When reminiscing about the past I had a flashback that came as a sudden vision. I was in a train of thought about the deputy we shall call Reg Ball. Then I suddenly remembered and I can see the scene still now in my mind.
Reg was a deputy head at a certain West London comprehensive and I had to look for him for some reason during a free period in the summer term. Now after a long search found Reg in the big grounds maintenance garage used to store tractors, trailers, pitch markers etc. It was towards the front of the school next to the playground and not where you would expect to find a senior manager of the school. But this bloke was a bit of a one off.
I still see him now sat there in a deckchair with a rifle in his lap! This was during lesson time. Next to him is the site manager, who is sat in a deckchair too, but he has a fag in his mouth instead of a gun in his hands. The site manager points at something in the rafters and the Reg takes aim and fires the air rifle at it. The shot appears to have missed, the fag is swapped for the gun and the roles are reversed – deputy now spots and drags on the fag, whilst the site manager takes aim and shoots.
“What are you boys up to?” I ask.
“Reducing the pigeon population” says Reg the deputy head as he reaches for the air rifle to take his turn again after another failed attempt.
“Yeah, they’ve been shitting on my gang mower” adds the site manager.
Music and the internet go hand in hand. No longer do I have to go up the steps from the street into Revolver Records and down the dimly lit corridor past the vast amount of flyers and gig posters in order to find a new band, or inspiring piece of vinyl.
The internet is a bottomless pit of material and I find that you can easily hear a tune from someone new that takes your fancy in double quick time. I remember in Raynors Records (a shop that was further down the road from Revolver) that they still had a record listening booth and at Revolver you used to hand over a 12 ” single or EP to the bloke at the desk, who would play it and probably be able to tell you something about the band in question.
Weird people is maybe not the right title, but read on and you will catch the drift.
Weird people – the sort that do not conform, individuals that do not wear a label that you can read, in order to pop them in a pigeon hole. . I am talking about what we in England call “eccentrics”. These are the individuals who stand out in a crowd, not for their loud dress sense, but more for the way that they are wired up internally. They are “characters” and are often looked at with affection by the general population, but normally at arm’s length, because let us face facts – these people are still weird after all.
I think I have the makings of a list here and another series of posts.
Kurt Vonnegut is going to be put forward as my first example of a weird kind of guy. You only have to read Slaughterhouse 5 to know what I mean. When I was asked by some what the book was about all I could do was say that it was a semi-autobiographical novel about a soldier in WWII, but it was very weird. Not exactly a review fit for the TLS, but I am more interested in the author and not his work.
His wit and humour come through in this video of him speaking on stage about the formulae used in writing stories.
This video came from stumbling upon a wonderful blog at www.kottke.org. This site is something that I can only admire and aspire to.
Now as promised I am going to list a few things that Bernie used to do on a regular basis that made him the stand out character that he was as and ever will be. But before I start I do not want it to look like character assassination. We all love BC and he is a Legend in my book – hence the poll I have set up above. These anecdotes may make him out to be a bit of a “special” guy, yet BC is a top bloke and he never fails to touch those that he meets in some way.
Onwards and upwards then.
The interests that Bernie had were nearly all sports related, and before I go any further it was thanks to Bernie that my club cricket career took the path that it did. He was the man that introduced me to the two clubs (Guinness and Harlington) that I spent very happy times with. He even got me a game down at Northwood Football Club’s veterans side – but my career there did not last that long after my team mates worked out that I was no good. I mean to say that my first touch was so bad; my next one was a tackle!
So Bernie’s foibles?
Ablutions – his morning started with a gym exercise routine in the boys changing room. He often used a few free weights. The thing that I remember about this daily event was it finished with him having a wash of his face, a brush of his teeth and a good old spit in the tiny Belfast sink set at floor level that was there for cleaning boots!
In the same shower room was a huge plunge bath big enough for a whole team to fit in. We are talking swimming pool here. Bern had a small adjustable spanner in his office that he used to get out before our regular Friday night staff soccer fixtures. The spanner was used to set the bath tap running very slowly as we were getting changed. He used to leave the tap running as we trotted out for the fixture and on our return after the match there was BC’s bath waiting for him!
Practice makes perfect – Bernie loved to practise his sport. On cold and often wet winter evenings after work BC and I used to stand about 20 yards either side of a football goal that had no net in it. We used to strike a football and aim to hit the cross bar and if it did not then the ball would glide over the goal to the person opposite in a nice long pass. This was well before Sky did the “cross bar challenge” and it was amazing how many times we hit the bar flush. This routine certainly improved my game and I lost count of the number of corners I struck in matches to where BC pointed, as he jostled for a chance to run onto the ball in the penalty box and burst the net with a bullet header. I knocked over a few crosses in my time and can still hear him scream “BC’s!!!!” as he launched himself at another goal attempt. Bernie could head the ball all right.
Pock marked gym wall – Bernie used to love his cricket. His batting was like my bowling, erratic. Equally I could bat a bit and he was a really decent seam bowler. So we were pretty well matched as practice partners for the “net sessions” we used to have after school during summer terms. Bernie was a very much a rhythm bowler, he was metronomic at times which had its plus points and draw backs too. When he had conditions in his favour he could replicate unplayable deliveries and get a bunch of wickets in one spell. On the other hand his regularity would also be his down fall as once a batter got after him, Bernie would get an awful mauling.
During our practice sessions I could almost anticipate his next delivery at times and if I had my eye in I would walk down the indoor cricket net and drive the ball straight back over his head. Often I would catch the ball he had bowled “on the up” so it meant that my shot would go straight on up and onwards until it crashed against the metal cladding on the back wall of the gym about 10 metres up. This would make BC a bit peeved so he would jog back to fetch the ball and then tear in from the back of the gym on a long run up. He was often a full throttle, nostrils flared and knees pumping when he came in to bowl at me again. The trouble was he would bowl faster but at the same spot so often the ball would ping off my bat and go even faster past his head to make another dent in the cladding behind him. It used to really piss him off and was one of the rare times that he was actually quiet playing sport.
Gum shield; Times when I wish Bernie would be quiet were when I batted with him on Saturday league fixtures down at Guinness CC. Bernie and I used to open the batting for two reasons. Firstly Bernie was madder than a box of frogs and sending him in first used to pay off – he scored fairly freely and could stay in long enough to knock the shine off the new ball. This meant that the better batters that followed got a slight advantage. The other reason that I went in with him was because nobody else wanted to as it was psychologically damaging!
Bernie was a terrible runner between the wickets and was always looking for the “quick single”. He had the potential to drop his bat down on the ball and dab it gently in front of him. Whilst doing so he would bellow “YESSSSSSSSSSSS!” and start to run. I would back up his call and come scurrying down his end only to find he had changed his mind! He would start shouting “Noooooooooo!” or “Waaaaaaaaiit!” At this stage I was in no man’s land, half way down the batting track, slamming on the brakes. Meanwhile a fielder would be swooping in to gather the ball ready to fire a throw at the wicket down at my end. I had to turn tail and run back to the bowler’s end and dive back into the bowling crease before the throw hit the stumps. With me dashing back, Bernie yelling and the fielding team smelling blood and shouting too it was complete chaos. All it needed was to have Clive Dunn run past in a Homeguard uniform shouting “Don’t Panic! Don’t Panic!” and the scene would have been perfectly set.
The ball would fizz past me on its way from the fielder to miss the stumps as I dived back to safety. Having got up and dusted myself off, I would march down the wicket to have a word with my batting partner.
“What the f*ck do you think you are doing Bern?” I would enquire in an agitated state.
“Mwaah Fyysuayy sstumoppsut” came the reply.
You see Bernie was a tight so and so. He was paranoid about damaging some expensive bridge work in the front of his mouth, so not only would he bat with a helmet with a full face visor, but he also had a gum shield in as added protection! So it was near impossible to understand a word he said.
Saw these at a “Give Ireland back to the Irish Gig” (Red Wedge Tour) at the Bristol Mecca Studio 17th March 1985. I think they all wore suits with shamrocks on their lapels and were the warm up act for Billy Bragg. The band had a punk/nihilist following who all fought amongst themselves and spat a lot at the front of the crowd. Billy Bragg was his usual passionate self – whilst stopping short of being a true angry young man. I remember Billy kept on breaking strings on his guitar as he was playing so hard and also thinking back the other support act was Porky the Poet aka Phil Jupitus.
As for the venue The Studio was a big disco/nightclub which was one of many dives around the City Centre. It was one of the sort of places that just do not exist anymore.
Nightclubs and the old boozers of my youth in Bristol are described in Mark’s fantastic Blog at twiglet.com
One of my first jobs was working behind the bar at The Kensington Arms in Redland, Bristol
Times have changed however, 30 years ago the Kensington was a run of the mill place- the punters were pretty bohemian, but down to earth. It was a drinkers’ pub which served the odd hot snack, but I sold more packs of Old Holborn than pasties in my time behind the bar there.
During the late 80’s The Kensington Arms had a Jack Russell terrier in residence that was called “The Rat”. She was a source of amusement though if you “charged her up” correctly. After finishing the glass collecting and general clear up after a busy Saturday night shift the landlord would often get his staff a drink before we went off home. At this point the Rat would often totter into the front bar and join us. The game we played on her was a bit cruel, but she never learned from her previous mistakes. We used to pick her up and put her on the bar counter. Then we would pour her a drink. Her tipple was Guinness which she drank out of a half filled ashray.
The Rat would just lap it up and the Guinness soon took effect, which you could normally tell when her back legs started to give way. Fair play to the old girl though as she would sit there still on her haunches and sup away until her front legs went. At which point her head lolled about and then she normally zonked out. Once she had fallen asleep she would be scooped up and plonked in her basket by the evening shift as a present for the Sunday lunch shift to open as it were.
In reality it was like leaving a time bomb as the next morning the Rat would wake up with a cracking hangover. She would be cranky and foul tempered, which was no laughing matter if you were pulling pints with her around. She would get the arse ache, snap and growl and often nip your ankle as you walked past her. The Rat was simply a nightmare to deal with when she had a hangover, but like a lot of people she would never learn.
I think that my Reg Ball may be Andy’s Greg Hill, but there again who knows?
Citizen’s Arrest
This tale is about a deputy head-teacher (Reg Ball) who had taught in the same school for decades and was a well known local character that lived close to the school. This man according to legend always had a “monkey”in his back pocket – the cash was wrapped up in a rubber band within reach in case he saw something he fancied purchasing on his travels. Reg dealt in antiques in a semi professional way, hence the cash was always at the ready. I saw this famous wedge come out in the negotiated settlement over the disbandment of the T-Club xmas meal (see TWTD Part 2)
Another thing he was well known for was his battered, white Volvo estate car. This was a real workhorse that was used to transport his antiques around in.
The real story begins one weekend when a friend of Reg’s borrowed the Volvo to move some furniture. The friend drove the car back to school on Monday morning to drop it off, but decided to stop for a newspaper on the way. He parked up at the parade of shops next to the tube station just before the start of school day. Needless to say there were lots of school kids about.
As a gang of year 11 lads bowled past the shops they noticed the deputy head’s car in the lay by. Nothing strange in that, but what made them stop and think was some random geezer getting into said motor.
They quickly reacted by questioning the bloke in the car. Clearly not satisfied with his response they pulled him out of his seat and then jumped on him. Once on the ground the bewildered man did not resist as the boys phoned police, probably as he was threatened with a “good shoeing” if he caused any mischief!
It all got sorted out in the end, but I think the moral of the story is the loyalty shown by so called rough kids that so say had no respect of authority. As far as they were concerned the Deputy Head was one of their own.
Saw this video first on the state of the art video juke box at the “Volley” on King Street in Bristol. Not quite life changing, but better than the 80’s pop that was being pumped out at the time.
Now then, I forgot about the one year anniversary of Clive’s death as I was on my Czech beer crusade. He would have approved, certainly more so than with the appointment of a new boss at the County Ground. Got me thinking back CJ!
Phosphorescence is a word I remember looking up in a dictionary whilst reading Kenneth Grahame’s description of a moonlit punt by Rat and Mole in Wind in the Willows. As a Chemist I did not really compute as to what this was all about until I learned about Henning Brand and his discovery of the element from which the phenomena got its name.
Finally, this is where CJ comes in, I actually saw a wonderful example of phosphorescence when I used “the downstairs toilet” of his 1930’s canal boat in the small hours of one moonlit night. The boat that Sue and CJ lived on did not have its own flushing toilet – the nearest one was in the shower block of the marina. A few pints of Thatcher’s cider (with a slice) in the local pub to wash down the meal we had that night lead to one of those “needed that” pisses over the side of the boat. Before retiring to bed himself, CJ was good enough to show me the right spot to stand at and aim in case I got caught short in the night. “Good man CJ!” I thought to myself as I followed his advice, finally seeing what Kenneth Grahame was on about as I urinated into the River Avon.
On a Saturday I used to stop by and see Clive by taking a quick detour down the A4 on my way home from watching the Rovers in Bristol. It was always good to catch up and just chew the fat. I remember Sue always cooked a bit of garlic on his eggs at breakfast the next morning. I too like Andy Daly miss the old fart.
Next goal wins laaaaaaads! 
