Hindsight and regret

A few weeks ago I noticed that the youngest brother of a family I used to be very friendly with, was on facebook. I had known them since I was twelve and the eldest son was best man at my first wedding and I was best man at his. Another brother, John, became a good friend as we got older and his elder brother went off to university. John and I had similar personalities, both opinionated and smart arses and we argued as much as got on over all manner of trivia. We were both overly sarcastic at times but we had a real friendship.

John queued for tickets for us to see Led Zeppelin whilst I provided the transport. We went to see King Crimson. I dragged him to see Budgie and he blackmailed me into a Trapeze concert. A group of us Island Hopped around Greece in the late seventies and he dragged us along on two skiing holidays with a group of his adrenalin junkie friends. As we got older, we drifted as we all had jobs in different parts of the country. I divorced with the usual acrimony that entails and we lost touch. I built a new life with new friends. Over the years, I'd hear snippets about them from mutual acquaintances or from my sisters bumping into their parents. I was told I should call and see their Mum and Dad but didn't.

Rather bizarrely, over the last six months, I began having dreams about my old friend David. I say bizarre as he still looked 30 and, in my dreams was a complete bastard. He is anything but. I began to think that it would be good to get in touch but, apprehension ruled. I couldn't help thinking that perhaps, all we would have in common is the past.

As I said at the start, the chance to communicate presented itself and I took it. Three weeks ago, John was killed in a mountain bike accident. He was 59 and still an adrenaline junkie. All being well, I will be meeting all these people next Monday, at his funeral. I cannot think of worse circumstances.

A saying you so often hear is "It's never too late". Sometimes it is.

School (part one)

Just last night I realised that is is fifty years to the week since I started my first term at Grammar School. Ours was the first "post eleven plus" year but I think I can say without arrogance, I was probably bright enough to have passed that anyway.

I was a catholic and went to catholic Junior School. I can still vividly remember my first day, at four and a half years old, walking up the road with my lovely Granddad who stood and watched as I was ushered into the place. It seemed vast, milling with kids of all shapes and sizes, none of whom I knew. My big sister was there but I didn't see her as we had started an hour later on the first day.

My teacher was Miss Ellison and I fell in love with her immediately. I reckon she was about 21. She had short curled hair and wore cotton v necked jumpers and a tweedy type skirt, over the knee of course. It's a little disturbing now that I actually remember what my first school teacher used to wear. It would probably freak her out. My oldest sister saw her last week at a funeral. She will be around 77 we worked out. I can only see her as a lovely 21 year old.

I was teachers pet. I learned to read very quickly and went through the blue books and green books in no time at all. Miss Ellison used to let me pick a more challenging book from the small library they had so I didn't get bored but I think she was right when she told me I wouldn't find "The diaries of Samuel Pepys" too exciting. I made friends. John Ellerton, Michael Carter, Mark Abberton and others. I haven't seen any of them for longer than I can remember.

The school day seemed to mainly consist of catechism with Miss Mullarkey. She was the head teacher and a formidable woman. She scared the bejesus out of the kids and many of the parents too. Oddly, I remember her deferring to my Dad. Most people did. Who made you? God made me. Why did God make you? God made me etc etc etc. I can still recite all that crap now. We learnt them all off by heart. On a positive note we also had our times tables hammered into us. I am grateful for that now. It should still be compulsory. Teachers were allowed to slap kids but, by and large we were well behaved and I can't remember any punishments. That changed dramatically at Grammar School. We all got a bollocking when the fist male teacher arrived at the school. John Leedle. He was the first teacher who seemed to have a first name too. He played the violin and we were amazed as we crowded at the classroom door to see him play. Miss Mullarkey was not amused.

I could waffle on for hours about this period of my life, playing football in the tiny yard, rolling up for Robin Hood or William Tell. Red rover was one of my favourites as I always broke through the chain. I must have been a little fat sod. I must tell my favourite story though. All the school was assembled in one classroom. We were being given some instruction or other when the most disgusting smell permeated the air. We've all had the farts at inappropriate times but this was the gold medal of stinks. It had an odour of egg belch and mature Camembert. Kids were holding their noses and the odd one was retching. Finally, the teachers broke ranks and it was the lovely Shirley Ellison who asked the most amazing question. "Which one of you hasn't cleaned their teeth this morning"

I loved that woman.

My Guide to Twitter

It's over two years since I wrote this blog so I thought it was time to update it having had much more experience of Twitter and considerably increased my following.. I am basically here for the humour. I joined a couple of years ago, followed Stephen Fry as you are supposed to, found it boring, and dropped out. In April 2011, Gabby Logan mentioned Twitter and my interest was piqued again. She advised us to follow Gary Delaney, adding he was hilarious though sometimes risqué. I did so and enjoyed some of his early posts. I particularly enjoyed one about him entering a semaphore marathon but after 18 hours he was flagging badly. I replied to a couple of posts he made but didn't, at the time, realise there was a hierarchy on Twitter to conform to.

Twitter basically falls into four levels or "social classes". There are the D listers where I am firmly rooted along with the majority of people who subscribe. Us D listers know our place. We sometimes tweet above our station and, feel excited when someone from an upper level gives us a compliment or a reply. Some might call it common courtesy but on Twitter, these are rare gifts. Most of the people I correspond with are also D listers, even though a few of them do comedy professionally.

The C listers are a strange breed. On here are unknowns who have become famous and lauded within the Twitter family. They feel they have elevated themselves to a higher status and they are due respect from their inferiors. There is an arrogance in their response to tweets from lower orders. Woe betide anyone who tweets a funnier reply than their post. That is unforgivable.They will not follow you, no matter how entertaining or funny you may be. If you do happen to attract a c lister to your following, don't post a funny reply to their tweets. They hate this and will immediately unfollow. The easiest way to spot a C lister for newbies is to check the retweets. They constantly retweet each others posts telling us how funny they are in case we didn't notice and commanding us to follow them.

They often grandly announce in advance that they are going to treat us to an old tweet of theirs so we can prepare ourselves for the merriment to come and gasp in admiration. I have taken to doing this as a piss take. I have no fear of retribution for saying this as no-one from this level would lower themselves to read an inferiors blog. I have lost quite a few C list followers. I am, of course, broken hearted. I do however still see most of their stuff as I follow one or two others and they constantly retweet them. None of them was much of a loss as there was often a touch of arrogance in their musings. I find far funnier tweeters at D level. To be honest, the people at this level are much better too. One thing you must never do to a C lister is question them or disagree with their pronouncements. That is a recipe for immediate banishment. If you tweet something with a copule of words in it that a C lister may have tweeted previously, boy are you in trouble. You will be accused of plagiarism and stealing from these talented folk. Personally, I am sure that 90% of one liners on twitter must have been done before in once form or another. I have seen my own done frequently but wouldn't dream of challenging someone (unless they copied them word for word)as I have no way of knowing if mine was original in the first place.

B list is the celeb level. On this level it can be quite confusing. There are celebs who wouldn't reply to their own mothers whereas some reply generously to questions or to remarks. A good example is David Baddiel who will comment if he sees something funny he likes or will reply if asked a direct question. I do. of course, take into account the fact that these celebs may be bombarded with tweets and it may be very difficult to answer a large number but, if you can't be arsed replying, don't bother posting. I still follow a couple on this level as I find them amusing or informative. I don't expect them to acknowledge my existance or humour me. C listers want to court the B listers. They suckle up to them and massage egos in the hope of kudos amongst their peers or admiration from their implied inferiors.

The A list is in space. It is reserved for the Lady Gaga's and Justin Biebers of this world. It is a publicity tool and offers little or nothing to the substance of Twitter. I follow no A listers.

I am more than happy to be a D with my contemporaries. I am more than happy to see some of them elevated to 2 or 3 and I will still follow them if they remember who us mere mortals are, when they ascend. I will however, continue to view the majority of C's with suspicion. Pride often comes before a fall. And, just in case I become famous (more likely infamous) I will continue to acknowledge the lower orders with a quip or remark, just so than can remind me of what a twat I have become

Dogs v People

As some will know, we have a poorly dog. Steffi has continued to have mild strokes. We got back from holiday last Saturday and on Sunday she collapsed again. She hasn't walked since. She neither ate nor drank anything for 36 hours and we called the vet to euthenise her.

The vet explained that, due to her heart failure, giving the traditional injection would be very difficult as her veins will have contracted. The alternative, an injection of sedative, can have a short term but distressing effect on the dog causing her to thrash around until it takes her away. We could not stand the thought of that. He told us that, as she wasn't neither eating nor drinking she would probably go during the night. With trepidation, we crept downstairs on Monday morning, expecting to find her dead but no, she was still with us, still hardly moving but following us with her eyes.

Come Monday afternoon, she was drinking again and showed interest when we fed Harry so we steamed her two chicken breasts which she wolfed down. Since then she has eaten two more along with a tin of tuna and a number of biscuit treats. She will still not get up. Jan is cleaning her when necessary. It is a real dilemma. I have already started to dig a hole in the garden where we can put her. She is in no apparent pain. We will ring the vet again tomorrow for more advice.

We had quite a bit of snow on Monday. Harry and Steffi loved the snow. They used to charge through it and dive into it. Steff wouldn't move and Jan took Harry out in it. He just stood still looking forlorn. It wasn't the same for him without his sister. He peed, turned and walked back into the house. He has stopped bringing toys over to Steffi to play with. He realises there is something wrong. He is just moping around. I have no idea what he will do when the inevitable happens. They are inseparable. Steffi and Harry have been perfect pets and companions. We have not had a second of bother with them. They have been totally loyal,protective but never aggressive. They adore the girls, making a fuss of them every time they visit.

They will be my last German Shepherds. I wept buckets holding my last GSD as they put her to sleep. I hope I will be more pragmatic this time but it will be tough. Dogs give you unconditional love and loyalty asking for nothing in return. How I wish I could say the same of people.