True Confessions: ABBA

We’re in the car, heading southwest to Exminster and we’re listening to ‘ABBA Gold’. It’s Millie’s choice and I moan at first. But, soon enough, I find myself humming along. And, by the time we get to ‘Mamma Mia’, I’m singing too, joining in with the whole family – all four of us – with silly grins screeching out of tune:

‘Mamma Mia / Here I go again / Why, why, did I ever you let you go?’

Despite myself, I’m having FUN… I turn to my wife and say:

‘You know what, darling, they really did craft some perfect pop songs, didn’t they?’

At this point I check myself and think back to the 90’s when I berated my girl friends for putting on ‘Dancing Queen’ at parties not Nirvana. ‘SOS’ instead of ‘Song 2′. Then the 80’s when I would only listen to ROCK, never POP. It was the throw away pap you found on Top of the Pops. I preferred The Tube and The Old Grey Whistle Test. They were serious. Music was far too important to be crammed into three minutes, surely?

But, then I think even further back to the 70′s when I was a boy living in South West Herts…

… I went into Nick’s newsagents almost every day after school, rifling through the vinyl in the dark recesses of the shop. My brother Steve looked at comics and craned his neck trying to sneak a peek at the filthy mags on the top shelf: a tantalising glimpse of adulthood, just out of reach, beyond his grasp.

For a while I was attracted to a Vangelis album, but it was ABBA’s ‘Greatest Hits’ that really caught my eye. Of course I fancied the blonde one, but the other one was OK too, in a girl-next-door kind of way. I saved up and bought it on pre-recorded tape from WH Smith in Watford. It was great. I loved it and so did all my friends; girls and boys…

Even now, in my mid 40’s when I go to work and the train pulls in to Waterloo Station, I sing that chorus in my head:

‘Waterloo / I was defeated you won the war.’

It’s just so powerful, it’s completely embedded in my subconscious – right next to the Bra & Pants section in the Littlewoods’ Catalogue.

And so now I think: who cares who creates it? Johnny Cash, The Clash or The Carpenters. The fact is music can move you like no other. It can make you smile, cry or sway like a maniac; playing air guitar in your front room, singing way of tune, wearing nothing but a pair of stale old Y-Fronts… Mamma Mia!

Jamaican Lanyard

He wanted to go, she didn’t. They last went ten years ago and had a great time. Before kids, before a huge interest-only mortgage set at 2.5% above the variable base rate. Before the first strands of grey hair for him and size 14 dresses for her.

Now he wanted to go again but she didn’t want to. He still had a yellow lanyard with a Jamaican flag printed on it and a shrill whistle. He had never actually been to Jamaica but had been to the Notting Hill Carnival, which was the next best thing.

They lived in Harlesden back then, Reigate now. He used to write for a long-defunct left-wing literary quarterly. Now he taught politics to disinterested students on
the fourth floor of an eighties brown-brick block, in a non-descript campus deep in the Home Counties.

Back then, she loved to cook and had her own stall selling Jamaican Jerk Chicken. Luke warm cans of lager were hidden under a sagging wooden trestle table. He wandered aimlessly: a happy fool, drinking in the joyful music, colours and sounds of the crowd, blowing his whistle at every available opportunity.

He still kept the lanyard. Half-hidden in his spare sock drawer.

Well, if she wouldn’t go, he would. He set off early by train, changed at Redhill and attempted The Sunday Times crossword. Caught the tube up to Notting Hill Gate then headed north to carnival by foot.

He remembered the sights and sounds, but most of all, the smells: of Red Stripe, spicy sizzling chicken and the sickly sweet aroma of high quality weed. He remembered the expressions of celebration and wild abandonment on faces. The way the huge sound systems staked out their own territory, seemingly at every crossroad, their thumping bass lines pounding through his bones.

He looked around. It seemed that almost everyone was at least ten years younger than him. The music was too loud, the beer too expensive and it was far, far too busy. He missed his wife. He fancied a nap. He turned around and went straight back home…

Socks

His toes are tiny and she’s amazed at how small and perfect they are. She buys him two pairs of Baby Gap socks. They cost her £4.99 and last three whole weeks.

He’s older now, at school and going to cubs in the evening. They make him wear long grey socks, which are held up by green garters. His older brother steals them to get him into trouble. He gets a clip round the ear from his Dad for losing them, and a dead-leg from his sibling when he tries to retrieve them.

No socks now. He’s working abroad; picking melons under a scorching, unforgiving sun. His Jesus’ sandals chafe and rub mercilessly.

It’s Monday morning and he just makes the 8.19 from Surbiton to Waterloo. Black socks with two stripes; one purple, one orange – so they don’t get separated in the wash. They wear eventually until a small hole appears underneath his right heal. It gets larger as he gets older. The left sock comes out in sympathy and another hole gradually appears.

Warm, thick grey socks now which stay put for days on end: cosy and familiar – man’s best friends.

They show her in. He’s there but not there, his old socks gone.

Charlie in the sun

Charlie takes a sharp left and cuts down ‘Urine Alley’. I follow, but he’s faster than me. Whizzing on ahead. Tearing into the shadows until he hits sunlight. It slaps him square in the face, and all I can see is the back of his head, the sunlight forming a halo around his silhouette.

We pass the kids’ playground on our right. The swings are too small for him now. But I remember pushing him as a two year old. Endlessly. ‘Again, again’, he cried. Small legs kicking up and down, unrestrained, joyful…

There are four teens to our left. All stood round in a circle. Silent. Like Stonehenge, heads bowed, hands clasped as if in prayer. They’re all texting: Maybe each other, probably someone else – unseen, elsewhere. How long before my boy will be standing here with his friends? Bored, numbed by technology, isolated, unconnected.

It’s later now, and Charlie is chasing a ball with a group of kids his own age. He’s jumping up and down. Skipping as he dashes, uncoordinated, like a puppet without strings. His big silly grin fills my heart with absolute joy.

He’s my only boy. I don’t want another. He gives me everything I need and more.

Why don’t you write me a letter?

When was the last time you wrote a letter, or received one? By letter, I don’t mean utility bill, junk mail or tax demand; I mean a handwritten letter, preferably from an old friend or long-forgotten lover.

How nice would that be?

Recently I sent something to an old family friend. He’s a lovely man, a retired librarian who lives in Devon, a few doors up from where my wife was born. I sent him a hard copy of a blog I wrote for 26 about saving our libraries from coalition cuts. I sent it by post, as he does not have access to a computer.

I’ve tried to persuade him, many times, to go online to no avail. He insists that he can find all he needs to know in his local library. That might have been true, but it burnt down recently.

When I sent him a copy of my blog, I wrote him a brief note on the printout. It didn’t take that long and I popped it in the post. I wondered when he had last received a proper handwritten letter. I also tried to remember when I last received one.

It was probably from my girlfriend at college. She studied Spanish and we spent months apart. When she was away, I listened out for the postie every morning and longed for the sound of her airmail letters landing on my scuddy student floor. I wrote heartfelt letters back and kept hers safely hidden away – precious gems, gathering dust now in my parent’s attic.

So, I thought it was about time I started writing letters again. To people who didn’t really use emails or embrace technology but would appreciate a hand written letter. I thought of  my mum and my dad.

I want to ask them to start writing themselves and tell me, my brothers and our families as much as possible about their lives before we came crashing into theirs. I’ll send them each a lovely Moleskine notebook to encourage them; red for mum, black for dad. I want them to tell me everything, well, almost everything.

I know when I start writing my own letter to them  it will be tricky at first. My handwriting is bad as I write too fast, without too much thought. I’ll need to train myself to slow down and think before I write; it’s not as easy to delete and rewrite using a good old-fashioned pen.

I will stick with it though, and when I finish it will feel good. I’ll slip it into an envelope, seal it and dig out a stamp from the deeper recesses of my wife’s purse. I’ll go out for a walk and find my nearest post box, then go for a refreshing pint to wash away the taste of the lip of envelope – the dry kiss of an ageing relative, long dead but certainly not forgotten…

Andrew Colin Hayes

Andrew Colin Hayes.

Andrew Bloody Colin Hayes.

Thank you Ma, thank you Pa…

Oh well. It could’ve been worse. I was very nearly Colin Andrew. Ouch… Phew!

So, let’s imagine that things were different. Let’s talk about Colin. He sounds like a nice boy. Not dim, but not overly smart either. Definitely not sharp, a bit soft in fact, perhaps too soft for his job as Claims Assessor in a respectable but backwater insurance outfit somewhere/nowhere in rural Northamptonshire.

He likes beer (real ale), dominoes and reads voraciously to counter the uneasy feeling that life, at least an interesting and full life, has somehow passed him by.

Like me, he’s 45 years old and snugly ensconced in middle-age’s gentle lukewarm embrace. Mortality’s recently left his first calling card as Colin has just been diagnosed with a high cholesterol count and is therefore sensibly considering decreasing his sausage intake while increasing both the frequency and rigour of his rather irregular half-hearted exercise regime. Now there’s a pun.

There is one girl at the gym that has quite taken his fancy, and, he thinks, possibly quite likes him too. I say girl, but I mean woman – but that sounds too mature, too formal for our Colin. They’ve never actually spoken, at least not yet – they’re both too shy – but there’s almost-definitely something there. Sometimes he pictures her semi-naked (never completely in the buff) on the rowing machine, one of the ones away from the large mirror that others pout in front of, marvelling like Narcissus at their own taut flesh wrapped in Lycra, while she innocently and unselfconsciously licks the tiny sweat-beads from her upper lip, and, thankfully, that somehow gets him through the long cold lonesome winter nights.

Every week-day Colin wakes at 7am. He gets dressed, showers, then eats All Bran with semi-heated semi-skimmed milk livened up by a solitary banana, and cycles to work, ignoring the taunting spotty school kids who rudely punctuate his daily ride (unfortunately his only ride). This is his preferred route into the office though and he feels unable to deviate from it in anyway whatsoever, despite all the teen-intrusions and recently, the one extra traffic light, installed by some bright young pup in the planning department determined to make a name for himself.

One fine day, he just might bump into Rowing Machine Girl at the library, or, perhaps even at the Organic Farm Store, in the Local Produce isle by the ripe strapping cucumbers or even the butternut squash section if he’s lucky. They’ll smile at each other, tentatively at first, and maybe, just maybe, the next time they’re both at the gym, they might even mumble a limp ‘Hello’.

For their sake, and for mine, let’s hope so – eh?

This originally appeared on ‘The Middle Names Project’ – a wonderful repository of middle name angst set up by James Hogwood. See the link in the side bar to contribute your very own story…

http://themiddlenamesproject.tumblr.com/page/4

Libraries Gave Us Power

I have a confession to make.

Once, when I was younger, wilder and more carefree, I seriously considered a career as a librarian. I drove all the way down to Brighton Poly squished into a small grey car to talk to a lecturer about undertaking their MA course in Information Studies. A euphemism for Library Studies. But why should this be embarrassing? It’s obvious from my opening gambit that I’m still slightly uneasy about sharing this revelation with the outside world. Even with 26 members, who are probably well-educated and love words too.

But words alone were not enough to motivate me to seriously consider spending two years of my life studying for an MA. It was more deep-seated than that. You see, the frustrated librarian trapped inside me continually strives to impose order over chaos. This often drives my wife and kids nuts. But I ask you, what is wrong with insisting CDs are replaced back in their correct case, then stored neatly in alphabetical order? OK, I don’t file them alphabetically… but I would if I had time. Also, I love my iPod not just because it’s slim, gorgeous and fits easily into my jacket pocket, but moreso for its easy classification and retrieval system.

So, back to libraries, which, as we all know, are under threat these days as they do not make economic sense. This makes me angry. Livid in fact. ‘Libraries gave us power’ sang the Manic Street Preachers, inspired by the inscription above the former Pillgwenlly library in Newport. If there were no libraries while I was growing up, I would not have had access to the wonderful world of knowledge which is just a mouse-click away these days.

I grew up in a small-ish village and luckily we had a mobile library. It was bright Ford Yellow with a strip of Royal Blue and trundled round our estate once a week. I used to look forward to it coming more than the ice cream van. I also went by train to Watford; to swim and visit the nearby library afterwards. I discovered Narnia there. The Hobbit too. Later, I became just as interested in the musical section. I borrowed Axis:Bold as Love and Abbey Road which are still two of my favourite albums even after all these years.

Now, though, it’s argued that libraries are obsolete. That all that needs to be known is available online. But not everyone is online. And most of us, despite Kindle and iPad, still love books. Real books. New books for me are like freshly carved tablets from the gods. Apart from the ones written by Jeffrey Archer maybe.

Old books are even better. They smell like 1937. Their yellowing pages thumbed by countless readers; some inspired, some indifferent but all potentially wiser for the experience. Books feed the imagination and nourish the soul. In short, I wouldn’t be me and you wouldn’t be you without books.

Our libraries range from modest shacks in damp car parks and civic treasures built with Victorian pride to vast stone edifices like the long-lost temple of learning in ancient Alexandria. I think they’re just as vital to communities as schools, hospitals and post offices. And it just so happens that next Saturday, 5th February, is Save Our Libraries Day. If you care about books, sharing knowledge and filing stuff neatly in the right order, find out how you can get involved here.

Oh, I nearly forgot – I love the rubber date stamps too…

This post originally appeared on the 26 website a few weeks back. I felt angry about library closures and starting tapping away…

http://www.26.org.uk/index.php/2011/02/libraries-gave-us-power/

Learning to swear

So Mark, our Managing Partner, and I are having a chat about football over a nice cup of tea. This is rare. Mark is a rugger bugger. He can’t help it. He went to a very posh school and prefers oval-shaped balls.

I mention that I want to take my boy Charlie to a match. But only when he’s older and knows more swear words. Mark smiles. This prompts a long forgotten memory about his son Joe.

When he was a mere lad, Joe’s Uncle Bertie took him to see Spurs play arch rivals Arsenal. He thoroughly enjoyed this first tentative step into manhood. However, he was rather confused by some of the more colourful language spewing forth from the terraces. Or, rather, wafting up to the comfy corporate boxes like over-cooked burger and rancid-onion fumes from the cheaper plastic seats below.

On returning home to the family seat, he enquired, “Daddy, what’s a ‘wonker’?”

You may not approve, but swearing is actually older than time itself.

You see, way back in pre-history, a suddenly wounded or trapped animal would emit a bloodcurdling howl to startle, injure or escape from a predator. In fact, many early human responses to dangerous life-threatening situations would have been similar. I know. I’ve watched One Million Years BC at least a thousand times now.

What’s more interesting is that many more prosaic cries would have developed from conversational vocal sounds. Think about ‘Yuk’, for example, upon finding a stray mammoth hair in the thick of your primordial soup.

In his excellent book, ‘The Stuff of Thought’, Steven Pinker notes how swearing might well have developed from these verbal responses to potentially fatal situations and everyday nuisances. Perhaps, they became standard responses or reactions to misfortune then morphed into taboo words, either as a cathartic reaction to sudden pain or a warning to a potential enemy.

Perhaps Darwin was right when he said that ‘verbalised outbursts were the evolutionary missing link between primate calls and human languages’. So, in short – to swear is to be human.

Charlie meanwhile, will have to wait before I take him to a football match. Having said that, he tells me he already knows the ‘most rudest word ever’. I enquire innocently what this might be.

He leans forward, looks around to make sure his mum and sister are far, far away and whispers the word ‘curt’ in my ear.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Yes, I tell him, ‘curt’ is a very rude word indeed and not to ever repeat it – ever, ever again.

Now and then though he lets slip that he knows other bad words too. ‘And just where do you learn all these bad words, Charlie? School? Cubs? Drama?’

‘No Daddy’, he replies nonchalantly, ‘I learned them all from you’.

‘Oh.’

It’s official. I’m a Bad Dad…

This post originally appeared at http://www.quietroom.co.uk/qr/2011/02/14/learning-to-swear/

27th Way

A friendly challenge issued by John Simmons at his ’26 Ways of Looking at a BlackBerry’ book launch was to come up with a 27th way: to rewrite the base text (a financial report by TH, inventor of the handheld device) in the style of a favourite author. I chose Charles Bukowski.

I was invited to some place up in The Valley by Sherman Hole, an ex-bum I once knew on Skid Row.

We drank together. Fought together. Fucked together. Then he got religion. Went all wholesome on me. Left the Row, while I continued to wallow in self-pity and disgust, but somehow still felt good – my soul intact.

Sarah drove me up there. We got in the puke-brown convertible which never cared much for second gear – or traffic signals for that matter.

We rolled up. Got out. Took a sniff of pure Valley air. I threw up. The freshness and sharpness of it disgusted me. Sarah fussed and wiped me off and I rang the door bell.

The door was huge. Mahogany. Expensive. Classy. I felt poor. Poorer than I had ever felt before. The lower orders had arrived from Slumville… To clean dishes, or till the fields. It was basically the same as it’d always been. Hadn’t changed much over the last five thousand years. There were always  those that lived in pampered luxury served by those less fortunate than themselves. People like me. Like Sarah. Like Sherman used to be.

A servant opened the door. Looked down his huge pointed nose at me. At Sarah. Felt the whiff of the street taint the perfect varnished wooden floor. Was about to close the door on us right there and then when I heard Sherman’s weasel voice mincing up the corridor.

‘Why… Well, I never. If it isn’t the great Chinaski and the fragrant Sarah – dooo come in. Come along now. Bryn can’t wait to meet you. I’ve told him all about you – you naughty boy!’

‘Cut the crap, Hole – where’s the wine cellar?’

‘Same old Chinaski, eh Sarah? Just how do you tolerate the beast?’

Hole had always had a thing for me. I had that affect on fags for some reason.
Maybe they thought I was an easy lay due to my downright ugliness? Maybe just felt sorry for me? Who knows.

I wasn’t interested. All I wanted was pussy and wine – but not necessarily in that order. Sarah provided both, even got me off the hard stuff, gave me ten more years of writing, at least. I thanked her by being obnoxious. She liked me that way.

The servant bought in a bottle and four glasses. I grabbed it from him, took a swig. It was good stuff. The best.

So, eventually Bryn breezed in. He was a young kid. Clean cut. No more than 25. I felt old. Haggard. Battered. A living corpse.

Bryn had never fallen in love with whores, lost all his money at the track or eaten from trash cans. He was a good kid. Bright and shiny – like a toothpaste commercial.

He wanted me to try a new kind of typewriter. It was tiny – you could hold it in your hand. But what would I drink with, I asked. Seriously.

He laughed. All he wanted me to do was try it then write about it. On the machine. The tiny typewriter.

I told him I’d rather suck Satan’s cock. He laughed some more. Said he loved my work and that was OK. Sarah scowled. We needed the money. Hadn’t eaten properly all week. But she still loved me all the same.

I felt rich. Surrounded by love. Engulfed by it. We drank some more. We talked. Life was good.

When we drove back it was dark. Bryn would go on to do great things. His company was going to be a huge success. All people wanted was tiny typewriters you could hold in your hand. Everyone was becoming a writer. I thought about setting up a union of real writers to keep out the tiny writers.

I never did of course.

We got back. I opened a big one. Took a good slug. Flipped the switch and Beethoven flooded the room. My best friend, apart from the full-glass. My only two true friends.

I thought about Hole. Spat. Smiled. Began typing…

 http://www.26fruits.co.uk/blog/27th-way/base-text/

Isaac

This is the ‘long’ verson of Isaac with a Drinking Glass. Part of the 26 treasures project that ran at the V&A last year – www.26treasures.com

It’s late.

I need another drink and wander down into town and land up at MacCallum’s on Union Street. There’s beery good cheer here. It’s the end of a long night and the booze has kicked in; inhibitions are discarded, suppressed desires unleashed.

A man plays loud guitar and sings his heart out. Another is dancing, badly. He hits on a girl who ignores him so he sits down next to me complaining unintelligibly. Slowly I understand. He’s Isaac, ‘like in the bible’, from Poland. He’s on ‘holiday’ as there is no work. We both smile. He has the most amazing piercing pale blue eyes. I’m transfixed, haunted.

He wants to be King of the Dance Floor, but he’s Mr No-Body, a long way from home. His breath smells of rusting, abandoned shipyards…