Saturday, 15 November 2014

6.15am: Dancers and Bouncers were Sharing Jokes and Cigarettes outside the Strip Club



6.15am: Dancers and bouncers were sharing jokes and cigarettes outside the strip club opposite work. The dancers were wearing their standing-outside uniform; white faux-mink coat, suspenders and heels. The bouncers wore their black suits, patent shoes and their big self-important faces.

The man behind me on the bus to the hospital had a loud hacking cough. I got off where a group of builders — hard-hats over their hoods — were smoking in a huddle outside the house with the empty cheese-curls packet and pile of dog shit underneath the trampoline in the yard.
  There’s a lot of rotten, pre-recession boom-time TV's Ground Force decking around here and it’s slippery and treacherous at this time of year; the old man with the raglan cardigan and butter on his top lip and nose advised me to watch myself when I slipped on his.
  In the street, a young man with a shaved head and tracksuit was vacuuming his brand new Vauxhall Corsa while he listened to Robbie Williams quite loudly.

Out in the sticks, beyond where the remains of the smashed up traffic cone have been strewn across the road for weeks. Beyond even where the empty cereal bowl and spoon have been left on top of the dry-stone wall for days (there’s an inch and a half of rainwater in the bowl now), a low mist is sitting in the valley bottom. The greys of the road surface are littered with the oranges of cherry leaves and firework casings and, in the rowan tree, a large flock of fieldfares is messily stripping out all the berries. 
        On the driveway at Oakwood, a man of about 35, with a beard and donkey jacket, has his head under the bonnet of his 30 year old Saab 900 while he listens to Talking Heads quite loudly.

Sunday, 2 November 2014

The 6am Sky is Like a Primary School Halloween Drawing.



The 6am sky is like a primary school halloween drawing. 

On the bus, the camp teenage boy was talking to his companion: 
“I can tell he’s got a crush on me but if I say owt I know he’s just gonna say, ‘I’m not gay!’ in that stupid indignant voice”.
Behind me, the grey haired hi-vis man had been to the new restaurant that apparently everybody's talking about: 
“I ordered the lamb but when it came it was all fat. I got one tiny thin slice of meat off the whole piece! I sent it back. I can’t eat that I said, it’s all fat. The woman asked me, ‘Do you want to order something else?’ I said, ‘No love, you’ve put me right off my tea now, I’m going home to make myself some beans on toast’. The chef chased me out into the car park and told me he was going to have word with the butcher but I’ll not be going back.”

I walked down Leeds Road behind a girl in skinny jeans and a black puffer jacket. She was talking loudly on her phone in Polish, emphasising key points with wild, histrionic hand gestures.

On the estate where people wear their nightclothes in the daytime, I saw a woman in the Costcutter with Nobody’s Cow appliqu├ęd onto her onesie above her breasts. Outside, the man with the piercings was polishing the alloys of his Ford Fiesta one-handed while he smoked some strong weed. He smiled and waved.

Later, out in the sticks, it was all long shadows, wood smoke and lavender, starlings on wires, church bells, dried hydrangeas, Kate Bush songs from the open windows of ex-farm buildings, wicker-baskets, wellington boots, a possible sighting of a small flock of waxwings and a definite sighting of a huge flock of lapwings. 
There are still bags in the trees though. 

I was nearly hit twice by flying objects today, the first time I had to swerve to avoid the soiled nappy that somebody threw from their front door towards the bins without looking* then, at the farm I had to duck under the flight path of an enraged goose. It hissed and honked and flew over the five bar gate at me in a rage. The old farmer ran out and got himself between the goose and me, flapping his arms at it, “It’s a right little bastard this ‘en!” He explained, as he tried to shepherd it back into the yard, “It dun’t like me either — it keeps biting me. It’s never flown ovva t’gate before though”

*This has happened before: http://goo.gl/edTd1A


Thursday, 16 October 2014

It had been a windy night; beech nuts were popping under my feet



It had been a windy night; beech nuts were popping under my feet. The street-lights were out again, it would have been pitch-black had it not been for the faint glow of the light that illuminated the green lichen triangle that used to be a street sign.
By lunchtime it was still only half light. And cold. Paths were lined with thick puddles of leaves, black arthritic nettles, and frantically suckering brambles. The wind hissed through yellow horse-chestnut and telegraph wires strained at their poles. Brown, stripped-bare fields were dotted white with gulls and the farm cat swallowed a mouse whole in just three gulps.
At the pub in the village where ‘2 Dine for £12.99 on selected main courses and afternoon tea,’ the landlord was being important enough in fair-isle and corduroy. ‘Hello there!’ he enthused to customers disgorged crease-free from mainly Range Rovers. 
          Later, I watched some squabbling crows while I pissed against a tree. Half a dozen of them were fighting over the topmost perch of the church steeple. They’d circle scrappily for a while until one would suddenly tip its wing and attempt to land. Usually its move would be pre-empted by the others and the breakaway bird would be knocked off course and forced to abort. Occasionally, one would succeed in making the perch only for the rest to rush it en masse, dislodging it after only a few seconds. I saw several tours, swooping attempts, and brief landings but I don’t know what the ultimate outcome was.

Thursday, 2 October 2014

Research into outdoor chores carried out in the last week of September:



Research into outdoor chores carried out in the last week of September: Gender / Approx’ age / Attire. 
Unusually mild weather for the time of year. 16°C - 20°C. Sunny with very occasional light drizzle.
  1. Male, 40s. Watering potted annuals. T-shirt, jeans, sandals.
  2. Male, 70s. Scrubbing hose-reel with stiff brush. T-shirt, trousers, sandals.
  3. Male, 60s. Clipping fingernails. T-shirt, jeans, sandals.
  4. Female, 60s. Digging out couch grass. Fleece jacket, jogging pants, walking boots.
  5. Female, 70s. Taking seedlings round to a neighbour. Blouse, trousers, sandals.
  6. Female, 40s. Walking Labrador. T-shirt, jeans, trainers.
  7. Female, 70s. Weeding between driveway setts with special long-handled tool. Fleece jacket, trousers, sandals.
  8. Male, 60s. Loading garden cuttings into Fiat Punto. Fleece jacket, jeans, black shoes.
  9. Female, 40s. Re-pointing garage wall. Fleece jacket, tracksuit pants, slippers.
  10. Female, 70s. Walking Highland terrier. Fleece jacket, knee-length plaid pleated skirt, flat black shoes.
  11. Male, 60s. Re-pointing wall. Polo-shirt, jeans, black shirt.
  12. Female, 30s. Putting out bins. large knitted striped jumper, jogging pants, one slipper, one bare foot.
  13. Female, 70s. Popping to shop to get bits. knee-length skirt, knitted cardigan, flat black shoes.
  14. Male, 60s. Sweeping yard. Fleece jacket, trousers, welly shoes.
  15. Male, 60s. Washing Fiat Punto. Navy-blue overalls, black shoes.
  16. Male, 60s. Clearing guttering. Shirt with collar, V-neck sweater, suit trousers, slippers.
  17. Female, 60s. Sweeping pavement outside house. Cardigan, trousers, slippers.
  18. Male, 80s. Polishing KIA Picanto. Shirt with collar, V-neck sweater, suit trousers, black shoes.
  19. Female, 70s. Sweeping driveway with brand new yard-brush. Sweatshirt embroidered with floral display, trousers, welly shoes.
  20. Male, 70s. Re-applying window putty. Knitted cardigan, jeans, slippers.
  21. Male, 50s. Shouting abuse at a neighbour in the street, “Don’t fuck with me!”. T-shirt, jeans, socks.
  22. Male, 70s. Telling the postman that a neighbour has died, “Yep, they’ve buried her and everything”. Baseball cap, cardigan, jogging pants, trainers.
  23. Male, 20s. Hiding door key under mat, “You never saw that, did you? There’s nowt worth nicking anyway; it’s a right shit-hole”. Motorcycle helmet, tracksuit, trainers.

Sunday, 21 September 2014

I walked a long way today, through eight spiders’ webs



I walked a long way today, through eight spiders’ webs. I had dead flies webbed to my shirt and face. 
         Tree litter, safely bagged nappies, and BMW’s covered the slippery Driveways of Distinction. 
         A builder on the main road was loading a heavy-duty radio back into his van. He slammed the doors shut as I strode across his freshly laid concrete path leaving three deep footprints. I apologised and made a weak joke about the current vogue for pattern imprinted paving. The builder said nothing, just turned round, opened the van doors, and unloaded his radio and tools again. I disappeared round a corner and was washing my shoes in a puddle when a small boy of about 4 or 5 years old ran out across the road. His dad came after him, picked him up and dragged him back to the pavement. 
“I’ve told you not to do that, It’s dangerous!” He yelled.
“I know” said the boy.
“So why did you do it then?”
“Because … because it was a secret ninja job.”

PS: The Most Difficult Thing Ever has been shortlisted for this years Blog North Awards, the final results of which are partly decided by public vote. If you feel inclined, you can vote here:  www.blognorthawards.com
         The event itself takes place at The Deaf Institute in Manchester on Wednesday 8th October. Details here: www.manchesterliteraturefestival.co.uk
         Also, if you're interested, there is a Most Difficult Thing Ever dedicated Facebook page here: www.facebook.com

Tuesday, 9 September 2014

Out in the sticks where 50% of women are inside Range Rovers.



Out in the sticks where 50% of women are inside Range Rovers, I followed the deer down the gravel driveway to the barn conversion where the new faux-modernist chrome-plated garden sculpture is ‘something a bit different’ and ‘absolutely beautiful to look at’ according to the woman with the ‘glass of something lovely’ in her hand. I lost a fiver around here yesterday, I retraced my steps for about ten minutes but there was no sign of it.

Later, a police dog pissed on my van and a bright red man inside a bright red BMW nearly took my wing mirror as he swerved to avoid some horse shit.

In the village, the grown-up paper-girl in distressed denim passed me in the street. She tucked her phone under her chin and folded a copy of The Sun for her next drop without pausing her conversation, ‘She’s having another baby,’ she said, ‘Royal twats!’ She pushed open the gate with her hip, ‘… Yes, well, if I had a decent job I wouldn’t be doing a paper round, would I?’

I parked my van at the end of another long driveway — in the same place I have every day this week. I opened the door and there, screwed up on the pavement was my fiver.

Sunday, 24 August 2014

Kyle’s Always Grabbing My Tits.



“Kyle’s always grabbing my tits,” said the young woman in the too-tight playsuit whose young son had just grabbed her tits.
“I know! Mine too, it really hurts,” said the older woman in the noteworthy trainers, gathering her low maintenance hair into a scrunchie.
And it’s embarrassing,” added the younger one, pushing her unfashionable specs up the bridge of her nose.

The butcher was recommending a cut of pork loin to the thin-lipped elderly woman with the large black canvas shopping bag and frown. He waved a large knife over it in the display counter, “That’ll be lovely; tender as a woman’s heart!“ he said.
“I’ll have the sausages,” said the woman.

A boy of about six or seven years old stopped me in the street.
“Do you want to buy this for a pound?” he said, opening his palm to reveal the pebble I’d just seen him pick up from Mr Beever’s driveway.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A pebble” said the boy, rubbing it on his sleeve, “It’s shiny”.
“A pound for a pebble?” I said.
“It’s magic,” said the boy.

I was watching a nuthatch in Hangingstone Road when a thin man in washed-out black passed at dangerously high speed. He was riding a pushbike and trailer with GAY written across the back in large plastic letters. He looked up at me as he shot through the narrow gap between the double parked cars. “Hiya!” he yelled at the top of his voice. The nuthatch flew away.

Tuesday, 19 August 2014

I Chased the Cloud Shadows up Over the Moor...



I chased the cloud shadows up over the moor and onto the estate where the men still drive Rovers and wear their hair in elaborate comb-overs that flip up in the wind like busy, beige peddle-bin lids. Wind-assisted lapwings flocked in the field behind the abandoned Renault camper — £500 ono — and the pretend duck by the bin-store ‘quacked’ as I passed. A replica of a basset-hound peered out from the large stone handbag in Mrs Hinchliffe’s alpine rockery, its head bobbing on a spring. People in comfy shoes were restraining small terriers, frying liver and onions, smoking cigs, and scraping fluvial sediment from a storm drain with a butter knife. A man with a bit of dinner on his face was sitting on a collapsible chair outside his conservatory door. He was surrounded by marigolds, begonias, gladioli, Sport For All stickers, a faded Basil Ede print of some ducks, a pile of VHS video cassettes, a dozen or so pretend meerkats, and a miniature wooden wheelbarrow stuffed with pansies and snapdragons. Next door, a ten year old dusty-pink Kia Picanto pulled up and a grey haired man with thick, plastic rimmed reactolite glasses and a three-quarter length beige anorak climbed out. He slammed the door, opened the boot, and unloaded three heavy looking Lidl bags-for-life. He pulled out a small packet of dog biscuits and held it up high to show the man with the dinner on his face who shouted, ’Thanks, Derek!’ and pointed towards the open door of his green plastic shed, ‘Wob us it in there, can you?’

Saturday, 19 July 2014

Under the Overgrown Brambles, Through the Spider’s Webs...



Under the overgrown brambles, through the spider’s webs, past the tethered cat asleep on the lawn at the limit of its chain, to Mr Briggs’ front door.
“Good weekend?” he asked.
“Not so bad, thanks. You?”
“It were all right. We went down The Railway. I said to Robert, ‘Have you any food on?’ He said ‘Yes, we’re doing bacon sandwiches for a pound.’ I said, ‘I’ll have two’. So we had a bacon sandwich each”.
“Very nice” I said.
“Aye, but when I got up to go for a piss they had a bloke on the toilet door trying to charge me 50p because of the Tour de France! The robbing bastards! I said to Robert, ‘You’re not charging me 50p for a piss, I’ve been coming in here thirty-five year.’”
Did he charge you?” I said.
“Did he fuck. Robbing bastard.”

The roofers were listening to Tracey Chapman on their bright yellow, heavy-duty radio while they discussed what a great night-out Brighouse is.
“Aye, I went-out there last weekend. It wasn’t a bad night but I didn’t go out to get rat-arsed” said the younger one, rolling a cigarette.
“Fuck me!” said the older one, “I did! I got absolutely fucking bladdered.”

The occupants of the little Fiat 500 ahead of me at the lights were engaged in some kind of gobbing-out-of-the-window contest. The big man with the moustache in the near-side passenger seat appeared to be winning; he’d landed a large greeny halfway across the pavement outside the doctor's surgery. Two of the beige pensioners in the long line of mainly-beige-with-accents-of-navy pensioners at the bus stop looked on disapprovingly. They started to remonstrate but the wind blew something heavy by Yves St Laurent into the van and I wound-up my window so I didn't hear what they said.