camino day 17

It keeps blocking my post.

Day 17 Carrion De Los Condes to Moratinos Distance = 30 KM

I can't say enough good things about the town of Carrion De Los Condes. I could quite happily have stayed there for a longer time. Eventually I found Eli, sitting outside a bar with James. I went into the bar to order some wine, and was pleasantly surprised to find out that wine was 50 cents per glass. That was my night sorted. Eli was drinking Coca cola, which was three times more expensive than the wine. As we sat outside the bar we were gradually joined by our pilgrim family. The convent closed at 10.30 p.m. on the dot, so we had to end our night earlyish. We didn't want to incur the wrath of the nuns.

I had a fitful sleep! News of the bed bugs had put the jitters up me. At one point in the night I dreamt that I was covered in them, and I was pulling them off and throwing them across the room. I was elated when I woke up to zero bites. After packing my stuff up I went off in search of Eli. I expected to find him fast asleep in the church eaves, but to my surprise he was up, and ready to go. James and the Wolfman had looked after him well. 

We breakfasted in a small bar/cafe, before heading out into the Mesata once more.Today there would be nothing for the first 17.5 KM, so we had to bu a boccadillo for the road (that's a butty, to anyone from Northern England). It was a cold start to the day, as we headed off into a beautiful orange sunrise. Our minds were filled with a new fear today. Over breakfast we'd been informed that Spain may be going into full lockdown next week. Apparently their government has meetings on Friday's, and any proposals are actioned the following Monday. What would we do if the country goes into full lockdown? The selfish part of me would want to go full Rambo, and head off into the countryside, living off the land. But in reality, we'd probably have to go to the nearest airport, to make our way home. Oh well! We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. It adds a bit more excitement to the trip. Will we make it to Finisterre? Every KM counts, from here on in. We're actually now over halfway to Santiago.

Today's journey was long and straight.The first 5 KM or so, was a beautiful country lane, which turned into a dirt track for the next 12.5 KM. Eli's boccadillo was burning a hole in his pocket from the outset. He was itching to eat it. Before we'd gone far, he'd scoffed the lot (and so had I). Thankfully our bodies are well conditioned now, we are literally motoring through the Meseta. We whizzed past many people, as we tore through the centre of fields of wheat. Wide expansive miles of nothingness, as far as the eye can see. It gave me lots of time to think. I focussed on how little we need in this world to exist. I've travelled a lot in my life, and often come to this conclusion. When your life is contained within a rucksack on your back, you realise that we fill our lives with so much rubbish, that is unnecessary to our existence. Every time I come home from a long trip I fall back into the same trap of buying stuff that I don't need. But it's great to experience this feeling of not needing anything, if only for a short time.

Today I really got the feeling that I was in the Meseta. A route full of little else, other than a dirt track, wheat fields, haystacks, and dead sunflowers. It felt wonderful to arrive in the village of Calzadilla De la Cueza, where filled our systems with caffeine. As I was sat drinking Coca Cola, I was approached by a lady called Gill. 'You must be Andy?' She said. She's been following my journey on the Camino FB group, and was wondering when we'd meet. I was delighted when she told me how much she loved my writing, and how it captured her own trip in words. I also received many kind words yesterday about my efforts to write about my journey.It makes it all worth while. 

During the latter part of our journey today the landscape became more varied. The flat, arid landscape gave way to hills, trees, and vegetation. At one stage we walked on a small section of old road, which was now redundant. We stopped for one last break, in the village of Ledigos. I'm becoming more fond of Spanish culture by the day. No matter what time you arrive at a bar/cafe, there is always somebody having a drink of beer, or wiine. It's so much more relaxed than life in the UK. I guess the sun plays a big part in chilling people out. We've now arrived in the small conurbation of Moratinos, where we've booked in at our best accomodation so far on the Camino. For 12.50 euro each we've got our own private room, with balcony, and private bathroom. I'm currently sat writing on a roof terrace, which affords me a perfect view of the surrounding area. Fields, in every direction, as far as the eye can see, and not a soul in sight. Unfortunately I'm being plagued by flies, but you can't have everything in life. And if you could, it would be boring.

A mother's love

She'd waited for this moment for months. Once she'd made up her mind to do it, it was only a matter of waiting until the right opportunity arose. Tonight, on this dark, miserable November's evening, that time had come. Her husband had left a few hours earlier, on one of his business trips. She knew full well what his business trips entailed. He'd no doubt be drinking whiskey until he all but fell over, before visiting a 24 hour massage parlour. She shuddered at the thought of him sliding his sweaty body all over some poor Romanian teenage girl who'd come to England to start a new life, only to find herself working in a back-street brothel in Birmingham. She'd never trusted the good-for-nothing prick anyway, but her suspicions had been confirmed one evening when she'd eavesdropped on him, as he drunkenly chatted on the phone to his equally despicable mate Colin. Oh, how he'd bragged about the age of his latest conquest. "She was younger than our Lil," he'd told Colin, in reference to their only daughter. She could hear Colin's laughter coming back at him from the other side of the phone. He loved Colin more than her, that was for sure. It wouldn't come as a surprise if she came home from work one day and caught them sucking each other's dicks. Well, he could have him, as long as he kept away from her she was happy.

There were odd occasions that he'd forced himself upon her over the past decade, when he'd been so drunk that he'd not recognised her non-response. She'd laid so motionless, that he may as well have been fucking the mattress. Whilst he'd squirmed around on top of her, grunting like a warthog, his jowls slapping against his chest. She'd willed him to ejaculate, as he'd push his three inch pud inside her. But his whiskey consumption would unfortunately prevent him from finishing early, or finishing at all for that matter. If she was lucky his grunts of pleasure would be replaced by his disgusting snoring. Then she'd have to struggle to slide her arthritic body from under his twenty stone frame. How he'd laughed and made jibes about her arthritic hands, "look kids your mum is a spaz," he'd tell them. "She's useless - just look at her, she's no good for anything. She was once Cinderella, now she's one of the ugly sisters." As much his words hurt her, nothing hurt as much as when their son Kevin laughed along with his dad. He didn't mean it, she knew that, he'd been diagnosed with autism at a young age. He'd just wanted his dad to love him, so he'd learned to laugh along with his cruel comments - in order to get his dad's praise. "That's my boy Kevin," he'd say as he pat him on the back. The sound of his dad's voice as he praised him made Kevin's face beam with joy. It was if her husband was thrusting a knife into her back, and then giving it one final twist. Of course, she knew, that he knew that Kevin was the only one that she really loved. I mean, she loved Lilly too, but she could fend for herself, whereas Kevin needed her help. If she wasn't there for him nobody would be. Well that was, until that fateful day!

She knew that she shouldn't have let him go to the party, but she'd just wanted him to feel normal. At school he'd been bullied by his peers, and when he came home he'd be bullied by his dad. It broke her heart. So when he'd asked her if he could go to his friend's party, she'd felt pressured into it. She'd didn't really trust Kevin's friends, but maybe she was wrong. John Isherwood seemed like a nice lad, and Kevin looked up to him. If only she'd followed her first instinct Kevin would still be around today, and there would be no need for her to visit the loft this evening. Over the past six months since that fateful night she'd relived the last moments that they'd spent together, over, and over again. The way he'd hugged her for what lasted like an eternity, the fresh smell of his hair that he'd just washed, and the smell of his Kouros aftershave that he'd doused himself in before he'd left the house. She'd bought him the bottle for Christmas two years ago, but he never went out, so this was the first time he'd used it. 'Oh, Jesus Christ, God rest his soul' - how could this have happened to someone that she loved, and cared for so much?

As he'd walked down the garden path, she'd mouthed "I love you!" to him. She'd been careful not to say it out loud, because she knew it embarrassed him, and he wouldn't be able to respond. But how she'd longed for him turn around and repeat those three words to her. As he'd opened the garden gate, he'd turned back to give her one last wave, and then he was gone. The untrimmed privet hedge shielding him from view as he'd made his way down Mannering Avenue. She'd been asking her husband to trim the hedge for years, yet another reason to despise him. She'd stood outside for a good ten minutes after Kevin had left, only going back into the house when the smell of her son's Kouros had ceased to linger in the warm May air.

That evening she hadn't settled properly, her feelings of unease had led to an acceleration in her drinking. Within half an hour her first bottle of Merlot was gone, and she'd fumbled in the living room cupboard for another. Her husband had scowled at her as the the cork had popped out of the bottle. "Don't you think, you've had enough? You know how stupid you become when you've had too much!"he'd spat at her with venom.  Before muttering under his breath,"And you weren't that bright to start with." No more words had been exchanged as they'd sat and watched Casualty. Fuck, she hated their Saturday night routine, it did little to take her mind off her son's welfare.

At some point in the evening the wine had got the better of her, and she'd fallen into a drunken slumber. Only to awake with a start at 2.07 am, waves of severe pain pulsing through her body. She knew full well that wine made her arthritis flare, but the few hours of pleasure and relief it gave her, almost made the pain worthwhile. It had taken her the best part of twenty minutes to get herself to bed that night, her swollen ankles, knees, and hands not lending themselves to any fast movements. Her gnarled fingers were barely able to grip the hand-rail as she'd willed herself up the stairs. Once she'd reached the bedroom, she had wondered to herself why she'd even bothered. Her husband's  hideous snoring had hit her full in the face like a wall of sound.

It was as she was struggling to fall back to sleep that her worst nightmares had become a reality. That sound that she'd dreaded since her son was old enough to leave her side. The shrill ring of the downstairs phone, as it competed with her husband's snores to pollute the stillness of the night. Her body which only seconds earlier had been enshrouded in pain, was now consumed in fear.

Kevin's death had been recorded as accidental. He'd fallen from a 2nd floor window, and landed on his head. Toxicology reports had shown that he had high levels of alcohol in his system, as well as traces of marijuana, amphetamine and MDMA . To her knowledge he'd never even drunk alcohol before, let alone done drugs. At first the police enquiries had been met by a wall of silence, but eventually the truth had come out. Kevin had been encouraged to drink by those around him. He'd been cajoled into playing party drinking games, been given marijuana blowback by some of the girls, and most likely been spiked with a cocktail of amphetamine, and MDMA - although this was never proven. The only thing she was sure about was that her son was dead, and her own life had consesequently ended.

From the moment that she'd got the call she'd gone into a state of shock, which had lasted for months. Something in her had changed. Her sadness had hit a new low. She'd not been happy for years, not since she'd been forced into marriage that was for sure. Getting pregnant out of wedlock was not something that you did in 1965. By the time their daughter was born, she'd been married for three months, and the resentment had already started to build. Mainly her hatred was directed at her husband, but sometimes she'd harboured a distaste for Lilly too. What if she hadn't have met him? What if she hadn't have got pregnant? Life had been so much easier back then. Weekends away in the Isle of Man with the girls, holidays in Italy, and big nights out down the Nelson Imp. If only she's met somebody else, somebody nice, somebody less controlling, or at least somebody she fancied. Not that fat lump that she had to sleep next to every night, and who tried to control every aspect of her life.

Three years later when Kevin came along, she'd been ready for it. Something to give her hope, someone to direct her love at. When he'd been diagnosed with autism there was a small part of her that felt happy about it. Maybe he'd need her more, maybe he'd love her for longer than a normal kid. She'd hated herself for having these thoughts, and tried hard to erase them from her mind. But every time she saw her son, reaching out and needing her, she felt that her life was worthwhile'. But now he was gone! What was the point in carrying on? She just wanted to feel his love one more time, to touch him, to smell him, to embrace him. She had a plan, and tonight was the night she was going to execute it.

Once her husband's car had disappeared around the corner of Mannering St, and onto Manchester Road, she'd waited for half an hour, just to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, and needed to return home to fetch it. With this established she went to the kitchen to pour herself a big glass of wine - she was going to need it tonight that was for sure. After filling the biggest glass in the cupboard to the top, she took two huge gulps and downed the lot. Her face winced as she was hit with the aftertaste. She could feel her arthritis begin to flare as she made her way down the hallway, and began to ascend the stairs. By the time she reached the fifth stair she was normally in agony, but tonight the large glass of Shiraz was helping her through the pain barrier. By the eleventh stair she had to take a break. There were twenty stairs in total,  a fact that she was fully aware of. She'd been begging her husband to get a stairlift installed for years, but he always either ignored her, or made a cruel comment about her inability to properly climb the stairs. With all the resolve in the world though, tonight she made it. This was only the beginning of her journey.

Reaching behind the wardrobe her outstretched, misshapen fingers reached out to grab the hooked loft-hatch stick. There was a dull thud as her fingers brushed against it and it fell flat against the carpeted floor. "FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! she screamed at the top of her voice. Why was life always so difficult? Thankfully the stick had fallen towards her, and it was easy to retrieve. Raising her right arm in the air she pushed the stick towards the loft hatch, and to her surprise the hook engaged with the metal hoop. Quickly she pulled the stick down, and the loft hatch began to pull the attached ladder down towards the landing floor. Three more big pulls, and she was able to pull the ladder down close enough for be able to grab it with the hook. One final pull and the bottom of the ladder was within her grasp. With haste she reached up and grabbed it, in an effort to outpace her arthritic pains. Tonight her determination, perseverance and stubbornness would be her only allies. She had to be with her boy one last time. Nothing could stop her!

It had been years since she'd been in the loft. Christmas 1979 when her husband had gone on a "business trip," and the kids had begged her to get the fake Christmas tree and decorations down. As she'd crawled along the wooden joists, she'd been petrified not to fall in between. Her husband's voice had reverberated through her mind, "Don't fall between the fucking joists if you ever go up there." She knew that he cared more for the damage that it would do to the house, than he cared for her welfare. It had almost killed her, but much to the delight of the kids she'd managed to complete her task. Kevin had given her a special hug that night. If she closed her eyes and concentrated hard enough she could still feel his embrace.

"Oh shit!! "the torch, where the fuck was the torch. She was going to need the torch for her little nostalgic journey that was for sure. To her great relief she remembered that Lilly had used it on a recent camping trip, and it would be somewhere in the messy pile on her bedroom floor.

Entering her daughter's bedroom she began to kick her piles of clothes around, in a desperate attempt to find the torch. She knew it had to be there somewhere. She desperately needed to find it, without it her task would be impossible that was for sure. Where the fuck was it? Her eyes darted around her daughter's bedroom, until they focused on large picture frame next to the window. The frame contained a collage of photographs. Mainly photos of Lilly and her friends on drunken nights out at university, but scattered amongst them were pictures of the family. A few shots of the family camping in Wales when they were kids. There he was little Kevin, so full of life, his dad with his hand on his shoulder pretending to like him. But she knew full well that this was not the case, he'd probably be resenting him because his wife had just given Kevin the last cheese sandwich, or because she was paying more attention to her son than to him. Men could be so pathetic! One photograph particularly caught her eye. Kevin aged 11 in his first school photograph at senior school. There he was looking all shy and awkward, trying to fake a smile. His pale blue shirt, with the top button open, and God, his tie so loosely fastened. How he hated that tie. It had taken her years to teach him how to fasten it, and when he did he never untied it. He'd just slip it on and off his neck, and hook it on his door handle when he came home from school. Her eyes focused on her son's eyes. They looked sad! The eyes of a boy that had never really fit in. A tear rolled down her cheek and dripped on to the floor at her feet.

As she turned to walk away her foot struck something solid on the floor. She looked down, and to her delight she saw the black rubber of the torch handle. She would be able to carry out her task tonight afterall! Instantly she hit the on button just to make sure it worked - and she was relieved to see that a bright circle lit up the landing wall. Only the loft ladder separated her from the task in hand. She grabbed the side of the ladder and placed her right foot on the first rung before she could change her mind. Within seconds she was halfway up the ladder. A new resolve had taken over. With sheer determination she reached the top of the ladder, and stuck her head through the hatch. Lifting her right arm above her head, she shone the torch in front of her, the beam illuminating one side of the loft. The pain in her arms was intense, but a new force had taken over. Years of memories all contained within this small area. She knew exactly what she wanted to see, those momentos of a life gone by. Anything that made her feel closer to Kevin. She knew that this night was going to hurt like hell, but for the sake of Kevin she had to do it.

As she shone her torch beam around the loft her attention was arrested when she caught sight of her son's first toy. A blue and red plastic, octagonal shaped contraption that bore the name Fisher Price. Oh God, how Kevin had loved putting plastic shapes into this, and then pulling it apart and starting again. If the truth be told, he probably liked it a lot more than most kids did, and probably played with it for a lot longer than most did too. She remembered his joyous smile when he first recognised which shapes went into which holes. It may not have been much, but for her it was a little victory.

Her feet were already beginning to hurt like hell, arthritic pains shooting through her legs like high intensity flames. She had to hurry, it was only a matter of time before the pain would become too much. She aimed the beam of the torch once more into the loft. As the torch''s beam passed by she noted the Christmas decoration box. How Kevin got excited when this made an appearance every year. The little man and lady made of pipe cleaners and baubles, the felt covered reindeers pulling Santa's golden sleigh, and the plastic Santa with suckers on the back. They would stick this to the front door every year, and without fail it would fall off after a few days. The decoration got smaller each year as a new chunk of plastic was smashed from it. Santa had lost his one of his arms and a leg years ago. But they had to put it up. Kevin would get upset if anything was thrown away. He was a creature of routine.

As she leaned forward to get a better look in the Christmas decorations bag she lost her footing, and for two hair-raising, painful seconds she hung by her torso on the ladder with her legs flailing in the air. By the Grace of God she came crashing down into the loft itself, and miraculously didn't fall between the joists. She lay there motionless, staring at the cobwebbed ceiling - unable to move, frozen in pain. It took five minutes before she could compose herself and get ready for the next part of her journey. There were many items in the loft that she felt the desire to see for one last time, but there was one item that she simply had to find. Kevin's first teddy bear was named Hammy. He'd got him when he was born, and for many years Hammy had never left Kevin's side. Hammy had been with him on every photo from 1969 to 1977. Seeing Hammy was going to break her heart, by she knew that once she had Hammy in her hand she would feel as close to Kevin as she was ever going to feel again.

Everything in the loft was bagged up in black plastic refuse bags, which revealed no clues to what lay within. She'd have to rip them all open to see what was in them. Grabbing the first bag, she attempted to rip it open, but the pain in her fingers was too intense, and she let out a scream. Realising that this was no longer an option she elected to rip the bags open with her teeth. This proved far more successful. The first bag she opened was full of Kevin's toy cars. How he'd loved to push them around the house, making the different noises for different vehicles. He could spend hour upon hour just pretending to drive them up and down the hallway, and into the toy garage that his dad had made him for his second birthday - one of the only nice things her husband had ever done. She'd never heard the end of it. Why did men always want praising for stuff?

With vigour she ripped the next bag open with her teeth, 'Oh God love him! His toy soldiers!" He'd play for hours with his toy soldiers. Battles that seemed to go on forever. She'd sit at one side of the  living room and Kevin on the other, whilst they rolled a marble across the room in an attempt to topple the opposition's legion. Kevin was adamant that the game couldn't finish until all the soldiers from one of the armies had been knocked over. As the tears began to roll down her face she made no attempt to stop them. It felt good to cry like this, it had been long overdue.

She shone the torch into the right corner of the loft, and through glazed eyes she spotted her husbands old golf clubs. Only last year he'd spent four thousand pounds on some new ones. Money that could have been better spent on her Stanna stairlift as far as she was concerned. But money that he thought would be best utilised on a new set of Titleist golf clubs. He always wanted to impress his golfing chums, even though he spent more time in the 19h hole sinking pints, than he spent sinking golf balls. Well, they'd find out what a twat he was soon enough! She'd had plenty of time to plan over the past few months, and this was her finest work.

Feeling a renewed anger toward her husband she shone the torch away from the golf clubs, and felt a massive pang of excitement and anxiety as her the torch beam fell upon a large white plastic bin bag. She knew straight away that this was what she was looking for. This was the bag that contained all Kevin's cuddly toys. Somewhere in this bag was little Hammy, who was missing an eye, and had been sewn up on many occasions to prevent him from losing his stuffing. Once Hammy was in her hands her life would be as complete as it was ever going to be again. She crawled at pace towards the bag, and when she reached it, she sank her teeth into it with the passion of a lion felling a wildebeest. She shone the torch through the hole that she'd made and braced herself for her final nostalgia trip. This was going to hurt like hell.

The first soft toy that she pulled out of the bag was Cuddles. God bless him, how he loved Cuddles. His aunty Annie had made Cuddles for him for his 4th birthday, and how he'd adored it. After Hammy Cuddles was his favourite. She gave Cuddles a kiss and placed the bear next to her. She shone the torch in the bag again and smiled to herself as the beam illuminated the face of Mrs Cat. Mrs Cat was Lilly's cuddly toy, but Kevin had once thrown her on the school roof. It was only years later that Mr Wills the caretaker had found her, and the headmistress, Mrs Cherry had announced her re-arrival, at the school assembly one Friday morning. Lilly couldn't believe her eyes when she saw Mrs Cat at the front of the assembly. She'd just assumed that she'd lost her forever. Sheepishly she'd made her way to the front to reclaim her.

The next few minutes were spent pulling teddies out of the bag in a desperate search for Hammy. He had to be in there, she knew it. Each toy had it's own story. Tiddles, Harold Wilson - the plastic faced monkey, Sooty, Koala, and ......Oh my God - how could she have forgotten about Furry B. Kevin had spent the best part of a year saving his spending money so that he could buy Furry B for Lilly. Once he'd saved £5.40 he'd crossed over Broadway to the row of shops, where he'd purchased Furry B, from Joyce Crossfield's store. Lilly had given him a big hug, which made Kevin blush and shy away. He was never one for affection.

With only a handful of cuddly toys left in the bag the torch shone upon Hammy's face. Although she'd known that Hammy had to be in there, the shock of actually seeing him was enough to make her heart skip a few beats. Her hands began to tremble, and her mouth was filled with an acidic taste. With her gnarled, arthritic fingers , she grabbed Hammy and clutched him to her heart. "Oh Kevin, my angel - you're with me again at last.", she shouted out. "I love you, I love you, I never should have let you go to that party," she cried out. She squeezed Hammy as hard as she could, pushing him into her. The soul of her son was contained within the material of this small soft toy, and tonight they were together once more.  At last she was at peace. Her tears were replaced with a smile, a smile so wide that  it hurt the sides of her face. The smile of woman with a plan.

With Hammy still held firmly held against her heart with her left hand. She put her right hand into her jeans pocket, and with her crippled fingers she grabbed hold of its contents. Two school ties, one from Lilly, and the other from Kevin. Of course, Kevin's was still tied in a knot, as if his head had just slipped out. In preparation she'd tied Lilly's tie to the fat end of Kevin's tie with a square knot, something her granddad had taught her as a kid. It had been a painful task but her determination had ensured that the task had been completed. She now employed the same determination to tie Lilly's tie to one of the low loft beams. Once this was done she loosened the knot on Kevin's tie, and slipped her head through the loop. As she leant forward the knot of the tie began to tighten. This was it, soon she'd be with Kevin again.

"Don't fall between the fucking joists! Don't fall between the fucking joists!" Well she'd show him. As she leapt forward towards the weak floor of the loft, the makeshift noose tightened, and by the time she crashed through the ceiling of her and her husband's bedroom she was already beginning to asphyxiate.

The Rocket man of Accrington - 15 Manor St (2)

122 Manor Street

Malcolm was born on May 25th 1945, the third child of Granville and Gladys. His eldest brother Edward, but more commonly referred to as Ted, was already well into his teens by the time Malcolm was old enough to know who he was. And his middle brother, Medwyn had sadly passed away at the age of three, a victim of meningitis. The last of the brothers Erling came into this world a few years later in 1947, the small age difference meant that Erling and Malcolm would grow up as close friends. Although Malcolm's influence on Erling did not always end well.

By the time Malcolm was eleven years old, his elder brother Ted had already been conscripted into the army, and was off in Egypt fighting in the highly calamitous Suez Crisis. From time to time Ted would get leave from the army, and would return home to their house at number 15 Manor St. With his bedroom long since given up to his two younger brothers, the only place Ted could lay his head was in the bathtub. For the duration of his leave, the rest of the members of the house would be forced to knock on the bathroom door before they went to the toilet, or to perform their ablutions in the outdoor lavatory. Not an enticing prospect during the harsh Lancashire winters. On the occasions that they forgot to knock, they were graced by the image of Ted crammed into the small bathtub, his feet flat against the dark blue tiles, and his knees bent to accommodate his 6 ft 1 inch frame. Such was Ted's nature that he never complained, instead he took great pleasure in regaling the boys with tales of his army exploits. Even though their bathroom was temporarily taken away from them, Malcolm and Erling loved it when their brother came to stay.

They especially loved his cooking, one of the skills that he'd learnt in the army. Whilst convalescing in Manor St, after being shot in the side during the Suez Crisis, Ted had shown the boys how to make rock buns. Their excitement had been such, that they'd got carried away, and spent the entire week filling every available container with buns. By the time the month was out, the brothers were sick to the back teeth of them, and took to selling them at school. An enterprise that went so well that it got them thinking about their next business.

Manor St lay within the shadow of Peel Park, the home to the mighty Accrington Stanley. Accrington Stanley were one of the founder members of the football league in 1888, although they were to bow out of the league altogether by 1966 (until their resurrection at least). On match day, the streets surrounding Manor St would come alive with folks (mainly men) heading to the game. With the success of their recent rock bun enterprise still firmly in their minds, Malcolm had concocted a new plan to earn some money. By this time his obsession with rockets had already begun, and any opportunity to increase the stock in his laboratory became a primary focus.

"Hey, our kid!" Malcolm said to Erlng one Saturday afternoon after witnessing legions of men passing by their street.

"How about we make an orange juice making machine?" he continued.

"How would we do that then kid?" Erling replied.

"I have a plan, " Malcolm informed him.

And so it was on the next match day, that Malcolm and Erling came to be huddled together in an enormous cardboard box with three slots cut in the front of it. The first slot was for money, and had the words  - 'put your sixpence in here', crudely written in black marker pen above it. The other two slots were to dispense drinks from, and had the words - 'get your drinks here' written above them. Behind each of these slots sat Malcolm and Erling. They'd also managed to fit two large buckets of ready mixed orange cordial in the box with them. All they needed now were customers.

Their box was positioned against the gable end of Maggie Will's house, which thousands of people had to pass to get to the game. The first of the crowds that passed the Mitton enterprise were far too eager to see the game to even notice their shop. So Malcolm and Erling started shouting in unison "ORANGE JUICE, ORANGE JUICE! - only sixpence, come and get your orange juice here!"

Within a minute the first of their customers had arrived at the makeshift vending machine, and was busy trying to put his money into the slot. Quick as a flash Malcolm's hand shot out from within the box and grabbed the fella's money.

"Hey, hold up," the man shouted, "It's a shilling!" he added.

"We haven't got any change sorry," Malcolm shouted back, "we'll give you another orange juice an all."

Malcolm had barely finished this last sentence when Erling stuck a cup of orange juice through each of the dispensing slots, by employment of both arms. An action which didn't go unnoticed by a small crowd of people that had gathered, who were all amused by Malcolm and Erling's vending machine.
Once the first person decided to buy an orange juice, the rest followed suit. Before the lads knew it they'd sold out both buckets, and were excitedly counting their stash. Their business was so successful that they continued to do it for every home game for the next two seasons, until they were too large to fit in the box. Erling, being the kind soul that he was, donated his money to his big brother's laboratory fund. It was worth it to see the end product of Malcolm's labour.

One Sunday afternoon one of the neighbours came around with masks for the boys. She'd been rummaging in the larder for some baking trays, and found some old paper masks. Of course the boys loved them, and ran around Manor Street trying to scare the neighbours. It was hard to say who tired of their game first, the neighbours or Malcolm and Erling. But when they eventually started to tire of being masked bandits Malcolm struck upon a new idea to liven it up. Without hesitation he ran down the cellar stairs and disappeared into his laboratory. Malcolm's "famous brainwaves," as Erling liked to call them, were nothing new to his younger brother. When they occurred, Erling always knew that something exciting was about to follow. Today was to be no exception to the rule.

Later that evening whilst Erling was doing his homework Malcolm re-appeared in their bedroom.

"Right our kid, grab hold of this, we're going to have some fun!" Malcolm beckoned him, as he thrust what appeared to be a cloak into his hands.

Malcolm had somehow gotten hold of a pair of old black velvet curtains, which made two perfect cloaks.

"Get your mask on our kid, and wrap yourself in this cloak, I've got a proper fun prank lined up for us," he told Erling with a real buzz of excitement surrounding him.

Erling did as he was summoned, and followed his brother as they headed off into a damp, dark winter's evening.

"There look, Old Granny Winters!" Malc pointed out. "When you hear the bang, jump out in front of her."

A second later there was an almighty bang, and smoke filled the air, in an around where Old Granny Winters had been standing. She let out a shrill cry, which was intensified when the two phantoms of Manor St jumped out in front of her, complete with their masks and their cloaks.

"You pair of rapscallions!" she shouted, as the boys ran away laughing. They continued their phantom trick until Malcolm's home made gunpowder ran out, which was just as well because their bread and butter pudding supper was ready.

Not long after Erling was born Granville upped sticks and left.  Gladys and the kids were left to fend for themselves. Until this point they'd been fairly comfortable. They'd wanted for nothing, and were actually more comfortable then most people in their neighbourhood. Granville had made a living as an aircraft engineer, and had risen up the ranks to supervisor of over a hundred men. The Mitton family had been the first in Manor St to get a black and white TV in 1954, and Malcolm had become rather fond of watching the animated TV show 'Meet the Penguins'. So fond in fact that he'd once pooped in his pants, whilst rushing to get home in time to watch the programme in his front room -where half of Manor Street would congregate. On this particular occasion Malcolm had been standing on the foot pegs of Barry Adamson's bicycle, when the unfortunate incident had occurred. The combination of the speed they were travelling as they rushed down the Peel Park Avenue, and the excitement of the forthcoming show, had totally loosened his bowels. It wasn't until a few minutes into the programme that the kids around him started to notice the unholy stench of fresh excrement.

"Bleeding hell, it stinks of shit round here," cried Barry Adamson.

"Yeah it does! Smells like the pig pen at Johnson's farm!" shouted his brother Bob.

By the time the end credits were rolling there were eight lads writhing around the back yard in dramatic fashion, the majority of them retching into the flower beds. Malcolm meanwhile had sneaked off down to his laboratory to hide his underpants in a place that they would be disguised by the smell of chemicals. Annoyed with himself that he'd have to wait another week to catch up with the penguin's antics.

The Rat Catcher, the Farmer's Guardian, and the long trek to Dowry Head Farm

1984 was a year full of political unrest. Globally the Russians and the Americans were playing a game of my missile is bigger than yours, nationally Arthur Scargill and Maggie Thatcher went head to head in the battle for Britain's coal mines, and locally I was preparing to begin my last year at school in a futile attempt to not become one of Maggie's Millions (3.5 million unemployed).

It's this last point that I want to focus on. You see, I wasn't really designed for school. My concentration levels didn't really lend themselves to such a regimented organisation. One minute I'd be taking it all in and thinking I was on top of it, and then the next I was desperately trying to copy off everybody else because I realised that I'd zoned out for 15 minutes, and had no clue what I was supposed to be doing. With this in mind, I'd dread Parent's Evening. This was one of the only times that my my poor old mum (God rest her soul) would get dressed up, and put a bit of perfume on. She'd get a bottle of Charlie every Christmas, but Parent's Evening was one of her only opportunities to wear it. She'd leave the house, all smiles and full of false optimism, and return a few hours later, to break the news to me of how bad I was doing (though she never really did). "Mr May says that you're a lovely lad, you try very hard in his classes, and you have lots of friends," was about the best (and worst) I'd ever get out of her. What she didn't tell me is that I wasn't even being put in for O Levels, because I was deemed too thick to do them. "You'll be doing all CSE's then love!" she'd say, with a kindness in her voice that belied how she must have felt inside.

If you think, that given my lack of abilities in the academic department, I'd make up for this with hard work. Then think again! I was a proper lazy little bastard, who made any excuse not to do any task that may have been bestowed upon me. "Can you get the Flymo out and cut the grass love?" my dad would politely ask. "No, I can't,  I've got hay fever," would be my reply. Can you wash the dishes please love?" my mum would ask. " I can't, it makes my fingers all dry," I would respond. The list went on. I had an excuse for every task.

As you can imagine, my mum worried a lot. She was mainly concerned with how I was going to gain employment when I left school in the summer of 1985. So, you'd think that she'd be happy when I got my first job, in the spring of 1984. But I don't think she was! The job was that of paper boy for King's newsagents on Helmshore Road. My friend Carl Green asked me if I wanted the job, and like a fool I was lured in by the cash. To a 14 yr old £6.50 sounded like a lot of money, I mean most paper rounds only seemed to be paying £4 tops. There had to be a catch! - should have been the question on my mind. Why would Carl give me the job if it was so good? But this thought didn't cross my mind. All I knew was that I was getting paid £6.50 per week to deliver papers 2 times a day. Now in retrospect I should have really asked how many miles the paper round was, or how many papers I'd have to deliver. But these were questions that never entered my mind.

My mum's fears were not without foundation.

In 1978 a young paperboy by the name of Carl Bridgewater was blasted in the head with a shotgun as he delivered papers to an isolated farm in Stourbridge. It was a case that gripped the nation, and more importantly a case that gripped my poor mum's mind, in such a way that, although she was desperate for me to prove myself in the job market, she was more desperate to make sure no harm ever came to me.

"Are you sure you want this job love? Maybe you could help your dad a bit in his workshop, and we can give you some money!" my mum would say. But alas, my heart was set on becoming a paperboy, and earning the astronomical amount of money that King's were going to pay me.

And so it was that I turned up for my first shift, sometime in March of 1984. I'd been told to get to the paper shop for 6.00 am. Of course this seemed ridiculously early, so I decided to wear my school uniform to bed. This idea served a twofold purpose - 1. I could jump out of bed and go. 2. When I finished my round I could ride my bike directly to school, thus saving time. I had to be a school at 8.45 am, so I assumed I'd have loads of time. Little did I know!

I arrived at the paper shop a little past 6 am. And there was my first mistake! Dishing out the papers into each individual (bright orange plastic) paper bag was done on a first come first serve basis. Since I was the last in the queue (everyday) I was always the last out of the shop. Which was rather unfortunate it turns out, because my round just happened to be the longest by far.

Exiting the shop I'd head off down Helmshore Road, delivering to the cottages on my way down. Unfortunately for me these cottages were set back from the main road, in an elevated position. This meant that I had to clamber a mountain of stone steps to enable me to reach their letter boxes. By the time I'd reached the sharp left hand bend by the Bridgend Pub I was already knackered. This was a great pity, for it was here that I had to ascend Helmshore Road up the White Horse Pub. This section of the road was inundated with houses on both sides, and they all seemed to want a newspaper. It was also home to a few interesting characters, including Anthony Drake's dad, who had a quiff that Elvis would have been proud of, and who would not have looked out of place in a 1950s film on Teddy Boys. A little further up from the Drake household, on the opposite side of the road was my most dreaded house. It was here that the Rat Catcher and his mother lived.

Until I started the job I thought the Rat Catcher was a village myth. I pictured him to be a cross between the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and the Pied Piper of Hamlyn. A skinny guy in a hat, dressed in black, with an enormous nose, who walked around Helmshore blowing his pipe, whilst luring rats to their demise. When I eventually got to meet him, he was just a normal guy with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and a bicycle to keep him company. The rumours were true though, he was indeed a Rat Catcher, employed by the local council to rid the parks of rats. If the Rat Catcher seemed a lot more normal than I expected, the Rat Catcher's mother did not. And it was the mother that filled me full of fear.

I'd dread posting the paper through the Rat Catcher's letterbox. A pungent whiff of damp, dirt, and dead animal would assault my nostrils with force, as I opened the letter box to fling the paper through. I'd already be retching in anticipation before I opened the flap. Then as soon as it was open my stomach would reach new levels of revulsion. In the beginning it was OK, because I didn't know what to expect, but when I knew what lay in store for me it was like hell on Earth. It was probably fear that prompted me to fuck up the delivery on a daily basis.

The first time I fucked it up wasn't too bad. I'd only got a few doors up the road when the door burst open, and out came the Rat Catcher free wheeling his bicycle. "You've given us the Mirror instead of the Express," he informed me quite politely. I acknowledged my mistake,  gave him a copy of the Express, and away he rode, off to catch his rats. But when I did it again the next day his mother did not take too kindly to it. "You've given us The Sun instead of the Express," she bellowed from her doorstep, as though I'd just killed her cat. I walked back to her doorstep with my arm outstretched , through a mixture of fear and disgust at having to go near her. As much as I didn't want to face the object of my fear I could not help but focus on the large grey hairs that protruded from her chin. When I was close enough, she grabbed the Express, and threw The Sun down on the ground.

"Now don't be doing that again," she shouted at me.

"I won't, I won't," I replied - (desperately trying not to add Mrs Rat Catcher to the end of my pleas).

But I did! In fact I seemed to fuck Mrs Rat Catcher's newspaper up every single day. So much so that by day 5 she was waiting behind the closed door to receive her wrong paper. As I stuck the Mail, or Today, or whatever wrong paper I put through her door that day, she grabbed it from the other side, and almost pulled me through the door. What ensued was a game of tug o' war, which left the newspaper in tatters. I won the battle, but she most definitely won the war. As I staggered backwards with a ripped up newspaper in my hands, she came bombing out to confront me.

"Mrs King will be getting to know about this," she hollered. "Don't you be coming around here again with my wrong paper!"

I pedalled off as fast as I could throwing papers through people's doors at a furious pace. Quite unafraid that they may be the wrong ones. I was in trouble for sure anyway.

Once I reached The White Horse pub my round took me down Holcombe Rd for a while, before heading back up Holcombe Rd in the direction of Holcombe Village. Beyond The White Horse pub Holcombe Rd became quite isolated (especially at silly o'clock in the morning). On more than the odd occasion I became enshrouded in an early morning mist, where the only thing really visible, was my bright orange newspaper bag. And let me tell you this! On Wednesday mornings that bright orange bag was far from light. For Wednesday was the day that the dreaded Farmer's Guardian came out - and boy did my round have a lot of farmers on it.

The Farmer's Guardian for those that have never seen it (most of you I reckon) was (maybe still is) the thickest magazine you'll ever encounter. Think Yellow Pages before the Internet came along, and you'll have an idea of the thickness. Now, stick 10 of those in a bag, along with everybody else's papers, and you'll understand my pain. By the time I'd reached the dog kennels a mile up the hill, I was almost dead from exhaustion. Thankfully the dog kennels owner had the decency to leave a plastic tube at the top of their enormously long driveway, so that I could just stick their daily paper in it. I think that a trek down their drive and back would have just about finished me off.

Next up was the worst part of all. I had to leave the road altogether and follow an ancient Pilgrim's path up to Dowry Head Farm. This was the path that monks would take on their way to Whalley Abbey in the 12th Century. God, how I hated this ride at 6.45 am! My only solace was that I'd already offloaded all my copies of the Farmer's fucking Guardian.

This was well before mountain bikes became a thing, and my BSA Javelin was not designed for such rugged terrain. To be honest it was more of a hinderance than a help. Not only did I have to lug my bag up the hill but I had to push my bike as well. In the distance I could see Dowry Head Farm through the fog, although it never seemed to get any closer. To be honest I didn't really care, because all I could think of at this point was poor Carl Bridgewater getting his head blown off in 1978. Although the odd thought of the Moors Murderers (Brady and Hindley) did cross my mind.

The local MP David Trippier was purported to live at Dowry Head Farm, although I never saw him, so I can't confirm whether this was true or not. What I can confirm is that I practically shit myself every time I entered the grounds of the place, and was very happy to jump on my bike and bomb off down the hill in the direction of Sunnybank Cottages, once The Daily Telegraph had been delivered.

Before I reached  Sunnybank cottages I had to deliver to a posh court-yarded mansion, whose garden was bigger than two football fields. I don't recall the name of the house now (maybe the Old Stables),  but what I do remember is that it was split into two halves. One half was owned by a couple called Ted and Lorraine, and the other was owned by the local mayor, Shelia Oldham. Ted and Lorriane were famous locally for owning a Rolls Royce, and Shelia Oldham's enormous garden became famous for a while in the mid-eighties when an enormous sinkhole opened up in it. This led to much speculation that an alien spacecraft had landed in her garden.

A few papers through these doors, and on to Sunnybank cottages. Beyond Sunnybank cottages was a massively steep hill, which meandered its way to Great House, and the Experimental Farm (better not  to ask what happened here). The hill was so steep that I had to leave my bike parked up at the bottom.

Once back down the hill my arduous journey continued through the old Porritt's factory site, and former Sunnybank Mill. These had long since been knocked down - the enormous chimney the last thing to go in 1977, when the eccentric steeplejack Fred Dibnah (my dad's hero) blew it up. The whole site was kind of eerie at 7 am, with old pieces of apparatus and bricks semi-hidden in the overgrown grass. I'd cycle through this at pace, on the homeward stretch, back to the bottom part of Holcombe Rd, which was home to The Grot Shop. A shop that you'd only go in if you were extremely desperate. Which was most unfortunate since it was the only shop for a long stretch. And that was basically it. Once past the Grot Shop, it was homeward bound. Drop down the hill, past the four-storey buildings the locals called the Grandstand, round the bend by the Bridgend pub, and back up Helmshore Road to King's paper shop, where I would invariably get a rollicking for delivering all the papers to the wrong houses.

After one week, my mum would take pity on me, and come and collect me half way around my round. "Come on love!" she'd say, "throw your bike in the back of the car, and I'll take you to school." And it's a good job that she did, or I would have been hours late.

And that was it, my first job. It felt like I did it for years, but in reality it probably only went on for a few weeks. All in all it was an early warning that I wasn't really cut out for the world of work. Sleeping till 8.15 am, jumping out of bed, and dashing across Rossendale golf course to Haslingden High School, was far more enjoyable, than a four mile trek around the moors of Rossendale at 6 am. If one good thing came out of my paperboy experience though, it was that I realised that I could gain a few extra minutes in bed the next morning if I went to bed in my school uniform. Well, they do say that ever cloud has a silver lining.

Glastonbury 2017 - Almost mingling with the stars

After another disturbing breakfast of cold coffee, squashed packaged croissants, and an infant sized yoghurt, (which I eat with my fingers) I'm launched once more into the arena of pleasure they call Glastonbury. After yesterday's brush with a real security role I have my (sticky) fingers crossed that there'll be no repeat of this. Yeah, it was nice having a little dance to Elrow, but now my feet are killing me, and I'm in no mood to be snatching people's drugs from them.

As the rota is called out it seems that I'm missing from it. Maybe they'll forget all about me, and I'll be afforded the possibility to enjoy Glastonbury at my leisure, I think to myself. An idea which gains momentum in my mind with every passing second, until I'm approached by my boss, who rather unpleasantly bestows a task upon me.

"Andrew, you'll be with Rochelle," he informs me.

Rochelle for those of you who read part 1 of this tale, was my truly blonde companion of yesterday, whose lack of intelligence was matched only by her lack of motivation. Somehow she holds an advanced security badge which means that he puts her in charge of our one walkie talkie. I'm unsure whether it's her constant reluctance to answer it that's most baffling to me, or the fact that there seems to be no consequences for her lack of communication. In any case her inability to push the button and talk back to our boss is to my benefit.

"You and Rochelle are going to patrol the inter-stage section," he instructs me.

Until I arrive in the inter-stage section I have no clue what he's talking about, and indeed it takes me a further few days to work out the exact borders of my area. You see, Glastonbury is made up of hundreds of stages, tents, and venues, and I say this with no exaggeration. However, there are two main stages, the Pyramid Stage, and the Other Stage. You've guessed it, my area of patrol was between these two stages. But I was in for an even bigger surprise.

"Can you and Rochelle patrol around the hospitality section?" my boss asks me. "Just walk around making yourself visible, and work it out amongst yourselves when you want to take breaks."

I can almost hear the angels playing their harps. Hallelujah! We've just been placed in the most interesting area of the whole 900 acre site. This is where the A-list stars can walk around relatively unbothered by the general public. I mean, it's not just for them! You can pay a shit ton of money to be allowed the privilege of potentially meeting your idol, but in general, this is a place for the rich and famous. Furthermore I'm wearing a luminous green security outfit, and have all the right bands on my wrists, which means that I can access all areas. Not only have I gotten into Glastonbury for free, but I'm getting paid to mingle with the stars. I couldn't have written the script.

The area in question is a small field surrounded by bars and restaurants, and populated by pretty much life size models of jungle animals, which are randomly positioned around the place. Amongst these animals is is a rather fragile looking zebra, which looks as if it could fall to pieces at any minute. Indeed the extremely irritating radio broadcaster Chris Evans had to be thrown off the zebra (by our security guys) in his early morning broadcast in case it collapsed under his weight. An action which he vocalised on his breakfast show to anybody that had the patience to listen to him.

There's not much going on in the field of dreams, so when we're asked if we can help move some furniture around we willingly oblige. This chore takes us about 30 minutes, and rewards us with free meals and drinks for the next 4 days. The chore complete I sit down to my free VIP breakfast which should have retailed at £10 (bloody rip off if you ask me).  In the words of the late great George Formby - "its turned out nice again!"

Once I've finished my posh meal I decide to go for a wander around the field, more to walk off the breakfast than to instil fear into any potential terrorist. As I wander around the VIP area I periodically encounter other security team members who are generally hidden behind trees, or barriers whilst indulging in the pleasures of a cigarette.

The weather is most convivial and would lend itself to a pleasurable stroll if my feet were not in such agony. To help combat this pain I strike up a conversation with everybody I encounter. This has a twofold effect, 1, It takes my mind off my feet. 2, It means that I can stand in one position, thus not irritating my feet even further. It's whilst engaging in conversation with one of the festival goers that I'm alerted to the fact that some of the Game of Thrones people are walking around my patch. Not being one to watch Game of Thrones I couldn't confirm whether this was true or not, but one of the ladies in question (a skinny blonde) wanders around with such an air of self importance that I suppose it could be.

To one side of the hospitality field there is an opening in the fence that is guarded at all times. I beeline for this opening, and realise that beyond it is a field full of teepees. Three people guard this entrance at any one time, two people from a different security firm, and one from ours. Well in theory one person from ours, but in reality our whole crew seem to congregate here. For the next 4 days I spend practically my whole time around this entrance conversing with whoever else is there. Whilst young (highly privileged) kids wander in and out in various states of fucked-up-ness.

Being the gatekeeper to this privileged den of iniquity does not come without its benefits. The biggest benefit of all however is the fact that I have access to super clean toilets, which are practically always unoccupied. For as long as I remember I've heard only bad press about the Glastonbury toilets, but here I am getting paid to take a shit, whilst sat in silence, on the throne of the rich and famous.

Suitably lessened of my load it became routine for me to have a wander over to my mate Matty's domain, where he was guarding even more famous people's winnebagos.

"Alright there And!" Matty would welcome me. Before launching into a list of who he had just been chatting to.

"Just bumped to David Beckham there la," he'd casually throw into the conversation, or "You'll never guess who I've just seen?" Followed by yet another A-list celebrity such as Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp. Oh yeah, I'm not kidding, they were all there. Meanwhile I had to make do with giving directions to Jules Holland's daughter, who introduced herself by informing me that she was the daughter of Jules Holland. When noticing the look of "I don't give a shit if you're Mahatma Ghandi's daughter" upon my countenance, she added "not that it makes a difference that I'm Jules Holland's daughter." Needless to say, I sent her in the wrong direction.

Matty would then leave me in control of the winnebago entrance whilst he went off for a 2 hour shit. During in which time I wouldn't meet anybody of any interest apart from Hooray Henry's with far more money than brain cells. Inevitably when Matty returned he would have just been having a chat to Michael Eavis (Glastonbury owner), or some other equally prominent figure. Although I was fortunate enough to be introduced to the deputy labour leader Tommy Watson, who Matty was engaged in conversation with about his autistic niece. The aforementioned politician even gave Matty his personal email address.

On one of the rare occasions that my boss managed to get a message through to Rochelle that was actually passed on to me, I was told to go to one of the gates to relieve somebody so that they could go to the toilet. When I arrived at the said gate I took up my position and checked with one of the other two ladies there to see which wrist bands I should be letting through the gate.

"It's complicated," she whispered to me, with a wry little smile upon her face.

Intrigued by this comment I pushed her for more information. Until she could take no more of my interrogation, and took me to one side.

"This is the top of the A-list chain," she informed me. "David Beckham just came through the gate, and Brad Pitt before him," she whispered in my ear.

Right! I thought, this should make things more interesting. Not two seconds later somebody attempted to walk through my gate, and I jumped into action to fulfil my role.

"Can I see your wrist bands please?" I asked the guy. An oldish fella donned in a panama hat, and surrounded by an aura of confusion.

He promptly pulled up his shirt cuffs and let me examine his bands, which unfortunately for him were not the correct ones.

"Sorry, you can't come in with those ones," I informed him. "You're got to have a silver one with blue stars."

The fella, although a little disgruntled, was compliant. He walked away fifteen paces and whipped out his smart phone. For the next ten minutes I kept him in the periphery of my vision as he attempted to ring his friend. Eventually he gave up this task, and once again approached me.

"Can you just ask my friend Sarah to come out and let me in?" he pleaded with me.

"Of course!" I responded. "And who should I say is asking for her?"

"Angus Deayton," came his response.

Well, I almost exploded with excitement. Many people may not know Angus Deayton. But back in the 90s he hosted a news quiz show called Have I got news for you! Only he was thrown off the show for engaging in wild (cocaine fuelled) parties. By the look of him now he'd engaged in a little too much of the old Bolivian marching powder.

Not 5 minutes later I spotted Lilly Allen walking past sporting a pink wig, and holding the hands of her two children. Having a massive crush on Lilly Allen, I found it hard not to spontaneously combust. "Lilly Allen just walked past," I yelled out, "look, look over there," I pointed - quite unable to contain myself. This prompted my boss to take me to one side to remind me that Lilly was in fact wearing a pink wig so that she would not get recognised, and it was highly inappropriate of me to be yelling out to all and sundry that she was in our proximity - especially when I was myself wearing a fluorescent green security outfit.

When the person I was relieving came back from his marathon toilet session I returned to the hospitality section to see which celebs had passed by in my absence. "Bradley Cooper just came through," I was informed by my co-worker, and "Emma Willis is over there." I looked across at where she pointed, and was confronted by a short dark haired girl, whom I didn't recognise from Eve. These were no good, who I really wanted to see was Liam Gallagher. At least he'd be good for entertainment value.

The next day my dreams were almost to come true. Liam had played the previous day, and I'd actually managed to see his act. Indeed he was one of the only acts of the whole festival that I got to see. I'd made sure of that. Well, it seemed that Liam had spent the whole night partying, and when I came to do my morning shift I was informed by the night crew that Liam was in one of the teepees with Johnny Depp. This I had to witness for myself. And to enable me to do this I positioned myself by the teepee encampment entrance and refused to leave. I waited, and I waited, until eventually his road manager came out, a lovely fella by the name of Spooner. Spooner and I engaged in a wonderful conversation about Manchester music, and got on so well that I thought that it would definitely lead to me meeting Liam.

Five minutes later, and there's a huge surge of people heading for the teepees. The object of their attention is a bloke that appears to be Liam Gallagher. I use my security status to push my way through the crowd, fully expecting to come face to face with the former Oasis frontman. Only it's not Liam at all - it's an impostor to the throne. This fella has the swagger, the clothes and the sunglasses, but it's definitely not Liam. I strike up a conversation with him to find out exactly who he is, and discover that he's the keyboard player with Scottish band The View. A band that I partied with back in 2007 at a Primal Scream after-party in Liverpool. I jog his memory about this particular evening, and to my delight he remembers it well.

"You were all off your heads on acid," I remind him.

"Aye, aye, we were, we were all fucked up that night," he replies.

"Do you remember having a discussion about Enid Blyton (children's author)?" I ask him.

I take his blank expression as a negative. But that's OK, at least it's given me a lead in to chat to him. And he seems very eager to chat to me, probably down to the fact that he's just consumed a large quantity of high grade cocaine. A subject he is not shy to discuss with me.

"I'm totally wired," he informs me, "been on it all night in there."

I choose this moment to ask him if Liam is still in the teepee with Johnny Depp. I figure that he'll spill the beans if he's totally wired. But he has no need to answer this question, for at moment, in the periphery of my vision I see a guy in a large hat and a fur white jacket. I'm standing a distance of around 30 ft away, but I'm pretty convinced that this is Johnny Depp. As I stand and stare, my new friend tells me that he's off to the bar to get some more mojitos. As he walks off he sticks his hand out behind him for me to give him a high five. But I'm stuck in two minds whether to shake his hand or to give it a slap. So I lunge forward as if to slap it, but then decide to shake it halfway through the manoeuvre. Which results in me falling to my knees, whilst holding his hand as he drags me along. Not that he seems to notice.

I'm attempting to recover my posture when Spooner comes walking past and gives me a nod, before heading towards the teepee where all the action is taking place. And for a brief moment I decide that I'm going to follow him into the teepee to introduce myself to Liam, Johnny, and anybody else that may be in there. I mean, what is the worst thing that can happen to me? I won't get paid? I'll get thrown off site?  - fuck it! I'm going in! - and with these thoughts in my head I set off after Spooner as I half heartedly call his name. By the time I reach the party teepee Spooner has disappeared inside, and my bravery has dissipated. I turn and walk back to where I just came from. For one moment I thought I was going to do it. I even had the script in my head.

"Hey Liam, I love your music man! I've only seen one act this weekend, and that was you - and you were brilliant. I don't care if I don't see another act."

And in my head, he replied.

"What's your name man? Yeah nice one Andy, why don't you come in here and share some high grade cocaine with me and Johnny?"

I'm lost in thoughts of our imaginary encounter when I'm tapped on the shoulder and told that Jeremy Corbin has just finished giving his speech and there is a mass crush at the hospitality entrance. They require my assistance to help with crowd control. Reluctantly I leave the teepees and head to the gate.

They weren't joking about the rush of people. It's madness out there. Thousands of people trying to cram though a narrow entrance. To many, their only way of escaping the mayhem is by entering the hospitality compound, but they are denied this luxury because they are not in possession of the correct wrist bands.

"This is fucking crazy! It's madness! We'll have another Hillsborough on our hands!" Are just some of the comments that are directed my way. All I can do is shrug my shoulders whilst I deny them access to the compound of the rich and famous. But then another drama unfolds. A lady has a panic attack, and I'm left with no option than to abandon my role to tend to her. A task that I astound myself in sorting out.

Once the crowds have diminished somewhat, I walk back over to the teepees to see what the latest is in the Gallagher/Depp corner.

"You've missed him Andy lad,"I'm told. "He's been out for 2 rounds of mojitos while you were gone," I'm informed by Winston, a super cool black fella from bristol. "

"And do you know what he said to me?" Winston asks.

"No, go on tell me," I reply.

"He said, have you been on the magic mushrooms you, you cunt. You were white last time I saw you,"

And that was it. I never did get to even lay eyes on Liam Gallagher. A recurring theme throughout my whole Glastonbury week. Everybody kept spotting stars, whilst I had to make do with a washed out old TV presenter from the 90s. At one point I thought I saw David Beckham, alhthough he appeared to look young. It was only upon closer scrutiny that I realised that it was in fact his son Brooklyn. Another time I was told by Jack Whitehall's  (acid casualty) mates that they would introduce me to Jack himself. But guiding them through the site was like herding cats, and I managed to totally lose them on our way across the field. I did get a glimpse of soul singer Rag' n' Bone Man who was sat chilling on a model pirate ship. And yes, he is only human after all! I also inadvertently managed to give Huey Morgan from the Fun Lovin Criminals the knock back when he asked me for directions when I was busy. But apart from that I was only the recipient of other people's stories of their chance encounters with A-list celebrities.

The best of which I'll reserve for last.

On day 2 news came through to me that one of the security guards by the name of Dennis had just been battered by the DJ Goldie, and his daughter. I'd been chatting to Dennis (a nice South African fella) the previous day, so as you can imagine I was intrigued to find out the details straight from the horses mouth. I went in search of Dennis, and found him guarding one of the gates. It only took a glance at him to realise that the rumours that he'd been battered were in fact true. His nose looked a little skew-whiff, his eyes blackened, and a face a little worse for wear.

Upon questioning him I was to learn that he'd tried to prevent Goldie from entering his area, because Goldie was not in possession of the correct wrist bands. Now Goldie, not being one to be told what to do, did not take lightly to Dennis's refusal of entry. Our golden toothed protagonist swiftly punched Dennis in the face, which resulted in Dennis grappling him, and taking him down. Before he knew it Goldie's daughter was booting Dennis in the face. It was in fact Goldie's daughter that delivered the nose breaking blow.

Halfway through telling me this story Dennis suddenly pushed me out of the way and sprinted across the field in front of us. Where he grabbed a young lad and threw him on the floor. I was still trying to assimilate what had just happened, when Dennis shouted "SIT ON HIM!" An instruction which I followed. Within seconds we were surrounded by security guards, and the young lad whose rib cage I was crushing was getting arrested for possessing a large bag of pills. I'd reluctantly just ruined someones whole experience.

So that was it, my first Glastonbury experience, I was only 30 years too late to the party, and whilst I was there I'd ruined it for people. I intend to go back next time as a paying guest, and when I do, my inside knowledge will help me to evade the powers that be.

Glastonbury 2017 - The hunted becomes the hunter

"Do you want to go to Glastonbury?" My good mate Matty asked me over the phone, a month or so before the festival begins. "Too fucking right I do," I replied with all the hesitation of a man that had just been asked by Pamela Anderson if he wanted to fondle her tits. But there was a catch, there always is! The catch was that I had to work whilst I was there. A small price to pay for free entry to this most incredible of festivals. I'd been wanting to go for years but the process of buying tickets appeared to be long and arduous, with only a small chance of a successful ending (a bit like my sex life after 5 pints of beer).

The telephone interview for my job as a steward (security) went something like this. Are you a reprobate? (Internal dialogue - debatable) No! Have you ever done security before? No! What would you do if there was a bomb scare? (internal dialogue - shit myself and run away), make people aware of the emergency exits, and do my best to keep people calm. What are your strong points? (internal dialogue - Oh fuck! fuck! fuck! fuck! - I hate this question), I'm very approachable, friendly, and won't make people feel intimidated. What are your weak points? (internal dialogue - fuck! fuck! fuck! fuck! fuck!, and even more fucks! - I hate this question even more!), I'm possibly overly friendly.

Shit did I just say that? I'm going for a security job at one of the world's largest festivals, during a time when terrorism is at a critical level, and I've just told my interviewer that I'm overly friendly. Surely this can't be good.

But it was, it was almost as though he wasn't listening. As though he was just going through the motions. The interview ended, and although I wasn't altogether sure, I think I had the job.

A month later and I'm picking Matty up from his place on the Wirral. It's a soaring hot Tuesday afternoon, our spirits are high, and judging by the stash hidden in our bags, they're about to get higher.

"Get your sat nav on lad," Matty urges me. But I'm far too proud for that, I want to get to Glasto using only my inbuilt compass. We've estimated that it should take us a little over 4 hours to get to our destination, and we need to be there by 6 pm to comply with the security company's requirements. "We've got loads of time Matty, stop stressing" I tell him, when I see his agitation as we sail past the junction for the M56.

To cut a long story short, the journey takes us at least half the time again that it should have done because of a catalogue of geographical errors - which in itself is highly hilarious since we both met on a Geography degree course, and Matty is himself a Geography teacher. Amongst other notable errors on our way to Somerset was the taking of the M6 toll motorway, at a cost of £5.50. Had we glanced at a map we would have realised that this was a burden rather than a benefit to us, and resulted in us driving 20 miles in the wrong direction.

By the time we reach Shepton Mallet we've missed our deadline by some considerable margin. But more importantly we have to buy our supplies for the coming week. Thirty minutes of shopping in Tesco later, and we emerge with a shit ton of alcohol, a massive bag of ice, some crisps, and a bag of nuts.

To Glastonbury we ride.

Confusion reigns upon our arrival. Nobody seems to know what they are supposed to be doing, ourselves included. We scramble all our possessions together, and make our way up the grassy knoll in the direction of what we think is the correct entrance. When we eventually arrive there we are met by an endless sea of bodies who appear to have been waiting around for hours. Fortunately, although it's way past 7pm the weather is perfect and this being a day before the equinox it feels like midday. As we sit and wait with the crowds I notice a girl in her in 20s who is sitting there proudly displaying her young pert breasts in their full glory. It's as though we've jumped back to 1969 Woodstock. Not being one to hide my curiosity I find it hard not to stare at her chest, and attempt to take my mind off her boobs by chatting to people around me. My attempts unfortunately are futile.

It's an hour later before we realise that we've been sitting in the wrong queue. Gathering all our stuff together we return to the whence we came, and the whole confusing procedure of finding out where we're supposed to be starts again. Eventually we are directed to a portacabin, where we produce all our documents, and are instructed to wait. There appears to be something wrong with my documents, which prompts me to wonder if I passed the interview at all. This problem takes the best part of 90 minutes to rectify, before we join a large group of burly looking men with about 15 brain cells between them, as we walk towards the entrance. More confusion later, and we're in. No security checks, I hasten to add, have taken place.

By the time we've collected our security outfits, and been assigned our living quarters it's time to go to bed. The mere fact that our living quarters are referred to as The Jungle pretty much says it all. Thankfully I've never been to prison, but if I had I imagine this is how it would look. Our home for the next week is a gigantic marquee, which is filled with bunk beds on one side, and single camp beds on the other. It's obvious that there is a division between the two ranks, which has culminated in verbal assaults being thrown across The Jungle. The atmosphere could be cut with a knife (a little like the huge mound of white powder they're all snorting.) The bunk bedded area is occupied almost entirely by very menacing looking Glaswegians. That is, apart from me and Matty. For those of you that have never come into contact with Glaswegians, let's just say that Braveheart was no exaggeration. Even the meekest looking of Glaswegians will scare the shit out of anybody once he/she speaks. For want of a better phrase, they are hard as fucking nails. The sound of their collective snoring is like that of a dragon that's about to explode into fiery fury.

The next morning we're up early and after eating the worst breakfast I've ever subjected my intestines to, we're assigned jobs. Matty and I are assigned night shift jobs, which is totally against our requirements - so we play dumb and tell another supervisor that we're on days. Fortunately for us he changes our rota without consulting the first supervisor that has just assigned us the night shift. Matty sees that I'm about to verbalise this at volume and drags me away from the scene before I fuck up his good work. As we walk to our designated area I'm blown away by the sheer scale of the site. Apparently Glastonbury is the second biggest city in Somerset, which sounds impressive until you realise that there aren't actually too many cities in Somerset. Anyway, there's no doubting that it is bloody enormous.

The job I've been assigned is to walk up and down the line and relieve people if they need to go on ciggie or toilet breaks. Since they've only just been positioned there though nobody seems that arsed about taking a break. Besides which I'm not overly sure what my supervisor means by "the line". He's given me a brief description but it was all a bit wishy washy. I spend the best part of the day trying to establish exactly where my parameters are.

Unusually for Glastonbury it's not raining. In fact it's blisteringly hot. The heat is so intense that I gain anther duty, in the form of keeping the security team hydrated. Given that most of them are off their head on some form of drug or other (mainly ketamine or MDMA), this job is of vast importance. They're dropping like flies out there, but because they're hard as nails Glaswegians they refuse any form of liquid that doesn't contain alcohol. Once I've established that they'd rather die of heat exhaustion than look like pussies my job becomes infinitely easier.

The bands don't actually really start playing until Friday, and it's only Wednesday - this means that I'm on my holidays for the first few days of the festival, or so I think. I've agreed to a 12 hr working schedule with my employees, but it appears that (for the first few days at least) staying alive is my main role. As long as I avoid the supervisors I'm in for a cushdy ride.

Day one ends and Matty and I go for a walk around the festival site. It truly is enormous. I reckon you could spend a week exploring, and still miss bits. We have a few beers, listen to a DJ set, and then retreat to the civil war that is The Jungle.

Day two starts off pretty much as day one ended. However, today I'm assigned a partner. My partner is a blond girl who is 20 years of age. On paper this sounds like I'm on to a winner, but in reality she's a living nightmare. It's hard to decipher which gene she possesses the most of. Does her stupidity outweigh her laziness, or her laziness outweigh her stupidity? Conversation with my new partner is a laboured pursuit, and generally results in monosyllabic responses. That is, until I realise that we can have a reasonably detailed conversation if we talk about her troubled relationship with her insanely jealous fella. She looks to me for relationship advice, although after he dumps her the next day, she probably wishes she hadn't. Once she's been dumped her laziness enters an entirely new stratosphere. The only time I ever see her is when our boss has radioed through to her walkie talkie and she's been asked to find me.

Disaster strikes around 4 pm on the second day. I'm given a job to do. The Love Bullets tent is in full effect, as hundreds of eager kids take to the dance floor to worship a bunch of DJs, who seem to be collectively known as Elrow. Such is their popularity that my partner and I are radioed through to help deal with the chaos that ensues. By the time I arrive at the Love Bullets tent the party is well on the way, and my feet (which are crammed into new boots) are absolutely killing me. Although it's not even 6 pm the majority of the predominantly young crowd are manically off their collective faces. In a scene that is not too dissimilar from Wigan Pier circa 1994 (when I was in my prime).

I'm briefed by a muscular Asian fella from Bradford, who informs me that he's been trained by the military, and generally works for the anti-terrorist squad. I inform him that I've never done security before in my life, and that I would rather be off my face dancing to Elrow. This information does not seem to go down too well with my very right wing compadre, who was under the impression that I was on board with his political agenda - to confiscate all the drugs in the place, arrest everybody for having fun, and generally make their lives a misery.

My (Nazi) boss sits on top of a tower, which gives him a perfect view of this arena of pure and unadulterated pleasure. Meanwhile I'm ordered to circulate whilst maintaining eye contact with him at all times. If he sees anything untoward taking place he will point to the location of the criminal activity, and it is my job to go over and sort it out.

Fifteen minutes into my new role, and I'm under the impression that things are going well. I'm actually quite enjoying the party. And boy is this a party! The whole dance floor is enshrouded in a mist of dry ice, with machines that fire it like a cannon at the elated revellers. Add to this a cacophony of air horns, a parade of blue Avatar creatures, and more colourful head dresses than the Mardi Gras, and you'll sort of understand what's going on. Nitrus oxide seems to be the most visible drug of choice, which my Nazi boss doesn't appear to give two shits about, "If they want to kill themselves on that shite, then let em die", he tells me.

The pain in my feet starts to subside a little and they start to move to the beat. Much to the amusement of the crowd, who urge me on. "JUMP, JUMP, JUMP", they shout, excited to see a security guard having as much fun as them. "If my feet weren't blistered to high heaven, I'd be up there with you," I tell one bunch of dancers. The more they encourage me, the more I get into it. So much into it that I forget what my role is supposed to be. Although I'm rapidly reminded of my job when I feel a strong hand on my shoulder, and turn to face my irate boss. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he asks me. "You're supposed to be taking their drugs off them, not dancing with them," he continues.

I give him a fake apology and return to my role as a druggie catcher. Oh the irony, I spent half the 90s abusing "designer drugs" whilst trying to avoid the watchful eye of the bouncers, and now I am one of those bouncers. I'm reflecting upon this when I notice sudden activity in the corner of my eye. I spin around to be confronted by "the Nazi" jumping furiously up and down, whilst pointing at a figure on the dance floor. I'm offered no choice than to approach the person that he's pointing at.

The figure is that of a boy around 20 years old, who is nonchalantly handing drugs out from a carrier bag. As I approach he makes no effort to hide his wares. I shoot a glance at "the Nazi" who is giving me the thumbs up. My worst nightmare is unravelling before me. I'm about to ruin somebody's pleasure.

"I'm really sorry about this," I inform the raver.

"But my boss is watching me. I really don't want to do this, but I have to take your drugs off you.", I apologise.

I needn't have bothered. The kid is so far off his head that he barely notices that I've just taken his stash. As I retreat to my post I take a peak in the bag, which contains a big mush of space cakes. I later give this to "the fun Nazi" who promptly throws it in the bin.

"I was hoping it was coke so we could sell it.", he tells me. "what the fuck am I supposed to do with that pile of mushed up shite?"

What follows is a period of approximately 40 minutes where nothing untoward takes place. Well, nothing that my boss spots anyway. I see loads of illicit stuff going down but I choose to ignore it. Just as I'm feeling rather pleased at myself for being able to be getting paid to experience this I am faced by a catastrophe. Somebody grabs me from behind, and cries "please help, our friend has collapsed on the dance floor!" My internal dialogue once more awakes, and says "Shit! I can't think of a worse person to ask for help. I'm about as useful as a eunuch at a sperm bank."

I don't even have a walkie talkie, so I send somebody around to notify my boss of the ongoing tragedy. I did do a first aid course in 1985, but all I can remember is joking around with my mates as our lecturer gave mouth to mouth to a plastic dummy. I kneel down next to the young girl,  who is convulsing on the dance floor like she's in the process of been exorcised. Around me people shout conflicting pieces of advice "Give her water!", "No don't give her water!", "Raise her head up!", "No, raise her feet up!", "PLEASE just do something!". The last comment hits home, and I'm about to do something, I'm not sure quite what, when all of a sudden the girl jumps to her feet, and charges to the dance floor to bust some new moves. Just as she's running to the dance floor my boss arrives at the scene. "Is everything OK!" he asks me. "Yeah, don't worry it's all sorted now." I tell him, as if I had it all under control.

I spend the rest of my time in the Love Bullets tent either pretending to take people's drugs from them, or dragging them from the stage as they attempt to dance on it. Neither of these roles fill me full of glee, so by the time I'm relieved of my duties I'm ready for my bed. I can only hope that I will be offered a more convivial role the next day. I'm about to be pleasantly surprised.

Gizmo's trek across the pond

"Right, I've done my bit, now it's your turn to sort out Gizmo!" Lee demanded, within a few hours of my arrival in the USA. Well, I had just spent 6 months travelling around South America, whilst she sorted out her recently deceased mum's house, so I hadn't got a leg to stand on.

By sorting Gizmo out she meant getting him ready for his transit across the pond. He'd been living in Buffalo now for over a year, since that snowy night he'd arrived just after Christmas 2013. Summer was fast approaching and we aimed to re-locate to England before it kicked in. Our original plan to teach English in Chile had pretty much fallen by the wayside when we'd realised that we couldn't cope without Gizmo in our lives.

To be honest I'd been dreading this journey for quite some time, given Gizmo's last long haul flight. If it hadn't been for the drugs this experience would have been a whole lot worse, and this time we were going to try him drugs free. We hadn't suddenly become all moralistic about it, we just couldn't get any drugs.

The first obstacle that I had to overcome was to find an airline that would take him. The Americans it turns out are legions ahead of the Brits with the whole air transportation of pets. Fortunately things had loosened up a little since 2012, and quarantine could be avoided if Gizmo met certain travel rules i.e he was travelling from a listed country, his documents were in order, and he was correctly vaccinated and treated for worms. We employed a local vet in Clarence, New York to assist us with all these requirements, and a nicer fella we couldn't have met. He had himself lived in Ireland, and had brought his pet cat from Ireland to the States. He was also a big fan of James Herriot, the famous vet who wrote a number of humorous books about his life as a vet in Yorkshire. In the 1980s a dramatised TV series was made based on his books and became essential Sunday night viewing for most of the population of the UK. Anybody who liked James Herriot was a winner in my eyes.

Finding an airline to transport Gizmo home proved a little difficult. It would have been fine if we wanted to send Gizmo by cargo, but this was never an option. We'd read too many horror stories about this which ranged from dogs freezing to death in the hold, to dogs running down the runway after the plane because the cargo arranger had forgotten to put them on board. After a multitude of phone calls and emails I came to the realisation that we could only get Gizmo back to England if we took a recognised route. And by recognised route they meant idiotic route. He was only allowed to reach English shores by ferry from continental Europe. Given that I was due a visit to Holland where I'd previously lived for 5 years, I chose Hoek Van Holland as my ferry port. Days upon days of Internet searching later, and I found a flight that would get both me and Gizmo back to European shores for the mere cost of $350 -  a bargain by anybody's standards. But there was a catch! There always is!

The catch was as follows. Lee would first have to drive me and Giz up to Toronto, Pearson airport, from where we would catch a Condor Air flight to Frankfurt, before boarding another plane to Amsterdam. Gizmo and I would then get the train from Amsterdam to Leiden (where I used to live). This part, granted was an optional extra, just so that I could get to walk Gizmo around the beautiful streets of historical Leiden before boarding the train to Hoek Van Holland. A short walk to the ferry terminal would follow, before catching an overnight ferry to Harwich. Finally, I would rent a car in Harwich and drive back to my sister's house in Manchester, some 260 miles away. If on paper this sounds like an ordeal, that's because it fucking was. But as much as I feared the trip, the challenge of it excited me greatly.

Eventually Lee's mum's house was sold, and as Lee, Gizmo, and I waited for our departure to England to arrive we moved in with Norma (Lee's amazing grandma). We were there for around 5 months in total, and very enjoyable months they were at that. Lee, not being a person endowed with patience, would make us dinner every night, before retiring to the conservatory to drink wine and smoke cigarettes. It was then time for me and Norma to watch classic films - Brief Encounter, Whistle down the wind, The third man, Casablanca etc etc. During our film nights Gizmo would sit on Norma's lap whilst she calmly stroked him. If he wasn't around she would shout out "where's Junior?" Over those months they formed a solid bond.

Despite her advanced years Norma was never one to miss a trick. If she thought that I wasn't watching the movie with the passion that she required, she would ask me questions about it, "What's the guy's name again? Who's so and so in love with?" etc. Of course she knew full well what was going on, but she also knew that I did not. Her questioning kept me on my toes. So it was not surprising that I looked forward to her toilet breaks, so that I didn't feel under threat to give the film my undivided attention. Norma's prowess was never to be underestimated though! As soon as she left for the toilet I'd breathe a sigh of relief, and get my computer out to check Facebook. Five minutes later she would re-emerge and almost instantly ask me for a synopsis of what had happened in her absence. I counteracted this by using Wikipedia to read the film's plot whilst she was gone, which ultimately meant that she had won anyway.

Before we knew it, it was time to leave America. Obviously our departure was tinged with sadness. It was the unspoken word that we may never see Norma again, but deep down Lee and I knew that was a highly probable outcome. Not to sound too morbid, but with Lee's cousins leaving Buffalo for New York City,  her aunt spending more time in Germany with her German husband, and with Lee and I heading to England, it felt as though a time was coming to an end.

On a more positive note, our vet John had promised us that all Gizmo's paperwork was in order, and he was so confident about it, that he gave me his phone number. "Ring me if anything goes wrong, but I can guarantee you that nothing will." Famous last words!

Then the day came, June 15th 2015. I threw my bags, and Gizmo's box in the car, and said my goodbyes to Norma. As we drove off from 765 Woodstock Avenue, Tonawanda in Norma's Toyota Camry, I shed a tear. Gizmo, it can safely be said displayed no emotions whatsoever, other than his incessant whinging as he fought to be liberated from his box

The drive to Pearson airport complete I said my goodbyes to Lee. Once she returned to Buffalo she would be boarding a plane bound for Manchester the next morning. The next time I would see her would be at my sister's house when my ordeal was complete.

The dreaded moment had arrived....

Unlike Delta airlines whom I'd used to fetch Gizmo from South Korea to The States, Condor Air could not have been any less welcoming. I walked onto the plane thrusting Gizmo's box proudly before me, expecting to get preferential treatment. Only to be told "make sure you keep that dog in his box." I pretty much made my mind up at that second that I'd be taking gizmo out of his box as often as I could. Fortunately for me the girl in the next seat fell in love with Gizmo, and wanted him to sit on her knee. The girl told me that she too had a shih tzu herself, and was missing him like crazy whilst she was on her travels. I couldn't have written the script. Whilst I got busy with the business of drinking as much free wine as was humanely possible, the girl next to me spent practically the entire journey mollycoddling Gizmo. This was much to the annoyance of our grumpy flight attendant who insisted that we return Gizmo to his box.

By the time the lights on the plane went out, and it was time for everybody to get sone shuteye, I was pretty much annihilated on red wine - and fit for fuck all. In this state of mind it felt like a great idea to take Gizmo out of his box so that we could cuddle each other to sleep. This, I was to find out, was not one of my better plans.

I've no idea how long I'd been out, but I woke up with a start. "Shit, fuck, bollocks...", was my battle cry as I realised that Gizmo had disappeared. Getting down on my stomach I began to writhe around under the seats in a desperate bid to locate him. Most of the passengers were by this time asleep, and my actions went by largely unnoticed. Unnoticed that is by everybody apart from the irate flight attendant who was walking down the aisle with Gizmo in her outstretched hands. "I believe you're looking for this!", she spat at me with such vitriol that I could only assume that she was a cat owner that hated dogs. It took everything in me not to retaliate with equal venom at her referring to Gizmo with such cold terminology.  "This is your last warning, keep that dog in his box!" she shouted at me.

When the plane touched down in Frankfurt I breathed a huge sigh of relief, stage 2 of the trip had been executed. And although it was not without hitch, he was now on European soil. The time between flights was minimal, and before we knew it we were airborne again on route to Amsterdam.

I wasn't sure what to expect when we arrived in Amsterdam. Would Giz and I have to go through rigorous scrutiny? The answer quite simply was no we would not. We exited the airport with absolute ease. Before we knew it we were on a train bound for Leiden.

The weather in Leiden was perfect. The sun glistened on the canals in such a way that I was filled with joy. Who would have thought that 14 years after I left this city that I loved so much, I would be returning with a 2.8 kg Shih tzu/ Yorkie in my possession. As soon as we got out of Leiden station I liberated the poor mite from his box, and put him on his lead. As I paraded him up the Oude Rijn, down the Rapenburg, through the Werf Park, and along Harlemmerstraat, he looked as though he was going to die of fatigue. Only a few more stages to go now and we'd be back on British soil. Months of planning, and thankfully it was all following the script. Nothing could go wrong now surely could it? Well yes it could!

Gizmo hated being on the train. By the time we arrived in Hoek Van Holland he was a nervous wreck. Running in every direction to try and get away from the noise of the train's wheels as they grated against the tracks. On the journey I met another girl who was in a similar situation to me. She was moving to England from Canada, and was bringing her dog with her. We chatted all the way to the ferry port, and continued to chat until the moment that we met the bitch from hell.

"You've got the wrong papers!"the bitch yelled at me, with all the compassion of a warden at a high level security prison.

"No, they're not, they're all good. We've been in contact with our American vet for months, and he says that they're good."

The bitch wasn't having any of it!

"Sir, these papers are not correct, and this dog is not boarding the ship," she told me.

"Well, I'll ring the vet then," I said.

"Ring the pope if you want, that dog is not boarding the ship,", she reinforced.

By the time I got through to John the vet the boat had set sail. John insisted that the paperwork was correct and offered his apologies. But alas there was nothing he could do.

As soon as the bitch knew that I'd missed the ferry she suddenly became nicer.

"I have a friend with a guest house in the town that takes dogs," she informed me. "He'll also be able to take you to the vets tomorrow to sort out your dog's papers," she continued.

By now alarm bells were ringing. I felt as though this was a well rehearsed scam to get money into the local economy. But I was not in a position to argue. My options were limited. The only solace I could take was the fact that she told me that if I could sort it all out by the following evening I would be able to travel on the ferry at no extra cost.

To cut a long story short. By the time the ferry set sail the following evening, all Gizmo's papers were in order, and we were onboard. Of course I was £200 lighter in my pocket, but by this point my only focus was to get him home.

Once onboard I was instructed to take Gizmo down to the hull of the ship, where he was imprisoned in a cage for the night. Leaving him there whilst I retired to my cabin almost broke me. Only one thing could ease my guilt. Well two things actually, a bottle of Cab Sav, and a bottle of Merlot. As I lay on my bed, drinking my woes away I flicked through the TV channels, desperately searching for channel 36. This was the CCTV channel to the dog cages. The TV would flick from cage to cage so that the owners could be tortured by the sight of their dogs looking desperately unhappy. I'd added a few comfy cushions to Gizmo's prison cell, but he'd elected to lie on the metal bars of the cage. Probably to make me feel even worse I imagine. Each time the CCTV imagine of Gizmo came back around he looked slightly more sad. So I did what any self respecting dog owner would do, slammed a few glasses of red, and stuck on Midsomer Murders instead.

The next morning I abruptly awoke. My alcohol intake had been such that I didn't immediately know what was going on. But then it all came flooding back to me. There were 2 burning questions on my mind  - Who exactly had carried out the Midsomer murder? Oh yeah, and how was my dog?

Once the ferry docked, I collected Gizmo, hired a Hyndai I 40 car, batted up north to Manchester, and the story was complete. The journey that had started some 1.5 years earlier with a taxi ride from my little village in South Korea (Anmin Dong), ended as I drove down Old Lansdowne Rd in West Didsbury, Manchester. Gizmo had been through 6 countries, on 6 forms of transport, travelling a distance of 11, 000 miles, and yet he was none the wiser. All he cared about was where his next chewy was coming from.