Well, readers of March’s post won’t be surprised to read that I’m now on to book two of Michael Marshall’s excellent ‘Straw Men’ trilogy (In my head I keep referring to it as a prophecy, I really hope it is not a prophecy), The Lonely Dead. Ward is back, he’s teamed up with John Zandt and at first they are walking around the place finding staged dead bodies. Then they discover a house…full of dead bodies. I have made no progress further than page nineteen, thanks to Pepper…I will make greater strides this week.
First of all, I may get the term indiscreet thrown at me for even writing this post…I can’t even calculate the odds of Joanne herself, or of anyone whom knows her, reading this post. If she does…I’m not apologizing, I’ll try to be as fair and objective as I can…I’ll TRY!
So, I first met Joanne via the CB Radio. For those of you who don’t know what this is / was, then watch the film ‘Convoy’ We Boltoners had a different take on the CB – essentially this was a bit like today’s ‘Tinder’ – although let me stress, I’ve never been on Tinder owing to the fact that I don’t need to do so. Anyway, on the CB radio we used to have ‘eyeballs’ – stop laughing! Eyeballs occurred when one person met with another person – I know it seems obvious to me, but some people will struggle with this innocent concept of two complete strangers meeting up in public…or then again maybe they won’t!
We met one summer evening, it was obviously so memorable that I have forgotten exactly which month! I do recall it was whilst I was working on the Community Programme Agency at Longsight Church in Harwood Lea. So I’d hazard a guess that I’m still 19. I can remember seeing her with her ‘auburn’ hair (anyone who knows me and my writing and characters will have just recognised one of them…if not more!) and thinking that she was kind of nice looking…or as I probably thought at the time, drop dead gorgeous! We got on quite well, a natural chemistry seemed to exist between us, but, she had already made me aware of her relationship status prior to us meeting up for this ‘eyeball’. She had a boyfriend, John. And here is where it gets weird because John was actually engaged to someone else! I’m thinking of a phrase here that sounds very similar to breedy gastard (I do love a good, or in this case bad, spoonerism).
So, like I say, we got on well but as she was already involved with someone and I’m essentially insecure in that I want to be the centre of someone’s world…not immersed in some kind of weird four-way triangle (because a four-way triangle is just messed up!). We spent around an hour in each other’s company and said our goodbyes at the junction of Turton Road and Bradshaw Brow. I crossed over to go into Tonge Moor and she headed up the hill towards Bradshaw / Bromley Cross. For some reason, a line from a Clint Eastwood film went through my mind “if she looks back, she’s interested” So, I turned around to behold, across the road, she was indeed staring right at me…result?
I was on cloud nine all the way home – around three miles or so, I hadn’t had much experience with girls/women, I think this was all post-Anne-Marie, Debbie, Sharon and Penny (I still talk to Penny via Facebook, every so often!). When I got home she was shouting me on the CB. Yeah, that’s going to need some clarification, ‘shouting’ is like telephoning someone…apart from well, it’s much more public than that. CB radio in those times was essentially divided up into forty ‘channels’ where people could talk to each other. ‘Ah, but how did one-another know that when the other one was around?’ Damn, that’s some good questioning, well, we used to go onto the unofficial, but everyone used it anyway, ‘calling’ channel – which was channel nineteen. One would simple ‘shout’ / say, one-nine for Scorcher. Okay I do know how daft that sounds and I’m not going to go into the history of CB radio communication, that’s just how we used to get hold of each other. So, I’ve made it back home, in spite of being minorly loved-up. For the record, I fancied Joanne, I’ll never deny that. I thought that she might be a bit interested in me, thanks to Clint’s advice and so I was willing to play along and chat back to her.
And that’s what we did. For over a month, practically every time that I switched on that damn CB radio, we ended up chatting. I should add here that the conversations were not private and that anyone who had a CB could go to whatever channel we were on and either listen in, or indeed, join in. And many did! Prior to Joanne I used to speak to other people and undoubtedly so did she. So, in actuality, we gradually spent less time talking to each other and more time talking to the interrupters ‘on the side’ (more CB terminology) of those people who really didn’t seem to care that we were very obviously into each other…technologically speaking. At first we used to take our conversation to a secret channel – well it was not really a secret, when Joanne used to say “Kloppa Castle” this meant ‘go to channel twenty-nine’. Obviously, this didn’t work for long as people would then simply progress through the channels until they found us. Aren’t people sometimes bloody invasive?
This reached a head when we swapped phone numbers, but obviously, as we both still lived at home and this was the 80s when nothing about telephony was cheap…we just didn’t stay on the phone long. Looking back now, it was kind of odd behaviour, but then so was CB radio in itself.
Fast forward a few months and without falling out, we seemed to have stopped talking to each other as much. I was now aged twenty and not really interested in having platonic relationships with girls / women. Sorry but Plato was actually gay so of course he didn’t want to have sex with women, the rest of us…I was being driven by hormones and they wanted sex, not light-hearted conversations with some girl who was playing the third part of a love triangle. A few weeks before Christmas, we arranged for Joanne to come around to my house! Woohoo!
And she duly arrived – she got her dad to bring her. She looked spectacular. We even sat in the ‘front room’, teenage boys’ bedrooms (okay I was nearly 20) are not the most romantic of all places to try and impress a lady (okay, she was 18) and I wanted her to be impressed before I tried to relocate us to upstairs (nudge, nudge). Well, what I said and did must have worked – even including deploying that awful immature line enquiring as to whether she was wearing tights or stockings (she’s 18!!! Why, oh, why would she be wearing stockings at 18???). Once in my bedroom, my confidence, my casual but slightly devil-may-care attitude that had so obviously won her over…eloped to somewhere else! We were both lay down, on my bed, talking about how good we were as friends and then lo and behold what did I do…I tickled her. Somewhere in the cosmos, I can practically hear the spirit of Casanova spontaneously combusting!
All the chemistry that we had been building up for around six months seemed to simply evaporate into thin air. To this day, I do not know why on earth I thought that might free Joanne from the restraints of her underwear (stockings, tights? Might as well be a bloody suit of armour from there-on-in!). Looking back now, if I had been more confident, I’d have nailed her (but, that’s not the sort of thing that I did, nailing anyone) I always cared. I wanted sex with love, whereas most of my peers were skipping the love part. Even after we’d exchanged Christmas cards there was no physical contact…not even a kiss and she even told me off for trying to ‘use sad doggy eyes’ on her. It’s only now, in my 50s that I realise what ‘sad doggy eyes’ are, hey, they got Anne-Mare to give up her goods (but that’s another story, and not a very interesting one)!
After that monumental failing we didn’t really speak for some time. I felt her disappointment as much as my own. We exchanged a couple of friendship letters (a procedure introduced into my life by one Miss Stephanie Leigh) where she often informed me of how much I loved her…and here’s me thinking I had some say in this! Then the summer of 1986 happened.
What a tumultuous year, she appeared to have one failed relationship after another, mine never really took off the ground neither. Joanne showed the sort of obvious jealousy over me having an annoying, tempestuous off-again, on-again fling with a girl named Marie…I did enjoy that especially as it was an entirely spontaneous thing. Joanne even went as far as to ring me just for the purpose of slamming the phone down on me. And when Marie and I went our separate ways, Joanne was there (on the phone and CB) with a sympathetic ear wanting me to talk things through (I was twenty for the love of God and had the emotional range of a bag of rice, there was nothing to talk through!).
It was during this summer when Joanne saw me in my work clothes(jeans and donkey jacket and steel toecap boots) and kind of got a bit gooey eyed when she saw me at the precinct in Harwood. This prompted another bout of her ringing me up to go and talk to her on the CB, a female friend at the time did comment to the effect of: ‘If you’d wanted to talk to her wouldn’t you have already been talking to her?’ – I don’t know about that, I just wanted to be with her in any way and was not streetwise, cocky, I don’t know a good adjective here but in hindsight I should have said ‘No’ a few times to get her even more interested in me. I truly did not understand the female mind. Then one fateful day she rang me up and suggested that we meet at Longsight Church Hall and go for a walk.
Once again, she looked stunning. (I’ve missed a section out about when we’d arranged for her to come around for a bottle of wine or two, but then the day after (whilst I was at work) someone got into her head and to cut a long story short she never came round…We met and walked around for a bit and then she hit me with THE LETTER. Joanne then played the old advanced defence mechanism of saying, “I don’t really feel like that anymore”. That’s a damned interesting way of presenting someone with a letter! She’d written down all of her feelings about me, but the line that I remembered the most (and it will haunt me forever) was “I don’t know if I want you, but I don’t want anyone else to have you”.
Any guys who read this, if a girl ever says or writes that to you, run, run a mile, run it quickly and for the love of God, don’t turn around. It’s madness. If you are regarding someone as a friend, an inter-gender friend, platonic, whatever, then ladies, you cannot say that to the guy! Stoppit!
As a writer I’m frequently bothered by my ability to write as a woman, to try and temporarily think ‘how would a woman put this across’. This has prompted me to do some googling around and one line from the film ‘As good as it gets‘ springs to mind when Jack Nicholson’s character Melvin is asked ‘How do you write women so well’, he responds “I think of a man, and I take away reason and accountability.”
I’ve never really found that helpful at all, unless I consider Joanne and her letter! At the time, on that Summer’s night I wanted to take her in my arms and y’know…get a all romantic. As it panned out, we just had a nice time being open, without any physical contact. I know that some people will read this and think ‘he’s a bit slow on the uptake isn’t he!’ and that’s putting it nicely. And to answer that, as far as women go, I’m completely retarded, and Joanne Smith is one of the reasons why!
We carried on as tempestuous and sexually frustrated friends for a while. In 1987 I had a brief liaison with another Joanne – Robinson, which meant that a couple of times per week I got the chance to walk past Joanne Smith’s house. And yes she did let me know that she had seen me – the only alternative was to catch a bus there, or to get a taxi – which I did on the way back, but never on the way there. That relationship was one of the few ones that I’d be in where friendship really did seem like the better route to go down…I can’t say anymore than that!
Again the friendship between me and Joanne petered out. She passed her driving test and made a point of coming up to see me. I used to catch the bus directly across the road from the Bolton Y.M.C.A. when I worked (on a training scheme) there and Joanne used to catch the bus at the next stop along. I remember being all booted and suited on one occasion (might’ve been for an interview) and Joanne commented on how lovely I looked and didn’t I have gorgeous eyes. Seriously! By this time we’d known each other for two years and she’s only just noticed my eyes? Outwardly, I never bit. By this time she was going out with a much older freak of a man by the name of Ian who drove a black cab. They were set to get married, but for reasons that escape me, it never happened and she started to see someone named Simon instead.
At some point they too were due to get married. For a couple of weeks Joanne and I had got into a habit of meeting once per week to go to The Bobbins Restaurant for a coffee during our lunch break. I quite liked this and obviously she must have done so too. However, on the last occasion (well there you have it) she informed me that Simon was frighteningly jealous (okay I may have coloured that one in!) and that we had to stop. Here again, is where she confused me. Why tell me at all? We had only been for drinks three or maybe four times, it was no big deal, so why tell me about it at all and not just stop doing it? I have to admit to being a bit hurt. but, well this was more like compliance, like Joanne wanted me to be hurt and I duly was.
We didn’t speak again after that day until the autumn of 1990!
By now I was involved in yet another dysfunctional relationship (hello Yvonne), but I did used to like watching the programme Capital City, which was on every Tuesday. The fateful Tuesday came, I settled down to watch my Capital City along with mum as she kinda liked it too. After no more than five minutes there was a caller at the door which mum very kindly answered. I could hear a woman’s voice. ‘This is a bit awkward and please understand I’m not here accusing anyone…’
It transpires that Joanne had been receiving ‘poison pen letters’ and worse – condoms through her letterbox, the car had been damaged, and the handwriting looked a lot like mine. She had brought with her (along with a pitiful looking Simon – the future husband) one of the really deep and meaningful letters that I had sent to her (Hi Joanne, see I can write with both hands…Mills and Boon yeah?). To be fair the handwriting did look similar. The vocabulary certainly didn’t, the cheeky mare! As it happens, this had been going on for months. She voiced her suspicions that it might be Ian – the x who she was meant to marry prior to Simon. I was overjoyed to hear her blaming Ian as he and I had our differences – not least of which was that I believed he had a thing for my ‘other Joanne’. Mum was rational, I half expected her to toss both Joanne and Simon out on their arses, but if dad had have been around he’d have probably joined in on the accusatory front! As fate decreed, they stayed for about an hour whilst Simon looked ready to crumble and I felt like crap in my own home.
It was sometime before we would speak again after this encounter.
Eventually, I called around randomly to see how she was doing. Yes, I didn’t think that I would do that either, but a part of me wanted to see what had transpired after that fateful autumn evening at Red Lane. Imagine my surprise. Simon was gone. Married, divorced, his name scrubbed from the baby’s birth certificate – what the fuck? I think she was pleased to see me and metaphorically welcomed me with open arms. Guess who she was with now? John, two-timing, rat-faced bastard, John who now was down to just the one woman – her! Bloody hell, she’d done the rounds. Part of me was disappointed, another part of me was really relieved – I could have been really involved in this walking disaster zone’s love life. I remember joking to Joanne and her family that it was nice to see her settled and not busy giving me the warm greeting of ‘have you been dropping used condoms through my letterbox’ which made us all laugh – especially me! I did call in to see her again a few months later, she breastfed her daughter (Millie) in front of me – the first time in almost ten years that I had got into her bedroom and she had a frigging baby hanging off her tit!
Over the next few years I made a mental note to contact her, but then never did. Oh sure, if I was walking in that area then I would make a point of walking past her house, but she never came out or even called me up to say that she’d seen me. I phoned one day only to discover that she had moved to Darwen with her other half – his name wasn’t mentioned, so I’m going to assume this was no longer John. Finally, at the end of the century I walked past one Sunday afternoon and noticed that the house was up for sale. Terry and Margaret, her parents, were moving. There would be way of ever contacting her again – not that I had anyway. As you can tell, this was the single most rocky friendship – a dysfunctional one at that, which I’ve ever had. Even after nearly thirty years there are still times when I wonder what might have been, if only I’d have gone in for a kiss and not a tickle that winter night in 1985…
I’m so glad I met Chris…Joanne would have possibly put me in an early grave. Yet sometimes, even when I’m happy, she slips in, through a crack in my personal defences (I’m just being poetic there and don’t even know what that means – hey I can write like a woman!) .
In 2010, Katy Perry released her single ‘The One That Got Away”, I think this is the song for me about Joanne Smith, she simply vanished. I’m good at researching people, I’ve found all of the people from my past with whom I would want to stay in contact – okay it took Chez to find Will Hardman for me, but at least I found him. That is, all apart from Joanne, although I think I might have found her brother, Martin. In that, fate is definitely telling me that no good could ever come of finding Joanne. I have Chris (and Pepper) and for that I’m infinitely grateful.
So, those of you whom have been following this blog – hey thanks by the way I nearly fell through the floor when I saw the stats (#TwitterWorks), will recall that Chris and I were due to adopt a cat…
Introducing Pepper (he came with that name and we didn’t want to confuse him!)
I always said that if we were going to have a cat I hoped it wouldn’t be a boring one. Oh how kismet is making me pay for that now! Because the energetic little bugger takes great delight in walking up to me all friendly and purring when I’m trying to be asleep at 4:10 each and every morning. Within a few seconds the demons are upon him. He wraps his claws around my hand – that I had been using to stroke him, and bites. At the moment, his bite is not at all painful, it just invokes a “you cheeky bugger!” response. In essence, he is practising killing – it’s what cats do! As he is an indoor-only cat then he will never need to learn this skill but we are fighting against hundreds of thousands of years’ worth of evolution in the form of limbic hardwiring here – he’s meant to be like this. He’s just a pain in the arse when he wants to play fight / practise killing at the ungodly hours of the day. So much so that I’m thinking of renaming him to P.I.T.A.
You don’t remember her, but she remembers you by Harriet Lane
I first started reading this deeply psychological thriller about two years ago. At the time (just before Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train hit the headlines) I thought this might be useful as research into writing from a female perspective, it still might be. The narrative is in the first person as seen from both lead characters, Emma and Nina. I have to say I have issues with some of the content. Child abduction, no matter how briefly is a touchy subject, but then some of my books and most of the ones I read have murders in them. Given a choice I think I’d rather be abducted! Anyway, it is a compelling read. Last time I got to roughly halfway when I decided to put it on hold for a while. Here’s hoping that I finish it this time around…unlike the secret history of Twin Peaks which I am still reading. If the cat lets me I will try and make some more headway into that tome this weekend.
As an update to this, I’ve still not finished this damn book. I did a search on reviews for the book and quite a few people seemed to have the same issue with it that I do: Practically every chapter is repeated. You get Emma’s version of events and then Nina’s – and Nina is a bit of a crackpot to be honest. I’m no closer to finding out what exactly pissed Nina off to such a degree that she feels the need to infiltrate / violate Emma’s life but I’m thinking Emma might have shagged Nina’s dad! Anyway, I swear I will finish it…one year. I even found my old copy that I thought I had thrown away, so now I have two. I bet not even the author could say that!
Well it just sounds better in Spanish!
So far this year has been a bit tumultuous, on a personal front that is. I know that on a global scale my ramblings are just that, ramblings, bleatings of a western world person who would not know real hardship if it walked up to him, kicked him in the balls and I really must stop talking about myself in the third person as that’s the stuff of craziness.
Losing Joe Carson from my facebook feed was like life saying to me, ‘so you got used to something, cool, watch as I now take it away!’ Obviously the people most affected by the passing of Joe will be those who saw him on a day to day basis, I wish I had seen him more often in the last few years, I especially liked his openness and down-to-earth direct manner of speaking. He wasn’t impressed by me working in a university (it’s not like I’m one of the lecturers!) and he took umbrage at me looking down my nose at Breightmet – my roots, I think I deserved that!
Also, we lost Mike, I had only known him since 2001 but in all honesty I did really enjoy his company, even when he was banging on about cars and as for Formula One tactics – aysh. It still feels very invasive sitting in his spot on the sofa, not that he was at all like Sheldon from the Big Bang Theory, he wasn’t defensive of that place, just y’know, it’s weird to sit there.
For the sake of my trying to claw back some integrity, I can’t mention the other thing that has upset the applecart this year. Because some things don’t need to be put on social media if they mean a lot to you. So, onwards!
Then Mikey the Fish (female fish) goes and checks out on us. To be fair, this was a Molly, and they don’t live long in domestic aquaria, three years was a good age, given that she was already a couple of months old when we got her. I’ll miss her frantically charging at the Platys at feeding time (and probably shortening their lives) and attacking me at each water change. But from the original four, she survived to a relative ripe old age. And as a mark of respect I have refrained from breaking down and crying like a big baby. Soft head!
So that’s it, I’m putting a deserved end to this tumultuous year that I’m having. Why? Because it’s me that’s making it tumultuous with my harrassing of companies on Twitter and falling out with people etc (I did promise that I wouldn’t bang on about that!). Because these things are trivial, banal compared to real world problems. I’m so lucky in that I do know how to express myself so that others understand me, not everyone is so well equipped at getting their point across, I should count my blessings, not abuse them.
The next blog post will be more entertaining, and more book-related. I had to just get this off my chest.
See you when the fog clears…hopefully it should have started by now.
What’s the most frustrating thing in your life?
For me it’s when I cannot control something. With regret, this can apply at any point throughout our existence, for example:
- When your cat has a complete meltdown and decides to literally vanish before your very eyes.
- When someone tells you a secret that you’d rather not have known.
- When you give a perfectly logical and balanced reason for doing / saying something and the other person simply refuses to acknowledge your point.
There are many, a myriad of course, and they are obviously not just confined to me and my own personal crazy. We all experience them, and to a lesser or greater degree, they do grey our hair for us, for a time, then there is some kind of resolution: the cat reappears in his own good time, you forget that secret or the person who told it you leaves your life (that could also be the solution for the third bullet point).
So how does this relate to my writing. Well, this is what I want to try and get across from Charlie’s point of view in The Calling, he remembers Lisa and then can’t seem to get her out of his head. Frustratingly so (see what I did there, talk about a seamless segué). I frequently re-read what I have written so far, and, I don’t think I have yet managed to convey that oh-so-bloody-annoying-frustration-feeling when something penetrates, then dominates our waking thoughts. I’m going to have to have a read-up on this, hmmm but how?
Elsewhere, there’s a new impetus with regards to Black Lights. Take a step forward Josh, Tyler and Nicholas, three junior tearaways with a penchant for trouble and a way of developing the sinister plot. Even I would admit it’s sinister and I’m writing it! The chapter featuring this trio of terror (they are not that terrible) is enjoyment itself to write, who wouldn’t revel in the opportunity to regress to being an eleven-year-old boy once more, if only for an afternoon?
See you when the fog clears!
P.S. don’t get me wrong, there are seldom that many things that I do want to control…I’m a bit lazy that way, but I am very proactive, which brings about it’s own issues.
Way back in 1994, following a few incidents, minor life-ticks, (I really do not know another way of describing them, little things that happen, that don’t really mean or do something on their own – they just add up to a greater part), I started writing the book that I am still writing, The Calling. It is nearing completion, one day – possibly this year, I will set about getting/paying/bribing/pleading with, people to publish it. But, (it still needs work, some missing ingredient, a special thing, I don’t know what that thing is…but I think I might have found something that might help. And yes, it’s a bit radical, a bit banal, it’s so totally me!
In 2015 whilst visiting New England Garden Centre, Radcliffe – well actually just after, I implored Chris to take us on a bit of a joy ride. See, in the years between 1994-1996 I fell in love…with Walshaw / Elton. I used to catch the 510 bus into Bury when I was on a training scheme there and then again when I worked for Thermo. After this I used to drive around there at least once a week, looking for something, I don’t know what, a sense of belonging there had grabbed hold of me I guess. On the day of the garden centre visit I just wanted Chris to take me back to Walshaw again and she duly obliged. We went to San Roccos and had a meal and a great time. More than this however (trying and failing not to use the B-word again) I felt that ‘Walshaw’ feeling again, as if temporarily, I’d been transported back to that ignition moment, the start of The Calling. Oh and yes, The Calling is set in Walshaw / Elton / Ainsworth (where all the good things come from!).
So, the plan? Well the more perceptive of you will have deduced that I plan on going back to Walshaw…on the bus! Shock horror! This is going to cost a bit of money, probably about £20-00 as I will have to catch a train down to Bolton, then using my new m-tickets app , I’ll get on either the 510 or 511 and hopefully recover the mindset…and yes I have stolen that description straight from the lines of Manhunter!
I won’t be able to exactly replicate my former 510 bus journeys for a few reasons:
- I don’t live in Bolton anymore, and I’m not stopping overnight at my dad’s – he’ll think I’ve gone even more barking than what he probably already does!
- The 510 no longer stops at the place where I used to board it! Boooo!
- The 510 now has a slightly different route, although (for the moment) it still goes where I need for it to go.
But, (grrr!) one thing holding me back is that it was summer when I first started catching that 510 to Bury. Here’s my quandry, do I wait until Summer or just go for it any old time? I realise how absolutely funky this all must sound. Seriously, are you surprised if you know me (and at least one of you does)?
Chris was all kinds of ‘Wha?’ and ‘Meh!’ when I told her of my plans last night. I can’t blame her, I would understand someone saying something like my plan, but (seriously now!) I tend to spend most of my time thinking outside of the box, hell, I wish I spent more time, near, if not in, the bloody box! It may work, it may be a big fat waste of twenty quid, who is to say before the event? I’m making this sound like a really big thing aren’t I? I do that a lot (bloody drama queen!).
Meanwhile, work on The Calling will now come to an end until ‘that day’. Black Lights needs work – it needs rewriting if the truth be known, because it’s a more like something you would see on the Hallmark Channel and about as thrilling as watching lettuce wilt! There are good parts:
- The rebuilding of the corner house
- Joe’s explosive demise
- Will and his aura revelations
- April’s fall into darkness
But that is not enough. Fortunately, Easter (yargh I hate it!) is almost upon us and of course Chris will be working it, leaving me at home on my own (or will Pepper be with us?). This will give me time to start writing once more – I may even blag a monitor from work and get my PC back from Dad’s – should take about a day updating the thing, but then I can type away happily, it never works out that well on a laptop.
Then, when I’ve got Black Lights moving nicely along…I can stick with it! I have proved that I can’t do more than one thing at once, it’s time to own that by not attempting anything more.
See you when the fog clears…
If it’s going to have to begin somewhere, then here would be a good a start as anywhere.
It wasn’t that I hated going to the caravan park in North Wales. After all, most people in the North West of England had been there at some point in the last thirty-something years. It was just that, well, the novelty had run out around three years ago and I was never one to break the hearts of my poor parents, by informing them that the holiday sucked. Not that such a description officially existed, we’re in the good old 1970’s here, and I’m eleven…I think.
So once again we were in the car, hurtling down another motorway, on route to Presthaven Sands Caravan Park, just outside the one-sheep village of Gronant in Flintshire, Wales. Mum and dad were in the front seats of the car, a big, dark-blue, Australian-American Ford Fairmont. Honestly, the thing must have been around twenty feet from bumper to bumper. Dad did always have taste that bordered on ostentatious. In the back were the three of us: ‘Pippin’, our aging golden cocker-spaniel, myself and a leg of lamb – it seems wrong to not grant a role to poor old ‘larry’ ,he was only there if only in part.
I think we’d already gone past ‘Face Mountain’, which I’ve since realised is not a mountain at all and to be honest, it doesn’t really look much more like a face than any other hill. Essentially, if you squint at a hill surely they all look like someone with a bloody big nose! Of course, there’s always the chance that we hadn’t actually reached not-really-face-mountain yet, as I shall reveal later, things got a bit messed up.
Dad did always have a bit of an active sense of humour. Sometimes, he’d dick around with the steering and we’d weave in and around the round, I seem to remember him doing this on Ainsworth Lane, there’s nothing spectacular about Ainsworth Lane so I suppose the prospect of ram-raiding the Co-op with a massive bitching car would have been exciting for all involved. So, it was not that much of a surprise to me when we started frantically weaving in and around on the motorway. We went from the inner lane to the outer lane and back again a couple of times, at seventy-miles-per-hour. Finally, dad managed to get the car back in control, for about a second and then we were off again.
I distinctly remember shouting ‘Dad!’ believing that he was still, dicking about. I think that I remember him also yelling back something about ‘We’ve lost both tyres!’ I think I remember an experience similar to being on a really tremendous roller-coaster. A highly scary ten-seconds’ worth of being thrown around a bit. I do remember a period of darkness and waking up with Larry and Pippin both on my face. I really need to clarify Larry’s razon d’etré. Well, you know in the 1970’s when people used to cook things and if they were not eaten that night then your mum would save them for ‘butties’ (sandwiches) the day after? This was Larry’s reason for being in the car, when we got to the caravan, we were going to consume the rest of Larry on bread. I should probably add that Larry was in a roasting tin, well, before the car decided it had experienced enough of life in the fast lane and made a bee-line for the embankment.
Where was I? Oh that’s right, kind of hori-vertical in the back of dad’s ostentatious car with a leg of lamb and a dog in my face. Hey, it’s not as bad as it sounds, some people pay for that kind of animalistic rough-housing, I got it for free! Mum and Dad are very English in the way that they reacted, “Are you alright?” they reassured each other and within a minute or two got around to asking me, I think it was me, Pippin never was much of a barker and his English language skills were truly shocking. Larry, as we all know, was a bit on the deceased side of things so I am going to assume that they were indeed asking me if I was okay?
I said ‘yes’ then seemed to lose the ability to speak. As I don’t remember saying anything until later that night. We more or less fell quite gingerly out of the car as we had all seen car crashes on television and expected the thing to blow up any second. Is it wrong to admit that I was somewhat miffed when the car just simply sat there doing nothing apart from looking a bit inclined? Oh, well. Another car pulled over onto the embankment as we were ascending the minor slope from our car. The driver looked kind of flushed in the face, perhaps because he was so damned fat, sorry but this was the 1970’s and people were either fat or thin, no in-between, it was a simpler time, when even the word simpler didn’t seem to exist (unlike today!).
He recanted the story of how he had seen us and what had happened and even now I think back and scowl at the way he identified with us – ‘scuse me, it was our bloody crash! By something of a miracle of luck we must have crashed very near to one of those emergency telephones that are scattered every-so-often up and down the length of U.K. motorways and Dad called for the A.A… he must have needed a drink! (insert laughter here!) Quick service too, as within an hour or so they had arrived, two of them. One on our side of the carriageway had turned up in one of those vehicles with a crane / winch type thingy for retrieving our car from its mooring place on the embankment. And on the other side of the carriageway was the vehicle in which they were going to transport us to our next destination, d-oh! In hindsight, to do what he wanted they should have arrived in a bloody hearse.
The dominant member of the A.A. rescue force seemed a nice man, very thick glasses, mid-length, sandy-brown hair, a bit of a pot-belly but nowhere near as pronounced as his partner’s. All-in-all a photogenic MVP for the automobile association…unless they actually wanted to attract people in which case, they’d probably need someone a bit more, nicer looking. As I say he was a lovely charming man, reassuring us that we were ‘lucky not to have been killed’. He put it to us, that seeing as they had parked on essentially the other side of the motorway, all of us would have to do a bit of light exercise by ‘froggering’ across all , six lanes of fast-moving motorway traffic, to their awaiting vehicle.
Mum, bless her, was a bit concerned. Dad seemed up for it, indeed, although my brain had not yet matured to that point in life where it knows what a calculated risk is, let alone bloody well doing one, I was semi up for it too. To be honest, I was not that sure that the dog would be so easy to encourage into the expedition / suicide mission! And Larry would simply not make it…with him still being all dead, Larry just didn’t buy into the whole team spirit side of things!
Thankfully for all our sakes, and to the downfall of the glamorous A.A. chap, the Police turned up next with a little present for said A.A. chap, a right-royal bollocking. See, mum had got to the Police first and ever-so-calmly informed the officers what this cracked bastard had proposed – legging it across six motorway lanes, with a dog! The Policeman was only slightly flabbergasted before turning that colour which lobsters go if you cook them for long enough! This was the unexpected highlight of the day as the young policeman tore metaphorical strips of our beloved reckless cretin.
Apparently, cones should have been placed up to fifty yards in either direction of the recovery vehicle, the man should have been wearing a hi-vis jacket (well his teeth were yellow) and as for imploring us into his suicide plan, well that just wasn’t on, until that day I’d never heard a policeman swear before let alone ask the A.A. douche if he was ‘fucking joking?’ I remember holding mum’s hand as we waited for the passenger vehicle…next to one of the busiest and fastest moving motorways in the country, ah, happy times!
Suitably chastised, the idiot contacted his sidekick on the other side of the motorway and asked him to come over to our side. The other man concurred and within ten minutes was with us and being dressed down by lobster-cop. We were ushered into the passenger vehicle – a converted Ford Transit pickup which sat three of us in one seat…and a dog. I distinctly remember the man apologizing to us for his colleague suggesting that we play hopscotch across the M…damn I just can’t remember which motorway it was. I remember mum saying something deeply profound to me, along the lines of: “Aw, aren’t you good. The girls would have been crying and kicking and screaming by now, but you just took it all in.” The irony still kind of grates on me now almost forty years later.
Something like an hour later, we were back at home in good old Bolton, fresh with the tale of our day to my awaiting sisters. They had decided not to come to Wales with us that weekend, presumably staying at home and spending time with their respective boyfriends was preferable to the exciting new sport of motorway gliding, go figure! Mum opened up the conversation nicely when she commenced: “You nearly didn’t have a family today…” Nice, and up goes the Azrael Block! I don’t know what else was said, I’d kind of zoned out. I do remember suddenly realising that yes, we could have died, as if this was the first time that thought had penetrated my lethargic brain.
Meanwhile, Dad had been on the phone and had ordered us another car in which we could go down to the caravan after all. I made my case that I decided that I didn’t want to go, and was duly ignored. We bloody well went anyway. Did we have a good time those few days? No, but I discovered I had a minor penchant for emotionally manipulating people who had played a bit part in almost killing me. After seeing an almighty electronic organ in a music shop I decided that it might help my recovery if I was bought one of these devices…and a month later it arrived. I had two lessons then sacked it off and Dad took over the role of murdering tunes on it for the next ten years, maybe I hadn’t manipulated him at all and he had bought the organ for himself?
Many years later, I think I was in my thirties, mum and me had a conversation about the crash and how I had utterly hated to go back to the caravan that night and forever after. She defended the decision to go by arguing that if we hadn’t had gone that night, then we might never have gone again…big deal, I hated going anyway.
At some point in time it was announced by either one of them that we had in fact turned over three times in the car that fateful day. I simply do not remember this. Which leads me to believe that either
- We never turned over and someone’s imagination has been at work, or
- My brain had done the Azrael thing and simply blocked this out from my conscious memory
Bugger! I say that because at one point when I was in my late twenties I happened to be driving my Dad’s Cortina Mk 5. I really loved that car. It was an early summer’s evening and I was driving to Chez’s house in Halliwell. I opted to take the Tonge Moor Road / Folds Road route, which features a lovely swooping corner. I hit some oil and before you could say autonomic recall, as this car was veering off to the side of the road and back again, for a microsecond or two I was back in the back seat of the Fairmont, bumping around and panicking again. Ace, the phrase ‘total recall’ seemed most appropriate. I don’t think that we did turn over three times, or even once. Did I mention that on one holiday all members of my family forgot what bloody day it was and were really upset at the prospect of having lost a day? I don’t get that logic either, we lost nothing. Well apart from me losing the ability to sleep for a fortnight when my brother-in-law-to-be would come back to our tent pissed out of his skull, fall asleep and then snore on an international scale!
Believe me, it took meeting my beloved Christine, to get me to want to go on any kind of holiday again after my childhood vacation terrors!
I do want this to go into a category of its own, but I can’t work out how to do this in this version of WordPress, never mind. (Edit, and now I’ve done it>>>”What I’m Reading”)
So, at the moment I have two books on the go – never do one thing at once do I?
The first one is a mighty tome – well it is to lift anyway:
The Straw Men by Michael Marshall. I won’t lie, at first I didn’t like it, as it appeared to be set in a small town in backwater America. With the exception of the town at the centre of the second book (below), I don’t like small, remote towns, I imagine most autophobes don’t! Anyway, it isn’t, and that was just the prologue anyhow. After the first massacre, the pace steps up a lot and Marshall follows a fairly binary/ternary approach, one chapter-one-version of the narrative, sometimes you may get the same two characters spilling over two or three chapters but no more than this.
What’s the story, morning glory?
Why, thank you (sorry I seem to be possessed by the spirit of someone, well-camp!). From what I can ascertain so far, there is a serial killer, who has already taken four girls from pretty much broad daylight. After he’s done whatever he does with them he sends a sweater tied with a ribbon made of their hair back to their home address – the sick little monkey! Right from the start of the story we are told that the nutter (sorry, mustn’t judge), raving lunatic, has Sarah who seems to be quite a feisty little madam, – I love Sarah she is so ‘owning’ being abducted. On his tale are a female Fed (Okay, I just wanted to try out saying that!) and an x-cop (potentially, he hasn’t really told us) and then in another direction is the protagonist – who again the author has deviously shrouded in a bit of mystery. The main guy – Ward is in town to bury his parents, but he gets a message which kind of throws a spanner in the works – I’m trying to rein-in the spoiler potential here.
And herein lies the originality of this tale. It’s told in split-narrative (damn, someone’s got there before me!). Sarah and headcase and the Fed and the x-cop are narrated in the third person, but then Ward is told in the first person – that’s brilliant, wish I’d got there first. This makes the pace nice and pacey (of all the adjectives I could have used!). Now I do have issues with Marshall’s writing style in that sometimes, I found he really overly described things – this is what put me off Dean Koontz. I’m sure it’s mostly salient detail that will become obvious in the final outcome…or not! I’m about two-thirds of the way through the novel at the moment and in that certain state when I’m enjoying it so much that I don’t want to finish it, but just have to do so. I’ll respond to this post when I’ve finished.
And now for the update: I hit my stride a couple of days into reading this and was most impressed at the way that the author united all of the characters. I guessed that the killer / kidnapper / psycho would prove to be Ward’s brother (What? You thought there wouldn’t be spoilers, ha!). If I have any gripes it’s that the book never even attempts a resolution. It’s so blatantly obvious that this is simply part one of a series and I can imagine that at the time of its first release, this would have really pissed people off. Luckily for me, I was exceptionally late to the game and only had to wait a few days for book two – which I didn’t want to start straight away as I didn’t want to read the entire series, back to back and then be stuck for something else to read, end up reading everything the author has ever had published…the usual obsessive me (I’m trying to take a break from myself!).
And now for book two, which to anyone who knows me well will come as no surprise:
The Secret History of Twin Peaks by Mark Frost. Although I truly loved the series, the characters and the whole ‘TP universe’ I never really went a bundle on buying the merchandise. Okay so I did get ‘Falling’ on CD and the Julee Cruise album…and the soundtrack to Fire Walk With Me, but that’s all. This is the first TP literature that I’ve bought. And it’s really very good…so far. And the fact that this is written by Mr Frost and not Mr Lynch may indicate that it’s not going to get overly weird for the sake of being weird any time soon.
What’s it all about, Alfie?
Who’s Alfie? Okay, so this is written from the perspective of an FBI agent who appears to have found an in-depth dossier compiled by ‘The Archivist’ detailing events leading up to where the Twin Peaks series started. At first we are treated to ‘hand-written’ letters from the time of “Lewis and Clark” – apparently they essentially did a Magellan on the great North-Western territories (I’m just not cut out for historical writing am I?). For the record, these are bloody hard to read, there I’ve said it! Authenticity is one thing, as is suspension of disbelief, but then so is giving your readers a stinking migraine whilst they try and pick apart what’s been scrawled. I now feel kind of guilty for what my ungainly scrawling would have put my teachers through! (And breathe!).
When deciphered, I found some of these letters to be fascinating…and in no way subtle – banging on about the ring from the get-go. Most readers are now thinking ‘what ring?‘ – in the TP universe, there is a ring that if worn will bring about the demise of the wearer. In the series, it was pretty much not referred to, in Fire Walk With Me it was all over the bloody place, like they were trying to emphasise the thing. With it being here again, right from the start, although it’s interesting…it’s kind of ‘Well, so what? Could you show me another trick?’.
I’m not even a quarter of the way through this yet, it’s not exactly ‘bus-journey’ reading material owing to the aforementioned, hand-written letters, but I am loving what I’ve read so far. Opinion seems to be divided with regards to its reception by the hard core TP fans – they’re a funny bunch though! If you’re looking to gain an insight into series three (due out in May / June) thennnnn this is probably not going to offer much more help than clicking your heels together three times and reciting ‘there’s no place like home‘! If, like me, you’d always wondered about the mythology of the Twin Peaks locale and the plot lines which were meant to have happened prior to the series… then this could well be for you/us/me!
The update: Well, there isn’t one. For now this book has defeated me. I blame the arrival of Pepper the cat who gives me no peace at all when I am trying to read.