Category: Shropshire - A Portfolio Life

A Portfolio Life

Hare today...

4/2/2018

Bobby chased a hare today – across the fields at Ryton – as though he was 17 human years young. It was like Alex Ferguson’s description of when he first set eyes on a thirteen-year old Ryan Giggs - “like a cocker spaniel in the park chasing a piece of sliver paper in the wind”

Oh, who am I kidding – he was like a 71 year-old man running for the bus. It was like if I rocked up to Durdham Downs for one last appearance for West Town, a team I was already too old and fat for when I was 25. Luckily, they were too shit to notice.

Unlike me, today, cheering on the side-lines, as Bobby wheezed to a halt halfway up a hill, hollering at the hare – come back, I’ll have you – come here – oh, buggering hell – you pesky kids…phuwee.

I swear there was a moment when the hare stopped and waited for him.

Bless. Still, no doubt he'll score a hat-trick in his dreams tonight, like I have these last thirty years...

Jeremy Corbyn - a Shropshire Lad?

2/10/2017

As I understand it, the good folk of Shropshire can claim Jeremy Corbyn as one of their own. He moved to the county aged seven, attended Adams’ Grammar School in Newport, and even worked for a short time as a journalist on the Newport and Market Drayton Advertiser. Formative years. Shaped by Shropshire.

I’ve mentioned before how local media manage to shoe-horn local associations into every news story – for example “Michael Jackson, who once visited the Bull Ring Shopping Centre, has died.” Or “Philip Larkin, who worked at Wellington Library, also lived in Hull for a while.” You get the idea.

Plus, since I’ve lived up here, it’s obligatory for a Salopian, every time anyone mentions Shrewsbury School to follow it with – “Michael Palin went there you know.”

Now, I can’t help feeling if, let’s say, Boris Johnson, had attended school at Adams’ Grammar, the Shropshire Star would find a reason to put a photo of him into the paper every single day, and he’d be on the cover of those county lifestyle magazines every month. Crikey, were he to become Prime Minister, Newport would be re-named after him, (Port Pfeffel, possibly). Even now, they’d commission a statue, just in case.

But of Jeremy, not a mention. I didn’t even realise his association with Shropshire until I was looking up something on his Wikipedia page for an entirely different reason. No-one talks of him. No one remembers him. Media silence. A total blackout. Were he to become Prime Minister the entire county might collapse in on itself from shame.

Our Gated Community

11/4/2017

There’s a wooden gate near me that divides nowhere from nowhere. It’s on the footpath that winds around the Manor Barns on its way down to the Wesley Brook and the sewage works.

There seems no reason for it. No animals to pen in, nothing to keep out. Closure for the sake of it. A modern-art metaphor for Brexit maybe. Except it’s been here as long as I have. And it has no purpose. Or not one I can fathom. Indeed, we are kindred spirits.

Not least in that it always does its best to stay open. It doesn’t swing back automatically. It stubbornly stays open. People have to go out of their way to close the gate, as they’ve all been rightly trained to do around here, where the Countryside Code is a genetic folk memory. As it is for me. It’s a gate and gates should be closed.

But, for ten years now, I’ve been leaving this gate open. Twice a day, most days for ten years. (And, in all that time, it has always been closed by someone in the hour or so between my walk out and my walk home).

A few weeks ago, the gatepost that holds it shut was broken, vandalised maybe. By a freedom fighter, maybe. Who knows. Today, as I wandered past, them good old volunteers of the Shifnal Pathfinders were replacing the gatepost.

As with every Tuesday, we swapped hellos as they patted Bobby.

“I’ve never been sure what the point of this gate is.” I said.

“Nope, nor us” they said.

And then they shrugged and carried on anyway, like a cast of characters out of a Magnus Mills novel.

This, of course, is of no real import to the nation, but this morning, to me, in that moment, it felt like it might be….

Appeasing Village Halls...

19/2/2017

Since we’ve been here, at least once a year we have been to Kemberton Village Hall for some event or other, the main purpose of which is to raise funds to ensure the survival of Kemberton Village Hall, so that it can continue to have events, the main purpose of which is to raise funds to ensure the survival of Kemberton Village Hall.

Everyone rallies around, does their bit, buys several too many raffle tickets, happily pays over the odds for some cheapo wine, and lends a hand with stacking chairs, whilst Denise and Jill do the washing-up. Anne chats to everyone and a couple of people say hello to me. This, it seems to me, is the essence of village life. Or, more generally, community life. And yes, I am mocking, that’s my default setting, but I genuinely mean it as a good thing. Proper life-enhancing stuff.

In our time, as documented elsewhere, we have attended many of these events. We have been to several quizzes; an evening of prestidigitation from the Wolverhampton Magic Circle; been entertained by a couple from the Black Country, her doing the songs and he doing the bostin jokes; not forgetting the night with the woman with several ukuleles. No, that I will never forget.

If you happen to be from London and somehow find yourself through the Looking Glass at such an event, it works like this. You buy a ticket, you show up, you eat and drink, as much of the latter as you can. Try not to win the raffle. I can’t help but feel incomers up from that there London winning a box of Celebration chocolates is cause for anything but. Definitely, try to win the quiz. Coz, well, innit, you get me. We have, a couple of times. Or once, even. Maybe. There’s still time…

Anyway, Anne decided this year was our turn. When we throw our hat into the ring. Raise some money. Pay for the roof repairs. What’s required, she suggested, is a pop-up Indian restaurant, and we, who have never once set foot in said sub-continent, are absolutely, definitely, your people, for we used to live in Tooting and even cooked a curry once, and it was quite tasty. Fairly bland, also.

So, that’s what we did last night. For 50 people:

Pea Kachori with pickled red onion and relish.
Chili Paneer
Chicken Pakora (donated by a Bangladesh Housing Co-operative Anne works with in Birmingham, and easily the best chicken pakoras in the western world, and quite possibly in the eastern world, too.)
Served with Carrot and Sultana Raita, Tomato and Chili Jam and Mint Chutney.

Lamb and Squash Curry
Lemon Daal
Aubergine and Tomato curry
Rajma Curry

Mango Fool and Cardamom Shortbread.

Sister-in-law turned the village hall into a tented Indian village, or something, which was both highly improbable and completely spectacular; and people tucked into Aldi prosecco and spiced nuts, whilst Anne turned a load of bland vegetables into something pretty bloody wonderful. I helped. As did Anne's best friend Paula and many others. But enough about them.

Food was eaten. Drink was drunk. Money was made. Kemberton Village Hall, like Mount Etna pacified by sacrifices to the Roman Gods, burped and farted, and settled down like a sleeping dog with a full belly, until the next time.

Greek, Italian, Thai, French – what’s next Anne? - e-mailed a grateful participant.
Nothing. Never. No way. E-mailed back an exhausted Anne. Bless…

Dedicated follower of fashion

16/2/2017

In One Dog and His Man I wrote a small piece on my superior dress sense, what with me having been part of that there London Fashion Scene for a major part of my life, continually updating and rocking the latest Tooting vibe. Yes, of course I was joking. The only point clothes serve in my life, is to keep me warm. My idea of dressing smartly is to find something I haven’t spilled food down.

The piece ended with me walking past a seven-year-old girl, who was clutching her granny’s hand in fear, as she passed me in my latest outfit, one “beyond the curve of their imagination.” As she passed me, the little girl said loudly to her gran “oh, that’s not a good look.”

In riposte, these last few years I’ve blended into Shropshire life. I now have many, many fleeces. I have three outdoor fleece zipped jackets, sourced from top brands such as Aldi and the local farm shop, two black, one blue. For indoors, I have another seven fleeces, from summer lightweight to Canadian heavy duty – what Anne calls my Michelin man look. And that’s it.

Shifnal’s loss I fancy. But, yesterday, outside Barclays was a man at the cash machine, stepping up to the challenge, plainly channelling my inner catwalk model. He had sunglasses on, in February gloom, a brand-new country tweed jacket and tie up-top, and below, a pair of bright blue tracksuit bottoms, with two white stripes running down the outside of each leg, the outfit finished off with a pair of polished black shoes. Fetching.

What the seven-year-old, - who now must be thirteen and probably with her own thriving online apparel and accessories business – would have thought of it is anyone’s guess. Me, I nearly applauded.

The Great Shifnal Fog of 2017

23/1/2017

It’s foggy again this morning. I can’t see the road from where I’m typing this, so vision's down below fifty yards. Last week started the same and stayed that way until Thursday. Shifnal seems partial to a bit of fog – the land welcomes it in and the fog wipes his feet, settles down and makes himself at home. Outstays his welcome, like an in-law at Christmas.

I walked past John’s last Wednesday lunchtime. He’s retired and lives up in one of the barn conversions at the manor. He likes to get things done, does John, and over the years I’ve listened to many tales of woe about Shropshire bureaucrats and signed more than a few petitions he’s thrust in my hands.

This time we settled on a chat about the weather.

- I haven’t see the sun since Saturday, he said.
- I know, it just seems to squat over us doesn’t it. Anne says it’s a bright clear day in Birmingham.
- Yesterday I drove over to Shrewsbury and as I got near Wellington, just past the Wrekin, the fog disappeared and it was lovely. Then, coming back, it swallowed me up again.
- Amazing really, I said.
- I blame the council, he said.
- Absobloodylutely, John. You should start a petition…

And off we went about our business.

If not Shifnal....

18/1/2017

God knows I’m not famous, and God knows I live in Shifnal, as humble a town as ever was to be found in Middle England, but, you know, I’ve done things – I once published a book even, and a poem, and I’m fairly sure my recycling box of empty wine bottles is whispered about through most of Shropshire. I’m very good at things. Some things, maybe. It’ll come to me.

So, it’s a bit of a shock to realise that I’m not even the most famous person in Shifnal. No, cancel that, it’s a bit of a shock that I’m not even the most famous Gary in Shifnal. There’s another bloke, supposedly. He likes his music does this Gary, but in a cool modern, zeitgeisty way, or so they tell me, for BBC 6 Music plays requests for him all the bloody time, apparently.

And people email me, message me, tweet me, Facebook Anne and say – was that Gary on 6 just now? Nice song. Good taste. Who knew?

Me I open another bottle and put Bobbie Gentry on Spotify and think, God, if not Shifnal, where is small enough for me…?

The Day the Earth Grew Tired

1/12/2016

In contrast to Silly Verse for Grown Ups,
this is a small book of serious poetry,
of the sort I once rather hoped might be
my artistic contribution to mankind.
So, a minority taste!

If the earth is a living thing, what does that make us?
These poems doodle in the margins of that thought.

This includes five poems written about the illness and death of Karin.

Click here to buy

Silly Verse for Grown Ups

18/11/2016

How about lightening the mood on here, with my latest publication, a wee bit of nonsense if ever there was one.

Silly Verse for Grown Ups. 60 poems, all of them silly. All of them short.

I know some of you enjoyed the doggerel in One Dog and His Man because you told me so. Especially the epic Quiche 22. Well, I’m a huge supporter of recycling and, if you enjoyed them there, you can enjoy them here all over again!

There’s loads of additions and I’m fairly confident that something will make you chuckle, and God knows chuckling is something to be treasured. It’s a perfect book to keep in the spare-room for guests to peruse. Or in the toilet.

It’s also the perfect Christmas stocking-filler. Or ‘Secret Santa’ present for a workmate. And, for those of you who manage loads of staff, I can’t think of a better thank you present for each of them than this little beauty. Well yes, okay, alcohol. Alcohol is better. Or a bonus. Yes, a bonus is definitely better.

It’s currently priced at a mere £6 and if you wanted to buy a few let me know and I’ll give you a nice discount.

Look, they’re not proper poems and I’m not Ogden Nash. Hell, I’m not even Pam Ayres. But if you don’t giggle at least once, or repeat something out loud to a loved one, I’ll give you your money back.

Buy it here.

Rabbit, Rabbit

24/10/2016

Les, our local handyman and all-round good egg, came around to have a look at the guttering. He brought an old hand along to help him. The old man held the bottom of the ladder and as he did so I chatted to him.

“This dog’s got greyhound in him” says he.

“No, he’s a collie cross – this, that and something else, but not greyhound, long legs though.” A minute’s pause whilst we watch Les pull a load of mud with grass growing out of it – a lawn basically – out of our gutter.

“Yeah, greyhound. I thought so. I had one just like this once, collie/greyhound cross it were. Used to catch rabbits just fine. Twenty, thirty at a time. I used to get a quid a pop. I would sit at the table in The Crown in Newport and people would come from all over – Wolverhampton. They’d give me a pound and take one off the table. The dog would be lying under it, asleep like.”

“We’d have bought some off you if you were still doing it, my wife makes a lovely rabbit stew in, um, mustard cream sauce. Crisp green salad to mop…” I was hearing myself saying this and sort of tailed off into silence, leaving the sentence uncompleted, as I wondered if even Anne could have sounded any more like a middle-class wanker. Les meanwhile was showering us with gutter detritus, so maybe he heard me...

“What we would do was shine the lamp and catch the rabbit in it, and the dog would catch sight of them and go around and end up behind them, stood over them, and they were still frozen in the light.”

“Clever that, going around the back – that’s the collie in him.”

“No, he wouldn’t kill ‘em. He’d bring ‘em back to me and I’d pull their neck.” He does a little demonstration. “I was earning more money from doing that than from working, like."

“Amazing – shame you don’t still do it, I’d have bought one. Two. Make rabbit pie with the leftovers, that’s my favourite”

“Aye, I know, you don’t see anyone eating them anymore. Sad.”