24. April Fool's Day

One of the dying traditions of Merrie Old England is the art of the practical joke, April 1st appears unfailingly every year eager to fill the air with shouts of 'April Fool' and inevitably slinks unrecognised and unmourned into the dawn of April 2nd, forgotten and unfulfilled.

When I was a lad, April Fools day was vibrant with expectancy, everybody on their guard against being caught napping. At the same time ready and willing to get somebody to do something which would label him 'April Fool'.

Nobody was exempt and nothing was sacred and only one rule was rigidly kept. You had to make your catch by midday. Any ploy after that time reversed the procedure and the joker was the fool.

The necessary ingredients for the manufacture of a well built practical joke are a convincing manner to put over an outrageous suggestion to make it seem logical, and a victim who is of an impressionable nature, preferably under some sort of pressure so he is apt to act without thinking.

Schoolboys were notably uninspired in their inventiveness as indeed were most artisans.

At school the Headmaster's door continually thundered with knocks from lads sent there by other gleeful herberts.

"Hi Jonesy, the Head wants to see you right away"

And usually ended with Sir dishing out lines to every lad who fell for it. "I must not believe everything I'm told without checking it's true" one hundred times after school hours.

At work the new apprentice doing his stint as tea-boy, was inevitably sent to the bakers at tea-break for a box of pregnant tarts, or half a pound of maternity cake. Or to the stores for a left handed screwdriver or a rubber hammer.

One thing was sure, year after year young lads fell for all the time-honoured gags, however corny they may had been, but sadly the joy of fun in folk seems to have lapsed.

So I urge for a revival of the practical joke, a rebirth of April Foolery. A renaissance of the British love of Kidology. We're all getting too serious and too anxious to go for our guns.

The well constructed practical joke need not be built on April 1. Any time will do but full bonus marks will be given if successfully erected on that day.

Harrow P.O. was at one time constantly enlivened by the inventiveness of the practical joker, which had the two-way effect of cheering the work force when they heard of it and reviving their sagging morale if recalled during times of stress, such as lack of docket periods or inclement weather days.

May  I recall for you the urgent phone call from a driver requesting that the A.H.P. ops be told that Wealdstone Bridge had collapsed and traffic delays were likely.

Wealdstone Bridge. Credit: www.instantstreetview.com

I merely report facts by saying that an official notice was stuck on the P.H.G. counter instructing all drivers to avoid Wealdstone Bridge as it had fallen down. Which they all did until someone cottoned on that it was April 1.

There was the case of the A.I. who, answering the phone one morning, was asked by a gentlemen speaking with a pronounced Indian accent, if he would be kind enough to direct him to Pinner docks.  The conversation went something like this:

A.I. "Pinner docks? You mean Pinner station?"

Caller "No, no, no, I am wanting Pinner docks where the boats come in"

A.I. "This is Harrow here. Perhaps you want Harrogate?"

Caller "No, no, I am wanting Pinner in Harrow"

A.I. "There are no docks in Harrow. Do you mean Harwich?"

Caller "I am wanting Pinner docks in Harrow. I am meeting my family from India who are coming on the boat but I am not knowing the way so please to tell me where is situated Pinner docks, please"

A.I. "Listen. There are no docks in Pinner. Its miles from the sea and you can't sail a bloody boat up Pinner bloody High Street"

Caller  "There is no need for blaspheming. Please telling me where is Pinner docks and I will go"

The A.I, who was turning a deep shade of purple started to holler - "For Chrissake can't you understand..  " - when uncontrollable, hysterical laughter from the caller's end suddenly brought understanding and he tumbled and slammed  down the phone receiver. What's more, being of a serious nature he failed to see the funny side of it, and remembering who could do an Indian accent, accused him of insolence towards a superior officer and disciplined him accordingly.  Caller put it down to occupational hazard.

Pinner High Street - docks just out of shot. www.instantstreetview.com

A  classic example of practical jokery was staged one night when two gents from Region were visiting the office. The only thing that failed to gain top marks award was that it was not April 1st. 

An A.I. on duty was called to the phone and asked to be connected to a responsible officer. Naturally he asked if he could hep and was told that the Region men had a very important appointment after the conclusion of their tour at Harrow and a helicopter would be landing in the yard to pick them up. It was urgent that the yard be cleared of vans and landing lights be arranged to guide the 'copter down. Caller suggested a torch in each hand waved above the head would be ideal. 

The late staff of Harrow P.O. were treated to the sight of an A.I. standing in the middle of an empty yard guiding down an imaginary helicopter by waving two bike lamps in the air.

The two top brass left later, after explanations had been made, highly delighted with their evening. We're all boys at heart. 

The case of the Vulcan bombers was a practical joke which just failed to make the grade. A request from Wealdstone station for a special collection to collect a consignment of Vulcan Bombers which had arrived in recorded packets nearly fooled the Organising Inspector who took the message and was on his way to lay on a driver.

Passing through the Inspectorate he startled them all by stopping short in his tracks, and saying out loud to himself - "Vulcan Bombers? Wait a minute, they're bloody great planes!" and turned smartly about and hurried back to his office. He had suddenly remembered the date. It was a near miss.

Many more have been played at Harrow, far too numerous to mention here, but sadly the art seems to have died the death. A pity as we are all the more happy for a good laugh, with the possible exception of the victim. 

When a young family man I was eager to carry on these noble traditions with my family and used to set all manner of catch for them before I left for work on April 1st morning.

The kids thought it great fun but as they got older, entered in to the spirit of the game with all the carefree abandon of youth, and it got positively dangerous I considered myself lucky if I got through the day with only a flesh wound.

After nearly pitching headlong down the stairs tripping over a string that my boy had tied across the top step and narrowly escaping getting concussion when a pile of heavy books, which my daughters had balanced on top of the bedroom door, smashed on to my head as I opened it, I decided it was time to call a halt to the fun and games.

My wife said at the time that it was not fair telling them that it didn't count after noon as I'd gone to work before they got up, and they didn't have a chance of catching me unless they did it at night. So I'd better take my aspirins and shut up moaning. 

Well maybe occupational hazard does get a bit too hazardous at times, but I still urge a reincarnation of April Foolery.

So you may get a fracture here and there, or your dignity could get offended but someone will get a good laugh out of it and that's what life's all about, ain't it?

Notes:

I have no clue what the Post Office acronyms used here mean: AI, PHG, AHG ops. Any ideas ?

For more on April Fools Day see:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/April_Fools%27_Day 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_April_Fools%27_Day_jokes

Odds And Sods - The Pun Appeal 1.

The Pun Appeal

I beg to report that the response to my appeal for some puns to enliven the reading of the Harrow Post

was shattering in it's impact. It hit me with the megaton force of a feather of a hummingbirds wing landing on a blancmange swamp.

Nowt. Nix. Nuffin. Sweet FA. Sod All.

Should have known better. I've tried it all before with quizzes, competitions, offers of prizes of premium bonds and free beer. All with docket left endorsements. No answer. I've known winkles with a keener sense of willingness to participate than you lot, although they've had to be stabbed through the bonce with a pin first.

But I won't give up. I'll be stapped if I will. I'm gonna keep on trying until one of you zombies sends me a letter to the Editor and I'll be able to retire gracefully, my mission in life fulfilled, Folk will point me out in the street and says "Thats Ed, The Ed. Got a letter to the Ed. Sent him straight off his 'ed."

Anyway here's my contribution to the appeal.

The old Manor House was haunted by ghosts. Two clanked around dragging heavy balls and chains and the third floated about in a white sheet, wailing and moaning.

The first two convened a union meeting requesting that the workload be equally divided and all should take a turn at wearing the white sheet.

This was agreed upon and a new rota set up.

He increased use of the white sheet by unaccustomed wearers quickly wore it out and a requisition for a replacement was sent to the Phantom Supplies Division.

The storekeeper in charge, reading the application, muttered

"This always happens. Too many spooks spoil the cloth"

Here's a Fishy Story

A whale was swimming in the ocean when he met a giant squid

"Morning Squid" said he "How's things with you?"

"Not so good" said the squid "Matter of fact, I feel right rough. I'm on my way to see the doctor, but frankly, I don't think I'll make it, I feel that bad"

"Well that's no problem" said the whale "Just hop on my back and I'll give you a lift"

"Great" said the squid, and got on his back, wrapped his long tentacles round the whale and off they went.

They hadn't gone far when they were accosted by an enormous shark.

"Ah, just the job" said the shark "I've been looking all over for you"

"Alright, alright" said the whale "No need for any aggro. I know why you've been looking. Here you are. Here's the sick squid I owe you."

Tales of the Jungle

There was great rejoicing in the jungle. Mr and Mrs Gorilla had been blessed with a baby and a big feast was planned.

Everybody was invited and all turned up with a present for the baby. As they all paraded in front of the parents with their gifts Mr Gorilla was so proud of his baby son that he took him from Mrs Gorilla's arms and walked him round the guests holding him up by his arms.

"Why does he walk all stiff legged" asked Mr Chimp, who was a mite jealous of all the attention being given to the Gorillas.

"Well he's only a week old" said Mr Gorilla who was well aware of Mr Chimp's envy. 

"Don't expect him to be sure of his footing yet, do you?"

"Fair enough" said Chimp, "tell you what though, he ain't ever going to walk any different. Have another shufti at him. He ain't got any knees"

It was true! The baby had no knees. Consternation raged and a great discussion followed, with the decision that Mr Gorilla should take him to the witch doctor and ask him to cast a spell to cure his affliction.

"Arf a jiff" said the Elephant "No good going empty handed. You'll have to pay him a fee. He's only in it for the money and won't cast a spell for nothing. Tell you what, we'll have a whip round and see if we get enough to pay him".

So they went round with the hat but everyone was skint. All they got was a penning off a jackdaw who'd nicked it off a window ledge.

It was a case of do or die so off went Gorilla to the witch doctors hut, but with faint hopes he'd get any joy from him.

He knocked at the door which was opened by the witch doctor, who wasn't at all pleased to see Gorilla standing there and snarled "What the hell do you want? Hurry up I'm in the middle of brewing up a load of spells for delivery today and I'm up to me eyes in work."

"Sus-susorry to trouble you", quavered Gorilla, "could you pup-pup-please let me have two ape-knees for a penny?"

A Hard Days Knight
Sir Lancelot fought a hard battle all day in a raging storm. Suddenly his horse was killed and he staggered through the torrential rain, thunder and lightning to a nearby farmhouse where he asked the farmer to loan him a horse so that he could return to the battle.
"Sorry" said the farmer, "I just don't have a horse to spare. Tell you what, I've got a big St Bernard dog you could use. He's big enough to carry you."
Sir Lancelot looked at the dog, looked up at the dark and stormy sky, and said
"Gadzookz, varlet, you're not going to send a knight out on a dog like that?"

One For The Road
Heard about the two worms in a a graveyard who were making love in dead Ernest?

Punster's Corner 
Have you heard of:
The customer who complained that his coffee tasted like mud? The barista assured him that is was fresh-ground that morning.
The amusement park which displayed a sign reading "children under 12 must be accompanied by money & daddy?"
The bald man who had two wigs which were as alike as toupees?


Today
Study this paragraph and all things in it. What is vitally wrong with it? Actually, nothing in it is wrong, but you must admit that it is most unusual. Don't just zip through it quickly, but study it scrupulously. With luck you should spot what is so particular about it and all words found in it. Can you say what it is? Tax your brains and try again. Don't miss a word or a symbol. It isn't all that difficult.....

When today is yesterday, tomorrow will be as
near to Sunday as today when yesterday
was tomorrow.
What day is it?

The Extra Dollar!
A man had $50 in the bank.

He drew out $20, leaving $30
He drew out $15, leaving $15
He drew out $9,  leaving $6
He drew out $6,  leaving $0

Total           $50   Total   $51

Where did the extra dollar come from in the second column?


Graffiti
A neat bit of graffiti seen on a wall at Harrow Technical College:
THE MEEK SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH
and in tiny print underneath - that is, if you don't mind

Not My Day
I loved the story of the bloke who held up a shop-keeper with a toy gun the other day. He was most surprised when the shopman leaped the counter and done him.
Why? He'd forgotten to take the cork out of the nozzle which was still attached with a bit of string. Well, we all make cock ups, and I'm inclined to sympathise.

Stop Press
MAN BITES DOG!

We have had news, via the grapevine, of another attack on one of our postmen by man's best friend, the perambulating flea-bag, the dog. I fail to understand why attacks on the person of a postman are always treated as a humorous joke by the media whenever reported. They seem to think that we are fair game for these animals and should shrug off being bitten and the consequent nasty wounds as occupational hazard. Fido was only protecting the house, etc.

Anyway our mate, after being told by the owner that she was sure that dogs never bite unless provoked, the usual old guff that lovers of these species of the animal world always come out with as you stand there bleeding, decided to act in a humane way and treat the offender with kindness.

So when on delivery next day, as hound rushed up to repeat the dose as before, he worked him a large bar of chocolate which hound golloped down in a trice. This shows why the human being is on a plane above the creatures of the earth. We have compassion.

And, by the way, we invented ex-lax.

Fairy Tale 
A mad March hare, gambolling in the forest, met a fairy who was so pretty that she filled him with desire.
"I'm going to kiss you, pretty fairy", said he, full of the madness of March
"It is forbidden" said she. "If the Queen finds out she'll turn you in to a goon"
This sobered hare who, mad as he was, had no wish to become a goon. So he leaped away into the forest.
However, thoughts of the pretty fairy overcame fears of the dreaded consequence of such heresy, so he returned to the pretty fair and said "I'm going to kiss you for sure, fairy"
Whereupon there appeared the Fairy Queen in all her majesty and spoke. "It is forbidden, March hare, and should you be so mad I will turn you into a goon"
But the madness of March was now full upon the hare, and seizing the pretty fairy with his paws did kiss her full upon the lips, saying -
"Ah well, thats life. Hare today, goon tomorrow."

A Load Of Old Cobblers

The regular instalments of People Are Funny take a break, as the next couple of posts sweep up a few miscellaneous bits and pieces. 

The first of which whilst attempting to de-bunk a few urban myths, succeeds only in adding to the load of old cobblers it was railing against......

A Load Of Cobblers 

Here's a few old wives tales that, while they are trotted out by the average person as the gospel truth, have been proven to be nothing but myth or superstition.

Rubber footwear draws the feet

The body loses a couple of pints of liquid daily through 'insensible perspiration' but it is not noticed because it evaporates from the entire surface of the skin as it appears. However as rubber shoes or boots are waterproof, they prevent this evaporation and the skin of the feet feel moister than usual whereas leather footwear can breathe and do not hold the moisture.

Carrots help you see in the dark

Carrots contain a substance called carotene, which is converted by the body into vitamin A, which aids the formation of visual purple, a pigment in the retina of the eye, which is essential for good vision in poor light. But it does not enable a person to see in total darkness. Vitamin A is provided by a balanced diet, as is present in milk, butter and green vegetables, and there is no need to eat carrots to guard against night blindness.

Hair and nails grow after death

The only way the growth of human tissue can take place is by cell multiplication, and the only way that can occur is for the cells to receive a plentiful supply of oxygen. When the heart and lungs cease to function at death, the body no longer receives oxygen and cellular activity ceases.

Fright can turn a person's hair white overnight

Hair can begin to suddenly grow white but it is a gradual process. Hair grows from the roots by continual cell multiplication, but what emerges on the surface is actually dead. No external or internal influence can affect the colour of hair which has already grown. As hair grows about 1.5 inches a month it would take many weeks for a head of hair to turn white.

Eyes can be removed and replaced without harm

Stories are frequently being told of eyes being popped out, lain on the cheek, washed and put back without damaging them. As the eye is held in place by six muscles and further anchored by the very delicate optic nerve, to remove one without damaging the patient would be as impossible as unscrewing his head.

Bulls are maddened by red rage

Research has shown that bulls, as most mammals, apart from monkeys and man, are colourblind, matadors usually use red cloaks (probably because they do not show bloodstains), but they also use cloaks of many other colours which maddens the bull to the same extent. It is the movement of the cloak which makes the bull angry.

Your life passes before you at the moment of death

There cannot be any evidence to support this belief as anyone who had experienced this phenomenon 'at the moment of death' must have died a moment later. Who else but that person would know.

23. The Oomy Goolie Bird

You've all heard of the legendary Oomy Goolie bird* who flew backwards, not, as popular belief would have it, to keep the dust out of it's eyes, but because it was not interested in where it was going. It just wanted to see where it had been

This attitude towards life applies, with equal intensity, to a lot of us humans who are fascinated by the past.

The American tourist, who ain't got much history behind him, is probably the most afflicted person in the world with the Oomy Goolie outlook. Not that you can blame him, after all, if all your historical heroes wore six-guns and were buried up Boot Hill you'd be interested in a bit of past culture.

Anyway, this pre-occupation in what's gone before has led to a new sport. Graveyard Jogging or the Cemetery Stroll.

I am an enthusiastic Tombstone Trotter and there's nowt that keeps me more physically fit or mentally alert than an hour or two around the parish church allotments. Mainly they're on the side of a hill which keeps the muscles active and deciphering the inscriptions on the older stones keeps the brain alive.

Memorial inscriptions are naturally and generally of  religious trend but now and then appears the humour which is part of the human jig-saw. Or a descriptive piece telling exactly how the person concerned died. 

A good example of this is in the Salem Baptist Church graveyard at Speen, a small village in Bucks. Its read simply - "John Cartney, who was killed falling from his cart. 1838."

So what? I hear you mutter to each other.

Well this plain statement immediately takes you back in time to a quieter age, away from the horror of a six lane pile up, the motor-way maniac's disregard of adverse conditions, the utter frustration of being caught in a seven-mile tail-back from some road works. You're back in the days of horse drawn traffic, stacks of manure for the garden, time to breathe and the only traffic on the road is the horse and cart in front of you sedately clip-clopping home after a hard day's work in the fields. 

Thoughts of Gray's Elegy** spring to the mind, "The ploughman homeward plods his weary way" etc, and you are refreshed in mind and body. 

Then what happens? The bloke in front falls off his cart and kills himself. Or the horse treads on him and kills him.

You're back to square one and wish you hadn't read his flipping inscription.

There's a similar type of inscription in the grounds of St Mary's, the parish church of Harrow. This tells of the RAILWAY TRAIN and the dire consequences of getting in the way of it. The bloke*** who suffered these certainly had nothing to do with the inscription but somebody wanted the world to know and had it put on stone in detail. Possibly with the view of stopping the RAILWAY TRAIN from coming through Harrow as this happened in the days before Metro-land.

Some inscriptions are unintentionally funny in their mis-statements as are these two:

"Here lies the body of Thomas Vernon

Only surviving son of Admiral Vernon"

and

"Underneath this sod lies John Round

Who was lost at sea and never found"

Others are deliberately funny. Here's a couple from Cheltenham. The first, dated 1825, reads:

"Here lies John Higgs

A famous man for killing pigs

For killing pigs was his delight

Both morning, afternoon and night

Both heats and colds he did endure

Which no physician could ere cure

His knife is laid, his work is done

I hope to heaven his soul is gone"

Source:  https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2178703/Japanese-tourists-flock-Cheltenham-grave-obscure-C19th-pig-killer-John-Higgs.html

The second, dated 1769, is about a blacksmith:

"My sledge and hammer lies declined

My bellows pipe has lost it's wind

My forge is extinct, my fire's decayed

And in the dust my vice is laid

My coal is spent, my iron is gone

My nails are drove, my work is done"

Source: https://www.francisfrith.com/blog/the-village-blacksmith

There's a good inscription on a stone at Bromsgrove, Worcs, for a chap named Knott. A good pun is always good reading:

"Here lies a man who was Knott born

His father was Knott before him

He lived Knott, and did Knott die

Yet underneath this stone he doth lie

Knott christened, Knott begot

And here he lives and yet was Knott"

No matter where you go you'll come across the Knockers. Here's one about a miser buried in Dorchester Abbey:

"Here lies one who for medicine would not

Give a little gold, so his life was lost

I fancy that he'd wish to live again

Did he but know how much his funeral cost"

And another about a woman buried in Bideford churchyard:

"Here lies the body of Mary Sexton

Who pleased many a man but never vexed one

Not like the woman who lies under the next stone"

Nasty!

There must be thousands of pert inscriptions around the country so join the army of graveyard joggers and give free reign to your Oomy Goolie outlook. Investigate the past and enjoy the humour of these long dead poets.

I shall be very happy to print any authentic inscriptions that any of you have seen. Send 'em in to the Editor and I'll devote a page to them under the heading of Tombstone Trotters Gazette or Oomy Goolie Investigations. 

Signing off with the most famed of all inscriptions:

"Under this sod lies another"

Notes:

* I've no idea where the flying backward reference actually comes from, but there was a joke about the Oomagoolie bird, so named as it had very short legs, and every time it landed it squawked........

** 'Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard' by Thomas Gray 1750/1. 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44299/elegy-written-in-a-country-churchyard

*** I must have stopped and read this inscription every time we walked through St Mary's churchyard. It's the tombstone of  Thomas Port, 1805-1838. For the full gory details, see the attached:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1838_Harrow_rail_accident

I remember being interested in another stone, I think, round the back of the church with a skull & crossbones or similar, but, at 30-plus years distance, I can't recall, or find, anything else about it. Then there was the occasion when the famous Peachey tomb (see the links below) was nowhere to be found.....like properly actually disappeared. 

https://darkestlondon.com/tag/harrow-on-the-hill/
https://harrowonline.org/2016/09/28/the-story-behind-john-peacheys-tomb/

We carry on the Tombstone Trotting tradition. It was intriguing to find the tomb (a not-so-tasteful 9ft pyramid) for the very-much-still-alive Nicolas Cage, in New Orleans' St Louis No. 1 cemetery, when we visited in 2017.  And the Animals Cemetery in Jersey, where we went summer 2018, has any number of moving epithets.

  

22. Being Thrifty

There's a vast difference between being thrifty and being mean yet the dividing line is as fine as the one between genius and imbecility. Sometimes it's hard to say what type a person is. In the eyes of some he's a financial wizard who knows how to look after his money, whereas to others he is as tight as a fishes arse, which is well renowned for being water tight.

Same as a bloke who is well endowed when it comes to I.Q. If he's a mite eccentric in his outlook he's considered unconventional to some, but to others he's due for a basket-weaving course. It's hard to be sure, depends how things turn out.

One of the lads who was a member of the Pembroke Boxing and Athletic club, as I was during the thirties, came under the genius or nutter category. We all thought he was barmy. Full stop.

After all, why belong to a boxing club and never get a pair of gloves on and have a bash in the ring ? Why go out on a training run to get fit then half-way round catch a bus back to the club ? Must have been George Raft. Incidents as the night when he turned all the tables and chairs upside-down because he was fed up with seeing the same old set-up and drank his cuppa while balancing on his head to prove that the law of gravity was a fake as the tea went upwards to his stomach, all confirmed our opinion that he was as bent as a four pound note.

But as I said, it all depends how things turn out. In his case we were wrong as after the war he became one of boxing's best known managers of pro. fighters. All the loot he earned from it stemmed from his association with idiots like us who only got cups and medals for our bent hooters and corrugated ears. No names mentioned but I'll tell anyone who cares to ask.

Scrooge was a novice compared with a chap I worked with just after the war. He was a Czech who managed to escape to England before the Nazi invasion and after demob chose to live here with his wife, an English girl he married during the war. His first name was Karl.

Don't get me wrong when I say that Ebenezer S. would have benefited fron a few lessons from him. Whereas E.S. was rich and his frugality was self imposed, Karl had nowt but a few sticks of furniture, a pair of overalls, his demob suit and a bit in the bank. Well more or less.

And an ambition to own a restaurant. Whereby sprang his Spartan way of life in an effort to save money.

I must say that saving anything out of the wages our guv'nor paid was bloody nigh an impossibility.

If Eamonn Andrews* had been doing "This is Your Life" in 1946 and picked on our boss, he'd have read him the Xmas Carol with the exception of Scrooge's change of heart which our guv never got round to having. He retired to a tax haven abroad before they'd been invented.

Anyway Karl made the effort with a determination that was amazing in it's adherance to living on a minimum of outlay.

He'd bring to work one fag, one match and the side of a matchbox. This he'd smoke after dinner which consisted of a cheese butty and a long thin bottle of a pale brown liquid which we assumed to be home-made wine. It was his method of drinking it which led us to this conclusion as he'd take a mouthful, swill it round his teeth, gargle in his throat, then swallow. Only when he left it on the bench one day to go and have a Jimmy and one of the lads took a quick swig, did we find out what it was.

Cold tea, without sugar or milk.

I never saw him eat or drink anything else the whole time he worked there. He never bought a raffle ticket, had a beer with the lads, backed a horse, played a game of brag on paydays or paid for a haircut. His missus cut it. So we, having only the ambition to exist as best we could classed him as a mean sod who wouldn't give you a cold if he had the flu.

And tried innumerable ways to make him part with some cash but all to no avail until one day we found his Achilles heel.  A nosh up of chicken.

He let on that he loved chicken cooked any way. Roast, boiled, fried, grilled, devilled, supreme, curried, diable, with fruit sauce, pimento, apricot stuffed, in casserole, you name it and he positively drooled. But finances being as they were he couldn't afford it.

It so happened that I, at that period of time, kept chickens in my garden, and here was an ideal chance to score over big spender. I told him that I had a bird which was a poor layer and I'd sell it to him for four bob. Dirt cheap.

This was the truth slightly bent to suit the occasion as it was indeed a poor layer having died two days before from internal egg laying and I had buried it in the garden. Which made it dirt cheap. Well for four bob it was.

Karl jumped at the offer and I dug it up that night, cleaned it up and gave it to him next day. Luckily we'd been having a dry spell so it wasn't too bad. Just a mite dusty.

The lads killed themselves laughing when they heard how Karl's taste buds had overcome his avarice and even more so when those same taste buds made him refuse to pay me four bob as he said it had a peculiar taste and it was only worth two shillings. I was a bit relieved that he hadn't got food poisoning so settled for that.

I never saw or heard of him after he left but I'll bet he got his restaurant and I only hope that I never stray in there for a meal. Knowing what blokes are I'd bet my shirt that somebody told him what I did and God alone knows what I'd get served up if I ordered chicken supreme.


Notes:
This entry was written/published in late 1978.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eamonn_Andrews
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/This_Is_Your_Life_(UK_TV_series)

21. The Natural Urge To Lie

When our parents have got over being dewy-eyed over their new chick and stopped making cooing noises to us, they embark on a crash course of turning little bundle of joy into a responsible member of society, by ramming a long series of "don'ts" down it's throat. Usually high in the top 20 of these is telling lies. I'd like to take a bet that every one of us has had "You lie to me and I'll tan your bum" thrown at him after Mummy and Daddy suddenly face up to the fact that little bundle is no different from any other little horror and can look them straight in the eye while lying like the clappers.

 

What is not realised is that lying is a natural instinct and as such should be cultivated and taught properly like any other subject. An 'O' level  in lying ought to be a must as a qualification for any job worth having and certainly no candidate for local or parliamentary election should be accepted without a first class degree in fabrication.

The largest participant sport in the country is the noble art of angling and non-followers just can't make out why. The answer is obvious - it gives the best opportunity for the human race to give free reign to one of it's basic instincts in all it's various degrees - the natural urge to lie.

I am not a good fisherman for one good reason and that is I am not a good liar. It's got nothing to do with catching fish, just that I can't stretch the truth in the subtle way of the top class angler. Believe me, I've tried it, but after seeing the look of pitying disbelief in the eyes of my audience, I gave up trying and now only tell the truth. I used to think I had a touch of death when it came to handling a rod, sat for hours drowning worms, tempting fish with bits of bread, cheese, part-boiled spuds and sausages and never had so much as a knock. This is one of angling's tense moments, when the alert angler drops his hand to his rod like a cowboy going for his gun, because his float has moved and his is ready for the strike. The only time my float moved was when the maggot got hiccups through swallowing too much water, and as for getting a bite, this is when a fish takes a nibble at the bait in a moment of carelessness and by the time you've heaved up the line and got it caught in a hopeless tangle up a tree, it is at the other end of the lake telling all his mates, well the only bites I ever got were from the gnats which put so much poison in me that if I had got a snake bite, the snake would have died first, and I had got resigned to the fact I just hadn't got what it takes to be an angler. Making the tea - yes, humping all the gear for the family - fine, driving miles to a lake teeming with tench, carp, roach, bream all begging to be caught - expert, but as for catching any of them - flippin useless. Until one day when I'd been wondering, as per usual, how the hell can the line tie itself into a cats cradle without being touched by human hands, it suddenly dawned on me that I had never actually seen anyone catch a fish.

Been told about twenty pound pike, three pound roach, monster fish that fought better than my old tom-cat on passion outings, but never seen 'em. All the blokes round the lake had been as motionless as me, hour after hour, except for the odd move when they made a cup of tea or nipped in to the bushes to have a quick pee. I saw the light, nobody catches any, they made it all up, prefabricated the whole bloody issue. That's what they did while they sat there all that time, perfected their tales they would tell to innocent and honest people like me.

In other words, followed natures basic instinct, which causes Mum and Dad's little cherub to swear blind he hasn't been at the jam when it's smeared all round his cake-hole.

The natural urge to lie. From that moment I knew I'd never be a good fisherman and it had nothing to do with lack of expertise or want of trying, just that I am one of natures misfits. A basically honest person who can't tell a good convincing whopper. So I made up my mind there and then, that I'd be what nature made me and tell only the truth.

 

 

Strangely enough from that time I started to catch fish, and knowing how ill equipped I was for enlarging upon my petty successes, I have stuck firmly to my resolution - to tell the truth. It's paid well too, as my catches have got bigger and bigger and I have been spared the indignity of going red while telling people of the wonderful fish I have caught. It's a great pity that I am so handicapped in being unable to tell a good lie. This will stop me being a top class fisherman I'm afraid. Just imagine what a really good angler could have made from the carp I got last week when at the lake. I was quite alone, as it was late, and had made my last cast for the day, when the line shot out like an express train and it was only by anchoring my body against a tree that I was able to stop myself being dragged in to the water and it took me two solid hours of playing that fish before I got it tired and near enough to get the landing net under it. Unfortunately, the handle of my net was only made of mild steel and broke under the strain of lifting it clear of the water and the fish got away, so in all honesty I can't claim it as a catch. A good fisherman would have made a fine yarn from that and I'm tempted now and again to have another try at it, but I know my limitations, so I think I'll be content with being truthful and leave the lies to folks who are able to do it with the ease that nature has so luckily endowed upon them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

20. On The Seventh Day

aka Religious Instruction

I don't remember much of the religious instruction that was forced upon me as a child, mainly because my father made me wear an Eton collar when attending Sunday school.

This was a large white collar so wide that the top nearly cut your ears off when you turned your head, and the bottom made dents in your shoulder blades, and was worn outside the coat lapels giving you the appearance of a walking wedding cake.
Enduring the mickey taking of my mates, without being able to take a swipe at them for fear of decapitating myself, fully occupied my mind, and I didn't absorb much of the ways of the Lord.

However I seem to remember that He made the earth and it's inhabitants in six days, and put His feet up on the seventh.

Now, whatever the boffins tell us about evolution and hereditary traits, they can't successfully explain why all God’s creatures have an irresistible urge to do something that is quite out of keeping with instinctive reason, and what's more, do it no matter what the consequence.

Why do lemmings suddenly march off and drown themselves in their thousands*, bats hang upside down to sleep when it's just as easy to sleep the right way up, eels travel all the way the the Sargasso sea and salmon battle their way up rapids to spawn, when both could quite comfortably have a bit of the other right where they were?

I think the answer is in the obvious explanation and that is that God was tired after all that hard graft and felt He was entitled to have a bit of fun. After all, it would be dead boring to watch all creatures great and small doing exactly what the were supposed to do for ever and ever, amen.

So, He put in the make up of every being, something stupid, something that would be so contrary to reason, that He would always be sure of having a giggle, when Songs of Praise on the Telly got on his nerves. Even He would get browned off being lauded all the time. Only human, ain't it ?

The naked ape, that's us, has two natural functions. One, to see how prolific he is when it comes to siring offspring, and two, to see how many nasty ways he can invent to destroy himself.

So God instilled an urge in him, to record all his noble efforts, so that posterity could read all about his struggles, the gag being, there won't be nobody to read it when he eventually succeeds in fulfilling his destiny.

Thus at some time or other we try our hand at keeping a diary. I had the urge to do it at the age of fourteen** and recorded the daily scene for a whole year. I came across it, amongst other relics of bygone days, when having a clear out of things you can't take with you. On reading through it, I thought that God must have been tired out on that seventh day, as this little joke on homo sapiens misfired a bit, because while keeping a diary was useless when it came to posterity, I got immense pleasure reading about times I had forgotten.

I was back in the days when school girls were all gymslips and pigtails and as sexy as suet pudding, when school uniforms were what your elder brother had grown out of plus new patches on the seat of the pants and elbows of the coat, when school meals were usually a paste sandwich clutched in the hand while you played football in the playground, when bits of blotting paper soaked in ink and darts made from broken pen-nibs flew thick and fast across the class room, and when the throwers of such missiles got two on each hand from Sir if caught.

Psychology hadn't been invented then, and Sir maintained a fair discipline at a very low cost. The price of a new cane, when the old one broke, or a swift thump on the unwary Herbert who didn't duck fast enough.

We weren't any the worse for it, as it was accepted that if you were mug enough to get caught then you got punished, no hard feelings on either side. Any homicidal feelings towards that rotten sod Sir, died by the time your fingers stopped tingling, anyway you were too busy holding your hands between your knees or sitting on them, to be able to do anything about it in the interim.

 

I read references to teachers I hadn't thought of since leaving school.

Old Gobbo, so named because he sprayed you with spit if he spoke to you any nearer than five feet away.

The Twickman, who's r's sounded like w's, who invariably prefaced his maths lesson with "I'm going to show you a mathematical twick".

Bogey, who continually picked his nose during the science talks, and what was worse, flicked it at you if he thought you were not paying attention.

Mr. King (History) was affectionately known as Dot and Carry one, because he walked that way. A smashed kneecap at Mons (World War 1) made his right leg stiff as a poker and he swung it in a semi-circle to get it along, but this affliction in no way impaired his ability to give you a swift boot up the arse if he caught you mocking him.

Mr. Ede was an excitable little Welshman whose accent was so broad, that my class, who struggled to learn French under him, are probably the only people who speak it with a Welsh accent.

Beaky Harrison, whose enormous schnozzola had a permanent drip when it was cold and which joined up to the end of the shag fags he smoked during his spell on duty at playtime.

Wat Tyler, a temporary teacher, took over when Dot and Carry was on the sick list, and told us that nothing of importance happened before the Great War and to our great delight, spent his history sessions telling us yarns of his own dubious adventures during that period. The Heads swiftly gave him the push when he found out about, but I think that Mr Tyler has something there as Wat Tyler 1914-1918 remains clear in my memory, whereas the life of Charles II which we weres supposed to have learned, is still a complete blank in spite of all Dot and Carry's efforts to cram it into us when he returned. 

Then there was Kreamy Lynch who was probably the original Brylcreem boy as he had thick black hair which he plastered so lavishly with brilliantine that it ran down his face and neck so much that he looked as if he had his head in a bird cage.

And our Art master, who, besides being very Bohemian in outlook and appearance, dwelt under the sobriquet of Camel dial, not because his face resembled a camels', but because we all thought it looked like the other end. 

These were but a few of the hard worked, underpaid band of dedicated tutors, who did their utmost to transform the sow's ear mob of urchins of the late twenties and early thirties into the silken purse citizens of the late thirties and early forties.  As I said, Sir was the guv'nor in these days, maybe because he had everything in his favour, like a dirty great cane and also the support of our fathers, who wore full of apt phrases, such as :-

"Spare the rod and spoil the child" and

"Children should be seen and not heard"

I don't know whether it was the true concept of correct moulding of character, but I don't think it was all that wrong, as later events proved.

Anyway, my diary, which I hope gave God the degree of relaxation He intended, certainly helped me in one respect, although I hadn't realised it until I remembered those Sirs of yesterday.

Our Headmaster was known as Rip Roaring Reg because of his habit of tearing off defaulters, in the loudest strip they’d ever heard in their young lives After reducing the quaking miscreant to a quivering jelly of nerves with the sheer volume of his voice, he would suddenly request, in a very mild tone, that the cane and book be brought to him please then after briskly slashing six of the best down, three on each hand, thanked the offender attending and dismissed him with a fog-horn roar, of "next".

He also taught us poetry. He was a Robbie Burns addict, and must have suffered agonies trying to teach and make us appreciate the indecipherable Burns lingo. I never did, but one tiny bit of his poetry has always stuck in my mind. 

"Oh wad the Lord some giftie gie us
tae see oorsels as ithers see us" ***

Well, I don't think many people are that gifted, certainly not me, but remembering those Sirs of way back I thought that perhaps I'd been granted a wee bitty of a giftie, as I seem to see ithers as a funny lot, or p'raps it's just my warped outlook.

Anyway, you need a bit of a laugh at times, as I think God did, on that seventh day.

Notes:

* An urban myth that became widespread after this behaviour was shown in the Walt Disney documentary White Wilderness in 1958. The animals in the film were not wild animals jumping off the cliff voluntarily, they were bought by the producers and pushed over the edge of the cliff. Nice work, Uncle Walt.


** That was 1930/31


** The final verse of "To A Louse, On Seeing One on a Lady's Bonnet at Church", 1786, and is actually:

"O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!"