To blog or not to blog

It’s been a while now since I updated my blog; life, the universe and everything has somehow intervened as I hopelessly hurdle the haphazard highway as I hitchhike through life.  We’ve been abroad: Northern Ireland to be precise. And yes, for all your pedants, I know that Belfast isn’t technically abroad, but consider this:

• We went in a plane; the plane was delayed
• We crossed the sea
• We needed our passports (or other appropriate photo ID, opened at the photo page) to get into the country
• They use a different money over there (you try paying for anything in England with a NI £5 note!)
• And they speak a different language, so they do.

I think that pretty much ticks all the boxes for ‘abroad’ in my ”Eye-spy book of holidays”.

We went there because David’s brother, Allen, is a trained sports physiotherapist and had offered to give me some treatment aimed at reducing the pain I have in my left leg and foot. It is hard to explain the pain; the closest is to say it is like the feeling you get when you step into a bath of just-too-hot water. It isn’t so bad that you are prepared to look a pratt and jump out hopping in burning beetroot agony, but you do find yourself wishing for the immediate presence (prescience?) of the Jedi Knight in charge of such matters:  Luke Warmwater.  As the Americans would say, “May the forcep be with you”.

During his trial, Guy Fawkes was tortured. In a letter dated 6 November, King James I stated:

The gentler tortours [tortures] are to be first used unto him, et sic per gradus ad maiora tenditur [and thus by steps extended to greater ones], and so God speed your good work

I mention this, not only because Guy Fawkes Night is but a moon away, but also to note that Allen bypassed ‘the gentler tortours’ and went straight for the full barrage of agonizing instrumentation at his disposal. Now, you will have to remember, I was lying half naked on a bench with my face through a hole (breathing being the only luxury allowed), so could only rely on the sense of sound and touch to build up my picture of the events, and the fog of pain may have clouded my memory a little. I think there may have been a rack involved, although I seem no taller (bugger!). If there were thumbscrews, manacles or an iron maiden then I was passed out at that point and have no recollection, but I do remember several beatings and poundings over the weekend as my back was bashed, broddled, banged, battered and bruised with the intention of shifting my snaking spine from the graceful ‘S’ shape it has adopted back into the more conventional straight-line model favoured by most pain-free persons.  He used a special machine which helps free the joints in the vertebrae through increasing pressure and vibration. According to the website (http://www.tamars.co.uk/en-GB/Default.aspx) it is also great for treating whiplash and dowagers hump (if you are kinky enough to have experienced a widowed dominatrix I suppose – maybe that is where the thumbscrews and manacles come in).I do Allen a disservice; he took great care of me and actually the treatment wasn’t half as bad as I had expected, although sitting on steel benches at the airport while our return flight was delayed for three hours was not the ideal after-care regime and I shall never tenderise a steak again!

Once back in England’s green and pleasant land we hunkered down ready for the biannual temporal shift that sees us wave goodbye to British Summer Time and plunge headfirst into the commercial cornucopia that heralds the Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. Changing the clocks is such a nuisance, and there’s always one we forget. You try telling two feisty felines that they have to wait an extra hour for their Felix Fishy Flakes!

And so, hello to All Hallows Eve, and remarkably we only had one premature Halloweener, who, I’m guessing still confused by the clock change, arrived a day early to receive neither trick nor treat.  This year David had a cunning plan (well, maybe not cunning, but appropriately evil for the spirit of the occasion) and instead of sweets or money we gave the trick-or-treaters each an apple.  And, again appropriately, this gleaned looks of pure horror beyond anything we could have accomplished by wearing ghost costumes and carrying plastic skulls! “An apple?!” they protested, as if David was offering them a turd on a plate. It seems that kids today expect nothing less than a fiver or something sticky that comprises at least 150% of their RDA of sugar.  But this year, in the spirit of apple bobbing and toffee apples they were met at the door by a fruit!

We move ever closer to November 5^th and I’m surprised that we have yet to be besieged by the usual pilgrimage of spotty yoofs banging on the door (with the degradation in GCSE difficulty they have yet to master the complexities of a doorbell) and demanding, “Penny for the guy”. Ironically they would feel somewhat short-changed if offered only a penny and I’ve yet to see any evidence of the aforementioned (and integral , as far as I am concerned), effigy of Mr Fawkes.  Incidentally, we should probably call him Guido Fawkes, as this was the name he used when signing his confession, having adopted the more European version while fighting alongside the Spanish against the Dutch. But that just doesn’t sound English enough and heaven forbid that any major figure in English history should have overseas associations. I mean, that’d be like outsourcing the Monarchy to somewhere like, I don’t know, Germany maybe.

I know I’m getting old now though because my allegiances have tipped over into the ‘ban public sale of fireworks’ camp. I’ve held my share of firework parties, and I have no problem with organised displays, but what rationale says it is sensible, safe or sane to make explosive products available over-the-counter to people who, if their brains were gunpowder, wouldn’t have enough to blow their hats off?

Maybe my damning demeanour is a product of a disappointing and disastrous dalliance with fireworks in my tender years. Before I progress I must say, for legislative reasons, that no animals were harmed in the making of this anecdote although several children were emotionally scarred for life in scenes that some viewers may find upsetting.

Many years ago in a land far, far away (well, Suffolk actually), there lived a young boy and his sister. These were ancient times, before the MacDonald clan had invaded England all but destroying their Wimpy rivals, before the internet ensnared us in its web and when “Wizard” meant Paul Daniels and not a software install program. Simple times of custom and folklore, where the villagers observed such traditions as ‘early closing on a Wednesday’ and ‘shops shut on the Sabbath’.  Chips were made out of potato, not silicon and ‘gay’ still meant ‘happy’.  The boy and his sister had been saving their pocket-money for weeks, cherishing the coins, each the size of a saucer and pound notes that were big enough to sheet a bed. Doing odd jobs around the house, to earn a few extra pennies, forgoing sweets and treats with the promise of something better, something magical, to come. Each night they counted their earnings, spurred on by their excitement and anticipation. And, when the day finally arrived they handed their money over to the Elder who took it off to market and returned with a box of the biggest, the brightest and the best fireworks ever. There were sparklers and Catherine wheels, rockets and roman candles.  A party was arranged and all the children for miles around were invited to watch the display. They brought fireworks too, Jumping Jacks and Bangers, with exotic names like ‘Mount Vesuvius’ and ‘Star Seeker’, ‘Diablo’ and ‘Spitfire’.  All the little tubes of delight were gathered up and placed in a metal box, safety being the mantra of the day. They would be safe there and dry. The Elder was wise; he knew to not play with fireworks. He knew the ancient words: Never return to a firework once it has been lit. The young ones were ushered into an awaiting caravan where they could watch in wide-eyed wonder cocooned and closeted in complete comfort.  The countdown commenced and silence settled as the Elder lit a safety taper, took one of the middle-sized pyramids of pleasure from its metal incarceration and set it down on a stable surface. “Light the blue touch-paper and retreat” we mouthed from our ‘safe distance’ caravan.  And it started: the culmination of all that saving, the planning, and the suffering without chocolate. The firework burst into life with a shower of stars and sparkles. Stars and sparkles which, carried on a light breeze, floated straight over to the metal box which stood lidless close by.

Now you might expect that such a collection of explosives, when simultaneously ignited, would produce a glorious display. But no, not when tightly packed into a metal box. Their splendour was turned in on itself, and the proverbial explosion in a fireworks factory yielded little more than an ear-splitting bang and a cloud of smoke dense enough to  cut and serve in slices with the hot dogs and jacket potatoes, leaving in its wake another metal box, full of crying inconsolable infants.  So the fireworks and several of my hard-earned friendships went up in smoke and I soon realised that the Elder was in fact also the Village Idiot.

I’m a forgiving person, but some crimes really do deserve pretty harsh punishment and on that night there was another guy who, in my eyes, should have been hanged, drawn and quartered for treason.  So, this year, if you MUST have a firework party, be careful, be safe and don’t forget to put the lid back on, for Fawkes’ sake!