After what feels like and eternity, we are beyond the communist block architecture of U.B (it takes us so long to escape that I already feel that I am qualified to use the initials). Instantly, as if by magic, the grass becomes lushly green and the azure skies seem to go on forever, punctuated by mash potato clouds, which look almost edible. But it is the vast open landscape that gets me the most. Of course, I have the worst seat in the van, at this point (one that faces backwards)and therefore I get to see UB's ugly cityscape, disappearing as the van bumps off in the direction of Central Mongolia.
Saskia, Gerrard and Danielle, meanwhile are treated to the delights of Mongolia from the relative luxury of a forward facing seat. Over the period of the next 10 days, I am to learn that you take the luxuries whilst you can whilst in Mongolia. They are few and far between. This is a country, where a "real toilet" is as rare as Sikh in a crash helmet and a packet of wet wipes is as welcome as a power shower in a 5 star hotel. Indeed, the over excitement that I feel, when we make one of the few shop stops over the period of the next 10 days, increases my heart beat so acutely, that I will ultimately, probably lose 5 years of my life.
Saskia, who know's a little French becomes our interpreter. I am thanking my lucky stars, that I never continued my own endeavours into learning the French language, beyond "Bon jour, je mapelle Andy". She is coping well now, but I imagine after 10 days of translating the conversation, it can all become a tad tedious - especially because Gerrard's hearing is virtually non-existent. After a while, when the beauty of the landscape has become slightly more passe, I sit and listen to their conversation, whilst trying to understand the dialogue.
Gerrard: "En what is your nom, my petit pois d'allemagne?"
Saskia: "Zaskia, is mine naam, dat is Zaskia wiz ein S".
Gerrard: "Pardon madamme", je nom, je nom".
Saskia: "Dat is mine naam, Zaskia wiz ein S".
Gerrard: "Catherine, Sally, oh no, no, no, no, no - c'est bon".
Saskia: "Nine, het is Zaskia wiz ein S".
Actually as it turns out, my imagined dialogue is not far wrong and it only clicks with Gerrard on day 5, that her name is in fact Saskia (with an s). Suddenly, after a quiet period of after dinner reflection Gerrard bursts into animation and shouts "Ah ah Saskia, c'est bon".
Danielle's irritation towards Saskia is already starting to surface. By the end of the trip, you could cut the atmosphere between Danielle and Saskia with a knife, right now you could just about prod it with a fork. Danielle, is not one for hiding her disdain and Saskia's ever increasing selfishness becomes more apparent with every passing kilometre. Saskia, has extremely long legs and they seem to want to take up every bit of available space in the van, regardless of what stands in their way. I am convinced that her legs increase in length, in direct proportion to Danielle's annoyance.
We are told that the highlight of today is going to be a glimpse of Mongolia's famous wild horses. The chances of this seem to diminish rapidly when the only petrol station for miles appears to be either closed, out of fuel or they simply can't be arsed to sell us any gas. Our driver informs us that we will try again tomorrow and we head back in the direction whence we just came. Soon, we leave the sealed road surface and take one of Mongolia's abundant small tracks that heads off into the distant hills. I am assuming that satellite navigation would not have a clue where to send you in a country where dirt tracks criss-cross across the landscape in every conceivable direction. Our scepticism at the drivers knowledge and driving skills increases with haste, as the van appears to hit every seemingly avoidable bump on the track. It's almost as if he is testing our endurance levels, the judgment of which, is the amount of screaming we do, as our skulls make another dent in the van roof. I look at the disgust on Saskia's face and know that she's longing for some "Vorsprung durch Technik", right now.
A sign post informs us that we have entered a national park, but to be honest, it looks no different than the rest of Mongolia (which is not a bad thing). A sudden increase in tourist camps, full of luxury gers, is the only indication that this geographical metamorphous has occurred. We enter one of the tourist camps, for a shop and toilet stop, and I take a nosey in one of the gers. It's pretty plush, with a detailed carpet and some ornate furniture around the place. It is certainly not worth the infeasible amount of extra money that these suckers pay though. The authenticity of the the whole Mongolia experience is surely detracted from, by electing for such perceived luxury.
We are now on the hunt for the Mongolian wild horses, the increased attentitiveness of the driver to his surroundings is testament to this fact. A pity that this further awareness does not extend to the actual road. Whilst the anxiety level of the rest of the vans occupants intensifies with every near miss, Gerrard seems to be positely enjoying himself. "Oui, oui , oui c'est bon", he screams as all 4 wheels leave the ground. Maybe this is what happens when one is in the twilight years of their life. You literally, don't give a damn.
Somewhere in all the excitement, the azure skies have turned black, although sunlight is still penetrating the clouds and illuminating the landscape in such a manner that it looks like it's been touched by the hand of god. The colours are magnificent, almost like they look when lsd enters one's system and perception of everything is infinitely heightened. We quickly make another toilet stop before the heavens open up. The driver mumbles something to the guide, who then informs us all that the little bushes that we see dominating the landscape are in fact poisonous and therefore all contact with the skin should be avoided at all costs. I pay particular attention to this warning because I am wearing shorts and don't fancy a hospital stop in this lovely but I assume medically backwards land.
Urgently wishing to empty my bladder, I vigorously slide open the van door and jump out. "Argh, argh, arrgh", I inarticulately yell, as I realise that I have jumped straight into a poisonous plant. "Nice one numb nuts", I think to myself and cast an angry look in his direction. His vacuous countenance, does little to suggest that this is a man, who has just given a poisonous plant warning and then parked right in front of the aforementioned plant. Fortunately, the plant is either not as poisonous as he suggests or I am as hard as nails. The scales, I guess are balanced more in the favour of his stupidity. I wonder to myself if I should piss on my legs just in case the sting takes a while to surface, but decide against it when it occurs to me that I always urinate down my legs regardless.
Whilst we are all pissing, nature decides to brighten up our lives once more with a fantastic double rainbow. Under the beautiful light of one of natures finest treats, we all make our own golden rainbows and head back to the van. However, we are soon to find out that not all the soldiers have returned to the barracks (read on).
Our first indication that something is happening comes when the driver's grunts become almost intelligible. It is apparent that he has spotted something, and he brings the van to a sudden halt. In the few seconds that have elapsed, as this latest scene has been panning out, I have noticed out of the corner of my eye that Danielle seems to be going through her own personal drama. The look of anguish on her face is testament to this fact. I am about to enquire what the problem is, but before I do so, the guide shouts "There, there, look on the horizon". I cast my eyes in the direction that she points but I am rewarded by nothing. After, a minute or so, I turn my attention back to Danielle and following the requests that she makes via her discrete head gestures, my eyes divert in the direction of Gerrard's groin area. For my efforts, I am rewarded, not by a glimpse of a Mongolian wild horse but instead by a French wild snake, which is currently hanging out of the side of his shorts.
It's a close call to say what we see more of over the next 10 days, the famous Mongolian wild horse, or the lesser known by equally frequently spotted French wild snake.
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
Thursday, 8 December 2011
A Mongolian Comedy Part 1 Leaving Ulan Bator
When I decided to do take a 2 week trip around Mongolia, I did not expect a picnic in the Ardennes, nor did I expect to be end up upside down in ancient Russian van splattered in my travel partners blood. But when you like to travel as much as I do, you pays your money and you takes your chances.
After two uneventful days in Ulan Bator, my travel partner Danielle and I, board our van. Over the past few days we have seen many battered old Russian mini-vans around town and have become quite excited about the prospect of travelling around Mongolia in such a vehicle. Needless to say, we are both disappointed when we are herded into a rather modern looking Nissan. Little did we know that this luxury would only last until we got to the outskirts of Ulan Bator. A few days later and we would be begging for the plush seats of the Nissan.
Whilst we were waiting for the Nissan to arrive and be loaded, Danielle and I had the first glimpse of 2 of our new travel partners. The first, a young German girl by the name of Saskia, conversed with us for a while and seemed pleasant enough. Over the course of the next 10 days, we are to find out that these pleasantries do not extend to the sharing of the forward facing seats. The only luxury that one gets on a trip of such undertaking. Of course I had heard of, and witnessed for myself, the Germans laying their towels out on the sun beds at 5 am on the Costa del Sol. What I did not realise however was that this behaviour was a common German trait, to be displayed in any location outside of the Fatherland. Exchange the towels for an inflatable head cushion and a rather large bag (full of things, that were self consumed), and there you have Saskia, relaxing in her luxuriously comfy, forward facing seat, stuffing her face with the aforementioned goodies.
During breakfast, a commotion had broken out in one of the common areas of the Golden Gobi guest house. My curious disposition had got the better of me, as often it does, and I found myself witnessing a scene of great hilarity. A very aged gentleman of French origin, was stumbling around the place, closely followed by a legion of people, who were helping him search for his hat. It soon became apparent that the gentleman was of seriously impaired vision and hearing to match. His English, it would seem, did not extend to anything beyond "Oh no, no, no - oh, no, no , no , no , no , no", with a "C'est bon", thrown in at the end of every sentence of No's. After 2 minutes of hilarious observation, it became blatantly obvious that this was not just any old man. He was a stubborn character, with I assumed, a few stories to tell (to anybody with a knowledge of French). I never would have guessed that within the hour, I would be escorting him around the supermarket, helping him to fill his basket with cheese, red wine and any other French goody, he could get his hands on. - "Yes, yes, yes, yes , yes - c'est bon". Our search to find him a hat, is however in vain. This was to become my job for the rest of the trip.
So there, we have it -or so we thought. A luxurious Nissan, with a driver whose name I could never remember, a selfish (forward facing German), a fantastically stubborn Frenchman, Danielle and myself (you can make your own judgements about me and Danielle - we'll learn more about Danielle later). Oh yes, and our 1st guide - whose name I have long since forgotten and who we thought was amazing, until she turned weird on day 2 and disappeared without even saying goodbye.
Prior research for the trip had led Danielle and I to believe that we would be lucky if we only had 6 people crammed into an ancient Russian van. Our cosy little party of 5, stretched out in our deluxe Nissan people carrier, felt too good to be true, and that's because it wasn't. Within a day there would be 8 of us packed like sardines into the most decrepit mini-van in the whole of Mongolia.
Mongolia, let me tell you, is the 4th least densely populated country on Earth, only preceded by Western Sahara, the Falkland Islands, and at number 1, Greenland. With land mass of 1,564,116 km2, and a population of only 1.7 million people, one would expect better movement than a Jane Fonda workout. This, we were to find out, is not the case. Leaving, Ulan Bator is by no means a pleasant experience. Whilst being the only truly nomadic country in the world these days, with people dwelling all over this vast and pleasant land in their gers (which I will discuss later) - it's capital city, does not share the rest of the country's spatial harmony. A mass of vehicles fight to get out of the place, with the blaring of horns, shouting of expletives and general mayhem, making for a positively uncomfortable experience (especially when you need to take a piss). Our driver, whose knowledge of the city, we wrongly assume, is second to none, decides to take a short cut over the most bumpy terrain a man is likely to encounter in his existence on this planet. Maybe a moon buggy, could have conquered this environment, but our Nissan is certainly no veteran of a lunar lanscape and consequently we were thrown around the van like a bunch of pinballs. It does not take a cartographer to lead us to the conclusion that we are lost. That's right, less than an hour into our trip around the 19th largest country in the World and our driver does not appear to have a clue where he is going. In retrospect, we should have seen this as a sign of things to come.
Only 5 percent of Mongolia's roads are paved, mainly in and around Ulan Bator. We are now lost somewhere within the city's limits and there is not a sealed surface to be seen. Although, we can see green rolling hills in the distance, which by the way remind me of the Sound of Music, the immediate landscape is more reminiscent of an apocalyptic wasteland. We've already seen enough gers to satisfy our gerosity, and our patience is running thin. But hey! we have only another 10 days to go.
By the time we reach our first destination, somewhere on the outskirts of Ulan Bator or U.B as the locals like to call it, we are battered and bruised and have seen more used toilet paper than a peep show cabinet floor (more on this later - the paper, not the peep show). Rather than pity him, I am beginning to envy Gerrard's (French guy)visual and aural impairments. And then we see it! The Green Goddess, the Russian Rattler, The Soviet Sausage - call it what you will, it is now that we see our chariot for the next 10 days and it would not look out of place in a scrap yard. With reluctance we exit our luxurious Nissan Wet Dream, and as we enter the new vehicle, our destiny's are sealed. I offer to assist Gerrard to the best seat, but before I am able to do so, Saskia has pole vaulted him and landed facing forward in the proposed spot. "Gerrard, are you ok"? I ask him in my attempted best French accent. "Oui, oui, oui, oui - c'est bon", he avidly replies. Our journey begins.
After two uneventful days in Ulan Bator, my travel partner Danielle and I, board our van. Over the past few days we have seen many battered old Russian mini-vans around town and have become quite excited about the prospect of travelling around Mongolia in such a vehicle. Needless to say, we are both disappointed when we are herded into a rather modern looking Nissan. Little did we know that this luxury would only last until we got to the outskirts of Ulan Bator. A few days later and we would be begging for the plush seats of the Nissan.
Whilst we were waiting for the Nissan to arrive and be loaded, Danielle and I had the first glimpse of 2 of our new travel partners. The first, a young German girl by the name of Saskia, conversed with us for a while and seemed pleasant enough. Over the course of the next 10 days, we are to find out that these pleasantries do not extend to the sharing of the forward facing seats. The only luxury that one gets on a trip of such undertaking. Of course I had heard of, and witnessed for myself, the Germans laying their towels out on the sun beds at 5 am on the Costa del Sol. What I did not realise however was that this behaviour was a common German trait, to be displayed in any location outside of the Fatherland. Exchange the towels for an inflatable head cushion and a rather large bag (full of things, that were self consumed), and there you have Saskia, relaxing in her luxuriously comfy, forward facing seat, stuffing her face with the aforementioned goodies.
During breakfast, a commotion had broken out in one of the common areas of the Golden Gobi guest house. My curious disposition had got the better of me, as often it does, and I found myself witnessing a scene of great hilarity. A very aged gentleman of French origin, was stumbling around the place, closely followed by a legion of people, who were helping him search for his hat. It soon became apparent that the gentleman was of seriously impaired vision and hearing to match. His English, it would seem, did not extend to anything beyond "Oh no, no, no - oh, no, no , no , no , no , no", with a "C'est bon", thrown in at the end of every sentence of No's. After 2 minutes of hilarious observation, it became blatantly obvious that this was not just any old man. He was a stubborn character, with I assumed, a few stories to tell (to anybody with a knowledge of French). I never would have guessed that within the hour, I would be escorting him around the supermarket, helping him to fill his basket with cheese, red wine and any other French goody, he could get his hands on. - "Yes, yes, yes, yes , yes - c'est bon". Our search to find him a hat, is however in vain. This was to become my job for the rest of the trip.
So there, we have it -or so we thought. A luxurious Nissan, with a driver whose name I could never remember, a selfish (forward facing German), a fantastically stubborn Frenchman, Danielle and myself (you can make your own judgements about me and Danielle - we'll learn more about Danielle later). Oh yes, and our 1st guide - whose name I have long since forgotten and who we thought was amazing, until she turned weird on day 2 and disappeared without even saying goodbye.
Prior research for the trip had led Danielle and I to believe that we would be lucky if we only had 6 people crammed into an ancient Russian van. Our cosy little party of 5, stretched out in our deluxe Nissan people carrier, felt too good to be true, and that's because it wasn't. Within a day there would be 8 of us packed like sardines into the most decrepit mini-van in the whole of Mongolia.
Mongolia, let me tell you, is the 4th least densely populated country on Earth, only preceded by Western Sahara, the Falkland Islands, and at number 1, Greenland. With land mass of 1,564,116 km2, and a population of only 1.7 million people, one would expect better movement than a Jane Fonda workout. This, we were to find out, is not the case. Leaving, Ulan Bator is by no means a pleasant experience. Whilst being the only truly nomadic country in the world these days, with people dwelling all over this vast and pleasant land in their gers (which I will discuss later) - it's capital city, does not share the rest of the country's spatial harmony. A mass of vehicles fight to get out of the place, with the blaring of horns, shouting of expletives and general mayhem, making for a positively uncomfortable experience (especially when you need to take a piss). Our driver, whose knowledge of the city, we wrongly assume, is second to none, decides to take a short cut over the most bumpy terrain a man is likely to encounter in his existence on this planet. Maybe a moon buggy, could have conquered this environment, but our Nissan is certainly no veteran of a lunar lanscape and consequently we were thrown around the van like a bunch of pinballs. It does not take a cartographer to lead us to the conclusion that we are lost. That's right, less than an hour into our trip around the 19th largest country in the World and our driver does not appear to have a clue where he is going. In retrospect, we should have seen this as a sign of things to come.
Only 5 percent of Mongolia's roads are paved, mainly in and around Ulan Bator. We are now lost somewhere within the city's limits and there is not a sealed surface to be seen. Although, we can see green rolling hills in the distance, which by the way remind me of the Sound of Music, the immediate landscape is more reminiscent of an apocalyptic wasteland. We've already seen enough gers to satisfy our gerosity, and our patience is running thin. But hey! we have only another 10 days to go.
By the time we reach our first destination, somewhere on the outskirts of Ulan Bator or U.B as the locals like to call it, we are battered and bruised and have seen more used toilet paper than a peep show cabinet floor (more on this later - the paper, not the peep show). Rather than pity him, I am beginning to envy Gerrard's (French guy)visual and aural impairments. And then we see it! The Green Goddess, the Russian Rattler, The Soviet Sausage - call it what you will, it is now that we see our chariot for the next 10 days and it would not look out of place in a scrap yard. With reluctance we exit our luxurious Nissan Wet Dream, and as we enter the new vehicle, our destiny's are sealed. I offer to assist Gerrard to the best seat, but before I am able to do so, Saskia has pole vaulted him and landed facing forward in the proposed spot. "Gerrard, are you ok"? I ask him in my attempted best French accent. "Oui, oui, oui, oui - c'est bon", he avidly replies. Our journey begins.
Thursday, 1 December 2011
Eulogy
In many regards my dad and I could not have been more dissimilar. My dad, it would seem, was a man that could turn his hand to anything. His mind eternally consumed with thoughts of his next invention. It was commonplace for him to disappear halfway through Tomorrow’s World, The Royal Institution Christmas lectures or indeed Blue Peter – as a new thought exploded in his mind. The noises that emerged from his garage, in the following hours –the bubbling of chemicals, grinding of his lathe and that goddam air compressor were a source of constant irritation to the my mum, Janet and I, as we tried to keep up with Deidre Barlow, Bet Lynch and Rita Fairclough’s latest love affairs on Coronation Street , “Macolm, shut that bloody garage door, it’s freezing in here and I can’t hear the telly became my mum’s mantra.
I, on the other hand feel a great sense of achievement if I manage to screw a light bulb into its socket, and have been known to give up on this task on more than one occasion. My mum constantly urged me to go and watch my dad in action, “go on love, you learn by watching, how do you think you dad learnt. I sometimes followed her advice but it always ended in disaster. My interest never lasted beyond 5 minutes, before my mind would wander and my dad was left speaking to himself. Eventually, he would shake his head in disbelief, at the heir to his throne’s gross incompetence. My role in the family business was to make him cups of coffee (which usually went cold).
Then again, there are many of my dad’s characteristics which I share. My love of the simple things in life, our extreme curiosity for everything and our mildly eccentric behaviour (mildly – who am I kidding?). Most of all, I have my dad to thank for the humorous way that I perceive the world. My dad was funny, a source of constant amusement to all those that knew him. Oh yeah, one other thing, his element of surprise. You never really knew what you were going to get with my dad – be it a Timothy Mouse story under the covers at midnight, a new puppy after a visit to a factory – or for his biggest trick – a new sister popped out of his hat – and we are grateful for her.
I could literally tell you hundreds of stories to exemplify all of his many characteristics and I really wish that I had the time – instead, I have narrowed it down to one tale, which I am going to share with you now.
It was a cold winters night in 1990. My friend Chris and I were on a double date and we decided to take them to the Waterside Inn in Summerseat. At the time I was driving a mini and on the way home I had my first puncture ever. I got out of the car, surveyed the damage and then quickly got back in again because it was bloody freezing. I informed my mate and the girls of the situation and of course this was met by a hostile reception.
Fortunately, there was a working telephone box nearby and I was able to ring my parents – who I hasten to add, were sleeping,
“Dad, I’ve had a puncture”, I nervously told him.
“Well bloody fix it then”, came his reply.
“I can’t”, I meekly responded.
“Why, have you not got a jack”? He spat back at me.
Thankfully, he had now given me an excuse for my futile behaviour.
“No dad, I have no jack”, I excitedly responded. To which he replied.
“Right, we’re coming, and if I get there and find a jack, I’ll bloody marmalise you”.
Marmalisation was always his favoured punishment, although we never actually did find out what it actually was.
With haste, I returned to the car, my teeth chattering in the cold night air. Of course, the girls were whining when I told them that we would have to wait for 30 minutes for them to arrive.
Quite, how it never occurred to me to actually search for a jack, it is hard for me to comprehend now. But if I would have found one, I guess that I would have thrown it in the bushes. When my dad opened the boot and the first thing that he saw was the jack – I wish that I had have done.
Rightfully, my dad was fuming and immediately ordered us all out of the car, much to the disdain of the girls.
“Right, now bloody watch this – I’ll show you once and once only”.
“Right dad”, I said, knowing full well that my level of concentration would only last for the first 30 seconds. With haste, my dad took off the offending wheel and replaced it with the spare.
But wait, what was he doing, he appeared to be taking it back off again.
“What’s he doing”? Screamed one of the girls- to which I repled.
“I think he’s taking it back off again”.
My mum, oblivious to my dad’s intentions, said
“Malc, what are you doing”.
To which, my dad responded.
“If he bloody watched me, he’ll know what to do. Kath, get in the car”.
I’ll never forget my mum’s anxious face, as they drove off into the dark, cold January, Lancashire night –leaving behind 4 disbelieving figures and a car which had only 3 functioning wheels.
Anyway, to cut a long a little bit shorter. Put the wheel back on I did, and after that night I took great pride in changing many a puncture. I even get excited these days when I get one.
If you need a light bulb or a tyre changing, I’m your man. Although, the moral of this story has been lost on me. My current car, has no jack and I’ve known about this for years. Dad, close your ears.
In many regards my dad and I could not have been more dissimilar. My dad, it would seem, was a man that could turn his hand to anything. His mind eternally consumed with thoughts of his next invention. It was commonplace for him to disappear halfway through Tomorrow’s World, The Royal Institution Christmas lectures or indeed Blue Peter – as a new thought exploded in his mind. The noises that emerged from his garage, in the following hours –the bubbling of chemicals, grinding of his lathe and that goddam air compressor were a source of constant irritation to the my mum, Janet and I, as we tried to keep up with Deidre Barlow, Bet Lynch and Rita Fairclough’s latest love affairs on Coronation Street , “Macolm, shut that bloody garage door, it’s freezing in here and I can’t hear the telly became my mum’s mantra.
I, on the other hand feel a great sense of achievement if I manage to screw a light bulb into its socket, and have been known to give up on this task on more than one occasion. My mum constantly urged me to go and watch my dad in action, “go on love, you learn by watching, how do you think you dad learnt. I sometimes followed her advice but it always ended in disaster. My interest never lasted beyond 5 minutes, before my mind would wander and my dad was left speaking to himself. Eventually, he would shake his head in disbelief, at the heir to his throne’s gross incompetence. My role in the family business was to make him cups of coffee (which usually went cold).
Then again, there are many of my dad’s characteristics which I share. My love of the simple things in life, our extreme curiosity for everything and our mildly eccentric behaviour (mildly – who am I kidding?). Most of all, I have my dad to thank for the humorous way that I perceive the world. My dad was funny, a source of constant amusement to all those that knew him. Oh yeah, one other thing, his element of surprise. You never really knew what you were going to get with my dad – be it a Timothy Mouse story under the covers at midnight, a new puppy after a visit to a factory – or for his biggest trick – a new sister popped out of his hat – and we are grateful for her.
I could literally tell you hundreds of stories to exemplify all of his many characteristics and I really wish that I had the time – instead, I have narrowed it down to one tale, which I am going to share with you now.
It was a cold winters night in 1990. My friend Chris and I were on a double date and we decided to take them to the Waterside Inn in Summerseat. At the time I was driving a mini and on the way home I had my first puncture ever. I got out of the car, surveyed the damage and then quickly got back in again because it was bloody freezing. I informed my mate and the girls of the situation and of course this was met by a hostile reception.
Fortunately, there was a working telephone box nearby and I was able to ring my parents – who I hasten to add, were sleeping,
“Dad, I’ve had a puncture”, I nervously told him.
“Well bloody fix it then”, came his reply.
“I can’t”, I meekly responded.
“Why, have you not got a jack”? He spat back at me.
Thankfully, he had now given me an excuse for my futile behaviour.
“No dad, I have no jack”, I excitedly responded. To which he replied.
“Right, we’re coming, and if I get there and find a jack, I’ll bloody marmalise you”.
Marmalisation was always his favoured punishment, although we never actually did find out what it actually was.
With haste, I returned to the car, my teeth chattering in the cold night air. Of course, the girls were whining when I told them that we would have to wait for 30 minutes for them to arrive.
Quite, how it never occurred to me to actually search for a jack, it is hard for me to comprehend now. But if I would have found one, I guess that I would have thrown it in the bushes. When my dad opened the boot and the first thing that he saw was the jack – I wish that I had have done.
Rightfully, my dad was fuming and immediately ordered us all out of the car, much to the disdain of the girls.
“Right, now bloody watch this – I’ll show you once and once only”.
“Right dad”, I said, knowing full well that my level of concentration would only last for the first 30 seconds. With haste, my dad took off the offending wheel and replaced it with the spare.
But wait, what was he doing, he appeared to be taking it back off again.
“What’s he doing”? Screamed one of the girls- to which I repled.
“I think he’s taking it back off again”.
My mum, oblivious to my dad’s intentions, said
“Malc, what are you doing”.
To which, my dad responded.
“If he bloody watched me, he’ll know what to do. Kath, get in the car”.
I’ll never forget my mum’s anxious face, as they drove off into the dark, cold January, Lancashire night –leaving behind 4 disbelieving figures and a car which had only 3 functioning wheels.
Anyway, to cut a long a little bit shorter. Put the wheel back on I did, and after that night I took great pride in changing many a puncture. I even get excited these days when I get one.
If you need a light bulb or a tyre changing, I’m your man. Although, the moral of this story has been lost on me. My current car, has no jack and I’ve known about this for years. Dad, close your ears.
I, on the other hand feel a great sense of achievement if I manage to screw a light bulb into its socket, and have been known to give up on this task on more than one occasion. My mum constantly urged me to go and watch my dad in action, “go on love, you learn by watching, how do you think you dad learnt. I sometimes followed her advice but it always ended in disaster. My interest never lasted beyond 5 minutes, before my mind would wander and my dad was left speaking to himself. Eventually, he would shake his head in disbelief, at the heir to his throne’s gross incompetence. My role in the family business was to make him cups of coffee (which usually went cold).
Then again, there are many of my dad’s characteristics which I share. My love of the simple things in life, our extreme curiosity for everything and our mildly eccentric behaviour (mildly – who am I kidding?). Most of all, I have my dad to thank for the humorous way that I perceive the world. My dad was funny, a source of constant amusement to all those that knew him. Oh yeah, one other thing, his element of surprise. You never really knew what you were going to get with my dad – be it a Timothy Mouse story under the covers at midnight, a new puppy after a visit to a factory – or for his biggest trick – a new sister popped out of his hat – and we are grateful for her.
I could literally tell you hundreds of stories to exemplify all of his many characteristics and I really wish that I had the time – instead, I have narrowed it down to one tale, which I am going to share with you now.
It was a cold winters night in 1990. My friend Chris and I were on a double date and we decided to take them to the Waterside Inn in Summerseat. At the time I was driving a mini and on the way home I had my first puncture ever. I got out of the car, surveyed the damage and then quickly got back in again because it was bloody freezing. I informed my mate and the girls of the situation and of course this was met by a hostile reception.
Fortunately, there was a working telephone box nearby and I was able to ring my parents – who I hasten to add, were sleeping,
“Dad, I’ve had a puncture”, I nervously told him.
“Well bloody fix it then”, came his reply.
“I can’t”, I meekly responded.
“Why, have you not got a jack”? He spat back at me.
Thankfully, he had now given me an excuse for my futile behaviour.
“No dad, I have no jack”, I excitedly responded. To which he replied.
“Right, we’re coming, and if I get there and find a jack, I’ll bloody marmalise you”.
Marmalisation was always his favoured punishment, although we never actually did find out what it actually was.
With haste, I returned to the car, my teeth chattering in the cold night air. Of course, the girls were whining when I told them that we would have to wait for 30 minutes for them to arrive.
Quite, how it never occurred to me to actually search for a jack, it is hard for me to comprehend now. But if I would have found one, I guess that I would have thrown it in the bushes. When my dad opened the boot and the first thing that he saw was the jack – I wish that I had have done.
Rightfully, my dad was fuming and immediately ordered us all out of the car, much to the disdain of the girls.
“Right, now bloody watch this – I’ll show you once and once only”.
“Right dad”, I said, knowing full well that my level of concentration would only last for the first 30 seconds. With haste, my dad took off the offending wheel and replaced it with the spare.
But wait, what was he doing, he appeared to be taking it back off again.
“What’s he doing”? Screamed one of the girls- to which I repled.
“I think he’s taking it back off again”.
My mum, oblivious to my dad’s intentions, said
“Malc, what are you doing”.
To which, my dad responded.
“If he bloody watched me, he’ll know what to do. Kath, get in the car”.
I’ll never forget my mum’s anxious face, as they drove off into the dark, cold January, Lancashire night –leaving behind 4 disbelieving figures and a car which had only 3 functioning wheels.
Anyway, to cut a long a little bit shorter. Put the wheel back on I did, and after that night I took great pride in changing many a puncture. I even get excited these days when I get one.
If you need a light bulb or a tyre changing, I’m your man. Although, the moral of this story has been lost on me. My current car, has no jack and I’ve known about this for years. Dad, close your ears.
In many regards my dad and I could not have been more dissimilar. My dad, it would seem, was a man that could turn his hand to anything. His mind eternally consumed with thoughts of his next invention. It was commonplace for him to disappear halfway through Tomorrow’s World, The Royal Institution Christmas lectures or indeed Blue Peter – as a new thought exploded in his mind. The noises that emerged from his garage, in the following hours –the bubbling of chemicals, grinding of his lathe and that goddam air compressor were a source of constant irritation to the my mum, Janet and I, as we tried to keep up with Deidre Barlow, Bet Lynch and Rita Fairclough’s latest love affairs on Coronation Street , “Macolm, shut that bloody garage door, it’s freezing in here and I can’t hear the telly became my mum’s mantra.
I, on the other hand feel a great sense of achievement if I manage to screw a light bulb into its socket, and have been known to give up on this task on more than one occasion. My mum constantly urged me to go and watch my dad in action, “go on love, you learn by watching, how do you think you dad learnt. I sometimes followed her advice but it always ended in disaster. My interest never lasted beyond 5 minutes, before my mind would wander and my dad was left speaking to himself. Eventually, he would shake his head in disbelief, at the heir to his throne’s gross incompetence. My role in the family business was to make him cups of coffee (which usually went cold).
Then again, there are many of my dad’s characteristics which I share. My love of the simple things in life, our extreme curiosity for everything and our mildly eccentric behaviour (mildly – who am I kidding?). Most of all, I have my dad to thank for the humorous way that I perceive the world. My dad was funny, a source of constant amusement to all those that knew him. Oh yeah, one other thing, his element of surprise. You never really knew what you were going to get with my dad – be it a Timothy Mouse story under the covers at midnight, a new puppy after a visit to a factory – or for his biggest trick – a new sister popped out of his hat – and we are grateful for her.
I could literally tell you hundreds of stories to exemplify all of his many characteristics and I really wish that I had the time – instead, I have narrowed it down to one tale, which I am going to share with you now.
It was a cold winters night in 1990. My friend Chris and I were on a double date and we decided to take them to the Waterside Inn in Summerseat. At the time I was driving a mini and on the way home I had my first puncture ever. I got out of the car, surveyed the damage and then quickly got back in again because it was bloody freezing. I informed my mate and the girls of the situation and of course this was met by a hostile reception.
Fortunately, there was a working telephone box nearby and I was able to ring my parents – who I hasten to add, were sleeping,
“Dad, I’ve had a puncture”, I nervously told him.
“Well bloody fix it then”, came his reply.
“I can’t”, I meekly responded.
“Why, have you not got a jack”? He spat back at me.
Thankfully, he had now given me an excuse for my futile behaviour.
“No dad, I have no jack”, I excitedly responded. To which he replied.
“Right, we’re coming, and if I get there and find a jack, I’ll bloody marmalise you”.
Marmalisation was always his favoured punishment, although we never actually did find out what it actually was.
With haste, I returned to the car, my teeth chattering in the cold night air. Of course, the girls were whining when I told them that we would have to wait for 30 minutes for them to arrive.
Quite, how it never occurred to me to actually search for a jack, it is hard for me to comprehend now. But if I would have found one, I guess that I would have thrown it in the bushes. When my dad opened the boot and the first thing that he saw was the jack – I wish that I had have done.
Rightfully, my dad was fuming and immediately ordered us all out of the car, much to the disdain of the girls.
“Right, now bloody watch this – I’ll show you once and once only”.
“Right dad”, I said, knowing full well that my level of concentration would only last for the first 30 seconds. With haste, my dad took off the offending wheel and replaced it with the spare.
But wait, what was he doing, he appeared to be taking it back off again.
“What’s he doing”? Screamed one of the girls- to which I repled.
“I think he’s taking it back off again”.
My mum, oblivious to my dad’s intentions, said
“Malc, what are you doing”.
To which, my dad responded.
“If he bloody watched me, he’ll know what to do. Kath, get in the car”.
I’ll never forget my mum’s anxious face, as they drove off into the dark, cold January, Lancashire night –leaving behind 4 disbelieving figures and a car which had only 3 functioning wheels.
Anyway, to cut a long a little bit shorter. Put the wheel back on I did, and after that night I took great pride in changing many a puncture. I even get excited these days when I get one.
If you need a light bulb or a tyre changing, I’m your man. Although, the moral of this story has been lost on me. My current car, has no jack and I’ve known about this for years. Dad, close your ears.
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