Tag: Kirkby

The Golden Scales



When I was twenty, many, many years ago, I waited for a while at the bus stop to get the bus to take me to my theatre training course (the buses were every hour and I never could quite time it right)
The bus stop was by a factory which was surrounded by deep and wild undergrowth, trees and bushes. While I stood there, I spotted some tiny golden scales in between the netted wire and the undergrowth. That evening when I got home, I casually mentioned the scales to my
dad. I’d captured his imagination and
before I knew it, under cover of darkness, (6p.m) me and he were at that
bus stop in question and busy fishing out these cute little
golden scales from underneath the netting/wire. I can’t remember
how exactly we got them out from the entanglement of all the weeds and thorns and wire but we did.
Jubilant, we took them home. My dad secreted the
special golden trinket into his wardrobe and that is where they
stayed, for a time. I thought maybe we
should at least have joint custody. Although, to be honest, he was
the one who took the time, effort and trouble to get them out from
behind that netting and by the time he got them home I think I’d
lost interest, or decided I should just let my dad keep his latest
favourite thing. He was more obsessed with them than I was.
I happened to mention the delightful scales to a colleague at the theatre training course and he told me that scales of that description were used by
drug dealers to measure out drugs. He had in his youth dabbled in drugs, so he knew about these things.
I casually mentioned this to my dad that evening.
The next day, when I passed by the kitchen, I saw him sitting on the linoleum
floor, newspaper spread underneath him. He was hacking away furiously at the Golden Scales with a manual saw.
Later on in the week, he casually told me that he’d managed to
break up the beautiful Golden Scales into tiny pieces and had put
each piece into a separate bin bag. He said this with the air of a
Drugs Baron who had got away with the execution of a major
international drugs haul, and that as long as he lay low for a
while, he might be okay.
I wished at that point that I’d kept the discovery of The
Golden Scales to myself. After all, they were probably just brass.

The Joy of Sandwiches

Prepackaged sandwiches have their place
I’m not sure what that place is
A bit like using someone else’s toothbrush
A bit like getting coffee from one of those train station machines
A bit like comparing artificial grass to real grass
Sandwiches made by someone other than you…
…tend not to take the ingredients into the corners.

The ingredients are afraid of
going anywhere near the corners.

We eat them because we have to. We do most things because we have to, because we are railroaded into it.
But there is a way out. Make your own.
Now if you could imagine your very favourite, most delicious dream sandwich, what would it be? Imagine it
and make it. It’s a really easy way to be creative in a basic culinary way.

Cobs from
Kirkby were tough in texture, fresh and crusty and tasty. My mum used to make a great crusty cob sandwich. I find it difficult to get cob buns these days. It’s like trying to find the holy grail. My mother would fill them with a mature cheese, not too strong, with fresh sliced red onion and tomato. The blend and balance of flavours worked perfectly with the feel and flavour of the cob. The cob can take it, so to speak, is designed by its robustness, to take the strong flavours and textures, that thin and limp commercial bread can’t. There is no better sandwich than the cob sandwich. Perhaps the cob is in a different league and comes under the bun heading. There are so many different thicknesses and textures of bread and so many different constitutions of bun that they will all have their different categories and classifications.

It’s not just the sandwich. It’s the wrapping of it. I like sandwiches either loosely draped in foil and then folded into a bread wrapper to keep it all together, or, as an alternative, lovingly hugged by cling film and then put into
the bread wrapper. There has to be two layers. I suppose it goes back to the packed lunch days of my childhood where my mum’s slightly OCD persona influenced the double or triple wrapping method. It was like nesting dolls. The box inside the box inside the box. I think the double wrapping method is sufficient enough and good practice. First there is a hygienic layer like cling film or foil, to protect the sandwich from the elements and to keep it cool and/or fresh. This is followed by a plastic or paper wrapper, which would usually be a waxed bread wrapper, to contain the sandwiches and keep them from wandering off.
Then there might be a third wrapper. You never knew how many layers you had to get through to get to the sandwich. Then there’s the feel of the sandwich. There’s nothing quite like the feel of a good packed lunch. I’m tempted to give the package a good squeeze but just holding it in your hands is good enough. It’s a bit like a soft toy. Firm but cuddly, obviously, don’t cuddle it too much. Nothing worse than squashed sandwiches…although I can turn a blind eye to a warm squashed potted meat sandwich, a sandwich that has had time to marinate, but won’t make you ill, a sandwich that has gone through a certain amount of travel and wear and tear. An experienced sandwich. Of course, we must be careful about how warm a sandwich gets before it is eaten, how far it has to travel etc. they are all variables we have to take into consideration. If I was going on a day/coach trip for example, and the sandwiches in question, as a result, are marinating for several hours before being eaten, I probably wouldn’t have egg mayonnaise as a filling, or fresh ham, especially not chicken or fish or seafood for both spoiling and aroma issues in
enclosed spaces. I think beef might be okay, obviously cheese and tomato would be fine. Potted meat pastes are highly processed, so they may be okay.
There are cool boxes and tupper-ware available but that takes the fun out of the sport. What we want is a sandwich that can stand the test of time, that can go the duration, a kind of superhero sandwich that we can rely on to be edible, tasty and safe, by the time we come to eat it, whenever that may be. A sandwich that comes through for us, in this unpredictable world. After all, if we can’t rely on our home made, lovingly prepared sandwich, which we have researched for durability, endurance, deliciousness and safety etc. what in the world can we rely on?
There is also the foil versus cling film debate. As a child, I would see my school colleagues have either clingfilm encasing their sandwiches, or foil. What is best? Cling film invariably makes sandwiches squashy and sweaty as it hugs them closely. If you want your sandwiches to squash and sweat then this is not a problem. I quite like a squashed sandwich but surely foil is a better option for freshness and coolness. Perhaps this comes down to the time of year. Cling film in winter, foil for summer. I have not fully grasped the advantages and disadvantages of foil and cling film and what is the best wrapping of the two, if any. Whatever is available is usually my motto and if I was cornered, I would probably come out in favour of foil, after trial and error. I think what this all comes down to, is our own personal taste, our sandwich making ability is our last great freedom. We can make a mobile food, investigated, prepared, researched, devised, created and ultimately showcased, perhaps not to the world, but certainly to ourselves and possibly to our friends, family, neighbours.So go on, make those sandwiches, as they may be among the last great vestiges of expressed and tailored individuality that we can seriously enjoy in these uncertain and challenging times.

The Joy of November – Bonfires From The Past


In November, boys would come round in late September, early October
asking for wood for bonfires
And if they didn’t get enough
Sometimes people would find half their shed missing
You had to look after your wood at this crucial time
Treat it like gold
Teenage boys could sniff it out.
Wood, not gold
And there was nothing they wouldn’t do to get it.
It was great if you wanted to get rid of a cabinet
Old bookshelf or table
Then you wouldn’t have to pay someone to take it away
And they would be so happy
You would be doing them a huge favour
But unfortunately, we never had any wood waste
Wood was precious in our home
And my parents would hide from the wood boys
As if they were bailiffs
Turn off the lights and hit the floor
I never saw their joyful little faces as I handed over an old
dresser, or a hefty wardrobe, as we didn’t have any spare oak furniture
to needlessly burn.
These boys would find their own little turf for their bonfire
Have it planned for weeks, possibly months.
‘Bommies’ would be compared with other bommies in other
fields, in other territories.
Pride was taken
Our bommie is bigger than so and so’s,
Our bommie is going to be custy, sound…
The best for miles around
The best in Kirkby
Never understood why they said ‘Bommie’ instead of
‘Bonnie,’ or ‘Bonny’ as in Bonfire. Maybe I misheard and they were saying ‘Bonnie’ or Bonny’
There was a lot that was baffling in those days
And, you just let it go if you knew what was good for you.
Just let the ‘Bommie’ go into the ether. You’re ten years old, the
puzzlement of ‘Bommie’ is the least of your troubles.
I think there may have been mafia like mentalities in the bonfire world at
this time, perhaps boys may steal and sabotage from other ‘bommies’, publicly deride the wood mountain. ‘Our wood
mountain is bigger than yours.’ conversation. The evening
would begin as soon as it got dark. 4p.m is some cases.
It would generally be no later than 6, and that would be considered
delayed gratification. It would generally be all over by 8p.m.

Premature combustion.

Actually, some of the best bonfires would be held back for a little later. 8.30 p.m
but practically all bonfire people would be indoors by 10
p.m or thereabouts because bonfire night has a 5 in 7 chance
of being on a school night. Bonfires would consist of chairs,
tables, wardrobes, bed frames, old Tom’s wooden leg,
anything wooden that was available and probably some wood
that wasn’t. Furniture could be stacked ten, twenty feet high.
It was a creative process. Something fit for The Tate. Try stacking that amount of wood without it falling while retaining an amazing asthetic quality at the same time. Dame Tracey Emin would be proud.

The bonfires, once lit, would create a thick smog that began
at sunset and would hang around until about midday the next
morning. Not many people could afford expensive fireworks
where I lived as a child, so bonfires were the main thing. Most times it
was just a gang of juveniles in charge of a bonfire, but
sometimes whole families and communities would be
involved.
There was a dystopian air, around ten o’clock, long abandoned bonfires still smouldering away, the fog soup
of smoke blurring the night so bad, you couldn’t see your
hand in front of your face, the smell of a burning bombed city
pervading the air for miles around and a strange calm and
eerie silence, that you don’t experience on any other night of
the year. Meanwhile, the formerly impulsive and restless fourteen
year old boys, are now exhausted and slightly smoke
damaged and safely tucked up in bed.
Bangers, unlike sparklers, weren’t pretty but they were relatively cheap. All they did was make a noise like a loud bomb, like a really loud bomb and that was it.
Okay, the children said, that’ll do! That’ll do just fine.
Fireworks are a strange thing. It’s in the word. Hello. Fire.
Works. It says it all. Don’t let them near your pets and
children.
In the 1970’s, 1980’s and 1990’s, young people, i.e
children, were allowed to buy and handle these dangerous
and candy cheap explosives, without any adult supervision.

There were casualities and they would be reported in the newspapers on November the 6th.

I don’t think I’ve seen a
‘bommie’ since 1992, or thereabouts. In the economically
depressed area I grew up in, it was a good thing to have
‘bommies’. They brought the community together, it was
good for neighbourhoods who were able to bond through the
miracle of fire. It was much needed entertainment and light
relief from the daily slug.
As a child, the ‘bommie’ was something I
subconsciously desired and needed, pressing my face up
against the glass for a glimpse of blazing sun in the hopeless
night. Huge bonfires dancing and jumping like fiery Ents
with a troupe of black clothed, hooded teenage boys,
worshipping and dancing around the fiery maypole, like
warlocks, idolising a bonfire which, always seemed to be
about to burn out of control and sometimes did, and the fire
brigade would come out many times that night.
Fire.
Childhood.
A brutal innocence.

Quote Of The Week

‘Our intentions are what we produce in this life. I didn’t realise that your dreams can come true. I used to think it was coincidence but now I believe it’s the concentration of your thoughts, over a long time, that bring your dreams to fruition. You draw your own destiny towards you.’

Margi Now You See Me – Memoirs Of A Working Class Diva – Margi Clarke

 

Whatever Happened To…Alexei Sayle?

 

alexei-sayle liverpool A-Z

There are two things that make me feel connected to Alexei Sayle. Firstly, Alexei Sayle was born and bred in Liverpool, as was I. He came from Anfeild. I spent my childhood in Kirkby and lived around the corner from Anfeild for about fifteen years after that. He lived near Liverpool’s Football Stadium and I lived near city rivals, Everton for a time, but they are both only a stone’s throw away from each other. Secondly, he was brought up in a communist household and regularly had to attend many sombre political meetings as he grew up. I also grew up in a hard left wing household and it influenced my outlook at the time.

While Alexei was from Jewish descent, I was the mad offspring of a Lapsed Catholic and a Don’t Care Protestant. I was only eleven when my community studies teacher affectionately called me ‘Trotsky.’ He explained to my witty school friend, Paula, that I impressed him. Quick as lightening, she asked ‘Where?’

Liverpool and its surrounding suburbs, where I grew up,  were a bit of a labour area, both in terms of pregnancy and politics. Then again, everyone in Liverpool hated Thatcher in those days. The ones who can remember, probably still do, but while other girls were talking about clothes and make up, and could rattle off large numbers of boys they’d kissed, I was paraphrasing Norman Tebbitt and could reel off all the names of every man and that one woman in politics. It was my dad’s hobby and I wanted to impress him by being knowledgeable about it too, subconsciously of course, never consciously. I was so into politics at an insanely early age, that it was a bit like being made to smoke hundreds of cigarettes, and then being sick as a dog later on. Eventually,  you can’t stand the pesky things. It wasn’t so much that politics was forced down my throat, it was more a passive thing. Passive politics. I couldn’t help but breathe in the fumes.

It never got quite so bad that I knew the ins and outs of each party’s manifesto, but these guys became my heroes and villains. Ken Livingstone was always getting into trouble and sounded like Henry’s Cat. Nothing’s changed there then. I remember Tony Benn being like an romantic 1940’s movie star. And who can resist the sweet, spicy aroma of pipe tobacco? Michael Foot was the genuine gentle geek hero with integrity, but looked like a scarecrow, according to every shallow soul in politics and the media , so, of course, he was dismissed out of hand. During the 1981 Remembrance Ceremony, ‘they’ took the perfect opportunity to character assassinate an elderly man who wore a donkey jacket  because he was cold.  We are told never to judge a book by its cover but Michael Foot was judged by his cover. People may not have actually used the phrase ‘Clothes Maketh Man’ against Michael Foot, but they rubbed his nose in it. After all, appearances are everything. They took their chance to attack a pensioner for his fashion faux pas and they ran with it.

In the opposition corner, there were characters like Michael Heseltine, who seemed wired up to a point of mania, but very passionate, and is still around, and, later on, Michael Howard, who had ‘something of the night about him’ according to Anne Widdecombe. Michael Howard was allegedly being followed by U.F.O’s at the time, so it was hardly his fault. Norman Tebbit, Enoch Powell and Michael Portillo were some of the ‘baddies’, who closely followed and aped Margaret Thatcher’s political style of Dickensian ruthlessness. Michael Portillo has since distanced himself from politics and decided that railways are much safer.

Nigel Lawson, Sir Geoffrey Howe and Douglas Hurd were also prominent members of the Conservative Cabinet. Unfortunately, I can’t help but think of them, without seeing them as Spitting Image puppets.

Labours dark night of the soul was at its darkest from about 1980 to 1990 and then Tony Blair was elected in 97 and broke the curse. Or did he? Now the gap doesn’t seem to be as wide between the parties. They started to blur after Blair.

Alexei Sayle calls himself a Marxist these days, perhaps he always did, but he’s probably as disillusioned as most of us about how idealism gets twisted, sometimes beyond all recognition for people’s own personal agendas. Politics and religion are like Chinese whispers. The purity of an idea goes through the mincer and it’s unrecognisable when it comes out the other end. It’s like when Jesus said ‘Love Thy Neighbour’. We have gotten so far away from that. As long as we remember the source. The truth can be forgotten and twisted but it can never be changed.

Young Alexei

The young Alexei Sayle left Liverpool and became a student at Chelsea Art School. While he was living in London he became a stand up comedian, eventually working and writing with comedy heroes such as Rik Mayall, Peter Richardson, Dawn French, Ade Edmondson and Jennifer Saunders. He starred in and was part of alternative comedy classics such as The Young Ones and The Comic Strip Presents. He was the punk of stand up, shocking audiences with his own brand of leftist anarchist rantings. He was like a comedy Sex Pistol and likewise, the Sex Pistols were a musical version of him, Alexei Sayle with guitars.

Alexei had a mad foray  into pop. His single ‘Ello John Got a New Motor.’ was a Top Twenty hit in 1984 and was nominated  at ‘The British Music Industry Awards’, now called the Brit Awards. Sigh. Showing my age. Of course now it would be called ‘Ello John Got A New Low Emission Environmentally Friendly Affordable Family Car With Standard and Side Impact Air Bags.’ At this point, he might be thinking, if political correctness and car safety be the food of love, then pass the elasticated pants.

He’s still going strong. He has a blog and everything and is still with the girl he married before he become famous, which I always think is a  lovely thing. I’ve read his memoirs and they are extremely funny and entertaining. I’m not a laugh out loud person but Stalin Ate My Homework and Thatcher Ate My Trousers will tickle even the most hard to please readers. His novels are a great read too. When I was sixteen I remember reading the first line of one of his novels, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what it was called. I do however, remember the first line, which was, ‘My penis nestled comfortably in my trousers.’ Yes, I do believe that was the first line, and to a sheltered sixteen year old girl, it was very shocking. As you can see, it scars me to this day.