Author Archives: Steve Higgins

3 Summer Reads

Posted on by Steve Higgins

A long time ago I decided that I would set myself the task of reading the entire Hamish Macbeth series of books. There are 34 books in the series, all written by author M.C. Beaton which is in fact a pen name for Marion Chesney. Marion actually wrote many books under various pseudonyms including Ann Fairfax, Jennie Tremaine, Helen Crampton, Charlotte Ward and Sarah Chester. After Marion’s death in 2019 further Hamish Macbeth novels have appeared penned by writer R.W. Green.

Hamish Macbeth is a country policeman in the small Scottish Highland village of Lochdubh. Macbeth is a very relaxed kind of fellow. Some might even call him lazy. He shies away from promotion, even giving the credit for solving crimes to others so he can stay on in his beloved village.

A few years back the BBC made a TV series based on the books. ‘Based on’ is quite an interesting use of that particular phrase because the TV series is actually nothing like the books. The series was filmed in Plockton and Macbeth is played by Robert Carlyle. Macbeth is a laid-back relaxed character, just like in the books. He is not averse to poaching the odd salmon and he likes to apply the rule of law in his own way. He avoids promotion as all he wants is to remain in Lochdubh. That is pretty much where the resemblance to the books ends which was quite a surprise to me. Most of the characters in the series are the invention of the TV writers and not M.C. Beaton who wrote the books.

I’m not sure how happy I would be if someone made a TV show out of my book and then proceeded to change all the characters, still I did enjoy Hamish Macbeth as a TV show. It was an oddball, quirky little drama which ran for only three seasons and a few years ago Liz and I visited the village of Plockton which was very small and to be honest, didn’t actually look like the place in the TV series.

Not long ago after reading Death of a Scriptwriter last year, I put down the Hamish Macbeth books and took a little break from the murders in Lochdubh but as the summer has warmed up nicely and I’ve plenty of time to sit out in the back garden reading, I thought it was a good time to pick up the series again.

Death of an Addict.

This was a little different to the usual Hamish Macbeth novel. Macbeth and another officer, Glasgow DI Olivia Chater, masquerade as drug dealers to trap a drugs cartel operating in the highlands. I have to say that I didn’t like how the book leaves the usual village life behind and to be fair, I didn’t enjoy the book as much as the previous ones.

Death of a Dustman.

All the Macbeth series are titled ‘Death of’ someone and I noticed on the internet that there is one book that differs from the others called A Highland Christmas which seems to come in between Addict and Dustman. Anyhow, I don’t have a copy so I went straight on with Death of a Dustman. All the books in my collection end with the first chapter of the next book and Addict ended with chapter one of Dustman so perhaps the Christmas book is something a little different. Anyway, the action takes place once again in the village of Lochdubh where a new councillor decides to make the village ‘green’ by promoting recycling. As a result, the local dustman causes a lot of aggro when he declines to empty bins containing the ‘wrong’ sort of rubbish and of course he ends up getting bumped off.

Things get a little far fetched towards the end but overall, Death of a Dustman was a fairly pleasant read and another look at highland village life and its various characters.

Marathon Man

I mentioned a while ago about my brother dying and when I was sorting out his things I came across this short novel. Actually it was one of my own books and I must have lent it to Colin years ago and now it has once again come back to me. I can just imagine telling him ‘I told you that you never gave me Marathon Man back!’ to which he would probably reply ‘Well what about that Cary Grant book I lent you?’ Yes, I borrowed the Grant book ages ago when I wrote a post about Cary Grant and it’s still there, part read in my bedroom.

Marathon Man was written by the screenwriter William Goldman and later made into a film using Goldman’s own screenplay. It’s a fairly short book and according to Wikipedia it was the author’s most successful thriller novel. Escaped nazi dentist Christian Szell has been living in Paraguay since the end of WWII. He has a stash of diamonds acquired while he worked in a concentration camp which are in a New York vault looked after by his father. When his father dies in a car crash Szell has to return to New York to get the diamonds. Will it be safe though? Szell thinks that a US agent working for a secret department called the Division may be about to rob him when he picks up the diamonds.

The agent is known by the code name Scylla and Szell meets with him and uses a hidden knife to stab him. Scylla manages to survive long enough to get to his brother’s New York apartment whereupon he dies from his injuries. Szell believes that Scylla must have survived long enough to give his brother, nicknamed ‘Babe’, information about the diamonds and so his men kidnap Babe and he is tortured to reveal any information. Szell is a dentist and so he tortures Babe by drilling into his teeth. Later, Babe, a student who hopes to be a marathon runner manages to get away.

The story was made into a film starring Laurence Olivier as Szell and Dustin Hoffman as Babe. This led to an interesting confrontation of acting styles with Hoffman the ‘method’ actor and Olivier the celebrated traditional actor. On one occasion when Hoffman had to appear tired out after staying awake for three days Hoffman chose to actually stay awake for three days also. Olivier, tired of these antics famously asked Hoffman ‘Dear boy, why don’t you just act?’

(I should mention here that while researching this and checking my facts -I had originally thought that Hoffman had gone running to make himself appear breathless- I found a really interesting article in the Guardian in which the author finished with a wonderful quote about acting from George Burns who once said “sincerity is everything. Fake that and you’ve got it made!”)

The film very much follows the lines of the book except that in the film, it is Szell’s brother, not his father who looks after the diamonds and also in the book, Babe is a little more ruthless and cold blooded than Hoffman portrays him on film. In fact, Babe shoots Szell dead in the book but in the film, Szell is killed by falling on his own knife.

Both the book and the film were highly successful and Olivier’s Szell is one of the most famous screen villains, particularly with his catchphrase ‘Is it safe?’ which he continually asks Hoffman’s character before commencing to torture him. It’s a film which probably put a huge amount of people off going to the dentist for years and the book is equally as scary and also superbly written.

Anyway, that’s what I’ve been reading. What are your summer reads?

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Saturday Nights

Posted on by Steve Higgins

My book, Floating in Space, is set in the Manchester of the late seventies. There were no smartphones, no internet and no wireless networks. In fact, ‘wireless’ was an old fashioned word for the radio. I’m tempted to say that things moved at a slower pace then but that’s not true. Things just moved at a different pace. In 2025 you hear a lot about pubs closing down but back in 1977, pubs were far from closing down; at the weekend they were the place to be! That was where my friends and I met up, drank beer, listened to music and chatted up the ladies. Saturdays were the focus of our week back then but these days I’m actually not that keen on going out on a Saturday. I much prefer a weekday night out; things are a little quieter and there are fewer drunken idiots.

Having said that, Liz and I went into St Annes last Saturday to see our friends, Ray and Dean, perform as the Boogie Brothers at the Pier Inn. The Pier Inn is only a few years old and it’s a rather small little pub. The night we went in it was a hot and muggy evening and even with the door open it was hot in there so we decided to take a break and pop into Wetherspoons which we expected to be much cooler and it was. It did strike me though that most of the clientele in both those pubs were pretty similar to my own age group. OK there were a few young people but most people out that night were in my particular age bracket. Where do young people go these days on a Saturday night?

Back in 1977 Saturday nights were the culmination of the weekend for my twenty-one year old self. I always preferred it to Friday nights because things were more relaxed, there was no rushing home from work, no rushing to get your tea down your neck so you can get changed, then leg it out for the bus. Saturday, you could take your time and leisurely work up to things. Sometimes I would go out shopping and buy myself something new to wear for that evening, a shirt, or perhaps even a new pair of trousers. Then later I would have a long relaxed soak in the bath and dress unhurriedly in my room to the tune of my favourite music. In 1977 my favourite album was Elton John’s ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’ and as I dressed I would mimic Nigel Olsson’s measured and rhythmic drumming to ‘The Ballad of Danny Bailey’, or ‘Candle in the Wind’.

These days I just pop into the bathroom, have a shave and a shower and throw on one of a number of short sleeved shirts that I tend to favour. Still, even back in 1977 I could sometimes get bored with the usual pubs and bars in Manchester. I remember one boozy night in which my friend Chris and I decided to go out on the train somewhere. We ended up in Nantwich if I remember correctly. We took our tent and put it up somewhere in a field or a park and proceeded to spent the night drinking in a local pub.

The next morning we woke in our tent which had partially collapsed around us. We staggered up and packed everything away and thought about making our way to the railway station. As we walked into the town various people hailed us ‘Hi Steve!’ ‘Hi Chris!’

We dropped into the local pub and the barman greeted us like old friends. ‘Great night last night wasn’t it?’ he said.  I guess it must have been.

Here are a few facts about Saturday compiled after a quick search of the internet.

Saturday is named after Saturn, the Roman God of agriculture.

Saturday is the 6th day of the week in western culture although in some places the first day of the week is considered to be Sunday, making Saturday the last day of the week.

In Hinduism, Saturday is dedicated to the planet Saturn and is considered a day for spiritual cleansing and fasting. Devotees may visit temples and perform special rituals on this day, or abstain from certain foods and activities as a form of penance.

In the UK, Saturday is the busiest shopping day of the week. Many people use this day to do their weekly grocery shopping and high streets and shopping centres are often crowded with shoppers. One of my hard and fast rules is to never go shopping on a Saturday. Tuesday works better for me, it’s much quieter.

Time for a music break. I was going to go with Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting by Elton John but to be honest, as much as I like Elton, that song really isn’t my cup of tea these days. Here’s something much more enjoyable, Saturday Night at the Movies by the Drifters.

Talking about movies, Saturday Night Fever was a film released in 1977 starring John Travolta. Travolta plays Tony, a young man who spends his weekends drinking and dancing at a local disco. I haven’t seen the film for years until I watched it recently and was surprised to be reminded that, apart from the disco dancing interludes and the music of the Bee Gees, it is actually a gritty and dark film.

Here’s what I wrote in my book Floating in Space about Saturday nights;

“There was something about Saturday nights in Manchester. Some quality of security, of expectancy, a feeling that the night and the future were going to be good. A feeling that you might just meet some gorgeous girl and that even if you didn’t, it didn’t really matter because there was always the excitement of the people, the music, the drink, and everything else that made up the evening. And then there was always the expectancy of the next night, and the next, and on and on into the future. The past building up inside you like a great data bank, reminding you, reassuring you, like a light burning in some empty room in the corner of your mind.”

The Playground as it is today

Back in the late 70s, my friends and I used to go to a bar in Manchester called the Playground. We loved it in there. Inside the Playground, flickering multi-coloured spotlights rotated across the red carpeted room which, on Fridays and Saturdays, was generally packed. It had a small dance floor sunk low like a pit where people up on the raised bar level could look down at the gyrating girls and where also, on week day lunchtimes, a topless dancer appeared at the stroke of one o’clock to translate the soul and disco music of the time into pulsating physical motion, the eyes of jaded office workers glued to her as she did so.

There was a paltry fifty pence charge to get in, the solitary bouncer was silent but not unpleasant and the DJ, who always began the night with ‘Love’s Theme’ by the Love Unlimited Orchestra, played alternate sessions of rock, disco, and chart music. We were all mad about Jenny, the barmaid. She was lovely. She had a kind of round, open face framed by thick blonde hair and her skin was a creamy white. She served us Worthington ‘E’ and we melted into the hubbub of people on their Saturday night out while the music of the seventies drifted through us.

Yes, we had a lot of fun nights in the Playground until one night we turned up and the place was closed. We went somewhere else that night and for some reason it remained closed for a long while. Perhaps the owners had gone bust or their lease had expired. Eventually it was refurbished and opened under another name but it was never the same again. Even so, every time I walk down Oxford Road, I always stop for a moment and remember those long gone nights in the Playground.

What shall I do this Saturday night? Get dressed up and go into town?

Actually, I think I might just order a takeaway and watch television!

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Heatwaves and Barbecues

Posted on by Steve Higgins

This week in the UK we have been subject to a heatwave. Well, the media have told us it’s a heatwave although it’s not a heatwave in the sense that I understand, which is weeks and perhaps months of intense heat, drought and hosepipe bans. The media also tends to link the heatwave to things like climate change and the melting of the ice cap and lots of other stuff but to be honest, this heatwave has just been what we used to call summer. That’s right, summer, you know when things get warmer and the sun comes out and the kids get a 6 week school holiday and it stops raining. Well, stops raining for a short while.

To be fair there were one or two really hot days up here in the north west of England. In fact, it might even have been three days. Liz and I put up her small pool in the garden and we got out the barbecue. One day was really hot, so hot that in the evening we were sat in the lounge in as little as clothing as possible, in my case just a pair of shorts. We had the doors open and the fan at full blast. Now I think of it, actually the perfect conditions for a robber/murderer to pop in, tie us up, take our valuables and bump us off. Happily, that didn’t happen but it was a hot and uncomfortable night.

The next day we realised all our usual parasols and sun brollies were a bit knackered so we ordered a small gazebo. Liz’s daughter and grandson were due round for a barbecue and we wanted to keep them out of the direct sun. After about an hour of effort and a surprisingly small amount of bad language, we managed to get the gazebo together and fully installed. Our guests arrived, we all had a bit of a potter about in the pool, ate our food and all was well. I thought about taking the gazebo down but thought otherwise, after all, we were in the middle of a heatwave so keeping it up seemed like good idea.

The next day it was slightly cooler, still warm of course but much pleasanter although a bit of a wind had sprung up. Later, just when we were about to begin an unprecedented third barbecue in a row, it had actually become so windy that we were hanging grimly on to the gazebo to prevent it from taking off. The only option was to take it apart which we did. I think it’s worth noting here how strange it is that things that come in a box will never ever fit back into that same box once you take them apart and try to put them away. Actually, its not only strange but one of the great mysteries of the universe.

Just looking back over my older posts, I see that July is a pretty regular slot for barbecue themed posts. Here’s something I wrote in 2022.

A regular visitor to our barbecues is a large seabird which we have christened CBS. Nothing to do with the American TV channel but that bird is one heck of a Cheeky Bastard Seagull.

He usually arrives on our garden wall and struts around in the manner of an avian Mussolini. If he gets no response from us, he will tend to have a bit of a stretch before going into a major squawking session. Now he has made his presence felt we can expect some more strutting about until we put some bits of sausage or fat from our steak on the wall. He’ll gobble that up with the occasional foray into the sky to fend off any other birds who might be after a nibble before beginning his ritual again. When the gas goes off and he knows no more food will be forthcoming, CBS will usually have a final strut, give us a last squawk and be off into the sky.

These last few weeks however, CBS has not appeared. We’ve saved him some bits and pieces but our familiar feathered friend has not made an appearance. I’ve often wondered what has happened to him. Has he emigrated somewhere? No, surely it’s not the time of the year for birds to migrate? Has he passed away? It’s hard to tell if he was a young or an old bird. Has he been hit by a car trying to peck at some stray leftover sandwich accidentally dropped in the road?

At our last barbecue a large seabird appeared on our wall. At first, we thought it was CBS but there was no strutting or squawking and the bird did seem a little timid. He wouldn’t come close to collect his titbits on the wall. Was he a doppelganger trying to muscle in on CBS’s patch knowing the real CBS has passed away? We’ll never know.

Still on the subject of barbecues, here’s something I wrote in 2021, the year of Covid 19;

Because of Covid and now also because of my sore shoulder (did I mention the trapped nerve and my shoulder pain?) we haven’t used our motorhome much this year. We did have a run out to Yorkshire a while back and a pub stop over before that but otherwise the only trip was a run out to the garage for the MOT. Liz had bought a small portable gas barbecue ready for our travels and it was lying unused in the corner so we thought it was time to give it a trial run.

I do like barbecues but the flip side is that they are dirty and smelly and greasy. I always start off with some dry wood, pack in the charcoal and light up with some firelighters. Sometimes we’ll get a slow burner barbecue so we end up supping too much wine while we wait for things to get going. Other times we’ll get the reverse, a barbecue that catches quickly and voom, goes off in a big hot burn. That’s usually when we are expecting a slow burner and are still finishing off the salad and so when we sit down I realise I’m going to have to slap all the meat on quickly before the coals burn themselves out. The really annoying thing is when we are in the motorhome and I realise that after the barby has finished, I am somehow going to have to clean this horrible, greasy mess and get it packed away so we can move on.

So how have things gone with the gas barby? Pretty smoothly actually. None of that messing about with the coals and lighter fluid. The portable job snaps quickly together, slap in the calor gas cylinder, press the starter and hey presto, we are ready to barbecue. The other great thing about this one is that there is a water reservoir that catches all the grease and fat. Just swill that away somewhere in a corner of the garden, a quick wipe with a paper towel and we are all ready for next time. Barbecuing with gas, I love it!

Back to that unprecedented third barbecue.

In 2025 we are still using that little gas barbecue, so much easier than lighting all those coals. On the day we removed the gazebo the wind finally died down a little and we settled down for another meal. We started with some Padron peppers and some baby corn (so much nicer than full grown sweetcorn) followed by a couple of small steaks and some kofta kebabs with some French wine to wash it all down. It was almost but not quite like being on one of our French holidays.

The next day it was raining and normal British weather had resumed. The ‘heatwave’ was over.

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5 Things that Happened in July

Posted on by Steve Higgins

I published a post quite a while ago about the month of January. January of course is cold and believe me, I hate the cold so I thought I’d get a lot of cold and chilly feelings off my chest by writing about my least favourite time of the year. Today I’m going to go the opposite way and write about the month of July, generally the warmest month of the year. In fact the warmest month ever recorded was July 2023 according to a survey by scientists at NASA, the US space agency.

The Battle of the Somme July 1916

On the first of July, 1916, the Battle of the Somme began. It was an attempt by combined French and British forces to attack the German held lines by the river Somme in northern France during the First World War. The first day was the worst day in British military history with 57,470 casualties, 19,240 of which were men who were killed. The battle continued for another four months and the total casualties for both sides were over 1.5 million. The battle ended in November of 1916 with allied forces only making an advance of some 7 miles.

In March of 1917 the German forces drew back to the Hindenburg line and began to increase U Boat attacks on British shipping in an effort to starve the British into defeat. This however only spurred the entry of the Americans into the war in April 1917.

A few years ago, Liz and I visited the Somme and we saw a crater which is supposed to be the biggest crater of the First World War. It’s called the crater of Lochnagar and back in 1916 the 179th Tunnelling Company of the Royal Engineers had burrowed under the German lines and laid down huge explosive charges. They were detonated at 07.28 on the morning of July 1st. The British expected the Germans to have been wiped out by this and a huge artillery barrage but they were sadly mistaken.

Wilson44691, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Today the crater is still there. I had expected it to have perhaps become a lake but no. It’s a deep depression in the ground surrounded by wooden walking boards, many of which have the names of deceased soldiers inscribed on them.

The Trent and Mersey Canal 1766

The canal system of Great Britain was probably the shortest lasting transport revolution ever. After only a few years the railway revolution began and suddenly, the canal system was old technology. Parliament authorised the construction of various canals in 1766, one of them being the Trent and Mersey Canal. Construction began in July of that year and it was designed by James Brindley to link the rivers Mersey, Trent, Severn and Thames. It was completed in 1777.

Canals were built for the efficient transport of goods and raw materials during the Industrial revolution although shortly afterwards the new railways became the primary method of transporting goods and of course passengers.

Today the canal system in the UK is primarily one of leisure and holiday boating and many people like me have become interested in canals through TV programmes like Canal Boat Diaries. The show is a sort of video diary by a boater called Robbie Cummings who takes his viewers on a gentle meander through the canals of the UK. I’ve always found it an enjoyable and relaxing show although when I last looked into hiring a canal boat it was super expensive. Maybe one day though.

Execution of the Romanov Family, July 1918

The Romanov family, Czar Nicholas II and his family, were shot and bayoneted to death on the night of the 16th/17th July 1917. The Soviets were worried that the family might be rescued by the anti-revolutionary forces known as the ‘Whites’.

After the revolution the royal family had been moved to various places but in 1917 ended up at ‘The House of Special Purpose’ in Yekaterinburg. Friendly guards had been replaced by non-Russians who were chosen to murder the family.

On the night of the 16th July, the family were told that they were to be relocated because of the impending arrival of pro-monarchist forces. They were asked to assemble in the basement where they were all shot. Many survived the shooting because of diamonds and other jewellery sewn into their clothes and so the murderers were forced to use bayonets to finish off those still alive. The bodies were then dumped into a mine shaft. Later it was realised that the shaft was not deep enough so the bodies were extricated and transferred to another one.

The bodies were discovered many years later by a local amateur researcher in 1979 but he kept his discovery a secret until the fall of the Soviet Union. The bodies were removed and identified using DNA. They were eventually laid to rest in the Peter and Paul Cathedral in St Petersburg.

Picture courtesy Wikipedia Commons

Various people have claimed to be survivors of the murders, notably Anna Anderson who claimed to be Anastasia. DNA testing later proved she was not related to the Romanov family but was actually a woman named Franziska Schanzkowska.

Others have claimed to be Tatiana, Anastasia’s sister and also Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich, the only son of the Tsar. Alexei suffered from haemophilia, a condition in which the blood does not clot so it is unlikely that he survived the shooting. Interestingly though, Alexei and one of his sisters were discovered separately from the rest of the family in 2007.

The Ipatiev house where the family were murdered –the house of special purpose- was demolished in 1977 by Boris Yeltsin on the orders of the Politburo as it was attracting people who came to pay their respects to the Romanovs. Later when Yeltsin became president, he ordered a memorial church to be built on the site.

A famous film Anastasia was released in 1956 starring Ingrid Bergman as Anastasia and Yul Brynner as a man trying to use her to gain access to the Romanov millions stored in a British bank. Funnily enough, it’s a film I have not seen for years but after writing this passage I noticed it was coming up on TV so I recorded it and watched it the following evening.

The Moon Landing July 1969

The moon landing was one of the very first historical events that I actually felt a part of. In July 1969 I was 12 years old and on the morning of the 20th of July my mother had woken me up as usual for school. I came downstairs in my pyjamas for breakfast and to my utter amazement there was Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walking on the moon over on mum’s black and white television set. How my mother got me away from that TV set and off to school I’ll never know because at the time I read and watched everything I could about the US space program.

Believe it or not, many people today refuse to accept that Armstrong and Aldrin actually did walk on the moon that day. Many armchair ‘experts’ will call attention to photos from the lunar surface and explain that they were fakes because of various anomalies. On TikTok I recently watched a video in which a man swears his father was a security guard at a secret base where the moon landing was filmed. On YouTube there is a video where someone tries to get Armstrong to swear on the bible that he went to the moon. Neil Armstrong declined. Why? Was it because he didn’t go to the moon? Why did he retire from NASA so early? Was he ashamed about his continuing lies?

My personal verdict: Baloney. Armstrong and Aldrin walked on the moon in July 1969 in an incredible feat of exploration and bravery and as for refusing to swear on the bible about it, why should he?

The British Grand Prix

The first ever British Grand Prix was held in 1926 at Brooklands, one of the world’s first ever purpose-built racing tracks. Brooklands had an oval configuration and was famous for its banked corners. The track was also an airfield and during the two world wars Brooklands was taken over by the military for aircraft production. After 1945 the racing circuit was in poor condition and Brooklands was sold to the Vickers-Armstrong Company as a base for aircraft production. Motor sport was unable to return to Brooklands especially as after 1951, a four-lane road was built through the track area.

Giuseppe-Farina (Image from Motorsport Magazine fair use commons)

The current Formula One World Championship actually began at Silverstone in 1950 with the very first world championship Grand Prix. The first Silverstone British Grand Prix however was held two years earlier in 1948 when motor sport began again after the second world war. Luigi Villoresi won in 1948 in a Maserati but the 1950 race, round one in the new World Championship, was won by Giuseppe Farina.

This year, 2025, the British Grand Prix was held on the 6th of July and once again provided an exciting race with Lando Norris giving the fans another British winner after his team mate was given a controversial ten second penalty.

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Fragments of a Life

Posted on by Steve Higgins

It’s sad enough to have to lose a loved one but what is sometimes even worse is dealing with the things they have left behind; their clothes, their books, their personal items. The shampoo and shower gel in the bathroom, the uneaten items in their fridge, the notes on the coffee table; the fragments of their lives.

My brother Colin died almost two months ago and even now I find it hard to believe. Going home a couple of weeks ago I picked up two pizza bases from the shops. I bought two without thinking because I’d usually make Colin and me a couple of small pizzas for when he came round for one of our regular bi-weekly chats.

One of the first things I looked at when I went into my brother’s flat was his phone. He had two phones. One was unlocked but contained little information. No banking app or email account. The other phone was locked and I tried all of what I thought would be memorable numbers for him to use as a phone password. His date of birth….. no. My birthdate…… no. I tried my mother’s and father’s birthdates but no, the phone refused to open.

Colin and I used to speak on the phone every few days. A long time ago when mobile phones first became popular, we decided that when we would speak together on the phone, we would talk in either German or east European accents. I’m not quite sure why we did it but we maintained it over a number of years, although it could be a little embarrassing if I suddenly answered the phone in a German accent in the bar or in a restaurant.

Looking on the internet I searched for what are the most used codes for unlocking a phone. The most popular was 1-2-3-4. I trolled through the list but nothing seemed to work. 2-2-2-2….. no! 6-9-6-9….. no! About halfway through the list I got to the point where the phone would lock up for a minute after each failed attempt. Finally, I tried 3-3-3-3. I was watching a TV show at the time and was about to move on to the next suggestion when as if by magic the phone opened up.

There was no banking app which was what I was looking for in order to sort out his financial affairs. Looking through his house there didn’t seem to be any particular place for important documents. I found some in the bedroom, some in the lounge and some in the kitchen. Colin wasn’t very tidy. He was also the laziest man I have ever met. His first job after leaving school was in a high-class men’s tailors in Manchester city centre. Among the clientèle were presenters from the local TV news shows Look North and Granada Reports. Colin once told me he had served the guy who played Alec Gilroy in Coronation Street. His boss was a very well to do fellow who lived in Wilmslow and every morning he picked up Colin for work at a busy junction by the Bluebell pub. He used to drive a Rolls Royce and Colin was living at home in Handforth then and you might think that with his boss picking him up in a Rolls Royce, and waiting at a very busy junction, he would be keen to get up out of bed and get ready for work.

Well, things worked out ok for a short while but as time went on, Colin realised that getting out of bed in a morning was not for him. My mother told me that she used to sometimes throw a pan of cold water in his face to get him up but even so, he began to leave his boss stranded at the Bluebell and would arrive at work round about lunchtime. Soon he was presented with his p45.

The only other job he ever had, to my knowledge anyway, was a sales job in Rome in Italy, selling timeshares or insurance or something to English speaking people in that far away city. He didn’t last long there and made his way across Europe to a place called Nijmegen in Holland. He stayed there for quite a while and he even met his first girlfriend there, a girl called Inge with whom he stayed friends for the rest of his life.

Soon his money ran out and he was repatriated back to the UK with my mother, as usual, paying for his return.

Not long after coming home he had a nervous breakdown and that began a cycle of mental health issues that plagued him for the remainder of his life. He once told me that it all stemmed from bullying at school although I have to say, I always remember him as being such a happy and cheerful youngster. Clearly, things are not always what they seem.

He had arranged a funeral plan with a company called One Life which went bust back in 2024, however, I was sure he had taken out an insurance policy with Sun Life some time ago. I called them but they had never heard of my brother. I called another company and they said the same thing. ‘Have you tried Sun Life?’ they asked. I had but they had no record of my brother. Try again, they suggested. I tried again and this time the company came up with Colin’s policy which was actually linked to a funeral company so I was able to quickly begin the funeral arrangements.

I thought his laptop would probably tell me a lot about his affairs but it too was locked. I once again tried various numbers to no avail but I noticed that his email account was on his newly unlocked mobile phone. I clicked on the ‘forgotten passcode’ button on his laptop; a new code went to his emails and soon I had access to his laptop even though I found nothing of interest there. It’s interesting though how his digital footprints leave hints about things that he did. There was an email from Netflix reminding him to finish an episode of Star Trek he had been watching. Another was from a mail order company thanking him for his recent clothing purchases and offering him discounts on his next order.

Colin lived in a council flat and I was sure they would be keen to take over the place and get new tenants in but happily, the staff I dealt with at the housing office were friendly and sympathetic and gave me time to sort things out.

I took lots of his old clothes to the recycling centre and quite a few charity shops were the beneficiaries of his numerous DVDs although I must admit, I kept quite a few for myself. Colin was an avid buyer of leather jackets and although some of his older ones went to the recycling centre, I still have about five of his newer ones.

A charity place called The Tree of Life came and took away his washing machine, fridge freezer and microwave. I took away his big television screen on which I’ll probably watch the British Grand Prix this weekend. I went to hand his keys into the council but first I thought I’d take a last look around. I checked everywhere and picked up a few last items I thought I’d keep. I had been surprised that I hadn’t found a great big box of photographs as a long time ago Colin always used to be taking pictures.

As I took a last look around, I noticed a bin bag in the corner of a cupboard just by the door. More old clothes I thought but when I picked it up it was full of photographs, the very ones I had been looking for. I was so glad I had found those pictures as there were so many taken at home when he and my mother and father were still alive.

Colin: a self portrait

I dropped off his keys and later I found myself watching one of his old DVDs, sat in a chair wearing his aftershave, sporting one of his newly purchased T-shirts and drinking one of his leftover bottles of Pepsi Max, his favourite drink. That is the thing with death, someone dies but the world does not stop or even take a breath. The buses keep on running, the sun continues to rise and the dead man’s possessions are still there, waiting to be sold or given away or distributed to others via charity shops and other outlets.

Despite never having any money Colin had an expensive TV package from Virgin Media. He loved his black and white classic films and spent a fortune on numerous leather jackets as well as going everywhere by taxi. Until our mother died, he was forever asking me to bail him out of debt but in recent years helped by a PIP claim (Personal Independence Payment) and a small inheritance from mum he finally had some money in his pocket.

He was looking forward to getting himself a free bus pass but sadly, he was taken away much too soon. He was 64 years old.

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Book Bag: Frederick Forsyth

Posted on by Steve Higgins

It was sad to read in the news the other day of the passing of journalist and novelist Frederick Forsyth. He was 86 years old and had published more than 25 books. I’ve read quite a few of his novels and I wrote a segment about him some time ago in a blog post about novels that were rejected by publishers. A number of his books were made into films and so many people must be familiar with his work.

Forsyth did his national service in the RAF and was commissioned as an Acting Pilot Officer in 1956. After leaving the RAF he became a journalist working for the news agency Reuters and later he joined the BBC. He was the perfect choice for a foreign correspondent as he spoke numerous languages including French, German and Russian. In 1967 he was reporting on the war between Biafra and Nigeria when the BBC decided they were no longer interested in that particular war. Forsyth resigned from the BBC and continued to report on the war as a freelance. He even admitted later that this was when he was recruited by MI6 as an informant.

His most famous book and actually one that he struggled to get published was The Day of the Jackal. He apparently had no interest in becoming a novelist but turned to fiction as he was out of work and in dire straits financially.  The Day of the Jackal was rejected numerous times but finally one publisher decided to try a limited print run. The book took off first in the UK and then in the USA. It was a mixture of fact and fiction and Forsyth’s description of how to obtain a fake passport was used by John Darwin, the man who faked his own death in a canoe and later tried to make a new life in Panama. This true story was made into a book and TV mini series called The Thief, his Wife and a Canoe.

Forsyth followed up with The Odessa File, a book about the Odessa organisation which helped former nazis escape detection from the authorities after World War II. He wrote numerous other books but when The Day of the Jackal was re-imagined as a TV series recently on Sky TV, he earned nothing as he had already signed away the TV and film rights with the earlier screen version.

The Day of the Jackal

It was a very long time ago when I first read this book. Someone once called it an assassin’s handbook although I’m not sure that’s really fair. The book is set in the early 60s. The OAS was a terrorist organisation made up of ex-army personnel who were angered at De Gaulle’s decision to give independence to Algeria after many of their comrades had died fighting Algerian nationalists. They were trying to assassinate De Gaulle but their organisation had been penetrated by French Intelligence. To prevent any leaks the OAS top leadership decide to hole up in a hotel and arrange for a professional assassin to kill De Gaulle. The book follows the assassin, code named Jackal, as he plans the murder step by step. The French secret service however decide to kidnap a man who functioned as an aide to the leadership. Under torture he revealed the basic plot but how could the French track down the assassin?

The Jackal arranges three fake identities and the author explains meticulously how he does this. He met with a specialist rifle maker and explained how he wanted a rifle that could be dismantled and fitted into a series of metal tubes, the full import of this is only revealed on the planned day of the assassination.

The Jackal also asks for a number to ring for up to date information and the OAS arrange for an informant to seduce a member of the government and pass vital info to the Jackal.

Forsyth apparently wrote the book in 35 days and continued with a similar non stop workflow for all his subsequent books. He didn’t like the writing process and was anxious to get it all over with as quickly as possible. Even so, the result is a tense and gripping read. Forsyth’s books are heavily researched and often including real-life procedures, political contexts, or military operations. He includes authentic settings and terminology that lend a strong sense of realism to his stories. The characters in his books though are usually pretty functional, just there to carry the plot forwards although in The Jackal we find perhaps his most rounded characters, certainly in the few books that I have read.

The Day of the Jackal was made into a film in 1973 directed by Fred Zinneman.

The Odessa File

Again, it’s a long time since I have read this book but it’s really well put together with a real twist at the end. It’s about a German journalist who discovers a diary written by an old Jewish man who has committed suicide. The man was a former concentration camp prisoner and killed himself after seeing a sadistic SS officer known as ‘the butcher of Riga’ walking free in the city.

The journalist decides to try and track the SS man down and finds out that the nazis run an organisation known as the Odessa, which helps former SS men evade justice, assisting them with fake papers and even travel to friendly countries.

The journalist decides to pose as an ex-SS man seeking help from the Odessa and this leads him on a very dangerous path indeed.

The Odessa File was also made into a film starring John Voight as the journalist and the resulting publicity brought about the exposure of the real life ‘Butcher of Riga’, on whom the fictional character was based. Eduard Roschmann was arrested by Argentine police but then skipped bail and escaped to Paraguay.

The Fourth Protocol

I started reading this book a while ago and like all of Forsyth’s other books it is a very exciting read. I was also surprised to find that it was really quite different to the film which starred Michael Caine.

In the book, a professional jewel thief robs the safe of safe of a well to do civil servant. He takes away some pretty expensive jewels but breaks a golden rule by also taking what appears to be an expensive hand crafted leather briefcase.

It turns out that hidden in the briefcase are some top secret documents which the civil servant has been passing to a member of the South African security forces.

This gentleman then organises a group of thugs to find the case but the jewel thief is alerted just in time and is able to round up some tough guys of his own to combat the thugs. After finding out the thugs were after the briefcase, he discovers the secret documents and mails them to the authorities.

Robert Preston, our local MI5 man, then has to find out where the documents came from and who has been leaking them.

Eventually, Preston discovers that the civil service man was passing the documents to a south African diplomat who was also a Russian spy.

This whole episode was glossed over in the film and in fact in the film version it is John Preston played by Michael Caine who robs the safe forcing the traitor to meet with his contact.

The main story though involves a Soviet plot to destabilise NATO by causing an atomic explosion at a US Air Force base in the UK. Components for the bomb are to be smuggled into the country, set up at a safe house just by the air force base and later detonated.

Luckily, our man Preston manages to save the day.

Once again, this is an excellent read peppered with fascinating information about the workings of spies in MI5 and MI6 and also the KGB.

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The Curse of the Blank Page

Posted on by Steve Higgins

This week I’ve been experiencing that blank page syndrome; you know what I mean, you stare at the paper, or the empty laptop screen and nothing comes to mind, and the paper stays like that, blank. So in an effort to boost my creative powers I took a look back at some of my old blog posts.

I see that I started this blog page back in 2014 and my first post went out on the 23rd of May. It wasn’t anything exciting, in fact it was pretty much a sort of advertisement for my book Floating in Space which had just been published on Amazon to an overwhelming gush of cyberspatial silence.

Floating in Space was my first book and I put it together many years ago. At the time, I was writing lots of science fiction and espionage stories based on my love of television shows reflecting both those genres. I had begun to realise though that for fiction to be worthwhile it has to have a basis in real experience. All I knew about sci-fi and espionage was what I had read about or seen on TV so I started to write about myself. I wrote about the insurance company where I had worked and also the bus company where I worked later after a short trip to Europe that was supposed to last for a year but ended up covering about four weeks.

After I had compiled a few essays, I thought I could put them all together into a fictional story about a young man who packs in his job as an insurance clerk, goes to Europe and returns home penniless so gets himself a job as a bus conductor. Throw in some real life experiences and a healthy dose of fiction and the result was a short novel. I have to say that I love Floating in Space. Reading it today is like taking a trip back to my younger days and it brings back all sorts of memories and I do hope that I’ve managed to communicate that time in my life in the mobile phone free and non digital late 70s to my readers.

Floating In Space available now from Amazon!

There have been plenty of times when I’ve struggled to produce an essay or a post and I started one off a few years ago which began, pretty much like this one, in a sort of rambling fashion hoping that something would come to me. I ended up writing about some training which I had undertaken at the time. Here’s an excerpt:

I’ve been on a training course this week, a pretty interesting one but unfortunately not one I can talk about much as it relates to the data protection act and the computer misuse act and all sorts of legal stuff. Still, the training reminded me of a fairly funny training story that happened nearly ten years ago. It was when I had just started at the Highways Agency and in fact I was one of the first batch of operators to be recruited for the North West, a fact that I regularly bore my colleagues with.

The HA sent us to some establishment in Salford for an induction course and I have to say, as much as I like my job, that course was pretty dull! It was fun meeting some new people and doing some interesting team building exercises but after a while, they started to get a little boring and we were all thinking when will we be able to start learning the nuts and bolts of our jobs?

One of the exercises, and to this day I don’t know the point of it, was for us to split into twos and one member of the duo went into another room where they thought of a holiday story to tell, and the other was asked to completely ignore their partner when they returned and began to relate their story. In this instance my colleague was the storyteller and I was the ignorer! So she came back in and began her story. I polished my nails, yawned in her face, checked my watch, hummed a little tune to myself and so on. After a while some inner instinct made me turn to take a quick look at her, and it was lucky I did so because later on I reckoned I had been only a split second away from taking a hefty punch to the nose, however I was able to calm her down and explain it was all part of the exercise!

Just reading that brought lots of training memories back. We did lots of role playing at Highways in fact I had to do one during the interview for the job,. In that one I had to deal with a woman on the phone who supposedly was being chased by someone while on the motorway. I’m guessing the idea was to see if I could stay calm during stressful situations. Anyway, I managed to calm the lady down, told her the police were on the way after working out her exact location by careful questioning. I got the job so I must have done reasonably well.

Photo courtesy Highways Agency

Towards the end of the induction course, boredom had truly set in. I remember one hot afternoon in this stuffy office cum training room and the lecturer going on and on about the chain of command and how issues had to be escalated to one’s line manager and one’s line manager would escalate things further if need be. I feel rather embarrassed to admit this now but I nodded serenely off into a private world of slumber. Later, and whether it was minutes or even hours later I really don’t know but I was jolted sharply back to reality by the voice of our instructor calling my name. A sea of blank faces were looking at me so I tried to think back: What was the last thing we were talking about? Oh yes, I remember now:

“I’d escalate that to my team manager.”

“Escalate what to your team manager?”

“Well, er. . .”

I glanced over to my left, perhaps hoping for some help, but one of my new colleagues, actually the lady from the storytelling incident earlier, was looking at me in disgust. Over to my right two other colleagues were in a strange sort of state. One had gone almost purple in the face as he tried to hold in a tumult of suppressed laughter and another was covering his face and making strange noises as his shoulders pumped up and down hysterically.

Finally, the lecturer, looking at me with contempt, observed that it might be better for me if I paid attention more and moved on.

Not the finest training course but not my finest hour either.

My absolute favourite training time was something I wrote about a few weeks back, bus driver training.

In those days circa 1979, we trained in old back loader manual gearbox buses sat in a small cab at the front and steering with a huge steering wheel and having to double the clutch to change from first to second gear as those old gearboxes weren’t fully synchromeshed.

Vintage GM Bus flyer

The moment I climbed up into the cab I felt at home and I loved my time in the driving school. Every morning we used to check the bus over and top up the oil and water if required. Then our trainer would choose somewhere in the vast Greater Manchester operating area for breakfast. We might have a drive to perhaps Oldham garage or bus station. I’d start off and our trainer Bill sat behind me in the first seat. The window to the cab had been removed and Bill would give directions and off we would go. His main instruction particularly on narrower roads was to ‘ride the white line’ because our big bus needed the room, car drivers in smaller vehicles didn’t.

Bill knew all the canteen staff in all the canteens in Manchester. Sometimes we might just have tea and toast because on the next run Bill might designate Stockport as our next destination as the new canteen there always served up something good for lunch. To be honest though, I always preferred a breakfast. Back in those days the GM Buses canteens served a breakfast special which was egg, sausage, bacon, a slice of toast and a choice of either beans or tomatoes, all for a pound. My own breakfast favourite though was two eggs on two toast with beans and a sausage which is still a favourite today.

Well, I think that’s it for today’s blog post. I’m pretty pleased with myself. I started out without the faintest idea what to write and managed to write 1400+ words and I know I pinched a few from a couple of old posts but either way, I managed to break the curse of the blank page!

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Thatcher and Give Me 10 Seconds

Posted on by Steve Higgins

On holiday one of my favourite reads was an autobiography by John Sergeant who was once a political reporter for the BBC. It was called Give Me 10 Seconds. It was called this because the BBC usually had John ready to speak to the camera for perhaps two minutes. John needed to get his broadcast together in his head and would usually ask for 10 seconds for a quick mental rehearsal. The book was a particularly warm and enjoyable read and opened my eyes to the way the BBC works.The author seems to think that the BBC was built on rather military styles. Staff didn’t get holidays but instead were allocated ‘leave’. Numerous layers of management operated the BBC empire and it seemed to me to be very similar to how things operated at my old place of work, the Highways Agency.

John’s claim to fame came when he was reporting live from outside the British Embassy in Paris in November 1990. Mrs Thatcher had just heard that Michael Heseltine’s leadership challenge had garnered 152 votes in the first round of voting and while John was presenting live on television, Mrs Thatcher emerged from the embassy with her PR man Bernard Ingham by her side. Despite Mr Ingham trying to push John aside, he stood his ground and firmly held his microphone to the Prime Minister’s face while she advised everyone that her name would be going through to the second round of voting.

John’s book was a great read. He started out working with Alan Bennett as a comedy writer and performer but when he realised that he probably had no future as a tv comedian he got himself a job as a newspaper reporter in Liverpool and later moved over to the BBC as a radio reporter.

It’s actually really fascinating to hear of the rivalry between the radio news and the tv news, as back in the late 60s the radio people really didn’t have much time for their television counterparts. These days of course, television is the senior partner in news reporting and the cameras of the BBC, SKY TV and CNN take the viewer all over the world in search of news.

Even so, in recent years, people and politicians have been highly critical of the BBC not only for the way it reports but also for what it reports. I’ve seen some interviews with politicians by journalists like Jeremy Paxman which were quite frankly just disgracefully rude. Is there bias in the BBC? I personally think that the days of impartial news reporting is over but whenever something happens in the world, and I want some more information, my first thought is to go to the BBC website.

Mrs Thatcher was the first female British Prime Minister. She was born in 1925, studied chemistry at Oxford and married Denis Thatcher in 1951. She stood unsuccessfully for parliament and then settled down to have her children. Later she was finally elected in 1959 as the MP for Finchley.

Image courtesy creative commons

Mrs Thatcher was given various posts on the front bench and when the Conservatives under Edward Heath won the election in 1964, she was promoted to the Cabinet as Secretary of State for Education and Science.

The Government had to deal with numerous issues such as union demands for higher wages and the three day week and they lost the election in February 1974 but Labour could only form a minority government. They then won a later election in October that same year. Mrs Thatcher then challenged Edward Heath for the party leadership and won, taking over as leader of the opposition in 1975. She finally became Prime Minister in 1979 famously quoting the prayer of St Francis on the steps of Downing St;

Where there is discord, may we bring harmony;
Where there is error, may we bring truth;
Where there is doubt, may we bring faith;
And where there is despair, may we bring hope.

Mrs Thatcher promoted the idea of people owning their homes and even introduced policies aimed at tenants buying their own council houses. She faced up to union demands most notably with Arthur Scargill and the mining unions but became hugely popular when she stood up to the Argentinians who invaded the Falkland Islands.

She led the Conservative Party to victory in three consecutive general elections, twice in a landslide, and she ranks among the most popular party leaders in British history regarding votes cast for the winning party; over 40 million ballots were cast in total for the party under her leadership. Her electoral successes were dubbed an “historic hat trick” by the British press in 1987 and her tenure as Prime Minister was the longest continuous period in office since the 19th century.

Her downfall came in 1990 which brings us back to John Sergeant’s famous moment. Michael Heseltine decided to go ahead with his leadership challenge and Mrs Thatcher burst forth from the British Embassy in Paris to make her statement that she had passed her name forward to the next round of the contest. She had been 4 votes short of victory in the first ballot and therefore a second round was required.

Thatcher seemed certain of going forward into that second ballot but after consulting with her ministers she decided to withdraw and it was John Major and not Michael Heseltine who emerged as the new Prime Minister and leader of the Conservative Party.

Mrs Thatcher has been portrayed by numerous actresses in film and television most notably by Gillian Anderson and Meryl Streep. Streep starred as Thatcher in the film Iron Lady. She was played frequently on TV sketches and in the James Bond film For Your Eyes Only by comedian and impressionist Janet Brown.  Perhaps the most famous comedy sketch about Mrs Thatcher came on the TV show Spitting Image in which she takes the cabinet for dinner. She orders steak and the waitress asks ‘what about the vegetables?’

Thatcher looks at her cabinet and replies ‘they’ll have the same as me!’

Mrs Thatcher retired from the House of Commons at the 1992 general election. She was a Prime Minister who was loved by some and hated by others and even when she died in 2013 at the age of 87 social media memes were declaring the wicked witch is dead!

Which side of the fence are you on?

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Sadness, Memories and those Telephone Menus

Posted on by Steve Higgins

Dealing with death is difficult. Not just the emotional side of death, losing a loved one but dealing with the other side of death, the practical side, can be just as hard.

My brother died recently. He loved his TV and despite not having much money he had a top package from Virgin media. He mentioned only a few weeks before his death that he could even get the Sky F1 channel and I told him over the phone that I would be round to watch some live races. The only chance I got was actually the recent Spanish Grand Prix which wasn’t such a great race until a late safety car livened things up towards the end. Anyway, once I’d watched the race I called up Virgin to advise them that my brother had died. I must have gone through about three menus; press one for this, press two for that and so on. After menu 3 I finally got to an ‘other’ option. I clicked on that and finally there was an option for bereavement. When I went through to option 5 I think it was, the recorded voice advised me to ring a special bereavement line and quickly rattled off the number. I wasn’t expecting that so I reached for my pen expecting a repeat of the number but all I got was a thank you for your call and a dialling tone as the call was ended.

OK, I dialed again, at least I had my pen and paper ready. So, through the first menu, then the second and finally to the third. Press option 5 and the voice comes on with the phone number, I went to jot it down but the pen wouldn’t work!

Aaaagh!

After a few minutes of screaming I managed to calm down and realised that I had no choice but to go through the nightmare scenario again, this time with a working pen. I finally got the number but seriously, couldn’t they just put it on their web page; Bereavement, call this number 0800 blah blah blah. No, that’s clearly too easy. Anyway, now to repeat the process for his gas and electric, the DWP (actually pretty easy) his water rates, his insurance and of course I need to speak to the Undertakers.

My brother, despite never planning anything in his entire life actually bought himself a funeral plan. Sadly, the company he chose, One Life, went bust last year but he had even looked out for that eventuality, he had bought himself some life insurance with Sun Life which was happily linked to a funeral home.

Another annoying thing is registering the death. Despite us being in the hi-tech age of 2025 you can’t do it over the phone or online. You have to do it in person which meant a bus ride into town because cars are decidedly unwelcome these days in Manchester city centre. The other thing with the register office is that you can’t just walk in, you have to have an appointment. I made my appointment online but arrived 45 minutes early. Could they see me early? Of course not, so I went for a wander round the area and even passed a small tapas bar which many years ago was a very exclusive men’s tailors where my brother Colin had his very first job. Among the clientele were the presenters of Look North, the BBC’s local news show and Granada Reports, the ITV version. I remember Colin telling me that he once served the guy who played Alec Gilroy on Coronation Street.

Colin’s former workplace. Once a menswear shop, now a tapas bar.

His boss was a very well to do fellow who lived in Wilmslow and drove a Rolls Royce. Every morning he picked up Colin for work at a busy junction by the Bluebell pub. Colin was living at home in Handforth then and you might think that with his boss picking him up he would be keen to get up out of bed and get ready for work.

Unfortunately, Colin just could not get out of bed in the morning. My mother told me that she used to throw a pan of cold water in his face to get him up but even so, he usually arrived at work round about lunchtime. His boss wasn’t happy at being left waiting and Colin was given his p45.

The coroner had already sent all the relevant info to the register office so all they really needed from me was a signature which I signed with the registrar’s old fashioned fountain pen.

Here’s a funny thing about death, the way things come around again. The vinyl albums that he and I argued over for instance, we swapped records, swapped back again and swapped back and forth so many times neither of us knew who finally owned what. Well, now all those vinyls have come back to me. Not only those but the audio tapes I was going to throw away, Colin took them and now they’ve come back too, as well as the copy of High Noon, the 1950 film starring Gary Cooper. I lent it to him ages ago and he told me he’d given it me back. I said he hadn’t but he insisted he didn’t have it. Either way, it’s come back to me again.

I took the bus into Manchester as I mentioned earlier. At one point we were stopped at a set of traffic lights and I looked up to see what appeared to be Colin crossing the road. A man looking just like him with his identical walk and his identical leather jacket was crossing and I was convinced it was him until he looked up straight at me and I realised that of course, it was someone else.

Later on, sipping a half of lager at a pavement pub table in Albert Square, a woman came past pushing one of those granny trolleys that old ladies push and she was the absolute image of my mother. I remember thinking that all I needed now was to see my dad. I scrutinised lots of people as I travelled back home on the bus and finally, I spotted someone who looked a little like dad. I convinced myself the man was the perfect double of my late father but when it came down to it, I knew he wasn’t. Death just messes with your head I suppose but, in a way, I felt that I had seen my entire family that day.

I tried to think of the last time we were all together and it was probably some occasion years ago when I visited home on a Sunday and we all ate Sunday dinner together. The time that came to mind though was a birthday. Perhaps it was my birthday but me, Colin and Mum and Dad, all met together in a pub on the border of Manchester and Salford called the Mark Addy. The pub was situated on the banks of the Irwell and at lunchtimes they served rather nice portions of either pate or cheese with plenty of fresh bread. It was a sunny afternoon and it was rather warm so I rather suspect it was my father’s birthday as his birthday was in August.

Some years ago, the Mark Addy was flooded when the river burst its banks. The insurers declined to insure it again and the pub has remained closed ever since but I often think about it and that last sunny afternoon we all spent together.

One last sad story. Years ago my brother had a dutch girlfriend named Inge. He has kept in touch with her and while I was sorting out his flat I came across a framed picture of Inge. She is one of my Facebook friends so I sent her a photo of the picture and we messaged each other for a while and talked about Colin. A little later she told me that she had had an online meeting with someone in the USA and during the meeting the woman’s three-year-old son came into the room. When the meeting was over the woman introduced the boy to Inge. She asked the boy to say goodbye to Inge and he did so. Inge asked his name and he told her.

She turned to the boy and said “goodbye Colin.”

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A Genie Called Ralph. Fiction by Steve Higgins

Posted on by Steve Higgins

Normally, I tend to republish my WordPress posts on Medium. This week I’ve been a little too busy to write something new so I thought I’d republish one of my Medium posts on WordPress.

What can you say when a genie called Ralph offers you three wishes? How about ‘yes please!’

This was my first holiday since last year. I had been working hard at my day job as a content creator for a bank as well as my own website The Left-Handed Blogger. My girlfriend had left me for another man and the weather was cold.

I was feeling a little down to say the least so I had surfed the internet and found a cheap(ish) flight to Bermuda. It had been a long journey and on arriving at my hotel I had changed into shorts and a T shirt and popped down to the bar. On the patio I ordered a large beer and settled down to enjoy the warm weather.

I scanned through my phone to see what was happening in Barbados and to maybe find where would be a good place to eat but the local news was all about some Mexican drug baron, Emiliano Montoya, who had turned up on the island. I scrolled past all that and was pleased to find some good reviews about the restaurant in the very hotel where I was staying.

I finished my beer and decided that there was plenty of time for a swim before dinner.

I dropped my bag and towel down on the beach, took one look at the blue sea and ran towards it. I swam for a while and then turned back to the beach. I dropped down on my towel and let the sun dry my body. I started to think about my blog. I wondered if my blog readers were wondering why my regular posts had dried up. Then again perhaps no one had noticed. After a while I dropped off to sleep. Like I say, I had worked hard; at least six months of eleven-hour days and I was tired.

When I awoke, I was annoyed with myself. I had turned to my side and already I could feel my right-hand side burning in the sun. Oh well, no matter. I just need to make sure to tan the other side too.

I pulled a bottle of water from my bag and stood up. I was feeling better already and I looked around at the fairly quiet beach and then back towards my towel. My foot touched on something and I looked down and buried there in the sand was a bottle. It had a sort of old world look about it. I wondered if it might be something valuable and I dug it out of the sand. It had what I thought was a sort of oriental look about it. It was heavy with a bulbous onion sort of shape with a handle and it was still corked. An old wine bottle perhaps.

I sat down on my towel and pulled on the cork and after a while it popped out and a huge spurt of smoke or gas poured out. After a few seconds the smoke began to pull together and it seemed to congeal into the shape of a man.

I fell back into the sand and as I looked up, the smoke became an Arab man in a turban and a baggy silk outfit. He looked a little stunned and began shouting in some sort of Arab language. After a while he noticed me but I couldn’t understand a word. After an age I recovered myself and said something totally stupid like ‘who are you?’ and he looked back at me in amazement.

‘Master’, he said in English. ‘You have freed me from imprisonment. Who are you? What is your name?’

“George”, I mumbled. “George Ferguson.”

“George, thank you for my freedom. Free to breathe the air again, free to feel the warmth of the sun. Where are we?”

“Barbados” I said, still not really believing what was happening.

“George, I am a genie, imprisoned in that bottle in a time when the earth was young. Let me grant you three wishes. Master, what is your first wish?”

Three wishes? He has got to be joking I thought. Where is the camera? Who is filming this mad stunt for Instagram or TikTok?

Without thinking I blurted out “Twenty thousand pounds!”

The genie looked at me as if I’d had said twenty thousand fish fingers. He thought for a while and then said “Master, I need to understand this new world. I will come back to you soon and grant your wish.”

With that he held his hands together in a pose of prayer, nodded thoughtfully to me and promptly burst into a cloud of smoke or steam and vanished.

I stood there stunned for a few moments. Nothing seemed to be moving around me and then slowly I could see movement and hear the sound of the waves lapping at the shore, the voices of children playing and the shouts and chatter of people at the beach.

What a daydream! A daydream so real it was almost untrue. Perhaps it was! What was that type of dream I had read about lately? A lucid dream. A dream that feels so vivid it could be real, of course, that was it! A lucid dream. Wow!

I laughed to myself then stepped forward towards the sea and my bare foot touched the bottle, the onion shaped bottle from where the genie had come. That had been the catalyst, the thing that had started the dream. It was a dream, surely.

Back at the hotel I went up to my room and took a shower. I was thirsty and after towelling myself dry I popped on a robe and walked towards the small cooler in the lounge and took out a bottle of water. I was still thinking about that daydream and wondering why on earth did I ask for 20,000 pounds? Why didn’t I say 100,000 or even a million? I laughed to myself but as I drank from my bottle it seemed as though there was a little steam or smoke in the hallway. The smoke became thicker and then coalesced into a man. It was the genie again but this time he was dressed in a light blue jacket, a white shirt and faded blue jeans.

“George” he said. I stumbled back and fell onto the bed. It wasn’t a dream, it really wasn’t.

“Call me Ralph,” said the genie.

“Ralph?” I asked.

“Yes, I decided that from now on that’s the name I’m going to use. I like it, I don’t know why but I just like it. What do you think of the clothes?”

“Great” I mumbled.

“It’s 2025 George. I can’t go around wearing that old stuff anymore. The world has changed, so very much.”

Ralph did a sort of twirl showing off his outfit. He did look pretty smart.

“Anyway, I can’t hang around here for ever. I came to sort out your first wish, here it is. He turned and picked up a black attaché case and handed it to me. I placed it on the bed and flipped open the lid. Inside was a series of crisp pound notes.

“Twenty thousand?” I asked.

“Of course, twenty thousand pounds, just as you wished.”

“Is it real money?”

“Of course it’s real. Although in my day we preferred gold but this is your day and things are so very different.”

He looked a little sad for a moment. Perhaps he was remembering his own time and place whenever that was.

“Now, your next wish. What is it?”

“Well, I’ve not really thought about it. I thought that -I thought this might have been just a dream.”

“Times change but people do not. Even in my century people were sceptical, people did not believe in me. But I have many places to see, many things to do. You have asked for money, not as much as I might have imagined but money nevertheless. Your next wish will probably involve power or women, which is it to be?”

I thought for a moment but the genie anticipated me.

“What sort of woman do you desire. Tall and blonde? A nice figure and an ample bosom.” He laughed and went on. “Those are the attributes that men seem to desire in this modern world.”

I sat down on the bed and smiled. “Yes, a woman like that but madly in love with me, the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Wait, wait, whatever you may think, I am not the master of this world, just a small part of it. I would have to bring that particular woman halfway across the world to this place, how would she react? What would she think? What about the most beautiful woman on the island, would that please you George?”

“Yes, yes I think it would.” We might have been talking about a particular shade of wallpaper or a colour scheme for my lounge.

The genie smiled, “That then is your wish?”

“Yes genie, I wish to meet a beautiful blonde, the most beautiful on the island.”

Ralph jumped to his feet. “Your wish is granted but please, please George . .”

“What?”

“Please call me Ralph. I need to reinvent myself, to change myself to fit into this new world that you have opened up for me.”

“Thanks, Ralph.”

“Thank you, George. You wish will come true soon, in the meantime think about your final wish.”

“I will” I answered but even as I spoke his body had broken up into a swirl of steam and smoke and in a moment, I was alone once again.

Later I dressed and went down to the hotel restaurant. I asked for a table but was told they could not fit me in until 8:15. I glanced at my watch, it was 7:30 and I wished that I had booked. Oh well!

I ordered a drink at the bar, a gin and tonic and just then a really lovely woman came in. She was wearing a flowery sort of dress and had dark hair. It looked as though she was wanting a table for dinner too. She ordered a drink and smiled at me and for a moment it looked as though she recognised me from somewhere. Lovely as she was, I didn’t know her but then another woman came to the bar. She was tall and blonde and wore a short black dress. She had a gold necklace around her neck and a gold bangle on her wrist. She too gave me a smile and I began to wonder, would this be the tall blonde that I had wished for? I mean, how would the wish work? Would a beautiful blonde just appear in my room or somewhere? What actually would happen? To be honest I was still partly expecting someone with a camera to pop up and announce that I had been part of a TV or internet wind up.

The blonde had ordered a drink and seemed to be saying something; was she talking to me?

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just having a little moan. I’m so hungry and I forgot to book a table. I didn’t think it would be necessary.”

She spoke English with an American accent and I asked if she was from the USA.

“No,” she replied. “I’m from Mexico but I have spent a lot of time in the USA. You are English?”

“Yes, over here on holiday. As a matter of fact, I only arrived earlier today.”

“I came here for a business deal with a colleague but it didn’t work out.”

I took a sip of my gin. She had hesitated before the word ‘colleague’ and I registered it for a split second but didn’t think about it further as she was smiling at me as if I was George Clooney or someone. She was very lovely, was she the one? Was she the beautiful blonde I had requested? Was she madly in love with me?

She did seem to be looking at me with a certain sort of affection, unless I was imagining it.

Anyway, we chatted and seemed to be getting along well. She told me her name was Lucianna and after a while the subject turned on to food. Tired of waiting for a table we went out for a taxi and asked the driver where we could get some good Caribbean food.

We ate together and came back to the hotel and after a few drinks it almost seemed as if we were old friends.

I awoke the next morning still tired. Something was under my arm and I could feel lots of hair. When I looked Lucianna was pressed against me and my arm was under her neck. I could smell her hair which smelt of shampoo and I realised I was full of the spent ardour of passion. I turned towards her and she moved closer, her eyes still closed and kissed me gently.

“I love you George,” she said. Why had I asked the genie -Ralph- for a girl madly in love with me? A girl who liked me would have been enough. Perhaps liked me a lot might have been better but not madly in love with me. In the world of genies and wishes there was a steep learning curve. Two million and not twenty thousand. A girl who liked me a lot rather than a girl who is madly in love with me. I should have thought about my wishes more, thought them through after all, at some point Ralph is going to return and grant me a third wish, my last wish and I need to get that one right.

I wondered if Lucianna was staying in this hotel, she must be surely. How can I get rid of her?

“Lucianna,” I whispered gently, “do you need to get back to your own room? You know, sort yourself out, change your clothes and stuff?”

“No senor. No. I am planning to stay right by your side for ever and ever. The moment I saw you I knew you were the man for me. I am going to ask Emiliano for a divorce straight away. Well soon, after more loving from my man.”

What did she say? Did she say divorce?

“You’re married?” I asked.

“I told you. That useless idiot of a husband. He doesn’t need me and I don’t want to be around when his fellow drug lords bump each other off.”

“His fellow drug lords?”

Wait, wait a minute. What was that on the news yesterday? The drug baron who has come to the Caribbean?

“Your husband is . . .Emiliano Montoya?”

“That’s him and it’s only a matter of time before the Americans arrest him or someone in the cartel shoots him.”

Just then there was a knock at the door.

“Have you ordered breakfast?” asked Lucianna. “Just coffee and orange juice for me and perhaps a slice of wholemeal toast.”

“I haven’t ordered breakfast” I said.

“I hope it isn’t Emiliano. He isn’t at his best in the mornings, it might be better for me to see him later. Wait, don’t let him know I’m here!”

With that she jumped out of the bed and ran to the bathroom in a blur of nakedness. I watched her as I pulled on a robe and went to answer the door and she whispered frantically “don’t let him in!”

I opened the door not really expecting the apparently famous drug dealer but standing there was a smartly dressed Hispanic man. He wore a smart jacket and shirt, in fact his outfit was remarkably similar to the clothes that Ralph was now wearing.

“Senor,” said the man politely. He had a huge moustache and a swarthy pockmarked complexion and said that he was sorry to be bothering me.

“I had something of an altercation with my wife last night, Lucianna, and the staff mentioned that you had a drink with her at the bar last night. She has a terrible temper but she usually calms down quickly and comes back to me. Last night she didn’t so naturally I’m a little worried. Is she with you, senor?”

“With me?” I put on my best surprised look. “Oh no. I did have a drink with her, at the bar. She might have mentioned something about an argument, I don’t remember.”

“Did you have dinner with her?”

“Dinner?”

“Yes, but please don’t misunderstand me senor, I am not angry or hurt. I want the best for Lucianna, always. She is a headstrong woman and we have many arguments but of course, when she comes back, I will love her all the more. She is the love of my life.”

I was really just thinking about what to say next when the bathroom door opened and Lucianna stormed out in a robe screaming and shouting in Spanish. After a great monologue which went on for quite a while she reverted to English and started again;

“The love of your life? The love of your life. That’s fine, that’s rich coming from a bum like you. Did you say that to that woman in the bar in Los Angeles? What about that other whore, the one who you say comes only to clean your house?”

With that she screamed and set about the man slapping and punching him. He grabbed her arms and threw her onto the bed. He slapped her hard and she fell back, momentarily quiet.

“This is how you repay me? I work my fingers to the bone; I risk life and limb to earn us a good living and I find you in the bedroom of this gringo!”

Montoya turned to me -the gringo- I suppose.

“And what have you to say senor, stealing my wife, seducing her?”

I didn’t have to do much seducing but I didn’t say that and then as I stood there, slightly stunned, Montoya opened his jacket and produced a pistol. Lucianna screamed and made a grab for the gun but he caught her with a huge back handed slap and she fell back on the bed. All I could think of then in my terrified state was to shout for Ralph.

“Ralph, Ralph!” I called, hoping that perhaps my genie could save me and just then Emiliano and his wife froze. I stepped back in amazement and suddenly there was Ralph.

“George, what on earth is happening?”

“Genie, Ralph, you’ve got to do something. This maniac is trying to kill me!”

“Times change but people do not. Men fighting over women, women fighting over men. I’ve seen it all before, a thousand times over.”

“Ralph, you’ve got to help me.”

“George what can I do?”

“I wish, I wish everything was back to how it was before. .”

Wait a minute George, calm down. Do I really mean that? I was scared for a minute but now, perhaps I just need a minute to get myself together.

Anyway, it was too late. I opened my eyes and I was lying on the beach. I jumped straight up and saw my bag and towel were still there and the sea was just as blue as it was yesterday. I ran towards it and jumped in. I swam for a while just to freshen myself up and then came back to the sand and dried myself with the towel. Wow, what a dream! I took a bottle of water from my bag and drank it all down. I stood there for a minute and took in the birds and the waves and the chatter of people further down. I found myself looking down for the genie’s bottle but this time I couldn’t see it.

Later, back at the hotel I called down and booked a table for dinner then took a shower and dressed. In the bar I was told that my table would be ready in a few minutes so I ordered a gin and tonic. Just then a really lovely woman came in. She was wearing a flowery sort of dress and had dark hair. It looked as though she was wanting a table for dinner too. She ordered a drink and smiled at me and for a moment it looked as though she recognised me from somewhere. Lovely as she was, I didn’t know her. I wanted to talk to her but I wasn’t sure what to say. She smiled again and came over.

“Sorry to bother you” she said. “Do you happen to be a writer, an internet writer?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I am.”

“I think I’ve read your blogs. The Left-Handed Blogger? Is that you?”

I laughed. “Yes, I’ve never been recognised before. How did you know it was me?”

“You have a little picture on your page.”

“That picture is ancient and it looks nothing like me.”

“It was just the way you were standing, just like in the picture. I usually read your blog every week but last week there wasn’t one.”

“Yes, I’ve had a few problems lately with the blog.”

“What sort of problems?”

“Well,” I took a sip from my drink and the waiter came over to say my table was ready.

“Would you care to join me and I’ll tell you all about it?”

“Well,” she said. “I am hungry . .”

What to do next: Here are a few options.

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Click here to visit amazon and purchase Timeline, my new anthology.