Obtuse World #1

Against my better judgement, and as you will note under the guise of a different heading, I have decided to change tack and rage against the tide with a different range of subjects; thus, hopefully avoiding the trap of my previous schtick of wearisome repetitive subjects like Sport, Politics, and childhood. How about Bitching, Latin, Shorthand and childhood?

Although I am unable to put into words just how long I have sat staring out of the window attempting to conjure up a subject interesting enough to capture your imagination, the only issue I can come up with eventually is my usage of the noun ‘schtick,’ a word I can honestly say I have never used before. Which verbiage would I have previously used when describing my Blogs is precisely that, ‘Blogs.’ But then again, ‘Blogging’ until recently was never a phrase I would throw up in any conversation except when probably drunk at the bar and slurring to anybody within earshot, ‘he seems a nice blog,’ on meeting the barmaid’s new boyfriend. So! What came before ‘Blog?’ Because I have researched the word and read that it is a truncated version of weblog, so can only have really existed since Computers were created; therefore, must be considered a modern word. And when we look back in time, especially while considering our country’s history, the English language has evolved, been added to, subtracted from, stretched, twisted, bled and congealed into a pick-and-mix of use which any one form of many can be utilised. Take for instance my Polish neighbour Sebastian who has now happily settled into permanence and who during his early years in our avenue would knock at my door at least once a week and ask me which word to use when shopping for stuff. Him being even more flummoxed when I would answer in the affirmative at each of the 6 or 7 utterances his workmates had already told him while working the nightshift. Although on one occasion it was difficult keeping my face straight explaining why we use Johnny Giles’ name when buying Haemorrhoid cream, or what a ‘J. Arthur (Rank)’ is; but of course, that is all rhyming slang and not for economic discourse.

Thinking back, I now realise I am at that stage in life where all previous generations throughout the centuries have probably found themselves when holding conversation with the young. I think I am talking more recently about those known as Gen Z, born sometime between the last century and today. Even writing that sentence seems distant and takes me back to the worn coins from the 19th century I spent as a child, my father’s indecipherable Lancashire phraseology when excited or angry, and commonplace words my Scottish mother often used, and which I still regularly repeat today. We have certainly travelled a long road if we are to believe Hollywood depictions of prehistoric Cavemen and Women ‘ugging’ and ‘mugging’ their way through everyday life, God knows how they managed when sent to the shop for a Diplodocus egg! But having a tongue in our heads and vocal cords in our throats obviously shaped our wordy past and present. I once worked alongside a Brazilian girl called Daisy (I kid you not) who often said, ‘the English Language is the most beautiful in the world,’ to which I often replied, ‘I wouldn’t know, I never use it!’

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Mud sticks. Last weekend’s tragic domestic circumstances regarding a young mother being murdered locally soon descended into the usual tropes about Gorton and our districts all too often deeply disparaged community. We are unsure about the circumstances surrounding the tragedy and as usual will more than likely need to wait until who’s responsible is dealt with by the courts. But of course, before that, the tongues soon start wagging and the keyboard warriors begin typing while probably accompanied by a bowl of ice cubes to help cool down tapping fingers. Their tiny minds begin to tick over, first up garner the logistics, where, when, and how? Nudge nudge, wink wink! Then for a hint of sweetmeats to top that burgeoning mix of fallacy and fable, add sugar and spice to impress. Always a winner is that particular phrase some unknown onlooker whispers disconsolately whilst staring into the blackness of the night, “I know Gorton has a bad reputation, but we didn’t expect this round here,” which is usually first up amid all the folded arms and nodding dog heads who bob, bow and dip reverentially in agreement. It’s not long before the other Chestnuts fall from the tree pregnant with age-old wisdom and experience. ‘I’m glad my grandmother moved out in 1897 and went down t’pit, the place has got worse!’ types Elsie, reputedly educated in the University of Life, while Sid Braveheart from some unheard-of joint north of Aberdeen brags, “I’m glad we got out before Bonnie Prince Charlie and his band of murdering privateers camped in Debdale Park before moving on towards Lundun. Thanks, Faither!” (sic) I can imagine them all sitting patiently, all cobwebbed and Permafrost coated before suddenly energising and striking forth, avariciously spewing their homespun ideology and good sense as far and wide as is humanly possible. “The bowels of the Earth that place, those Moors Murders long past were just a walk in the t’park compared to nowadays.’

It was after a few months of unemployment in the early noughties I found myself working for Greater Manchester Probation, probably the most over-worked and undervalued set of employees it has been my displeasure to know and work alongside. My job title was Probation Services officer, probably on a par with Teaching Assistant, Police Community Support Officer and School Crossing technician. It was mainly semi-skilled work aimed at reducing the heavy burden of pressure those highly educated doyens of High-Risk Offender Supervision toil beneath every working day. My job eventually was to work with the younger offender, probably the most dangerous in my opinion, and because I never forget I was young once, comparatively easy to work with. They knew I hadn’t driven in from the sticks that morning after a night of comparative quiet, with only the odd Owl hooting nearby to disturb their peace; I am inner city and live amongst them; so my first usual engagement was, “Don’t try and tell me what you think I need to know!”

Now the problem with the Probation Service is that once you show promise, and the appetite to get things done, they lump more jobs on you. I was soon suckered into becoming Victim Liaison Officer (as well), gainfully employed to explain Court sentencing, probable release dates, tagging (HDC) and exclusion areas should prisoners on release expect to return and live in close proximity to their victim. I worked with, visited and interviewed the full gamut of lawbreakers, except mine were all innocent (they told me so). Why am I telling you this? Well, the first thing I thought of with regard to recent events in Gorton was that it sounded like a Domestic incident with a tragic outcome; and the Police reporting themselves to their own investigating unit to assess if they in anyway could be considered culpable offered up another clue. Through time my experience of victim work, especially where Domestic Violence is concerned, is that they are very difficult to Police, and when separation is needed, the financial burden has a massive part to play; one family unit suddenly becoming two. Subsequently Gorton being comparatively cheaper to live in than anywhere else in Manchester, and where there are properties usually available, an escaping mother and her children can often be secretively accommodated within financial constraints.

I recall visiting a young mother who had been temporarily rehoused until hubby could sort his accommodation issues out and she really feared for both her own and her child’s life. I became aware of her fears because initially I was sent to the family’s home address and was unceremoniously marched off the property by one irate husband who confirmed the fact that he was indeed a very nowty chap. I wasn’t too happy when I got back to the office I promise you. Eventually, after receiving the correct information I arrived in the heart of Gorton’s Melland’s Council estate. The house was in a cul-de-sac but had obviously not been thoroughly checked out, the exterior doors couldn’t be locked securely, the hot water system had nearly been stripped out and the Privet hedging surrounding the place was massively overgrown. I was mortified and took the escapees back with me to Hyde office immediately where alternative arrangements were made.

I am sure victim safety has been upgraded since then, but back in the day domestic violence was rarely accepted as a Police matter, and there are instances where fatalities have occurred. Thankfully they are now very rare, but suitable temporary accommodation must not be based on cost, but security. And where Gorton’s besmirched reputation is concerned, ‘give a dog a bad name and hang him,’ rings true to this very day; but we’re cheap.

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OPTEGRA/NHS. Yes I know! Two bloody paragraphs and he’s back rabbiting on about the NHS you are probably thinking but I won’t apologise for penning a few words about the place we find ourselves during the umpteenth Doctor’s Strike (way to go Grandson Ross). The fact of the matter is that my wife Vivien, whose deteriorating eyesight has coincided with our desperate need to buy a 1000-inch screen TV, has been advised she needs Cataract removal as soon as possible otherwise we are going to need to sell up, wear crash helmets and live in a padded cell. Presently we bump into each other so many times during the day it’s like living in the middle of the Dodgems on a Bank Holiday Monday in Belle Vue.

They tell us the operation takes just 15 minutes and that post-op she will be able to thread a needle, turn metal on a Lathe to one thousandth of an inch and see the man in the Moon on a cloudy day. Well, here we are on the pre-op precursor which has taken all of 2 hours and they have provided 1 photo-copied parking permit, a password for the internet and placed one drop of viscous liquid in each eye and guided her back to her seat. She asks me if her eyes look big and for the first time in my life and after being married for 56 years I stare resolutely and notice they are a striking grey blue. I ask should we book a room? but my wisecrack is wasted and flattened when she asks, why? To change tack, I mention that at least 3 ‘patients’ about us are either dead, or in a Coma and the place resembles God’s waiting room. Nurses in scrubs rush hither and thither, and each arriving patient firstly checks out the free coffee machine while I wish the bloke whispering animatedly to himself would speak up, it sounds interesting.

Suddenly a depressing thought enters my head while she pinches at my arm to remind me of the solemnity of the occasion; we are amongst our own, the aged old school grey vote, OAP’s, triple lock(ers), coffin dodgers, the urinal ammonia zone. I have not suddenly become disrespectful or disparaging, because it is too painful, where have all those years gone and why am I attending a private clinic, my left-wing credentials at serious risk, and how much is this costing the NHS? Yes it is warm, comfortable, and clean, the seating feels expensive and reception open and welcoming, but the NHS is pure British thoroughbred, staid, experienced and classless. So! should it stave off this intense, cunningly sly right-wing enforced descent into oblivion? Most definitely, and it’ll only be because we now realise when we are well off, and free coffee and television isn’t everything!

Come Saturday I have been asked to represent our local swimming pool along with 6 other old gits in a swim-off against the other local Manchester pools managed by BETTER PLC. Nothing too exhausting thankfully, and all in the name of fun. I will let you know in my next blog how things went, and how many survived; medics will be present. Now where’s my Sanatogen?

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