| The Warky Report: Shrewsbury (A) 13:05 - Aug 21 with 1096 views | Warkystache |
I have fond memories of Shrewsbury. It was the familial stopping point on our way to the cottage in Llanberis for two weeks of welsh holidays in the rain, the glistening slates, the hordes of men who looked just like Jones the Steam from Ivor the Engine buying their Mirrors and their twenty Lamberts from the little newsagent which still sold quarters of sweets direct from glass jars in the window.
The welsh holidays were a mainstay in my childhood. My dad bought the cottage in 1984, ostensibly as an 'All Boys' guesthouse for when he and a group of other male friends went walking for long weekends, returning with rucksacks full of dirty clothing, muddy boots and odd fragments of Kendal mint cake adhering to moleskin trousers. We had a tent, true, up to that point, and enjoyed the strange scent of warm rubber groundsheets mixed with Calor gas hissing cookers and tinned sausage and beans.
My mum hated camping. So my dad bought the cottage. Typical southerner in the eighties, earning too much and with a rheumy eye cast at 'The Good Life' and a hankering to get away from it all, or at least get drunk away from any spousal disapproval. We survived the infamous welsh cottage burnings prevalent of that decade. We were well off the beaten track. You had to walk three miles across treacherous slippy hills just to reach the town of Llanberis. I can't imagine fierily patriotic Welshmen could be arsed carrying cans of kerosene and lighted tapers all that way. We had our own sheep. They weren't actually ours, really, but they grazed on our land. I even named one. The boldest one. It became Eunice, after a teacher at my school whose gimlet eye and constant chewing on Juicy Fruit it resembled.
Shrewsbury was 'The Stop'. It's probably over-developed and tacky and betrothed by crap concrete malls and McDonalds now. In the eighties, it was nicer. We'd have three or four hours looking around the town, lost in second-hand bookshops where we chose our holiday reads, having tea in teashops that reminded me of Withnall and I (We demand a selection of your finest wines) and were run by game-legged ex-servicemen who wore cravats and put great store by table manners, proper dress and not slurping the tea from the saucer.
Thus refreshed, we reloaded into the Austin and drove on, through the slowly-spitting rain, into lush greenery and the first hint of ruggedness. I used to make a music cassette to play in the car before we left. I still have these. Whilst not a patch on the mixes Dub does on here, it had something to please everyone, and my mum especially as she sat in the front and controlled the cassette player. Hence I had to include The Everly Brothers and a bit of Fleetwood Mac. And Meat Loaf for my dad. And Bruce Springsteen, although not Dancin' in the Dark. And Phil Collins. And Supertramp.
The song 'The Way It Is' by Bruce Hornsby and the Range reminds me of the welsh holidays. It was included on the 1986 tape and it summed up the mood in the car, sort of melancholic romanticism as we drove down the Snowdon passes and marvelled at the peaks. Great holidays they were. Even though it did rain a lot and my Peter Storm cagoule was the most-worn item on the trip, they were fun days of walking, playing cards in rain darkened front rooms on wicker furniture, watching the raindrops chase down the windows, perhaps putting the radio on for the footy results at five' o'clock on a Saturday. Then we'd walk into Llanberis for fish and chips, or drive there if the rain was stair-rods. Queuing outside the chippy with strange people with strange accents who looked weather-beaten and still wore the grey and blue pastel-coloured clothing you associate with the aged in the late 70's. Served by a bloke who looked like the cafe owner in 'Last of the Summer Wine' and who'd wink and give you a goodly portion of scraps with your chips.
And I couldn't go yesterday. Too much to do at home. Paula worked all day, so I caught up with the housework and slowly recovered from the preceding Friday night out with Tel. Yes, despite last week's column throwing a bit of shade on the old relationship with the Dovercourt one, he's back, fighting fit after a few days in Braintree which he 'din't enjoy much rearly; the film was bleedin' crap and the dinner on the sat'dee night woz bloody plas-tick like, bleedin' eyetie rubbish".
We spent Friday night catching up over curry, wincingly hot vindaloo which we ate between deep breaths, tandoori chops and bowls of rice that resembled the Giza pyramids. Our local was gratifyingly half-full so tables were to be had even if you (like us) hadn't booked. The Kingfisher came from bottles, alas (they changed to some bastard creation called Angelo Poretti on tap, which the young Bangladeshi waiter assured us was 'like Peroni Sir', pronouncing Peroni in three distinct syllables). Tel was in his element; tales of not moving to Braintree as long as he drew breath, despite 'the missus wannin' to, she keeps on abart it as yer know' were legend. We ate, belched, had a slew of brandies and then went back down the local to have a few more and await Mrs Tel's arrival.
When she arrived, she looked as good as ever. Her hair's now the colour of burgundy satin, her black 'The Who' t-shirt with the target on the front was unblemished, her light greyish blue calfskin leather jacket with the sadomasichistic looking straps a joy to behold. By then, we were pissed. Tel leant back lobbing peanuts a la Ted Bovis into the air, catching one in ten in his mouth, the rest rattling like shot on the floor near his chair and ricocheting away never to be seen again. I sat and saw ghosts and read my glass like a crystal ball gazer, eyeing the drunken truths slowly emerging from the ethers. Then he told me a story about Tony as a kid and him catching Tony mid-shag on his parent's bed with a wide-eyed and nervous young girl and I laughed and he grinned and embellished it til it became only a quarter truth.
Mrs Tel gave me a perfunctory kiss and we walked to their car. Tel got in the passenger seat and fumbled at the CD player and on came Bruce Hornsby and the Range and I, stunned, briefly saw the narrow country lanes of Betws-Y-Coed again and my dad fumbling for his map, astonished that he could be lost. Of course, it didn't last. Those halcyon eighties days were cruelly displaced like smoke rings in the wind as he muttered about 'bleedin' woss this rubbish?' and the strains of 'Young Guns' by Wham replaced the memories and supplanted them with Tel singing along and writhing like James Brown in his seat.
Woke yesterday at 8 with a very sore head and guts which burbled and rumbled a la Vesuvius before it engulfed Pompei. Alone.Paula gone. her imprint in the bed a fading memory, her wet footprints from the shower now just confined to toes and heel. We used to make love before she went, back in the early days of our relationship. Now, we confine it to a Saturday night and Sunday morning. I'm not complaining mind, but it's a symptom of meeting back with Tel that we've had a ceasefire on Saturday mornings. I soothed my soul by saying she probably didn't want to wake me up. That reminded me of Wham again. Walk and a jacket badly required. Christ, Phil Collins.
The walk was fresh, the sun hinting at warmth later, the dog-walkers slouching behind their bouncing, sniffing pets. The fauna on the wing and the hoof and scurrying amongst the hedges. I nipped to Tesco on the way home and bought papers, milk and the smallest jar of Marmite known to retail and then stopped at our local bakery for a white crusty loaf. Back home, breakfasting alone on the patio furniture, wafting away the flies and the wasps, the marmite jar nearly empty as I plastered it on my toast, the teapot stewing the remnants as I poured another mug of rosy, everything seemed right, despite what the papers told me.
Did everything at home, the cleaning, the bed making, the washing, a bit of spare ironing, washed my car using a bucket and sponge, hoovered lounge and kitchen and hall, then struggled it up the stairs and did bedrooms, bathroom and shower room. We're still thinking of moving. We need to wait and see how Paula's job goes first. No more news sadly. We might not know until November at the earliest.
We're going shopping in a minute so I got the chance to settle down with a few celebratory lagers at 3pm, having forgotten the Spurs game earlier and watched the goals go in on Soccer Saturday. We went 1-0 up and then they forgot about us, switching between Palace, Everton and Leicester to drive the drama, keeping a good eye on Fulham and, when these were a bit slow, dropping to the Championship.
I went for a wee and suddenly it was 2-0 at Shrewsbury. It looked like it'd remain 2-0 until the death, when Jackson scored the third. I switched off, not interested in Arsenal at Bournemouth. Paula wanted Chinese takeaway so I looked for the menu for our local. She came in at 6pm. We kissed and cuddled. She admired my housework. I showed her the bedroom and she smoothed her hand over the new duvet cover and then began undressing to change out of her Morrisons skirt and blouse and jacket. I felt a familiar rising as she sat on the bed in her knickers and bra to take off her tights. I hovered over her and she looked up and smiled and said "ooh" like Frank Spencer, only laughingly and then submitted and we cuddled and she removed my chino's and my shirt and....well, it made up for the morning.
That's one more on a Saturday than Freddie Ladapo's managed so far anyway. Sometimes these things, like childhood memories, comfort you in your middle-agedness. |  |
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| The Warky Report: Shrewsbury (A) on 13:12 - Aug 21 with 1035 views | EdwardStone |
Beautifully written.....as always |  | | |
| The Warky Report: Shrewsbury (A) on 13:23 - Aug 21 with 1007 views | azuremerlangus |
| The Warky Report: Shrewsbury (A) on 13:12 - Aug 21 by EdwardStone |
Beautifully written.....as always |
Warky, your scented summary of camping is spot on - instantly took me back to my childhood and military training. |  |
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| The Warky Report: Shrewsbury (A) on 13:24 - Aug 21 with 1001 views | EdwardStone |
| The Warky Report: Shrewsbury (A) on 13:23 - Aug 21 by azuremerlangus |
Warky, your scented summary of camping is spot on - instantly took me back to my childhood and military training. |
You did Military Training in childhood??
Were you Infantry? | | | |
| The Warky Report: Shrewsbury (A) on 13:27 - Aug 21 with 993 views | earlsgreenblue |
Awesome read……. |  | | |
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