Family

They Think It’s All Over…

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Nearly there!

Christmas has been a quiet one for the Masher household this year: revolving mainly around food, drink and flopping in front of the telly for hours on end.

I have eaten my own body weight in sausage rolls, mince pies and Quality Street and our previously well stocked beer fridge now just has small balls of tumbleweed rolling around inside it.

The garage is piled high with polystyrene and cardboard and sacks of wrapping paper, just waiting for me to pluck up the will to take it all to the local Tidy Tip. That’s not gonna happen this week, I can tell you!

But some semblance of normality has resumed, in that the Christmas tree has been taken down and stashed back up in the loft and all the Christmas cards (we seem to get fewer every year) have been taken down and put in the recycle bin.  Now that the tree is gone, furniture has been placed back into its usual place and the living room now looks as it did… should.  Annoyingly, the Blu-Tak that we used to stick up the cards, has marked the wall and our chimney breast now looks like it has the measles. I’ll have to repaint it.

There may – or may not – be more festivities tonight.

But personally, I’ll be most upset if I’m not tucked up in bed by 11:30

Ahoj Zlato, Jsem Doma

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Yesterday afternoon, myself and the current Mrs M arrived home, after spending a few days visiting the lovely city of Prague.

It’s a great place to visit if you like art galleries and bookshops. There are SO many art galleries and bookshops.
It’s also great if you are into old churches, because there are plenty of those too.
And, if differing styles of old architecture are your thing, then Prague needs to be on your list: Gothic, Renaissance, Baraque, to name just a few, are in abundance.

However, Mrs M and I aren’t into any of that rubbish – one Gothic church looks exactly the same as another, to me.

What it did have for us though, was some good weather, cheap food, cheap beer and lots of history – I don’t mind a bit of history, me.

Unfortunately, our last day there was marred by me picking up some sort of bug – possibly from the overcrowded Hop ‘n’ Stop buses, that we used so much to get around.

So, I have returned to Blighty, feeling absolutely shite and am currently missing the club BBQ that I was so looking forward to.

I have looked up my syptoms on Dr Google and it looks like I have contracted a dose of Spanish Flu – not the mild one that lays you low for a few days, but the one that killed about 50 milion people at the turn of last century.

Mrs M is constantly dosing me up with Paracetamol, so I’m sure I’ll be fine.

TW3

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It’s been a busy seven days.

On Tuesday, Mrs M and I went to see  Mind Mangler.
A comedy theatrical show with some magic thrown in.   It was pretty good and we both enjoyed it.
A good night out

On Wednesday I was walking the dog in the woods, when I happened across two young men setting fire to a pushbike.
They were using several aerosol cans of deodorant as flame throwers, to set light to this bike which they had propped up against a tree.
It was well aflame by the time I came across them.   I questioned them as to their actions and told them to put it out, which they tried to do, but the tyres were stubbornly alight and took some extinguishing. Nonetheless, I stood with them until it was done and then continued to berate them, explaining  just how stupid they were. They looked somewhat abashed at my dressing down of them. Thing is, they weren’t kids, these were grown men of about 19 or 20 years old, I’d say.  A sudden police siren from just outside the woods had them scarpering off, however, it wasn’t a police car but rather, a big red fire engine: someone had seen the smoke rising and had called the Fire Service. I explained to the fire men (people) what had happened and they thanked me for making sure it was put out, but I sensed they felt a little annoyed, having driven halfway across town to find just a smouldering bicycle.

On Thursday, upon discovering that I’d been somewhat remiss with my weekly grocery shopping and hadn’t got us anything to eat, Mrs M and I went to dine at our local pub. Turns out that Thursday night is Build-A-Burger night, and so we built ourseves a couple of fantastic burgers, served up with a side order of chips and onion rings.  We left the pub feeling absolutely stuffed.   And all for a fiver each. Can’t complain at that. We’ll probably go again this week!

On Friday night, we went out to the pictures to see the new Bad Boys film.  It was alright.  I quite enjoyed it, actually… despite missing all the previous Bad Boys films.
Even better, though, was the Nandos we had beforehand.

Saturday evening saw us driving down to Basingstoke for a family function.
I won’t go into the details of that, here.

And on Sunday, Son and I went down to (what was) the Olympic Stadium – but is now home to West Ham FC – to watch some American men playing rounders. Major League Baseball (MLB) came to London for the weekend and as Son is a bit of a baseball fan – and a fan of the Phillies (Philadelphia) in particular –  we went along to watch them play against the New York Mets.  I have to say, it was a fun, friendly event and everyone seemed to enjoy it… even fans of the Phillies, who ultimately managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, right at the last… er, innings(?)  (I really had no idea what was going on).  But it was a good day out and everyone had a great time and there was no trouble… despite the copious amounts of alcohol being consumed in the stands.

I had a chilli dog.

It was enormous and lasted me all day.

 

Le Grand Weekend

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Friday evening saw me catching the train into St Pancras and then taking a five-minute walk in the direction of the British Library.

No, I wasn’t heading that way because I had an overdue book to return, but because it was pretty much opposite a pub that I was to be frequenting, that night.

To recognise a successful year of hard graft and achieving targets at work, our contractor company threw a big party and – as ‘The Client’ – I was one of the few from the Water Board invited along to help them celebrate.

They laid on a free bar… it would have been rude of me to not go.

Despite the free drinks, I left the bar in a reasonable state of sobriety, I thought.  This was proved not to be the case, as I then went on to catch the wrong train and found myself heading toward Peterborough.  Fortunately, I realised my mistake and got off at Hitchin, where a phone call to my son elicited a free taxi ride home at one in the morning. I knew I’d had kids for a reason.

After completing my normal Saturday morning chores, The Current Mrs. Masher™ and I caught a train back down to St Pancras and then jumped on the tube down to Hammersmith, where we took in a show.  Now, I’m not sure where or when ‘Minority Report – the play’ entered my consciousness, but as soon I I heard about it, I knew I wanted to see it. I think I read the book many years ago (by Philip K Dick) and I certainly enjoyed the cinematic interpretation starring Tom Cruise, but I was keen to see how they could successfully transfer this to the stage.

Not very successfully, it would seem.  I enjoyed it, but it’s not one I would recommend.

Afterward, Mrs M and I had a couple of drinks in the pub across the road and were delighted to be entertained by the security staff trying to eject a young girl for not having ID.  There were four burly men, all afraid to physically touch this young girl for fear of later repercussions. She and her friends were filming them on their phones and the security guys were filming them back on their phones and bodycams. Many of those seated at tables around all this, were filming it on their phones. Everyone was filming everyone and no-one was making a move.  This went on for about fifteen minutes, before one guy – who was obviously the head of the security personnel – decided that he’d had enough and  forcibly ejected her from the pub.  The girl made no effort to resist and allowed herself to be dragged through the pub like one of those passive protesters you see on the news, all the time holding her phone to her ear, pretending she was talking to the police. There was a small cheer from the pub’s clientele, as she was thrown out the door.

Sunday morning, Mrs M and I grabbed a late breakfast in the hotel and then caught the train back to Luton.   Well, we tried to, but we were turned away by the ticket turnstile. Seems Mrs M had bought the wrong tickets!  Instead of the London to Bedford Thameslink train, she had – for some reason – bought an EWR ticket to Corby.  And it didn’t leave for another hour!

We sat outside a Costa, drinking coffee and watching the Eurostar trains coming and going.  To be fair, it was a most pleasant way to while away an hour.   I marvelled at the tall impressive roof and googled some information on the station itself.  When it was opened in 1868, it was reckoned to be the largest enclosed space in the world.  It survived two world wars – albeit with some damage – and was due to be knocked down in the late 1960s, but was saved just ten days before demolition was due to start, with a Grade 1 listing being placed on it.  I’m so glad it was saved – it’s a fantastic building.

We caught the train, but it didn’t call in at our stop, so Son (who now has the nickname Uber) was drafted in once again to pick us up.

Sunday night, Son and I went to the pictures to see Fall Guy (Mrs M was too tired).  A thoroughly enjoyable film with lots of action, comedy and relatable characters. Those of us old enough to remember the original TV series on which the film is based, will enjoy picking out the many easter eggs embedded in the film.  I got most of them I think.  In one scene, I heard the Wilhelm Scream, but I can’t find any reference to it in any of the websites that are talking about this picture and its various nods to film lore, so maybe I’ve found one that no-one else has… or maybe I’m just mistaken.  If you catch it, let me know, please. And make sure you catch the mid-credits scene at the end!

Afterwards, we grabbed a bite to eat and I treated Son to a Five Guys.  We both had a cheeseburger and chips and a fizzy drink.  Forty quid!  Yes, the meal was very nice and was a big step up from a McDonalds or a Burger King, but… forty quid?

As I write this, it’s pissing down with rain, which makes it a proper Bank Holiday Monday with nothing to do except sit down in front of the telly.

I think we might watch Minority Report.

Le Weekend

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Ahh, Le Weekend… to coin a phrase nicked from us by the French.

Just because we nicked cul-de-sac from them.

Le tit pour la tat.

Or, should it be la tit pour le tat… what with tits being feminine and all?

I dunno.

Anyway… it was a good weekend because – despite the very blowy weather brought on by storm Kathy, I managed to get the bike out for a few hours, for the first time this year.

Saturday was a couple of hours up and down the A5, just to blow away the cobwebs. And then on Sunday, I met up with a couple of mates and we headed out for breakfast at one of our favourite biker cafés on the A10.  It was still a bit chilly, but my heated jacket did a marvelous job of keeping me toasty.

And we weren’t alone: it was packed in there.  I could barely hear myself think, as I tucked in to my Set 1 Breakfast – sausage, bacon, egg, beans and fried slice all washed down with a cup of slosh. Marvelous!

As we rode along some of the country lanes though, I found myself dismayed at the amount of fly-tipping… it seems to be getting worse. Rubbish everywhere. These people should be strung up!

Sunday afternoon, Mrs M and I decided to go out for a Sunday roast at a pub in the village up the road. To get there, we went along some of those very same country lanes that I’d travelled in the morning on my bike, but this time we were in her car.

Parked in a lay-by on one of these lanes where there was a lot of fly-tipped rubbish, was a black Astra. It’s boot was open and I could see lots of black bags full of rubbish, stowed in the back. A man and a woman appeared to be dumping their rubbish here.  I wound down the car window so that I could hurl some abuse at them as we passed.

But then, as we got closer, I noticed they weren’t dumping rubbish at all… on the contrary, they were wearing rubber gloves and were picking up the rubbish and bagging it and then putting it in their car… to take to the tip, I assume.

Rather than hurl abuse, I leaned out of the window and gave them a round of applause as we went past.

There are some bloody idiots out there, but there are some damn-right heroes as well.

Hi Honey… I’m Home!

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Not that you’d know I’d been away.

But I have.

We have just returned from a few days in the Big Apple… and we are knackered!

So much walking.

So much queueing.

So bloody expensive.

The current Mrs Masher and I have been several times before, but it’s been a while since we were there last.

2001, to be precise. The same year the towers came down.

Since then, not only has the pound dropped substantially against the dollar, but prices have risen dramatically.

For instance, for the four of us to have breakfast in the hotel – and trust me, although it was a posh hotel, the breakfast was exactly the same as you’d get here in a Premier Inn – it cost us $235.   That’s 186 pounds at today’s exchange rate.

A hundred and eighty-six quid!

For breakfast.

Jeez.

But – money aside – we had a great time and took in as many of the sights as we could, in the time we had available.

And we did some shopping – because it’s New York and you have to.

And we took in a show on Broadway(ish).

And we got lost on the subway.

But, we are back home now.

On the way home from Heathrow last night, Mrs M dropped me off in town and I met up with some of my old BT pals for the regular drink and a curry night.  “Just flew in from New York”, I told ’em.  “You can’t say I don’t make the effort.”

But it amazed me to think that only 18 hours earlier, I was in the Hard Rock Café in Times Square, and now, here I was in a Weatherspoons in Luton.

Long-haul travel and different time zones can really mess with your head.

 

 

Horizons

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Last night, I dragged the current Mrs M along to a lecture talk on cosmology given by Professor Brian Cox.

To be fair, she came willingly. “You never know, I might enjoy it”, she said.

It started with lots of pretty pictures of stars and galaxies and over the next ninety minutes he went on to explain formation and expansion of the universe, ending on black hole singularities and event horizons, even using some ‘simple’ maths to explain black hole temperatures and Hawking Radiation.

It was fascinating.

Mrs M held up surprisingly well and found much of it very interesting, but I thnk that by the time we had reached Einstein’s General Theory, time in the theatre was moving somewhat slower for her than it was for me.

Relatively, of course.

Car

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Yesterday, I took the day off and took a drive over to that Swansea.

That’s a long and boring journey, I can tell you.

Took us over fours to get there (with a pitstop halfway) and similar to get back.

The reason for my visit to Taffyland?  To buy a car.

Not for me, but for Son.

Due to the extortionate insurance costs for someone his age (and gender) he’s limited to what he can afford to buy.

The make and model of car that he was looking at came in a 59 BHP version. That puts it in a Group 1 insurance category – the cheapest (although we are still looking at a couple of grand there). The next level up was 94 BHP, which puts it way up into Group 9… adding almost a thousand pounds to the premium!

Obviously, for this reason, Group 1 cars are very popular with new drivers and when a secondhand one goes on sale, it gets snapped up pretty quickly. We missed several opportunities.

So, when this one came up, we immediately slapped a 24hr reserve on it and hightailed it down the M4.

Took it for a test drive. Liked it. Bought it.

It’s a little bit more expensive than what he was looking for, but it’s low mileage and in almost-new condition.

Hopefully, it should last him a good few years.

Tribute

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Yesterday, Mrs M and Daughter went to see Whitney Houston.

Not the real one, of course, because she’s dead.

No, they went to see a tribute act.

Strange things, tribute acts. I’ve never quite understood why anyone would pay good money to go and see someone who isn’t as good as the real thing. If you are a big fan of something/someone, why would you go to see something that isn’t as good?

I used to be a big fan of the rock group Queen. I have all their albums and I have seen them live in concert a couple of times.

But I don’t think I would ever dream of going to see a band that were performing Queen songs – but who didn’t look or sound as good as Queen.

I’d feel let down.

Mrs M and Daughter arrived home earlier than expected. “You’re home earlier than I expected”, I said.

“We left half way through”, said Mrs M, “she was murdering those songs!”

QED

Evil Tiny Missives

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Yesterday, Mrs M and I went to the pictures to see Wicked Little Letters.

With Timothy Spall, Jessie Buckley and the wonderful Olivia Coleman in the lead roles, the film tells the true story of the town of Littlehampton, just after the first World War and the scandal that arose from someone sending obscene correspondence to the townsfolk.

Quite possibly, the first example of what we now consider to be trolling, when it is done online.

Apparently, at the time, the tale of these unwanted letters gripped the nation.

It didn’t grip Mrs Masher though.  The story was thin, with a weak plot and a fairly obvious twist, which has probably led to the mediocre ratings given by many critics.

But, like most of the – somewhat aged -audience in our matinee showing, I found it quite enjoyable.  Coleman, Spall and Buckley give terrific performances and I found it genuinely very funny in parts.

It was a bit of a departure for us to watch a film like that, actually. There were no car chases; fights; guns or helicopters. No points where the action was loud enough for me to guzzle gallons of cola and shove handfuls of popcorn down my gullet, as is usual for us on a trip to the cinema.

It was a gentle film –  with lots of swearing – which I enjoyed watching with a cup of tea and an iced bun.

War

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Both of my grandfathers fought in the war: my paternal grandfather, Charles, fought in WWI, whilst my maternal grandfather, Albert,  fought in WWII.

Charles was always a proud old soldier and – long after the war – was often to be found in the Royal Legion drill hall, getting pissed with his mates and reminiscing about the old days. Every few years he would travel to France by coach with a load of his old comrades, and proudly all wearing their medals, they would make their way to Belgium and tour Ypres, one of the main places where he fought during the war.  History shows that the battle there was terrible, with huge loss of life and many casualties, but nonetheless, he was always happy to talk about his time during the conflict. Sadly, he died before I was old enough to appreciate what he had done and I personally never really got to talk to him about it.

Albert, however, was never one for discussing what happened to him. We knew he was captured and put in a Prisoner Of War camp, but that was about it.  But, after doing some research on my family tree, I have managed to find some war records that shed some light on what he endured.  In Feb 42, he was stationed in the Middle East with the Fusiliers. He was captured in Tubruk sometime between Feb 42 and May 42 and was taken to Stalag VIIIB (later renumbered to Stalag 344) in Lamsdorf, Poland. He and his compatriots were then made to walk a thousand miles (it took them about a month, I believe) – travelling through Prague – to a Quarantine & Clearing camp in Italy:  Campo 66, near Capua. From there, they were taken to Genoa and he saw out the rest of the war in Camp PG52,  Hut 9.

It’s hard for me to really appreciate the hardships that both my grandfathers went through – in their different ways – during the two conflicts, but it certainly affected them both differently afterwards.

Friendship

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Most friendships are fleeting, I would say. They come and go as people’s lives change and move on, and few of us have long-lasting ones.

My oldest and best friend is my mate Paul.

We started work together way back when I was only sixteen, straight out of school.

Unfortunately, we don’t see as much of each other as we once did, as he got married and moved away. A long way. Too far to visit on a regular (or even semi-regular) basis.

But, we keep in touch and Mrs Masher and I visited them last year, spending a very pleasnt weekend with them oop north.

Forty-six years we have known each other.

I’m sort of proud of that fact, because it takes a bit of effort. Distance easily takes a toll on friendships and despite telephones, email and the advent of social media, it’s very easy to lose touch with people.

Unless you make the effort.

Case in point: I popped in to see my dad the other day. He was just saying farewell to some visitors… friends who had stayed overnight.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Trevor and Val”,  dad answered.

“Oh, what… Trevor, your old  cycling buddy?” Dad nodded. He’d mentioned his mate Trevor several times over the years. “Crikey”, I added, “how long have you two been friends now?”

Dad thought for a moment and then said “Since we were six”.

My dad is eighty-seven.

Now, THAT’S making an effort.