Myths and yore 2: fishtoft.

Neighbourhoods have always been happy and active places throughout history.

Well my history certainly. At a young (primary school) age, my brothers and I would often be found playing various iterations of football on the streets outside our house. This usually meant the odd dive into people’s gardens to fetch balls, both with permission (“pleeeeease can we ‘ave our ball back?!”) and without permission (“you’re smallest, you go in through the hedge… go! SHE’S WATCHING! RUN!”). We were mischievous in the extent that we often preferred the latter in our ball fetching techniques, mainly because it seemed rather pointless to knock every single time (I might point out that at that age we were all very erratic kickers of the ball, leading to us entering gardens almost every 5 minutes).

So having a reputation for horrific ball kicking, we moved to a larger house on the outskirts of town. It sat in a tidy little cul-de-sac complete with green expanse just perfect for playing football. Which we did. As a result we gathered a motley crew of fellow football ragamuffins and we all played together in 3 on 3s, FA (every man for himself with one goal, score to “go through”, last man drops out, repeat to fade…) and, as we grew older (read: more stupid), we also played “Rosy” (a.k.a Doggy / Headers and Volleys) which was a game revolving around punishing poor ability. The idea is to score past each other, without missing or being caught, till their lives run out, which results in them having to stand on the goal line, bent over, whilst people take it in turns to boot the ball at them. There’s a much worse version too, which we played once but then decided to avoid. “Tunnel” was exactly the same except as a punishment you have to run through a tunnel of boys hell bent on kicking lumps out of you. It only takes one slightly erratic boy and you have what amounts to a gauntlet of death.

We were all in the teenage phase of life, the one where you do insanely stupid things because a) there’s alcohol involved b) it’s funny to do it c) there’s a camera involved or d) all of the above. I think we’re far enough in the future that I can openly talk about this without my mother climbing into her car, driving for 3 hours and banging on my door shouting “I TOLD YOU NOT TO DO IT!”, so, I’ll let the world into some of the antics we got up to.

We skated. We were all entranced by hopping about on shin destroying planks with wheels. We also had plans. We built 2 – 3 ramps for use to use. the first few were the simple wedge designs for the street, where we’d push to break-neck speeds then go over a ramp that inevitable sent us skyward… well, at least a foot higher than normal. We progressed. We constructed mini pipes. Initially, a friend constructed one in his garage. It was 2ft high, complete with ply and curves. We spent nights in there, listening to Sum 41 (…wow…) and skating. We’d put on Pain for Pleasure and then watching as Kemp then went spastic crazy all over the ramp – skating twice as frantically to the music. It was like 90 seconds of madness followed by minutes of laughter: inevitably he’d fall and hurt himself so bad that he’d just be foetal on the base of the ramp, rolling and repeating “AHHHHHH AHAHHAHAAA AAAH!” whilst the rest of us just.. laughed.

As we were doing this, a group of guys in America had just been handed a TV show to display their acts of stupidity. Jackass played the warnings. “Do not try this at home” it said. So we didn’t. We did it on the streets, in the park and in town. We had a camera, and a friend with video editing software. We made our own Jackass. Admittedly, though much inspiration was taken from the show, a lot of the things we did as past times already: the ramp and street skating, dares and suchlike were already part and parcel. So was bridge jumping. We had two bridges on the river near to us, both of which had a nice 18 to 20ft drop from their tops to the river below. So in summer, when it was warm, we jumped. This sounds madly dangerous, but we did check before we started – we swam out, and dove near the impact area to check for trolleys and the like, and whenever we were trying something new (front flips, back flips etc.) we’d have someone in the water on standby (we were safe idiots). By the end we’d had some true stories to tell – Kemp (again) had a “special” where he’d pump himself up to a frenetic scale, then scream “TEMPLE… BABY”, jump, and punch himself in the temple of his head. Why? I forget. I remember watching it for the first time though, and it was so funny we were on our knees with laughter. We’d jump in twos, having mid air punch ups, we’d run along the bridge then jump, if someone was stood on the bridge waiting too long sometimes they’d find themselves falling sooner than anticipated, seeing laughing faces rising above them…

There were many more stories that I haven’t space to put in. We built a lake ramp on the river. We held monster parties. We interacted with girls. We acted like most teenage boys, stupidly. However, I don’t think there were many regrets from that period in our lives. Yes, we all had an embarrassing moment that the rest of us held over us. Yes, I seem to have more than the others. But they remind me of a time spent with very few and very minor cares. There was no employment unless you wanted extra cash, no bills. It was a childhood well spent. People always say that they’d give anything to be young again. I think, teenage angst and moping aside, that my childhood is something I’m quite happy to keep. We all lived it up pretty well. Reliving it just wouldn’t be the same.

From left to right: Jab, # Marc (a.k.a Buddy 1), Pete (at the back), Bob, KEMP, Tat, # Nigel

# Note: Picture was taken during my Stag night, Marc and Nige were lucky / unlucky enough not to live in Fishtoft.

Myths and yore 1: School.

Today, I am recounting life and memories of days spent in or at school. Recollecting the good times and bad. I’m doing this for two reasons. One, a friend has requested I write more of my illustrious past and two, I was contacted with some shocking information about my previous school.

Boston teacher pleads guilty to possessing indecent images of children.

Admittedly, there is little connection in this for me other then the location, the teacher was new (well, new in that he wasn’t there in 2002) and I think I’d remember posing in my swimshorts. But it still surprised me enough to want to comment. It’s such a betrayal of trust. As a teacher, you are meant to be a base of integrity and resilience, a go-to or counsel for children. Taking advantage of that position in such a way is just nasty and very disturbing.

Anyway. My memory of school wasn’t flooded with bouts of child pornography. It was more of the everyday, day to day mundanity with the odd day of inspired mischief. Obviously, for the most part, what with me being your geeky, bespectacled type, much of these experiences were observational based. I would never do things like using chemicals to stain a massive penis on the school grass, or use a bike lock to lock all of the staff cars inside the school gates. I would never have run through the school with water pistols and shot at all the teachers either. That’s not my calibre of mischief.

I think I was caught out 3 times at school. Twice, they earned me punishments. Once, it earned a round of applause.

The first time, was when it snowed at school and we thought it wise to fight in the quad (my school was an historic grammar school) which just so happened to be located outside the headmaster’s office. No surprises for what happened next…

Although I love the moment before you get caught in these instances. For us, the shout came right after a launch, which coincidentally hit the window right where the headmaster was stood. One of those things I guess. That earned us the excitement of standing outside his office for the entirety of our lunch. I know, true Shawshank.

The second time was hilarious. Children (and adults alike) can have a penchant for collecting elastic bands. If you walk to school then after a while you can have collected a fair few of these postal treats. If you then bound them together in a sort of rotund shape, you create what can only be known as the world’s most erratic and lethal powerball. The shop bought manufactured bouncers are all well and good, but they have nothing on the elastic bands. It’s the gleeful combination of both an uneven surface and a really strong bounce that just make playing with the thing hilarious.

So we did. In a classroom. We closed the windows and the door, and tried to clear all the surfaces for maximum bounce impact opportunity and ten of us ducked, dipped dived and dodged as the tennis ball sized ball of elastic fury charged about the room.

Yet, this did not please enough. We decided to add a bit of “wow”. Some “razmatazz”. We located a staple gun. One lad took sentry in the corner of the room, shooting at people when they appeared from behind desks to continue the elastic crusade. Hearing someone cry “it shot me in the forehead!” whilst an elastic ball is bouncing by when I was 13 was very, very funny. Right up until the Deputy-Headmaster walks in on you. Brickwork really loses its appeal after the 45th minute of your lunch.

The third was just a awesome. I’ll never live one like it again. We had an aging, soon to retire history teacher during our first year. He was clearly ready for his retirement, and had taken to teaching the Romans by playing the film “Spartacus” rather than trudge through the text books. It was fantastic. I love that it was rated 15, we were all 11/12 and the way of getting or seeking permission was for him to say “no-one tell your parents”. I only wish I’d been there for parents evening . One day, the teacher had yet to arrive and thus we decided to set up a surprise. In a geeky effort to earn some brownie points from the R.E. teacher, I had coincidentally brought in a gift from my father, a Mosque clock which he had picked up after visiting Kuwait. The clock plays an Adhan as its alarm chime.

We’re sat in the history room, hidden underneath the desks (the really old-with-a-lid-and-bucket-for-stuff types) with the curtains closed and the lights off. The only thing visible is this clock. The teacher arrives, and my hand appears and switches the alarm on, whilst 7B all snigger under their desks. “Ennnnnnnyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnyenyeaaarrrrrrahahhhaaaa!” it cries. We peer over the edge, to find that the teacher has merely sat at his desk at the front of the room, and starting making bowing motions towards the clock, massive grin all over his face. Fantastic, although looking back possibly a little contentious…

There are plenty more myths and yore to come. Be excited. Or not. Up to you really.

Aw bless, he has friends.

SHOCKER: I’m not writing to complain.

Reading back through my recent posts it seems like I’ve developed a penchant for a moan. I’m not actually inspired by hatred for the world. Nor do I despise it. Actually, at the moment I’m feeling pretty happy with the state of affairs that I’m in.

True, I’m very, very poor in a sense (I can eat, but I can’t buy media etc).

True, I’m unemployed, in a sense (I’m being interviewed and soon to become a student).

Nevertheless, I’m happy. Both of these truths have a deadline. Eventually they’ll end.

I’m happy in the meantime because though I live nowhere near any of my friends, I know that they are there. I don’t know why I’m so keen to relate this of late, but I truly do value my friends.

In their honour, here’s a bio of two of the rascals. I’ve omitted the names because for you guys its not too relevant and (if they read it) they’ll know.

Buddy 1 I think people truly don’t understand the value of friends made at University. I met him and ended up sharing a room with him during the first year, and a house in the second and the fourth years too. He’s earned himself a bio because through all the dirges I’ve dragged him through, he’s still standing by me. Admittedly, we’ve sometimes not seen eye to eye, and sometimes there’s been tough calls made, but at the end of it all, he still keeps coming back for more. I always remember a moment we spent in the Hofbrauhaus in Munich, Germany. We’d been drinking all morning, and had run out of cigarettes. Duly, we combined change and fetched some from the machine, only to realise that we’d pulled out filter-less cigarettes.

I don’t know whether you’ve experienced the horror that we felt in that moment, as we opened the pack to the sight of tobacco. Groans were made and sobs of woe, as I held up the cigarette and peered into the twin ends of tobacco. We rallied. I exclaimed “we shall waste not want not!” or something similar. Probably not similar. I was drunk. Probably “Nargh mynah haha manarh?!”. He laughed. He ensured me that this was not going to be pleasant. He was right. Smoking that cigarette was like using a tube full of really thin straws or hairs. Within seconds I was scratching my tongue trying to remove the nastiness. He laughed, and went to buy some more, filtered cigarettes.

Buddy 2 stands for evidence that boys and girls can be friends. We met a while back as a result of housing desperation. I was just starting on a Primary PGCE (Postgraduate Certificate in Education) course, which I had attained through the clearing process. As a result of clearing, I then had a week within which I had to find a house, find some housemates, rent and move into said house ready to start Uni the following Monday. Hectic doesn’t even begin to describe it. Internet housing forums became my best friend, the refresh button my “man’s best friend”, obediently keeping me in the loop.

I get an email from a girl. She says she is looking too, would it be possible to look together? I obliged, and within a day we had two others and then within some more days, we were signing papers for accommodation. Turns out, unsurprisingly, that renting with complete strangers can be a bit of a lottery. The other two managed to provide some really awkward situations. For example, inappropriate advances and theft tastefully combined with sodden floors and weird odours. Buddy 2 and I ended up sharing a similar sense of normal, and as a result became friends. Most of the funniest moments we shared we largely due to her temperance for alcohol (haha ), but one particular night shone brightest – her, one of the other housemates, chris and I hit the town to celebrate my birthday. We went to an Italian, where, for no apparent reason, housemate decided to leave. Plain walked out of the restaurant just as we were seated. Buddy 2 tries to console housemate, to no avail. Chris tries to make sure housemate took a taxi at least, and was told “I’m not getting a taxi, he’ll only rape me” as housemate took his proffered fiver and walked off. (Thinking about it, housemate deserves a blog post. Expect one soon.)

Buddy 2 was also one of the first people to ever see me perform karaoke too. I performed Take That’s “Want you back” with some others as a birthday wish / demand. That then started a year long obsession with Singstar. Good times.

I’ll stop here before this becomes an essay. I read somewhere that though we do truly value friends and family, it’s rare that we share this fact with them. Tell them – they’ll appreciate it and you’ll feel great for telling them!

plastic moments

Just a short post, mainly because I wanted to share this but the recent request got to my imagination before I could.

The film American Beauty can be well remembered by all for one particular moment. The plastic bag scene. The clip showing the audience a waltzing plastic bag floating around on its merry way. The character Ricky Fitts described it quite vividly:

“It was one of those days when it’s a minute away from snowing and there’s this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was, like, dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. And that’s the day I knew there was this entire life behind things, and… this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video’s a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember… and I need to remember… Sometimes there’s so much beauty in the world I feel like I can’t take it, like my heart’s going to cave in.” Source

Yeah. Wow. Quite amazing that a plastic bag can really blow someone away like that.

Anyway, fact of the matter is, for the last two days I have seen some really beautiful moments. I’m aware this could end up sounding really lame, but these moments were quite simply terrific. They gave me that overwhelming feeling of awe, at the world and the powers that be. I’m not overly religious, but these moments felt like some kind of sign. Maybe in a future post I’ll travel that road, but for now let me tell you about my plastic moments.

• Walking into Lincoln city centre, I came across a motorbike that was stopping at a roundabout. This bike was cool. It was massive. Superbike for sure. The guy on it reflected that, and then he put his foot on the floor to steady himself. His feet with converse pumps on them. These pumps were very large, and it gave the impression that he had clown feet. So you had this fantastic cool superbike rider put his feet down to reveal clown shoes. I’m laughing.
• Walking back out of the city back towards the car I was halted by the rail crossing barrier. I looked at the approaching passenger train and was rewarded. The front capsule of the train held a beaming train driver facing my direction. It was like a childhood picture coming to life – a moving train with a smiling driver. Beautiful.
• Driving into Fishtoft, I noticed a swallow flying above. This guy was pumping his wings like crazy, except he was completely still in the air. He was matching the power of the wind with the power of his wings. Achieving a floating equilibrium.
• Finally, leaving Fishtoft for home, I spied a minature tornado in one of the fields. A little swirl of dust spinning eternally along the brown plains. It looked spectacular. The dust it had collected helped define it into a perfect cone shape.

All of these moments were entirely unrelated, yet they all gave me this wonderful feeling. The feeling that everything in life is superb and that there is a plan for me somewhere. In a spiritual sense, it really gave me that feeling that there is a higher power, and He / She / It is completely with me, in my corner, supporting my team.

It filled me with joy, that “…sometimes there’s so much beauty in the world I feel like I can’t take it, like my heart’s going to cave in.”

My very own set of plastic bag moments.

curiosity cat

With the internet connection back up and running at my humble abode, I can recommence the writing that someone knows and loves. What better way to inaugurate my live connection than a request post.

Pets are something that have largely passed me by in life. My earliest memory of such creatures is one of an immortal goldfish. Well, not quite immortal seeing as the thing died, but for a fish that was won at a fair, the lifespan of almost 8 years is pretty incredible. Perhaps my parents switched him over part of the way through in a sneaky conspiracy to make me believe that goldfish live for ages. Not quite sure where the kick is there, but it is a very probable occurance.

Fish have been a staple diet of my pet lifestyle. There has always been some kind of fish hanging about the place. usually loitering in the kitchen. These days, my mother’s fish are quite, quite crazy. The latest death in the fishy world was one that had no tail, one fin and a strange vertical swimming technique. It was in the equal opportunites queue at the fish checkout. This guy was pretty darn retarded. Previous fish not so much. The afore mentioned dead-immortal fish grew, and grew, and grew. It got to be very big. For a goldfish. It wouldn’t challenge godzilla, but I reckon it could definitely intimidate a herring. Probably more so with it’s attitude rather than size though.

I’m rambling.

Best pet memory concerning myself that I can’t remember is one my mother glees to tell people. We used to have a cat. Smithy. He was one mean cat. If cats had a Mafia, he’d be a don. He was the kind of pet that wasn’t really a pet. He was more like an occupying force in the house, currently ruling until the local population could muster a retaliation. And one day, the first stages of rebellion came. An insurgency force, known as young boy, came into the kitchen, with a mind to disrupting the equilibrium. The cat was currently engaged with stapling his authority over the couch, before coming to eat his minion-prepared meal. But lo, as he was entering the kitchen for this meal he was confronted by a blatant attack on his dominance. For young boy was totally munching on down on that food. He was chomping on cat food like there was no tomorrow. Smithy had to address this situation. A tussle ensued, and the young boy retreated to plot another attack at another time, suffering only from minor scratch wounds.

Yes, that young boy was me.

I have no idea why I ate cat food. As far as I can recall, I think it was sheer curiosity. I think somewhere in my train of thought I had seen that i) it was food, and ii) it smelled ok so, iii) why not eat it? It must have been the meatiness that appealled to me. It looked like a gravy covered tasty meaty treat. I had to try it. I mean, it didn’t look terrible. It looked like chunks of stewy meat with jelly and gravy on. Think of the combination. I like the jelly in pork pies (tick). I like stewy meat (tick). I like gravy (tick). It fit the bill as awesome snack. In my head I must have been thinking “Why not munch on that chap? It fits the criteria for interesting and tasty food. The cat likes it, it must be good!“

Suffice to say, my mother thought it hilarious that her child went for the cat’s lunch. She relishes to tell this story, and many more. I don’t particularly mind these embarrassing moments, as long as I’m not naked during them (yes, there are some of those. NO you’re not hearing about them). Ah memories. Rich fun filled photographic moments of joy, pain or otherwise that shape the way you are and become. Magic.

…

Outside of my own home, I have had great friendships with other people’s pets. Cats seem to like to chill with me, or pretend to chill then scratch me (I think Smithy warned the population that I was a rebel. I think there’s a file on me in the feline pentagon). Dogs seem to enjoy the attention more than anything. I tend to find that not having a pet makes me more willing to play about with other people’s pets, to get my fill of pet moments through the short bursts of interaction with them. Plus, it means that I don’t have to toilet train the dogs, or pay for the food. All of the fun none of the frivery. Win win.

Looking to the future, I think there are pets on the cards. They do seem to provide a calming sense of comfort for me. I’m still very much undecided between having a cat or a dog. Cats appeal because there’s less maintainence and they can sit on the couch, whereas dogs (read: big labrador / German shepherd size) provide energy, instant affection and freakishly powerful tail wagging abilities. The decision is out there.

I don’t know when the day of houshold pets will arrive. What I do know is that cat food does not taste half as good as it looks.