Obtuse World #2

Boiling Point Well! If the plan was to use this brand-new Sunday night BBC television series as a recruitment drive for restaurant kitchen staff they have failed miserably. Not only do the actors portraying service staff continually bully, harass, shout, and swear at each other, so do the pretend customers between swallowing bowls of ‘Scouse,’ before swapping partners and starting again. If you believe that, you’ll believe anything. Why do those myopic BBC mandarins who commission series for television believe all things Liverpudlian brings laugh a minute homespun philosophy, old-school bonhomie, and ear-bleed loud episodes of reality? Endlessly dishing up expensive grub supposedly created between running home in the middle of service to make sure “me ma is awrrright! Know wharramean?”

Fine dining is supposedly a construct, not to be confused with something to eat, but similar to a Van Gogh, John Constable or even that human Kaleidoscope dauber Picasso, then passed as Art; more like passing a turd. Any half-starved scouser worth his salt would make for the first Fish and Chip shop they come to after being fleeced in that joint, and I’m sure if they had wanted Scouse that could be dredged up by mother every last teatime before payday. I have it on good authority the ingredients can be found in any dustbin west of Warrington.

I worked for nearly 12 months in Liverpool back in the 70’s. Every morning break I witnessed them devour stuff like Oxtail, chomping as if chewing on an extra-long Harmonica. Followed with Blanket and Honeycomb Tripe, vomit inducing Chitterlings and finishing off with Faggots. All this scoffed to ensure packing to allow lunchtime sessions in the local boozer. Little was done workwise, one particular Joiner challenging other tradesmen to light their farts with a bluer flame than his. I recall seeing his arsehole more times than his hammer and saw. Now that was funny and would have made better television, especially if we all had smelly vision. But fine dining? Don’t make me laugh.

The BBC led the world with some of the most original programmes ever created and of which many were copied throughout time. But nowadays the shoe seems to be on the other foot. I think Boiling Point is loosely based on an American show about a Chicago sandwich shop inherited by the award-winning brother of the previous but now deceased owner; billed as a comedy drama and eulogised by certain newspaper critics over here. I watched a couple of episodes, but it didn’t move the earth for me, I found it like the New Yorkers I met when staying in Manhattan back in the 90’s, uninteresting, shouty, boorish and overbearing.

I accept busy kitchens are noisy, decent food is expensive and all humans have a backstory which is undeniably interesting to all of us no matter how mundane. But during a cost of living crisis and when most of us are pretty much skint, I cannot envisage saving my pennies to eat in a restaurant where they employ a new chef-de-partie without testing him, let their head chef nip home to check she switched the lights off, allowed a thin-skinned sous chef to leave without replacing him, rarely wash their hands, don’t even wear hats or hair nets; and where’s the bloody Defibrillator; or am I just being pernickety? The series run has only 4 episodes so I will see it through, but for me the misnomer is Michelin Star food, okay if you like car tyres. Restaurants are only really useful for tax-evasion, and to enjoy working in that regime can only mean one thing, you’re a masochist.

Finally, let me set the record straight after my previous tongue in the cheek references to our small-town neighbours, by telling you about my 12 months working in Tuebrook, Liverpool back in 1973. This was during my Plastering period when I somehow wangled employment with some London based Company converting an old-fashioned disused Bowling Alley and changing it into a nightclub, The Coconut Grove. The firm had a long-term contract with Pinewood studios in London building film sets, but I only worked for them in Manchester and Merseyside; I thought they wanted movie ‘Extras.’ I explained to the local lads on this job I was a 6 month dilute* so obviously struggled, but they took me under their wing and showed me the sights. We visited many pubs, clubs, and raunchy drinking-dens, (Gladray, Temple Bars, Bighouse, The Grafton and Flatiron to name a few) and I was more plastered than plastering. This was the same time power cuts were strangling the country, yet we never lost a day, and they even invited me along to Anfield and watch a Wednesday afternoon Cup match against Hull City (no floodlights allowed). Many an evening they poured me onto the last train home to Manchester having stopped for a quick one. They imaginatively called me ‘The Manc,’ which I didn’t mind, I was as quick-witted as them so we ‘gorron fine.’ I never tired of explaining that we in Manchester ate Lancashire Hotpot or Tater Hash well before Scouse, which they supposedly invented, could be made without brick dust. But the tales about lighting farts is absolutely true. I have great memories of that time, those lads were both genuine and generous, and bizarrely ninety-nine percent of them were called Terry.

*After attending a 6-month Government training course at Windmill Lane, Denton. The problem with this type of high-speed training is they teach you the proper original name for tools. Back in the day the Browning plaster would be mixed in a tin bath by the labourer using either a type of Rake or just a plain shovel. I once was working on a site in City centre Manchester and another of the lads who trained with my group was on the same site. One day this rather loud-mouthed time served ‘spread’ said to us at break, “See him over there, he’s just asked me for the ‘Larry’ (Rake) what the fuck’s one of them?” and they all laughed out loud. I kept my mouth shut and soon learnt to just point at stuff and grunt rather than ask. I got away with it for a few years, but I just never had the speed required to make really good money.

***

Getting Old. I stare disconsolately at the bold, type-written side-heading and think to myself ‘really!’ Not because it’s stating the bleeding obvious counting back and wincing at my advanced years of existence while sat here in my fleece and two woollies trying to stay warm on the first really cold day of our oncoming winter, but my wrong-headed wish whilst watching our excellent rugby union teams playing in the World Cup that they don’t succeed. Yes that’s right, I don’t want them to win, and this is not a new feeling. Scotland, Wales, and the brilliant Irish team have all been knocked out, and I am hoping that after 6pm tonight England follow suit. And no, I am not being disloyal to my country. I just cannot abide having to put up with anymore ‘world class, number one, greatest of all time, superlatives thrown up whenever one of our 4 nations no matter the gender, behind whichever border, what competition, or whichever round they happen to be playing in leads every front page, news bulletin or magazine headline for interminable weeks afterwards.

Later! Well! I didn’t get my wish and England won, but because expectations are low where our national team is concerned, and judging by their poor world ranking, they were not expected to progress further. I must also admit to watching the game, supporting my country and when Fiji drew level in the 2nd half fearing the worst, but captain Farrell carried us through. It seems the heart rules the head where patriotism is concerned, and the game was very entertaining.

During my formative years, and while slavishly following our family tradition of enjoying all sporting pastimes, I would avidly grab whichever discarded newspaper found itself within reach, either behind a cushion on the armchair, covering the dining table, quartered in the outside lavatory, or forcing hot flames up the chimney. Soon columns of print would be clasped into my eager grubby paws, and I would avariciously read every word, always starting at the back page, and working my way through until not a sentence had been ignored, nor a prodigiously descriptive adjective re-read. Post-war sportswriters were different back in the day. My teams, Manchester United, Salford Rugby and Lancashire cricket would of course have club reporters who covered the team’s exploits from every corner of wherever they played, and of course it would be partisan, but also peculiarly fair. Journalistic luminaries such as Brian Glanville, Tom Jackson, Henry Rose, and Alf Clark to name just a few were poetic. These talented wordsmiths and their passion for setting the scene artistically led to football being known as ‘The Beautiful game.’

They were patriotic but never jingoistic, even-handed never unfair, and although subjective, in equal measure impartial. Their type of reporting eventually eroding into what has now become either sensationally negative or from the same source over-enthusiastically praised. The result is paramount no matter how it is achieved, and every singular failure can overnight be turned into personal disgrace. Journalist’s today suddenly have more ‘unnamed sources’ within a club than real confidantes and spread more damaging rumours than trumpet blaring Pheme in Homer’s Odyssey. Managers have been dismissed, re-engaged elsewhere, and dismissed again once the rumour mill clicks into gear. This type of journalistic behaviour filling back pages daily without any care or consideration of the damage being done leaves me cold. I don’t buy newspapers nowadays.

Then we have the drum beating jingoism should we win a tournament, a rare event I know, but whenever they create a new byname for English teams or players it usually overexaggerates their prowess, or ability to fight. Personally, I hate Lions and Lionesses, especially when they become ‘gallant losers,’ beaten by teams probably highly motivated by these formidable sobriquets dreamt up by headline writers only interested in hyperbole and gaining that byline. And it drags interminably on, pictured eating breakfast, driving a flash car, shopping, sipping coffee, clubbing, mowing a lawn, knitting, signing autographs, giving a shirt away, having a crap; give me strength.

And now we are expected to endure constant plays and replays, moribund opinions from ex-pros who more than likely failed basic English at school, VAR (the worst experiment to hit football since making Guardiola a manager). Plus, football matches obsessed with possession, providing for more back-passes than in Manchester’s Gay Village on a pissed-up Saturday night. Successful it may be for some teams, but boring! boring! boring! What do you think Jim, Gary, or Sally? Suddenly the most important player on a team is the Goalkeeper, not for their brilliant goal saving prowess, although that does help, but if they can pass a ball to their own man more than once.

Well, in fairness one must have to be half decent at journalism to get us all excited at the tripe forced upon us on a Football field. Cricket realised their game was dying a death and changed the format to attract different crowds. Rugby Union during this World cup has been visually thrilling even if you don’t understand the rules. The players are bigger, fitter, faster and stronger now, excitingly coached and entertainingly brutal, what’s not to like? Yet, poor old sad, bloated, and plain old boringly complacent Soccer carries on, over coached, over planned, tactically suffocated, and devoid of genius. All that matters is winning at all costs, we need not entertain, the result matters, and if danger is on the horizon, we can always buy that.

And here am this autumn evening sat alone in the dark watching the next tedious match with the sound off, my wife in bed probably watching an entertaining drama, my head nodding with ennui when who should suddenly come to mind?

“I have no doubt I shall, please Heaven, begin to be more beforehand with the World, and to live in a perfectly new manner if-in short, anything turns up.” Mr Micawber…….. David Copperfield.

In the swim. Twice weekly I rise at 5am and after scattering those loitering Cats, Burglars and of late the Gorton Fox from the avenue make my way to the Eastlands pool near Etihad stadium and get some extra exercise. It’s free for us over 60’s, and I often quote, “where else can you see loads of half-naked women and drink as much as you want for nowt?”

I was taught to swim as a child in the 1950’s, my dad being an ex-Commando knew the benefits of such exercise and come to think of it so did Manchester City Council and all the schools in our fair city. He said to me, “If you learn to swim I won’t clout you for a whole week!” An offer I couldn’t refuse and so mother immediately set to crocheting a swimming costume for me. The other kids laughed but the prize was better than the shame. And the extra weight when soaked helped make me a stronger swimmer.

With our schoolteacher in attendance, we would crocodile walk through the terraced back streets of Beswick and Bradford to Barmouth Street excitedly chattering away. It was so loud you would have thought we were all wearing high heels; come to think of it, people must have wondered what on earth the racket was as we passed by. Learning to swim was not easy, we kids had to endure 30 minutes of cajoling, shouting, bawling, and hitting, and our parents weren’t even there. I remember after the first time my mother asking how it went? “It was great mam, they locked me in a cabin, chased me through a freezing shower, then then hit me on the bonce with a big lump of wood.” I was only five. For me it was harder in my costume it getting so heavy at the crotch and hanging between my knees with my budgie there for all to see. Luckily, the cold water made it disappear.

Overcoming fear was the first hurdle, our swimming teacher’s genius being ‘you either get in the water, or get a whack,’ simple really. It was the first time I had ever seen so much clean water, being the last of five in the tin bath on a Friday night felt like lying in gravy. If I had ever seen a Leg of Lamb at that age, I could have empathised. First time in the pool was all about lifting your feet off the bottom which was scary enough, especially when the swim teacher hit your fingers gripping the sidebar with her 10-foot pole. I could swear the plunge became shallower there was that much water swallowed. Eventually, and as confidence grew some of us managed one width, then as time passed we would attempt the 25-yard length. This was attempted near the side, the sidebar within easy reach, but grab it at your peril. The harridan swim teacher’s shrill voice was so loud I swear whilst watching the others an odd small turd floated to the surface. I soon got the hang of it though and loved the freedom swimming gave me, and when my brother gave me his cossy, him growing out of it, I was surprised how fast I was without the extra weight. Our swimming improved through time by dint of encouragement through awards, the best being the Free Pass. There were just three altogether and as I became more proficient annually the tasks were more difficult, but more free time was allocated by the colour of your pass, Gold Dust. Birley Street, my Junior School, was a wonderful school and encouraged a scheme whereas if you misbehaved whilst at the swimming baths your pass could be withheld and handed in, this resulting in admonishment; I cannot recall the plan ever being tested.

Now in my Septuagenarian years my affection for swimming has never diminished, and at Eastlands, even at that ungodly hour, there are one or two characters who often raise a smile or two, such mirth being half naked engenders!

To be Continued………