I was scared shitless but too fascinated to leave.

I can't remember the name of the band who played that night I first entered the underworld of JB's. I guess it doesn't matter as probably no-one in the room knew either.

Goodness knows what happened that night. The SPECIAL VAT continued to flow and the music continued to play. Eventually we must have gone home (via Pars Kebab House). We must have enjoyed our first experience (or was it morbid fascination) at JB's as we soon became addicted to the place.

Over the years I have been lucky enough to have seen some brilliant bands at JB's. The list includes such luminaries as The Wonderstuff, Fuzzbox (who were one of my greatest nights there), Semour (who later changed their name to BLUR), Ned's Atomic Dustbin, The Wallflowers and The Mighty Lemon Drops (of which my good friend and colleague at Drainage Castings, Keith, was the drummer – another story – I don't want this to be a blog boasting of famous friends). The list of bands I saw there could go on and on. Great bands. Great times.

When JB's moved from behind Pathfinders it changed. I've been to the new building many times to see such and such tribute or band but it just wasn't the same. It couldn't be.

And now it has gone.

Last night, one of my mates, Simon Bennett, asked me if I fancied going up there for the last time. I enquired the name of the band but wasn't interested really. Half of me wanted to go and be part of the final bow out, but the rest of me...... just didn't want to go.

Perhaps that's where the problem lies. I'm mourning far too late. The JB's I loved went a million years ago when we were young and Britain still had a lady prime minister.

This JB's wasn't my JB's.

My JB's was a subterranean underworld where zombies walked. Where bands played before they became famous, or disappeared forever. Where crushed up SPECIAL VAT and RED STRIPE cans piled up around the edges of the room. Where most of the women looked like Siouxsie Sioux or Mary from the first year of Eastenders. Where two young men, in comfortable brogues and pleated trousers crashed headlong into a future where music was dark and heavy and real.

JB's. RIP.

Your Country Needs You !!!

Oh dear. Where to start, where to start?

What do I start with?

My embarrassment?

My disenfranchisement?

My horror?

It’s just disgraceful.

First point of issue has to be “Over-Paid Prima-Donna’s”.

What a bunch of wankers we have running the FA.

I’ve been a manager for almost the whole of my working life. I understand how hard it can be to get those “Under you” to perform to their highest standard. How difficult it can be to ask them to “go that extra mile” for you when they are tired and low. It has been tough pushing my friends and colleagues to reach the targets which are perhaps really beyond our reach. But. But. And it’s a big but. Dare I say that I have done it. That’s why I got the better pay. That’s why I climbed the ladder and got to the top of the organisation.

In my business now, I run one of the few pubs that are surviving this combined government/council attack on a once great industry. My ability to manage keeps my business running and surviving.

I could run The England Football squad.

However. I wouldn’t want to be England Manager. I wanna be the Chairman of the F.A.

I would sort this shower of shit out. Trust me.

My first action as the new head of the F.A. would be to sack the whole fucking lot of them. Start again with a fresh organisation who actually care whether England win or not.

Interviews for my managerial staff would be simple enough. There must be zillions of qualified people applying for the job. How do you pick between them. I would show preference to those coming to be interviewed wearing England Shirts and (even better) sporting a visible England Tattoo. My reasoning being that if you love your country enough to wear the badge – you’re in.

My second action would be to round up all the arseholes who Cappello took with him to South Africa. I’d get them in the office, one at a time, and tell them to hand back any property belonging to Team England and GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY SIGHT. They are not fit to wear the shirt and never will again. Over-Paid-Prima-Donna’s. Indeed they are.

Am I over-reacting? I don’t think I am. After all, this is the most important issue in the entire country.

Ask yourself this. The recent General Election. Not even half of us bothered to vote. Those that did vote generally had split opinions as to who should rule the country. Some support Labour, some Conservative, others the other weirdos.

At the World Cup 2010 we were of ONE SINGLE OPINION. WE ALL WANT ENGLAND TO WIN THE WORLD CUP.

Every single one of us. There is no greater issue in the country. England should win the World Cup.

Some of us like Rock Music. Others can’t stand it. They prefer Dance music (Hmm. Another subject, another day) or Classical, or Jazz, or whatever. We don’t all agree. We all have different tastes. BUT - WE ALL WANT ENGLAND TO WIN THE WORLD CUP.

Some people like watching Ant and Dec on a Saturday night. Some prefer Dale Orange. Some will watch anything to avoid him, even “Come Dine With Me”. BUT - WE ALL WANT ENGLAND TO WIN THE WORLD CUP.

It’s the one uniting issue in England. WE ALL WANT ENGLAND TO WIN THE WORLD CUP.

Some of my friends insist that the country would be better of as a republic. Others of my acquaintance love our Queen.

When HM Queen reaches the end of her reign and God calls her off to the big Corgi Kennel in the sky, we will no doubt be given a day’s holiday to celebrate the coronation of Big Ears and his wife, Clamidia. I wonder whether as many people will be putting flags on their cars and houses in patriotic fervour as we have seen over the last few weeks.

I wonder how many people will tune in on that day to watch the procession. Not as many as tuned in to see our idle bastards being out-played by Slovenia, a nation with as many inhabitants as Birmingham.

I wonder if my pub will be filled with many cheering boozy revellers, happy in celebration of our new monarch as we saw when our idle bastards managed to scrape a goal against that great footballing nation, Algeria.

I will happily give my vote to any political party who can promise me that England will win the next World Cup. We can win it. Maybe one day. When we have people in charge with as much passion and understanding of the game as our housewives and pensioners. Maybe one day we will have the guts to change things.

I would make it clear to everyone that playing for your country, when your country is England, is about the most privileged thing you could ever do. I would insist that any player earning over £3,000 per week (which is all of the twats) is disqualified from ever putting on the shirt unless their earnings were put into trust for when their career in football is over. Any player who plays his club football overseas is also similarly disqualified. England is where you live and work, thank you very much.

The teams that employ the potential England team individuals would be HEAVILY fined for playing our lads the week before an international match and equally fined for not playing them at other times. I will not tolerate our lads sitting on the bench for Man U when they should be scoring goals.

These are just a few ideas and PLEASE, feel free to add your own, by way of COMMENT below.

Lets make a change folks. Lets make it happen, after all, it’s more important than anything.