Sunday, 19 August 2018

12. ISSADM


aka The Monkey's Paw
Have you ever read W.W. Jacobs' story, "The Monkey's Paw"* ? Very briefly, it's the tale of a couple who got three wishes granted and the unpleasant consequences that could happen to such folk as them, who seek to interfere with the ordained course of events, as laid down by you know who.

All of us are guilty, some time or other, of trying to shape our destiny by various means, and it's mostly by wishing. No amount of threats of eternal damnation from the clergy or the moralists put us off doing so. We all wish for something we ain't got, or somebody else has. The poor want money, the rich want more. The barren want kids, the poor unfortunate who can't unbutton his flies without his wife, clicks again, prays for a vasectomy.
I know a lady, who, apart from being a widow, has pretty nigh everything a woman could wish for. A nice house, paid for, a full social life, two sons in extremely good jobs, who think the world of her and see that she wants for nothing. Not long ago they shared in a large win on the pools, but does her cup runneth over ? Not so likely. She wants to be a granny, but as her lads have decided that the round of golf, cricket and world travel, enlivened with the occasional bit of crumpet to keep their complexions clear, is better than marital bliss, she can't see any way of hearing the patter of tiny feet around the house, unless they get mice. But she still keeps wishing, and you know who up there, probably clicks the tongue, and wonders why he bothered.

I have no desire to alter, in any way, my pre-destined path through life. Even when I win the pools, I won't let it change my way of living in any way. That's what all the winners say, isn't it ? But there's one thing that will be different, and that is the passage in our house. It will be enriched by the presence of a grandfather clock ! That's what I have always wished for. 

You can't turn a council house into a stately home, as a lot of tenants try, by putting up a wrought iron gate in the front, or by hanging a front door covered in iron nails and little windows like bottle bottoms. It's like sticking a diamond tiara on a clippie and calling her duchess. But you can give a touch of the old Woburn Abbeys with a ten foot grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs. Might be a bit dodgy getting past it to get up the stairs, especially if you're in a hurry to get to the throne room, but it would be compensated by hearing the sonorous tick-tock of the works and the resounding 'Boing-ng-ng' as it struck the hours, making the cups jump about on the saucers and the cat dive under the sideboard. There is something fascinating about a great clock, I can't explain what it is, perhaps it is the feeling of permanence and security that it seems to impart as it ticks away saying, 'take your time, take your time'. 




I did know a bloke who had one, and the first time I went into his place, it was the first thing that caught my eye. There it stood in the corner of the hallway, towering above the surrounding decor, a veritable interior Everest of a time piece, A wonderful enscrolled face surmounting an exquisitely panelled body, looked down at me as if to say, "Aren't I beautiful"?, as it spread its two golden hands in mute appeal. I felt if only I had this for my home to ease away the stress of the rat race, life would be fulfilled. Then I noticed that there was no tick, dead quiet, The owner must have sensed my unspoken question, as he said "I had the works taken out, couldn't stand the bloody row it made, banging away all night and tick-tocking above the telly, drove me round the twist". I said something about it being rather large to have as just an ornament, he said "Oh I dunno, comes in handy" and opened the door on the front of the clock. Do you know what he was using it for ? A broom cupboard. I realised then what the mute appeal of big grandad was. It was "Help"!

Goes to show that things are only what the mind of the onlooker sees, and what you might wish for, ain't everybody's pigeon, and could turn out to be unpleasant for yourself in the long run.



A fellow worker capitalised on this once, by taking a lump of polystyrene, burning bits out of it, until it assumed a peculiar shape, then after rolling it in wet cement, he stuck it on a frame and entered it into the Arts and Crafts section of the Harrow Show with the word 'ISSADM' printed on the background. The judges saw all sorts of hidden meanings in it, as a lot of people do when looking at Picasso's efforts or the pile of bricks whatsisname flogged to the Tate Gallery**, and awarded him  first prize and a quid prize money.



Afterwards, I asked him what the word 'ISSADM' meant, as the unknown name had a vaguely familiar sound about it, reminding me of Rudolph Valentino's romantic sheikh portrayals, and torrid passion in the Arabian desert, and this is what obviously influenced the judges in their choice. He said that was his feeling after he had made the shape, being a sensible bloke with creative genius just bursting to get out. He had been so elated with his creation that he had rushed round to a neighbour to show him and explain the mysteries that emanated from this distorted lump of cement coated polystyrene. After listening patiently to my mate's ravings about his Immaculate Conception, this chappie, who was a stolid, down to earth type who had been in a varied career, a gully cleaner and a copper, took him firmly into the kitchen, made him a strong cup of tea, and said "I Should See A Doctor, Mate".  It obviously had the desired effect, cos my pal saw immediately what he had to do. To gratify the wishes of the people who would be judging his entry, he had to add to that air of mystery his creation had. Give it a name that they didn't understand.

So he did, and they still didn't. But you and I do, I hope.

Notes:
** Equivalent VIII by Carl Andre https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Equivalent_VIII




Sunday, 5 August 2018

11. Cheesy

I had a mate who was one of these types who have an inbuilt compulsion to take things apart, to see what makes them tick.

We called him 'Cheesy’, but I can't recall why, unless it was because he had a pair of feet which so upset his socks, that he could stand them up in a corner like a pair of wellies when be took them off. Anyway, he had a very enquiring mind, and while the rest of us were content with mundane hobbies like football, boxing, weight lifting, cycling and darts, he filled in his leisure moments by totting round the dustbins and rubbish tips for old radios, clocks, watches or anything that he could dismantle and put back together again to see if it worked. This was mostly done when everybody else was asleep, as he worked in the kitchen of a Soho restaurant and seldom got home before midnight. 

He had a room in a house occupied by the family of another of our fraternity where we gathered on nights spent indoors to play cards or argue, or just idle away the time, and he often returned home from work and settled down at a table to fiddle around with a dismembered electric iron or whatever was under construction at the time. He was able to ignore any card school that happened to be under way or any of the boys who were sleeping on the sofa or bed because they couldn't be bothered to go home that night. He'd fiddle about with bits of wire, minute nuts and bolts, springs, valves, old speakers, cogs and wheels, filling the air with horrible pongs of solder, burning wax, paint or whatever was needed to arrive at the end product. Whatever it happened to be was always offered for sale to the nearest person, and I was often disturbed in the wee small hours, when sleeping there, with, "Ed, you wanna buy an electric kettle?" or "I've finished this alarm clock, let you have it for two bob". Muttered advice on what he could do with his bloody kettle at this cursed hour of the morning by no means abashed him, and he never got annoyed at any threats. He just put the offending article on the mantle piece, went to kip and hawked it around next day until he found a buyer.

We got our own back by sticking the flea-bitten old mongrel of the house in bed with him when we left for work in the morning. This canine queer always got turned on by the smell of Cheesy’s feet, and our jaded spirits got a tremendous uplift from the shouts of "Gerrout you mangy sod you", as he booted at doggie, who was making a frenzied effort to seduce his toes.  

As I said before, he just couldn't resist experimenting with things, and this compulsion intruded into his cooking, which, in all fairness, was extremely good.
Four of us went camping one weekend by the Welsh Harp. Not a very glamorous outing by todays' standards, but we only had bikes as cars were strictly for rich men in those days, and we were limited as to distance when it came to humping our tent and things around. Cheesy said he would do the cooking for breakfast, so we left that side of the venture to him.

 

In the morning, after a fairly comfortable night, considering there wasn't much room in a small pup tent for four hefty blokes, nineteen years of age*, and the fact that we insisted on Cheesy sleeping with his feet outside the door flap. We awoke to the mouth watering smell of rabbit stew and coffee brewing over a wood fire right outside the tent flap, It was a brisk, chilly morn, just after six, and that stew and coffee went down a treat, and after sating our appetites to the full, we said "Smashing, where'd you get the rabbit, Cheesy?"




We should have thought about his innate curiosity as to finding out about things, either before we ate the stew or before we asked about it. He told us how he had heard that it was practically impossible to tell the difference between rabbit and cat meat, so as his boss’s cat had a litter of kittens the day before, and they had drowned the unwanted females, he thought he'd try out the theory on us, and what did we think. As I was bent over double trying to control my stomach from climbing into my neck, I remembered thinking that it was funny he had bread and cheese for breakfast. He too was bent over double, laughing his head off, and we never knew whether he was having us on or not. It tasted like rabbit, but if there was something in the theory he'd heard, ugh!!  I've never been able to face rabbit again.



There's a sequel to this story. I was hiking home from work one evening after the war, when I met up with one of the lads of those carefree days, whom I hadn't seen since we all drifted apart into marriage, removal from the district, or various other causes, and we hied ourselves to the nearest pub for a drink and natter about old times. Eventually, the talk got round to Cheesy, and his insatiable curiosity. I said I wonder what happened to him, my mate said he knew a bloke who served in the same mob with him in Germany. Apparently he was the same old Cheesy, always trying to find out how things worked. This bod said a few of his mob, including Cheesy, were going through a village recently evacuated by Jerry, when they came across a German pistol lying in the road. Naturally, they'd been warned about booby traps that Jerry was kindly leaving around, so the sergeant wanted to shoot it, just in case. However, Cheesy talked him into letting him have a go at it. He said he wanted to examine, had it been dropped he'd have a good souvenir. While the others got well up the road, Cheesy carefully tied a length of string to the handle which was clear of the road and carefully paid it out to a shell hole a few yards away. He clambered into the hole and pulled the pistol towards him. The shell hole exploded, and blew him to bits.





My friends and I left the pub that night mutually agreed on one thing.  That our old mate Cheesy wouldn't let St. Peter rest until he found out how that one worked.




* Note - which dates the camping trip to 1935. The Welsh Harp must have been a regular haunt, having already been mentioned in People Are Funny 10 - Autograph Albums