Two lost souls destined to meet
Conspiracy theories amid webs of deceit
Fractured hearts and friendships lost
Reckless acts whatever the cost
The fickle fingers of life's fate
A love created on an infamous date
A dwindling fire of painful guilt
New found spirit and bridges built
Forgiven, not forgotten, forever a sinner
Healing time, hearts and minds a winner
Demons they come and then they go
Reaching new highs, then a new low
Onwards and upwards the saying goes
Look to the future and bury your woes
Leave heartbreak and angst in lost love songs
Celebrate the rights, don't mourn the wrongs
Friday, 7 September 2012
Tuesday, 4 September 2012
Mancunian Madman Punches Goose In Beak
In April of this year my wife and I attended a literary festival in Scarborough. We networked with various authors as we were staying in the same hotel as most of them. When I say "networked" I mean I looked on in awe of them in the breakfast room and the bar in the evening. My literary "career" was very much still at it's nascent stage so without having a published book myself to talk about I felt out of my depth.
On the Saturday afternoon the sun came out so we decided to venture out to Peasholm Park which is a delightful green area in a quiet part of the town. This park has extraordinarily friendly squirrels so as we made our way through the woods I was able to hand feed them with some nuts I had procured in advance. This excited me somewhat as I had never done this before (I'm aware some consider then vermin)
In the centre of the park is an island with a waterfall and one linking bridge from the main part of the park. This looked very becoming so I was eager to explore further. As we crossed the bridge there were some hastily written warning signs that the island was currently home to nesting Canada geese which could be very aggressive. As I am a real man I disregarded this as poppycock so we continued onto the island and up a steep curved path towards the top of the waterfall.
Around halfway up there were a couple of geese just to the right of the path on a grassed area. As we drew level with them one approached me and hissed menacingly. I laughed in it's face and used a vulgar turn of phrase directed at the angry goose (the second word of which is "off") and continued up to the waterfall. Little did I realize at the time that this goose had well and truly marked my card and was now biding it's time safe in the knowledge that his moment would come again.
The island was also home to some very pretty gardens so we sat down for a while and relaxed in the tranquil surroundings. Half an hour or so later we decided to make our way back. As there only appeared to be one path in and out of the area we were now in, we re-traced our steps back down the same path we came up. Half way back down I noticed the same 2 geese again. One was obviously a female and was nesting. However, the other one that I had the run in with earlier, was now standing tall in the middle of the path. He was wearing an expression of "come and have a go if you think you're hard enough".
As we got closer he took a couple of steps closer to us which stopped us in our tracks. The smile was wiped off my face this time as he reared up, flapping his wings and spitting in the most hideous fashion directly at me. His body language was screaming at me along the lines of "You're not laughing now are you" " Tell me where to go did yer!" "I'm going nowhere!". The stand off continued for another minute or so. He wasn't backing down so as I took a step to the right he did the same. I took a step to the left and same again. All the time he was flapping and spitting. His tongue was serpent-like.
At this point Connie (my wife) said "Just leave it, we'll have to find another path back out". I wasn't having this as I wasn't going to be beaten by a stupid devil goose! I made one more attempt to pass him then he lurched at me. Connie screamed as I ducked (pardon the pun) out of the way of his satanic beak. I took a few further steps back and was so wound up I considered striking him in self defence but quickly noticed there were various signs nearby indicating we were on CCTV. I could vision the headlines the next day in The Scarborough Herald, "Mancunian Madman Punches Goose In Beak".
I accepted defeat so we headed back up the path the way we came. As I looked behind me, my nemesis followed us a few steps and was straining his neck forward in some kind of parting shot. As we got further away he stopped, then returned to his nesting goose wife. After a lot of messing around we eventually found another path avoiding the Canadian goose thug and were able to escape unscathed.
Back at the hotel that evening I did consider sharing this tale with the writers in the bar but thought better of it, so instead I ate a packet of dry roasted peanuts and went upstairs to watch Match of the Day.
Find Your Place
Square pegs and round holes
Bars set too high with unachievable goals
Carrying out tasks that don't come easy
Listening to dull chatter, some of it sleazy
Wasting time listening to "the man"
He knows nothing, he's an also ran
Making sows ears out of silk purses
Looking for doctors then finding nurses
Offices and factories paying the bills
Headaches and stress soothed by pills
A means to an end just to get by
Never truly happy, living a lie
Life is enjoyable without the rat race
Every day's a good day once you've found your place
Bars set too high with unachievable goals
Carrying out tasks that don't come easy
Listening to dull chatter, some of it sleazy
Wasting time listening to "the man"
He knows nothing, he's an also ran
Making sows ears out of silk purses
Looking for doctors then finding nurses
Offices and factories paying the bills
Headaches and stress soothed by pills
A means to an end just to get by
Never truly happy, living a lie
Life is enjoyable without the rat race
Every day's a good day once you've found your place
Monday, 3 September 2012
Wounded Heart
If you have a wounded heart
Amid troubled times of woe
Search your mind for positive thoughts
With time the pain will go
With darkness in your soul
And spirit crushed to dust
Better days will lie ahead
In this you must trust
This hostile world we live in
Can be a cold and lonely place
Build on your talents and strengths
Let this be your saving grace
Grief, sorrow and sadness
Emotions we all can feel
Be kind to yourself and see the light
Your scars are soon to heal
Amid troubled times of woe
Search your mind for positive thoughts
With time the pain will go
With darkness in your soul
And spirit crushed to dust
Better days will lie ahead
In this you must trust
This hostile world we live in
Can be a cold and lonely place
Build on your talents and strengths
Let this be your saving grace
Grief, sorrow and sadness
Emotions we all can feel
Be kind to yourself and see the light
Your scars are soon to heal
Sunday, 2 September 2012
Pathetic Pen Friend Attempt
I was 16 years old and did something totally out of character. I bought a copy of Smash Hits magazine. I usually read either Sounds or the NME (New Musical Express). These 2 papers catered for my musical tastes of the day. Smash Hits most certainly did not It's readership largely catered for pubescent girls. I think maybe Kim Wilde was on the front cover or something which persuaded me to part with my 30p. Anyway, I flicked through all the crap then saw something which caught my eye. It was a page of ads for pen friends. This was something I wouldn't normally have given a second glance but I was feeling a little vulnerable at the time and lacked self confidence.
As my eye scanned the page, one particular ad caught my attention. It was for 2 girls aged 16 looking for pen friends with a similar aged boy with similar interests. Well, I was the same age and among their "liked" bands were Big Country. They were one of my favourite bands at the time and had some credibility. This was unusual for Smash Hits as their featured artists most weeks were from a fluffy pop nonsense background.
The address was a PO box number so I reached for my "MCFC Are Magic" pen and proceeded to write to them. At this stage, of course, I had no idea where they lived or what they looked like etc so I asked a few questions of this nature in my letter. The most unusual part of their ad was that there were 2 of them. 2 girls wanting friendship with 1 boy? I did think it a bit strange but it didn't stop me wanting to get involved(!)
I sent off my letter with my address enclosed and really didn't think that more of it. Around 2 weeks later I received a letter back from them in the post. They were calling themselves "Gladys" and "Mabel". There was also a photo enclosed of them both. However, they were both wearing hats and large sunglasses which largely concealed their identity and gave me not much idea of what they actually looked like. The letter did reveal that they lived in Yorkshire and they wanted to know more about Manchester and what other interests I had etc. They were also asking for a recent photo of me.
As already stated, I was lacking in self-esteem and, aged 16, I wasn't confident in showing them my spots and growing mullet so I rummaged through some photos I had and found one which was perfect. Someone had taken a photo of me from a few months earlier which had cut my head off so it was just me from the neck down sporting one of my Fred Perry t-shirts and a pair of skinny jeans (This was 1983). I thought "This will do nicely".
I set about writing another reply letter and enclosed the photo. They had revealed their full postal address so I sent it off to Yorkshire. Approximately 2 weeks later I received another reply. This time I wasn't in when the post arrived so when I got home there was a letter for all the family to see on the dining table addressed to "Clandestine Chris". This brought much amusement to my immediate family as they were previously unaware that I was writing to anyone. I fielded my family's questions the best I could but felt rather humiliated. In this second letter Gladys and Mabel were pleased I had sent a photo and complimented me on my legs(!) They had also sent a second photo of themselves fully revealing their identity (don't worry they were fully clothed!). The fact that they weren't Kim Wilde/Debbie Harry lookalikes coupled with the "Clandestine" comment drawing attention to me and themselves meant that I didn't write to them again or send another photo of me (how shallow is that ?!) so this pen friend relationship lasted 2 letters each which, in anyone's book, is rather pathetic don't you think?
As my eye scanned the page, one particular ad caught my attention. It was for 2 girls aged 16 looking for pen friends with a similar aged boy with similar interests. Well, I was the same age and among their "liked" bands were Big Country. They were one of my favourite bands at the time and had some credibility. This was unusual for Smash Hits as their featured artists most weeks were from a fluffy pop nonsense background.
The address was a PO box number so I reached for my "MCFC Are Magic" pen and proceeded to write to them. At this stage, of course, I had no idea where they lived or what they looked like etc so I asked a few questions of this nature in my letter. The most unusual part of their ad was that there were 2 of them. 2 girls wanting friendship with 1 boy? I did think it a bit strange but it didn't stop me wanting to get involved(!)
I sent off my letter with my address enclosed and really didn't think that more of it. Around 2 weeks later I received a letter back from them in the post. They were calling themselves "Gladys" and "Mabel". There was also a photo enclosed of them both. However, they were both wearing hats and large sunglasses which largely concealed their identity and gave me not much idea of what they actually looked like. The letter did reveal that they lived in Yorkshire and they wanted to know more about Manchester and what other interests I had etc. They were also asking for a recent photo of me.
As already stated, I was lacking in self-esteem and, aged 16, I wasn't confident in showing them my spots and growing mullet so I rummaged through some photos I had and found one which was perfect. Someone had taken a photo of me from a few months earlier which had cut my head off so it was just me from the neck down sporting one of my Fred Perry t-shirts and a pair of skinny jeans (This was 1983). I thought "This will do nicely".
I set about writing another reply letter and enclosed the photo. They had revealed their full postal address so I sent it off to Yorkshire. Approximately 2 weeks later I received another reply. This time I wasn't in when the post arrived so when I got home there was a letter for all the family to see on the dining table addressed to "Clandestine Chris". This brought much amusement to my immediate family as they were previously unaware that I was writing to anyone. I fielded my family's questions the best I could but felt rather humiliated. In this second letter Gladys and Mabel were pleased I had sent a photo and complimented me on my legs(!) They had also sent a second photo of themselves fully revealing their identity (don't worry they were fully clothed!). The fact that they weren't Kim Wilde/Debbie Harry lookalikes coupled with the "Clandestine" comment drawing attention to me and themselves meant that I didn't write to them again or send another photo of me (how shallow is that ?!) so this pen friend relationship lasted 2 letters each which, in anyone's book, is rather pathetic don't you think?
Wednesday, 29 August 2012
Half Man Half Biscuit, The Boardwalk, 1990
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.
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.
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".
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