Return

Back to Bradford for another reunion. Yes, we went back again – performing more come backs than Garry Glitter, and we all know what happened to him. Don’t we.

I had an odd feeling about the reunion this time round - like no-one would turn up.

So, when Sam and I arrived Friday night and went down to the Shearbridge and there were no familiar faces there, the prophecy seemed as though it might come true. The pub was fairly empty save a bunch of 40-something punks who acted sort of threatening and kept singing – "We are the punks, We are the punks…" every 10 minutes. So we didn’t stay long.

We ambled down into town and to the Shoulder of Mutton, which was fairly busy, but again, none of the Elec Eng bunch were there. So it was on again, continuing the search, to the Bee Hive. Not before, though, we made an unscheduled stop, at the Midland Hotel. Big posh place down near Forster Square that attracted us with the strains of live music.

On investigation the music came from a room in the hotel that was hosting a school leaving do. I approached the room door and was accosted by a youth who explained the event and invited us in to listen. So we went in, and immediately I felt that we stood out a little. A bit like the caretaker and his bit of stuff who’d been invited as a joke. Or perhaps two not-so-well-disguised CID officers investigating under-aged drinking. As if to expose us even more, we ordered a drink and immediately the band stopped and walked off the stage leaving us to finish said drinks without the diversion of the music.

To the Friday Hive

Up at the Beehive it was good to see the place alive once more. There was a group of very drunk folkies in the corner playing instruments the best they could – considering their state. So we had a drink and, as I quietly considered the final demise of the Friday reunion, who should tap me on the shoulder but Chris Hastings. He was with Kev and Phil (who I hadn’t seen for 6 years).

There was a round of ‘where have you been’, and the penny suddenly dropped. Despite meeting in the Shearbridge for the last 23 years, Dave had slipped in a change of venue. We should meet in the Beehive. So these poor chaps had been sat waiting – nay, suffering - for the best part of 4 hours for us to turn up. Needless to say that they were slightly worse for wear, especially Kev who was speaking in an unusually load voice and kept repeating himself.

After the initial pleasantries Phil and I took up arguing again as we had left it 6 years before, about what I can’t remember. It just seemed the natural thing to do.

So, when we had drank our fill we moved on to the Westgate for a curry. The curry was OK I thought – just OK.

Interesting we learned the day after, that someone else had turned up to the reunion and also missed the meeting. Dave came to the Beehive earlier to find no one in the main bar, so he cleared off. Had he visited the snug he would have found Kev applying the Taylor ’s.

The Wonder of the Westleigh

Great to be back at this prestigious hotel, and to be welcomed by the same layer of dust that greeted us last year, only this time a little deeper . Our room was in the attic, and was hot and airless. A few tropical plants, Havana cigar and the strains of Buena Vista Social Club and we could have been in Cuba .

Still, the alcohol did the trick and before you could say Che Guevara if was time for Breakfast. Of course by this time ( 10:00 am ) Phil had left the building having been up for 6 hours, done his shopping and rebuilt a Triumph Bonneville.

Kev had undergone a personality change and from mine-host had turned into Captain Pike from Star Trek. Now Trekky fans will remember Pike, who was the subject of a two episode story in which he underwent a Court Marshal. Pike had previously been badly burned in a radioactive accident on his Starship and had been rendered completely immobile. He rode about in a sort of wheel chair, which looked like the bottom half of a Dalek, and communicated without speech, gesticulation or facial expression using 3 lights – yes – no and something else which I can’t remember. (I want to pee, possibly). Kev didn’t have the wheelchair or the lights, but the rest was the same. I contemplated fitting him up with the lights to make communication easier.

After, breakfast we decided to go to Kirkstall near Leeds to see the Abbey. Kev flashed green.

 Kirkstall

In the Aire Valley just down the road from Headingley Cricket Ground stands the ruins of a 12th Century Monastery, Kirkstall Abbey. The Abbey is as intact as most relics of this vintage (i.e.ruined) but somehow lacks atmosphere. Not its fault really. Being bordered, as it is, by a dual carriageway, and railway, and being on the main flightpath for Yeadon airport, it just doesn’t exude the tranquility that befits such a place. It’s also in the custodial hands of Leeds City Council who, although keeping it in good repair, have afforded it as much respect to as a park bandstand. It’s surrounded by a wrought iron fence and is not generously signed. What signage there is, however, is good, and does start to set the scene. But you cannot help thinking that so much more could be done to give the place the respect and atmosphere that it deserves.

Across the road is a small museum. It is based on the original gatehouse of the monastery, and has been extended over the years to resemble a medium sized country house. The museum features mainly Victorian artifacts from the area and defies its size by turning into the Tardis when entered. Many of the displays are set as small tableaus; shops and houserooms, and it has a small mock street inside. The museum is well maintained, bright and interesting, and what looked like being a ½ hour visit for us turned into a 2 hour treat, followed by tea and a cake in the cafe. Well worth a call if you’re in the area. There’s a small section that covers the monastery and tells of the monks’ day. Bed for them was at 8:30pm , then they were up at 2:00am for prayers. Back to bed for a short kip and up again praying at 3:30am ….and so on. A hard life I think. Turns out that they weren’t all goody 2 shoes either. They used to go out on raids and beat the shit out of the locals - Singing "We are the monks, We are the monks", probably.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Headingley

Just as an aside, on the way back, I couldn’t help but divert to pass a couple of old residences I shared in Headingley. One, almost opposite the cricket ground, and the other, a couple of streets back in suburbia. It was there, back in the late 70’,s that I was befriended by my charismatic mentor landlord, C.H (name disguised to protect the innocent). I was ‘grasshopper’ to his ‘master’. His West Country Charm and David Essex looks succeeded in dragging the pants of more women than Bob French on a good night – and that’s saying something.

Yes, many a night I would wake to the sound of little panting cries and his head-board thumping against my bedroom wall. I always remember that fateful morning when, having got up for work and got halfway through bolting my Weetabix, there was a loud knock at the door. When I opened it a red faced man shot straight past me up the stairs in to CH’s bedroom. There followed shouting with CH claiming that he never touched her. Of course he hadn’t. Two of the eternal triangle left shortly afterwards. Anyway, enough of these reminisces.

Three doors up from my old place was a splendid sight. The owners of a 3 bed semi had turned it into the Bat Cave , with Batman colours and logo’s on every wall. Even Batman logos on the Wheely bins. Now you don’t get that in Wokingham.

 

 

Photographic Museum and IMAX

We returned to Bradford to meet Richard, Audrey and PC at the Hotel. Good to see them all. Richard was sporting a new job and told the tale of his hiring to everyone individually, with the same script. "….and the rest is history". You boring old sod, RJJ. (Luv you really)

It was suggested we have a look at the IMAX cinema at the Photographic Museum to kill some time before going to the Italia. The prospect of this did not fill me with great excitement, but what the hell, if that’s what the kids want….

 As it turned out the things was quite spectacular as the show was in 3D. We were given a pair of polarising over-specs which sorted the stereo vision thing out. And then they launched us into space on the shuttle. Wow. It was so real. It seemed like you could reach out and touch the astronauts. Great stuff.

I’m sure all cinemas will eventually be like this. Then we will have IMAX 3D lap dancing and that will be the end of ever seeing PC again (and probably me too for that matter).

 

 

 

 

 

Italia

Life is not the same without a visit to the Italia, and of course there we found the intrepid Phil tucking into his meat pie and chips, and acting hurt because we’d all abandoned him.

Saturday night

 Because of the previous nights uncertainty about the Shearbridge/Bee-Hive thing, the main contingent headed to the Hive, leaving Bob and the recently maritally challenged Chris, to mop up any confused late-comers. Well, no one extra did show, so we eventually centralised at the Hive to move on to the Shoulder of Mutton. Both these pubs seemed to be getting on fine despite some worrying rumors from last year.

 Life or course, would not be the same without a ‘Dock of Aussi White’ and not wishing to bury the memory of Mr Henderson completely, we did our duty in Yate’s Wine Lodge.

It was about this time that some dissention started to arise. Feeling like young things again, most of us elected to visit one of the ‘alcho pop’ joints which had taken over the Mac’s building. Phil and Kev were not so keen, and slunk off to somewhere more civilised. I elected to stay with the women who had the kitty. A wise decision for a man of such limited means, I felt.

We grouped to enter the first of these popular ‘pubs’ and filed past the bouncers. I suddenly remembered that self-consciousness which I always had felt when going into night clubs, with the almost absolute certainty that, for some reason I wouldn’t be let in.

As it was, I had no trouble. But you guessed it. It was that hard-faced troublemaker of the group, who was to be rejected this time. You know, he of the threatening leer and dominating stature. I warned him about that mini Swiss army knife he had on his key ring, but he just wouldn’t listen. The fact was, Gorilla Gunton’s trainers were not acceptable,  so he was out  Being loyal and trusted friends, we had a vote about abandoning him, and the women won the day. We had to leave.

Next door was more amenable to the thug, and so we managed to bag a pint, after which we had to take the long and mindless journey back to the Hive where we were to meet the defiant Phil and Kev and down a few more.

It was at this stage that poor old Dave, after a hard day painting his house in Bingley, started to flag and hanker for a curry and his bed. Trouble was, this session was not over, and being a selfish bunch of half-cut engineers, heels began to be dug in. I hate to say it, but despite being our long suffering local reunion organiser, we let the old boy down, and he eventually returned home tired, curryless, full of bitter shandy, and wearing unacceptable trainers. A tragic end to a rejectful day for him.

Curry

One facet of our long relationship that always amazes me, is our ability to bicker about curry venues, especially after lots of ale. Westgate or Kash was the question, with two very entrenched and opposing views. It was only after being herded into the Westgate that a conclusion was finally reached and a mass exodus occurred, causing Kev much grief and apparent embarrassment. All his lights were flashing at once now.

Such was the ensuing argument that all seemed to head off in different directions, and although all members eventually arrived at the Kash, it was a sporadic affair. For my part, I faced the full wrath of Kev. Lots of red lights now because he had left his much loved baseball cap at the Hive. Funny what you do when well tanked up, but to win back some credibility I ran all the way back to the pub and retrieved his cap. I can assure you that I would never, never do such a self-sacrificing and potentially heart attack causing thing, sober. Never.

Sunday

All’s well that end well, and Sunday morning at breakfast was a reasonably agreeable and friendly affair. No Phil of course, but that’s breakfast, I suppose.

We arrived in the breakfast room in dribs and drabs. Each individual, by chance arriving while the waiter man was in the kitchen. So, much to his confusion, he had one new customer every time he left the kitchen, and after the 8th time or so it happened, I think he though someone was taking the piss. Eggs were much improved this year. Just need to work on providing marmalade (not apricot jam) now.

As we packed up and left, we said our farewells outside.

Surprising, how everyone ignored Bob’s SLK Mercedes and crowded round to admire my new striking Honda Civic 1.4 S (43mpg) with its electric front windows, amazing rear leg room for a small car, and funny gear stick that comes out of the dash board, so offering the luxury of stepping through from driver to passenger seat without having to cock your leg up over the centre console. Very surprising.