It’s a weekend, which means a trip to the supermarket is in order for some impulse buying. I don’t need more food and booze, but there are some good deals on. I inherited that special gene from my late mother, you know, the one that means you are happy to spend a fiver to save a shilling!

For once the weather isn’t too bad, and there is a bit of football and rugby to look forward to on the box. I’m in good spirits, amble round chuck a few bits and pieces in my basket and join the queue behind two dear old ladies, almost certainly in their eighties.

Now, were this a midweek lunchtime and I had work to get back to, I would not join this particular queue. I would be muttering under my breath about retired old duffers being in the shops and banks and post offices in the only half-hour I can get there. However, in a decade, or hopefully less, I will join them and will make a point of going to the shops, bank, post office at lunchtime, just for the hell of it. It must be great fun!

I digress. It is not a surprise when these two rather frail and confused looking ladies take a while to pack their purchases. Even less of a surprise when the poor lass attempting to enter her pin number seems struck down by terminal amnesia.

From behind me I hear the first mutterings of one of the leaders of the scummy folk. “In yer own time missus”. Nervous smiles are exchanged with the cashier. “Anything I can do to help there?” I offer, thinking she may just be having difficulty seeing the keypad.

“Yeah, take her back to the home mate. I need to be at the pub by five. Senile old sod.”

I am now kind of pleased inside when, having finally settled up, the old girls remain rooted to the end of the till where you pack your purchases. They are carefully placing bags in the trolley, even more carefully putting cards back in purses, and I am sure i spot a sly grin exchanged as they look around a bit more, thank the cashier for her patience, and smile at me.

Al this time I remain resolutely positioned beside my unscanned purchases giving them time and space to complete their manoeuvres. ‘You gonna chivvy ‘em along pal?” I remain deliberately oblivious and ignorant to the brains trust.

As my assortment of not many bits and pieces are passed down the belt, I carefuly place the bottles upright, then ‘accidentally’ knock them over in my bag, so that they need to be put upright once more. The packing process takes far too long.

“Get a wellie on mate for Christ’s sake” (or words to that effect)

I struggle far longer than is necessary with a debit card I know needs to be cleared of static to work properly. I thank the cashier for her help.

“Come on pal, it’ll be dark in a minute”

I cannot miss the opportunity when it presents itself. “Sonny,” I say to him, puffing my chest out to full girth. “I am eighteen stone and looking for someone to sit on. It could well be extremely dark for you in a second or two. Do I make my point?”

As he shrinks back muttering something that may have been an apology I am aware of a smattering of “here here’s” from around the tills.

I have his face imprinted on my memory. In retirement I will be looking for him again. One lunchtime, in the supermarket, or the bank, or the post office.

January sees the start of the blog awards season, and like everybody else I am not at all interested. Oh no, not me.

However, I could not help but notice that the Irish Blog Awards are now accepting nominations, and initially I took not a jot of notice. However, my great grandmother did come from Cork, and my body fat index is 72% Guinness.

Looking back through the list of players selected for the Irish football team down the years I’m starting to think I am probably as qualified as is necessary.

In fact I can only think of one thing standing between me and my rightful recognition. I see the awards are being presented in Galway on March 27th. I’ve got to be in Birmingham for a couple of hours from 3pm on that Saturday.

I’ll never make it in time, will I?

Oh well. Maybe next year.

Tags: awards

As if there were any doubt, Mrs Blazing is more convinced than ever of my insanity. The last ten days saw a return to the snowy winters of my youth, and I loved it. She thinks I am very strange, and is probably right.

A little expansion is in order. The light dusting that we have been getting just once or twice during the winter months for the last twenty years can sod off. It paralyses the country for a day or so, before vanishing as quickly as it came. It is a nuisance, an irritation I could live very happily without.

Inches of the stuff, and prolonged showers to boot, are a different kettle of fish, if you will forgive me for mixing my whatsits. In this day and age working from home has been enabled for many of us, and those that can, should, in such circumstances. That would leave the roads and public transport infrastructure to those who do not enjoy such luxuries and have to get into work.

However the arrival of lots of snow is not about adults is it? Day one here, and the lad next door was out as soon as daylight permitted to construct his first snowman. His fluffy white brother arrived on day two, and I’m sure I heard one ask the other, “Can you smell carrots?” The toboggans, sledges and skis provide sights that don’t usually invade our urban surroundings.

Yes, it has still caused absolute chaos, but we get severe winters so seldom here that it’s no surprise that the authorities are caught out. Somehow that doesn’t seem so irritating when you get loads of the stuff and several days of disruption. It feels as though it is less of a temporary annoyance, and more of an unavoidable wonder of nature.

Astonishingly in the last twenty-four hours the thick white blanket has just vanished. No floods, which we were promised. It was there this time yesterday, and has gone today, except of course for the unusual sprinkling of carrots and potatoes left behind where briefly proud brothers shared intimate secrets.

I hope they come back soon, because if it is another twenty years I fear I will miss them.

Tags: carrots, snow, snowmen

At last, it’s time to sit down and relax. No more packing, no more preparing the car. The final trip of the holiday has been completed. Three days remain to charge the batteries before the dreaded return to work. Come on Lotto, it must be my turn soon?

We managed a day at home when we returned from the kids, which was just enough time to unpack, do the washing, repack, and refuel the car. Then back on the motorways to visit father, sister and brother-in-law of Blazing.

Rather than saddle them with the labour involved in putting us up for a night, we booked into the local Travelodge. It was my first stay with that particular chain so imagine the consternation when we were greeted by a ‘homely’ looking man (you know what I mean, don’t you? I am trying not to offend!) talking strangely about his mother, and what she thought, and how he was caring for her.

As you can imagine, Mrs Blazing insisted I stay in the room while she showered yesterday morning!

Anyway, we made it back, unharmed, and in record time yesterday. More unpacking, more washing, then out with the drinkies, and on with the New Years Eve entertainment.

Did I say entertainment? Well, yes, it would appear so. However, you do know you are getting old when your New Years Eve drinkies are accompanied by Radio 2 and, at the witching hour, Jools Holland and his Hootenanny on BBC2.

So today we are not moving. We have a fridge full of food, a larder full of tea and coffee, and a bar full of tastier tinctures. Bugger off world.

Now, where is Radio 2 again?

Tags: lotto, psycho, Radio 2, visiting

Ahoy,

An unexpected return from Blazing. Apologies for the absence which came about as a result of a combination of things, not least the return of Mrs Blazing to the operating table. In the last eighteen months she really has suffered far more than any individual should have to.

I am happy to report though, that we have both enjoyed a really fabulous Christmas with a couple of the grandkids. It was good to be part of a family laughing again. We have been back just a day and next up is a trip to see father of Blazing. A trip that has persuaded me the Saddle should return.

I was wondering when we last made it down to see him, rather than him visit us, and the answer lay in the pages of the blog! In the rush to string together tales and opinions I had forgotten the medium was principally created as a web diary, another means of storing information for later retrieval.

The regulars in the Grot have, to the best of my knowledge, survived the rigours of the holiday, so I will hopefully be catching up with them in the new year. I have my own appointment with the Doctor as the new year starts. The silly old sod should have packed up years ago, but he doesn’t do everything by computer and chase you out of the surgery after nine minutes and twenty seconds, like the new breed.

There are a range of topics that have irked over recent weeks which I can share with you in 2010, but can wait for now. The late mother of Blazing, a Scot by birth, would have it that hogmanay is far more of a celebration than that which precedes it by a week. (I should point out that attempting first-footing at Blazing Towers is a hazardous exercise best avoided!)

Therefore this makes it an appropriate time for myself and Mrs Blazing to be wishing you and yours a very happy, but more importantly healthy, new year. I’m looking forward to sharing 2010 with you all.

Tags: Christmas, hogmanay

Deep joy, Monday morning approaches. I know in these uncertain times I should be grateful I have a job to go to, but the prospect of another drive to work is soul-destroying.

It will be the same as it is every morning.

A major artery through the town will be bumper to bumper, crawling painfully because some extraordinarily stupid people will be riding their bicycles on the main road.

Now I don’t have a problem with cyclists, per se, because I have even done the journey on two wheels myself on occasion. I understand the benefits of a little exercise and forcing the fresh air through your lungs.

It is quite remarkable, however, that these idiots are no more than fifteen yards from the route I take…

Yes, you bloody idiots. The cycle path, constructed at a cost of tens of thousands by the local council, runs parallel to the main road. It runs the length of the main road. WHY ARE YOU ON THE BLOODY MAIN ROAD?

Good grief.

Tags: cycle path, cyclists, idiots

250 years young. I’ll be raising this glass at 17:59. Cheers.

Tags: birthday, Guinness

Watching the cricket today has stirred many memories. It has also got me thinking again of one who will be celebrating with a glass or two of something full-bodied and red.

Regulars may recall me mentioning Bod, just the once I think. These days he lives in France, so we no longer spend time in each others company, which is a shame. He was both really good friend and funny man, a rare and delightful combination.

His humour, and boundless enthusiasm for life, was borne out of experience. Not all good, either. Like many of us, Bod learned things the hard way. As a young man he often found himself in the company of a famous rocker and enjoyed, or endured, binges that were the stuff of legend.

By the time we were playing cricket together he had long since been persuaded away from alcohol, for no reason other than he woke up one Monday morning and decided he didn’t like the hangovers any more. Remarkably his resolve stood firm for a good few years.

A tour of Devon saw him momentarily fall off the wagon, and kept us in stories for a good while afterwards. The first match was being played close to the town where his mother had not long moved to, so it was agreed that the four of us in the Bodmobile would spend the night there so mother and son could spend a few precious hours in each others company.

That evening following the cricket we trooped into the bar and the pints started flowing. Bod would always be the first to the bar and the last to leave, despite only drinking juices or cokes. This night however he announced that he really fancied a couple of pints for a change, and so joined in with what turned out to be an almighty session.

So it came to pass that at closing time we were poured out of the bar and heading for Mrs Bod’s humble abode. It was evident, even to his drunken and giggling companions, that Bod himself had rather overdone it and we persuaded him to walk the final yards to the house in an absurd attempt to make him a bit more presentable.

The poor woman was summoned by the doorbell at nigh on midnight, and there before her was her son, incapable of anything it seemed, but grinning inanely. Bits of what happened next were recounted by him on many occasions. I can still hear him tell the tale.

“There I am, forty years old, stood in front of my mother totally gone. Mute. Blitzed. All of a sudden I hear Blazing, who must have sunk a couple of gallons at least, put on his best BBC voice and say ‘ Good evening Mrs Bod. We haven’t met, but my name is Blazing. I, and my companions here, are Bod’s friends, and it is an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance.’ The three of us are so paralytic we cannot utter a word, and this bloke is giving my mum the bleeding Dimbleby debate!’

His telling ends there for a very good reason. As his mum thanks me, Bod makes his entrance. Let me correct that. The top half of Bod makes an entrance. His legs have stopped working and he goes head first into the hallway, in a completely relaxed ‘Del-Boy’ style!

Mrs Bod shows me where his room his, and with some difficulty I get him up the stairs and safely passed out in his pit. After making sure the other two are also securely wrapped up I head downstairs for a coffee with ‘mum’, who turns out to be a proud parent. I apologise for bringing him back blotto, but she is understanding. ‘He has been a rock since his Dad died, Blazing. I won’t begrudge him this night. He’s earned it in my book.’

The following morning at breakfast Bod is sheepish, and his mum is kidding with him. “Don’t you worry, son, I got well used to you coming home in a bit of a state when you were drinking with Jimmy”.

“Yes,” says Bod, “but I bet you thought I would have grown out of it in my forties!”

Bod lost his second wife a few years back after they had found their dream home across the channel. For one reason or another I cannot get over there these days, and he doesn’t come back here much. I have this feeling though that as England’s players celebrated their good fortune at the Oval, Bod would have been raising a glass to me, and I certainly was to him.

Tonight though, one or two glasses will be plenty for us both, I suspect.

‘Ah, Mr Blazing, this is your bank. Your personal manager would like to talk to you about your overdraft.’

‘I’m delighted you have phoned, today of all days, because I would quite like a chat with my personal manager about my overdraft.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes, you see my overdraft limit hasn’t changed in a decade, and I have never gone over it. I learn today however that the great and the good who have been charged with running my bank have managed to lose a trifling four billion pounds. I really need to talk to this fuckwit about how your budget went so horribly wrong.’

Click, burrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

‘Thank you, goodbye until next year then.’

Tags: bank, budget

It was a rare but delightful pleasure to bump into Crash in the Grot on a Monday night. It couldn’t have been better timed either, coming as it did on the day that the rail companies had come in for some criticism about the difficulty their passengers have in finding the best fare deals.

For those unfamiliar with him, Crash is not only the brother of a very good mate, but he has also spent probably the last thirty years or so working (and I use the term loosely) for British Rail, then Great Western Trains. He is also one of the few who keeps pace with me when I have a taste for the delicious 2L bitter.

The opportunity to have a damned good moan is just too good to pass up. ‘It’s all very well for you Crash, with your free travel and fiver for family perks, but some of us have to pay the full whack from here. Even off-peak I have been asked for over thirty quid return to London. I can get a coach for a fiver.’

‘So how often do you go to London then, Blazing?’

‘Once a month roughly’, I tell him.

‘Well you’re a bloody idiot then’, he chuckles. How does that work? He giggles a little as he abuses me, and I don’t know if he means it or not!

‘Next time you go get a network railcard from Didcot. It’ll cost you twenty quid for a year. Then when you go to London just ask for a day return to Didcot, and a one day travelcard from there. It will take you anywhere from Southampton to Kent for about sixteen quid, and the tube is included. Your trip to London will be just over twenty quid. Cheaper if you take some mates with you.’

For a moment I am grateful, and thank him. Then reality hits. ‘Why when I have repeatedly asked for the cheapest ticket has nobody told me that?’

‘Because you are asking for the cheapest ticket from here to London, not from here to Didcot to London. Simple really. People are trained to answer the question you ask. It’s not in their interests to offer you the sort of deals we know are out there if you asked something different. We would have to put all of the fares up again then’.

‘But according to what I’ve read today, you thieving gits have put the fares up eleven percent anyway.’

‘Exactly’, he nods. ‘Too many buggers like you taking us poor employees out and getting us pissed so we spill the beans.’ He chuckles again.

‘Crash’

‘Yes, Blazing’

‘Shut up and get ‘em in”.

Tags: Great Western, London, the Grot