Saturday 30 June 2007

Man's Estate


After his comment on Back Where I Belong , Bill Blunt got me thinking about estates: the sprawling housing developments that in the sixties and seventies replaced streets of terrace housing flattened in the name of progress, communities fragmented and people stacked in towers where they were highly unlikely to be able to talk over the back yard wall with their neighbours.

I have a jaundiced view, as Bill noticed, of these places after both sets of grandparents lost their homes in this manner. My paternal grandma lost her home to the Asda store in Longsight, Manchester; in fact if you stand in the frozen food section you are probably not far from her kitchen. She was moved to Armitage Court in West Gorton, which is at the centre of the inner city suburb used to film Channel 4's Shameless. The community spirit described in Shameless is not that of my grandma's back to back terraced housing.

My maternal grandparents lost out when Bertha Street and
- the hub of the community - Edge Lane Methodist Church in Oldham were crushed to make way for St Mary's Estate and Shaw Rd Estate in Oldham. They were moved onto Radcliffe St, St Mary's were I spent most of my summer holidays whilst mum and dad worked.

If communities survived after their enforced exodus they did so in spite of the new estates, not because of them; the social engineers hoped it would be otherwise. And I do feel that the architects of the time had much to answer for; I am a believer in the theory that building designs affect how we feel about a place. If you don't believe me, have a look how successful some of the more recent
enlightened designs in social housing are.

And before I forget, Bill Blunt and I are not the only people talking about the estates where they live. Tracey over at Gwelva Kernewek has been busy writing about the estate where she lives. If you need something else to convince you that where you live affects how you feel about life take a look at Tracey's post.

Tuesday 26 June 2007

Who Needs a Nanny State?


Just as I thought I'd put my dangerous ear exploits behind me, Lisa sent me this picture. I have often bemoaned the excesses of the nanny state, what with over enthusiastic Health and Safety restrictions and almost every aspect of our lives subject to the closest scrutiny. "What idiot needs a sign like that?" I would have railed against the television, had it been an item on the Channel 4 News. But now I find I must skulk to front of the crowd, stand on that soap box that I am too fond of proclaiming from and 'fess up the answer to that question "I do, I need a sign like that."

Sunday 24 June 2007

Back Where I Belong

After my dangerous forays into the land of the Turkish Barber and my recent Metro-sexual experience I felt it was time to get back to where I belong: cloth caps and allotments. All it took was a good meal in the Ram's Head and two pints of Black Sheep Rigwelter to put me there (although I suspect had I not been been back on track pretty smartly Mrs C would have soon lost patience and facilitated a rapid return).

I was enjoying Mystic Veg's musings on the horticultural horrors committed by celebrity gardeners, when he happened to mention being brought up on Fitton Hill estate in Oldham. Fitton Hill still sprawls across the east side of the town and, like many similar estates, struggles to shake the social ills that have plagued them since they were built in the sixties. Meant to be their panacea they have proved, in many cases, to be their exacerbation. I was born 100 yards from Fitton Hill's borders, round the corner on Honeywell Lane and it may be that I have a bit of Fitton Hill in my genes; for Mystic waxed lyrical about the garden sculpture of his youth that consisted of sundry car parts in the front gardens of council homes. Now, take a look at Mrs C's fabulously creative solution to the fact that we had used all our pots and planters when it came to this year's salad leaves:

It's the wheel of a Renault Laguna that has been cluttering our garage for months and is now full of lovely nutty Rocket leaves. Of course I should never have expected our sons to see the true creativity, nor the ecologically sound recycling sense - Matt's reaction consisted of a consideration of wheel's worth on Ebay - but they weren't complaining when Mrs C dished up a salad with more Rocket than Cape Canaveral. Ah, the short sightedness of youth.


Saturday 23 June 2007

Addendum

The reaction to my post about the removal of unwanted ear hair is instructive, and has provided me with an interesting insight into friends, colleagues and fellow bloggers. Firstly though, I must make a correction: it has been sniffily pointed out that 'depillation' has only one 'l'. Now, I could have skulked back to the post and sneakily edited away the error but it would have seemed at odds with my boldness in attempting to vanquish my unwanted aural fauna - so, let it stand I say.

Other comments have aligned themselves broadly into a number of camps: there has been the Gok Wan camp - and I do mean camp - who champion the eau naturale stance - let it flourish they say; I remain unconvinced. Mrs C's comment was pretty much what I would have expected - and others who know me well have reacted in similar vein - they have listened to, or read the tale, and then shook there heads with a bemused, unsurprised and resigned look on their faces that said: it could have been worse. And finally the pragmatists with the view championed by my son Tom who listened with interest, examined my singed ear and was impressed by the falling skin flakes but then simply asked me: if I wanted my ear hair removing a la Turkish barber why did I not simply go to Google and find one.

Finally, whilst we are talking of camp, I caught a tram across town the other day; there was disruption to the Metrolink and I passed the time of day with a chap in my carriage comparing the quality of public transport in Manchester with other parts of the UK and Europe. He was clearly well educated and well travelled, he wore an expensive business suit and carried a top quality leather brief case. The conversation was unremarkable until his parting shot as he left the tram at Shude Hill; darting through the closing doors he said:
"I don't know, I should have stayed in bloody Torquay giving blow jobs to sailors on the beach, ta ta."
and, with that, he was gone and I was left open mouthed on my way to Victoria Station.
What's the phrase? - nowt as queer as folk, that's it.

Thursday 21 June 2007

Extreme Aural Depillation



Your attitude to adventure in the name of progress will, in all likelihood, colour your view of what I am about to share. I am often up for a dare, even if I have to dare myself to do something, as was the case today.

I am not a vain man but everyone has limits; and my particular line in the sand is drawn around the issue of ear hair. As I mature my ears sprout white hair from within and without, left to its own devices it is, in my view, a particularly unattractive feature. Shaving ones ears is a hazardous business and provides imperfect - and
occasionally barbarous - results.

I remembered hearing an account of a visit to a Turkish barbers' shop that involved the singeing of ear hair using Surgical Spirit to moisten the ear before flambé-ing the hairs away. This seemed a perfectly logical approach when coupled with memories of a pub trick whereby the prankster would douse his (it was always a man) finger with lighter fluid and set it alight; the finger emerged uncharred the rationale being that only the fuel burned away.

With hindsight I think that both memories were of events where alcohol was a significant contributor to the occasion; that is the only way I can think of explaining the abject failure of something that was clearly so promising in theory.

Stood before the bathroom mirror I doused my ear with a generous helping of surgical spirit, struck a match and applied it gingerly to my right earlobe. There followed the anticipated flash; however, what I did not anticipate was that Sugical Spirit would be rather more slow burning than one might imagine and so the hair and my ear required a thorough batting with my hand to extinguish the merry blaze. It is a good job I was alone in the house, it took the opening of all of the upstairs windows to rid the house of the acrid smell of burning hair.

So now I have, on one ear, a bushy untreated growth of white ear hair and on the other singed remains that resemble a heather moorland after a peat fire. I shall shave my left ear tonight; my right ear is rather too tender to shave at present and I could not stand to lose any more skin from its surface.



Chastened but not discouraged I offer you, the cyber world, the gauntlet of aural depilation; what is your favourite technique? Or should I just get over it and consider myself gorgeous as seems to be the gospel according to Gok Wan on Channel 4's How to Look Good Naked.

I have chosen another one of Lisa's excellent pictures (click on her name to see more) to illustrate this post: the naked iron statue is one of a number of Antony Gormley's at Crosby beach in Lancashire. I think the picture captures the steely resolve with which I approached my depilatory disaster.

Monday 18 June 2007

Father's Day and a Truly Local Economy


I don't know where you stand on your local high street, but no matter where you stand in Oldham's town centre you can not escape the view of a national or global retail outlet of some sort - I use that term deliberately because I simply cannot bring myself to call them shops. To me shops are warm friendly places with character rather than the sterile, vacuous places aimed at taking pounds from your pocket and putting them, with very little removed for the benefit of the employees, into the pockets of the, already, super rich.

There are only a handful of shops in Oldham: Mawson's herbalist, Mrs Zippy's Sewing and Joke Shop, Williamson's Ironmongers and Hardware emporium at Mumps. These are the places with character: where else can you buy a new zip for your jeans, a fake turd and a pair of false boobs in one trip; where else can you receive honest health advice from a qualified herbalist who doesn't want to also sell you the chain store magazine and where else can you buy anything whatsoever in the tool or hardware line. These places have struggled to survive and, in the case of Mawson's and Williamson's come through to produce a diverse business without losing their character. Their keepers - and again I deliberately choose that term; there is in my view, a world of difference between a shopkeeper and sales assistant - deserve our support. So if you happen to be passing through Oldham and need a fake nurse outfit or fake cigarette with a convincing puff of talcum for smoke, call in at Mrs Zippy's.

And so to Fathers Day; there are times when I am proud of my two sons. They are accustomed to my moralistic rants at the television - "Dad, stop shouting at them, they can't hear you and we're missing the next bit" - and they sigh, not always inaudibly, when I start to express my opinions. Just occasionally though they do something that demonstrates that they understand me rather better than I give them credit for. It would have been easy for them to nip along the real ale aisle of Tesco, choose a half dozen bottles such as Black Sheep or Old Peculiar; and I would have been happy. What in actual fact they did buy me was this:

A mini cask of Dobcross Bitter from the artisan brewers at Greenfield Brewery not three miles from here. Local craftsmen, not making a fortune but producing something that, in my view, is worth a fortune.

Well done boys; now all I have to do is convince them that it is far more worth drinking than the tasteless, seven or more, pints of lager that they effortlessly dispatch at weekend.

Saturday 16 June 2007

Housekeeping


Today is Mrs C's turn for working Saturday; that means cleaning and tidying for me. With the bathroom clean, the stairs vacuumed and all clothes washed that ought to be washed - I think - I hope, it's time for some housekeeping on my blog. There are a number of things that I've been meaning to do and been putting off.

Firstly you will have noticed the new header that shows Oldham in it's current and historical glory. I have neglected to mention that my friend and colleague Lisa is responsible for the, not inconsiderable, picture trickery that went into it so thank you Lisa. My gran, whenever I showed her holiday photographs used to say, as the highest praise, "Eeeee that's good enough to be on a postcard", Lisa is reet good wi't camera (as my gran would have said) herself and I remember saying the self same thing to Lisa when she showed me some of her work recently. I'm sure she won't mind if I show you one too; if she does mind I'll been in for a bol****ing on Monday!

Secondly, you may remember my post about
eating out in Amsterdam, in the post I enthused about Wagamama the noodle bar chain. Well, Wagamama were so pleased with what I'd written they sent me a copy of the Wagama Cookbook; so thank you to Wagamama - who must think I have many more readers than I actually do who will flock to their noodliferous establishments in droves: don't tell and I won't either.

Finally, I've been neglecting the pages of my blog that tell you what I'm reading. I've just updated it with everything I've read since November (I think), click here to follow my trail from the Great War through psychiatry to murder. And before I go I ought to add that my friend and colleague Michele is a voracious reader - why am I telling you that? - because if she wasn't I wouldn't be able to borrow and read half of the fantastic books I do - thanks Michele.


Tuesday 12 June 2007

Let's Make This Party Rock


We had a bit of a clan gathering this weekend to celebrate Mrs C's special birthday. I'm not noted as the wildest party host but I have a couple of tricks up my sleeve, one of which I'll share with you now. Every man needs a couple of recipes to impress, here is one of mine.

Often it is the simple things that are most impressive; so forget Delia's deep fried Mongolian Shrimp fritters with spicy Tahitan dip (I made that up by the way) and try Crofty's Fruit Salad - perfect for a hot Summer weekend:

Simply take...oh, that's been done hasn't it (sorry Delia, again). Gather a couple of pounds of your favourite fruit; I used cherries, seedless grapes, strawberries, blueberries and chopped pears - I prefer to avoid mixing citrus and non citrus fruits - wash and chop them, then pile them all in your favourite trifle bowl.

Next make the syrup: in a small saucepan warm about a quarter of a pint of water and dissolve into it four ounces of caster sugar. When the sugar has dissolved, bring to the boil, cover the pan and simmer gently for two minutes; then let it cool.

Now here's the secret weapon: when it's cool add just one tablespoonful of Kirsch - don't be tempted to add more; and don't be tempted to drink it - it's about four quid for a tiny bottle; and what's more, whilst the Swiss might be good at watches, clocks and army knives, they are rubbish at making a decent spirituous liquor. Kirsch tastes disgusting.

Mix all the ingredients thoroughly and bung the trifle dish in the fridge for a couple of hours while you relax waiting for the alchemy to occur. Finally remove and serve with a dollop of fresh cream, yoghurt, ice cream or what ever and bask in the glory as people ask you what the magic ingredients in the juice are.

You see, it's not really magic but more like science: over those couple of hours in the fridge, due to osmosis, the juices in the fruit have leached out and mingled with your syrup to make a glorious concoction. But you don't want to tell too many people that; simply give an inscrutable smile saying that you couldn't possibly reveal the recipe handed down over four generations from your grandparents.

Friday 8 June 2007

Are You This Angry Man?

Listening to Saturday Live on Radio 4 this morning, I was impressed by the poet Elvis McGonagall's use of his art to purge a bad holiday experience from his system. It occurred to me that I might do the same with my blog. So if you are the large man, in his sixties, with a big white beard and a lovely head of pure white hair, who alighted from his vehicle to shout across the road that you considered me to be a thick, bald - headed, b***ard - or was it a thick headed...no, I'm sure it's the first one - then this is for you.

Had you allowed me to get a word in edgeways, before getting back into your M prefixed, Maroon Rover 216 with a National Trust sticker in the rear window, I would have explained that the reason I pulled my vehicle forward blocking the path from your junction preventing you from crossing the stream of traffic, was that you hadn't, no couldn't have seen, the ambulance that I had spotted in my mirror overtaking the stream of vehicles you were about to cross. You couldn't have seen the ambulance because your view was blocked by the big white van behind me. I can only presume that you didn't even notice the ambulance pass, because you were busy gesticulating at me and operating your audible warning instrument in an aggressive manner. Had you emerged across the stream of traffic you would have pulled into the path of the ambulance.

There now, deep breaths Crofty, that feels much better.


Oh, one more thing, I consider myself to have a mature attitude to my gradually receding hairline; but, I am most definitely not yet bald. I consider that insult to have been particularly barbed coming from one with such an obviously lush growth of hair.

Monday 4 June 2007

Battle of the Bands


Whit Friday evening is an annual, mammoth, brass band event that attracts around one hundred bands from across the UK and abroad every year. For the whole weekend Saddleworth's B & B's and campsites are packed; and licensees take in extra stock. Outsiders find the event hard to understand: locals refer to it as 'the band contest' but in reality there are around thirty individual contests in villages and districts across Saddleworth, North East Oldham and parts of Tameside. Generally spectators stay put at their favourite venue while the bands tour round the area competing at as many contests as they can between 4pm and midnight. When I tell you that each band has its own forty seater coach you will understand why it easier for spectators to stay put.

The contests consist of two parts: the march and the stand; the march is what it says on the tin and the stand is where the band, well, stand, and play a test piece to be judged by a hidden adjudicator, typically ensconced in caravan borrowed for the occasion.

Individual venues vary in their style and so attract different clientele: Uppermill and Delph are larger livelier events, where people who enjoy a rowdy beer soaked evening typically join the tougher looking type of Police Officer as the evening progresses. Dobcross is small and pretty, Greenfield and Scouthead are predominantly family events with
a variety of attendant attractions in addition to the bands.

We unpacked our folding chairs on the packed field at Green
field among families enjoying a variety of picnics. The bands were terrific and included big names like Brighouse and Rastrick as well as some of the tongue in cheek 'scratch' bands assembled for the occasion from excellent musicians who are not currently registered to another band. These bands aim to entertain rather than win and dress in a manner to suit their name: Tartan Brass, Chav Brass and Boobs and Brass - a popular one - , were some of this year's selection.



The biggest cheer of the night was for Greenfield Band - our Tom's band - they lifted their game and managed to win the prizes for best 4th Section band and best Local Band.


If you are ever told you must go to Oldham, choose to come when it is Whit Friday; I guarantee you will forgive the town its faults and have a marvellous time.

Daniel O'Donnell - Good Enough to Take Home to Mother


I noticed in last night's Chron that our local theatre, the Oldham Coliseum is searching for the most dedicated Daniel O'Donnell fan in the area. Their latest production, Women on the Verge, is about two O'Donnell fans and their arduous journey to see their idol perform.

If the O'Donnell phenomena has passed you by, you would do well to speak to my friend Sarah. She told me, a while ago, of the queue that develops outside the Manchester Apollo Theatre in the days before O'Donnell tickets go on sale. Whilst the forming of a queue for tickets is not unusual in itself, the fact that majority of these queuing fans are over fifty, female and sit on deckchairs, with flasks of hot tea knitting gives it a different complexion. Add to the mix that the theatre is situated in the heart of Ardwick, one of Manchester's toughest areas, and you can see that the phenomenon is a little more out of the ordinary. What is additionally interesting, says Sarah, is that although the local, hard pressed, constabulary do their best to keep an eye on these seemingly vulnerable souls, their attentions seem to be unnecessary. The local street robbers are apparently often in evidence, hooded-up on mountain bikes, but they leave the queue of ardent O'Donnellites unmolested - to attack these grandmas would seemingly breach some robbers' code.

Bishops, Bobbies and Brass

Whit Friday is a significant day around here. It is a festival day, with its roots in the Industrial Revolution when philanthropic mill owners gave church going workers a day off to celebrate Pentecost: the birthday of Church (unlike the miserable Manchester mill owners whose employees celebrated Whit Sunday instead). The tradition is that brass bands escort the assembled churches as they process through their respective parishes to assemble and join in a mass act of worship. Over the years a unique aspect of the tradition developed in Saddleworth: the bands stayed around for the rest of the day, playing whilst the children enjoyed sports in the afternoon, then as evening approached, each village held a competition for the bands to compete against each other. One hundred or so years on the tradition is thriving; the morning celebration a happy event as church goers don their best outfits to parade into Uppermill square. Even modern day policing gives way to tradition with the officers marshalling the processions marching smartly in their ceremonial tunics rather than their more usual quasi-militaristic - but necessary - body armour and utility belt; these smart young men and women brought a tear to many a grannies' eye as they stirred memories of the old fashioned bobby on the beat; my friend Sarah will be pleased when I tell her that Manchester's finest did her proud.

The assembled masses were treated, this year, to the presence of two
bishops stood with the assembled clergy on the back of one of J. Barratt's articulated trailers, given a day off from hauling goods for the occasion. Bishop Michael - the Bishop of Rochdale, not the boss bish Nigel, I was surprised to see - delivered an address to the thronged thousand or so church goers that was, for him, direct and relevant: talking of the need for people of all faiths to be agents of change in society. You will gather by the inclusion of the words 'for him' in that last sentence, that he is not always a direct and straight forward speaker. The trouble is he is very clever and if he preaches at your morning service you can bank on it taking until Gardener's Question Time comes on Radio 4 to work out what he was on about (Gardeners Question time has been extolling gardening advice on Radio 4 at 2pm every Sunday for years).

The worship complete, the ten Saddleworth church congregations, with their respective bands blasting away to pysche each other out in anticipation of the later comptetiton, made a fabulous site and sound as they paraded off the field and along Uppermill main street. The hairs on
the back of my neck stood up as my favourite march tunes punched through the air - Death and Glory, True and Trusty, The Army of the Nile - I wonder how many of the processing Christians were aware of the irony of their peaceful, life-affirming event being carried out to these war like, martial tunes.

Our appetite whetted for the evening's events we grabbed an excellent sandwich from Buckley's baker's shop (just
round the corner from the new kitchen shop if you are passing) and spent a couple of hours in the garden before heading for Mrs C's aunt's house, conveniently situated in Greenfield with legitimate access to parking at the heart of the village where we can enjoy the contest. More of that soon.

Incidentally, I noticed in tonight's Oldham Evening Chronicle (or the 'Chron as it's known) that the reason that the boss bish Nigel wasn't there was that he was saving himself for the opening of the prestigious Saddleworth Festival on Saturday: an altogether more urbane event of the coming weeks.