When my mum passed away in 2006, I was devastated. I missed her being around the house because for the last 6 months of her life she lived with me. She left a large hole in my life that I will never be able to fill. But time eases the pain and the children appeared to get over mum’s absence much quicker than the rest of the family.

Exactly 6 weeks later, after listening to the children, mostly the girls, continually asking for a puppy, I caved in to their request. One of our friends told us there was a family who were giving away 6 week old puppies to good homes and so against my still temperamental judgement, I agreed to go along to the house and at least take a look at the puppies.

There was 3 puppies left, all yapping around their relaxing mother, and one of the puppies caught my eye, she was a bitch, and looked at us, and stole our hearts. We took her home with us, with the girls cooing in the back seat whilst they cuddled the puppy. It was the beginning of summer, and whilst the children were at school, the puppy would spend all of her time in the garden with me, running around, playing and never leaving my side. On the day we bought her she got up to some very amusing shenanigans, and one of the family (Can’t remember who) suggested we call her Millie because of the way she ambled around the room, rarely leaving my side. I should explain that Millie was a nickname given to my mum by the next door neighbours during the years I was growing up. I was never privy to the reason they called my mum Millie, but the name stuck. Mum would always amble around before she became wheelchair bound, and often blurted out funny, off the cuff statements and did quirky things that gave her a naturally entertaining personality. Millie the puppy seemingly had the same quirky personality.

So, Millie it was and she didn’t leave my side. We jokingly worked out that on the day my mum passed away, Millie was born, so the joke was the puppy was a reincarnation of mum. Millie was black and tan, made up of a variety of breeds (Mum must have been easy!)  Predominantly, so the vet told us, she was mainly a mixture of Rottweiler, Lurcher and Retriever. She had a big head, stocky but muscular with very long legs and we loved her instantly.

There is so much to say about how she effected my life and happy she was when she was alive, so i’ll leave that for another time.

 

Mum started to date my dad around 1942 (She was 16) and apparently my Grand-dad took an instant dislike to the man who would become my father. Grand-dad refused my dad entrance into his house after meeting him just once, so mum was forced to meet her new boyfriend in clandestine ways.

My mum told me that her dad said to her after the single occasion he met him, that he (My dad) was older than he was letting on. The twist to that story was that when my father died in 1993, we had to get a copy of his birth certificate for a reason that slips my mind and it turned out my father was indeed older, 4 years older! He had lied to his wife and everybody else, deceiving everybody and taking the truth to the grave. The thing was, he never came across as a vane man so why he didn’t want anyone to know his age will always remain a mystery.

Anyway, my mother always told everybody that she had married my dad in secret, on Christmas Eve in 1946. (There’s a twist to that story to, but I’ll leave that for another time)

To the outside world my father was a quiet, amiable man but throughout their marriage my mum put up with him being a violent alcoholic  (He hit us and abused us when he felt like it) He would often leave us to fend for ourselves for weeks at a time whilst he went off on one of his binges or/and went back to Ireland to see his family and friends. During those times, my mum was left with no money, so she would take us all to the local social security to beg for money. They gave her a pittance to stave off hunger but little else. I remember arriving home from school, walking through the front door and hearing my mum screaming. She was cowering down in the corner of the room with dad hovering over her, holding half a brick in his hand, trying to hit her in the face. I ran over screaming and crying because I was barely 10 and unable to physically protect her. He instantly stopped, pushed me out of the way and made his way upstairs. My mum got up and cuddled me, more concerned that I was terrified than for her own safety. I heard him come downstairs and watched him walk out of the front door carrying his little brown suitcase. We didn’t see him for over six weeks. Although those six weeks were a struggle financially, the atmosphere was calm, safe and relaxed.

However, as the weeks went by my mum was visibly missing him (Myself, my brother and my sister were not) It was the start of winter and we had no fuel of any type to warm the house up. My mum burnt old clothes, shoes and even instructed my brother and I to chop up a few old wooden chairs to warm the living room. He had been gone for about 2 or 3 weeks and we were getting desperate, especially at night when the weather turned colder. My father had an allotment which he spent a lot of time at when he was home and he had built a long, tall fence around his plot, which he was very proud of. Mum told me and my brother to walk along to the allotment (About half a mile away) and dismantle his beloved fence so we could break it up and burn it. This we did with much joy. When he eventually returned home, which was a Saturday night, he casually walked in, sat down in his chair and mum made him a cup of tea. Mum was obviously very pleased to see him, but I can’t remember any evidence of happiness in his expression. He didn’t even acknowledge his children.

When he went to his allotment the next day he came back to the house very quickly and told my mum somebody had stolen his fence. He never found out about it (fence-gate) but we laughed about it for a long time behind his back.

It wasn’t all bad times for my mum. She would always go to the local Thursday flea market without fail in the town centre and scramble around the second hand shoe and clothes stalls, going elbow to elbow with the other women, often playing tug-of-war with an item she was determined to get. I would be standing over the other side of the stall, looking at the battered old toys whilst occasionally watching mum go into battle for clothes. Mum actually enjoyed the mad scramble for unwanted clothes and she made a few good friends who remained her friendly adversaries for many years.

I remember mum buying 2 chickens from a butcher in town at a very cheap price because they were going out of date. When she arrived home she proudly told us about the bargain she had bought until she opened the bag and was met by a rancid smell that quickly filled the kitchen. After a few choice expletives, mum wrapped the chickens up in 2 carrier bags and took them with her back into town. On the way into town a couple of stray dogs wouldn’t leave her alone, obviously smelling the rancid chickens. When she had walked for 10 minutes, 3 or 4 other stray dogs had joined in the procession, so at a convenient opportunity, mum threw the bag full of chickens over a brick wall into someone’s yard and all of the dogs went after it, leaving my mum to look around her (Has anybody seen me) and walk on into town to complain about the chickens (Minus the proof)

I will never understand why my mum stuck by a husband who made her life a misery. She was always there when he wanted her and was always there for us. Her old fashioned values, grit and determination to carry on regardless never left her. She was a proud woman who found it impossible to show the world how difficult her life was.

Mum learnt to be a cantankerous old so-and-so,  but I wouldn’t have had her any other way.

Thank you mum, for being my mum.

My last post was about my mum’s comical Christmas drinking session (Or the aftermath) at my best friends house. Mum never drank anything remotely alcoholic as a rule and only ever had one other drinking session to my knowledge before and after my father died. She had lived a hard, harsh life that would have broken many people, but bless her, she just carried on.

I’ve never written about my mother properly, I don’t know why because she really was an old school character. Forged during her traumatic upbringing and the Second World War, she was born after the First World War in 1926, she was a twin. She also had twin brothers and 4 older sisters, but her twin brothers died before they were five years old due to Spanish flu. Her mother, my grandmother, became pregnant with her 9th child when my mum was barely 4. However, her mum was afraid to tell her husband, my grand-dad, because she knew he was already working himself into an early grave trying to earn enough money to feed and cloth his already huge family. Also, I presume grandma didn’t feel like she had the strength to give birth to another child because she went to an illegal backstreet abortionist without mentioning her pregnancy to my Grand-dad. Her mum arrived back home after going through the abortion a few hours before my Grand-dad finished work, Grandmother’s next door neighbour Rose looked after my mum and her siblings whilst the deed was done!

My mum recalled what happened after her dad came home from work on many occasions to me. He asked Rose where his wife was and she told him she was feeling unwell so had gone to bed for a lay down for a while. He went upstairs to discover his wife was laying in a pool of blood and had passed away. My mum always cried when she remembered seeing her father cradling his wife’s head in his arms and sobbing.

So Grand-dad was left with 8 children to bring-up in the best way he could whilst continuing to work as a miner, managing his inconsolable children and coping with his own grief. I never knew my Grand-dad but i have always kept a part of him inside of me because he must have been such a strong, courageous man. God rest him. I never got to see any photographs of either of my Grandparents but one afternoon, whilst I was still living at home, my mother said to me “John, this is your Grand-dad”. She had bought the local paper and they were running stories and reprinting black and white photographs from yesteryear about the mining strikes. My Grand father was standing at the front of a line of miners holding a protesting banner up with a very stern look on his face.

My mum’s face was a picture of pride as she looked at the photograph with tears running down her face.

Not a year after my Grandmothers death and my mum’s twin brothers died within the space of a week through the Spanish flu. After that, my Grand father started to drink heavily and he relied more and more on Rose, the next-door neighbour, who eventually moved into the house to look after all the children along with my Grand dad Earnest. Rose must have developed a soft spot for Earnest, but when I suggested this once to my mum, she became very defensive, so I left it alone.

I’ll carry the rest of my mum’s story on in another post.

My Mum was devoutly against alcohol consumption, she was the suffragette of protesters against the evils of alcohol. In her defence, her father had died as a direct result of alcoholism, and in her infinite wisdom she had unwittingly married an alcoholic in the making. Every bad memory that infested her poor, traumatised and infinitely sober brain was  centred around alcohol, or the effects of the demon drink.

My old dad, God rest his shaky alcoholic memory, was more often than not, pissed. On the days that he didn’t go to the pub he would treat himself to a bottle of QC Sherry at the expense of a good hearty meal and console himself with the fact that he really, really missed the pub!

So, one Christmas, when she decided to release her inner demon, she accepted a rare  invitation to go to the house of my best childhood friend, and partake of a festive tipple with his parents. My sister, who was 17 at the time, accompanied mum to give her some much needed Dutch courage. My best friend Mark stayed behind with me at my house so we could play an uninterrupted game of Subbuteo (A football game played with miniature football figures that a player flicked with his fingers to move a tiny football around a green cloth football pitch) Great game, but I digress!

After about 30 minutes we became bored so he went home, leaving me to pack my game away. I think my memory is right when I recall that my mum had left a large piece of gammon ham roasting in the oven when she had left the house with my sister to walk down to my friends house. It smelt like it was cooked and when I opened the oven door it was indeed golden brown and cooked. Baring in mind that my mum had been out of the house for over 2 hours I decided to take the ham out of the oven and as i was doing so, the back door slammed open and my mum half fell through the door, her trailing hand holding onto my sisters hand, both of them giggling loudly as mum fell onto the floor.

By this time, dad had retired up to his bedroom to finish his sherry in solitude so he wasn’t there to witness the very funny state of my mum, he would have shouted at her anyway. As mum managed to stand up, with lots of giggly help from my sister, she (Mum) looked at me holding the meat tray with the ham in it and asked what I was doing? After explaining the ham had just finished cooking she took it upon herself to search for a carving knife so she could slice a piece off because “It smells bloody lovely”.

I stayed very close to her, suggesting quite a few times that I should cut her a piece, but she was adamant she could do it because she was sober! So I watched intently as she took the knife to the meat as her head hovered directly over the joint. The vomit inducing sight of a slow moving string of dribble escaping from her mouth, landing stealthily on top of the ham was heartbreaking because I wanted some to. Mum did indeed manage to cut a large chunk ham for herself without losing any fingers and proceeded to stagger into the living room with the ham hanging out of her mouth like a long, fat cigar.

Eventually, I was forced to carry my limp mum up the stairs and put her to bed whilst my sister lay flat out on the settee, oblivious to my struggles. Because the delicious looking ham had been unfortunately glazed with my mum’s alcohol infused dribble, I had no choice but to throw the remains of the ham away. I loved my mum but had no desire to eat her saliva or allow anyone else to eat it. In the morning when mum got up, she didn’t remember a thing after leaving my friends house. I explained what had happened to the ham, which really pissed her off, but also made her laugh in a shameful way. God bless her, I hope she’s having as good a time now as she did that Christmas afternoon.

Good morning from a very cold part of England.

So, the show my daughter bought tickets for us to watch (Calendar Girls) was an afternoon matinee, which started at about 4pm I think. The theatre was in the heart of the West End and it was packed to the rafters. I have to say that because I’m tall my knees were constantly pressed against the seats in front of me, but I ignored it, in fact I became oblivious to it because i enjoyed the show so much. We were high up in the balcony so our view was birds-eye magnificent.

When the magnificent show had finished, the actresses and actors came back to the stage again and again because of the un-moving standing ovation. It was close to 6.45 when we walked out into the cold December air, instantly caught up in the masses of people scuttling around, pushing and moving without direction, all looking suitably mesmerised by the bright flashing lights. The sounds of buskers caressed the eardrums every now and then when we turned a packed corner. We stopped by a dimly lit shop just around the corner from the theatre we had emerged from, it was selling handbags and coats I think. My wife wanted to take a nosy inside so I took the opportunity to enjoy a smoke whilst she entered the abyss. It was then I noticed an old chap, sitting on a tattered piece of cardboard, looking dejected and dishevelled. He was propped up against a wall, unmoving apart from his eyes, which were partially hidden under very tired eyelids. Everybody was passing him by, oblivious to his existence. I felt guilty and ashamed of the people who walked past him. I looked inside my wallet and I had a five pound note, with a little bit of change. That’s all I had until we passed by a wall bank. I walked over and gave it to him. Bless him, he mustered a genuine smile and nodded slightly when I lit a cigarette up and handed it to him, which he held between his worn out fingers and took a long drag. I know that’s not the healthiest, best thing I could have done for him, but I did it anyway.

My wife came out of the shop holding a carrier bag with another bag inside it and she was happy and smiling as we walked in the direction of Downing Street towards Westminster Bridge. We crossed the bridge, dodging the already growing crowds in anticipation of the New Year firework display, turned left down the steps, past McDonald’s and the great big bloody wheel and headed towards Our daughter Emma, who was waiting on the other side of the grass just after the wheel. Emma led the way to a bar across the street that advertised half price on all cocktails. I thought yes, a cheapish start to a long, expensive evening.

Nope, nope and stupid me nope!! I ordered 3 cocktails, we all ordered different ones so we could try each others. It came to £21. I asked him to repeat the price and he repeated £21. I then reminded him, just in case he didn’t know, that it was half price on cocktails, and he confirmed that £21 was indeed half price. I gave him the exact money begrudgingly and walked away slightly stumbling, in shock, placed the 3 drinks down on the table and suggested that they mustn’t spill a drop because they were actually drinking gold. My wife looked shocked when, after a drum roll, i revealed the price. However, Emma nonchalantly shrugged her shoulders and reminded me that everything was more costly in London, especially on New Years Eve. So, I delayed my heart attack for another year and we sauntered off to another bar to meet up with some of Emma’s friends.

Part 3 will continue the night.

In 1981, I was 16 years old, and had been a Spurs supporter in earnest for 5 years. We were good In a flimsy way, we made pretty patterns across the turf and the crowds loved it, the great entertainers in English football with the likes of Roberts, Houghton, Ardiles, Villa, Archibald and Crooks gracing the team with the mercurial Hoddle pulling all the strings.

We (Spurs) reached the FA Cup final in 81, which was during a time that winning the cup actually meant something.

It was a strange run up to the May final because of an unexpected encounter that was deeply connected to the game of football in a place far removed from sport.

It all began about 2 miles from where I lived with my parents. A well known construction company were building a new housing estate, which brought with it workers from all parts of the country. My dad, on the days when he wasn’t on one of his boozing binges, would push a wheelbarrow around the local area to collect wood for the open fire in our house.

When dad realised there would be off-cuts of timber and broken pallets in abundance around the new estate, he would push his barrow 2 miles on the off-chance that the workers would allow him to take the wood that was useless to them, and they did.

I would go with my old dad to help collect as much wood as possible, and it was during our scavenger hunts that we became friendly with 2 of the bricklayers. Their names were Andy and Joe, they were from London and they were both Spurs supporters.

The further Spurs went in the cups’ early stages, the more Andy and especially Joe we’re convinced the ‘Year of the 1’ coincidence was inevitable, that Spurs were pre-destined to win the cup in a year that ended in ‘1’.

I had a gut feeling we would go on to win it and when we were drawn against Wolves in the semi final I was very confident we would reach the final. I remember talking to Andy and Joe the week after we had beaten Wolves and they told me they couldn’t wait for the tickets to go on sale because they would be the first in line. I couldn’t afford it but was very happy they would be at Wembley to watch the final .

A few weeks later I went with dad to collect some wood and saw Andy working alone. Joe had suffered a heart attack and died. Andy was visibility heartbroken, he didn’t say much more after telling us about Joe. I walked away and never saw Andy again! It was 2 weeks before the final. Sometimes when I think about the 81 cup final, I can still remember Joe shouting to me as I carried some wood away from the scaffolding he was stood on “It’s our year son”, which was the last time I saw him and heard him.

When the winning goal went into the back of the net I cheered, shouted and jumped around and thought about Joe and his absolute certainty the cup had Spurs name on it.

It’s a bittersweet memory, but it still makes me smile and remember him jumping around singing the name of Tottenham.

New years eve 2010, London. We, that is me and the wife, travelled down to Earlsfield in South West London to spend the new year with our eldest daughter, Emma, who lives there permanently. During the Christmas period, Emma had come back home to stay with us for a family get-together and had surprised her mum and me with a present of two tickets to see a show in the West End (Calendar Girls) on New Years Eve.

New Years eve started very early in the morning for us at about 7am. Emma was renting a private flat with her then girlfriend. and their flat was in the attic of an old Victorian house, with magnificent views across Southern London but unfortunately directly under Gatwick’s or Heathrow’s (Can’t remember which) flight path.

We wrapped up pretty early and walked down the long road to catch the train into Central London, disembarking at Waterloo to grab a cheeky McDonald breakfast by the side of Westminster Bridge. The cold early morning didn’t appear to have put off the sightseers, who scuttled around, shoulder to shoulder across the iconic bridge. I wondered if any of these tourists realised or appreciated the significance of the bridge or considered the historical personalities that had once walked across the river towards Parliament and beyond.

We strolled across the bridge casually, taking in the presence of Big Ben as the tourist boats passed by underneath us, the feint sound of the guide on the passing boat gradually fading away as the distance grew between us. I casually remarked to the wife that she would be an ideal guide for the tourists because she seems to know everything there is to know and she would save them the price of a loud speaker. (I walked very quickly in front of her at this point)

At about noon, we wandered into China Town for a bite to eat. I love this part of London because I am mostly driven by the aroma of exotic foods. In fact, every time we visit Emma, which is about 3 or 4 times a year, we very often go to the same Irish pub that stands at the edge of China Town, just so we can sit upstairs to get a birds eye view of the main colourful street that cuts its way through the centre. I love the vibrant colours and I get to use my authentic Irish accent on the people who serve in the pub (The wife doesn’t like me doing this. She finds it embarrassing, which only encourages me to become more experimental) Eventually, but I suspect begrudgingly, she laughs!!

When I worked as a doorman I wasn’t the person I am naturally. A friend asked me to work with him as a favour and I did it as a favour for over a year.

I like to think I was gentle and considerate throughout my time on the door, I hope that I actually helped more people with their problems than I actually threw out of a pub or club..

A friend of mine once asked me why I was doing it and I replied I was helping a friend in need out.

I’m only mentioning this because I don’t want anyone to think or get the impression I’m a thug or a heavy handed arse. I like to think I’m a gentle giant who puts others before myself.

Just saying this for clarification.

I was involved in an altercation years ago when I worked as a doorman in the town where I live. It was sort of like being in a Wild West movie, I fancied myself as John Wayne!  (Good guys versus bad guys) The incident happened whilst I was working a shift in a nightclub near to where I live. It was usually a place where the occasional drunken chap would become the worst for wear so would need some friendly assistance leaving the establishment. As I remember There were about six of us working the door because it was a pretty big club and always busy. We would all move around, interchanging strategic spots but always kept it friendly, chatting to the revellers, sharing many jokes with them, trying to keep them happy and safe so they could enjoy their night.

If things did get occasionally out of hand we had a safe word put into place for any incidents that had the potential of moving to the next level, the word was Mr Weston, which would be immediately followed by the particular area Mr Weston was required.

On the night in question, Mr W was called to the back of the club where the close dancing and canoodling normally took place. As myself and a colleague moved as quickly as possible through the crowds to reach the Alamo, my colleague, who was a few steps in front of me, fell to the floor, the remains of a wooden and metal chair covered his crumpled torso. As I bent down to help him to his feet I caught a glimpse of 2 or 3 guys being forcibly removed through the nearest fire exit.

After helping my colleague up and quickly checking the large swelling that had appeared over his eye, I joined in helping the bad guys leave through the exit. I found out after it was all over that the guys who were the cause of the problem had been selling drugs openly in defiance of the doormen.

Anyway, we escorted them out of the exit, through the back doors and out onto the street. We foolishly thought that was the end of the fun and games. How wrong could we be. Not 10 minutes later a car came to a screeching halt outside of the main doors, and out popped 5 or 6 men, all armed with baseball bats and motorbike chains which they were swinging furiously with intent, swearing as they sporadically connected.

Strangely, I remember 2 police officers standing straight across from the nightclub entrance, watching proceedings with what I perceived as interest and then blatantly walked away in the other direction. After a struggle, their weapons were wrestled from them and unfortunately a few of their eyes were blackened before they scrambled back into their car. For some reason, one of my colleagues decided he was Wyatt Earp and presumably thought it was a good idea to run at their car and hit the back windscreen with one of the confiscated bike chains. The windscreen shattered in on them as they sped away from the scene. Back inside the club, there was quite a few people who were visibly shaken after witnessing the violent scenes. I looked at them and suddenly felt guilty that I had been a part of what they had witnessed.

The incident became the talk of the town for a few days until tongues eventually stopped wagging.

When I arrived home after the night shift had ended, I went straight to bed and got a up a couple of hours later to discover my wife had heard all about the Wild West showdown. Of course some things she had been told were exaggerated so I put her straight on the facts of the incident.

A few weeks later I agreed to stop working on the door because things were gradually getting out of hand. There seemed to be more and more violence happening around the clubs and pubs and I had a wife and 4 children to consider before going out to work at the OK Coral. There was other incidents during my time working as a doorman, maybe one day I will get around to some of the funny incidents.