Alfie’s Christmas Gift Suggestion


Got a few quid to spare? Want to get that alternative Chrizzy pressie for that special pal? Then may I suggest you invest in a few copies of editor Tim Worstall’s excellent round up of the British blogging world in 2005.

‘Blogged 2005 – dispatches from the blogosphere’ is the year as seen through the eyes of bloggers – all the big subjects of the year are there - described in full by the army of blog in a sometimes humorous, sometimes cynical, sometimes analytical way. I went and got a copy from a branch of Waterstone’s in Southport – and it was the last one in the shop. The assistant reckoned there had been a bit of a run on them – and knowing the bohemian folk of Southport like I do – they know a book-cred bargain when they see one. You’d better get one while you can - and take my tip, go to a big bookshop. Waterstone’s was the 6th I’d tried – and at the second one, I was asked what a ‘blogged’ was. Or you could go here at Amazon – and get a few quid knocked off.

Canal walking with a bouncy guy….
I went for an evening stroll along the tow-path of the Rufford branch of the Leeds-Liverpool canal yesterday with my Son Luke and his dog Domino, the bounciest dog in the whole wide world. Dusk was gently closing in and the mist rolling up from the Ribble estuary as we parked the car and set off along the tow path. It was very atmospheric – like a Turner painting without the dynamic of a dose of laudanum. The flat landscape of the Lancashire plain rolled away into the distance, stratified in consecutively lightening shades of grey. It reminded me of a time before colour televisions – wall to wall grey scale.

I love these winter days. Still, quiet and cold - waiting for something to happen. It’s like the whole world is holding its breath. Nothing is moving – apart from the bouncy guy busily shoving his bouncy nose into the ferns.

Overhead, five Bewick’s Swans, winter visitors from the Russian Tundra, white kites against the slab grey sky, flopped and flapped over us, barely 50 yards above our heads. The dog tried to do some seriously extreme bouncing – he obviously fancied Swanski for tea.

The very low level of the canal has exposed the fantastic stone setts of the lock gates, You just cannot help but marvel at the manic Victorian precision of massive subterranean stonework never normally seen. We peered into the frozen shallow watered gloom of the canal, vainly hoping to see the odd fish or two. All of a sudden, we noticed that the bouncy guy wasn’t bouncing any more. He had now adopted the persona of a rigid guy – frozen in an attitude of a doggy Robert De Niro. "Are you looking at me?" He was in a staring contest with a rather hard looking sheep in the adjoining field.

A bit of tension here. Who’s the scariest? Well the sheep’s not given an inch – and she’s got some mates behind her to boot.

We walked away, but still the sheep and dog were locked in eyeball to eyeball starey mortal combat. Who would blink first? We broke the spell by shouting at the dog to "Come on"…… He trotted towards us, stopped and looked back to his chunky wooly protagonist. Was he saying "I salute you as a worthy opponent"…. Probably not – more likely he was saying that the next time they meet, the sheep will be stuffed into the bottom of a tin of ‘Kennomeat’

A group of partridge exploded out from a nearby grassy knoll. The dog bounced in frustration. In the distance, a barn owl quartered a field looking for a rodent supper. Our walking target was a little stone bridge, built to carry nothing more than a muddy farm track over the waterway, but as beautiful a bridge as you could ever imagine. Built at the same time as the canal, the cut stones were still as good as new. The proportions of this little bridge are as perfect as anything built in Venice. Constructed by master craftsmen in a time when men still had pride in what they did – and the consummate skill to go with it.

As we turned to head back, the gloom had virtually enveloped us. Above, the final skein of Pinkfooted Geese, over wintering from Greenland honked their noisy way to their evening roost on the sand-banks of the River Ribble.

The dog didn’t bother bouncing any more – he was completely bounced out…..

Four men in a tub – the Chelsea of division 2….
...of the Ormskirk quiz league to be precise. This season, instead of being the usual journeymen of the division, assuming a sort of ‘Manchester City’ position, we’re as rampant as a rampant lion, rampaging away at the top of a steeply inclined ramp - in Rampton. And believe me – that’s rampant!

An initial draw and then 8 straight wins on the bounce have ensured that ‘Team Tubsters’ are miles and miles ahead of everyone else.

What’s more, we’re not just beating teams, we’re thrashing them, crushing them, blitzkrieging them. We don’t have a billionaire backer, a Russian oligarch or a rich American in a Stetson bankrolling us. We don’t have a gobby Portuguese managing us either - we don’t need anyone to gee us up, we just go out there and win! And if you don’t believe me, check this out. Being unbeatable has its perks. 'Respect' for a start..... We haven't got any groupies yet, but there's always hope, we've noticed the odd lady bar-fly giving our well honed team the old once over (strange, but it never seems to graduate to the old 'twice-over')... Who knows, in a month or two, we could have a whole groupage of Tubsterettes' in tow ........ ladees, form a queue.

Last night was the best. Our adversaries? Old Hall –our bogey team. We’ve never beaten them, ever. They’ve always managed to intimidate us with various underhand tactics, it’s fair to say, they are our least favoured team. Usually, we have the game, a couple of pints, some butties, then a friendly – but most of all we’re supposed to have a laugh….. but not with Old Hall. They just don’t seem to have a sense of humour - it's all angst and fretting and moan,moan, moaning with the Old Hall crew…. Anyway, back to last night’s game, we came, we played, we battered them. Our opponents? Vanquished to the country of bitter and twistedness. We tried (but not very hard) to act all magnanimous in victory – and only punch the air out of our opponent’s eye-shot.

So why have we all of a sudden discovered a grey matter streak, a nugget of knowledge and a seam of nelly-knowalliness? Our team is the same – and has been for a few years now. There are five of us – from which we perm a team of four. Maybe it’s because we’ve changed pubs. We now play in The Ship at Lathom, known to the locals as the ‘Blood Tub’ due to violent and habitual fighting between bargees there in the late 19th Century. So that’s where our name ‘Four Men in a Tub’ comes from….

Anyway, whatever the reason is, it’s working – if we carry on with the winning streak we’ll get into Division 1 next season. And that will mean we’ll play some very clever people indeed.

And if we do, we’ll come up against ‘Old Dog’ – the team currently second in the top tier. Within their ranks is Pat Gibson, a gentleman Irishman, now living in Wigan and recent winner of a million quid from ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire’ and last week, the winner of the Grand Final of BBC’s ‘Mastermind’

We can’t wait to play against them. Pat, mate, start to get worried, ‘Team-Tubster’ are after your scalp.


Pat Gibson, man of Wigan looking worried at the imminent contest with Alfie and the rest of the Tubsters

Remember,
(Firework night reprise)...

I used to love firework night when I was a kid. The ‘club man’ dressed in gabardine mac’ and pulled down trilby would knock on the door of our house a few weeks before the big day armed with his ‘Bommy suitcase’. Forget leaflets with photos. In the suitcase was the real thing, packs of fireworks made by what we considered to be the most dangerous manufacturer of all time – ‘Brocks Fireworks’.

The smallest box was the cheapest – priced at a frugal price of one shiny English shilling. Within that box was the odd ‘Golden Rain’, a triangular ‘Mount Etna', a token Roman Candle and a few hand held fireworks that were strictly for the wussy Walters of this world. Next was a 2/6 box (12.5p) – as before with a couple of rockets, a few Catherine wheels and some Bangers. The boxes went all the way up to the gargantuan 1 quid box. Absolutely massive; the stuff of pyrotechnic dreams.

A quid box of fireworks was way out of our league. They were intended for the posh kids whose parents drove Hillman Hunters or Rover saloons, poured themselves a gee and tee when they got home from work and got the Radio Times every week.

My Mum always settled on a 5 bob box (25p) – real class, but not too ostentatious. The 5 bob box had everything, - Roman Candles, Bangers, Catherine Wheels, Versuvius’s, Air-Bombs and……. ’Rip-raps’. What a superb firework rip-raps were! Dangerous, unpredictable and full of street cred. Even lighting them was a bit of a challenge, because they bounced about a lot, in a rip-rappy sort of way. They looked like a snake folded back and forth, back and forth. The more you paid, the longer they were. And the longer they were, the more bangs and jumps you got.

Young rapscallions would throw them at people’s feet. Each time they banged, they would bounce – and a long one would bounce perhaps 20 times. What fun, what joy. They used to drop into chaps turn-ups or ladies knee length boots. Third degree burns were all so innocent then….. Eventually, like all instruments of torture, they were banned……

Also within the box would be a packet of ‘Bengal Matches’. Now these were really, really dangerous. They were like a big match with a black head, which was about an inch long. When you struck the match they would burn so brightly it would light up a star system. Napalm on a little stick they were. They burned in different colours – and all at the heat of the inner core of the Sun. They got banned as well.

Once the deal was done – and we’d agreed to pay the clubman a shilling a week for 5 weeks plus sixpence deposit, the fireworks were ours – all 5 bobs worth of them.

As a special after sales treat, the clubman would give us a box of indoor fireworks. These were deemed to be not as dangerous as the outdoor versions, but you still lit them with matches. Smoke still spewed from little ‘Mount Etna’s’. Kids still got burnt, houses still got burnt down. They got banned as well.

Come to think of it, so did the Bangers…….

...Remember,
Best explanation I heard over the weekend for exactly why the Gunpowder Plot was timed for the 5th of November…..

Well, apparently the plotters decided on that date so anyone seeing them lumping gunpowder, matches and firewood about would think they were going to just another fireworks party.

...the fifth of November.
And talking about Gunpowder plotting…..
There’s been a plethora of drama documentaries over the past week about how the plotters were persuaded to give up their secrets and how they eventually met their collective ends….

Guy Fawkes suffered the most of course – having been tortured on the rack, gouged with gougy things, stabbed with stabby things and having to wear the same underwear for more than a week.

On the day of his execution, he was helped up the scaffold steps because his legs had been smashed through the torture. He was then hung by the neck until he was almost dead. They cut him down, chucked water over his face to revive him and make sure he was still in the land of the living. They then cut off his goolies & knob and chucked them on the fire before his very eyes….. were gouged out and they too were chucked on the hot coals. The barbecue was made complete, courtesy of a full set of Fawkes’ guts and entrails.

Remember, Fawkes is still alive at this point, the disemboweller having taken great care not to injure the lungs or heart. The final act of barbarity was to chop his head off and stick it on a spike. His body was hacked into four quarters and despatched to the outer reaches of the kingdom….

Not much chance of parole there then.

Lordly matters….
OK, the House of Lords application form is all filled in and ready to go. Hardest job was finding any people who were willing to say I was of sound mind and a bit of a decent kind of chap. It’s amazing what the odd threat and the swift application of a judicious Chinese burn will do. But now comes my toughest task. The word is, in the corridors of power that ‘donations’ to certain political parties help the smooth sashay into an ermine robe. Anyway, I’ve had a whip round down at the Blood Tub Pub. Thanks to all patrons who willingly gave up their hard earned wedges for the cause of OKedness – and for the lucky falling into my lap of the PDSA collection box from the pub bar. How much ‘sashaying’ will £18.56p and a 2 Euro coin get me? Am I looking at Ermine Street, Easy Street or Ere’s-the-door Street?

Christmas Day is on 25th December this year isn’t it?
I was in the local Spar the other day. Waiting to pay for my stuff, I noticed a huge pile of seasonal Christmas Selection boxes, each with a fat jolly smiling Santa on, standing on a snowy roof with Rudolf and all the rest of his faithful crew. Think of all those kids on Christmas morning, stuffing their faces with this choccy bounty.

Right next to Santa’s chubby beaming smile was a nice, bold, clear message printed in a regulation EC approved typeface. - ‘Best before 10th December, 2005’…….

Ross Kemp – a big girly…
For tough guy Ross Kemp, recently beaten up by his feisty flame-haired, Sun Editor wife, I have a suggestion.
Ross, if you’re suffering from battered hubby syndrome, call me in total confidence – (sort of). I can offer a shoulder to cry on, a look that I really do give a damn on my face and present a convincing argument that you can still play a hard man in Eastenders and an SAS killer on the telly, even though you’re the world’s biggest wuss.

A bit of sad news….
Near where I live, there was a big guy who used to manage the local petrol station. He had a completely shaven head and the most startling collection of tattoos I’ve ever seen. They were all over his face, like a mask, from the front of his ears all the way round the top of his head and down to his throat. His nose had tattoos all over it – and his eyes poked out from a lavish pattern of paisley swirls all over his cheeks and forehead. Even his filtrum was tattooed.

In spite of his scary appearance, he was a really nice guy – a real character. I often passed the time of day with him after filling up with regulation BP unleaded.

Sad to read in the local paper that he was killed last Thursday in a motor cycle accident. He leaves a partner and five kids.

Werewolf meets Zombies and wins - again!

The other night on the 31st of October I had a visit from a couple of ghoulies….. or were they ghosties? Neither actually, they were both a total pain in the bum.

I was alone, working late at the office – and I heard these dysfunctional noises outside the window….. "Go on, you knock on the door, I did the last one". I saved them the trouble, leaping from the side room to reveal myself in all my glory through the full-length clear glass door.

Now when I want to be, I can be very scary. Eighteen stone big hairy person – a cross between Hagrid, Chewbacca, Rolf Harris and Fungus the Bogeyman can intimidate 15 year olds with latex masks on, no trouble. It’s no contest really…..

After all, I did it last year. When some 'trick or treaters' called, I said sorry, I didn’t want a ‘Watchtower’ journal as I was already a Jehovah’s Witness. Then I went into a Lordy, Lordy death and retribution act. From nowhere, I acquired a Southern States of America accent – and finally finished off my fire and brimstone rant with …."Eternal damnation will be yours unless you repent! Cast those demons aside from your infernal and vile bodies. Repent and embrace the Lord, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, Lordy, Lordy, Lordy!"......

They couldn’t get away fast enough…

Anyway, back to the present. As a result of my startling appearance, these two zombies, with donned zombie masks and zombie suits took a step back. 1 – nil to me I think. Time to press home my advantage. I opened the door. "Yes, whaddya want?"

"Trick or treat Mister?"

"Trick or treat eh....... OK, give us a Carol then"

"What?"

"A Carol, gizz a Carol…. Something like, ooooh, er, tra la lar.Let me think… - ‘Hark the Herald Angels Si – ing’ will do, give us a rendition of that then"

"It’s trick or treat Mister. You know, a terrick, or a terreat"

"Great, I do not require a terrick, thanks very much, but I’d love a terreat. And the terreat I would like is for you to sing me a Carol. I’ll help if you like, altogether now, after three, 1 – 2 – 3, Hark the Herald angels siiiiii – iiiiing. Galllorrrrie to the new born Kinga..……."

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they retreated, back into the inky blackness and disappeared….. One of them whispered…" He’s a right Nutter"

I couldn’t possibly comment.

The House of Lords needs me!

I sent off for this stuff ages ago. Older readers of the Alfred the OK archive may remember my musings on receiving these bits and bobs through the post well over a year ago now. When it came, I was all of a dither - so excited at the possibility, no matter how infinitesimally microid of me, a slob from the wrong side of the tracks actually joining the ‘has’ and the ‘beens’ of the British establishment. When it came, I vowed to give a whole week-end to filling it in – but being very busy at the time, I put it in a really safe place. So safe was that really safe place, I totally forgot exactly where that really safe place was…..

And then, the other day, whilst clearing out an old box of stuff, cunningly marked ‘really safe place’, I found it - along with my Dennis the Menace membership card and my 1972 Pan’s People Annual. Hmmmmmm, Cheryl and Babs...…… Anyway, back to the present.

What is it? The thing I’ve just found? It’s an application form to become a member of the House of Lords - obviously. I reckoned the Lords could do with a chippy, gobby English nationalist in their ranks to shake the detritus from their ermine robes and the complacency from their fallen arches. And anyway, my current pension is crap and I fancy giving the hairdryer treatment to Fatty Falconer and that windbag Lord Kinnock of Gingerness…. And with a bit of extra luck, Fatty Fat Boy Prescott might be getting kicked upstairs shortly – so I can get up close and personal to him…..

I’ve also decided on a couple of names, should I be successful in my application to join the august body. It sort of sums up my reason for wanting to join in the first place – to get under the skin of the Establishment, to be the biggest pain in the arse I can be…..
Lord Scabies of Irritania or Lord Piles of Sandpaper, seem to be appropriate.

Anyway, this time I will most certainly fill this form in – and await the guaranteed rejection letter. It’ll look nice, framed on the lounge wall next to my rejection letters to join the Women’s Institute, Mensa and The Tufty Club…

I can almost smell the rejection – it’ll go something like this…

Dear Mr OK,
Further to your application to join the noble House of Lords, I regret to inform you that this year’s quota of chippy, rotund gobby pains in the arses has been filled. We are holding one place open however, as we are expecting Lord Prescott of Turrets Syndromia to take his seat in the very near future..

We have put you on the chippy, rotund waiting list, behind Bernard Manning, Ricky Tomlinson and the late Les Dawson.

We thank you for your interest, but suggest you try joining an organisation more suited to your talents. Have you tried The Tufty Club?

Boys from the black stuff....

We've had a lot of road works being done around our way lately. All in all, the work will take 6 months to do - and we're only 2 months into it. Old tarmac taken up, new stuff put down, traffic cone heaven, orange dayglo jacketed 'stop - go' men by the hundred. queuing traffic by the million and strange looking machinery everywhere......


Here's a picture of one. For the past few days, 'the tarmac men' have been parking their big toy outside our drive. We live on the A59 - one of the busiest roads in the country - so it's a bit tricky trying to get out in the morning. I reckon it looks a bit like a dinosaur - I've called it a right 'Paininthearseaurus'....

Our house is next to a school - so all the little kiddies have to be negotiated as well. Yesterday, I nipped back home to change into my mourning suit as I had a funeral to attend in Liverpool. I was only inside 10 minutes - but by that time, the tarmac wagon had just dumped a load of hot, wet tarmac right outside the drive. I couldn't get out. The men wouldn't let me drive over it for 30 minutes - "Til it had gone off a bit" ...... Thankfully, as it was a catholic funeral service, being half an hour late didn't seem to matter, it went on and on and on and on......

Why are some people such utter bastards?

If I ever come across the morons that go shark fishing using live cats and dogs as bait, I'm afraid murder will be the only possible solution…..

Full story here – be warned it’s very upsetting.

Do us a favour, sign the petition and send a letter to the French Government, telling them to stamp this barbaric treatment out right now on their dependent territory of Reunion in the Indian Ocean.

LOST? – you’d better believe it, baby….

Does anyone know what the bloody hell is going on in ‘Lost’?

Channel 4’s monster American import - the over perplexed, over played and over here series of a load of self obsessed drama queens stranded on a desert island, is stretching Alfie’s grey matter to the limit. I reckon it’s a sort of Emperor’s new clothes deal – everyone I’ve talked to gives this theory, that synopsis, the other underlying subliminal message…. They’re already in hell, in limbo, in pergatory…… in the money. Definitely. I mean, have those guys never heard of ‘beginning, middle and end’?

It’s not helped of course by the fact that the action always seems to be shot at night. And the ‘brightness’ control on our telly is bust. It’s set at the very, very brightest it can go – a video of Acapulco beach looks like a rainy Monday in Salford on our telly. And a desert island on Channel 4 looks like a black hole in a coal hole.

And then there’s the characters, formulaic or what? Kate, the dead fit babe with dodgy past played by Evangeline Lilly. The handsome Doctor with ‘I tried my best to save him on the operating table but I made a mistake, and he died’ baggage. There’s a fat Mexican, a shallow bimbo and her brother and a bloke who was crippled, but has regained the use of his legs. The obligatory former Iraqi Ba’ath Party torture squad member and the guy from Manchester who played a hobbit in Lord of the Rings……

And that’s the problem. That’s where the fantasy reaches the place of non credibility…… suspension of belief has gone just a bit too far on ‘Lost’ for my liking……

Charlie, played by Dominic Monaghan from Manchester with the big ears – the guy that played one of the hobbits – the guy that didn’t need much, if any make up at all to play Merry Brandybuck from Hobbiton. That guy has tapped off with the dead, dead fit bird from the show – in real life!!!!!!!

Fairy tale, pure fairy tale…..

Dead fit bird and a hobbit.....

Join the Awkward Squad, you know it makes sense….

In these dark days of big brother, his porcine pal Fat-Johnny Prescott, and a whole phalanx of yes monkey acolytes –an Englishman’s castle is no longer the redoubt it once was.

To put it bluntly, our territorial freedoms are under siege like never before. It’s the Alamo, Troy and Mafeking all rolled into one for everyone living in this country. Prescott has powers that would shame a mega braided, South American Junta General - and he's using them, (badly, obviously).

If he wants your house to be flattened and made into a car park for his Jag collection, tough.
If he decides a mobile phone mast is to be erected next to your kids school, you’ll just have to watch the little ‘uns glow with health. The bit of ancient woodland down the road – it’s stood proud for a thousand years and helped build the ships that defeated the Spanish Armada? Well, better enjoy it while you can because soon it’ll be built on - earmarked for low cost housing for ‘key’ workers.

What can be done to stop Prescott’s concrete juggernaut in it’s tracks? Short of blowing him up with a booby trapped cow pie, precious little it would seem….. but possibly not.

Time to get organised, mobile and bolshy…… and now there’s a little bit of help available in the shape of an interesting book. Not quite as earth shattering as Mao’s – but nevertheless, it could help knee Prezza right in the goolies, and that can only be a good thing.

Sir Antony Jay, co-writer of ‘Yes Minister’ and experienced Westminster lobby correspondent has written a book entitled ‘Not in My Backyard’. The title smacks of ‘nimbyism’ – but it’s much more than that. During the next 20 years, Prescott wants to build up to 4 million houses in England - in the name of so-called sustainable development. (Even though there are currently up to a million unoccupied houses in the South of England, alone). His new build programme is not sustainable and it's not thought out properly. He wants to plonk a million houses in the South East - an area of the country with chronic water and energy shortages; meanwhile, Scotland’s population is haemorrhaging as the relentless 'South East drift' continues.

His discredited 'Pathfinder' programme in the North of England is trying to knock down nearly half a million perfectly good, perfectly sound Victorian and Edwardian houses (including my Mum's old house) - and replace them with crap. These houses are not slums - Prescott is currently paying up to £200,000 per house - in order to demolish them. Hardly a price you'd pay for a condemned building. That man will ruin our country - and he has to be stopped. The book hones the prospects of protesters, evens up the playing field (well, the ones that haven’t yet been built on) and gives some much-needed ammunition to Mr and Mrs Joe Public. It could be the best £7.99 you ever spend….

Hold the front page......

I was having a discussion with a colleague yesterday, we got round to talking about something close to my heart……
And that is witty, sometimes corny headlines from newspapers…

I have to admit, I couldn’t beat his recollected efforts – the two best were –

In the ‘70’s the Rolling Stones were doing a tax haven thing and relocating to the south of France. Understandably, the locals weren’t too chuffed – they started a campaign and got a bit of a petition going to stop the legendary hell raisers from living in their midst.

The headline in the newspaper –
‘Rolling Stones Gather Mass Noes’

Better than that though, was the story about books being nicked from an Essex town’s central library. The story was headed thus –
'Book Lack in Ongar'

Brilliant, just brilliant.

Ronnie Barker – superstar.

What can I say that hasn’t already been said? Ronnie was a genius, but apart from the usual ‘Porridge’ and ‘Two Ronnies’ Shows, I remember him, years ago on the telly playing ‘Bottom’ in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ – and he was brilliant.

He was also in one of my favourite '60's films – The Bargee", an English film about life on the canals. Ever get the chance – try and see it.

King Conker and the death of a 142er….



When I was a boy, (many, many years ago) this time of year promised a feverish scramble for the fruits of Autumn. Our quarry of course was the conker, seed of the noble horse chestnut tree – and the competition was fierce, very, very fierce. Kids would chuck sticks up to the higher branches in order to get them – because you could be sure that any windfalls will have been snapped up as they dropped. The thrill of actually finding a big one (known as a big’un) or a legendary cheesy shaped one, known as a ‘cheesy’ was like scoring a goal at the Cup Final.

The best ones to find though were the conkers still in their protective prickly green jackets. As the outer skin dried, slowly, sexily, the green jacket would split, widen and the mahogany-coloured jewel within would show us a little sliver of forbidden fruit. That was the signal to peel back the skin and reveal a jewel within. Grainy, and shiny with the most amazing patina and colouring, a real mahogany nugget revealed. There’s just something so special about a freshly opened conker – but then the shininess fades and thoughts turned to preparing it for combat.

Cue secret recipe book, secret ingredients such as Vinegar, nail varnish, creosote, ingredient X and cookery techniques on gas mark 11.

Playing conkers in the playground was a real event. Crowds gathered, bets placed, chants, err ‘chanted’. Each conker smashed amassed even greater bravura to the victor, and lives taken from the defeated and smashed conker were added to the victorious hardened nugget. It seems to be a bit of a non event now – with the result that the Euro conker mountain grows every year. What are the kids doing nowadays? Probably playing Conker-Dong on their Play Stations…..

As with any sport, there were lots of cheats about at our school. ‘Knight’, the school creep and all round twat, (nickname ‘Shitety-Knighty') was rumbled. His conker had lead shot from a fishing tackle shop packed within and the holes covered with Polyfilla.

As usual with Shitey, he overdid the cheating. He packed too much shot and during a few gusto practice swings, he lost his grip on the string. The doctored conker flew into a fairly unforgiving brick bog wall and smashed into a flux of conker flesh and lead shot….

We beat him up. Well, any excuse would do, coz we really hated Shitey.

There was one, legendary conker match though. It had been brewing up all season. Mind games, insults, tactics, bad mouthing from the two protagonists. It had been building up for days, John Skyner and Paul Burnett had the two best conkers in the school. Skyner’s was a 210er and Burnett’s was a 142er.

The two super conkers were really bashed up. Skyner’s had lost some of the outer shell – but Burnett’s had no shell on at all – just a rock-hard shrunken, shrivelled centre. It looked like a scale model of Einstein’s brain after a night on the heavy. The two super conkers had mopped up all the opposition, it was inevitable they would meet for the ultimate conk-off. ‘Super-Conker-Armageddon’ was on!

Afternoon break arrived and the whole school was ready, slavering, baying for sap. An invisible square had been marked out. The arena was ready, beyond was a writhing mass of blazered acned youth. And then they arrived, the two all conkering heroes with their all conkering conkers. Burnett and Skyner milked the applause, shook hands, sent over a few practice swings and tossed up for who was going first. Burnett won. They squared up and prepared to swap blows.

Burnett took aim, swung and missed. Disaster! Skyner would make him pay for sure. He got to work. The aim was true, relentless, sadistic. Burnett looked worried. String strained, conkers twanged, blurred brown arcs of smacked conker against the Autumn sky….. and then, the sound. The hollow, off-key sound of a cracked bell, a cracked glass, a mortally smacked conker.

We knew it was all over. Burnett knew, so did Skyner. He moved in to deliver the ‘conk de grace’ The crowd – by now silenced to a respectful hush exploded as did Burnett’s conker into rapturous applause and a zillion bits of tree pulp…

Skyner’s conker had just gone platinum. Bunett’s had gone into the Stratosphere. It was one of those Kennedy moments. Everyone knew where they were when Burnett’s conker was atomised......

Brock hard….

Last night I saw something I’ve never seen before. And it was bloody great. I’d gone for a bit of a drive – something I do now and again to clear my head, get away from the kids - and listen to a bit of Zepp….. very, very loudly.

I turned down a country lane – and there, curled up lying in the middle of the road was a young badger. It had obviously been hit by a car. It looked dead.

For some reason, I decided to stop the car right in front of it. That way, I could protect it from further harm it if it was, by a miracle still alive. All of a sudden, the badger twitched, jumped up and strolled across the road to safety. Tough or what? It looked fine – a bit wobbly, a bit shaky, but basically he looked OK. He sat down in the verge, checked himself over and ambled into the undergrowth.

I’ve never seen a live badger before, just road-kills. This guy was just immaculate, black and white stripes, grey flanks and a big black snout. What was really amazing though – this badger was only 800 yards from our house - which is on the A59, one of the busiest roads in the country.