May 8, 2015 by Michael Madden

That silver car (again)

It was a pleasant day at Chester Races – but I am so glad that I came home rather than heading for Liverpool afterwards. And what happened to the Tote? This is now something called ‘Chester Bet’, and they seemed adept at trimming the prices of any horses that actually won. Anyway, I returned to a great result for Whaley Bridge Under 17s who beat local rivals, and very strong side Buxworth by 6 wickets.

But back to the bane of my life – the silver car with the orange warning light. On Wednesday they returned my car, but I was too busy to check that the fault had been fixed. However, the delivery driver assured me it was all done. So, imagine my surprise when I switched the engine on and the orange warning light winked at me. Repeatedly. And then went solid, just like it was before. I fired off an irate email, demanding that it be picked up and repaired properly on Friday, but that is not the end of it. No, last night another car headlight shone on its rear end, and Sally spotted this…

Yes, a second optional extra, RUST!

So, now my silver car with two unwanted optional extras has been taken away again by the Dacia man and replaced with a white one.

This could run and run! It will now be known as the Ruster rather than the Duster.

Not sure what the chocolate chickpea cupcakes will turn out like, but they took a rather aggressive beating this morning. Hopefully the fajitas will be made with a more gentle hand later.

April 30, 2015 by Michael Madden

We Do Like To Stroll Upon The Prom Prom Prom…

Twelve months ago it was a fanciful suggestion from a 14 year old willing to give up his birthday party for it. Now, the reality of staging the Chapel High School after prom party at our house is becoming a nightmarish reality.

First, the ground rules. NO ONE is allowed in the house. It must all take place in the garden. I am assured that large quantities of sick buckets need to be placed around the garden. We will need at least 2 portaloos. Hmm, maybe get condom machines fitted? Hey, don’t judge, have you ever seen a drunken 16 year old try to get a condom over his (or her) head?

Entertainment – we have a live band. We also have neighbours! A bouncy castle? Best make sure that there is an ambulance on hand. Foam in the bouncy castle? Best make sure that there is more than one ambulance on hand. Water guns alongside the bouncy castle? Forget the ambulances. Just set up a MASH unit.

We have gazebos, I certainly hope these will not be required for any future event – they are unlikely to be serviceable. We also have a tarpaulin – not sure what this is for, except maybe to scoop them all up at 3am and dump them somewhere else in Whaley Bridge. Anywhere will do, just as long as it is not at my house.

We are trying to source hazard tape. This was originally intended to prevent the youths from falling down the banking and potentially onto the road. I think there may be many more uses for it before the night is done!

More updates on this one soon.

I should be excited this morning. I am going to pick up my new silver car. Unfortunately it involves a drive into and out of Manchester, never a joyful experience.

I must say thanks to Lou Cooper for giving me the number of Jo Hopkins from New Mills. Jo is a seamstress. Now, there used to be one near the bus stop close to Park Cafe in Whaley Bridge. I asked on Facebook if she was still doing it, and the replies ranged from ‘yes’ to ‘she moved to St Helens’. So, I went down myself to have a look, and her seamstress’s shop looks pretty empty. Anyway, Jo took my trousers and waistcoat and promised to have them done in time for the races next week.

Zac had an asthma attack last weekend. That is a scary thing, and its the first time it has happened for quite some time. He was at Archie’s  birthday party, and we still don’t know what brought it on. Maybe he is allergic to magicians. Anyway, just a reminder that this can happen at any time – always be prepared.

And speaking of traumas, let’s go into the kitchen. On Monday, the sink overflow was blocked. I unblocked it using boiling water, washing up liquid, bicarbonate of soda, and more boiling water. Worked a treat. Yesterday, Sally did this…

So here’s a question for you…

Is it…
1. The latest pic from the Hubble telescope
2. A prop from Little Shop Of Horrors
3. Rhubarb

If you guessed 3, give yourself a prize.

I was only out of the house for 45 minutes, but that is what I came home to. Apparently she had been chatting. Remorse? No – in fact she thinks it quite nicely depicts the lost souls of the rhubarb, and she wants to enter it for the Turner prize.

All that I know is that the final Le Creuset pan has reached the end of its lifetime guarantee.

Is there a connection between Sally’s cooking and the blocked sink? I will leave you to draw your own conclusion.

April 28, 2015 by Michael Madden

A Question Of Sex

The Sapphire debate rumbles on. My sister Fiona, who used to be a nurse so she ought to know, reckons Sapphire is definitely a boy. She started to show me pics that demonstrate how to tell, but I’m not really into kitten porn so I declined. However, Jools, who used to be a midwife so she ought to know, reckons its a girl. Sapphire seems unconcerned about the debate that rages all around her, and treats with equal disdain any reference to his / her gender.

Bobby has started engaging with her / him, occasionally in an aggressive manner with a strong swipe of the paw. Sapphire still comes back for more.

We have a retired vet down our road – may have to bring him in for professional advice.

Anyway, Fiona also took Zac up to cricket practice on Friday, and pointed out that the flag was not the Whaley Bridge flag, so what was it? Zac’s response was ‘they probably stole it from an African country’.

Meanwhile, back to the cat. Ole is not happy with the name Sapphire whether it is a boy or a girl. He was reminded that Bobby Bob Cat is an unusual name, to which he assured us that ‘I know loads of people who aren’t cats that are called Bobby’.

Last week I managed to inch ever closer to bridge 19 on the Whaley Bridge to Marple towpath. This week, however, I was thwarted much earlier, at bridge 22. The barriers are back up – but I reckon by the end of the week they will have been dismantled again. If the weather picks up I’m aiming for the Ring O’ Bells on Friday.

Casting for The Raven should be completed this week – then it is down to the publicity. I have also started working on next year’s somewhat ambitious project. A full scale rock & roll musical about a run down diner, with hints of Macbeth and an appearance by Elvis. I did say that it was ambitious.

Its a busy time – not least with the Under 16s football. Hoping for a big crowd on Thursday night at Whaley to see if our boys can clinch second place with a win over Juno. Still waiting to pick up my car, though to be fair I’m not that bothered. Sally is though, and if it doesn’t arrive soon I can see some irate calls to the dealership.

Anyway, burgers for tea. I can recommend the service at MacBurnham’s butchers in Chapel, and I have had my grinder in action already. Patties waiting in the fridge, now for the bacon, mushroom, cheese, etc.

April 9, 2015 by Michael Madden

What’s It All About?

Paradise is an interesting concept. Not so much a place as a state of mind. If I ever found it I don’t think I’d be as careless as Milton!

So today seems like a good day to start a new blog. It started with me feeling like crap and having to get up at 4.40am – but with good cause. We hit the road at 5.15 for Liverpool airport, which is almost like a real airport, and a 2 hour flight to Nice. Parking in the multi storey has become an essential rather than a luxury – as has a fast track through security. I selected extra legroom seats – and these came with free Speedy Boarding access (wow – thanks Easyjet). Sadly, Speedy Boarding only applied to the bus to take you to the plane, and not onto the plane itself! And here’s an odd thing. We sat on row 1. Right at the front. And by the time we got off my feet were freezing. Now, I’m sure there can’t be a gap under the door – but it was definitely cold. I flicked through the magazine. Some guy is making a fortune on Youtube – just by being himself. Ole and Zac may have a new career when I get back.

Anyway, we landed in Nice, and then the fun started! A quick transfer to Heliair Monaco and we soared above the southern French coastline for all of 7 minutes before the chopper landed in Monte Carlo. We were supposed to be on the 12.15 copter ride but we were early and got on the 11.45. No hassle – and though we had a bottle of champagne in hand luggage the Heliair people just took the hand luggage and put it in the back. Free shuttle to Hermitage hotel, and by 12.30 we were checked in to a very nice room in a fabulous atmospheric hotel. Not the most personable – it’s too big for that. But definitely grandiose. Anyway, we were accompanied to our room by a young girl (the hotel seemed keen on employing young French girls, but more of that later), and she explained that the mini bar was “automatique”, meaning that if you touched anything you were charged for it. This next bit is very important if you intend to read much more of this blog – as it shows something of the character of my wife. She was intent on putting the bottle of Piper Heidsieck champagne in there to chill – but clearly could not. Without batting an eyelid she said ‘Could you remove everything so that there is enough room for my husband’s insulin? Its his medicine.’ The girl said she would get housekeeping to make enough space, and we thought we had hatched a cunning plan. I was a little concerned that my wife would confer a diabetic condition on me so easily, (has she never read a Stephen King novel?) but there was no more time to waste.

We didn’t have long, less than 24 hours, but Monte Carlo is not that big. We wandered past Porsches and Ferraris and settled for a front row table at Cafe de Paris. It was great fun people watching, drinking coffee, mojitos and beer, then back to the hotel for a pedicure at the attached Thermes Marins spa. This was a very complicated place to get in and around, and it was a bit of a surprise when another young French girl accompanied me into the men’s changing room to explain the lockers, as most other occupants of that overcrowded room were happily naked men.

My wife enjoyed the pedicure whilst I soaked up some rays on the deck overlooking the harbour. The pedicurist was very brave, advising her how much better she would look with botox, acid and some medieval ‘threading’ procedure on her neck. She also advised the use of factor 50 suncream, and I suspect that will be ignored too.

Lunch had been light, and I was now hungry, so we stopped off at the hotel’s quaint Lemon bar for a very expensive panini. I have to say that the rumours of how expensive Monaco is are all true – but then again the Caffe Ritazza at Liverpool Airport should have given away their coffee as it was not really fit to be sold, and the Piper Heidsieck champagne, although reduced to twenty quid in duty free, was not really fit to drink, especially warm as the cunning plan failed quite comically. You have to pay for quality.

Anyway, back to the cunning plan. We got back to the room and opened the fridge. True to her word, the French maid had moved just enough expensive mini bar bottles to fit in a small bottle of Calpol, not a 70cl bottle of champers. My psychosomatic diabetes would have to go untreated, whilst my wife filled the sink with the coldest water she could get out of the tap. Ultimately it failed, and most of the plonk got poured down the sink.

We headed for the exclusive Casino Monte Carlo that was not as exclusive as it probably once was. The dress code was very relaxed, and the roulette was very expensive. 5 Euro minimum bet, but it was popular and the one open table was fully occupied. Sally played and won and lost on some very complex fruit machines, and occasionally she was not really sure whether she had won, lost or simply hit the wrong button and cashed out. Dinner seemed a reasonable price in the fine old casino, but there was a reason for that too. Steak that would not even be served as such in England, and a mountain of lettuce leaves. Shocking really, but we were hungry! We called in to the other casino around the square, but this was just a collection of slot machines, so it was time for bed.

The next day there was talk of an air traffic controller strike (the French just love their ATC strikes), so I checked the internet and found that our flight was ok, unlike over 100 others that had been cancelled, but it was delayed by two hours due to an issue with a previous flight. No worries – but both of our phones were low on battery so we hastily sent messages to say we would be back by 5pm rather than 3. We got a very nice limo transfer back to the heliport, then Heliar once again whisked us across the Med and back to the airport. Nice airport actually looks quite good from the check in area, with cafes and restaurants all around. However, we are British and have bad experiences with security – so we rushed straight through. If you are in this situation – just don’t! Once inside, all that was available was a Costa Coffee and a newsagent, or the option to head through passport control into the gate B section where our flight would be leaving from.

A slice of apple tart staved off hunger, then we proceeded through passport control. The bar there was little more than a cafe, and it didn’t look too well prepared for a day that was about to get a whole lot worse (though quite predictably so). Time passed, and we were called forward for boarding, then a strange thing happened. Boarding stopped and an announcement was made, informing us that there was now a significant delay due to the air traffic control strike. We groaned and one by one passengers pleaded at the desk for more information. The Easyjet pilot, Mark Richardson, actually came to the desk, took over the mic, and explained that he had no more information and he would come back in an hour and say more. That quelled the crowd, and we headed back to the bar area. There was an internet station where we tried to charge our phones, but to no avail, and we were just about to buy a charger from a tiny duty free shop when a very nice Welsh lady offered the use of hers. My wife could be described as ‘chatty’, and so she learnt all about the merits of whisky from this lady who apparently worked in the Welsh whisky industry. Whilst this was going on I paid 5 Euros for half an hour of internet, and told all who needed to know of our predicament. This took a lot longer than expected, due to the nuances of a French keyboard. In particular, the m, a, z and w are in different places, and when you already use a standard keyboard a lot, this drives you nuts. For instance, the q and a have been transposed. My fingers know where ‘a’ is instinctively. They certainly don’t expect to find a ‘q’ there. And to move ‘m’ from its rightful place beside ‘n’ is just irritating.

I would have posted on Linkedin, but it would have taken ages, so I contented myself in reading the increasingly aggressive responses on a particular thread. I always find that if a thread generates more than about ten responses, the tone and relevancy of those responses generally degenerates! I did get a message on LinkedIn – from an agent that has now set up his own agency. ‘Not been in touch for ages – give me a call’. No I haven’t been in touch, but then neither have you. But now you want something. Funny that, isn’t it?

More news from the desk – they were now giving out vouchers for food. Unfortunately the bar had long since sold out! The  pilot returned with no more news but the promise of another hourly update, and then my wife and the Welsh woman negotiated their way back through passport control to Costa where the paninis were going fast. Actually, it was my wife who did the negotiating. The Welsh woman just meekly followed, as people are wont to do when my wife gets involved. So, they then returned through passport control without passports (I was safeguarding them – they only had to ask) but with hot paninis to the envy of other passengers.

The next announcement was more promising – we would be boarding at 5 and leaving at 5.30, and the mood cheered. When the time came we flew through the boarding process but had an agonising 20 minute wait before finally pulling back and taking off. A six hour delay could have been a whole lot worse, and a big thanks to the pilot for keeping us informed. Not so the Easyjet stewardesses who refused to allow us to spend our vouchers on board, despite their own documentation clearly stating that this is acceptable. I feel a letter coming on….

I read a lot of Stephen King books, and on this occasion I was reading his short story collection ‘Everything’s Eventual’. Now, I should explain that I read EVERYTHING. The prologue, the epilogue, etc. I don’t want to miss the fright of my life or the swish of a switchblade. Well, after every story in this collection there’s a little passage from King explaining why he wrote this particular story. It’s a bit too much, and frankly a bit arrogant. It’s a bit like the makers of The Simpson’s writing a book describing each episode and all of the funny bits that you might have missed as you are clearly not as bright as them (yes, such a book does exist). So, Mr King, I don’t mind reading your thank yous, but spare me your inspiration! And whilst on the subject of Stephen King, I am thinking of putting together my own collection of short stories. Oddities and horror and scifi. ‘A Tribute To The King’. What do you think?

‘Welcome To Liverpool Airport’ the sign reads as half of the planeload of passengers are forced to stand outside because the immigration area is simply not big enough. It never has been – and I don’t see any sign of improvement soon. Then there was the car park. An additional charge of £35 had been triggered because of our six hour delay (nice work if you can get it), but this was quickly waived at the gate (not bad, especially for Scousers).

The journey home was not exactly uneventful either. Ole decided he was camping with some mates – so we had to persuade him not to set up his tent in a random farmer’s field but to instead head for the cricket ground car park, then my car broke down. Its fine, its done it before, but it is still a bit disconcerting when it won’t go into gear on a motorway. Two minutes on the hard shoulder and it was fine to get on our way, but the same thing happened twenty minutes later at Cheadle! Finally, we arrived home. Ole has lit a barbeque visible across half of the High Peak, Zac wants a new kitten so countless hours of research into how to integrate it with Bobby our existing cat, and there’s an Alton Towers trip in the morning…

Last few minutes before sleep spent trying to decipher the meaning behind the minutes of Whaley Bridge Cricket Club Executive meeting. Were the words ‘closed system of chauvinistic paternalism’ really uttered in such a meeting within the confines of Whaley Bridge Bowling Club? I think not, but I would be very amused to find that they were!