During the peak of my gig going days I went to see a band called Half Man Half Biscuit at The Boardwalk club (this closed down in 1999) on Little Peter Street in Manchester. I went with a mate on a cold and wet midweek night. It was very much The Hacienda era (I was never part of that scene at all - I preferred alcohol to drugs and moshing to dancing) and The Boardwalk was only 5 minutes walk from there.
I met my mate in Piccadilly, then we downed a few pints before walking down to the gig. We had to pass the Hacienda to reach The Boardwalk As we approached the Boardwalk a young couple in their 20s(male and female) asked us if we knew what time the Hacienda opened. They spoke with a German accent. At this time The Hacienda was world famous and people were regularly attending from all over the world. We had no idea, of course, but as there was no one else around at all, we told them it looked unlikely that it was open that evening. They were very disappointed as they were travelling around Europe in a camper van and only had this one night in Manchester and had come specifically to visit The Hacienda.
They asked us if we could advise them of a decent place where they could go for a drink. I told them there were lots of pubs and bars around the city centre that were worth a look and advised them the Oxford Road area might suit them as it was (and still is, of course) a favourite student hang-out. We told them we were going to see Half Man Half Biscuit and asked if they had heard of them. Unsurprisingly they hadn't. They briefly spoke to each other in German then the lad asked if we wouldn't mind if they joined us for a drink. I wasn't sure about this.
Our plan had been to have one more pint in the City Road Inn then head to the gig, so we told them we were going there but before we knew it the 4 of us were sat in the aforementioned pub with pints of Lowenbrau in front of us. We started chatting about where they had been, where they were going next after Manchester etc and we seemed to get along well. The lad was fluent in English but the girl was less so. This meant he did most of the talking. We ended up getting a second pint in and before long we were all going to the gig together. They had no tickets of course but they were still able to pay in at the door. Once inside, they drifted off for a while so it gave my mate and I a chance to chat about what was going on here.
The gig was ok but HMHB are one of only a handful of bands I've seen who are better in the studio than on stage. Margi Clarke(actress) also joined them for a couple of songs which was rather unexpected. At the end of the show I expected to say "Auf Wiedersehen" to the couple then go our separate ways. This is not what happened.
We rejoined the German couple at the end of the gig and they wanted to thank us for our hospitality by inviting us back to their camper van for a "nightcap". I was concerned they were either axe murderers or that they had a porn film crew waiting behind the curtains of the van. Putting this in to context we'd had several beers and one's judgement is not always sound at times like these so we agreed to take up their offer though, to be fair, they had seemed genuine so it wasn't that tough a call.
Their van was parked up near the Hacienda for the night so they unlocked it and we jumped aboard. It was spacious, clean and well stocked with lots of food and alcohol. We chatted for a few hours and consumed far too many more beers and snacks. Our departure from the van is still a bit hazy but nothing untoward happened. I assure you!
My mate swapped phone numbers with them and kept in touch. Indeed on one occasion he even visited them in Germany whilst attending a music festival.
Wednesday, 29 August 2012
Tuesday, 28 August 2012
Witchwood, Ashton-under-Lyne Moshing in the 1990s
The Friday night "Band & DJ" days became a highlight of the week for me at The Witchwood for a few years in the 1990s. This entailed either a new or established band (no tribute acts allowed on Fridays) playing until 11pm-ish then followed by a DJ playing appropriate "choons" to the band and audience on the night. This was the one night of the week when I used to exceed the recommended daily alcohol limit without fail. The Witchwood had also started to make cocktails alongside their other potent brews so Fridays became very eventful indeed. This was quite a departure from my Friday nights of a decade earlier which were played out for me only half a mile away from The Witchwood at Wheels against a backdrop of roller skating and my first girlfriend.
Anyway, one particular Friday night in the mid 90s they had a grunge band on so the audience of Kurt Cobain clones and Eddie Vedder lookalikes were up for some moshing madness from the DJ after the band had cleared off. Cue plenty of Nirvana; Pearl Jam; Alice in Chains; Stone Temple Pilots; The Pixies; Hole and so forth. It was a late bar too and the audience that night seemed particularly worse for wear. I was also slightly merry so after midnight I joined the throngs of sweaty bodies and flailing hair on the dance-floor... then Nirvana's "Lithium" came on.
During the chorus the dance-floor went ballistic and there followed a frenzy of pushing, shoving and general mayhem. This type of music encourages "moshing" which, to the uninitiated, involves plenty of "controlled" aggression. Suddenly, I found myself being singled out for some uncontrolled aggression. I became embroiled in the middle of a whirlpool of humanity and was being bounced from pillar to post. This was normally all part of the fun but on this occasion it was more violence than controlled aggression. At this point it started to lose it's fun so I lashed out with an arm to escape the madness. A second later I was headbutted sending me crashing, dazed to the floor. As I staggered to my feet, my assailant was grabbed by one of the door staff and marched out of the building. I moved to the edge of the dance-floor and a couple of lads asked if I was OK. I was dazed and confused. I asked them what all that was about and they informed me the one who had nutted me was off his face and anyway was "a bit of a tool at the best of times". I decided to call it a night and went home.
I am glad to report that, to date, this is the one and only occasion I have ever been headbutted. My moshing days were not over with this incident. I just toned them down a bit.
Anyway, one particular Friday night in the mid 90s they had a grunge band on so the audience of Kurt Cobain clones and Eddie Vedder lookalikes were up for some moshing madness from the DJ after the band had cleared off. Cue plenty of Nirvana; Pearl Jam; Alice in Chains; Stone Temple Pilots; The Pixies; Hole and so forth. It was a late bar too and the audience that night seemed particularly worse for wear. I was also slightly merry so after midnight I joined the throngs of sweaty bodies and flailing hair on the dance-floor... then Nirvana's "Lithium" came on.
During the chorus the dance-floor went ballistic and there followed a frenzy of pushing, shoving and general mayhem. This type of music encourages "moshing" which, to the uninitiated, involves plenty of "controlled" aggression. Suddenly, I found myself being singled out for some uncontrolled aggression. I became embroiled in the middle of a whirlpool of humanity and was being bounced from pillar to post. This was normally all part of the fun but on this occasion it was more violence than controlled aggression. At this point it started to lose it's fun so I lashed out with an arm to escape the madness. A second later I was headbutted sending me crashing, dazed to the floor. As I staggered to my feet, my assailant was grabbed by one of the door staff and marched out of the building. I moved to the edge of the dance-floor and a couple of lads asked if I was OK. I was dazed and confused. I asked them what all that was about and they informed me the one who had nutted me was off his face and anyway was "a bit of a tool at the best of times". I decided to call it a night and went home.
I am glad to report that, to date, this is the one and only occasion I have ever been headbutted. My moshing days were not over with this incident. I just toned them down a bit.
Witchwood, Ashton-under-Lyne Tribute Bands
The Witchwood in Ashton-under-Lyne (7 miles from Manchester city centre) was always known as a breeding ground for up and coming bands, both local and national. From the late 80s and through the 90s I saw countless bands here. Some very good, others were average. The hit and miss nature of seeing an unsigned band was all part of the interest as you never knew what to expect.
Around the mid 90s a new phenomenon took hold in the shape of tribute bands. The first band of this nature that I remember to make a real success of it in the UK were, of course, The Bootleg Beatles. I've never seen them but their remarkable success opened the floodgates to a plethora of tribute acts across the musical genres.
It wasn't long before The Witchwood got in on the act and these bands started appearing more often than new bands playing their own songs. I was resistant to it at first as I viewed it as nothing more than Karaoke. My opinion changed, however, when I saw the LA Doors. "Jim Morrison" was superb. His voice was spot on and they were note perfect. I'm not even a massive Doors fan but they really impressed me. Soon I was seeing Nearvana; Think Floyd; Stipe; The Jamm etc etc. Most were very good.
One Saturday night I went along with a mate to see Led Zebedee. They were OK but not overly impressive. Robert Plant's voice is virtually impossible to replicate, which the singer didn't. "Jimmy Page" was probably the best part of the band as his riffs were nearer the mark. However, his ill-fitting wig left a lot to be desired.
The following Saturday I went with someone else to see AC/DC My Arse. The lead singer was playing the Brian Johnston role rather than the late Bon Scott so he was wearing a flat cap. However, it was the "Angus Young" guitarist who really grabbed my attention. Around 4 songs in I moved nearer to the stage to get a closer look at him. He was sporting the trademark schoolboy uniform but he looked familiar. It suddenly dawned on me. This Angus Young was the Jimmy Page from the previous week but with a different, slightly better fitting wig.
I felt cheated and after this I became a lot more selective in which tribute bands I chose to see. However, if the Chinese Adam & The Ants tribute band called "Prince Chow Mein" ever play anywhere near me I would probably go along just for the quality of their name. I've heard their singer calls himself "Adam Pants".
Around the mid 90s a new phenomenon took hold in the shape of tribute bands. The first band of this nature that I remember to make a real success of it in the UK were, of course, The Bootleg Beatles. I've never seen them but their remarkable success opened the floodgates to a plethora of tribute acts across the musical genres.
It wasn't long before The Witchwood got in on the act and these bands started appearing more often than new bands playing their own songs. I was resistant to it at first as I viewed it as nothing more than Karaoke. My opinion changed, however, when I saw the LA Doors. "Jim Morrison" was superb. His voice was spot on and they were note perfect. I'm not even a massive Doors fan but they really impressed me. Soon I was seeing Nearvana; Think Floyd; Stipe; The Jamm etc etc. Most were very good.
One Saturday night I went along with a mate to see Led Zebedee. They were OK but not overly impressive. Robert Plant's voice is virtually impossible to replicate, which the singer didn't. "Jimmy Page" was probably the best part of the band as his riffs were nearer the mark. However, his ill-fitting wig left a lot to be desired.
The following Saturday I went with someone else to see AC/DC My Arse. The lead singer was playing the Brian Johnston role rather than the late Bon Scott so he was wearing a flat cap. However, it was the "Angus Young" guitarist who really grabbed my attention. Around 4 songs in I moved nearer to the stage to get a closer look at him. He was sporting the trademark schoolboy uniform but he looked familiar. It suddenly dawned on me. This Angus Young was the Jimmy Page from the previous week but with a different, slightly better fitting wig.
I felt cheated and after this I became a lot more selective in which tribute bands I chose to see. However, if the Chinese Adam & The Ants tribute band called "Prince Chow Mein" ever play anywhere near me I would probably go along just for the quality of their name. I've heard their singer calls himself "Adam Pants".
Thursday, 23 August 2012
Manchester City FC in the 1970s
Charlotte "Lottie" Knowles was one of the most wonderful, kind-hearted people to have played a part in my early life. She was a character, a "one off" and remains in my thoughts from time to time to this day so allow me to share my memories of this woman with you, the reader.
From an early age the house I was brought up in had an "open house" feel to it. There was a constant flow of friends, family, neighbours etc coming and going pretty much all the time. The local community were tight knit and it seemed that my parents were at the centre of it. Many times I would wake up in the morning and hear various voices downstairs. As I descended the stairs I would wonder who was I going to get introduced to this morning? More often than not it would be some new friend of Mam's from church or the "wash house" or somewhere.After a while most of these people used to merge into one so it had to be someone remarkable to really grab my attention.
George Knowles was a work colleague and good friend of my Dad. His wife was called Charlotte but she had been known as Lottie for most of her life. Lottie & George were quite a bit older than my parents but the age gap wasn't apparent to me as a child. They used to visit our house occasionally and, from a very young age, 2 traits set Lottie apart from most of the other visitors. One was her infectious laugh. She always seemed to be enjoying life, no matter what it was throwing at her, and when she laughed it was impossible not to laugh with her. Secondly, she was a fanatical Manchester City supporter and they were a topic of conversation that was never very far from her lips. My love for the club was in it's infancy in the early 1970s and Lottie was the first woman that I had so far met in my young life to openly have such a passion for football. The world of football was very different then, of course, as very few women attended matches and I only ever heard blokes talking about football.
In 1974 City reached the League Cup Final and were overwhelming favourites to beat Wolves. It wasn't televised live in those days and the final was played at 3pm on a Saturday. It was a big deal in our house and most of us were crowded around the radio to listen to it broadcast live. City blew it and lost 2-1. The house was a gloomy place in the aftermath. Later that evening Lottie & George arrived for a visit and this lifted my spirits. Lottie was her usual sunny self but then someone mentioned City's result and her face darkened. She opined how rubbish some of the players were then, when she'd finished, she was just back to laughing again. I immediately tried to learn from this. It was obvious she was hurting from the result but life went on and and it seemed a lifetime of supporting City had educated her that spending too much time dwelling on their failures was both a waste of time and energy. Lottie's passion for City seemed even more remarkable to me as George appeared to have very little interest.
As I got a little older Mam would take my sister and I over to their house for visits. It was 2 buses to get there and it always turned into an all day event. I loved the whole experience. This was an era when there was very little football merchandise but what there was all seemed to be in their house! Lottie had scarves, photos, badges and so on all over the house. We always looked forward to her dinners as well as she made such delicious chips they gave my Dad's legendary chips a run for their money.
Lottie was also a keen knitter. She knitted blue and white scarves and baby bootees all the time. One day I asked who these were for. She casually replied "oh the player's children mostly". I was astonished. There were several players who lived nearby her house including Colin Bell, Joe Corrigan and Peter Barnes. This really was a different world then. No mansions in Cheshire for this generation of players. They were very much in touch with the fans anyway, it was just that they were even more in touch with Lottie for her knitted baby clothes. Can you imagine a player today popping round for a brew and a chinwag with a pensioner who knitted his baby's clothes ?!
Lottie had a season ticket for the Platt Lane at Maine Road. I was already a regular visitor by the age of 7 or 8 either with family members or a bit later with my mates. On a few occasions I sat with Lottie instead. Her support was incredible. She may have been in her 60s but she knew all the songs of the day and the prevailing hooliganism never intimidated her. One time I heard her saying "If I see any of our fans misbehaving I'd give them a clip around the ear". I remember feeling safer sat next to her than anywhere.
During the 1980 Moscow Olympics I was now a teenager but I still occasionally visited Lottie & George's house. This was the athletics era of Sebastian Coe and Steve Ovett and I visited once whilst the Olympics were on the telly. Lottie started to talk about Coe and how she had only just found out that he hadn't been knighted after all. I didn't understand what she was talking about so I asked her to explain what she meant. She said "His name". "What about his name?" I replied . "Well I thought he was called "Sir Bastian Coe" until last week !", this was followed by one of her inimitable laughs which set me off as well and even George (who was quiet and unassuming) started chuckling away to himself.
Lottie outlived George for many years and passed away when she was in her 90s. She was a truly marvelous person and her legend lives on.
Charlotte "Lottie" Knowles. R.I.P.
From an early age the house I was brought up in had an "open house" feel to it. There was a constant flow of friends, family, neighbours etc coming and going pretty much all the time. The local community were tight knit and it seemed that my parents were at the centre of it. Many times I would wake up in the morning and hear various voices downstairs. As I descended the stairs I would wonder who was I going to get introduced to this morning? More often than not it would be some new friend of Mam's from church or the "wash house" or somewhere.After a while most of these people used to merge into one so it had to be someone remarkable to really grab my attention.
George Knowles was a work colleague and good friend of my Dad. His wife was called Charlotte but she had been known as Lottie for most of her life. Lottie & George were quite a bit older than my parents but the age gap wasn't apparent to me as a child. They used to visit our house occasionally and, from a very young age, 2 traits set Lottie apart from most of the other visitors. One was her infectious laugh. She always seemed to be enjoying life, no matter what it was throwing at her, and when she laughed it was impossible not to laugh with her. Secondly, she was a fanatical Manchester City supporter and they were a topic of conversation that was never very far from her lips. My love for the club was in it's infancy in the early 1970s and Lottie was the first woman that I had so far met in my young life to openly have such a passion for football. The world of football was very different then, of course, as very few women attended matches and I only ever heard blokes talking about football.
In 1974 City reached the League Cup Final and were overwhelming favourites to beat Wolves. It wasn't televised live in those days and the final was played at 3pm on a Saturday. It was a big deal in our house and most of us were crowded around the radio to listen to it broadcast live. City blew it and lost 2-1. The house was a gloomy place in the aftermath. Later that evening Lottie & George arrived for a visit and this lifted my spirits. Lottie was her usual sunny self but then someone mentioned City's result and her face darkened. She opined how rubbish some of the players were then, when she'd finished, she was just back to laughing again. I immediately tried to learn from this. It was obvious she was hurting from the result but life went on and and it seemed a lifetime of supporting City had educated her that spending too much time dwelling on their failures was both a waste of time and energy. Lottie's passion for City seemed even more remarkable to me as George appeared to have very little interest.
As I got a little older Mam would take my sister and I over to their house for visits. It was 2 buses to get there and it always turned into an all day event. I loved the whole experience. This was an era when there was very little football merchandise but what there was all seemed to be in their house! Lottie had scarves, photos, badges and so on all over the house. We always looked forward to her dinners as well as she made such delicious chips they gave my Dad's legendary chips a run for their money.
Lottie was also a keen knitter. She knitted blue and white scarves and baby bootees all the time. One day I asked who these were for. She casually replied "oh the player's children mostly". I was astonished. There were several players who lived nearby her house including Colin Bell, Joe Corrigan and Peter Barnes. This really was a different world then. No mansions in Cheshire for this generation of players. They were very much in touch with the fans anyway, it was just that they were even more in touch with Lottie for her knitted baby clothes. Can you imagine a player today popping round for a brew and a chinwag with a pensioner who knitted his baby's clothes ?!
Lottie had a season ticket for the Platt Lane at Maine Road. I was already a regular visitor by the age of 7 or 8 either with family members or a bit later with my mates. On a few occasions I sat with Lottie instead. Her support was incredible. She may have been in her 60s but she knew all the songs of the day and the prevailing hooliganism never intimidated her. One time I heard her saying "If I see any of our fans misbehaving I'd give them a clip around the ear". I remember feeling safer sat next to her than anywhere.
During the 1980 Moscow Olympics I was now a teenager but I still occasionally visited Lottie & George's house. This was the athletics era of Sebastian Coe and Steve Ovett and I visited once whilst the Olympics were on the telly. Lottie started to talk about Coe and how she had only just found out that he hadn't been knighted after all. I didn't understand what she was talking about so I asked her to explain what she meant. She said "His name". "What about his name?" I replied . "Well I thought he was called "Sir Bastian Coe" until last week !", this was followed by one of her inimitable laughs which set me off as well and even George (who was quiet and unassuming) started chuckling away to himself.
Lottie outlived George for many years and passed away when she was in her 90s. She was a truly marvelous person and her legend lives on.
Charlotte "Lottie" Knowles. R.I.P.
Tuesday, 21 August 2012
Stick Insects & The Family Cat
I know the title of this post may sound like a tale about some other weird band I've seen but no this story is all about something altogether very different so read on.....
As I was growing up we always had a family cat in our house, I was slightly too young to remember "Queenie" (she gave birth to dozens of kittens apparently) so Cinders was the name of the first cat I remember. Her name came from her liking of cinders (the remains of burnt coal from our fires) when she was a kitten. She was black and white and I really liked her. When she was around 12 months old she had a litter of 4 kittens. We gave the kittens away when they were weaned and had Cinders spayed shortly after to prevent a repeat of the Queenie experience. No more kittens for Cinders!
She was a friendly-natured cat and considering she was mithered by several kids she never scratched or bit anyone. Like most cats, eating and sleeping was her preferred way of life. When I was around 12 or 13 a mate at school brought in some baby stick insects in a covered bowl of soil. There were 4 of them and all the lads were eager to take a closer look. I thought they looked great. I didn't really have an interest in insects generally but these really grabbed my attention. My mate was selling them as he had dozens at home and these insects were new born from eggs that had hatched in his tank. He was offering them for 5p each. I bought them off him straight away with money out of my "spends". I didn't, however, consult my parents first.
My mate at school had told me they were really easy to keep as all they ate were privet leaves and they could live in an empty fish tank. I thought this was great as we had massive privets at home and we currently also had a spare empty fish tank so it would cost nothing. As I walked in the house, my mother said "what are you carrying a bowl of soil for ?" I hadn't bothered trying to hide it as I was sure this wasn't going to cause any problem for anyone else. I told her they were baby stick insects and I was going to look after them. She was Ok with the idea as long as I was careful. When I told my Dad when he got home he just said "What?!" then shook his head and walked off. I took that as a positive response!
I got the old fish tank out of the garage, cleaned it up, then went privet picking. I placed the tank in our front room then carefully placed the bowl of "stickies" into the tank. They soon ran out and made for the leaves, so I removed the bowl and started watching them. Soon after, Dad came in the room and said "There isn't a top for that tank you know". "So ?" I replied. He looked at me like I was some complete moron and said "I'm no stick insect expert but don't you think they may try and escape?" The penny dropped. "Oh yeh, I didn't think of that", I said.
I got straight on the phone to my mate from school about my predicament. He said "No problem, just put some clingfilm over the top of the tank and make some tiny air holes in it". This is exactly what I did. When Dad saw my handy-work he just gave it a look like "I'm not sure about this".
Over the next few months the stickies grew up very quickly. When they were small they were very active and I liked observing them and talking to them like you do. I used to tell them how Manchester City FC were getting on and how one day I would love to have a girlfriend from Wheels with bell shaped hair (See "Dorothy" post) and that kind of thing. It only took the stickies around 3 to 4 months to fully mature. Now they were proper "sticks" i.e fully camouflaged against the privets. They never moved so became quite possibly the most boring "pet" any teenage boy could ever have.
Whilst they were small Cinders used to sit by their tank occasionally and with typical curiosity would paw at in now and then. However, she never showed any malice towards them but it was still decided to keep her out of the front room as much as possible and to always keep the door to the room fully closed overnight. Now they had fully grown she completely ignored the tank and rarely even ventured into the room they were in.
One day when I was cleaning the tank and changing the privets etc I noticed some small, odd shaped objects in one corner. I left them there then when I was next in school I told my mate about what I had seen. "They've laid eggs, mate.Well done !", he said. "Oh, I wasn't really planning on that" I replied. He advised me to take them out then put them in a container with fresh moist soil and they would hatch. I did what he said, then a week or 2 later they hatched. There were about 10 of them! I wasn't happy with this and started to think I have bitten off more than I can chew here. I put the new arrivals in the tank with their parents and wondered what my next move would be.
It was early one Saturday morning and as I walked down the stairs I noticed something crawling in the hallway. At the same time I noticed the door to the front room was ajar. I immediately ran into the front room and what lay before me was a scene of stickie carnage. The squeamish must not read on at this point. (I will tell you when you can rejoin the story).
The clingfilm was only half covering the top of the tank. I looked around the room and there were bits of stickies everywhere. There were also a few small ones still alive in the tank and other mutilated ones half crawling around. I knew instinctively what had happened but Cinders was nowhere to be seen. My parents were out and my sister was still in bed. I was utterly panic stricken. I quickly brushed up as many body parts as I could and put them in the dustbin. I flushed the mutilated ones down the toilet, then re-covered the tank for the ones still alive inside it. As my sister was getting up and coming down the stairs I heard her shout something. I ran to the stairs and there was a 3 legged stick insect halfway up. I put it out of it's misery but my misery continued.
...OK the squeamish can rejoin us again. I scoured the house for any other stickie evidence but couldn't find any. Next I rang my mate from school. He was sort of half laughing and half disgusted with me. He explained that stickies don't live very long without leaves so it was unlikely they would turn up anywhere else in the house. I told him that was the worst 20p I had ever spent.
Whilst my parents were still out I watched Tiswas on TV for a while to get my head together. Cinders strolled into the room and sat on the couch next to me. She was licking her lips and cleaning herself. I also thought she was looking very pleased with life. Despite my tender years I also realised she wasn't to blame as what she had done was just normal feline behaviour. I suddenly had a brainwave and decided to free the remaining stickies in the tank "back into the wild" by placing them on the privets in the garden. Job done and game over I thought.
When my mother got home I explained what had happened. I carried out an enquiry afterwards as to who had left the front room door open but no one owned up to it. All I knew was it wasn't me. I had become bored with them anyway so when the dust had settled I wasn't too bothered.
I told my mate at school I had "freed" the remaining stickies outside. He called me a clown and said that was the worst thing I could have done as they would die a slow and painful death in the cold temperatures and with so many predators. I went looking for them after school but there was no sign of them. I started to feel bad about myself again.
For the record, I have successfully kept goldfish since without any mishaps but my stick insect days ended the day of the "Invasion of Cinders".
As I was growing up we always had a family cat in our house, I was slightly too young to remember "Queenie" (she gave birth to dozens of kittens apparently) so Cinders was the name of the first cat I remember. Her name came from her liking of cinders (the remains of burnt coal from our fires) when she was a kitten. She was black and white and I really liked her. When she was around 12 months old she had a litter of 4 kittens. We gave the kittens away when they were weaned and had Cinders spayed shortly after to prevent a repeat of the Queenie experience. No more kittens for Cinders!
She was a friendly-natured cat and considering she was mithered by several kids she never scratched or bit anyone. Like most cats, eating and sleeping was her preferred way of life. When I was around 12 or 13 a mate at school brought in some baby stick insects in a covered bowl of soil. There were 4 of them and all the lads were eager to take a closer look. I thought they looked great. I didn't really have an interest in insects generally but these really grabbed my attention. My mate was selling them as he had dozens at home and these insects were new born from eggs that had hatched in his tank. He was offering them for 5p each. I bought them off him straight away with money out of my "spends". I didn't, however, consult my parents first.
My mate at school had told me they were really easy to keep as all they ate were privet leaves and they could live in an empty fish tank. I thought this was great as we had massive privets at home and we currently also had a spare empty fish tank so it would cost nothing. As I walked in the house, my mother said "what are you carrying a bowl of soil for ?" I hadn't bothered trying to hide it as I was sure this wasn't going to cause any problem for anyone else. I told her they were baby stick insects and I was going to look after them. She was Ok with the idea as long as I was careful. When I told my Dad when he got home he just said "What?!" then shook his head and walked off. I took that as a positive response!
I got the old fish tank out of the garage, cleaned it up, then went privet picking. I placed the tank in our front room then carefully placed the bowl of "stickies" into the tank. They soon ran out and made for the leaves, so I removed the bowl and started watching them. Soon after, Dad came in the room and said "There isn't a top for that tank you know". "So ?" I replied. He looked at me like I was some complete moron and said "I'm no stick insect expert but don't you think they may try and escape?" The penny dropped. "Oh yeh, I didn't think of that", I said.
I got straight on the phone to my mate from school about my predicament. He said "No problem, just put some clingfilm over the top of the tank and make some tiny air holes in it". This is exactly what I did. When Dad saw my handy-work he just gave it a look like "I'm not sure about this".
Over the next few months the stickies grew up very quickly. When they were small they were very active and I liked observing them and talking to them like you do. I used to tell them how Manchester City FC were getting on and how one day I would love to have a girlfriend from Wheels with bell shaped hair (See "Dorothy" post) and that kind of thing. It only took the stickies around 3 to 4 months to fully mature. Now they were proper "sticks" i.e fully camouflaged against the privets. They never moved so became quite possibly the most boring "pet" any teenage boy could ever have.
Whilst they were small Cinders used to sit by their tank occasionally and with typical curiosity would paw at in now and then. However, she never showed any malice towards them but it was still decided to keep her out of the front room as much as possible and to always keep the door to the room fully closed overnight. Now they had fully grown she completely ignored the tank and rarely even ventured into the room they were in.
One day when I was cleaning the tank and changing the privets etc I noticed some small, odd shaped objects in one corner. I left them there then when I was next in school I told my mate about what I had seen. "They've laid eggs, mate.Well done !", he said. "Oh, I wasn't really planning on that" I replied. He advised me to take them out then put them in a container with fresh moist soil and they would hatch. I did what he said, then a week or 2 later they hatched. There were about 10 of them! I wasn't happy with this and started to think I have bitten off more than I can chew here. I put the new arrivals in the tank with their parents and wondered what my next move would be.
It was early one Saturday morning and as I walked down the stairs I noticed something crawling in the hallway. At the same time I noticed the door to the front room was ajar. I immediately ran into the front room and what lay before me was a scene of stickie carnage. The squeamish must not read on at this point. (I will tell you when you can rejoin the story).
The clingfilm was only half covering the top of the tank. I looked around the room and there were bits of stickies everywhere. There were also a few small ones still alive in the tank and other mutilated ones half crawling around. I knew instinctively what had happened but Cinders was nowhere to be seen. My parents were out and my sister was still in bed. I was utterly panic stricken. I quickly brushed up as many body parts as I could and put them in the dustbin. I flushed the mutilated ones down the toilet, then re-covered the tank for the ones still alive inside it. As my sister was getting up and coming down the stairs I heard her shout something. I ran to the stairs and there was a 3 legged stick insect halfway up. I put it out of it's misery but my misery continued.
...OK the squeamish can rejoin us again. I scoured the house for any other stickie evidence but couldn't find any. Next I rang my mate from school. He was sort of half laughing and half disgusted with me. He explained that stickies don't live very long without leaves so it was unlikely they would turn up anywhere else in the house. I told him that was the worst 20p I had ever spent.
Whilst my parents were still out I watched Tiswas on TV for a while to get my head together. Cinders strolled into the room and sat on the couch next to me. She was licking her lips and cleaning herself. I also thought she was looking very pleased with life. Despite my tender years I also realised she wasn't to blame as what she had done was just normal feline behaviour. I suddenly had a brainwave and decided to free the remaining stickies in the tank "back into the wild" by placing them on the privets in the garden. Job done and game over I thought.
When my mother got home I explained what had happened. I carried out an enquiry afterwards as to who had left the front room door open but no one owned up to it. All I knew was it wasn't me. I had become bored with them anyway so when the dust had settled I wasn't too bothered.
I told my mate at school I had "freed" the remaining stickies outside. He called me a clown and said that was the worst thing I could have done as they would die a slow and painful death in the cold temperatures and with so many predators. I went looking for them after school but there was no sign of them. I started to feel bad about myself again.
For the record, I have successfully kept goldfish since without any mishaps but my stick insect days ended the day of the "Invasion of Cinders".
Monday, 20 August 2012
Eejit Motorists
When I passed my driving test as a 19 year old I was desperate to buy my own car and take to the roads. There is nothing unusual about this, of course, but since I drove my own car for the first time to the present day, there has been a huge shift in my whole driving experience. Let me explain.
In my early days of motoring, I used any excuse to drive somewhere, anywhere. There was no continual stress involved. The price of fuel and insurance was affordable, even for a young driver on low wages like I was. I drove sensibly, not always staying at 30mph in a 30mph zone but certainly never treated the roads like a race track. I don't want to appear some do gooding, preaching bore here, it's just that I had respect for my passengers, other road users and, perhaps above all, myself.
What has happened in the intervening 25 years then? Well, firstly, a whole new generation has arrived. Today's young drivers weren't even born when I passed my test. Don't misunderstand me, I have always seen occasional dangerous driving throughout my life but the biggest change now is the frequency with which this occurs. This may seem obvious as there are so many more vehicles on the road than 25 years ago but this still doesn't account for the sheer scale of the madness I see and have to avoid on a daily basis now.
During the last 12 months, I have found that even the shortest journey is not incident free anymore. Even this morning on a 15 minute journey into Manchester city centre I had to negotiate the following:
After turning the first corner from my house, a taxi pulled out in front of me without signalling causing me to brake sharply. He then dawdled in front of me on his hand held mobile for 30 seconds then turned right again without signalling. I reached a T junction with a main road where signalling left/right is important for drivers behind to position their vehicle. The 4x4 monstrosity in front of me at the junction didn't signal. Maybe he/she was on a magical mystery tour? Eventually, they turned right.
Half a mile further on a cyclist emerged at speed off the pavement in front of me causing me to brake sharply for the second time within a mile from home. The cyclist was wearing headphones and no protection whatsoever. Another mile further on and my speedometer is just over 30 mph (30mph zone). I keep it at this speed then suddenly a white Audi appeared from nowhere in my rear view mirror, virtually on my back bumper. I refused to be intimidated by his aggression then noticed his flustered body language as he tried to overtake. I lose the Audi moron at the next roundabout then the next mile or so is incident free (hurray!)
A mile from town another 4x4 buffoon displayed his idiocy by speeding past me at around 50mph (30mph) zone. As I pull up at the next set of lights I glance across at the driver next to me. It is a young female happily chatting on her hand held phone. As the lights change, she doesn't move then I notice in my rear view mirror that she hasn't noticed the lights had changed due to her life or death phone call. As I approached town I needed to pull in on a one way street. As I turned right into the one way (yes it was one way in my direction) yet another 4v4 driver is faced me head on coming in the opposite direction. As I broke sharply for the third time this morning there was just enough room for us to pass. As we passed I wound down my window to ask what he is playing at and he was chatting away on his hand-held phone apparently oblivious that he was heading down a one way street in the "wrong" direction.
All this had happened in the space of 15 minutes and is not untypical. Would this have happened 25 years ago? Of course not, firstly, as the hand held mobile was not an issue. Secondly, driving standards generally have plummeted, ironically, at a time when the driving test is supposed to be tougher than it has ever been. The "informed" tell me statistics say road deaths in this country have decreased in recent years, even though it still stands at 3 a day. My answer to this is that cars have never before had all the safety features they currently have. This is the only reason why the carnage is not much higher.
My conclusion is the penalties for dangerous driving in all it's now many forms must be significantly tougher. I am aware I have posted on this blog before about hand-held mobiles whilst driving but 3 points and £30 is not going to deter anyone. What are the people who set these penalties thinking ?
We need to toughen up on dangerous driving and reduce the daily death toll on our roads. More people die on our roads every year than are ever likely to die in terrorist attacks yet British politicians are still willing to spend millions of pounds on ill-advised armed conflict abroad whilst doing virtually nothing about these preventable deaths at home. Tests have shown that the distraction of the phone is just as dangerous as being over the drink drive limit, now there is some food for thought....
In my early days of motoring, I used any excuse to drive somewhere, anywhere. There was no continual stress involved. The price of fuel and insurance was affordable, even for a young driver on low wages like I was. I drove sensibly, not always staying at 30mph in a 30mph zone but certainly never treated the roads like a race track. I don't want to appear some do gooding, preaching bore here, it's just that I had respect for my passengers, other road users and, perhaps above all, myself.
What has happened in the intervening 25 years then? Well, firstly, a whole new generation has arrived. Today's young drivers weren't even born when I passed my test. Don't misunderstand me, I have always seen occasional dangerous driving throughout my life but the biggest change now is the frequency with which this occurs. This may seem obvious as there are so many more vehicles on the road than 25 years ago but this still doesn't account for the sheer scale of the madness I see and have to avoid on a daily basis now.
During the last 12 months, I have found that even the shortest journey is not incident free anymore. Even this morning on a 15 minute journey into Manchester city centre I had to negotiate the following:
After turning the first corner from my house, a taxi pulled out in front of me without signalling causing me to brake sharply. He then dawdled in front of me on his hand held mobile for 30 seconds then turned right again without signalling. I reached a T junction with a main road where signalling left/right is important for drivers behind to position their vehicle. The 4x4 monstrosity in front of me at the junction didn't signal. Maybe he/she was on a magical mystery tour? Eventually, they turned right.
Half a mile further on a cyclist emerged at speed off the pavement in front of me causing me to brake sharply for the second time within a mile from home. The cyclist was wearing headphones and no protection whatsoever. Another mile further on and my speedometer is just over 30 mph (30mph zone). I keep it at this speed then suddenly a white Audi appeared from nowhere in my rear view mirror, virtually on my back bumper. I refused to be intimidated by his aggression then noticed his flustered body language as he tried to overtake. I lose the Audi moron at the next roundabout then the next mile or so is incident free (hurray!)
A mile from town another 4x4 buffoon displayed his idiocy by speeding past me at around 50mph (30mph) zone. As I pull up at the next set of lights I glance across at the driver next to me. It is a young female happily chatting on her hand held phone. As the lights change, she doesn't move then I notice in my rear view mirror that she hasn't noticed the lights had changed due to her life or death phone call. As I approached town I needed to pull in on a one way street. As I turned right into the one way (yes it was one way in my direction) yet another 4v4 driver is faced me head on coming in the opposite direction. As I broke sharply for the third time this morning there was just enough room for us to pass. As we passed I wound down my window to ask what he is playing at and he was chatting away on his hand-held phone apparently oblivious that he was heading down a one way street in the "wrong" direction.
All this had happened in the space of 15 minutes and is not untypical. Would this have happened 25 years ago? Of course not, firstly, as the hand held mobile was not an issue. Secondly, driving standards generally have plummeted, ironically, at a time when the driving test is supposed to be tougher than it has ever been. The "informed" tell me statistics say road deaths in this country have decreased in recent years, even though it still stands at 3 a day. My answer to this is that cars have never before had all the safety features they currently have. This is the only reason why the carnage is not much higher.
My conclusion is the penalties for dangerous driving in all it's now many forms must be significantly tougher. I am aware I have posted on this blog before about hand-held mobiles whilst driving but 3 points and £30 is not going to deter anyone. What are the people who set these penalties thinking ?
We need to toughen up on dangerous driving and reduce the daily death toll on our roads. More people die on our roads every year than are ever likely to die in terrorist attacks yet British politicians are still willing to spend millions of pounds on ill-advised armed conflict abroad whilst doing virtually nothing about these preventable deaths at home. Tests have shown that the distraction of the phone is just as dangerous as being over the drink drive limit, now there is some food for thought....
Saturday, 18 August 2012
Mancunian Memories 1970s
Sunday morning breakfasts
From the father of the house
Family cat at the ready
To catch a straying mouse
Newspaper, fire lighters
Coal and roaring fires
Power cuts and candles
Politicians all pariahs
Comic books and Roy Race
Spangles and Radio 1
Muffins from the pie shop
Quick before they're gone!
Freezing mornings and icy windows
6 coats on the bed
Fewer cars and lots of buses
With fuel full of lead
Easter eggs with treats inside
Kind faces and generous hearts
Watching sport on the telly
Football, cricket and darts
Wacky Races, Scooby Doo
Morecambe & Wise, Starsky & Hutch
Magic Roundabout, Andy Pandy
A panda called Butch
Long hot summers and outdoor play
Grandma's shop and stew
Stanton Street and bubbling tar
Mojos and a penny chew
Best of all was Christmas Day
Unwrapping presents, an afternoon feast
Childhood happiness never surpassed
Precious memories never cease
From the father of the house
Family cat at the ready
To catch a straying mouse
Newspaper, fire lighters
Coal and roaring fires
Power cuts and candles
Politicians all pariahs
Comic books and Roy Race
Spangles and Radio 1
Muffins from the pie shop
Quick before they're gone!
Freezing mornings and icy windows
6 coats on the bed
Fewer cars and lots of buses
With fuel full of lead
Easter eggs with treats inside
Kind faces and generous hearts
Watching sport on the telly
Football, cricket and darts
Wacky Races, Scooby Doo
Morecambe & Wise, Starsky & Hutch
Magic Roundabout, Andy Pandy
A panda called Butch
Long hot summers and outdoor play
Grandma's shop and stew
Stanton Street and bubbling tar
Mojos and a penny chew
Best of all was Christmas Day
Unwrapping presents, an afternoon feast
Childhood happiness never surpassed
Precious memories never cease
Friday, 17 August 2012
Crap Gang
When I was 10 years old I decided to join a gang. Well, at first there was only one other kid in my gang so we were a 2 strong gang. You may think that doesn't constitute a gang but technically you can have a 2 boy gang. We got ourselves tooled up with packets of Spangles and Sherbert Fountains, then commenced a recruitment campaign amongst our mates.
We eventually became a 5 strong gang and named ourselves "SCRAP". We got this inspiration from the group ABBA by naming it after the first initial of all our first names so, as well as me, there was Sean, Rob, Alan and Phil. There was only really one criteria for joining our gang and that was you had to be soft as shite.
The initiation ceremony for each member took place in our local park. You had to prove that you could eat 4 rounds of meat paste butties in one go without being sick. Once you got past this stage you commanded huge respect and were guaranteed to fit in. We terrorised our local communities with activities like walking through their streets holding a football on the way to the football pitch in the park, walking on cracks in the pavement, stroking cats, talking to each other above a whisper in each others houses and other such roguish behaviour.
On one particular night (well it may have been about 6.30pm as we all had to be in for no later than 8pm) we made a "den" out of some branches and a few loose bricks on some waste ground. As we talked in hushed tones about our next proposed daring deed (playing cricket WITHOUT pads on) we abandoned our den as several other gangs (slightly tougher than ours) had walked past laughing and pointing at us.
Eventually, Sean grew some balls and left the gang after a power struggle one night over who was going to eat the last Custard Cream. This meant we had to change the name of the gang so I had the bright idea of saying "why bother changing the whole name? we can just take Sean out of it". This meant that from then on our gang was called "CRAP".
We continued not getting into trouble and being outrageously polite to our parents for the next year or so then decided to disband our gang. We finished as we had started by all completing our homework on time.
We eventually became a 5 strong gang and named ourselves "SCRAP". We got this inspiration from the group ABBA by naming it after the first initial of all our first names so, as well as me, there was Sean, Rob, Alan and Phil. There was only really one criteria for joining our gang and that was you had to be soft as shite.
The initiation ceremony for each member took place in our local park. You had to prove that you could eat 4 rounds of meat paste butties in one go without being sick. Once you got past this stage you commanded huge respect and were guaranteed to fit in. We terrorised our local communities with activities like walking through their streets holding a football on the way to the football pitch in the park, walking on cracks in the pavement, stroking cats, talking to each other above a whisper in each others houses and other such roguish behaviour.
On one particular night (well it may have been about 6.30pm as we all had to be in for no later than 8pm) we made a "den" out of some branches and a few loose bricks on some waste ground. As we talked in hushed tones about our next proposed daring deed (playing cricket WITHOUT pads on) we abandoned our den as several other gangs (slightly tougher than ours) had walked past laughing and pointing at us.
Eventually, Sean grew some balls and left the gang after a power struggle one night over who was going to eat the last Custard Cream. This meant we had to change the name of the gang so I had the bright idea of saying "why bother changing the whole name? we can just take Sean out of it". This meant that from then on our gang was called "CRAP".
We continued not getting into trouble and being outrageously polite to our parents for the next year or so then decided to disband our gang. We finished as we had started by all completing our homework on time.
Thursday, 16 August 2012
Oasis - 1993, Manchester University
In music terms the early 1990s were, for me, all about alternative rock or what became known as "Grunge". The most groundbreaking band of this era were, in my opinion, The Pixies. They were hugely influential for Nirvana etc. However, my "Nirvana moment" came when I saw Kurt, Krist and Dave performing "Smells Like Teen Spirit" on The Word one Friday night in 1991. I was hooked immediately and, of course, they became the band that opened the floodgates for all the other successful alternative rock bands of the time.
The "Madchester" scene was dying a death with the implosion of The Stone Roses and the time was right for a changing of the guard. I was only ever an onlooker to that scene anyway. I never really got into any of the "baggy" stuff. I was the right age to be taken in by it but it just never felt right for me. The dance fusion element to a lot of it never appealed to me as I was (and still am) an unashamed first and foremost guitar driven rock music fan.
Anyway, by 1993 American alternative rock had blown away most other forms of guitar based music in the UK and was very much in vogue. Nirvana's In Utero had just been released and there was no let up in the explosion of copyist bands achieving success. In the middle of all this I agreed to go and see a jangly guitar band from Burnley called The Milltown Bothers at the Academy 3 on Oxford Road in Manchester (small-ish room in Manchester University). They were never really "Madchester" but their sound was similar to The Charlatans and others. They had released one decent album and it was a cheap ticket on a midweek night so I went along with a couple of others.
We got there very early. After a couple of pints the support band came on. They started playing to a room of no more than 50 people including my 2 associates and I. The lead singer appeared to me to be an Ian Brown(Stone Roses) clone. They were playing what sounded like badly out of tune Happy Mondays throwaways. The assembled few were far from impressed and each song ended with a few muted claps. After about 10 minutes I'd seen/heard enough so retired to the bar area for some respite. 20 minutes or so later the strangled, nasal Mancunian voice of the lead singer mumbled something about The Beatles, then they started playing a version of "I Am The Walrus". There was much discontent among the people around me with remarks such as "This is dreadful" "I've never heard this song slaughtered like this before". I didn't even bother to look at my ticket to see what they were called.
After they shambled off, the audience were pleased to see The Milltown Brothers and they put in a decent performance but it felt like they knew the stuff they were playing was not currently popular and the audience, of now around 200, were polite but never really got into the show. I made my way home thinking it was an average night but I could have done with missing that crap support band.
Around a year later, I was getting my regular Friday night fix of the ground-breaking early 1990s show, The Word, when presenter Terry Christian introduced a band who were, in his words, "City fans but I won't hold that against them". This got my attention and as they started playing I thought they looked familiar from somewhere. After 3 or 4 minutes it dawned on me. "I don't believe it, I think this is that crap band I saw supporting The Milltown Brothers last year" I think I said to no one in particular. At the end Christian gave their name as "Oasis". Well, it's at this point that I will confess I am a concert ticket geek and save all my tickets no matter what the night was like. The following day I rummaged around my concert ticket box (how sad is this? I really DO have a concert ticket box) and found my Milltown Brothers ticket from the previous year. It read "Milltown Brothers" in large letters then underneath in much smaller letters "supported by Oasis". Yes, I wonder whatever happened to them?
Footnote: The Oasis performance I witnessed was prior to Noel Gallagher joining them.
The "Madchester" scene was dying a death with the implosion of The Stone Roses and the time was right for a changing of the guard. I was only ever an onlooker to that scene anyway. I never really got into any of the "baggy" stuff. I was the right age to be taken in by it but it just never felt right for me. The dance fusion element to a lot of it never appealed to me as I was (and still am) an unashamed first and foremost guitar driven rock music fan.
Anyway, by 1993 American alternative rock had blown away most other forms of guitar based music in the UK and was very much in vogue. Nirvana's In Utero had just been released and there was no let up in the explosion of copyist bands achieving success. In the middle of all this I agreed to go and see a jangly guitar band from Burnley called The Milltown Bothers at the Academy 3 on Oxford Road in Manchester (small-ish room in Manchester University). They were never really "Madchester" but their sound was similar to The Charlatans and others. They had released one decent album and it was a cheap ticket on a midweek night so I went along with a couple of others.
We got there very early. After a couple of pints the support band came on. They started playing to a room of no more than 50 people including my 2 associates and I. The lead singer appeared to me to be an Ian Brown(Stone Roses) clone. They were playing what sounded like badly out of tune Happy Mondays throwaways. The assembled few were far from impressed and each song ended with a few muted claps. After about 10 minutes I'd seen/heard enough so retired to the bar area for some respite. 20 minutes or so later the strangled, nasal Mancunian voice of the lead singer mumbled something about The Beatles, then they started playing a version of "I Am The Walrus". There was much discontent among the people around me with remarks such as "This is dreadful" "I've never heard this song slaughtered like this before". I didn't even bother to look at my ticket to see what they were called.
After they shambled off, the audience were pleased to see The Milltown Brothers and they put in a decent performance but it felt like they knew the stuff they were playing was not currently popular and the audience, of now around 200, were polite but never really got into the show. I made my way home thinking it was an average night but I could have done with missing that crap support band.
Around a year later, I was getting my regular Friday night fix of the ground-breaking early 1990s show, The Word, when presenter Terry Christian introduced a band who were, in his words, "City fans but I won't hold that against them". This got my attention and as they started playing I thought they looked familiar from somewhere. After 3 or 4 minutes it dawned on me. "I don't believe it, I think this is that crap band I saw supporting The Milltown Brothers last year" I think I said to no one in particular. At the end Christian gave their name as "Oasis". Well, it's at this point that I will confess I am a concert ticket geek and save all my tickets no matter what the night was like. The following day I rummaged around my concert ticket box (how sad is this? I really DO have a concert ticket box) and found my Milltown Brothers ticket from the previous year. It read "Milltown Brothers" in large letters then underneath in much smaller letters "supported by Oasis". Yes, I wonder whatever happened to them?
Footnote: The Oasis performance I witnessed was prior to Noel Gallagher joining them.
The Psycho Surgeons
In my late teens and throughout my 20s I attended more gigs than I can now remember. My preferred choice of music ranged from Rock through to all kinds of Alternative bands. Most of these were best seen live as their studio work usually didn't do them justice.
Venues attended included Manchester Apollo; International 1 & 2; Academy; Manchester University; Roadhouse; (original) Band on the Wall amongst many others. Less frequently, festivals and football stadiums were also visited for the more mainstream acts such as Pink Floyd; Deep Purple; Ozzy Osbourne; AC/DC etc.
The Witchwood in Ashton under Lyne has always been a favourite. When I first attended this venue in the late 80s it was then a pub called The Gamecock. The pub hosted live bands on a regular basis. It became so popular that it was transformed into a bespoke music venue. The room at the back of the pub was extended and fitted out to accommodate around 200 people. This would become the scene of many joyful nights of rapscallion behaviour.
Around 1987, The Witchwood sometimes had acts on 7 nights a week so, on the advice of a mate, I went along with him on a midweek night to see a band called The Psycho Surgeons. I didn't expect there to be much of an audience so I felt safe donning my recently purchased spectacles. They were classic 80s style i.e massive, and I also treated myself to have them tinted so I looked extra cool(?!)
We arrived there slightly later than planned so it was only around 10 minutes to show time. I couldn't believe what I saw before me. The place was packed and it was an almighty struggle just to get to the bar for a drink. Seemingly, the band had a large cult following that I was previously unaware of. We managed to squeeze in to the bar area and wedged ourselves against the bar itself. The room was clearly overcrowded. As the band came on the audience went nuts. They were a 4 piece band and the drummer, bassist and lead guitarist started the intro to one of their crazed songs. I gripped my pint closely to my chest as the moshing had started already and had even extended to where I was standing.
The lead singer emerged and the delirium in front of me went up another notch. He was dressed in a full surgeons gown complete with mask and hair net (hence the name of the band!). He leapt around the small stage for a few minutes, whilst the band played behind him, then ripped off his mask and hair net to reveal outrageously long hair, then screamed his vocals into the microphone which brought about another crowd surge. I had not seen anything like this live before. It was truly insane. Over the next few songs his gown also came off leaving him bare chested.
Around 4 or 5 songs in, out of nowhere, a huge settee cushion appeared in the audience in front of me. The ceiling was very low at this time in the concert room so the crowd surfers literally had their hands on the ceiling while this cushion was flung around the heads of the crowd ahead. It was hilarious to view so I just laughed along with everyone else. Suddenly, the cushion was hurled in my direction. I saw it too late and it caught me full on the side of the head. This resulted in my expensive specs flinging off my face and into the crowd around me. The audience were packed like sardines and were crowd surfing and moshing like there was no tomorrow. I quickly started pushing and shoving those around me to locate my glasses but knew deep down it was a forlorn hope.
Eventually, the chaos in front of me relented for a minute so I was able to bend down and search the floor. I found the remnants of what were my pride and joy in several smashed, crushed pieces on the floor. I was devastated. My mate was laughing his head off but my sense of humour had exited stage left. The enormity of my situation dawned on me very quickly. Firstly, I could not now see the band and, more importantly, these were my only pair of glasses which meant I could not drive to work the following morning. At this point I lost the plot and told my mate I was going home as my night was ruined. The following day I had to take the day off work to procure an emergency pair of glasses.
I learnt a harsh lesson on this night and never again would I wear glasses so see bands such as these. I have never worn contact lenses either so there have been a lot of bands I have seen as kind of blurry outlines!
Venues attended included Manchester Apollo; International 1 & 2; Academy; Manchester University; Roadhouse; (original) Band on the Wall amongst many others. Less frequently, festivals and football stadiums were also visited for the more mainstream acts such as Pink Floyd; Deep Purple; Ozzy Osbourne; AC/DC etc.
The Witchwood in Ashton under Lyne has always been a favourite. When I first attended this venue in the late 80s it was then a pub called The Gamecock. The pub hosted live bands on a regular basis. It became so popular that it was transformed into a bespoke music venue. The room at the back of the pub was extended and fitted out to accommodate around 200 people. This would become the scene of many joyful nights of rapscallion behaviour.
Around 1987, The Witchwood sometimes had acts on 7 nights a week so, on the advice of a mate, I went along with him on a midweek night to see a band called The Psycho Surgeons. I didn't expect there to be much of an audience so I felt safe donning my recently purchased spectacles. They were classic 80s style i.e massive, and I also treated myself to have them tinted so I looked extra cool(?!)
We arrived there slightly later than planned so it was only around 10 minutes to show time. I couldn't believe what I saw before me. The place was packed and it was an almighty struggle just to get to the bar for a drink. Seemingly, the band had a large cult following that I was previously unaware of. We managed to squeeze in to the bar area and wedged ourselves against the bar itself. The room was clearly overcrowded. As the band came on the audience went nuts. They were a 4 piece band and the drummer, bassist and lead guitarist started the intro to one of their crazed songs. I gripped my pint closely to my chest as the moshing had started already and had even extended to where I was standing.
The lead singer emerged and the delirium in front of me went up another notch. He was dressed in a full surgeons gown complete with mask and hair net (hence the name of the band!). He leapt around the small stage for a few minutes, whilst the band played behind him, then ripped off his mask and hair net to reveal outrageously long hair, then screamed his vocals into the microphone which brought about another crowd surge. I had not seen anything like this live before. It was truly insane. Over the next few songs his gown also came off leaving him bare chested.
Around 4 or 5 songs in, out of nowhere, a huge settee cushion appeared in the audience in front of me. The ceiling was very low at this time in the concert room so the crowd surfers literally had their hands on the ceiling while this cushion was flung around the heads of the crowd ahead. It was hilarious to view so I just laughed along with everyone else. Suddenly, the cushion was hurled in my direction. I saw it too late and it caught me full on the side of the head. This resulted in my expensive specs flinging off my face and into the crowd around me. The audience were packed like sardines and were crowd surfing and moshing like there was no tomorrow. I quickly started pushing and shoving those around me to locate my glasses but knew deep down it was a forlorn hope.
Eventually, the chaos in front of me relented for a minute so I was able to bend down and search the floor. I found the remnants of what were my pride and joy in several smashed, crushed pieces on the floor. I was devastated. My mate was laughing his head off but my sense of humour had exited stage left. The enormity of my situation dawned on me very quickly. Firstly, I could not now see the band and, more importantly, these were my only pair of glasses which meant I could not drive to work the following morning. At this point I lost the plot and told my mate I was going home as my night was ruined. The following day I had to take the day off work to procure an emergency pair of glasses.
I learnt a harsh lesson on this night and never again would I wear glasses so see bands such as these. I have never worn contact lenses either so there have been a lot of bands I have seen as kind of blurry outlines!
Wednesday, 15 August 2012
James Stannage & James H. Reeve
Most "talk" radio has become dull and uninspired. The robotic presenters all appear to read from the same script with all the charisma of a dying slug. In the social media age it's now a procession of "text in with this", "email that" or "Gary Gobshite has tweeted such and such brainless tripe". The modern style of presenting has become lazy. Press a few buttons, or touch a screen and get the listeners to do all the work. The commercial stations are interspersed with mind numbing adverts and on the BBC network the eternal advertising of future predictable, boring drivel.
BBC Radio 4 is one of the few exceptions that does still broadcast programmes which have some value and are worth a listen. BBC Radio 5Live's exception is the World Football Phone-in which is tucked away from 2am-4am every Saturday morning (available later via Podcast). Dotun Adebayo is a very talented presenter and Tim Vickery's contributions are intelligent, knowledgeable and forthright.
TalkSport(TalkShit) is one of the worst offenders. Ex-footballers preaching to the listener about sports they clearly know nothing about. I no longer listen to this station at all and would rather hand wash a pair of underpants found in a skip than sit through half an hour of Alan Brazil telling everyone who he was brown- nosing the night before.
So this brings me on to the legend of talk radio, the incomparable James Stannage. The only other presenter to ever run him close is James H Reeve. Reeve's curmudgeonly, lugubrious style was wonderful to listen to but you always got the impression he genuinely wasn't enjoying having to take calls from your average moron so he seemed to become more and more depressed to the point where it badly affected his shows. James H. appears to have retired from the talk scene now, which is a great loss, but I'm sure his reasons were the right ones for him.
Anyway, I digress, so back to Stannage. I first heard him on the radio back in the 1970s on Manchester's Piccadilly Radio. I shared a bedroom with 4 older brothers and Stannage had a stint as a late night host for a few years. I was only very young and didn't really understand how unique he was for the times. His show was ground breaking for the UK as calling listeners "boring morons" etc had never been heard on the radio before. He was already a legend in our bedroom. He furthered his career in the USA amongst other places then came back to local radio around 1989/1990, this time on Piccadilly Magic as it was then called. I was very excited about this at the time as I had now grown up, of course, and the anticipation of what his show would be like was palpable.
The first year or so saw his delivery slightly more subdued than I had remembered him. He broadcast from 10pm-2am. In the first hour of his show he invited listeners to ring in with their best jokes. This was all a bit hit and miss. The following 3 hours tended to be more serious debate with plenty of time given to some callers that didn't really have that much to say. I carried on listening every night though as this was still more entertaining than any other late night radio programme on at that time. He gradually procured a few regular callers who tended to play devil's advocate, so it started to become more like his show of old again.
Around Christmas 1994 I rang in to talk to him about how the DE-regulation of the bus network under Thatcher many years previously continued to adversely affected services around Greater Manchester. I didn't have a car at that time and was struggling to get to work on the bus. He gave me around 5 minutes on air during which time he accused me of not having a brain for not advertising my plight on the work's noticeboard. I loved every second of it. He gradually became more reckless in his shows and was regularly getting into trouble with the authorities for some of his remarks to callers. This all added to the edginess of his show and by the late 90s his show was unmissable. I remember my opening line to people in work most mornings had become "Did you listen to Stannage last night ?!".
He was taken off the air under more controversy then re-emerged on Key 103, Manchester's "premier" FM radio station. This appeared to be a ploy to attract a younger audience who would be more suited to his style. It definitely worked. I now had people 10 or 15 years my junior asking me if I had listened to Stannage the night before. His shows from this time have now become YouTube hits and for a few years in the early 2000s his shows were the most cutting edge, controversial, unpredictable and at times truly shocking broadcasts on any outlet in this country. There followed some copyists on other stations but no-one could rival Stannage. His insults were legendary and he told moronic callers exactly what needed saying to them; be they chav; scrote; racist etc.
He was eventually taken off air again for overstepping the mark (I heard this broadcast and agreed with his argument but his choice of words were ill-advised) and he has been off mainstream radio ever since. He is still a man-about-town and has had an online show but I believe he still deserves a bigger stage.
This brings me back to my main point. Talk radio now is designed to be dull and bland and the James Stannage's of this world won't be "risked" by faceless suits in the upper echelons of broadcasting. The world of radio is a much poorer place for it. However, even if James Stannage never broadcast again, his status as a truly legendary icon of radio is set in stone.
BBC Radio 4 is one of the few exceptions that does still broadcast programmes which have some value and are worth a listen. BBC Radio 5Live's exception is the World Football Phone-in which is tucked away from 2am-4am every Saturday morning (available later via Podcast). Dotun Adebayo is a very talented presenter and Tim Vickery's contributions are intelligent, knowledgeable and forthright.
TalkSport(TalkShit) is one of the worst offenders. Ex-footballers preaching to the listener about sports they clearly know nothing about. I no longer listen to this station at all and would rather hand wash a pair of underpants found in a skip than sit through half an hour of Alan Brazil telling everyone who he was brown- nosing the night before.
So this brings me on to the legend of talk radio, the incomparable James Stannage. The only other presenter to ever run him close is James H Reeve. Reeve's curmudgeonly, lugubrious style was wonderful to listen to but you always got the impression he genuinely wasn't enjoying having to take calls from your average moron so he seemed to become more and more depressed to the point where it badly affected his shows. James H. appears to have retired from the talk scene now, which is a great loss, but I'm sure his reasons were the right ones for him.
Anyway, I digress, so back to Stannage. I first heard him on the radio back in the 1970s on Manchester's Piccadilly Radio. I shared a bedroom with 4 older brothers and Stannage had a stint as a late night host for a few years. I was only very young and didn't really understand how unique he was for the times. His show was ground breaking for the UK as calling listeners "boring morons" etc had never been heard on the radio before. He was already a legend in our bedroom. He furthered his career in the USA amongst other places then came back to local radio around 1989/1990, this time on Piccadilly Magic as it was then called. I was very excited about this at the time as I had now grown up, of course, and the anticipation of what his show would be like was palpable.
The first year or so saw his delivery slightly more subdued than I had remembered him. He broadcast from 10pm-2am. In the first hour of his show he invited listeners to ring in with their best jokes. This was all a bit hit and miss. The following 3 hours tended to be more serious debate with plenty of time given to some callers that didn't really have that much to say. I carried on listening every night though as this was still more entertaining than any other late night radio programme on at that time. He gradually procured a few regular callers who tended to play devil's advocate, so it started to become more like his show of old again.
Around Christmas 1994 I rang in to talk to him about how the DE-regulation of the bus network under Thatcher many years previously continued to adversely affected services around Greater Manchester. I didn't have a car at that time and was struggling to get to work on the bus. He gave me around 5 minutes on air during which time he accused me of not having a brain for not advertising my plight on the work's noticeboard. I loved every second of it. He gradually became more reckless in his shows and was regularly getting into trouble with the authorities for some of his remarks to callers. This all added to the edginess of his show and by the late 90s his show was unmissable. I remember my opening line to people in work most mornings had become "Did you listen to Stannage last night ?!".
He was taken off the air under more controversy then re-emerged on Key 103, Manchester's "premier" FM radio station. This appeared to be a ploy to attract a younger audience who would be more suited to his style. It definitely worked. I now had people 10 or 15 years my junior asking me if I had listened to Stannage the night before. His shows from this time have now become YouTube hits and for a few years in the early 2000s his shows were the most cutting edge, controversial, unpredictable and at times truly shocking broadcasts on any outlet in this country. There followed some copyists on other stations but no-one could rival Stannage. His insults were legendary and he told moronic callers exactly what needed saying to them; be they chav; scrote; racist etc.
He was eventually taken off air again for overstepping the mark (I heard this broadcast and agreed with his argument but his choice of words were ill-advised) and he has been off mainstream radio ever since. He is still a man-about-town and has had an online show but I believe he still deserves a bigger stage.
This brings me back to my main point. Talk radio now is designed to be dull and bland and the James Stannage's of this world won't be "risked" by faceless suits in the upper echelons of broadcasting. The world of radio is a much poorer place for it. However, even if James Stannage never broadcast again, his status as a truly legendary icon of radio is set in stone.
Living in the 23rd Century with Shobna Gulati
I've listened to other people sharing their dream stories down the years and more often than not they are as entertaining as a dentist's waiting room for the listener. With this in mind, bear with me as I will try and make it as captivating as possible
For those not familiar with the name Shobna Gulati, she is a very talented British born actress of Indian heritage who has worked on TV and in the theatre but last night Shobna and I partied together in the distant future. When I say distant, I mean REALLY distant as I estimated the year to be sometime in the 23rd century.
We may have been a celebrity couple in the 23rd century but the media were still coining their phrases so we were known as "Chribna". The world had evolved to the point where there were no cars, just an intricate network of pathways in the sky that transferred passengers to their destinations by a few clicks on their futuristic wristbands.
We lived together in a sprawling apartment, most of which was taken up by Shobna's clothes and shoes. We had been invited to yet another celebrity party. In the dream she was a bit diva-ish.. Each outfit she was trying on became increasingly inappropriate. There were no 50 Shades of Grey undertones here (why would there be as it would have been a 200 year old film) I was just annoyed that she was inevitably going to be the centre of attention again and her scantily dressed appearance would be available to view on every pubescent teenage boy's 23rd century wristwatch. This made me feel understandably uncomfortable.
We made our way onto the first class Skypath (a 23rd century mode of transport), then arrived at the party in seconds, even though it was at the other end of the country. Shobna got rather "tipsy" as I sipped an "every fruit in the world" organic drink. I could hear all the other women bitching about her enviable figure and many of the male guests were trying to chat her up . After a while I became even more frustrated with her and left her to her own devices.
Later in the evening my brother turned up at the party so I reached into my coat pocket and produced a pack of playing cards whereupon we played Pontoon until the early hours....then I woke up. End of dream
For those not familiar with the name Shobna Gulati, she is a very talented British born actress of Indian heritage who has worked on TV and in the theatre but last night Shobna and I partied together in the distant future. When I say distant, I mean REALLY distant as I estimated the year to be sometime in the 23rd century.
We may have been a celebrity couple in the 23rd century but the media were still coining their phrases so we were known as "Chribna". The world had evolved to the point where there were no cars, just an intricate network of pathways in the sky that transferred passengers to their destinations by a few clicks on their futuristic wristbands.
We lived together in a sprawling apartment, most of which was taken up by Shobna's clothes and shoes. We had been invited to yet another celebrity party. In the dream she was a bit diva-ish.. Each outfit she was trying on became increasingly inappropriate. There were no 50 Shades of Grey undertones here (why would there be as it would have been a 200 year old film) I was just annoyed that she was inevitably going to be the centre of attention again and her scantily dressed appearance would be available to view on every pubescent teenage boy's 23rd century wristwatch. This made me feel understandably uncomfortable.
We made our way onto the first class Skypath (a 23rd century mode of transport), then arrived at the party in seconds, even though it was at the other end of the country. Shobna got rather "tipsy" as I sipped an "every fruit in the world" organic drink. I could hear all the other women bitching about her enviable figure and many of the male guests were trying to chat her up . After a while I became even more frustrated with her and left her to her own devices.
Later in the evening my brother turned up at the party so I reached into my coat pocket and produced a pack of playing cards whereupon we played Pontoon until the early hours....then I woke up. End of dream
Tuesday, 14 August 2012
Mo Farah - Britain's Greatest Distance Runner
Mo Farah first came to my attention during 2010 at the European Athletics Championships. I have never followed athletics particularly closely outside the major events but watched a bit more of these games than I usually would have.
I didn't even see a complete race of his but did catch an interview with him after one race. I was immediately impressed with his humility, honesty and totally natural demeanour. He just came across as a really likeable bloke. From this point on I have followed his career and had already looked into his background some time before his career highlight (so far!) moments of glory in the last few weeks (August 2012)
For those that are unaware of his upbringing he came to Britain with his British born father when he was 8 years old from that most troubled African country of Somalia. He spoke no English on arrival and his preferred sport at this time was football. His turn of speed caught the eye and over time with help and guidance he turned his focus to athletics. His upbringing and early childhood had ingrained in him a trait to be grateful and thankful for a talent that he would not waste and one which he would devote his future to.
His Muslim faith lent itself well to his lifestyle and development in the most demanding of sporting fields that is distance running and his rise to the top of this nation's consciousness was complete on the evening of Saturday 11 August 2012. I grew up in the Coe/Ovett and Daley Thompson era of athletics but never have I willed an athlete over the line with such emotion and enthusiasm as I did in the 5000m on that Saturday evening. It was a truly remarkable sporting moment and re-invented my faith in humanity that it is possible to reach the pinnacle of your chosen sport from the most under-privileged of starts in life. No one of his generation born in this country can truly understand what he has overcome to reach that moment at the end of the 5000m. Obviously, this made it all the more special.
Mo Farah is now 29 years old and it's thought that his next goal is the marathon. If he can stay fit then with his dedication and ongoing commitment it's not beyond the realms of possibility that he could do it all again in that event. Let's hope the impending birth of his twins don't give him too many sleepless nights!
Mo Farah....we salute you !
I didn't even see a complete race of his but did catch an interview with him after one race. I was immediately impressed with his humility, honesty and totally natural demeanour. He just came across as a really likeable bloke. From this point on I have followed his career and had already looked into his background some time before his career highlight (so far!) moments of glory in the last few weeks (August 2012)
For those that are unaware of his upbringing he came to Britain with his British born father when he was 8 years old from that most troubled African country of Somalia. He spoke no English on arrival and his preferred sport at this time was football. His turn of speed caught the eye and over time with help and guidance he turned his focus to athletics. His upbringing and early childhood had ingrained in him a trait to be grateful and thankful for a talent that he would not waste and one which he would devote his future to.
His Muslim faith lent itself well to his lifestyle and development in the most demanding of sporting fields that is distance running and his rise to the top of this nation's consciousness was complete on the evening of Saturday 11 August 2012. I grew up in the Coe/Ovett and Daley Thompson era of athletics but never have I willed an athlete over the line with such emotion and enthusiasm as I did in the 5000m on that Saturday evening. It was a truly remarkable sporting moment and re-invented my faith in humanity that it is possible to reach the pinnacle of your chosen sport from the most under-privileged of starts in life. No one of his generation born in this country can truly understand what he has overcome to reach that moment at the end of the 5000m. Obviously, this made it all the more special.
Mo Farah is now 29 years old and it's thought that his next goal is the marathon. If he can stay fit then with his dedication and ongoing commitment it's not beyond the realms of possibility that he could do it all again in that event. Let's hope the impending birth of his twins don't give him too many sleepless nights!
Mo Farah....we salute you !
Monday, 13 August 2012
National Anthem
We have all heard this dirge many more times than we would normally do over the last few weeks due to the unprecedented success of the British Olympic team (or the name "Team GB" which I personally despise. It sounds made up by some corporate windbags in a meeting where everyone is "going forward" with everything). Many of the British winners have received unfair criticism from sections of the media for not heartily belting out this hopelessly outdated "anthem". The same applies to English footballers who choose not to get involved. Has it ever struck any of the blind "patriots" that some of these sports people may be atheists and/or may not be comfortable about God "saving" some privileged institution that means nothing to them and has played no part in getting them to the pinnacle of their chosen career ?
For the record I don't consider myself atheist and definitely don't want my God wasting their time "saving" monarchs, presidents or any other heads of state. Any country's national anthem which focuses on a hereditary monarchy rather than it's people, who are the lifeblood of the nation, is a deeply unhealthy one.
These Olympic games have gone some way in showing Britain to be a modern, multicultural, innovative nation. The current national anthem reflects none of that. In the 21st century the words to it sound ridiculous and belong to an age when it was perfectly acceptable for monarchs to execute their wives (let's not go down the Diana road on this post!) and persecute their "subjects" at will. It's time for change. There seems little chance of a referendum in this country on the future of the monarchy any time soon but UK "subjects" would be going some way to being dragged into the 21st century if only they would consider a new, progressive, uplifting anthem about it's multicultural nation and it's values etc.
If we can't change the head of state then at least let's change the national anthem.
For the record I don't consider myself atheist and definitely don't want my God wasting their time "saving" monarchs, presidents or any other heads of state. Any country's national anthem which focuses on a hereditary monarchy rather than it's people, who are the lifeblood of the nation, is a deeply unhealthy one.
These Olympic games have gone some way in showing Britain to be a modern, multicultural, innovative nation. The current national anthem reflects none of that. In the 21st century the words to it sound ridiculous and belong to an age when it was perfectly acceptable for monarchs to execute their wives (let's not go down the Diana road on this post!) and persecute their "subjects" at will. It's time for change. There seems little chance of a referendum in this country on the future of the monarchy any time soon but UK "subjects" would be going some way to being dragged into the 21st century if only they would consider a new, progressive, uplifting anthem about it's multicultural nation and it's values etc.
If we can't change the head of state then at least let's change the national anthem.
Monday, 6 August 2012
Prestwich Flash Flood August 2012
It started as an ordinary Sunday afternoon. My wife and I visited Manchester Fort in Cheetham Hill for an hour or so then returned home at around 3pm. The weather was humid and sticky so I poured myself an iced fruit drink then sat down to watch some of the Olympics action.
I decided to watch the Murray v Federer match competing for the gold medal. At a somewhat surprising 2 sets to love lead for Murray, the ubiquitous Clare Balding announced that she didn't want to worry viewers but there were reports of a huge storm in the Midlands area which may reach Wimbledon. This was of no concern to me as Manchester was cloudy but dry.
Midway through the third set the sky outside my window became much darker. At the same time, Ms Balding stated that all was well as the storm was heading North and not to London (that's alright then!). As Murray closed in on victory it started to rain outside and slowly got heavier. By the time Murray won the match the rain had become torrential and was now accompanied by thunder and lightning. It started to look a bit worrying so I went outside to the patio-ed area at the back of the house to make sure the drains were coping with the downpour. After about 5 minutes it was apparent that our 2 drains were holding up well so I switched my attention to the front of the house and the street beyond. Surprisingly a lake had formed in the crossroads about 50 yards to the left of the house. There then followed a series of blinding flashes and simultaneous explosions indicating that this storm was directly overhead. This was followed by a hailstorm which was so intense I couldn't see the opposite side of the street. I stood in the front doorway as it clearly wasn't safe to go any further at this stage.
The sky overhead was almost black and the enormous intensity of the hail and torrential rain carried on for a further 15 minutes or so when I realised the level of water in the street had become uncontrollable. There were still only a couple of people in their doorways at this time. The depth of the water had reached around 3 feet as it was lapping over the garden walls of the houses opposite and was clearly entering the front doors of these properties also. Fortunately for us, our side of the street is slightly raised from the other side and we have 2 steps up to the path to the front door of the house. As the water level reached the second step on our front path I was concerned enough to suggest we should call fire and rescue even though I was sure the houses opposite would have done this already. We were asked by fire and rescue if the water was actually entering our property. We said no but it wasn't far off. They said to call back if it did enter and not before as they were currently inundated with similar calls and were prioritising those whose houses were already flooding. Oh great !
When the storm had first started I thought it was good viewing and wasn't overly concerned but as the water was lapping over the second step to our house I was now very worried. I looked out into the street and could now also see a car stranded in water up to the windscreen with the wipers moving A couple of the neighbours had waded into the water to try to help but it it was almost up to their chests so they waded back again. The houses opposite were obviously now in big trouble as one occupant had just returned home and someone already inside the house couldn't open the door for obvious reasons so he had to climb in through a window. Overhead the storm continued and I noted if it carried on at this intensity for another 10 minutes or so our house was going to be in trouble.
Suddenly a few small areas of blue sky appeared and the rain abated slightly. A few moments later our next door but one neighbours had returned home from shopping and shouted to us through the hedge asking if they could pass through our garden as they would have needed a boat to reach their house from the front. They have 2 small children so I opened the gate to the side of the house (it's a corner house so the side is on another street which had shallower flooding) and they passed though our gardens and next door's garden. We removed the fence panels between us to allow easier access.
As we were replacing the panels, the rain had eased further and, mercifully, the water level had receded back to below the first step on the front path. By this time a large crowd had gathered and the occupant of the car had been released but his car was now clearly a write off. It was also noticeable that during this flash flood the temperature had dropped considerably and the hailstones now completely covering both our gardens were showing no sign of melting. A bewildered frog also suddenly appeared on the front lawn. After another 10 minutes or so the rain eased further and, at the same time, a fire engine finally turned up. This was my cue to return indoors and take a deep breath. The storm itself had lasted for a full hour.
Over the next few hours the clean up operation continued in the street among the fire service and the neighbours worst affected. We had ensured our next door neighbour was OK and had offered assistance to others. It was heart warming to know that in this kind of situation we have neighbours who are decent people. This was my first experience of a "flash flood" and not one I am too eager to repeat..
I decided to watch the Murray v Federer match competing for the gold medal. At a somewhat surprising 2 sets to love lead for Murray, the ubiquitous Clare Balding announced that she didn't want to worry viewers but there were reports of a huge storm in the Midlands area which may reach Wimbledon. This was of no concern to me as Manchester was cloudy but dry.
Midway through the third set the sky outside my window became much darker. At the same time, Ms Balding stated that all was well as the storm was heading North and not to London (that's alright then!). As Murray closed in on victory it started to rain outside and slowly got heavier. By the time Murray won the match the rain had become torrential and was now accompanied by thunder and lightning. It started to look a bit worrying so I went outside to the patio-ed area at the back of the house to make sure the drains were coping with the downpour. After about 5 minutes it was apparent that our 2 drains were holding up well so I switched my attention to the front of the house and the street beyond. Surprisingly a lake had formed in the crossroads about 50 yards to the left of the house. There then followed a series of blinding flashes and simultaneous explosions indicating that this storm was directly overhead. This was followed by a hailstorm which was so intense I couldn't see the opposite side of the street. I stood in the front doorway as it clearly wasn't safe to go any further at this stage.
The sky overhead was almost black and the enormous intensity of the hail and torrential rain carried on for a further 15 minutes or so when I realised the level of water in the street had become uncontrollable. There were still only a couple of people in their doorways at this time. The depth of the water had reached around 3 feet as it was lapping over the garden walls of the houses opposite and was clearly entering the front doors of these properties also. Fortunately for us, our side of the street is slightly raised from the other side and we have 2 steps up to the path to the front door of the house. As the water level reached the second step on our front path I was concerned enough to suggest we should call fire and rescue even though I was sure the houses opposite would have done this already. We were asked by fire and rescue if the water was actually entering our property. We said no but it wasn't far off. They said to call back if it did enter and not before as they were currently inundated with similar calls and were prioritising those whose houses were already flooding. Oh great !
When the storm had first started I thought it was good viewing and wasn't overly concerned but as the water was lapping over the second step to our house I was now very worried. I looked out into the street and could now also see a car stranded in water up to the windscreen with the wipers moving A couple of the neighbours had waded into the water to try to help but it it was almost up to their chests so they waded back again. The houses opposite were obviously now in big trouble as one occupant had just returned home and someone already inside the house couldn't open the door for obvious reasons so he had to climb in through a window. Overhead the storm continued and I noted if it carried on at this intensity for another 10 minutes or so our house was going to be in trouble.
Suddenly a few small areas of blue sky appeared and the rain abated slightly. A few moments later our next door but one neighbours had returned home from shopping and shouted to us through the hedge asking if they could pass through our garden as they would have needed a boat to reach their house from the front. They have 2 small children so I opened the gate to the side of the house (it's a corner house so the side is on another street which had shallower flooding) and they passed though our gardens and next door's garden. We removed the fence panels between us to allow easier access.
As we were replacing the panels, the rain had eased further and, mercifully, the water level had receded back to below the first step on the front path. By this time a large crowd had gathered and the occupant of the car had been released but his car was now clearly a write off. It was also noticeable that during this flash flood the temperature had dropped considerably and the hailstones now completely covering both our gardens were showing no sign of melting. A bewildered frog also suddenly appeared on the front lawn. After another 10 minutes or so the rain eased further and, at the same time, a fire engine finally turned up. This was my cue to return indoors and take a deep breath. The storm itself had lasted for a full hour.
Over the next few hours the clean up operation continued in the street among the fire service and the neighbours worst affected. We had ensured our next door neighbour was OK and had offered assistance to others. It was heart warming to know that in this kind of situation we have neighbours who are decent people. This was my first experience of a "flash flood" and not one I am too eager to repeat..
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