Today started off fair – then went pear-shaped and frustrating, then gained a bit of satisfaction.
Me pains were far less than yesterday’s were. No blood from me ablutions (apart from a bit when I cut missen shavin’ – Tsk!)
I spent ages and ages creating graphics for me Political post – then the computer crashed! Restarted. The internet went down. Shit, bother and… never mind, I lost it all. Grrr! Bloody BT!
Inchy’s School Leaving testimonial
I went out to the hospital, calling in the council offices on the way to beg if they could find me sheltered accommodation somewhere nearby to live in, and the nice chap made me an appointment to see another bloke this afternoon. Nice.
Then to the hospital, and got tended to quickly, booked in again for next week.
Then back to town, and caught the bus to ‘Bread and Lard island’ West Bridgford, to see me Sister Jane and brother-in-law Pete. He’s very nearly finished all his decorating now.
I had a dizzy walking from the bus and veered into some trees, opening me wounds on me mush. Double Tsk!
Inchy’s Last school report
Enjoyed me cuppa and natter, then Pete came in with a locked box they had been keeping for me and opened it – guess what, me school leaving testimony from the head master, and me last year report was in it! He took a photo of em, and emailed to me at home. Interesting… or not seeing the low grades wot I got… apart from English where I came top… I say top… first! Yahoo!
Caught bus back home, called in Tesco and Chinese shop to try and get some cheese seaweed, but none available. Treble Tsk!
Got back to the flea-pit, and worked on some posts for a bit, scared the laptop would fail me again.
Jane rang later to see how I was, and that was appreciated.
Ah well, as my Dad used to say: “It’s an ill wind that fails to find too many cooks on a Wednesday afternoon!”
I had joined the local pub’s angling club (The Gladstone), and was on my first match. It was on the Yorkshire Derwent. I’d only started fishing a month earlier, and was full of trepidation, but excited about it. The lads seemed a decent bunch. Being a newcomer, as with all of them, I was put in ‘A’ section to assess my skills, against the others. One of them had actually fished for England! Somehow, the smoke emitting old Bedford OWB coach got us all the way there, and to the 2 mile hike along the river bank to our designated match stretch. We dropped off near a pub, and had five match lengths of river bank to walk to get to our allotted section, and that was after a half mile walk from the pub to the river bank!
By gum it fought well, but I gorrit in the end
For the first 5 hours and 50 minutes of the 6 hour match, I didn’t even get a bite! Then, when I did, I struck, and struggled to get the fish out, and it was a tiny eel, and I’d never seen one of them before. Nobody had explained to about how slippery and slimy they were, and I ended up on the grass, grappling with this 3 ounce eel… and nearly losing! The whistle indicating the end of the match was blown as I was putting the eel into a bait box full of water, I looked back up the bank, and there were about half a dozen of the lads who had been watching my embarrassing fight with the tiny eel, and they all laughed and then gave me a round of applause, accompanied with a few loud boos, whistles and selected comments of a injurious nature. Bless em! It turned out at the weigh-in, that only two fish had been caught – my hard-nosed eel, and one Tommy Ruff, so on my first match, I’d won the prize money, and had a challenge cup to keep for a year! Easy this match fishing lark I foolishly thought. My next win was five years later. So we all packed up and took the trek back to the pick-up point for the bus that was conveniently in a pub car park. With only two fish being caught, the weigh-in had taken no time at all, and we were very early for the pick-up, the coach not yet in site. The landlord opened the pub up early for us. I was soon guzzling ale, and listening and watching some of the lads play a game of ‘Tip-pit’, which I’d never seen before, and was fascinated with. After a while, I thought I’d better nip to the toilet before the coach arrives, and off I went to the little boy’s room, where I found I had a touch of constipation, but persisted painfully. When I got back into the pub, there was none of the lads or any of their tackle to be found! They had piled the tackle and themselves on board, and driven off, leaving me behind in the loo! Bless them, I was a new face, and they were rat-arsed… understandable I suppose! There were no mobile phones to use in those days. I rang the Gladstone, leaving a message, and requesting rescue. Then settled into a game of domino’s with some of the locals, oh, and imbibed a few more pints of the excellent ale on offer. It turned out that about an hour or so later, the lads on the bus were sorting out the raffle, and eventually they realised I was not there. They returned to collect me, amid much jibing, Mickey-taking, and the ranting from the bus driver, and picked me up. I fell into a splendid alcohol induced stupor on the way home. Forced out of this wonderful state, I was awoken and kicked off the bus at the end of the road here I lived, and my fishing tackle thrown out along with me. I picked it all up, and made my way to the flat. It had been burgled – Tsk!
Up early this morning, in agony with the cramps in me foot. Tsk!
Cuppa and medications, did a bit of blogging like yer know.
Then got missen ready fer me trip t’ dentist.
Only just moved to this one, I went last week for a check-up, and they booked me in fer a bit of work today.
Booked in fer a couple o’ fillin’s and a spit un polish at ten o’clock this morning.
I set off, givin’ missen plenty o’ time like to hobble there.
At the end of the road, I stopped and limped back to the house cause I realised I’d still got me slippers on, un changed into me weather worn shoes.
Set off again, nice morning, up Mansfield Road, crossed over the other side when I noticed the police trying to drag a chap out of the flats, and the chap seemed determined not to be dragged out of the flats into the police van.
About 15 minutes later, I arrived at the Dentist at 0945hrs.
By the time I’d queued to book in, it were abarht 1010hrs. They insisted I pay fer me treatment then, before I’d ‘ad it like. Do I look dishonest, or like a pauper… maybe a pauper okay…
I sat and read a few chapters of me book ‘Hitler; The Commander’ wot I got frum the Pound Shop, before I wus told to go upstairs to room 2.
The rooms, had been fashioned out the old bedrooms in what was originally the living quarters of a shop owner.
I went in, and found myself alone, so I got out me book again. A few minutes later the nurse came in and went out again, then the dentist came in, told me to sit on the split plastic covered chair thingy and she’s be back in a bit. She a Polish gal, name of Cwik – no I’m not joking.
She inquired if I required a needle of pain killer before she started, I replied in the affirmative.
She left the room again. The nurse returned, picked something up out of a drawer, and left again.
They both returned after a short while, during which time I began to appreciate the pretty patterns the spiders had spun on the ceiling.
They set to work, and before long I’d got a set of top front teeth that I hope I can eat with without struggling.
I set off on me walk home, cheered with the prospect of being able to consume me fodder without pain. Got to ten end of me road… then returned to the dentist for me book, medicines and seaweed I’d left in the carrier bag….
I was content living at the ex-offenders lodgings, but the cost eventually led me to move into a flat on Melton Road. It was far less than the full board that I was paying that had just gone up to £6 a week, at 17/- (35p), but of course meant I had to buy food and cleaners and stuff like that.
It was one room, with shared latrines and bathroom. But I felt more grown up somehow… for a while.
Within a week, the landlady’s rather buxom daughter arrived at my door holding a bottle of Walker’s Red Label whisky…
Things took place that I cannot fully remember but…
It seem I was legless when she returned back downstairs to her mater, and I thought it a good idea to cook some sausages…
The fire brigade officer woke from my alcohol induced sleep, and the landlady kindly threw me out.
From the flat, to another flat…
I was lucky, in quickly finding another flat on Ryeland Crescent.
Again, an attic room, with a woman and her, er… oh so scary daughters.
I had to avoid certain situations to be safe from them.
Then one Saturday night, they all went out, so I sneaked down and watched their TV. As I was watching Morecome and Wise on the set, a rather large built bloke burst in through the back door, demanding to see Christine (Scary daughter number two), and wanting to know if I was messing about with her. I indicated that I was not messing about with her, and she had gone with her family to the Odeon cinema.
“Oh, she don’t wanna go awt wi’ me though does she?” shouted the man, he seemed to be getting very het up. He blamed me for some reason, and started to trash the room – heroics called for here I thought (What a burke!) I tried to restrain him, and got the radio set over my head for me efforts, followed by a few well place thumps and a rather tear producing kick in the groin. We continued to struggle with one other for a while, until he suddenly stopped, broke down in tears, apologised and left?
I stopped the bleeding from my head, then spent the next couple of hours trying to sort the room out as much as I could, and rewired the plug onto the radio – still not really believing what had just taken place.
The family returned, I explained what happened, she did not believe me, went upstairs and packed my suit cases and I was thrown out again!
From the Flat to Digs off Huntingdon Street…
A mate from work took me in for couple of days, and I found lodgings with a family on Huntingdon Street. (Just off it actually, I can’t remember the name of the street though… mind you, I can remember the name of the landlady and her daughters!
Landlady Mavis, daughter one Audrey (night nurse at Rampton Mental Hospital very handy cause she could visit me during the day), and Veronica.
I was only there a few months, ’cause the landlady had designs on me, Veronica the younger daughter was unsure what she wanted, and Audrey… phew, she was rampant!
Moved to Carrington rented a small house…
The best thing about this place was Audrey would visit twice weekly, and left me feeling weakly… but oh so contented! (Ah memories)
It wasn’t me, any bloke would have done, and did regularly, but without doubt I learnt more from Audrey than any other gal. Plump heavy gal, massively hairy armpits etc, and what a personality. (Shudders with the thoughts, and regrets of no longer being acquainted with the sexpot)
Carrington to a flat at 30 Bingham Road, Sherwood…
Stayed here for many years, and was happy, oh so happy too. I think it was £9 a week.
Had the entire ground floor to myself, big front room, bedroom, cellar, bathroom/toilet, living room, kitchen and garden too!
Started me angling here, joined a local club, it was quiet and peaceful, I just loved it.
One night while I was in this flat is worth mentioning…
I’d been out to the local social club at lunch, but didn’t even get through my first pint, when I started to feel oh so poorly. So I returned to the flat,
Struggled into the front room, and plonked myself on the settee, around 1230 hrs. I remember waking around 1800 hrs and seeing the lamp lights through the window swaying, going back and forth, and thought I’d better have a look in the medical box see if I’ve got something to take.
I found a bottle of ‘Night Nurse’, and consumed a good swig of it, then laid down back on the settee.
I woke up in the morning (later found out if was 0700 hrs) naked and flat out on the garden lawn, with the landlady bent over me slapping me face.
A neighbour later told me I was dancing for hours in the garden, and trying to sing?
I’ve never tried ‘Night nurse’ medications again!
But the landlord sold out and the new one wanted to update the place, and charge £20 a week.
Part 16: Inchcock goes into the offenders relocation digs – unknowingly!
The ending of Part 15:
Mummy had done another bunk, and I could stay with her (the neighbours) house until I found somewhere to live!) This seemed to please her Security Guard husband’s Alsatian no end, as I able to supply the snarling, vicious, yet pampered beast with a choice of bone selections for him to chew on overnight, as I slept on the settee.
Continuing the Tale…
The next day, I went off to work at Tesco, and after while I got call at the store from dear mummy.
She quipped that she had got me somewhere to live. (Which I thought I’d already got before she stopped paying the rent, emptied the gas and electricity meters, flogged off some of the furniture, all my stuff, all Dad’s stuff, sold a neighbouring family a holiday in a none existent caravan, and did a runner!)
This place she had got for me to lodge at was at some digs in the Meadows, 49 Wilford Grove East, and I was assured it was nice and clean.
I went around that night to view these digs – and found the landlady to be firm but nice with it. Mary her name was.
The three storey house had 6 bedrooms, one a single, two doubles, two triple bedded, one with four beds, and the top one with nine beds in it.
The only shock was the prices of the board, £5.5.0. (5 guineas) a week board! I think I was only earning about £9 a week at that time – but needs must.
So I moved in, and soon settled in with the other 11 or so lads who were staying there.
The landlady, Mary Gavin came from Athlone in Ireland, was hard, fair, and a none-bull-shitter, what she said went.
Her husband Jack was a Nottingham man, big, and as soft of butter, I never knew him to lose his temper.
I soon palled up with other three the lads in my bedroom, and being the youngest, was soon introduced to the pleasures of regular intakes of Home Ales, how to play darts, and the perpetual tottie seeking activities that I was not very good at… keen, persistent, avid, but generally unsuccessful.
The only period of success I had, came after about a year in the digs, and I was doing well at work, had been promoted with a nice increase in pay, and one of lads, I think his name was Trevor, suggested we combine out finances and buy a car on sale just down the road from the digs.
I explained I could not drive, and for the next month one or the other of lads would take me for lessons every night.
I would drive the others round with the L plates on. The car, a Ford Consul Classic 4 door, Maroon with a cream roof, was still for sale, and the price had dropped to £90!
We purchased the vehicle, filled it with petrol, took it for a spin, and found it had many, many extras!
1) The steering column gear change was unmasterable to both of us, but at least when either of us went to pick someone up, they would be aware of our arrival beforehand by the tuneful grating noise that accompanied all gear changes.
2) The pleasant aroma of petrol fumes was, it appears standard on that model, and made many long drives intensely enjoyable and worry free!
3) As the head light casings regularly filled up with rainwater, we considered putting a goldfish in to customise the thing.
4) We were unsure who tied the front bumper on, but they used electrical cable, and made a custom job of it, leaving it at a pleasant 15% angle.
5) Air conditioning came through the whole in the drivers foot-well, and the cracks around the inverted rear window.
6) The steering was slack and flaccid to say the least it was rather disconcerting when travelling at speed (not that was very often believe me) as at times you was actually turning the massive very thin steering wheel to the left, as you and the vehicle refused to respond!
7) You had to try not to slam the driver’s doors too hard, as this had a custom of encouraging the side window to disappear with a painful grating noise at it fell.
The last, but most monumental extra I found – was that for some reason, maybe because it and twin headlights and looked American, it was the finest tottie puller in the Nottingham!
A trip to the Pally for a dance and crumpet, now bought success, unparalleled in my lifetime!
The girls were impressed with the car of course, not me!!!
Ah…. memories…. distant memories…. remembering the memories gets harder as I grow into the state of decrepitude and senility, as is the lot of all those who live long enough…
See what I mean, I nearly lost it there!
Anyway, overall it was a slow, noisy, smelly, unreliable, and expensive to run car: The Best Car I’ve Ever Had!
Any-road-up, it was about 8 months after I’d moved into the lodgings, that I found out it was half-way house for prison parolees!
I was content living at the ex-offenders lodgings, but the cost eventually led me to move into a flat on Melton Road. It was far less than the full board that I was paying, that had just gone up to £6 a week, at 17/- (35P), but of course meant I had to buy food and cleaners and stuff like that.
It was one room, with shared latrines and baths. But I felt more grown up somehow… for a while.
Within a week, the landlady’s buxom daughter arrived at my door holding a bottle of Walker’s Red Label whisky…
Things took place that I cannot fully remember but…
It seem I was legless when she returned back downstairs to her mater, and I thought it a good idea to cook some sausages…
A while later the fire brigade officer woke me from my alcohol induce sleep, and the landlady kindly threw me out.
From the flat, to another flat…
I was lucky, in quickly finding another flat on Ryland Crescent.
Again, an attic room, with a woman and her oh so scary daughters.
I had to avoid certain situations to be safe from them.
Then one Saturday night, they all went out, so I sneaked down and watched their TV. As I was watching Morecome and Wise on the set, a rather large built bloke burst in through the back door, demanding to see Christine (Scary daughter number two), and wanting to know if I was messing about with her. I indicated that I was not messing about with her, and she had gone with her family to the Odeon cinema.
“Oh, she don’t wanna go awt wi’ me though does she?” shouted the man, he seemed to be getting very het up. He blamed me for some reason, and started to trash the room – heroics called for here I thought (What a burk!) I tried to restrain him, and got the radio set over my head for me efforts, followed by a few well place thumps and a rather tear producing kick in the groin. We continued to struggle with each other for a while, until he suddenly stopped, broke down in tears, apologised and left?
I spent the next couple of hours trying to sort the room out as much as I could, and rewired the plug onto the radio – still not really believing what had just taken place.
The family returned, I explained what happened, she did not believe me, went upstairs and packed my suit cases and I was thrown out again!
A mate from work took me in for couple of days, and I found lodgings with a family on Huntingdon Street.) I’ve often wandered since then: Is it the law that landladies have to have daughters? Just a thought.
Moved to Digs off Huntingdon Street
Landlady Mavis, daughter one Audrey a night nurse at Rampton Mental Hospital (very handy cause she could visit me during the day), and Veronica.
I was only their a few months, cause the landlady had designs on me, Veronica the younger daughter was unsure what she wanted, and Audrey… phew, she was rampant!
Moved to Carrington and rented a small house…
The best thing about this place was Audrey would visit twice weekly, and left me feeling weakly… but oh so contented! (Ah memories)
It wasn’t me personally that attracted Audrey, it was any bloke would do, and did regularly, but without doubt I learnt more from Audrey than any other gal. Plump heavy gal, massively hairy armpits etc, and what a personality. (Shudders with the thoughts, and regrets of no longer being acquainted with the sexpot)
Carrington to a flat at 30 Bingham Road, Sherwood…
Stayed here for many years, and was happy, oh so happy too. I think it was £9 a week.
Had the entire ground floor to myself, big front room, bedroom, cellar, bathroom/toilet, living room, kitchen and garden too!
Started me angling here, joined a local club, it was quiet and peaceful, I just loved it.
One night while I was in this flat is worth mentioning...
I’d been out to the local social club at lunch, but didn’t even get through my first pint, when I started to feel oh so poorly. So I returned to the flat,
Struggled into the front room, and plonked myself on the settee, around 1230 hrs. I remember waking around 1800 hrs and seeing the lamp lights through the window swaying, going back and forth, and thought I’d better have a look in the medical box see if I’ve got something to take.
WARNING: Make sure it’s not out of date!
I found a bottle of ‘Night Nurse’, and consumed a good swig of it, then laid down back on the settee.
I woke up in the morning (later found out it was 0700 hrs) naked and flat out on the garden lawn, with the landlady bent over me slapping me face.
A neighbour later told me I was dancing like a pregnant rhinoceros with a broken leg for hours in the garden, and trying to sing?
I’ve never tried ‘Night nurse’ medications again!
But the landlord sold out and the new one wanted to update the place, and charge £20 a week.
One of the many duties Mummy gave me to do, was one of ‘supply officer’ – I’d get sent around to a neighbour to accrue various supplies, on loan, but of course they rarely if ever got returned.
The items would be, ‘a cup of sugar’, ‘a spoonful of tea’, ‘three slices of bread’, ‘ a knob of Echo (margarine, no one in our Terrace had butter), ‘a cup of milk’, or ‘two fags’ until whichever day she said she would return them.
The responses I would get would differ, but generally they would be: ‘Sod off’, ‘She hasn’t gave me, me bread (or whichever commodity) back from last week yet’, ‘A swift belt around the head and the door slamming to’, or occasionally they would encourage their dog to attack and chew on my leg.’
Oddly enough, I cannot recall any of our neighbours coming to our house to ‘borrow’ food or anything else really.
For a while, apart from the nub collecting, fag making, and hairnet packing etc – I was ensconced into a job in the wood yard, either bundling the wood or collecting scrap from building sites etc.
It was a friend of mothers who owned the yard, and he paid very well… it soon ended when he was sentenced to three years for nicking the wood in the first place.
Mummy Returns – Work Commences
Just as I was about to leave school at 14 years of age, Mummy re-appeared on the scene after a nice 3 year break.
And Dad once more relented and took her back in, a move he much regretted later. (So did I)
Dad got me job as goffer and van lad at Whiteheads Robin Hood Confectionery, Imperial Street, Bulwell. (the building is still standing today. (January 2014)
The wage was £3.3.0 a week (£3.15), for a 50 hour week.
Of course mother got most of it out of me by guile or stealth, to help her with her addiction to the weed, bingo, and betting.
I enjoyed the job, when I was out on the delivery run, a great adventure to me – but the few times when I had to help in the factory – I really liked!
Apart from helping yourself to any toffees in the production lines, it was the women and girls there that made my day, they would help themselves to me whenever they liked!
They would even play with me in the dinner hour and a half.
If only I could go back to that time…. Ah well, on with the disastrous dilemma of the Tales of Woe.
Several moves of abode
Later, I cannot recall why, most likely they were going to pull the house down before it fell down, but we moved into 52 Ipswich Circus, Sneinton Dale, into a council house.
Couldn’t resist this photo – how many of us can remember the brand packs on show?
I swapped jobs and went to work for Tesco, working my way up to assistant manager eventually.
And I met Sue, the love of my life, and started ‘Courting’.
But I later lost her. Best thing perhaps, because she always deserved better than me.
So, the house was gigantic to me, and the garden enormous!
So big, I built a little shed for my motorbike to go in. (Fair enough it fell down within two weeks, but I did make the effort)
Then after about 10 months or so, I returned home from Tesco one Friday night, pushed my motorbike round the back where the shed used to stand, and went into the house – only to find the lights not working – so I stumbled my way through to the front door lobby where the electricity metre was, digging out a shilling to put in it from my pocket on the way.
As I entered the front room, the light from the street lighting, offered enough illumination for me to see that there was no furniture in the room – nothing but the television set! (and that was on tick from Wigfall’s Pay-Slot Rentals.)
Had we been robbed?
Surely not, they’d be hard pushed to get a tenner for everything in the room.
I made my way to the bottom of the stairs, all the clothes pegs were bare, I went upstairs, everything had gone, curtains, everything, I went back down stairs, thinking I was going mad, was I in the right house?
I opened the front door, looked around, confirmed I was in the right house, turned around to go back in, and then saw the ‘Eviction Notice’ on the door. Mummy had been at it again!
A neighbour, rushed up to me, apologising for missing my arrival, she’d hoped to catch me and break the news to me before I got in the house.
Dad had been given a railway house, and had taken all the stuff with him.
Mummy had done another bunk, and I could stay with her (the neighbours) house until I found somewhere to live!)
This seemed to please her Security Guard husband’s Alsatian no end, as I able to supply the snarling, vicious, yet pampered beast with a choice of bone selections for him to chew on overnight, as I slept on the settee.
To Follow:
Part 16: A Nottingham Lad’s True Tale of Woe – Inchy goes into an ex-offenders hostel – without realising it!
