Someone suggested to me the other day that these
daily blogs are very similar to that German fellow and his Nuremburg
Rallies. On one level I would have to disagree
as the Nuremburg Rallies were an annual event, and were pure propaganda whereas
this blog is a daily occurrence, it’s in English, well; sort of, and it’s all true. On another level I would have to agree with
the suggestion as I suppose we both are aiming for total world domination. This comparison unfortunately allows me to
remind you, The Illuminati, of the enormity of our mission and also to alert
you to the fact that we should expect casualties along the way. I have detected ‘rumblings’ in the distance
and expect an onslaught to begin soon but I never expected to have to inform you,
The Illuminati, of our first casualty so early in the campaign.
It was with great sadness yesterday that I
learned of our very first casualty. Ken
Clare, a Liverpool fellow from Liverpool, admitted yesterday that he is
addicted to this blog, that he needs his, ‘Daily fix.’ This is a very serious situation because it
requires, as prescribed in the Writers and Artists Yearbook, a literary
intervention. Of all interventions, the
literary intervention is perhaps the worst, for all concerned. First of all the addict has to be cornered,
caught and tied to a wicker chair. It
has to be a wicker chair, so that it can be burned easily afterwards. The lights have to be dimmed and then French sea
shanties have to be chanted at the addict for three hours forty seven minutes. I know, not just dangerous, but where can we
find a person so deranged and contemptible that they would enjoy chanting
French sea shanties while sipping Pernod and eating cheese and garlic flavoured potato crisps
for three hours and forty seven minutes.
Luckily for us John Clancey is both deranged and contemptible and has a keen
interest in French sailors, so should fit the bill and with a bit of luck
should complete the task within the week, which he will have to do, as it looks
like poor old Ed Mooney is next to be most likely to succumb. Good luck with the treatment Ken, or perhaps as
I should say, Bon Chance.
Strange that John Clancey’s name should pop up
like that, for, according to my notes, I was about to tell you about his
wedding on the Isle of Man today. I was
in Liverpool again but not for any exorcism, or literary intervention, this
time I was catching the ferry to the Isle of Man. I was at the Pier Head, with my rucksack on
my back, standing, leaning forward, at a forty five degree angle. The more meteorologically advanced amongst
you will automatically realise that this indicates a slight breeze in the air,
which would suggest that the sea crossing might not be calm. At any indication of a rough sea normally the
Isle of Man ferry will cancel sailings, truthfully it is rarely because of the
weather, it really is because the crew and captain have enjoyed rather far too
long a lunch in some of the bars along the Dock Road. As we set sail the motion of the boat began
to suggest to me that my original assessment of us encountering a ‘slight breeze’
may have been a bit too lenient.
By the time we were in open water I felt like a
cowboy, this as you understand was not a sexual preference, or some form of exotic
Irish cocktail, but the American type fellows who ride angry bulls, for the craic. People were running about like steel pinballs
on a pinball table, looking for somewhere safe to hide and hold on to. I did
really feel like a cowboy, for what I needed was not a safe place to hide or
hold on to, but a pair of reins so that I could ride the beast. On the roughest of sea crossings the only
place to be is at the front of the vessel and I don’t mean inside the bar
sipping pink gins, I mean right at the front of the boat as if you were a rodeo
rider yourself. I left the bar and made
my way out on deck and went forward. It
really was rough and the sea was beautiful, there were so many white horses it
was a fecking saline stampede. Carefully,
I made my way to the front of the ship and was surprised to find my old friend Paul
standing there.
The pair of us just smiled at each other and
shook hands, for the weather was so fierce we could not have spoken. Paul and myself had known each other for a
good number of years. Paul was ex SBS,
Special Boat Service, which is the Naval equivalent of the SAS. How or where we met is none of your business
and as a lot of you are beginning to realise there is a lot more being left out
of this blog than being put in. Paul had
left the military and was now a deep sea diving supervisor over in Saudi Arabia. Suffice to say that Paul and myself would
race each other home from the pub, but I would be driving his Rolls Royce and
he would be driving whatever I had pitched up in, usually a JCB with front bucket and go faster stripes. We stood in silence, enjoying the ride, till
we both had had our fill and went back inside to the bar.
The great thing about rough seas is that usually
the bars and restaurants are empty as the normal people are throwing up
everything they think they have eaten for the previous week. The only real problem is that you have to
hang on to your pint of Guinness as they tend to slide all about the place,
which might involve spilling some, which as you all know is irresponsible drinking,
which I could never tolerate. We were
chatting away with each other and we really were bumping up and down on our
seats. Paul explained that he had bought
a small hotel in Laxey on the Isle of Man.
He wanted a quiet rural life for his children, but more importantly was receiving
all sorts of grants from the Manx government and breweries. The other tiny problem was that he had
recently received a criminal conviction on the Isle of Man which now would not
allow him to become a licensee.
Seems that he was driving along, his wife on
the passenger seat, his children on the rear seat, when some buck eejit cut him
up and almost caused him to crash. His
quick reflexes allowed him to rectify the situation, avert the crash and head
after the buck eejit, whom he caught up to, dragged from his car and beat to a
pulp. He wasn’t in his Rolls Royce as he
had sold that. According to Paul it was
forever being vandalised and the silver lady was constantly being stolen. The final time it had been stolen the police
found it tied to the front of a youths moped in Douglas. After that he gave up and sold it. The initial problem of holding the landlord license
had been overcome as his wife had managed to apply for and be awarded the license. Now, seeing me heading for the Isle of Man,
he asked in I would be interested in running his hotel for six or seven weeks
so that he could return to Saudi Arabia and earn the shortfall he needed to
complete the hotel deal.
It was one of those bureaucratic overlaps where
if you got one grant you were not entitled to another, the sort of thing that
pops up at the last moment. He was thirty
thousand pounds short and could earn that much for six weeks work in Saudi. I said that I shouldn’t see why not, I
explained that I would need a couple of hours every day to myself for my
writing, but otherwise would enjoy the task.
Paul offered to drive me to Tony and Mary’s house as we arrived in
Douglas. I explained that Tony would be
waiting for me and thanked him agreeing that we would meet within the next day
or two where I would go and visit his hotel and we could finalise our arrangement. It was nice to see Tony and we chatted and laughed
as we drove back to his farm. Nothing
much had changed apart from the fact that he had had the whole place double glazed,
to keep the sound of the motorbikes out.
As usual we enjoyed our evening meal and rather
than nip off to a local pub opened a bottle of whiskey so that we could relax
and allow ourselves to catch up with each other’s world. I was surprised to see a huge four by four
pull into the farm yard and see Paul leap out.
We all knew each other and were great friends so Paul was immediately invited
in and joined our little soiree. He
began to explain his predicament and then told me that he had been on the
telephone and could start a new contract the following week in Saudi. He needed an immediate decision from me; if I
would run the hotel he could take the contract. That’s when Tony started to ask questions and
get involved. None of us expected what happened
next, to happen. Tony threw a cheque book on to the coffee table and opened
it. “I’ll lend you the thirty thousand
Paul,” says Tony. “You can pay me back
when you can.”
There’s an old Irish saying that goes, “What
you give away with one hand, you lose with the other.” It was no great shakes, it’s not that I was
depending on Pauls offer, but I was looking forward to meeting a whole new
range of characters while running his hotel for him. Just as well really, as it probably would
have ended up as the Isle of Man’s equivalent to Fawlty Towers, with me at the
helm. Paul took the loan from Tony and
the following evening we all went for a celebratory meal in Douglas and then on
to a casino, where I stood back and watched mesmerised people pray for more money,
I still refused to gamble. The following
morning I rose and, after recording the seriousness of the pillow abuse I had suffered,
began to prepare myself for a certain change of direction, socially speaking of
course. It was nice hanging around with
people, who some might say had more money than sense, but now I was off to the
other end of the social spectrum, I was off to Clancey’s wedding.
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