Heading for England´s west coast in the depths of winter midst some of coldest weather in 20 years isn´t everybody´s idea of a weekend away, but off I went anyway. My schedule was so tight (steady!) that I could only manage half an hour at my folk´s house in Guiseley, West Yorkshire before catching the next train to the Fylde Coast. The Leeds train from Manchester airport had been cancelled due to the fact they´d had a light smattering of sleet 3 days previously, so I´d had to divert to Manchester Picadilly station and board a grossly overloaded cattle truck whereby I spent the first half hour stood nose to nose with disgruntled red nosed commuters, before being the first to spot that an Indian woman was getting ready to get off at Huddersfield (I was already in her seat before she had chance to fully straighten).
I was greeted at Blackpool Station as I´d never been greeted before, at any station anywhere, by a police dog being encouraged to sniff at my nether regions by an officer who offered no explanation for this behaviour whatsoever. It seems that the dog approved of me and I was allowed to proceed from the platform with a slightly puzzled look and canine drool on my inside leg. Girlfriend Nikki was there to meet me bless her (that´s why I went there in the first place now I come to think of it), and as we approached the car park my teeth played a sort of tune as the ferocity of the cold air nearly bowled me over. That night we decided to partake of a couple at the local pub, which, since the tragic demise of “Uncle Tom´s cabin” is now a fairly substantial walk to “The Gynn”. They had a befuddled karaoke presenter in his 70´s who couldn´t sing a note so and so indulged himself with mock sword fights with drinking straws at the bar with startled customers while he waited for volunteer singers. We didn´t feel the urge to help him out.
Early next morning I decided upon a stiff walk before breakfast – it worked – it certainly stiffened me. I felt compelled toward the seafront, as the sky was clear and, as is most strange for these parts, there was not a hint of precipitation of any kind. I don´t know what the temperature was exactly but after about ten seconds of skirting foolishly with the gale off the Irish Sea, the wind whistled up my trouser leg, searched out my genitals and unceremoniously rammed them up somewhere between the tops of my lungs and my Adams apple. The muscles in the left hand side of my face contracted violently, shut one eye, opened the other and as I drew in my cheeks I had the very living breath sucked from within me which left me in a hideous pose something akin to Charles Lawton from The Hunchback Of Notre Dame. Bracing, I think you´d call it.
That night I watched Nikki perform in the “North Shore Working Men´s Club”, where she gallantly went on, did three 30 minute spots and was basically treated like the intermission for the bingo. Apparently she´d appeared there a couple of times before and on the last occasion the concert chairman had brought her on stage thus – “And now we´ve got a female vocalist coming on, I´ve never heard her – but apparently she´s alright”. That must have whipped the locals up into a frenzy. It was a great concert room though, with a spacious dance floor and a great big stage leftover from the glory days in the 60´s, like so many clubs however, they have fallen victim to the recession, the smoking ban and pub happy hours. The handful of people that were in there came in clutching their “dabbers” and clipboards and were treated to the seasoned double act of “Jack and Harry” – the Con. Sec/bingo ticket seller combo going through their tried and trusted act. Just for the record, I thought they were better than Mike and Bernie winters.
Early next morning I decided upon a stiff walk before breakfast – it worked – it certainly stiffened me. I felt compelled toward the seafront, as the sky was clear and, as is most strange for these parts, there was not a hint of precipitation of any kind. I don´t know what the temperature was exactly but after about ten seconds of skirting foolishly with the gale off the Irish Sea, the wind whistled up my trouser leg, searched out my genitals and unceremoniously rammed them up somewhere between the tops of my lungs and my Adams apple. The muscles in the left hand side of my face contracted violently, shut one eye, opened the other and as I drew in my cheeks I had the very living breath sucked from within me which left me in a hideous pose something akin to Charles Lawton from The Hunchback Of Notre Dame. Bracing, I think you´d call it.
That night I watched Nikki perform in the “North Shore Working Men´s Club”, where she gallantly went on, did three 30 minute spots and was basically treated like the intermission for the bingo. Apparently she´d appeared there a couple of times before and on the last occasion the concert chairman had brought her on stage thus – “And now we´ve got a female vocalist coming on, I´ve never heard her – but apparently she´s alright”. That must have whipped the locals up into a frenzy. It was a great concert room though, with a spacious dance floor and a great big stage leftover from the glory days in the 60´s, like so many clubs however, they have fallen victim to the recession, the smoking ban and pub happy hours. The handful of people that were in there came in clutching their “dabbers” and clipboards and were treated to the seasoned double act of “Jack and Harry” – the Con. Sec/bingo ticket seller combo going through their tried and trusted act. Just for the record, I thought they were better than Mike and Bernie winters.
I am now beginning the huge task of planning the “Gorilla Walk”, so far all I´ve got is a starting date – 22nd June from Berwick-upon-Tweed – the finishing date is a little trickier to work out. For more details on this and lots more go to – www.kevinholt.net
