Tag Archives: humour

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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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 . .”

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10 Classic TV Ads

Posted on by Steve Higgins

Don’t you just hate TV adverts? I certainly do. There are those times when a TV advert comes in useful I suppose. Perhaps when you are watching a good film and you need to make a cup of tea or pop to the toilet. These days in the hi tech world of TV, most people are able to pause live TV and do those things anyway. I wouldn’t mind if the TV adverts were actually worth watching but these days of course they aren’t. Anyway, here are 6 classic TV ads of yesteryear that I think are rather good. Here we go . .

1.

This is an advert for Strongbow cider featuring Johnny Vaughn, who you might remember as fronting the Channel 4 breakfast show many years ago, and Jerry Hall. Jerry was an American model and was once upon a time involved with Bryan Ferry and then Mick Jagger. It’s a fun advert that has always made me laugh.

2.

A particular favourite of mine is the Ford Puma advert from 1997 featuring Steve McQueen. McQueen of course passed away from cancer in 1969 so how did he feature in the ad? Well, filmmakers shot footage of the Ford Puma in modern San Francisco and digitally inserted McQueen into the driving seat using footage from his 1968 film Bullitt. The result was a stylish short TV ad recreating a scene from the original feature film.

3.

An old TV advert I always used to enjoy involved an old guy trying to trace a copy of a secondhand book; Fly Fishing by J R Hartley. He eventually finds a copy and the book seller asks his name. “J R Hartley” he replies. What were they advertising? Yellow Pages! Strangely enough some bright spark – actually author Michael Russell – produced a spoof book; Fly Fishing by J R Hartley which became a best seller and prompted two additional sequels.

4.

Probably the funniest classic TV ads are the ones with Leonard Rossiter and Joan Collins which are promotions for Cinzano. They actually made 10 TV commercials between 1978 and 1983 which all ended with a glass of Cinzano getting spilled all over Joan.

Rossiter had a successful theatre career but is best remembered for his portrayal of the seedy landlord Rigsby in TV’s Rising Damp, still shown regularly on UK TV. Joan Collins has had a long career in TV and films including a spell in the USA starring in the TV series Dynasty. This year, 2025, she is due to portray Wallis Simpson in a new film production. Leonard Rossiter died in 1984 aged 57.

5.

A great advertising series were those for Boddingtons beer. I used to love a pint of ‘Boddies’ as we used to call it but then the brewery was taken over by another company (Whitbread, I think) and the Boddingtons bitter they produced was really not like the original Boddingtons at all. Anyway, back in the 1990s a series of adverts were produced starring Melanie Sykes speaking in a broad Manchester accent.

6.

My particular favourite Boddingtons ad was this one that starts off in Venice but ends up somewhere in Manchester.

7.

Bolton comedian Peter Kaye featured in a series of ads for John Smiths beer. Can’t say I was that keen, then or now, on John Smiths beer but the adverts were good.

8.

A great favourite for many people were the puppet ‘aliens’ used in an advert for Smash which was a powdered version of mashed potatoes. You just added liquid I presume but personally, I’m happy peeling and boiling my potatoes to make mash just as I have always done.

9.

In 2018 Elton John featured in a Christmas commercial for top end store John Lewis. According to Wikipedia there is a regular Christmas ad for the store every year. I’ve clearly missed the others but I always thought the Elton John one was pretty special.

10.

I’m going to finish with this one advertising another beer, this time Heineken. Bryan Pringle plays a sort of latter day Professor Higgins trying to teach a very well spoken lady, the exotically named Sylvestra le Touzel, to speak cockney. Bryan Pringle featured in a number of films and numerous sitcoms from the 70s to the 90s. He died in 2002.

What were your favourite TV ads?

Those were my 10 TV ads but just before I go to press I thought I’d add one final one. I know I said earlier that modern ads are just not as good these days but I recently spotted this one in which Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal were asked to recreate that famous scene from When Harry met Sally. (I’ll have what she’s having!)

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Drive Time

Posted on by Steve Higgins

I thought I’d write about cars this week. Then I added a story about my old motorbike and then one about my Mercedes van so my original title of Car Stories went out of the window. A quick change of title to Drive Time and so, let’s get started.

It took me three attempts to pass my driving test. Still, it was difficult for me. We had no family car. I doubt if we could have afforded one even if my father had been able to drive. That meant that when I had my driving lesson of just an hour a week, by the time the next week came around I was almost back to square one again. I failed my test twice and then bought a motor bike. It was a Honda 125cc trail bike. I loved it but the day it was delivered my brother and I went to see Paul McCartney and Wings at the Free Trade Hall in Manchester and the two young lads who came to deliver it were unable to give me the starter lesson they had promised.

That meant many weeks bumbling about on my own in an effort to learn how to ride a motorcycle. I knew the basics, in theory, and I used to ride out of the estate, turn left and keep going left until I ended up back at home. Now I think about it, I had a number of scary escapades learning to ride that bike. Anyway, when I passed my motorcycle test that enabled me to drive a three wheeler car so I sold the bike and bought a three wheeler. I was able to build on the lessons from my instructor by practising in my little car until I finally passed my test.

I’m probably pushed to tell you the registration number of my current car but PDB 71M, the VRM (Vehicle Registration Mark) of my Bond Bug, my very first car, is still firmly anchored in my old memory bank. The Bond Bug was a sporty little three wheeler car and as I mentioned above, I could drive the Bug on my motorbike licence.

It was actually a pretty eye catching car for a three wheeler. It had no doors but the roof lifted up to gain access and the side windows were plastic held on by Velcro. I always remember bringing it home and showing it off to my family with a certain amount of pride and my Dad looking at it and saying “How are we all going to get into that?” Perhaps he thought I was going to take us all away for a holiday!

Still, we had some nice times, me and the Bond Bug but then one cold and snowy Christmas I decided to chance going out to a Christmas party in the car even though it was losing coolant. I topped it up with water and went off for a night of Christmas cheer. I walked home sensibly, I might add, but when I returned the next day I found that the car had frozen overnight and it ended up having to have an engine rebuild. That was a pretty expensive night out! Later when I passed my driving test I got myself a proper car.

I’m pretty happy with my current car generally. It’s a Skoda Scout with 147 thousand miles on the clock. But even so, it has never let me down.

My previous car was a Renault Megane convertible and I used to like being just a bit of a poser, driving round when it was sunny with the roof down and looking generally pretty cool what with my leather seats and my shades but you do get those days when things go wrong. I remember once setting off for work, top down and shades on and then just as I joined the M6 motorway the sun disappeared behind a mass of rain clouds and soon it was pouring down. Luckily I managed to get to the services and pop the roof back on.

I always wanted to take the Renault over to France and tour the Loire with the top down. Sadly the roof folded into the boot which meant that there was no where to store the gallons of French wine we tend to bring back to the UK. Pity!

Back in the 1990’s I used to have a Mercedes. Actually it was a Mercedes Sprinter Van and it wasn’t mine although it was for my use pretty much exclusively. I worked for a cigarette company and the van was a company vehicle which I used on my round, filling cigarette machines in Liverpool and collecting their cash takings.

Liverpool could be a dangerous area to be driving about with a van full of cigarettes and cash so I tended to start work early. The cleaning staff in plenty of the pubs in my area of Liverpool started work early so I used to visit them first. In some of them I went in, filled the machine, extracted the takings and gave it a quick clean before heading for my next pub. My busiest day was in Huyton. In one of the pubs the cleaners usually stopped for tea and crumpets about 11 and when I got to know them the head cleaner, a lady called Marge, asked me to give her a call when I was on my way so I’d arrive just at the right time. I used to spend ages in that pub, chatting, drinking tea and munching on toast or crumpets.

It always used to be that the top prize on a TV gameshow, especially in the heyday of the game show in the 80s, was a car; a brand new top of the range family car. The motor car is probably one of the great status symbols of our time and also one of those things that give us unprecedented freedom, certainly compared to our ancestors. Turn the clock back to the 1950s. If people wanted to get out and about and enjoy the great outdoors on a bank holiday, the only way to travel was by bus or train. Yes, public transport was crammed with people in those days, all on their way to enjoy the great British seaside destinations.

Today, we are free of all those past restrictions, no waiting for trains or buses. It’s just a simple matter to pop outside, start up the motor and you’re off. The only restriction is probably traffic congestion. How many of us spend our bank holidays stuck in some traffic jam that clogs up the roads to the holiday hotspots?

Traffic can be a nightmare in the UK but then when you consider the densely populated nature of the UK it’s hardly surprising. That’s why I just love driving on the roads of France. OK, Paris may be just like driving in the UK, if not worse but out in the country in departments like the Loire, Brittany and Burgundy the auto route and the A roads are just a joy to drive on. Forget also the drab overpriced service areas in the UK. In France it’s so nice to drive into an ‘aire’ as they call them, a lovely picnic area with toilets and picnic tables. How often have Liz and I stopped at one of these delightful places and opened our sandwiches and bottles of water to find a French couple stop at the next picnic table, cover it with a table cloth and open a hamper the size of a house complete with wine, salad, cold meats and God only knows what else.

Our motorhome parked by one of my favourite lakes in France.

It’s relatively easy in the UK to drive over to France on the ‘shuttle’. A quick trip to Folkestone, drive onto the train, handbrake on and off we chug down and under the channel.  Thirty minutes later and we are driving off in Calais. Sometimes I think about my old Bond Bug and wonder if I could have made that journey in that car. Perhaps but I don’t think it would have been quite as comfortable.

Here’s one final Drive Time story. I’d had my Skoda for quite a few years and as usual it was packed with CDs. I had them in the glove box, in the doors and I had various boxes of CDs in the passenger footwell and the boot which I’d rotate every so often. One day I noticed a small slot in the front of the stereo. Was that a slot for a memory card? Yes it was! Now it just so happens that all the music I have copied and digitised I have already placed on a micro SD card for my MP3 player. I copied all that to a standard size SD card, popped it into my stereo and now I can listen to my entire music collection without changing CDs, without rotating boxes of CDs, without having the car jam packed with CDs. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. OK, I’d have to copy all the newer CDs in my collection that I hadn’t already transferred to the SD card but even so, I still have a huge collection of music on that card, all of which I like and all advertisement free.

The only thing is, what shall I do with all those CDs now?

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4 Funerals and a Pork Pie

Posted on by Steve Higgins

One of my favourite memes and one I often post on Twitter (or X or whatever the hell it is called these days) is a quote attributed to John Lennon, and what it says is this; Time you enjoyed wasting was not wasted. I kind of like that quote and it’s one that I often think about when I’m pottering about either reading, watching TV or surfing the internet.

Having the odd day just pottering about is good for the soul and for me, an opportunity to indulge in numerous cups of tea and sandwiches. I really do like my sandwiches.

Last week Liz and I went to a funeral and I suppose I’m at the age now (let’s just say mid-sixties) when I tend to see more funerals than weddings.

I can’t say I knew John, the deceased, particularly well and I was surprised to find that he was a foundling, abandoned as a baby and never knowing his birth family.

The service was good and in fact the vicar struck what I thought was the perfect note, not too sad and not too light hearted. John’s son by a first marriage was brought up in Canada and he seemed a very pleasant fellow recounting stories of the fishing adventures he and his father had in Canada.

The first ever funeral I went to was my Uncle Raymond’s. Raymond was my favourite uncle and the most wonderful guy. When I first started work when I was sixteen, going on seventeen, I used to get off my bus, the 152, at the Bluebell pub in Handforth after coming home from work in Manchester and Uncle Ray was there, waiting for the pub to open. Inside he chatted to everyone, the staff, punters he had never met before and at the drop of a hat would produce the photographs from his recent cruise showing him and my Auntie Elsie sat at the captain’s table. He would come back home with us, have dinner and then take my dad out to finish the evening off.

When he died his funeral cortège took a detour past the British Legion, one of his numerous watering holes, and the staff and customers came outside to pay tribute as his coffin passed slowly by.

The funeral was sad and tearful and the wake was pretty similar. A lot of sad people, a lot of tears and my dad, who had probably lost his best friend, was devastated. I was driving that day and was asked to run some long forgotten relative home. I did so and returned a short while later. Only twenty minutes or so had passed but when I returned, I returned to a happy, noisy, enjoyable party, full of laughter and fun. I don’t know what had happened in the twenty minutes I had been gone but I came back to exactly the sort of party that my Uncle Ray would have loved.

When my Gran died the funeral service was held in Marple, I’m not sure why as it was nowhere near where my Gran lived or was buried. The journey from there to Southern Cemetery in Manchester was for me, a masterpiece of motor car management, juggling with high water temperature and having to dive into a garage to top up my car with water.

At the graveside I noticed my dad making signs to the two grave diggers and after the coffin had slipped into the ground and the final words of the vicar had faded, my dad, a former grave-digger in years gone by, had a happy and joyful reunion with two of his old co-workers, much to the dismay of my mother who stood with me and cried her heart out. (Not your finest moment, dad.) At least he thought better of introducing her to his friends which I thought he was going to do at one point.

Funerals are odd things; in a way they are not for the dead but for the living, those left behind after a loved one has died and I have to say, not only did I enjoy my mother’s funeral, although enjoy is not perhaps the right word, but it helped me more than anything to say goodbye to her.

Back to this more recent funeral and as the drinks began to flow the sadness of the occasion seemed to ebb away. The only really disappointing issue was that the funeral was scheduled for 9:30am which for someone, who since retiring no longer has to get up early, was a bit of a challenge.

The buffet was served at 12 on the dot and despite there being quite a considerable gathering there was no concerted rush for the food in fact I was the one of the first to get up. I really do love funeral food. A buffet is comprised of pretty much everything I love, pork pies, sausage rolls and of course sandwiches. There were my two favourites, cheese and ham and there were also some rather nice cheese and tomato pizza slices. The tuna sandwiches were not my cup of tea at all so I avoided them like the plague. Still there were plenty of other delights for me including a lemon drizzle cake for afters.

A pork pie selection: Terry Kearney, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

A few years ago, I went with Liz to another funeral in Lytham. I felt distinctly out of place, an intruder even, as I did not know either the deceased or his family. There was however, a rather nice buffet which, under the circumstances, I felt it was important to do justice to. The world is full of wonderful food and some outstanding cuisines but I do think that there is nothing nicer than a pork pie. Some moist pork, some jelly, all encased in pastry, what could be nicer?

On that particular occasion the widow had seriously underestimated the demand for food and I did feel a little mean when I grabbed the last pork pie moments before a teary-eyed lady in black appeared and eyed the empty plate somewhat wistfully.

When I was introduced to her later, I could see from her expression she was trying to place me. As I smiled and offered condolences I saw the moment of realisation, and I almost heard her say in her mind ‘I recognise him- he’s the bugger who took the last pork pie!’

Some elements of this post came from a previous one so apologies to regular readers if it sounds familiar.

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Becoming Joe Biden

Posted on by Steve Higgins

It was a Saturday afternoon, July 20th when I really thought about becoming Joe Biden. It started out as me just wondering about the man himself, 81 and wanting to embark upon another four years as president. 81? Bloody hell, relax man, leave it to some younger guy I thought.

Me, I’m only 42 but even I think about taking things easier, especially after that fall from my bike the other day. I do a lot of cycling. I do a short run every evening after work and at the weekends I take a good run over the cycle track through the local woods but this one occasion I decided to go out on a Wednesday, all because Paula my wife had gone out to some curry night and left me alone. Well, I cycled round the woodland track and a tree branch caught in the spokes of my wheel and tipped me right over onto the deck. I took a bit of a whack to the head and I’ve bruised my left thigh but other than that I’m ok. Good job I was wearing a helmet.

Anyway, back to Joe Biden. In case you didn’t know, he’s president of the USA. Theoretically the most powerful man in the world and as I lay back on the settee I wondered if, not only what would it be like to be Joe Biden but also if I could actually be Joe Biden. You know, become him, actually beam myself, my spirit, my being into his body and actually become Joe Biden.

I hope I haven’t lost you there. I know it’s a mad crazy concept but for some reason I thought that somehow, I could actually do it. Maybe it was that whack to the head but lying back on the couch on that sunny Saturday afternoon I set about doing it, actually projecting my persona into the body of President Biden. What would it be like I wondered?

So after a while I opened my eyes and to my great surprise, there I was in the oval office. It was actually more circular than oval. The carpet was a pale blue and the presidential seal was there. I was sitting behind my desk and I was tired despite waking up from a very comfortable nap. An assistant came in and she asked if there was anything that I wanted. I said yes, a cup of tea and a slice of buttered toast.

The assistant, a young woman in a dark business suit looked at me oddly. ‘What was that Mr President’ she asked.

“Tea and a slice of buttered toast if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all Mr President,” she said.

She went out and a man came in. He had a list of stuff he was reading, a sort of itinerary but I wasn’t really listening. Instead, I was thinking about what I could do on my first day as the president. After a little thought I decided that I would really like a helicopter ride. After all, the president does have a helicopter.

“I’d like a trip in the helicopter” I said.

“Mr President?”

“Yes, could you arrange that? We do have a helicopter, don’t we?”

“Well you are scheduled to be going off to Camp David this afternoon, in Marine One.”

“Marine One?”

“The presidential helicopter.”

“Of course. What time are we going?”

“Three pm Mr President.”

“Three pm. Fine. Good work.”

President Joe Biden poses for his official portrait Wednesday, March 3, 2021, in the Library of the White House. (Official White House Photo by Adam Schultz)

About this same time back in a small village in Lancashire in northern England, Joe Biden, the real Joe Biden had woken up from a nap in the oval office to find himself in my body, the body of Simon Harkness, a civil servant aged 42 who worked for the ministry of transport.

Joe was naturally a little confused at first, I mean there he was, the president sitting in the Oval Office, he takes a nap and finds himself in Lancashire, England. I mean, he was bound to be confused, wasn’t he?

Joe was on the couch and jumped to his feet. His surroundings were strange but not only that, he felt fitter and  stronger than he had felt for a very long time. He didn’t realise it at the time but he was an 81 year old man suddenly thrust into the body of a 42 year old. The difference was just amazing and apart from a little pain in his left thigh and what he later learned was some severe bruising, he actually felt fitter than he had felt for years.

Just then his, I mean my, wife entered the scene. She was due to go off to visit her sister and she came in chattering about the cheese sandwich she had made me and the left over casserole that only needed reheating in the microwave later.

“Who are you?” asked Joe/me.

“What?” said Paula.

Back in Washington I was getting ready to board Marine One, the presidential helicopter and I was rather enjoying it. A great many military men were saluting me and I was of course saluting back, I was the commander in chief after all.

We were all seated and ready to go.

“OK what are we waiting for?” I asked.

One of the officers looked a little pale and answered, “The First Lady, sir.”

The first lady? Of course, Biden’s wife. Now what was her name? Jill, I think.

After a while a woman came aboard and sat down and I realised it was her, Joe’s wife. She looked a little younger than Joe and soon we were buckled up and ready for take off.

In Lancashire Joe had quietly informed my wife that in fact he was Joe Biden, president of the USA and he was wondering what had happened.

“Is this something to do with that silly blog that you write Simon?”

Joe looked a little confused and before he could answer Paula told him about the sandwich and if he was eating it in the lounge to make sure he didn’t drop crumbs everywhere.

“By the way, I’ve left you a cup of tea on the kitchen table. I’m off now. Don’t forget you’re playing darts at the pub at 6.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any coffee,” said Joe.

“Don’t be silly. You know we don’t drink coffee in this house.”

She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and was gone. Joe walked through into the kitchen and took a bite of the sandwich. It was good but a corned beef on rye would have been better.

Over at Camp David I was trying to think about something I could do to help out in the world. Maybe I could call Mr Netanyahu and sort something out about Gaza. Then there was the war in the Ukraine. Was it worth calling Putin and trying to make him see sense? The thing was they had one of those really huge HD TV screens over at Camp David and I settled down to watch some US TV.

Some aide wanted to talk about the re-election campaign and I mentioned that it was a shame that in such a huge and diverse nation the best candidates were two old men who were both past it. What America needed was a younger candidate, someone like, well that woman who’s the vice president. What was her name, Camel something?

That was when Joe’s team finally seemed to be behind me. After all I told them, I’m 81, it’s time for someone new to take over, some one like, what was that woman’s name? The very next day, Sunday, we made the announcement.

Back in the UK I’m not sure how Joe managed to make it along to the pub but he turned up anyway.

The guys all welcomed him and they were asking about his fall off the bike and when he came out and told them straight, he was actually Joe Biden, well they were all a little taken aback.

“Pint of Two Hoots Simon,” called Pete, the landlord.

“Two Hoots?”

“Yes, real ale, you were knocking quite a few pints of it back last Sunday.”

“I was?”

“Go on,” said someone,“Get it down yer neck.”

“The boys say that it’s your round so that’ll be twelve pound fifty Simon,” said the barman.

“Er, I don’t think I have my wallet,” said Joe.

“Bloody hell,” said one of the lads. “Come out without his wallet!”

“Could I open up a tab. I’ll see that the White House pays the bill.”

“The bloody White House” someone else called and soon they were all laughing together.

It was round about then when I thought it might be time to get back home. It had been nice meeting Jill and a lot of other people whose names I can’t really remember so I went into a quiet corner and closed my eyes and soon there I was, back in the pub. The guys were still laughing about me leaving my wallet at home but Pete was happy for me to come in the next day and pay my tab.

I didn’t do very well at the darts. I had a slight headache so after a while I wandered off back home.

Later, I told Paula about the whole thing, about how I became Joe Biden and went to the White House but she brushed it all off saying it was something to do with that knock on the head and that I had probably dreamt it all. Even so, on the news the next day I heard that Joe Biden had decided not to run in the election and he had endorsed Kamala Harris, his vice president.

I wasn’t surprised.

For an alternative version of this post, click here.

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Me or the Cat

Posted on by Steve Higgins

I’m not a great cat fan. Don’t get me wrong, they are pleasant enough but I’m allergic to cats and I found out the hard way by living with two. They were both different characters; one was JJ named after a racing driver I thought was going to be one of the all time greats, JJ Lehto. Never heard of him? Well that’s probably because he didn’t get to be one of the all times greats after all which perhaps shows that I don’t know as much about F1 racing as I thought I did.

JJ the cat was a lady who liked to be boss of the catwalk. Any other local cat who dared to walk along the wall at the back of our property was soon either chased off or JJ would just plonk herself down in the other cat’s way and just dare him or her to come this way. Sometimes that led to a tense staring off competition which usually led to the other cat going home a different way.

Our other cat Sam was a very laid back fellow. He liked to spend the day up in the rafters of the garage roof, so much so that I had to fit a cat flap on the garage door so he could come and go. Sam was fond of his breakfast though and so many times he would wake me in a morning by giving me a friendly massage on my chest with his paws, usually on a day when I had a lie in. That would not only wake me up but also set me off sneezing. One day I told the wife I couldn’t live with our feline friends anymore, it was either me or the cats, one of us had to go. She chose to keep the cats.

Back then we lived in a place called Newton-le-Willows. A nice enough friendly place I thought but it was a black cat that caused the end of our neighbourhood harmony.

Okay, here’s how it started; My neighbour was a guy called Tony and he and his wife were going on holiday and he asked me to look after his cat Blackie. It needed to be fed once a day, in the morning, for a week. OK, not a big deal and it put me right where I wanted to be with my neighbour: him owing me a big favour so ‘no problem’ I told him.

Day1

I’m up and showered and all ready for work and so I nip into next door’s and sort out the cat food. Tony has shown me where it’s all kept, which bowl to use and so on. I sort it all out, set it down on the mat and who is there waiting and purring? Not one but two cats. I thought there was only supposed to be one so do I do two bowls? No, he specified the cat food and showed me the bowl (the one bowl) so OK it’s sharing time for the cats and I’m off to work.

I jump in my van and I’m off and as I drive away there are the cats giving me a little catty wave from the kitchen window. Happy days.

Day 2

I mention sort of randomly as I’m off to work that there were two cats in next door’s house and my wife (the one that later chose the cats over me) says, ‘What!’ in a big sort of screamy, scary way and I’m thinking, ‘here we go, what have I done?’ The thing is there is only one cat living next door so I’m tasked to throw out the intruder cat and just to feed the main cat. So, in I go and I don’t really know which is the proper cat and which is the cheeky intruder cat. Neither of them seemed to respond to the name ‘Blackie’ so sod it I thought. Cat food sorted -I’m off.

Once again as I drive off there are the two cats happily washing themselves in the kitchen window and as I passed by a revolutionary thought occurred to me. One of the cats was actually a black cat so it could be (sound of penny dropping) that he was Blackie and the other cat, the ginger cat was the cat interloper.

Day 3

Feeling a little bit like Sherlock Holmes and armed with this new deduction about ‘Blackie’ I popped into next door and chucked out ‘Ginger’, sorted out the cat food and then left for work. Was I dreaming or did I really see the two cats once again at the kitchen window? Did Ginger have a sort of ‘you’ll have to do better than that’ look on his face? Surely not!

Day 4

According to my (former) wife it was a major criminal offence to have a strange cat enter your neighbours’ house and scoff half the cat food, so once again in next doors, I put out the cat food and then chucked out the ginger cat. I did think about locking the cat flap but feeling this could have repercussions in case Blackie wanted to exit the property I left it open. Driving off as usual I spied the two cats smiling happily from the kitchen window engaged in their morning feline ritual of washing themselves, only this time they seemed to have been joined by a third cat! Christ, I thought, I hope the neighbours get back soon before a cat colony starts up in their house!

Days 5 6 and 7

Pretty similar to the previous days so lets fast forward to . . .

Day 8

Our neighbours returned from their break in foreign climes. I wasn’t sure about mentioning the intruding cat but what the heck! I told them anyway and they said not to bother, ‘that cat comes in all the time anyway. We’re sure its owners don’t feed it properly.’

Day 9

I was outside washing my van and had a chat with my neighbour Elaine, the lady who ran our neighbourhood watch group. I told her about the cat caper thinking it was a pretty funny story but she seemed rather shocked by it all. Well, humour wasn’t one of her strong points I thought as she marched off to see Stella, another neighbour from further up the avenue who I have to admit I wasn’t too fond off. As the afternoon wore on I noticed Stella storm past me and knock on next door’s and have something of a minor row with the occupants. She stormed off fuming and gave me a pretty black look when I offered a cheery “afternoon!”

Day 9, later.

Tony gave me something of a black look too and didn’t respond to my friendly wave. I did wonder if this was vaguely connected to the cat saga. No, surely not I thought. Later, Tony’s wife came round and told me through a veil of tears that Stella had knocked on their door and accused her and Tony of being ‘A pair of f**king catnappers!‘ It turned out that Stella owned the ginger cat and Tony’s wife wanted to know why I had even mentioned it to Stella. Well, I don’t even really know Stella I said, the only person I mentioned it to was Elaine. “What!’ fumed Tony’s wife. (Wish I could remember her name!) The next thing you know she storms across the road, bangs on the door and appears to be having it out with Elaine. I couldn’t hear what was said but there was a lot of finger pointing, some at my house, some at Blackie wandering innocently along the avenue, some at her house and some, in fact quite a lot now I think of it, at Stella’s house.

Day 10

A chance encounter at Tesco’s with Elaine. I’m scooting through the store, not really looking where I’m going as shopping is not high on my list of favourite activities and as I scoot along I’m throwing bread and milk and all sorts of stuff in my trolley when who should I bump into but Elaine.

“It wasn’t my fu**ing fault you know!” she said.

“That’s OK,” I told her, “I never look where I’m going with a shopping trolley!”

“I meant about the cat!” Elaine gave me a mean look and was gone, never to speak to me again.

Good job I didn’t mention that the third cat I saw in next door’s was hers!

2024

As usual we’re off to France this week so I have to admit that this was an old post that I’ve updated so what other cat stories could I throw in to finish off?  Well, the most famous cat in the UK must be Larry the Cat. Larry the Cat you might be asking? Who the heck is that? Well Larry is the chief mouser at number 10 Downing Street. He has been at that famous address since 2011 so in fact he has been there longer than quite a few Prime Ministers including David Cameron, Theresa May, Boris Johnson, Liz Truss, Rishi Sunak and Keir Starmer. Not bad going for a cat, Larry.

Anyway that’s enough blogging for now. What’s on the TV? Well, there’s always that TV classic over on Talking Pictures TV; Batman with Adam West as the Caped Crusader and Burt Ward as the Boy Wonder. Which villain is threatening them this week? The Joker? The Riddler?

Hope it’s Catwoman.

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More Back Pain Stories

Posted on by Steve Higgins

I’ve been suffering lately with a lot of back pain and I thought I might as well have a bit of a moan here and just get things off my chest. I’ve had a little mild back pain for a long while. I don’t mind that, I really don’t. I’m retired so I’m officially old so it’s only right to expect a little pain. I can’t run anymore; in fact, I can’t even remember the last time I ran. Maybe it was for a bus or something, I don’t really know but it’s certainly not something I can do now.

The very first time I had back trouble was back in the 1990’s. You won’t believe it but this is what happened. I was in the bathroom cleaning my teeth and when I went to put my toothbrush back on the holder I dropped it on the floor. I bent down to pick it up and then something happened. I don’t know what it was but I couldn’t get up again and ended having to hobble back to the bedroom. I was off work for a long time. Nothing seemed to help and someone suggested I see a chiropractor, one of those people who manipulate your bones.

This particular lady did a lot of work on my back and towards the end of the treatment she slid her arm under my back and then popped a pillow on my chest. My first thought was that she was going to suffocate me with the pillow. I know the two of us hadn’t really gelled but suffocating me, that was a bit extreme. Anyway, she urged me to shut my eyes and relax and then did exactly what I wasn’t expecting, she jumped on me and my back made a very loud cracking sound.

I didn’t feel any great improvement but not long afterwards I was able to go back to work. Fast forward to earlier this year. We had jetted off to the island of Lanzarote for some winter sun and warmth. The flight over there was pretty comfortable but the flight back was five hours of pain (the aircraft was delayed for an hour on the runway) going from slightly uncomfortable to highly painful. I’m sure that is what has set me off on the present trend of back pain.

A few weeks ago, Liz and I were in one of our favourite eateries, Olivers. We were dining there before going over to the Victoria pub to watch a band that we really like, The Boogie Brothers. The meal was excellent as usual and when I heard Angela, the boss lady of the restaurant behind me, I twisted round to ask for the bill and that’s when I realised that I had made a big mistake. Something had happened in my back. It wasn’t a crack or a twang. There was no moment of something giving way but my back began to hurt, so much so I could hardly walk. I staggered out of the restaurant looking and feeling like a complete cripple. I never made it to the concert, I had to call a friend and ask him to drive me home.

That was certainly a low point, not just the pain but the embarrassment of staggering out of one of my favourite eateries. Hope the owners didn’t think I was drunk.

Here’s another thing about back pain, how it affects your decision making process. The other day we were in Ego, another favourite eatery. I happened to pull my phone out of my pocket and a handkerchief slipped out at the same time. What could I do? Well, in the old days, my younger days, I’d just bend down and pick up the handkerchief. Easy! Today, it isn’t so square cut. Firstly, I can’t bend down, I just can’t reach it but the more I try I will just attract a lot of attention. What is that old guy up to? If it was a tissue, a paper hanky I would probably just leave it there. A proper hanky though and I would want to retrieve it, especially if I happened to have a runny nose. I could try and spear it with a knife or fork or I could kick it over to where Liz could grab it, assuming she wouldn’t mind picking up my slightly grubby hanky. Yes, we old guys have to make decisions like this all the time.

Finally, despite having little faith in some of our medical professionals I decided to try for an appointment at the doctors. I got in to see the practice physio and he seemed to take a little more interest in me this time. He actually decided to have a look at my back and to actually probe it with his fingers looking for the sore spots. As things happened, I was feeling pretty good that day and though I was a little sore, no amount of pressing could find any painful areas although they were there, I assured him.

He sent me off for an X ray, the results of which apparently take two weeks to get over to the surgery. Perhaps over in the X ray department they haven’t yet heard of email.

In the meantime I decided to take up an offer of acupuncture from Liz’s daughter, Zoë. Acupuncture works like this; the body is made up of two energies, the yin and the yang and acupuncture tries to balance the energies out, so healing whatever ails you. Those energies flow through meridians or pathways in the body which can be accessed and balanced by inserting tiny needles.

I lay down on the special bed in Zoë’s clinic and she chatted away quietly as she slipped in the needles. Some slipped in painlessly, others actually hurt which apparently is a good sign as those are the spots that will really help.

Later I felt better, again there was no ‘I’m cured’ moment but I did feel that my back had eased a little.

Another thing that interests me about my situation is that like a lot of people these days I look for solutions on the internet. As most things in cyberspace are connected especially by those cheeky little things called cookies, most of the adverts that I see online now seem to be about amazing cures for back pain. Everywhere I go I seem to be bombarded by items like the new miracle formula capsules that have enabled some old guy to take long walks again or some amazing potion that has not only enabled some arthritic old biddy to get out of bed but also to walk to the shops again, pain free!

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Like I said earlier, I don’t mind a little pain. It’s only to be expected when you’re getting older but I’m not yet daft enough to expect a miracle cure.

Still, how much were those miracle cure pills again?

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Another Blog Writing Day

Posted on by Steve Higgins

It’s always good to pick up my iPad and see that my scheduled post has been successfully posted but the next task is to start thinking about a new one for next week. What can I write about? Has anything interesting happened to me? Have I read a great book or watched something good on TV? No? Well, that’s me up the creek without a paddle then.

Just lately I’ve haven’t been much of an early riser. I wake up late on a Saturday morning, visit the bathroom and then make some tea and take it back to the bedroom for Liz and myself.

Next I’ll open a new page on my laptop and just start writing about anything that comes into my head. After about ten minutes and I see the page is still blank I think that perhaps the best course is just to do what I usually do this time in a morning which is to check my emails. 500 deletions later I’m back to that blank page again. Perhaps I could write about my emails? Nah, I’ve done that already.

My next move will be to drink my tea and perhaps see what Liz has tuned the TV into. This being Saturday it will usually be Saturday Kitchen. Perhaps I could write a foodie post? Nah, done that a few times already. After drinking my tea and surfing through my social media I reckon I’m ready for some breakfast, to eat rather than to write about.

Time for a wash and a shave and then I get dressed and see what is on offer for breakfast. It’s a little late so we decide to go for a bacon and egg butty. Excellent. While we eat that we crank up an episode of the TV words and numbers game Countdown to get our brains working. Countdown? Could I write about that? Well, I could give it a few lines anyway.

Countdown was the first show to be broadcast on what was then UK’s new terrestrial TV channel 4 back in 1982. It is a fairly simple format with two contestants who have to make words out of 9 random letters, the winner being the one with the longest word. They also have to choose 6 numbers and then use those to make a number chosen randomly.

Back in 1982, the show was presented by Richard Whiteley with Carol Vorderman supervising the letters and numbers stuff. Richard Whiteley continued to host the show until his death in 2005. After that various people have presented the show including Des Lynam and Anne Robinson but the current host is Colin Murray. Carol Vorderman left in 2008 and her role was taken over by Rachel Riley. Also on the current show is Suzie Dent in charge of dictionary corner along with a celebrity guest. The show is currently the longest running game show on UK TV.

Personally, I am no good at Countdown whatsoever which puts me off trying to become a contestant. Liz is pretty good but sadly has no desire to be on the show. However, if she cannot get the random number, we usually have the TV on pause until she does. I then tend to say things like ‘you’re disqualified’ which can sometimes elicit a verbal reaction and so then I usually leave the room to make more tea.

Tea, now there’s a thing. Could I write about tea? Come to think of it, I have mentioned tea a few times but it’s hardly a subject for a blog post. Here are a few comments on the subject that kicked off a past holiday post;

Even on holiday in wonderful warm Lanzarote I’m a man who needs a cup of tea, and by tea, I mean hot tea. Just think of all the workers in far off India who have worked to grow and cultivate tea leaves and package it and send it off to people like me. I wouldn’t dream of insulting those people by drinking a cup of lukewarm or even cold tea. Liz however doesn’t mind cold tea but after chatting further I found our earlier experiences have shaped our attitude to tea. She, whilst at school, worked in a café and usually found that she was so busy that she had little time to drink her cuppa and generally picked it up when it was cold.

Once, many years ago, I had a cigarette vending round. I visited pubs in Merseyside, serviced their ciggy machines, filled them with cigarettes and took away the cash. A lot of the time I was in a hurry to get going to the next site. Even so, I would never turn down a cuppa and so many times I would have to drink a steaming hot cup of tea quickly so I could move on. The faster I worked, the earlier I finished and I very soon developed the knack of drinking hot tea,

Maybe I could build that up into an entire tea related blog post but would that interest any of my readers? I’m not so sure. Come to think of it, they mention tea in one of my favourite episodes of Columbo. Columbo is hot on the trail of Robert Culp who murders a man in the lobby of a cinema and he entices him there by putting subliminal cuts into a film which make him go in search of a cool drink. Anyway, while Columbo is chatting to the projectionist he mentions he is thirsty and the projectionist offered Columbo some tea, some iced tea!

Iced tea? Jesus, what planet is this guy on? Who drinks iced tea? That is a crime against tea. Dear me. Anyway, it’s time for a break. It’s a sunny day so Liz and I pop outside and settle down on the patio with our tea. (Our hot tea.) We’re creatures of habit so we always tend to kick off a session on the patio with a sudoku puzzle. Sudokus are little number games invented by those wily Japanese and once again, it keeps our brains active while we drink our tea. Most of the time Liz will beat me but the thing is, even while I’m trying to solve that sudoku I’ll be trying to think of something to write so that’s my excuse for Liz winning. If I really worked at those little number games, really worked at them, well, then it might be a different story.

After a quick sudoku session I pick up my book for a relaxing read in the sun. I’ve currently got a few books on the go. One is about the flight of Rudolph Hess and his mystery flight to the UK in 1940 and the other is about the JFK assassination. If I were ever to appear on TV’s Mastermind I would probably choose the JFK assassination as my specialist subject:

What is the grassy knoll?

It is an area of Deally Plaza in Dallas where it has been theorised that a frontal shot was fired at the president.

Who is Lee Harvey Oswald?

He is the alleged assassin of JFK.

Who was Alek Hidell?

That was an alias used by Oswald.

What is the magic bullet?

It was a bullet fired from the Texas School Depository that supposedly hit the president and then exited his body and then hit John Connally.

Who was John Connally?

He was the governor of Texas riding ahead of JFK in the presidential limousine.

Who shot Lee Oswald?

Jack Ruby.

I can imagine doing pretty well there but then going to pieces in the general knowledge round. Having said that there is a general knowledge round in the weekly quiz we attend at the Lord Derby pub in St Annes and we tend to do reasonably well.

If the weather stays warm we might stay outside for a barbecue and these days rather than getting the coals ready, lighting them three or four times before they finally get going and getting my favourite shorts covered in coal dust and grease, we nowadays use our little portable gas barbecue. Perhaps I could write a barbecue post? Well, I could probably write a barbecue section of perhaps another foodie post but an entire barbecue post? Probably not.

While I’m on the subject of barbecuing I think it’s important to share these two universal facts regarding a traditional coal barbecue;

One. Always watch your barbecue because if you don’t it will burn itself out before you’ve had a chance to set the table and serve the salad.

Two. Never watch a barbecue because if you do it will just take ages and ages to get going and just when it finally reaches optimum cooking temperature well, it’ll probably be time for bed, which is why we now use our trusty gas barby.

Liz and I tend to start off with a big salad including a large portion of Liz’s home made coleslaw and then munch our way through a selection of sausages, kebabs, burgers and steaks all washed down with some imported red wine which we select from French supermarkets on our annual travels.

I do love a barbecue from the first satisfying hiss as the steak hits the hot metal of the barbecue to the final mouthful of burger and the last glass of red wine. As the sun goes down it’s time to clear up and go back inside for some evening TV. Should I do a little work on that blog post?

Nah, there’s always tomorrow.

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Naming That Hurricane

Posted on by Steve Higgins

These days I’m retired but back in my working days I sometimes dreamt about having a really interesting job. You know, something special, something really interesting, something out of the ordinary, something like a Hurricane Namer. Let’s face it, someone out there has to do it; someone has to name those pesky hurricanes. Whenever I was having a bad day at work I used to think that one day I’d search just that little bit harder, go that extra mile and maybe, just maybe I’d land a job like that.

Today in the 21st century, searching for a job is a completely different thing to what it used to be. No more searching through the situations vacant columns in a newspaper. Job hunting nowadays is pretty much internet browsing. OK, you’ll still see jobs advertised in newspapers but the internet is where the job action is. Technology has even reached a point where you can have an online interview. Once I had a video interview with the BBC. I’m glad to say I passed the interview but as so many people applied there wasn’t a job available for me. Pity as I really did fancy working for the BBC!

I had another interview not long ago which was for a weekend job manning the helpline for a bank. I started off by entering a lot of information about myself and answering some questions and then I came to a section about selling. Selling? I wasn’t going for a sales job so when the question came up asking if I was confident about selling financial products I answered ‘no’. Big mistake because the interview terminated there and then. I later learned that part of the helpline job including trying to interest the customer in the bank’s financial services.

I remember once back in the 90s when I was unemployed for a short while I was sent to join the ‘job club’. There was one compelling reason to go, attend or we’ll stop your unemployment benefit! OK, fair enough I said, I’m on my way. The very first day at the job club in Levenshulme, Manchester, the club was that packed we couldn’t all get in. It was just a case of give your name, register and get going.

The next week there were slightly fewer people and by week four our numbers had reduced to just a small group. We checked the job cards in the unemployment office, checked the newspaper job advertisements and worked on our CV’s. The staff gave advice on interviews, letter writing and so on, and in between we supped plenty of tea, ate a considerable amount of biscuits and generally had quite a friendly, sociable morning. Why people didn’t want to attend I really didn’t know. I kind of liked it. When I actually got a job, I used to find myself thinking, ‘wonder what the guys are doing down at the job club?’

Many years before that I embarked on a career with GM Buses, the main bus operator in Manchester. It was always intended to be something to pay the rent while I found a proper job but somehow, I never found that proper job I was always looking for. After a few years I started to realise that, so I started trying for promotion. One day I put in for an inspector’s job. It was more money, it was a supervisory role and best of all it was based in the depot so I didn’t have to deal with the great unwashed public. There were two vacancies, one in the Ardwick depot, about ten minutes from the city centre and another in Rochdale which was on the other side of Manchester. I wasn’t interested in the Rochdale one as it was much too far away and I didn’t have any transport at the time. Ardwick though was pretty easy to get to, a quick bus into Manchester from Didsbury where I lived and then there were lots of buses heading south from the city centre through Ardwick.

The interview seemed to be going pretty well. There were three interviewers all coming at me with various questions and, because I had just read a book about how to have a great job interview, I had a shed load of answers as well as a host of questions to throw back at them. Anyway, after a while they asked me to step out of the room. When I was called back they asked me what would I do if they offered me the Rochdale job. Rochdale? That’s miles away I thought, so I said no thanks. No thanks? It felt like a good decision at the time, well, for about five minutes anyway.

These days I’m retired but even so, I haven’t cancelled my job alerts and the crazy thing is I’ve actually had quite a few job offers lately. I get a lot of messages from the sites where I have uploaded my CV and two lately were from companies who liked my CV and asked if I wanted to be interviewed for two managerial jobs. Thanks but they were a few years too late. One job I did apply for was to be the Belfast correspondent for ITV news. I sent off my CV and linked in some of my ‘talking to camera’ videos. I didn’t for a minute expect to get the job but I did get quite a nice email back thanking me for my application and interest in ITV News.

Anyway, back to the Hurricane Naming job. I suppose it was a bit of a silly dream really, not unlike the accountant on Monty Python who wanted to be a lion tamer . . .

Hurricane naming must be one of those home working jobs I imagine, perhaps one where you have to be on call, after all a hurricane could erupt out of the weather front at any time, night or day. Maybe there’s a control room or central office where you are based but I’d guess that every few weeks or so you’d have to work from home and perhaps be on call at the weekend.

I can just imagine the scene, it’s the middle of the night, I’m tucked up in bed at home and my work’s ‘Hurricane Naming’ mobile rings . .

STEVE: Hello, Hurricane Naming Officer.

CALLER: (AMERICAN ACCENT.) Hey, this is the Pacific weather station and we’ve spotted a new hurricane forming over the south west. We need a name straight away.

STEVE: OK, give me a minute here, bear with me.

CALLER: OK but look, we need that name.

STEVE: OK I’m on it. (If my work’s ‘hurricane’ laptop is anything like my own laptop it does take a heck of a long time to boot up!) Let me see, which letter are we up to? Oh yes, J. So it’s going to be . . Joan. Yes, Hurricane Joan.

CALLER: Joan? Hurricane Joan? Look, this hurricane looks like be a real ‘kick ass’ hurricane and I’m not sure Joan is up to it as regards a name.

STEVE: Well sorry you don’t care for it but as of 02:35 hours I’m officially naming this hurricane; Hurricane Joan.

CALLER. Holy smoke. Joan? You gotta be kidding?

STEVE: No. Joan it is.

CALLER: The thing is, my old Mom was kinda looking forward to having a hurricane named after her. She’s 86 this year and not in the best of health. In fact, (fights back the tears) I wonder if she’s going to make 87.

STEVE. Well, what’s her name?

CALLER: Betsy. Hurricane Betsy would be just great, a real gutsy hurricane name!

STEVE. Yes but we’re up to the J’s. We did the B’s a while back, last year actually.

CALLER. Well what about Juliet, my wife’s name is Juliet.

STEVE: Juliet? But what about your old Mum?

CALLER Well, this way we kind of keep it in the family and well, when it comes down to it, that’s my frikkin’ hurricane. I found it and I can’t believe some goddamn limey is going to choose a name like Joan!

STEVE: Well what sort of a name is Juliet? Joan has got an old world feeling about it and here in Hurricane Naming we like to keep old traditions going.

CALLER: Juliet is the name of the woman married to the guy who found the hurricane!

STEVE: Well it just so happens that I am the duty Hurricane Namer and as I said earlier, I’m naming that hurricane Joan!

CALLER: You Limey b-

LINE GOES DEAD. STEVE SIGHS AND MUMBLES TO HIMSELF: It’s all in a day’s work for a hurricane namer!

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