Re: Phil's Phings

Another Christmas 'nostalgedy' story, this one from my 'Crutches for Ducks' compilation

As I write this, I’m on what is alliteratively known as a ‘Turkey and Tinsel’ break. This was not intentional. We booked this weekend as a base for visiting some friends, only to find that Christmas had broken out all around us. Apparently, this type of break starts at the beginning of November and continues up to, and including, the real thing. This format can be a bit disconcerting. Friday, for instance, was designated as Christmas Eve, Saturday was Christmas Day and, in a fit of time compression that would delight British Industry, Sunday is New Year’s Eve. This rather conveniently disposes of the seasonal festivities in one fell swoop but I should think the staff will be about at screaming pitch come the festive season proper.

All of this made me think of Christmas Past, when things were nowhere near as well organised. An example of this was when we kept The New Talbot Hotel in Anglesey Road in the mid-1960s. We had been invited to Christmas Dinner at my aunt and uncle’s. Dad insisted on providing the turkey for this feast, which was something of a concern because Dad disliked doing anything in a conventional manner. If he bought anything, it was always through ‘someone who knows someone’ who could allegedly get it cheaper, bigger or faster, or all three. This sort of arrangement tended to lead to considerable uncertainty, which was not conducive to the peace of mind of my aunt and uncle, who were great ones for doing things properly. Thus the scene was set for potential disaster.

As the days before Christmas gradually diminished, my aunt made repeated requests to know what size of bird to expect, but was always fobbed off by Dad, who probably didn’t know the answer himself. Christmas Eve arrived and, as good as his word, Dad delivered a fresh turkey, albeit rather late in the day. However, in a fit of generosity, probably brought on by the fact that Christmas Eve was Dad’s birthday, which he did like to celebrate, he had bought something that resembled a young ostrich. My aunt had a relatively small kitchen and there really wasn’t enough room in there for her and this bird. The problem was compounded on Christmas Morning, when, having prepared this avian monster for the oven (a not inconsiderable feat) it became apparent that it would not fit into the oven. Only savage butchery reduced the beast to portions that could realistically be prised in. Even then, the sheer size of the fowl led to the generation of so much fat that the kitchen looked like the morning after a riot in a chip shop. The whole thing took much longer to cook than normal and the eventual result, despite my aunt’s acknowledged culinary skills, was not up to her high standards. She was left quivering on the edge of either murdering my Dad or having a nervous breakdown, whichever was the easier. Typically, Dad couldn’t see what all the fuss was about and was somewhat miffed not to be the hero of the hour.

Another occasion when things didn’t go particularly well was Christmas, 1973. This was my first Christmas with a girlfriend in evidence (I was something of a late starter). We were not spending Christmas Day together, so she had given me a present to open on the day. I was a bit wary of opening this at home as Mum didn’t exactly approve of my girlfriend. Come the day and, after diplomatically opening the presents from my parents and my sister, I eagerly set about unwrapping my girlfriend’s gift.

It was a jumper. It was a very colourful jumper. In fact, it looked how I imagine a migraine might feel. Better still, it was figure hugging. This would have been fine, had I possessed a figure worth hugging. Unfortunately, my physique over the years has transformed from painfully emaciated to borderline obese without ever passing through any of the more appealing stages in between. At this time, I was in the former category. To complete the effect, the sleeves were too short for my arms, leaving 6 inches or so of thin wrist and forearm fetchingly peeping out. Mum and my sister fell about laughing when I tried it on, leaving me cringing with embarrassment but absolutely adamant that I loved it.

On Boxing Day, sporting my new jumper under my favourite PVC imitation leather jacket (the 1970s were not a good time for fashion) I met my girlfriend. When I took my jacket off, she too fell about laughing. It wasn’t a long-lasting relationship.

Re: Phil's Phings

Thank for that great laugh Phil.

Re: Phil's Phings

A bit of a rant about coach holidays:

The Coach and Wild Horses

I’ve recently done something that I promised myself I wouldn’t do again.

No, not that, I’m still the subject of a restraining order regarding that.

I’m talking about going on a coach trip. The last time we went on one, which was to Perth in Scotland, we made a solemn oath that we would not put ourselves through this again. But time passes, memories fade and you see something in the newspaper and think “Oh, that sounds like a fun thing to do” and before you know it…

It’s not that I have anything against coach travel as a means of movement in general, although I would definitely take issue with the phrase ‘Executive Travel’ which invariably features on every coach, regardless of condition. When did you last see 57 Executives travelling cheek by…well, cheek I suppose, as they rumble down the M1?

No, my problems lie primarily with the logistics of the coach holiday (and the lack of honesty about this) and the issues that inevitably arise from travelling anywhere in a group.

The lyrical description of your coach holiday will probably go something like this:

“Day 1: You will be collected from your chosen departure point to be whisked across country to our carefully selected hotel, where there will be ample time to rest and relax before dinner and dancing in the evening”

Tripe! This is, as usual, a masterpiece of what it doesn’t say, rather than what it does. Firstly, it will be a minor miracle if you actually finish up with your ‘chosen departure point’. As you will notice, when you study the small print, this actually depends on their being a sufficient number of people (usually undefined) who also want to be picked up from this point. Chances are, you won’t find out that you’re not going to be picked up from where you wanted until very close to the departure. Having found that you’ve got to travel a fair distance to even get on the coach, there now comes the sickening realisation that the company operates a ‘feeder’ system, which means that the coach you have boarded is not the one that will take you to your chosen destination but which is, instead, embarked on a mini-tour all of its own. In my case, this could involve a circuitous trip around the West Midlands, stopping at every town and village between me and, probably, Coventry or Walsall or somewhere equally enervating. Thus, Day 1 isn’t actually part of your holiday unless your idea of fun is permanently touring Britain’s regions collecting passengers.

In our case, we had selected a coach tour which featured dinner and a boat trip on the Thames for the New Year’s Eve fireworks. Having studied the timetable, we realised that once we were collected from Burton upon Trent, it would then be a further 4+ hours before we arrived at the final pick-up point of Milton Keynes, for onward transportation to London. A quick calculation determined that we could get there in less than 2 hours under our own steam, so we elected to meet the coach there.

The ‘carefully selected hotel’ is usually a bit of a misnomer too. If the destination is London then it is highly unlikely that you are actually going to be accommodated in London itself. Coach holidays take a broad approach to what constitutes ‘easy driving distance of Central London’. Basically, as long as the hotel isn’t actually in the Midlands, then it’s fair game. In our case, we had a hotel at Heathrow, which seemed to be the hotel of choice of the various flight crew (whose separate Reception area was nowhere near as glamorous as you might think) and the holding venue for those whose flights were delayed and who arrived and departed, en masse, clutching vouchers for food and lodging and looking bewildered. However, we have been billeted much further afield in the past.

The holiday blurb usually includes something on the lines of “You will be accompanied throughout by one of our highly experienced Tour Managers”. Well, possibly. In our case, we had a team of bods of a certain age, who clearly could think of better things to do with their New Year’s Eve than be trapped in a Heathrow hotel with a bunch of strangers. They had the appearance, as my dad would have said, of people who had “lost a bob and found a tanner” (which I appreciate is incomprehensible to anyone not of the pre-decimal era, but I think you get the general drift). We also had the advantage of having a co-ordinator from the coach company, based in our hotel. Unfortunately, I never actually determined what it was that he was supposed to do. Although an amiable sort of cove (in comparison to his compatriots anyway), his invariable answer if you asked him any question was “I don’t know”. In case you’re wondering, these were not particularly taxing questions. Something like “are the coaches to collect us, outside yet?” which you might think would be within his purview, was clearly a leap too far - ~I don’t know, I haven’t been outside to look” being the response.

Essentially, this is a coach holiday and they are determined to make maximum use of that facility, come Hell or high water. Therefore, on our three day trip to London we were taken into Central London on New Year’s Eve morning for ‘shopping and sight-seeing’, returned to our hotel for an hour in the afternoon before being transported back into Central London again ‘early enough to beat the traffic into London on New Year’s Eve’, which didn’t materialise, so we had an hour driving around London to kill time before the restaurant opened. On New Year’s Day, we were scheduled to go into London for a “chance to see the Lord Mayor’s Parade before being whisked back home in one of our luxury coaches”. If you’ve crawled into bed at 03.00 (and we were amongst the first to return) the last thing you want to do is head straight back the following morning for more street trudging, but you had no choice if you actually had any visions of getting home again.

More to follow!

Re: Phil's Phings

Your story is so true,im a coach traveller ,i do not drive so ive no choice.On my last weekend away we were taken from our BB in to town and dropped off on the Sunday before the shops or anywhere else opened.

Re: Phil's Phings

I know it's the only option for a lot of folk, which is why it annoys me when you're dragged all around the houses.

Re: Phil's Phings

Great read as usual, thanks Phil. I detest coach travel, it’s the train for me every time. The coach brings back torturous memories for me of ‘forced family fun’ outings back in the 1950’s, I shudder at the thoughts of all those roll out the barrel type songs that seemed to a little boy to go on forever.

Re: Phil's Phings

And yet, it's that sort of camaraderie that appeals to many about coach travel - not me, I have to say. I knew someone who nearly got lynched because he insisted on trying to start a sing-song in the early hours of the morning

Re: Phil's Phings

Didn't realise how long it's been since I was last here! Where does the time go? As you'll see, I've been a little preoccupied with my new project

The following is an excerpt from my new compilation of stories. See what you think:

Winding Up The Holiday Brits!

I have this theory that the fact that people working in air and seaports can often be quite obnoxious has nothing to do with chance. I'm convinced that the British Tourist Authority have placed agents at key points of departure, with the specific intention of making a holiday in the U.K. a preferable option to going abroad. Don't believe me? Well, read on...

You might think that the idea of the British Tourist Authority (BTA) having a network of agents dedicated to making travel to foreign parts a miserable experience rather outlandish, but there’s no shortage of evidence to support the theory.

For example, many years ago I was travelling back from France with a mate of mine. Between us, we had just about enough money left to buy either a breakfast or a few pints on the Calais/Dover ferry, so you can guess which way the choice went. This was in the days when the Calais-Dover route was operated by Sealink, a part of British Rail, and there were no other options, so you can imagine the level of customer service.

The young man behind the bar was clearly one of these BTA agents. Even though there were few customers in the bar, as this was the early hours of the morning and most people had more sense, he still made a point of ignoring anyone waiting at the bar for as long as he could. When finally forced to acknowledge their presence, he never made eye contact or engaged in conversation of any sort. Instead, he would jerk his head in the general direction of the putative customer and grunt. By this means he would take your order and return with something approaching what you had asked for.

As the bar was particularly quiet, and my mate was cursed with an enquiring mind, he managed to engage this surly youth in conversation, whereupon he (the youth) admitted that this performance of his was all about promoting his philosophy of ‘winding up the holiday Brits’. He saw it as his duty to reduce his customers to seething balls of impotent rage, which would then be let loose on our continental cousins with predictable results.

I will always remember standing at the bar, chatting to him, whilst behind us a group of blokes, with whom he had clearly been particularly successful in his endeavours, jeered at him and yelled obscenities, which he resolutely ignored. Eventually, things reached such a pitch that an object flew over our heads from the restive tribe behind. Without missing a beat in our conversation, he reached up and caught the projectile, which he then casually examined. “Looks like I’ve won myself a lighter” he announced calmly to the room as a whole. Now that’s a professional – I hope the BTA gave him a medal!

This is from the new compilation just published on Amazon Kindle, called 'Giving a Bull Strawberries'

Re: Phil's Phings

There used to be one or two barmen like that on the Dun Laoghaire to Holyhead Ferry Phil, they were specialists at making you feel miserable.
Always great to see you back with a great read.

Re: Phil's Phings

Thanks Jem. Perhaps they were his brothers