ianb1964

I think you're supposed to credit the source for these things, but I didn't get it off LJ anyway. So fuck it.....

1. What do you add to your coffee?

I normally add a tea bag, hot water, milk and three sweeteners after forcibly ejecting the coffee into a bin.

2. What are you reading now?

Easy Riders, Raging Bulls by Peter Biskind. It’s the story of how the not so Beautiful People invaded Hollywood in the mid Sixties, made some brilliant films in the Seventies, revitalised a moribund industry and then fucked it all up by excessive coke sniffing, sex and delusions of grandeur. Which is why the local multiplex is showing shite like Saw XXXVII now.

3. Do you own a gun?

I own two. They’re light guns for the PS2

4. Are you registered to vote?

Yes. All I need now is someone worth voting for.

5. Do you get nervous before doctor appointments?

That depends. If I was coughing up blood, I’d be slightly apprehensive. But usually no.

6. What do you think of hot dogs?

They’re great in a bun, smothered in ketchup and onions. Preferably surrounded by firework explosions and bonfires.

7. Favourite Christmas Song?

Stop the Cavalry by Jona Lewie

8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning?

Tea and absinthe. Sets you up for the day.

9. Can you do push ups?

With a Kalashnikov held at a rakish angle to my head, I’m sure I could manage at least one.

10. What was the name of your first boyfriend/girlfriend?

June. She was a GP's daughter. Her parents' delight and joy at meeting me was unrestrained in its magnitude.
( Read more... )

The year turns towards its close, the weeks come and go, but Julia remains a constant, which I’m enormously pleased about. Our alternate visits to each other’s stamping ground are starting to become a regular occurrence that I’d be loath to give up. Her smiling face (unless you scoff all the chocolate Hob Nobs before she arrives; then she gets a bit fractious. And violent) cheers my rather quiet and boring existence no end. I’d post the photo I took of her on the platform before she went home, but I know it’d embarrass her, so I won’t. It’s now the screen saver on my mobile phone and makes me smile with pleasure every time I ring or text. She’s got a photo as a screen saver too. Shame it’s one of Karl Urban in LOTR, but that’s life, kids, sniff sniff.

Friday was spent cooking the ingredients that J had instructed me to buy, which caused me no end of head scratching and consternation in Tescos. I don’t know if this is common knowledge, but you can actually buy noodles that aren’t part of a Pot Noodle! I know, fuck me etc, but I was surprised. Shame they didn’t have any in, though. I got everything else and er, ‘helped’ J cook some of it, playing Johnny to her Fanny (snigger). Then we hit the sauce and watched some DVDs from my collection, Fantasia 2000, Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back and Flashback. Ah, we’re such self-conscious intellectuals.

Saturday was spent wandering the ancient city of Chester, which J had never been to but which always reminds me of a pocket York. It was wet and windy, which didn’t really bother us as we stopped for infrequent snog breaks. It’s great being fifteen when you’re forty five. We walked along the wall the Romans built to keep out day tripping Scousers (“Eh mate, wanna buy a statue of Laverna? No, it fell off the back of a cart, honest!”) and eventually arrived at Chester Cathedral, which I hadn’t seen the inside of for about five years. We paid our five quid per head entrance fee, because, let’s face it, the Church of England needs the money. Yeah, like a militant lesbian needs a Roy ‘Chubby’ Brown bootleg. As it turned out, it would have been cheap at quadruple the price.



"Alright everyone, from the top. 'I am an anti-Christ, I am an anarchist.....' "

Chester Music Society Choir, abetted by the Liverpool Sinfonia, under the baton of Graham Jordan Ellis, were inviting the local populace to ‘An Evening with Mozart’. Which I wouldn’t really fancy, because being dead for nearly 218 years is likely to make even a musical genius smell slightly odd. Fortunately for us, they were only peddling his compositions, so we were treated to choir and mini orchestra rehearsing sections of the Requiem. I can scarcely find the words to describe how astonishingly beautiful this experience was, wandering round a 900 odd year old cathedral with a woman you’re deeply in love with, while some of the most beautiful and passionate music ever written is being sung and played by people you can almost reach out and touch. Amazing; I’m surprised I wasn’t struck by a bolt of lightning from a non-existent creator for having the cheek to doubt their existence in the face of such overwhelming evidence.



"Oi, Scouse, my kettle drums, alright?"

Even better, J bought me my Christmas present, a scale model of Robbie the Robot from Forbidden Planet. Which she then took home, saying, “Not before Yule!” I fully expect her to post video footage; scaring the cats with the completed mechanoid, saying, “I rarely use it myself sir; it promotes rust,” and giggling at my lack of patience. Aww, she nearly fell asleep on the train home from Chester, her dodgy feet were hurting and she dozed off on the couch, exhausted after a hectic and trying week, poor thing. She’s rarely more lovable than when she’s in need of some TLC.

Sunday was spent in bed. Mind your own business!

I didn’t feel as sad when she went home this time, because I know we’ll be seeing each other soon. Now, if only I didn’t miss her like hell when we’re apart. And where the blazes am I going to get a tagine in Tranmere?

Five years ago, on the 15th of November, my Mum died. She had cancer, and fought against that for about five years too. She was only sixty three when she went, poor thing. So yesterday, Dad, all three of her sisters, one of her brother’s wives and myself went to Landican Cemetery to put flowers on her grave. We go a lot at this time of year, around the 15th, a bit closer to Christmas (Mum loved Christmas) and on her birthday, 22nd January. I get a tad upset when we go, otherwise I’m fine. I miss her a lot, but can fondly imagine she’s just popped out to the shops or wherever. When you’re stood in a cold, slightly damp cemetery, gingerly toeing the mole hills in the grass and staring at a black stone with her name picked out in stark gold, the weight of reality is a little hard to shrug off. ‘Beloved Mum of Ian’. Yeah, dead fucking right she was.

Afterwards, we walked over to another grave, containing Great Granny on Mum’s side, my Grandad and Grandma and my Auntie Jane’s daughter Tracy, who only managed three weeks on this sometimes unforgiving globe. This grave has stood there since 1960; when my Uncle Terry went up there earlier in the week, he found the back of the stone pitted from some dicks using an air rifle on it for target practice. Some bright spark had also been trying to lever out the lead lettering set into the stone. What for, to weigh it in for scrap? Look, I’ll give you the tenner you might make from this crime of the century. Thanks, people, do tell me where your family are interred, so I can dig up their bodies and drop them on your fucking porch, won’t you?

The only person I knew in that grave was my Grandma, Mary Mac. She tanned my arse as a kid when I was giving my Mum lip, she survived a World War, had seven kids (Irish Catholic descent, go Grandad!) saw her husband off to war in North Africa and Italy, saw him come back, saw him die at an early age and lived into her eighties. She was also barking mad; what can you say about a woman who:

Tried to stick the soles of her shoes back on with denture fixative.

Was amazed that Humphrey Bogart was still alive to do crisp adverts (in the Eighties).

Asked, “Is this Crossroads?” when we were watching Bill Bixby loose his shirt in The Incredible Hulk.

Answered “Lollipop lady” when the question on Family Fortunes was ‘What ten things would you find on a motorway?’

Fuck me, that’d be a harsh job. Cheers Mary, love you.

Julia phoned me on my mobile as I was tramping round the stones, a ray of sunshine through the clouds. Her timing was impeccable. Thanks, just for being there when I needed you. Love you too.

My abiding memory of Mum is her laughing helplessly till the tears rolled down her cheeks. She used to do this a lot; one example will have to suffice.

We used to own a dog, that worshipped Dad, was shit scared of my Mum, was my partner in crime from the age of four and had a strange psychotic hatred towards all other life on earth. Our neighbours over the road also had a dog, called Dill (yeah, The Herbs, it was the Seventies), owned by a six foot five Dutch woman who was a store detective. One day, our dog got out and made his way over the road, through the gates and into the front of our neighbour’s property. Dill came out, a bitch. Any other dog would have been intent on one thing only, making more dogs. Not our Blackie. Dill snarled and barked, Blackie barked back, jumped over her and sunk his teeth into her arse.

Chaos ensued.

Dad ran over the road double quick. Mum and I, standing at our gate, were treated to the sight of a six foot five female Dutch store detective hanging on to Dill and shouting, “Let go! Let go!” at Blackie, in a refined Dutch accent, while my Dad, a plater/boilermaker and as Scouse as they come, held on to Blackie, shouting, “Stop that, yer daft bastard!” at the top of his lungs. It was tug of war for the masses.

Dad, ever resourceful, finally hit on the solution. He reached down between Blackie’s back legs and squeezed the mutt's nuts until the dog let go with a yelp of anguished betrayal. Dad then frogmarched the still snarling Blackie back to Broster Towers, to threats of legal retribution from Mrs. Store Detective.

All through this, Mum was of no practical assistance whatsoever. She was too busy hanging onto the hedge and crying with laughter. Dad, saying, “What the hell are you laughing at?” as he passed just made her worse.

Ah, if it wasn’t for the women in my life, in fact and in memory, I’d be round the bend by now. Miss you, Ma.

So, the cold dried out, the train tickets were bought, J got another ear infection, my trick back played up and the arrival in York station was delayed for ten minutes while they took someone to hospital off the 16:35 to Newcastle. I was amazed that we got together at all this time; a religious man would have been expecting a rain of frogs or a writ from Billy Graham. That’s what seems to happen with the meetings J and I arrange, they’re as flexible as the hours she works as a civil servant for the MoD. And she still hasn’t got me an Army surplus Stolly yet, pout. I used to have a plastic one as a kid, always wanted the real thing. Brrrm brrrrm. So, forget that Jaco Pastorius biog, dearest, that’s what I really want for Chrimbo.

This meeting was far more domestic and home based than the others, which was a delight to me, it made me feel we were a proper, house-sharing couple, bless. You can tell how much the shine hasn’t tarnished on your relationship when your lover greets you on the platform with a long, lingering kiss, two dozen bags, a shopping list and a quick march to Morrisons. I hate food shopping, not helped by mad buggers determined to kill you in the Friday night rush, the premature removal of itchy contact lenses and the discovery that the lens has fallen out of your glasses, effectively rendering you blind. So, I was a grumpy arse all the way round the shop. J’s reaction? Despite doing a full day’s work, having an ear infection, having to sort out the shopping while I ran little old ladies over with the trolley and remembering other stuff too, she was concerned and solicitous to me while I was being a bit of a cock. I can only quote Kingsley Amis.

‘Women are really much nicer than men:
No wonder we like them.’

Home in a taxi, putting the frozen stuff away, on to more important matters. Later, we had a drink and grinned our way through Arnie being an unstoppable, Teutonic accented pine wardrobe in a Lycra catsuit in The Running Man. Ellie (J’s daughter) and her new boyfriend Joe came in from an apparently lousy Bonfire party half way through the film; they’ve been seeing each other for the same time as J and I. Aww. So, it was all cosmic new love vibes in the J household.

And that was pretty much it for the long weekend, we went into York on Saturday to attend to some stuff, but I felt knackered and J’s ear, neck and feet started hurting. So we jumped on the bus, she crashed out and I read Peter Biskind’s Easy Riders, Raging Bulls and plied her with cups of tea. The rest of the time was spent watching the box, reading, J on the PC or generally cuddled up on the couch. Not something I’ve experienced properly for a good three years, it’s the simple things that mean the most. Even her cats are starting to like me; the very rare Greebo put in an appearance and consented to be stroked. I’m honoured, especially as his diet is usually vampire.



"You talking to me? Well, I'm the only one here."

The other highlights (at least the ones I can write about decently) were J’s cooking. Being a new couple, we’ve either dined out or grabbed takeaways. J decided that this was wasteful and expensive and dammit, why should we when she can cook. Now, being to the culinary arts what Alan Bennett is to kickboxing, I stood back and let her work her magic. She’s been at it for years, she used to manage her Mum & Dad’s restaurant in York, and good lord, is her food exquisite. If she’s trying to dissuade a notorious guts like me from her hearth, she’s going about it in completely the wrong way. She’ll have to pick up her broom and apply it liberally to my arse. With any luck.

Back on the train on Monday, I was upset again. Don’t think J was, she was probably thinking, “Excellent, that greedy bugger’s got his head out of my cupboard!” She cheered me up by mucking about on the platform while I sat on the train waiting to go; along with all her other magnificent attributes, she’s got a great sense of humour. She must have; I’m her partner.

Thanks for everything, J. See you soon. x

I’m going to see my beloved on Friday, despite developing a slight cold which I hope doesn’t turn into something more serious. J suggested I eat garlic and lemons to stave it off. I’d rather have the bloody cold; I’ve no wish to smell like a vampire-repelling gin and tonic. So, does love cure all ills, making me a happy, well balanced human being? Am I a source of constant delight and happiness to my family and friends? Am I fuck.

My Dad’s a computer illiterate. The bloke who made Polaris submarines in the Sixties (I think he might have had some help there) won’t go near his laptop, doesn’t even know how to turn the thing on. Silver Surfers there may be in droves, but Father isn’t one of them. Not even the enticement of DIY porn at Screwfix can make him go near it. It’s a very scary black magic box to this particular pensioner. I couldn’t manage to work out how to make it smell like a pint of bitter without rendering it completely inoperative. He’d have been all over it like a geriatric rash, then. Oh yes.

I don’t mind that much, being the custodian of his bank balances, his online shopping at Sainsbury’s, the latest tools and gadgets from all over the Net and obscure electrical gubbins from Ebay. The fact that I have to carry all his passwords and login details around, in my own rapidly ageing and somewhat addled skull, is only a minor chore. What really pisses me off is the gear I have to do it on.

He’s partly to blame for this and so am I. “Get a PC, Dad, don’t bother with a laptop.” Once I’d explained the difference, he wanted a laptop. A PC would “take up too much room.” Perhaps he was under the impression that they were all the size of Colossus, the monster machine from Bletchley Park that broke the German Enigma code back in the Forties. Er, microprocessors, Dad? Anyway, after carefully perusing the specs of stuff that didn’t take up rooms, I bought one on his behalf for about £400. And it’s shit.

It does things without you telling it to, doesn’t do things when you do, the battery lasts for about ten minutes if you’re lucky, touch typing on the postage stamp sized keyboard is next to impossible, it’s slow, overheats and has to be shut down, crashes and is in every way an acute pain in the balls. I’ve come to a startling conclusion about this. It doesn’t actually contain all the things you’d expect to find in a laptop; hard drive, motherboard, memory modules, a few stray strands of Bill Gates’ pubic hair. It’s actually full of tiny loved-up demons, dressed in sparkly red lame jumpsuits, all ripped to the tits on ketamine and jumping around to The Shamen. They only stop when my huge, sagging face appears on the other side of the LCD screen. Whereupon they all start laughing, rubbing themselves up against each other and showing their arses to me, instead of carrying out their proper functions. No wonder the damm thing’s unstable.

But wait – there’s more!

Dad also subscribes to the noxious products pedalled by that fat Australian pirate, Murdoch. His ISP is (shudder) Sky. This is beyond a joke, as it works about as often as Bronze Age fletcher’s apprentice. It constantly looses the wireless signal, usually when you’re in the middle of paying a bill. Then you have to wait for an hour until the connection is re-established. Therapists trying to cure anyone of sex addiction should recommend Sky Broadband to their clients. They’ll never be able to rub one out, downloading porn from that. Of course, I could phone Sky up and request a repair. The only drawback is, a black haired cove with one leg and a parrot on his shoulder will then appear, say,  “Arrrr, it be broken, cross my palm with £250!” and piss off with the modem for a week. At least, that’s what happened last time.

Should have gone with Virgin, I think my hard wired modem has acted up, ooooh, never, in the eight months I’ve had it.

It’s OK; I’m going to reprogram my Dad’s gear later. With an axe.

So, the season of the little tyke knocking on the door in search of sweets is nearly upon us. I never feel entirely comfortable with it myself, probably because it seems to have turned into yet another commercialised, Americanised shadow of its former self. Having no religious beliefs of any kind, the turning of the Celtic year from light to dark holds no particular significance, All Hallows Even only resonates because of my deep and abiding love for all things horrible; the ghosts and goblins (stop sniggering, all you Zappa fans), the weird shape stalking the craggy skyline, the wind in the wires and the face at the window. That’s what I like. M. R. James and Tim Burton.

Obviously, it has other resonances too; witness the missive from Merseyside Police that popped through my door a few days ago. It was about the potential problems that a small but vastly irritating section of the populace, manly youths, but probably some adults too (being a tit isn’t necessarily the province of the young) might cause on Mischief Night. Or to give it a more accurate name, Horrible Little Bastards with No Sense of Social Responsibility Night. This is equally applicable to Bonfire Night, where it’s seen as perfectly responsible to distribute explosives to supposed elders, who either set them off at four in the morning or hand them over to their younger family and friends, to shove through letterboxes and tie to unsuspecting cat’s tails.

“I understand that anti-social behaviour incidents may make you feel frightened and angry….”

A bit, Inspector Blease. Not as much as the situation that has arisen, fostered by PC bollocks (no, his beat isn’t round here) and a touch too much liberalism, that allows the little buggers to behave like savages in the first place.

Lest anyone think that I hate all children and would advocate hook nosed, lank haired, top hatted Child Catchers, their disguised cages filled with rubber knives, plastic guns, cannabis and copies of Penthouse, to be stationed on every corner, I don’t. Lots of kids are nice, polite, well brought up individuals who have earned the right to go a little bit wild now and then. I just wish we could instil a little more social responsibility in some of them, instead of them petrol bombing Mr. Smith’s garden gnomes into submission every year. All in the name of mischief, obviously.

I’ll probably go out on the razzle myself, if only to avoid all the little terrors dressed as Transformers and Hanna Montana. There’s normally a good bash thrown by my local rock dive, The Castle, or Revolver as it’s known to the young whipper-snappers round here. Alas, there’s a Bon Jovi tribute band on that night (80s poodle rock always makes me nauseous, why not a Dammed tribute band instead?), but I’ll just avoid the main stage. Or I might just sit in, Father Jack-like, with a bottle of brandy, shouting “Feck off!” at every knock at the door.

Whatever you do, have a good one, folks.

Far away, on a rain-swept, windy hill, a skeletal figure with a scythe is shaking his bony head, looking down at a city and thinking ‘Chavtastic.....’

Ah, the delights of having your bird from York down to visit you for the first time in about twenty years. I stood on the platform, trying to look nonchalant, in the best Leonic tradition, waiting for her train to get here. When I spotted her, threading through the passengers and giving a comedy evil look to the woman in front walking too slowly (so Juliaesque it’s not true) all my nonchalance disappeared as my brain regressed to being fifteen again. This seems to be the keynote of our burgeoning relationship, the urge to listen to A Farewell to Kings, get drunk and snog in the most public places possible. Jesus, we’ll be playing D&D next. I swept her into my arms for the sort of snog that only two people of teenage sensibilities and an absence of nearly two weeks can indulge in.

We didn’t die on the train home, despite Julia doing the Harry Enfield Scousers catchphrases and bringing up the supposed penchant for Merseysiders to help themselves to property that might not be their own. Nor did we perish in a HMV queue when I was paying for two DVDs.

J (spots a copy of Jimmy McGovern’s Hillsborough DVD on the shelf) “Bloody hell, you lot don’t half bang on about that, don’t you?”

Me (Internal dialogue) Shhhh, someone’s going to inject us with a rare poison, we’re going to wake up naked in a burning, Bill Shankly-shaped cage while Kop supporters sway around us, hand in hand, in a huge circle, singing You’ll Never Walk Alone, I love you, please be quiet….

“Er, erm….”

But that’s my Jools, forthright and fearless, one of the reasons I love her so much. Even when my sphincter’s flapping like a penguin on a fish processing ship.

We did all the things that lovers do, wandered round Liverpool city centre (she was very impressed by St. John’s Tower), went to the Walker Art Gallery, stood gazing across the Mersey (I pointed out Cammel Laird on the Birkenhead side where Dad and Grandad had worked) had a look at the Albert Dock and signally failed to go into a McDonalds or a Burger King. We’re not veggies; J’s too good a cook to countenance that sort of fast food. I’m a culinary slut and just don’t care. We watched DVDs, got drunk, ate with splendid impartiality and enjoyed each other’s company immensely. Oh, and some bonking might have gone on too. J also bought tickets for Porcupine Tree’s Manchester gig, which she thought I might be slightly unexcited about. What? I’ll be jumping up and down like a lunatic on December 10th.

One incident out of many sticks in the memory. Waiting to cross the road by the Empire Theatre, the light caught her eyes; they’re a beautiful light brown colour, very warm and sensuous. So, having a naturally big gob that’s only occasionally attached to my brain, I said so. No point in keeping that stuff to yourself. She blushed (I love it when she does that), the gentle look on her face will stay with me forever. Then she told me to shut up. Again, so Juliaesque it’s not true. By such small things are our hearts ensnared.

All too soon, she had to go back. Why does waiting take an eternity and being together pass like a flash of lightning? Doubtless frozen centurions on leave from Britannia asked themselves the same question. I took her to the station, but didn’t wait to see her train leave; I had to dash a manly tear from my eye as I left Lime Street, one of the very minor penalties for being head over heels in love with a woman who lives some distance away. Would I swap her for someone nearer? Not for all the stars in the sky, mate.

Three weeks and then she’s here again. Tick tick tick....

About two months ago, a distant relative died and Dad and I were invited round to his house, to carry out that horrible/fascinating tomb-robbing procedure beloved of scavengers everywhere; sifting through stuff to see if anything was of use, before it fell prey to the house clearance people. Sort of like low-key Howard Carters. Only with less of the glitter of gold and more of the lure of tat. I’m a keen collector of films on DVD (Blu-Ray discs? £20 a pop? I should coco); to my great delight I inherited about 200 DVDs. Mostly John Wayne stuff. Yes, I know, he was a horrendous right-wing draft dodger who only ever played one role in his entire career, but his collaborations with John Ford are masterpieces. The Searchers is still the greatest Western ever made. Probably.  

But the films I want to discuss are some of the war ones that were in the horde, I’ve been watching such a large amount of them over the last few weeks that I’m in danger of going upriver and eating Happy Meals until Martin Sheen will be called upon to terminate me with extreme prejudice. What a mixed bag of carnage and misery.

Where Eagles Dare

Yes, the perennial Bank Holiday favourite of yesteryear, I must be the last bloke of my age on the planet not to have seen this before. It’s one of the best unintentional comedies ever made. A ridiculously convoluted plot, deaf, dumb and blind Germans who are so stupid that they can’t even count properly when they throw grenades, a helicopter, Clint’s magically reloading machine pistol, a WTF confrontation in the castle hall that I’ve watched a few times since and still can’t understand (what, they’re all genetically engineered Martians? From Venus? With SOE camels?), blonde espionage totty desperate to throw down with our doughty heroes, the list is endless. McLean pulls out the same saboteur sub-plot that’s in The Guns of Navarone (and in his shopping lists, for all I know) and the denouement with Patrick Wymark in the plane is so ludicrous that if Eastwood and Burton had unzipped their costumes to reveal that they were really Shaggy and Scooby seeking the Ultimate Sandwich Formula, then I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid.

This is war for a generation who were brought up on Commando comics, expect Germans to say “Ach Tommy, do not shoot! Arrgh!” even when they’re on a day trip to Düsseldorf and wouldn’t recognise Hugh Trevor-Roper if he was squatting on their chest and breathing port and crumpet fumes in their face. The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp it ain’t.

Oh, and there’s a soldier, manning a radio big enough to pick up pirate broadcasts from Proxima Centauri, that Clint could kill at any time within the half hour he’s stood there, but waits until the deaf Nazi has raised the alarm and then tops him; what a sporting chap.

Utter bilge. I loved it. Next!

The Last Drop

From the ‘so bad its good’ to the just plain bad. No one you’ve ever heard of in major roles, which is a shame, because the few people in it who you have heard of are too few to take your mind off the general air of low-rent British film shittiness. An embarrassed looking Jack Dee, Sean Pertwee, who’ll do any old bollocks for the money (not much from this one, I’ll wager), Billy Zane (shot at Jack and Rose, loved and lost Kelly Brook, reduced to appearing in this) and David Ginola, a bleedin’ footballer; I don’t remember seeing Orson Welles on the terraces. He’s so bad that I don’t think he even has any dialogue, just standard issue German army long hair for the 1940’s. As you did. Oh, and Michael Madsen’s in it too, to no discernable effect. Perhaps he thought he was playing a variation on Donald Sutherland’s Oddball from Kelly’s Heroes. He certainly looks under the influence of something.

The plot? Operation Market Garden, designed to shorten the war by capturing key bridges across the Maas and Rhine and allowing access to the Ruhr. It’s not about that. A small force of troops from every regiment known to the British Isles is to cross with the main force and carry out their own secret mission. You see, there’s this secret hoard of Nazi art treasure, but a renegade trio of Nazis are after it too and the SS are after them and…oh, who gives a shit, life’s too short.

Lousy CGI, a sergeant with an indefinable accent (is he a Scot? A Geordie? Croatian? Whatever, you’ll cheer when he gets shot. It’s the highlight of the film), a script that wants to be Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels for the war genre but fails by dint of cretinous ineptitude, a banging, out of place drum and bass score, mostly crap performances; this was so bad that I didn’t bother to finish it. No wonder the British film industry is nearly dead.

The only other highlight was spotting Rafe Spall, who I thought did a great job of playing William Holman Hunt in the BBCs recent knockabout farce about the Pre Raphaelites, Desperate Romantics. A good actor; even he couldn’t manage anything decent in this. You can’t perform in a void.

Spurn as you would a rabid dog. This one went straight to Oxfam. Next…..

So, here I am, autumn before me and in love; my favourite time of the year, when Nature starts to close down and you’re left in that slow, leaf-blown twilight that leads to winter and Christmas. How did I get here? Like Keats’ fairy-bewitched knight, I’m not quite sure. Did she charm me off my horse with that lovely deep voice of hers? Could be, that’s a fairy tale that’s haunted us right from the beginning…..

She’s someone I’ve known for twenty five years, we’ve drifted in and out of each other’s lives with impeccably lousy timing for about half that quarter century. Roughly five weeks ago, in a fit of free association and nostalgia, I Googled her name and it eventually brought me to here. Her email address was displayed, as was her ‘single’ status. I was nervous; to be honest, I didn’t know whether contacting her was a good idea; perhaps, after fifteen years, the past should stay asleep. An internal voice told me not to. That was the clincher, all the best times I’ve ever had (no matter how costly in emotional damage) have begun with me ignoring that small internal voice. So I said hello. She responded positively. I went to see her. There were a few glitches, all caused by misunderstandings. The rest of it was fantastic (mind your own business!) and I came away starting to fall. Bigger misunderstandings were to follow (I’m not going into details) but they were the catalyst for her realising she cared for me as much as I did her. I went to see her again and that was probably the loveliest three days I’ve ever spent in anyone’s company. In a short space of time (seems the blink of an eye and an eternity combined) we’re a couple.

So here we are, together, living in different places; there’s not a moment throughout the day that she’s not with me; in memories of her beautiful smile, what she says, the emails she sends, texts, phone calls. Oh dear, but I love her so much. I want to wander around York with her in the snow, holding her close every now and then, kissing like a couple of badly behaved teenagers, giggling and looning about. Yes, it’s an old song, full of clichés and embarrassing sentiment for those who aren’t blessed or lucky enough to be enfolded in the melody. To me, it’s absolutely magical, the more so because I’d pretty much consigned those expectations to the past. Childish nonsense. I’m a grown-up now. Guess again, you lucky man.

Like a refugee stumbling from long incarceration in a dark space, I’m still looking round and blinking in the light, stunned at the beauty of the world after all that featureless black. When I turn, there she is, swinging the key, laughing in delight, kissing me, holding me like she’ll never let go. Damm, but life is good sometimes, it suddenly pays out all the interest that you suspect it’s been hoarding for years!

Love you, thanks for what we have so far, as well as what we will have as we walk along the same path together. You mean so much to me, for so many different reasons.

Normal service will be resumed, just as soon as we work out what the hell is normal anyway.