It was in 1951, the year of the Festival of Britain, that the telephone box arrived, bringing a touch of modernity - and an incongruous splash of red - to Whimsey. The locals, barely out of the dark ages, were unimpressed when a phonebox appeared on the village green. They regarded anything new with suspicion - as they still do today - and were quick to voice their grievances. A local historian and pedant called the new phonebox an “unnecessary excrescence”. The vicar of St Breville’s denounced it as “ungodly”, voicing his suspicion that it could undermine the power of prayer.
It’s hard to stop progress and, predictably, the objections came to naught. Over the next few years the phonebox went from ‘indefensible’ to ‘indispensible’, even for those little-travelled locals who could communicate with all their friends and family merely by walking around the village and knocking on a few doors. For example, when an unattended chip pan burst into flames, a sharp-eyed neighbour dashed to the phonebox, called the fire brigade and averted a potential tragedy. On another occasion, Hayden’s father heard the phone ring in the phonebox and, on a whim, answered it. So beguiled was he by the female voice at the other end of the line that he asked her out on a date. Unfortunately, she was phoning from Dundee.
Telephones soon appeared in our homes too, with the handset taking pride of place on a ‘telephone table’ in the hall. But the phonebox on the village green offered something that most of us couldn’t get at home: privacy. There are some conversations we didn’t want to be overheard. Lovers poured out their hearts over the phone until they’d emptied their pockets of their last copper coins. Extra-marital affairs were organised, in conspiratorial whispers, and tearfully ended. Salacious gossip was spread, along with the implausible instruction to “keep this to yourself”. By the time of the Summer of Love, and the Winter of Discontent, the phonebox had embedded itself into the fabric of village life. How, we wondered, had we ever managed without it?
Then mobile phones arrived, and in the time it took Tony Blair to fail to find any ‘weapons of mass distruction’, our phonebox went from valuable lifeline to anachronistic relic. The red paint started to peel, and no one came to repaint it. When the coin box was emptied every month, there wasn’t enough money inside to buy a telephone engineer a pint of Old Profanity in the Farrier’s Arms. Two years ago a notice appeared, announcing that, unless there were any valid objections, BT would shut down the phonebox and take it away. Our local councillors were in two minds about what to do with it. We could let BT remove it. Or slap a preservation order on it. Or just bow to the inevitable: plumb it into the main drain, and mount an illuminated sign - Gents Urinal - on the top.
Sunday, June 28, 2020
Friday, June 26, 2020
23 On display
This is the time of year when locals, like peacocks, put on a display and make a joyful noise. The village is a catwalk for girls in diaphanous dresses: girls for whom earth-motherhood is still years - and half a dozen dress sizes - away. Guys drive around in off-road vehicles with raised suspensions and big knobbly tyres. Where do they park? Anywhere they damn well like. Maybe on top of your poxy four-door family saloon if they feel like it. They crank up the bass on their new in-car stereo system to hear what it sounds like. As anyone living within five miles of Whimsey is painfully aware, it sounds like a man armed with a leg of lamb trying to break out of an IKEA wardrobe.
For a few hours the village green is transformed into an impromptu display of classic motor-bikes. And, a few yards away, lounging on the benches outside the Farrier’s Arms, is an impromptu display of classic motor-bikers. Yes, lock up your daughters, the Hell’s Angels are here. These guys may try to look fierce, but they’re not looking for a fight any more. It’s too risky; some of their blood groups have been discontinued. Instead of laying waste to Whimsey, these grizzled old greybeards are happy just to avoid getting stuck in a low chair.
Clad in leather, their helmets shining in the afternoon sunshine, they look like black beetles. They loll around, squinting into the sun, and talk about... well, bikes mostly. Good British bikes that sound like an artillery barrage, and drip oil all over the road. None of your Japanese rubbish. To hear some of the locals talk - in hushed whispers - you’d think we’d been invaded by aliens. Respectable parents shield their childrens' eyes as they walk past - which only serves to give the bikers an unwarranted air of mystery and menace. Their reputation goes before them, but they’re not as young as they were. There’s no pressing need to lock up your daughters; maybe just keep granny indoors.
For a few hours the village green is transformed into an impromptu display of classic motor-bikes. And, a few yards away, lounging on the benches outside the Farrier’s Arms, is an impromptu display of classic motor-bikers. Yes, lock up your daughters, the Hell’s Angels are here. These guys may try to look fierce, but they’re not looking for a fight any more. It’s too risky; some of their blood groups have been discontinued. Instead of laying waste to Whimsey, these grizzled old greybeards are happy just to avoid getting stuck in a low chair.
Clad in leather, their helmets shining in the afternoon sunshine, they look like black beetles. They loll around, squinting into the sun, and talk about... well, bikes mostly. Good British bikes that sound like an artillery barrage, and drip oil all over the road. None of your Japanese rubbish. To hear some of the locals talk - in hushed whispers - you’d think we’d been invaded by aliens. Respectable parents shield their childrens' eyes as they walk past - which only serves to give the bikers an unwarranted air of mystery and menace. Their reputation goes before them, but they’re not as young as they were. There’s no pressing need to lock up your daughters; maybe just keep granny indoors.
Monday, June 22, 2020
22 The height of summer
It’s the height of summer: hotter than an arsonists' convention. Dogs, especially the long-haired breeds, go a little crazy in the sun. They crawl into spaces that are far too small for them, in a vain attempt to escape the heat. They dig holes in flower beds, and roll in dirt, then collapse with the effort into a panting heap. Cats saunter by, in a carefree manner, aware that the dogs of Whimsey have put all cat-chasing activities on hold for the duration of this heatwave.
The ice-cream man stops his van outside the pub, and activates the chime: it's Greensleeves, blasted out at migraine-inducing volume. Bob the postman has persuaded his kids that the ice-cream man only plays his chime when he’s run out of ice cream. Though it’s saving him money now - money he can spend on beer instead - the deception won’t last for ever. The ice-cream man is doing good business, unlike the fish & chip shop in town. Most of the year the shop does a roaring trade, but no one wants fish & chips on a day like this. That smell isn’t appetising, it’s rancid. Suddenly, working in the chip shop looks like the worst job in the world, like doing a shift down in Dante’s inferno. The woman in the shop is suffering - her hair lacquered to her forehead, skin glazed by the searing heat. Beads of sweat drip into the hot fat. You make a mental note to eat elsewhere. A sandwich will do. Or just a drink. It’s too hot to eat.
Torper is infectious on a scorching day like this. It looks like a lot of Whimsey folk have decided to postpone their chores until the sun has gone down. In the beer garden of the Farrier’s Arms, they loll beneath the beach umbrellas, nursing a pint or two through a sultry afternoon of indolence and forgetfullness. Every few minutes there’s a scream from the car park, as another motorist is reminded what happens when his car has been standing in the sun all day, and he gets in wearing just a pair of shorts. Bare flesh and hot leatherette are welded inextricably together: it makes your eyes water just thinking about it.
The ice-cream man stops his van outside the pub, and activates the chime: it's Greensleeves, blasted out at migraine-inducing volume. Bob the postman has persuaded his kids that the ice-cream man only plays his chime when he’s run out of ice cream. Though it’s saving him money now - money he can spend on beer instead - the deception won’t last for ever. The ice-cream man is doing good business, unlike the fish & chip shop in town. Most of the year the shop does a roaring trade, but no one wants fish & chips on a day like this. That smell isn’t appetising, it’s rancid. Suddenly, working in the chip shop looks like the worst job in the world, like doing a shift down in Dante’s inferno. The woman in the shop is suffering - her hair lacquered to her forehead, skin glazed by the searing heat. Beads of sweat drip into the hot fat. You make a mental note to eat elsewhere. A sandwich will do. Or just a drink. It’s too hot to eat.
Torper is infectious on a scorching day like this. It looks like a lot of Whimsey folk have decided to postpone their chores until the sun has gone down. In the beer garden of the Farrier’s Arms, they loll beneath the beach umbrellas, nursing a pint or two through a sultry afternoon of indolence and forgetfullness. Every few minutes there’s a scream from the car park, as another motorist is reminded what happens when his car has been standing in the sun all day, and he gets in wearing just a pair of shorts. Bare flesh and hot leatherette are welded inextricably together: it makes your eyes water just thinking about it.
Sunday, June 21, 2020
21 Sunday at St Breville's
If there’s another church in East Yorkshire dedicated to St Breville, the patron saint of toasted snacks, then we haven’t heard about it. Steve, our vicar, is a fine and decent man, always ready to offer a helping hand or a willing ear. His moral probity is beyond question - earning him the nickname, around Whimsey, of ‘Stainless’ Steve. He’s a model of modesty too: genuinely surprised that his parishioners want to have anything to do with him. He tries to see the best in everyone, a policy that’s so far had mixed results. "Being a Satanist doesn't automatically make you a bad person", he confides to the churchwarden, as he prises out the nail that somebody’s driven straight through a sheep’s heart and into the oak door of his church. "Actually”, the churchwarden replies, “I think you'll find that it does".
Steve bites his lip in vexation. He’s finding life in the 21st century unnecessarily complex; whenever he feels he’s got the hang of it, the rules seem to change. The Church lurches erratically between laughable anachronisms and unseemly haste in jumping on the latest barmy bandwagon. Where the Church used to provide unequivocal moral guidance (“Repent… or face the fires of hell”) it now offers the merest slap on the wrist to those who transgress. When we swore an oath in court, we used to place a respectful hand on the Bible. But now, according to a new directive from Canterbury, it seems that an Argos catalogue will do. The Bible itself isn’t seen as infallible any more. Instead of taking every word as gospel truth, we treat the Good Book like an a la carte menu - picking out the tasty bits we like, while leaving the tough, indigestible chunks on the side of the plate. After all, the world has moved on a bit since Jesus beguiled and perplexed his followers with parables. The Bible still offers the last word on big issues such as love, honesty and redemption. But God has been inconclusively silent about many of the issues which engage us today, such as the efficacy of the latest diet regime and the outrageous price of replica football strips.
The Church used to take a lead; now, loathe to upset anyone, it meekly follows. Acknowledging ‘the sanctity of indiscriminate shagging’, for example, isn't giving the youngsters much guidance. People have to make their own decisions today about what’s right and what’s wrong. “It’s not like the commandments were written on tablets of stone”, says Steve. “Actually”, says his churchwarden, “I think you’ll find that they were”.
Steve bites his lip in vexation. He’s finding life in the 21st century unnecessarily complex; whenever he feels he’s got the hang of it, the rules seem to change. The Church lurches erratically between laughable anachronisms and unseemly haste in jumping on the latest barmy bandwagon. Where the Church used to provide unequivocal moral guidance (“Repent… or face the fires of hell”) it now offers the merest slap on the wrist to those who transgress. When we swore an oath in court, we used to place a respectful hand on the Bible. But now, according to a new directive from Canterbury, it seems that an Argos catalogue will do. The Bible itself isn’t seen as infallible any more. Instead of taking every word as gospel truth, we treat the Good Book like an a la carte menu - picking out the tasty bits we like, while leaving the tough, indigestible chunks on the side of the plate. After all, the world has moved on a bit since Jesus beguiled and perplexed his followers with parables. The Bible still offers the last word on big issues such as love, honesty and redemption. But God has been inconclusively silent about many of the issues which engage us today, such as the efficacy of the latest diet regime and the outrageous price of replica football strips.
The Church used to take a lead; now, loathe to upset anyone, it meekly follows. Acknowledging ‘the sanctity of indiscriminate shagging’, for example, isn't giving the youngsters much guidance. People have to make their own decisions today about what’s right and what’s wrong. “It’s not like the commandments were written on tablets of stone”, says Steve. “Actually”, says his churchwarden, “I think you’ll find that they were”.
Thursday, June 11, 2020
20 A white-knuckle ride
Life is a gamble: a white-knuckle ride from the cradle to the grave. We’re just not very good at reckoning the odds. We’ll happily spend a quid or two on the lottery, even though the odds of winning the jackpot are a distant 14,000,000 to one. “It could be us”, we tell ourselves. Yet when we hear similar odds against a cataclysmic meltdown at Drax power station, we think “impossible!”.
Even in a well-ordered community like Whimsey, danger stalks the unwary. As Old Ted knows only too well, you can be perched on a bar stool one minute, exchanging pleasantries with Brian, the landlord of the Farrier’s Arms, and a moment later you can be choking on a honey roasted peanut that went down the wrong way. An immovable object lodged in the windpipe isn’t something you can write to an agony aunt about. It concentrates the mind, wonderfully, like having a pistol at your head. Time is of the essence. Yes, if Dr Fallowfield and his wife hadn’t been enjoying an all-you-can-eat Sunday carvery in the other room, Old Ted might have become just one more statistic in the annals of snack-related injuries.
If you’d asked Ted about the Heimlich Manoeuvre up to that point, he’d have guessed it was a World War II stratagem aimed at opening up the Russian front. But, red-faced, bug-eyed and gesticulating wildly, he was in no position to argue as the doctor, moving remarkably quickly for a big man, sized up the situation. Dr Fallowfield approached Ted from behind and took him in a huge bear hug; it looked like he was lifting a sack of potatoes. With no time for social niceties, the doctor drove his clenched fists into Ted’s solar plexus, with irresistable force. The peanut was expelled with such velocity that it ricocheted off two walls and a lampshade, before embedding itself harmlessly in a bowl of guacamole. Old Ted was so grateful that he allowed the doctor to buy him a drink.
Even in a well-ordered community like Whimsey, danger stalks the unwary. As Old Ted knows only too well, you can be perched on a bar stool one minute, exchanging pleasantries with Brian, the landlord of the Farrier’s Arms, and a moment later you can be choking on a honey roasted peanut that went down the wrong way. An immovable object lodged in the windpipe isn’t something you can write to an agony aunt about. It concentrates the mind, wonderfully, like having a pistol at your head. Time is of the essence. Yes, if Dr Fallowfield and his wife hadn’t been enjoying an all-you-can-eat Sunday carvery in the other room, Old Ted might have become just one more statistic in the annals of snack-related injuries.
If you’d asked Ted about the Heimlich Manoeuvre up to that point, he’d have guessed it was a World War II stratagem aimed at opening up the Russian front. But, red-faced, bug-eyed and gesticulating wildly, he was in no position to argue as the doctor, moving remarkably quickly for a big man, sized up the situation. Dr Fallowfield approached Ted from behind and took him in a huge bear hug; it looked like he was lifting a sack of potatoes. With no time for social niceties, the doctor drove his clenched fists into Ted’s solar plexus, with irresistable force. The peanut was expelled with such velocity that it ricocheted off two walls and a lampshade, before embedding itself harmlessly in a bowl of guacamole. Old Ted was so grateful that he allowed the doctor to buy him a drink.
Saturday, June 6, 2020
19 The good old days
You remember the good old days? Of course you do! Being an essentially meaningless concept, they can be any time in the past: Ancient Greece, the Renaissance, the summer of love, a week last Wednesday. It really doesn't matter. It was a beguiling time, whenever it was. Beer was fourpence a pint, kids had respect for their elders and unicorns roamed the earth. Music was tuneful, not just a noise. Art was a picture you could hang on the wall, rather than a shark in a tank of formaldehyde. We were happy to leave our front doors unlocked (which ensured that it was a golden age for burglars too).
There comes a time in life when the world seems to be spinning too quickly on its axis, when the desire to learn new things diminishes - along with our eyesight and libido. And, once we stop learning, it’s tempting to take refuge in the past. We bore anyone foolish enough to listen with a mantra of memories: farthings, florins, farenheit and fuzzy felt. Antirhinums, antimacassars and avoidupois. Dubbin and dolly blue. Green Shield Stamps, twin-tubs, tiger nuts, singing cowboys, coltsfoot rock, barley sugar twists, temperance hotels, sarsaparilla and sweet cigarettes (what a great idea they were, introducing kids to two lifelong addictions - sugar and tobacco - for the price of one!).
Childhood memories develop a golden bloom. We were young, idealistic and still had most of our marbles intact. Unlike now when, if it’s quiet, we can actually hear those brain cells popping; it sounds like idle fingers bursting bubble wrap. We had no trouble getting up out of a low chair. We had hair and teeth and prospects, not just a wispy comb-over. Our welfare was someone else’s responsibility back then. All we had to do was enjoy ourselves; no wonder we were happy!
But there wasn’t really a ‘golden age’, and the ‘good old days’ remain an alluring fantasy, because we wear that most ubiquitous of fashion accessories: rose-tinted glasses. Yes, that’s the trouble with taking a stroll down memory lane. The past is fine for the occasional visit, but it’s all too easy to get lost there. Maybe we should stick to the here and now. ‘Here’ being a small village on a cul de sac in the flatlands of East Yorkshire, and ‘now’ being a sunny day in June.
There comes a time in life when the world seems to be spinning too quickly on its axis, when the desire to learn new things diminishes - along with our eyesight and libido. And, once we stop learning, it’s tempting to take refuge in the past. We bore anyone foolish enough to listen with a mantra of memories: farthings, florins, farenheit and fuzzy felt. Antirhinums, antimacassars and avoidupois. Dubbin and dolly blue. Green Shield Stamps, twin-tubs, tiger nuts, singing cowboys, coltsfoot rock, barley sugar twists, temperance hotels, sarsaparilla and sweet cigarettes (what a great idea they were, introducing kids to two lifelong addictions - sugar and tobacco - for the price of one!).
Childhood memories develop a golden bloom. We were young, idealistic and still had most of our marbles intact. Unlike now when, if it’s quiet, we can actually hear those brain cells popping; it sounds like idle fingers bursting bubble wrap. We had no trouble getting up out of a low chair. We had hair and teeth and prospects, not just a wispy comb-over. Our welfare was someone else’s responsibility back then. All we had to do was enjoy ourselves; no wonder we were happy!
But there wasn’t really a ‘golden age’, and the ‘good old days’ remain an alluring fantasy, because we wear that most ubiquitous of fashion accessories: rose-tinted glasses. Yes, that’s the trouble with taking a stroll down memory lane. The past is fine for the occasional visit, but it’s all too easy to get lost there. Maybe we should stick to the here and now. ‘Here’ being a small village on a cul de sac in the flatlands of East Yorkshire, and ‘now’ being a sunny day in June.
Thursday, June 4, 2020
18 The satnav lady
Most of the people who find their way to Whimsey are lost. Having wound the window down, and asked a local for directions, they get a long list of left and right turns (of which they’ll remember just the first two) and the names of half a dozen pubs. The directions always end the same way, with a smile and “you can’t miss it”. Well, yes, they can miss it; they’re lost.
A few minutes later they’re asking someone else, and then someone else after that: a procedure complicated by a few other factors. The person they ask may know the way, but is wilfully misdirecting them (we’ve all done it, haven’t we?). The person they ask may be lost too, but doesn’t want to admit it. The person they ask may be a helpful soul, who would rather offer misleading directions than no directions at all.
We carry with us a mental map which, over the centuries, has helped us to find our way across unfamiliar terrain. However, all it takes is a complex motorway junction, or a convoluted one-way system, to wipe our mental map clean of useful information. Having lost our bearings, we have to rely on signs and instructions.
Everyone seems to have a satnav these days. Instead of cultivating our innate sense of direction, we’re delegating the route-finding responsibilities to a small computer screen perched on the dashboard. Once we’ve tapped a postcode into it, a lady’s voice, serene and measured, offers simple, unambiguous, turn-by-turn directions well in advance of every manoeuvre. We arrive at our destination ahead of time: cool, calm and collected. For the return journey we simply enter our own postcode and follow the instructions. The technology is amazing. What can possibly go wrong?
Problems arise when drivers develop a blind, unquestioning faith in their onboard gadgets (never a good idea with inanimate objects), and leave their dog-eared maps at home. Though rich in data, the satnav is notoriously short on common sense. Lorry drivers drive down narrow country lanes, quite unsuitable for HGVs, for no better reason that their satnav told them to. Terrified motorists find themselves teetering on clifftops and river-banks, or stranded in a ford that the satnav lady neglected to say was a bit too deep, after heavy rain. One man is reported to have driven along railways tracks, having followed satnav instructions rather too literally as he was negotiating a level crossing. Add your own choice of (possibly apocryphal) satnav horror stories here...
Yes, the gadget that works so well in the leafy suburbs may be a liability in the flatlands. A-roads turn into B-roads, soon degenerating, without warning, into narrow, single-track lanes, with grass growing down the middle, which come to a dead end at a farmyard full of clapped out tractors and savage dogs, chained up and howling at the moon.
With her fallibility so cruelly exposed, the satnav lady can become defensive - the voice no longer reassuring but now tinged with mockery and sarcasm. Once drivers start bickering with a disembodied voice emanating from the dashboard, they’ve lost the plot. When this temperamental technology lets them down, they’re not merely lost... they’re completely lost, geographically and psychologically, to an extent they couldn’t have imagined before their capricious computers started telling them where to go.
Viewed through the windscreen of a four-door family saloon, the landscape that once looked inviting now seems oppresive and unwelcoming. What a relief it is, after driving around East Yorkshire for hours, to see a comprehensible road sign: the M62, the motorway services (Kanye West at junction 36) and home.
A few minutes later they’re asking someone else, and then someone else after that: a procedure complicated by a few other factors. The person they ask may know the way, but is wilfully misdirecting them (we’ve all done it, haven’t we?). The person they ask may be lost too, but doesn’t want to admit it. The person they ask may be a helpful soul, who would rather offer misleading directions than no directions at all.
We carry with us a mental map which, over the centuries, has helped us to find our way across unfamiliar terrain. However, all it takes is a complex motorway junction, or a convoluted one-way system, to wipe our mental map clean of useful information. Having lost our bearings, we have to rely on signs and instructions.
Everyone seems to have a satnav these days. Instead of cultivating our innate sense of direction, we’re delegating the route-finding responsibilities to a small computer screen perched on the dashboard. Once we’ve tapped a postcode into it, a lady’s voice, serene and measured, offers simple, unambiguous, turn-by-turn directions well in advance of every manoeuvre. We arrive at our destination ahead of time: cool, calm and collected. For the return journey we simply enter our own postcode and follow the instructions. The technology is amazing. What can possibly go wrong?
Problems arise when drivers develop a blind, unquestioning faith in their onboard gadgets (never a good idea with inanimate objects), and leave their dog-eared maps at home. Though rich in data, the satnav is notoriously short on common sense. Lorry drivers drive down narrow country lanes, quite unsuitable for HGVs, for no better reason that their satnav told them to. Terrified motorists find themselves teetering on clifftops and river-banks, or stranded in a ford that the satnav lady neglected to say was a bit too deep, after heavy rain. One man is reported to have driven along railways tracks, having followed satnav instructions rather too literally as he was negotiating a level crossing. Add your own choice of (possibly apocryphal) satnav horror stories here...
Yes, the gadget that works so well in the leafy suburbs may be a liability in the flatlands. A-roads turn into B-roads, soon degenerating, without warning, into narrow, single-track lanes, with grass growing down the middle, which come to a dead end at a farmyard full of clapped out tractors and savage dogs, chained up and howling at the moon.
With her fallibility so cruelly exposed, the satnav lady can become defensive - the voice no longer reassuring but now tinged with mockery and sarcasm. Once drivers start bickering with a disembodied voice emanating from the dashboard, they’ve lost the plot. When this temperamental technology lets them down, they’re not merely lost... they’re completely lost, geographically and psychologically, to an extent they couldn’t have imagined before their capricious computers started telling them where to go.
Viewed through the windscreen of a four-door family saloon, the landscape that once looked inviting now seems oppresive and unwelcoming. What a relief it is, after driving around East Yorkshire for hours, to see a comprehensible road sign: the M62, the motorway services (Kanye West at junction 36) and home.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)