The Disastrous Date, a Semi-Naked Man and the Phantom Lavatory

Tuesday 5 April 2011 – Sorry to begin with a moan this week, but what is it with cyclists. Today I am sat waiting at a red light, when a cyclist comes up my right hand side, and crosses straight into the traffic. He’s weaving in and out of the cars travelling through their green light opposite. Horns sound and the cyclist raises one finger in defiance. I have witnessed many cyclists that seem to either have no knowledge of, or just total disregard for the highway code. In my opinion, I think the law should be changed, and for cyclists that want to ride on the public highways, there should be some form of registration plate, and don’t get me started on the aspect of insurance………Breathe Barry.

Wednesday 6  April 2011 -  I am packing suitcases as Muse play ‘Guiding Light’: now I’m not a big Muse fan to be honest, I find they tend to drone on, however I did like their ‘The Renaissance’ album. There’s a knock at the door, which opens to reveal a suited male with a small boy. “Hello,” he says: the man that is not the boy; he looks miserable: That’s the boy not the man. “Would you like to join us to celebrate the death of our lord?” Now I am about to say, “Oh I didn’t know there was going to be a party, shall I bring along the trifle.” But I catch the words in my throat and say, “Celebrate? That’s an odd expression to couple with the word death.” The boy shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, however his expression remains unchanged. “Well?” asks the man. “No I don’t think so.” I say, and as soon as the last consonant of my response has sounded, a leaflet appears from nowhere in the boy’s hand and in perfect unison with the grown up, who says, “If you change your mind here’s some information,” the leaflet is pushed into my hand, and the boy; expression unfaltering says, “Thank you mister.” They leave and the final notes of ‘Guiding Light’ fade.

Thursday 7 April 2011 -  I’m wandering around the local supermarket ‘House in My Head’ by Sons and Daughters is playing on my iPod, when coming towards me I see a man. He’s of average height and build, with a pale complexion and the wiry trail of dark hair that snakes up past his belly button and explodes across his chest. Why do I have knowledge of him in such graphic detail? Because he’s walking briskly with shopping basket in the crook of his left arm, naked apart from a pair of red briefs. Behind him at a safe distance are two other men of similar ages, one holds a pair of jeans and t-shirt, the other a pair of socks and trainers. With nothing more than a snigger, the semi-naked man passes me. I watch the two walking in his wake, they are finding it difficult to contain their laughter. I just hope the bet was worth it.

Early evening we go out for dinner, nothing fancy, just a local pub carvery. I’m just starting my meal when a couple walk in, both early twenties, he’s tall, lanky and looks bored, she’s short, squat and looks down at her phone as her fingers flick across its surface writing a text like an over excited arachnid. They sit, he picks up a menu and she continues to send and receive texts. Several minutes pass, he’s now put the menu down and is looking up at the ceiling, checking for cobwebs maybe. She however is now talking on her phone, the conversation as animated as her fingers had been before. The one-sided dialogue I hear is peppered with expressions like like, ‘Nah, and ‘Shat app’. I begin to believe she’s seen to many episodes of the dreadful UK docu-soap-drivel, ‘The Only Way Is Essex'.’ The phonecall over, she puts her phone upon the table and picks up her menu, her boyfriend has moved his gaze from up to down, and is now studying his trainers. Suddenly loudly a telephone rings, it’s ringtone a tinny version of some generic R&B track. The menu goes down to the table and the phone goes up to the girls ear, ‘Nah, shat app.’ The boy now rises and walks away from the table. Several minutes pass, more texting and one more diatribe of fake Essex speak before the girl realises the boy isn’t coming back. She rises from her seat and walks through the diners, and with phone glued to her ear in a thick ‘Potteries’  accent she gives her boyfriend grief for walking away. Oh well, you can’t blame him.

Friday 08.04.2011 – Today is made up of all the last minute things that need to be done before we drive to Dover. Hazel O’Connor sings ‘That’s Life’, a lovely song about not changing a thing if you could live your life again. Life, what a strange thing it is, we are not really sure why we’re here and do we have any idea what our purpose for being here really is. As we shall be away for seventeen days, it seems a shame to waste the vase of spring flowers in the living room, so despite not really having the time to spare, I decide I’ll put them on a friends grave. I open the drawer where her details are kept, but cannot find the sheet which has the map and plot number on it; it always sits in this drawer, so where’s it gone? (I have to have the crematorium plan as it’s so large and is very confusing). I cannot find it, so have a quick conversation with my friend, wishing her well, and asking her to give me a sign she’s happy. The car is packed, sandwiches are made and some frozen items are stored for travel in the cool box. We are ready to leave, so I turn off the iPod dock, halting Jason Mraz with ‘O, Lover’. I point the electronic fob at the garage and the door silently closes, I put the fob back inside the drawer and close it, however the drawer will not close, something is preventing it. I try a couple of times, when I notice a piece of glossy paper sticking out from the underside, I pull the paper out and it’s the crematorium plan. I smile just as my partner comes home from getting a haircut, “Sorry I’m late,” he says, “The traffic was a nightmare, all the roads into town are full of congestion. How’ve you got on?” I look down at the map and say, “Okay, everything is okay.”

Now I’m not some God-bothering paid up member of the life after death brigade nor am I a total sceptic, but it was comfort for me to feel that somehow a good friend had been able to give me a sign she was happy. But like all things read into what you will.

Saturday 09.04.11 – The iPhone buzzes and rouses me from my sleep, it’s 03.10 and with the urgency of an elderly sloth I crawl from the Premier Inn bed and head for the tiny two cup kettle. We are just five minutes from the ferry terminal, so after showers, cups of tea, a short car ride and check in, we are finally ensconced in the DFDS Seaways ferry’s restaurant….. Will we never learn, cold eggs and bacon as per usual? However as we approach Dunkirk, the view of the day breaking is stunning.

We leave the ferry two hours later and are off on our seventeen hour road trip, we are heading towards Namur in Belgium, when the iPod adapter-radio-thingy (I’m not very tech minded), starts to play up and Lady Gaga begins to sound like she has musical Tourette's, as ‘Telephone’ flicks in and out of coherency. the signal keeps flickering and crackling, making it impossible to enjoy listening to the music. So a decision is made, and the iPod is switched off, and for the time being I no longer am living a life on shuffle.

The journey is very pleasant, with nothing of major importance happening to merit a mention here, France looks nice bathed in sunshine, even Switzerland, a country I’m not fond of is appealing to me this trip. However I am beginning to suffer from music withdrawal. I take some photo’s as we drive, but it’s hard to get good shots when there’s nowhere to stop. I do take a photo of an exit sign, just because when you say the word it sounds rude. (Immature I know, but makes me smile, as does the name of one tunnel we pass through. Belcher tunnel).

 

We cross the border into Italy, having made great time; stopping only briefly en route for a toilet break. We are now just 430 miles away from our destination. The satnav decides to take us a different way around Milano onto the A14, but we are not fazed. We trundle along, down the Italian autostrada until we are just over the Lombardia border when I notice a crack has appeared in the windscreen, it’s about three inches long, and we have no recollection of being struck by anything. We stop at an Autogrill, the Italian equivalent  of a motorway service station, albeit with edible food and not hiked prices.

After a bite to eat we continue on with the journey, by now we’ve been driving for fourteen hours and it’s beginning to take it’s toll. We pull into a rest stop for a break, only to discover we’ve stumbled onto a dogging/gay cruising area, cars pull up, men wander about, then disappear into the night. A car pulls up with a couple in the front seat, he gets out to stretch his legs, whilst she flicks the interior light switch a couple of times. I appears it’s also a dogging spot. A solitary police car appears, has a nosy around and leaves, that’s our cue to follow.

We continue to travel down the A14 south, until we come to Rimini nord, here the autostrada is closed for maintenance, so we are diverted via a toll booth. €2,60 later we are driving through the outskirts of Rimini, unaware of which direction we are travelling in. The satnav is no help as all it keeps trying to do is direct us back to the closed junction. Eventually we spot a car transporter, and making a guess that it too is travelling south we blindly follow it. Our assumption was a good one and pays off and soon we are back on track.

Eventually sleep begins to win the fight and we pull into a parking space on a service station, clamber into the back of the car: bringing that futon mattress proves to have been a good idea.

Sunday 10.04.11 – We wake on the service station, groggy but feeling the better for actually catching a couple of hours sleep. Italians mill about the forecourt, dressed in their Sunday best. (Church clothing). The aroma of coffee and sweet breakfast pastries sits on the idle breeze. It’s early in the day and the bright sunshine promises a warm one. An ancient man looks in at me through the rear window, puzzled as what looked like a pile of rags comes to life, I smile, he frowns, I can read his mind; ‘Stranieri’. I have an odd experience with a toilet that appears possessed, it was silent before I entered the cubicle, not now, it keeps flushing over and over and the cold water/testicle experience isn’t pleasant, but enough said of that.

The drive to Archi is pleasant, it’s like meeting an old friend, having stayed in Kati’s house once before, the familiarity is as warming as the sunshine that creeps along the narrow streets banishing shade. We unpack and the iPod is placed into it’s dock, ready to cure me of my music withdrawal. The first song to shuffle forward is ‘Divine’ by Blondie, what an apt title, it completely encompasses the setting and also the feel of the day. My phone beeps and it’s a text from Brenda inviting us over for lunch.

After freshening up, I turn off the iPod mid flow interrupting Siouxsie Sioux, as she sings ‘Further Nearer’ from the Creatures album Hai! I then drive down the steep gradients that make up the road back down to the valley, the fields are awash with borage, and wood smoke fragrances the air. We arrive at our friends laden with gifts and it’s great to see Terry and Brenda. We last saw them back in November 2010, and although only four months and a few days have passed, it seems to have been an age ago. This is partly due I think to the cold winter back in the UK, as both times we have been together have been in good weather. Lunch is Terry’s one-pot pork, a rustic dish of potatoes, vegetable and pork seasoned with bay, fennel and other natural dashes of goodness. We eat outside with the sounds of the valley all around us.

The sound of tyres on gravel indicates that our other friends Rozz and Spike have arrived, and after a few hours we are all sat around a table eating dinner. It’s strange to think how things come together, here on an Italian hillside is a group of people all from different towns and places: Manchester, Huddersfield, Melton Mowbray, Glasgow, Stoke on Trent, somehow the fates have conspired to bring us all here, at this time. But for what purpose, what is our part in the great scheme of things?

Later back at Archi, a game of dominos and a glass of wine is taken as ‘Necromancer’ by Gnarls Barkley plays, at a discreet volume. Very quickly it proves futile to fight it, and I climb the stairs and fall into bed.

Life can be perfect sometimes.

The Lego Wig, Junk Mail & an Odd Place to Hang a Shirt

Sunday 16 January – first song of the day to shuffle is, ‘Lazy Eye’ by Silversun Pickups and it’s my first weigh in. I have been trying out the new Weightwatchers, pro points, for a week now and have lost 4.5 pounds (2kg). Not bad for a week. I start the day with a slice of toast, and my new discovery, a smear of Gentlemen’s Relish. I love the salty taste.

Today is birthday dinner day, my partner had a birthday on the 15th and my ex-wife has hers on the 18th. We combined the two and had a meal to celebrate, along with wifey’s two children. As it’s a joint birthday we combined the ages, therefore having a cake that sported happy 94th birthday. We had roast beef and roast chicken, a couple of bottles of fizz and obviously cake. (Which, because it was chocolate, I didn’t like)

Sunday evening brings the usual dose of drivel on the TV, so called celebrities dancing; I use the term dancing loosely, on ice. I saunter through the show, not particularly watching the action, because I am waiting for one thing. Robert Van Winkle AKA Vanilla Ice. He may be a one hit wonder and a capable skater, but this is not reason enough to watch him, I watch him because I can’t stop chuckling at his Lego wig. He’s obviously wearing a rug, but it looks like one a Lego man would wear. I hope the tape is good, it would make great viewing if it slipped off mid skate.

Monday 16 January – What is it with junk mail? Is today national post junk mail through Barry’s door? I’m in the kitchen making my first cup of tea of the day. The iPod doing it’s job playing that haunting Raveonettes ditty, ‘All Boys That Rape (Should Be Destroyed), when the first item of junk drops on the mat. A pamphlet promising me ‘inner peace’ if I join a local religious group. Barely ten minutes go by when the letter box rattles and more rubbish arrives, this time ironically the leaflets are for a slimming club and a take out pizza menu. Next to arrive is a catalogue for household products, that I never purchase, but still each week one drops though the door.

Goldfrapp play the atmospheric, ‘Horse Tears’ as the postman arrives. I have several items of legitimate mail mixed with two items of junk, a broadband offer from Virgin and an offer of free membership to a gym.

I spend the day doing some research for a new magazine article, and as the reggae/dancehall vibe of Pentonville Blues by Glide and Swerve, feat: Boy George starts to play, yet another piece of junk mail arrives. This time a scrappy looking piece of paper floats down to the kitchen floor, a homemade flyer for someone named Daz, who apparently will take away any unwanted household appliances.

Tuesday 18 January – As The Eagles finished playing ‘Desperado’ I parked the car just outside town. I decided to take a chance and park on a piece of land that has recently had the clamping warning signs removed. It’s a brisk walk uphill into town, so that should help with the diet. Out of nowhere a voice calls, “Ciao, Barry.” I turn and see my friend Silvana, it’s her birthday so I respond, “Ciao cara, buon compleanno.” It’s nice to have a little nugget of Italian life, albeit in the middle of the Potteries.

With Marc Almond shuffling to the fore to play ‘Empty Eyes’, I enter T-K-Maxx. Like my iPod I begin to shuffle between rails of cut priced shirts. I’m flicking through the stock on show, nothing really catching my eye, when something does catch my eye. My attention is drawn towards a young man with one of those gauging ear piercings; you know the kind that stretch the lobe open. Now the type of body modification isn’t what makes me look, it’s the fact that he’s looking at shirts too, but he has hooked a hanger with a shirt onto his ear lobe to keep his hands free. I smile and mutter the word ‘genius’ to myself.

As I walk back to the car I take a few snaps of the derelict land that’s been left to rot, after the building of the towns’ supersized superstore. No names mentioned, however I do like the name of one of the now impotent streets, ‘Slippery Lane’ I bet it’s a bugger to walk on in winter.

Wednesday 19 January – Why is it that supermarkets have the ability to sensible people into imbeciles? Today I take a trip to our local superstore and the first thing I see is a woman loading her three children into a shopping trolley. The children are aged between 3 to 7 at a guess, and don’t have the ability to stand still. The woman tries in vain to push the trolley as the kids inside it jostle about. The accident that’s inevitable then occurs. As the mother navigates a turn the trolley tips up and spills said children onto the floor, the conclusion being 3 wailing infants and disdainful looks from fellow shoppers.

I walk down the dairy aisle as the iPod starts to play Mr Hudson, ‘Learning To Live,’ up ahead of me is a young man having difficulty reaching an item from the top shelf. Rather than ask for assistance I watch as he climbs onto the bottom of the fridge. It was very hard not to laugh aloud, as he lost his footing and slipped ending up kneeling in the yogurts. I do hope he can get the stains out of his jeans.

I see there’s a statement from Katie Price, AKA Jordan in the newspapers today. Not usually one to spend time here talking about people in the media; notice I didn’t use the term ‘celebrities’. But who out there didn’t think her marriage to Alex Reid would last long?

http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/showbiz/bizarre/3359396/Jordan-I-had-to-dump-Alex-Reid.html

Thursday 20 January – I’ve been listening to a lot of Billy Mackenzie the last few days, as I have to write a magazine article and have chosen to write about him. (I’ll publish it here when my lecturer has marked it.) At 14.00, and as Bow Wow Wow play ‘(I’m a) TV Savage’ I click save and it’s finally complete. I’ll leave it for a few hours, review it and then send the final draft by e-mail.

I realised today that I’m a pasta snob, I opened my kitchen cupboards and realised that I only have branded pasta, no stores own brand. In Italy there are hoards of brands of pasta, and my favourite is De Cecco, which is relatively inexpensive there, but is at a premium here in the UK. Another good one is Delverde, however that’s hard to find here and is another costly brand.

I don’t to sound like an old moaner, but at the moment I’m finding being semi retired a bit of a chore. I have endless things that can keep me occupied, but over the last week I’ve become quite an expert at procrastination. (As I type this a menu for a Chinese take away has dropped through the letter box.) The problem I think is I don’t want to be here, I want to be over in Italy sorting out my house and land, and it’s this that’s colouring my moods.

On my way out in the evening listening to, ‘Tell Tale’ by The Specimen, when up ahead of me a lorry slowly pulls out of a side road. The road is a narrow track, obviously the German driver has fallen victim to the SatNav. I stop half wondering why he pulled out when he could see me coming, and half thinking, he’s going to get stuck. He manoeuvres as best he can in the narrow streets and suddenly comes to a halt. The driver climbs down from his cab, comes towards me and asks for directions. I tell him I don’t know the road he’s looking for, and he walks away. Yes walks away, not back to his cab, but in the other direction, leaving his lorry blocking the road. I have several other cars behind me now, horns beep and one disembodied voice shouts out a profanity. I wait, unable to turn around until the driver behind me has done so. As soon as it is my turn to do a three point turn and exit the scene a police car arrives to assess what’s going on. I leave him with my red tail lights disappearing down the road.

Friday 21 January – I have a bacon sandwich this morning as the Apple device I am attached to plays, ‘Jag Vet En Dejlig Rosa’ by Robyn. A quick look on the web and the translation from Swedish to English is - I Know One Lovely Rose.

Very little happens today, I change the look of this blog, mooch around reading other blogs. I’m surprised that so many have people that have clicked the follow box, and are followers of the blog. I check my stats and have lots of people coming back to read this but very few people bother to comment here, or follow. Puzzled??

We take a trip to Trentham Retail Village in the afternoon, to pass the time. Whilst there we bump into quite a few people we know, all of whom seem to be at a loose end too.

		Trentham Retail Village 21.01.2011 VIEW SLIDE SHOW DOWNLOAD ALL

Saturday 22 January – I take a trip into town, pulling onto my newly found parking area. (Won’t be long before others discover the lack of clamping signs too, but for now it’s all mine… ha ha ha aha panto villain laugh.)

As I’m walking along it strikes me that when in town I very rarely look up, just straight ahead at shop fronts. Looking up reveals some beautiful old architecture, that is mostly ignored.

Walking through the shopping centre amuses me, as there’s a woman obviously in a hurry heading towards me, and she’s dragging along a small boy. She is oblivious to what is in front of the boy, and promptly drags him face first into a post. I snigger and her response is to chastise the child, asking him what he’s ‘playing at’.

I’m browsing the DVD section at our local HMV, when I catch a conversation that makes me snigger once again. It’s between three young eastern European lads, and goes like this. Lad 1 – “You can’t move for them anymore, can you?” Lad 2 – “I know, and they’re taking all the houses up near us.” Lad 3 – “Yeah, they should all f*** off back to Poland.” Lad 1 – “It’s just too easy to get into this country.”

Enough said.

I return to my car, which has now been joined by two others. Turn on the ignition, plug in the iPod, and drive home with, The late, great Billy Mackenzie singing, ‘Give Me Time’.

Apologies for any typos etc, didn't get time to check it over before posting.