A few days ago whilst reclining in a local coffee-spot enjoying the not quite dulcet contributions of a neighbouring pensioner apparently chewing on a mouthful of gravel, I found myself seized by the urge to conduct a timely review of my literary career to date. Distracted by the somewhat off-putting presence of a slab of walnut cake, I strained to hold my concentration as I mulled over the various highs and lows of the recent creative output I had bandied around the houses in search of an approving perusal.
It would perhaps be fair to say that the lows outnumbered the highs quite emphatically, but as I soaked up the lazy rays of the afternoon sun in the much-coveted window chair, I could not help but relive some of my closer calls with literary success in an inane attempt at restoring my flagging aspirations to the echelons of the heavyweight bard.
Some indeterminable amount of time later, having been brought-to from an impromptu doze by a waitress who had clearly suspected my slumped form to be the result of some fatal heart condition, I was abruptly plucked from a vivid dream in which I had taken on the existence of a similarly ambitious wordsmith. Undoubtedly by pure coincidence, the travails of my visionary incarnation I recalled to be similarly fruitless, as might be told by the following excerpts from the religiously maintained journal thereof which I dreamt up later that evening...
May 8th
Today has been a good day. Following six months of hard work, I finally completed the second stanza of my latest poem, a bittersweet reflection on a doomed love affair provisionally entitled “Beyond the Hedgerow.” I am very pleased with it so far, and am convinced it will finally generate the critical acclaim my fast-growing volume of work surely deserves. The wordplay is rich and playful, featuring subtle rhythms intertwined with the clever use of rhyme – for example, the words “fallow” and “shallow,” and even in one inspired passage the phrases “borne of her psychosis” and “bovine tuberculosis.” I feel my work is entering a new dimension, utilising a growing maturity and dexterity with language common only to the truly gifted. In a further development, I received today an invitation from another agent to lunch, presumably again to discuss the potential for my play to take to the West End. I hope he is less moronic than the last one - his crass dismissal of my masterpiece as “the magnum opus of a simpleton” still lingers in the memory like a bad smell. I will agree to meet this latest rodent from Variety, if only to gain more experience in the field of negotiating a fee reasonable enough to sustain my modest lifestyle. Perhaps this time I might lower my demands slightly, but let me say here that I shall accept nothing less than 2% of the gross, unless for example my travelling expenses to the opening night are at least partly covered.
May 12th
Only a brief entry today – have not slept for 3 nights... On Thursday evening I was adrift in the supermarket when I was suddenly struck with a flash of inspiration for a new short story. In the absence of my usually ever-present Dictaphone (which unfortunately I had dropped whilst brainstorming some fresh ideas in the bath last week), I was forced to call my home phone and recite the basic plot structure into the answer service. As fate would have it, in the heat of the moment I misdialled the number and ended up waxing lyrical to the bewildered proprietor of the local Indian restaurant, who, before I could explain my mistake, abruptly hung up. I may as a result be forced to utilise the services of one of his many worthy competitors whenever I next develop a hankering for a Shahi Biriani. Nonetheless, I had recalled sufficient details of the story by the time I got home to make some basic notes, and after a quick check of my e-mail inbox for anything other than the usual nothingness (I don’t know why I bother), I was soon tapping away with Chapter One. Here I am now, 3 days later and utterly exhausted, but hopefully with the first draft of what may well turn out to be my most successful short story to date sitting in the office. At this early stage, I feel quietly confident that the bold subject matter (the immoral desires of a bogus chiropodist), and strong central character (a narcissist in denial who self-harms to prove his point) cannot fail to ruffle feathers amongst the panoply of pinheads who churn out all that paperback drivel you see covered in thumbprints at Tesco. Forgive me – my tiredness is getting the better of me... Busy day tomorrow – business lunch with Max Margolin from Footlight Agency, then a meeting with Klaus... I hope he has kept up with his medication. How I ever got mixed up with a bipolar co-writer I will never know. But now, sleep! How we suffer for our art...
May 13th
Today has been a challenge to reach the end of without succumbing to the ever-present allure of the emergency cyanide capsule I have safely ensconced for just such occasions within the depths of my underwear drawer. I have nonetheless made it intact to this entry, and hope to successfully record the day’s events before adopting the foetal position in the nearest darkened room. Let me start at the very beginning... In hindsight, the following undoubtedly set the tone for the subsequent events of the day by way of the most immaculate omen: Whilst showering before breakfast, I was alerted to a sound not unlike my apartment door being opened from the outside followed by the unshakable conviction that some alien presence had invaded my living quarters. Dismissing the feeling as the paranoia of one who had recently watched the film Zombie Flesh Eaters alone in a dark room, I finished showering before towelling down and applying my usual emollients. My instincts were however proved most perceptive, when upon striding naked from the bathroom into the hallway I found myself face to face with a similarly mortified intruder. Avoiding unnecessary detail, this person turned out to be the new tenant of the apartment upstairs who had evidently been supplied with the spare key to my own apartment by some nincompoop down at the offices of Jones, Chapman and Kablinski. Following my initial shriek, which would have graced the sound reel of any Boris Karloff movie, I eventually coaxed my new acquaintance from the confines of his chosen sanctuary (the airing cupboard) and following impassioned explanations from both sides escorted him from my home in the direction of our apparently incompetent letting agents. NB: Must speak to them to establish exactly what kind of of sub-mental is responsible for doling out my spare key to a dead ringer for Ted Bundy...
After such a traumatic start to the day I was eager to leave the apartment and head to the city, where I had a few hours to help restore my heart rate to a less frantic pace. Having done so in the company of the waitress with the articulated hips down at Starbucks, it was over to Chez Pierre to rendezvous with that shyster from Soho, Max Margolin. Things did not bode well when I approached his table, where having apparently failed to recognise me, he attempted to order from me a green salad with the Roquefort dressing. Following my polite introduction he realised his blunder, and as soon as he had inhaled sufficiently for me to squeeze between the table and his bulbous midriff, I seated myself next to him clutching my portfolio. Never one to beat around the proverbial bush, he came straight to the point: A new client of his prominent in the competitive market of genito-urinary medicine required a prodigiously talented writer to compose cutting edge marketing material to help spearhead a campaign promoting a new range of cystitis medication. Admittedly, I had expected our lunch to be littered with subtle pleas on his part for me to allow him to take my play into Shaftsbury Avenue, and so I must confess my surprise as to this potentially more lucrative, if less creatively fulfilling proposition. Although unchartered waters to me, I was sufficiently astute to recognise the need amongst such clientele for la crème de la crème of the authors’ market to help pen their literary output, which in this case consisted heavily of the small leaflets found inside boxes of fungicidal ointment. Margolin did eventually express a great interest in promoting my play some day in the near future, more particularly at a time when the current financial turmoil running amok in the markets of Eastern Europe might subside sufficiently for him to release the necessary funds from a soon-to-mature policy invested in an Armenian Tupperware conglomerate. I have to say that despite my disastrous past dealings with Margolin, I was struck on this occasion by his apparent sincerity, and given the current lack of any work whatsoever amidst the cut-throat literary world, I chose to ignore the niggling doubts at the back of my head and accepted his offer. Also, in a moment of entrepreneurial cunning, I agreed to a suggested clause in our contract affording me a provisional 1% stake in every penny in the pound of profits generated in the fast-growing pharmaceutical markets north of the Arctic Circle. I could tell Margolin was reluctant to concede such a clear money-spinner, and feel my firm tone melted his famously strong will sufficiently for him to lower his final offer merely by the full 1% to a zero % stake, plus an option to translate my work into Swahili should the African territories blossom as predicted.
Buoyed by the overall positive tone of our meeting, I politely finished the small portion of peanuts offered by my new partner, and after a hearty handshake made my way to the exit of the restaurant. It was only upon bumping into the real Max Margolin sitting at a table near the door that I realised I had just held a meeting with entirely the wrong person. On reflection, they did share a passing resemblance in the gloomy conditions, especially considering it had been a few years since I had last enjoyed Margolin’s oily company. This, of course, explained his failure to recognise me, and his reluctance to even acknowledge the existence of my bulging portfolio. How I managed it, I do not know. With hindsight, the fact that this imposter had struggled to recognise my name as one prominent amongst the new generation of beatnik authors should have given it away. But, alas, provided my solicitor can successfully annul the contract I have today signed, committing me to produce a library of instructional leaflets pertaining to the use of various creams and ointments, no damage to my burgeoning reputation has thankfully been done.
The subsequent meeting held at the table of the amphibious true Margolin confirmed my recollection of him as one who had only recently evolved sufficiently to successfully exist outside of his natural swamp-like habitat. His mirth at my recent impromptu lunch date was only thinly concealed, as he was barely able to finish his array of anti-pasti without choking on a shred of parma-ham. However, we soon got down to business, and by the time my order of eggs Benedict had arrived, we were deep into discussions surrounding the staging of my latest masterful play. Margolin, it seemed, was not yet prepared to take on my script, believing it could be subtly improved in one or two areas by taking out the relevant pages and turning them into paper aeroplanes. Proudly defending my work, I suggested he re-read the play in order to fully appreciate the intricate mechanics of the ingenious plot. This he promised to do immediately upon his return to the office following a forthcoming engagement on a 4-month safari to Zambia. Sensing a lack of urgency on his part, I urged him to find the time in his schedule before his departure, as I am obviously keen to initiate a bargaining process between several of the leading agents. This, he assured me, was out of the question, citing as his reason various commitments which included several rounds of golf, a brace of appointments at the local solarium and a pending colonoscopy. Keen not to seem over-persistent, I relented for now my efforts with the play, but in a parting shot left Margolin with a draft of my new short story, "A Pedicure to Go" which he solemnly promised to read to help him sleep on the long flight to Lubumbashi. I am beginning to question the wisdom of employing the man to promote my finely crafted library of work. In fact, I have today decided that he is nothing less than an egocentric earthworm amongst literary agents. Perhaps I should cast my net elsewhere...
I eventually left the city somewhat deflated, and returned home to prepare for what was to be an equally traumatic meeting with Klaus. I will try to be brief, as it is late, and my brain is craving a very, very long sleep...
I’d barely had time to remove my natty author’s ensemble of smock and beret before my bell started ringing, signalling the arrival at my apartment of the perennially unstable Klaus. Looking somewhat dishevelled, he had hot-footed it across the city straight from an apparently unproductive appointment with his therapist. This, I could see, would cast a pall over our meeting, particularly from the way in which Klaus had hurled my coffee percolator at the kitchen wall when informed that I was out of sugar. Settling for tea instead, he eventually started to calm down having looked up the home address of his unfortunate therapist in the phone book. Treading the usual egg shells in his company, I ventured we discuss the new short story in the hope that a work-related topic might distract him from his current homicidal stupor. It seemed however, that Klaus had taken up issue with the manner of composition of the work – namely the limited input on his part, or perhaps more accurately, the fact that I’d written it all myself. In fact, it would be fair to say that this had angered him somewhat. Despite my explanation that the story had suddenly surfaced from my dynamic imagination and might have been stifled by the influence of a third party, Klaus went on to animatedly question the future of our professional partnership. This he expressed through the use of several nearby kitchen utensils, most notably a potato masher, from which I received a nasty gash above the left eye. A stand-off then ensued across the kitchen table, which I had utilised along with a spaghetti jar to protect me from the rapidly advancing Klaus. It also afforded me valuable time to offer him a soothing concoction of Ritalin tablets that I recalled gathering dust in the bathroom cabinet. Sadly my offer was refused by my assailant, who had by now announced his intentions to force-feed me the new short story. Sensing a compromise between us might help diffuse what was rapidly becoming an awkward situation, I eventually mollified Klaus by offering to incinerate my manuscript immediately, with a view to further discussions taking place between us to reinstate our former winning partnership. With this he calmed down sufficiently to remove his knee from my windpipe, and having tucked my ill-fated manuscript under his arm, left my apartment in the direction of his home barbeque set.
I have this evening employed a locksmith to change the locks of my apartment in anticipation of further disagreements between Klaus and I, if and when the duplicate manuscript of A Pedicure to Go I have rolled off gets snapped up by some multinational publishing house...
And now, finally, this memorable day has reached an end. It has been a challenge, but those of us destined for great things must also experience every nuance of despair in order to fully appreciate what is sure to follow. Goodnight.....
......July 9th
Another busy day at work. After only 2 weeks in my new job, I have come to fully understand the pressures involved in running a successful mobile ironing service. Of course, I am grateful for the regular income now flooding in, especially after such a long period struggling to make ends meet as an author. But, the fact is, I never imagined this business to be such a challenge. Obviously, I am only on the first rung of the ladder career-wise, and soon hope to make the step-up to being allowed to drive the works van. Until that happens however, it seems I must accept my present role as somewhat of an ambassador for the company, as I am clearly the best one suited to mixing directly with our customer base. Unfortunately, this also means that I have to do most of the ironing itself, but I must say I would always prefer putting in an honest day’s work to snoozing in the van reading the tabloids, which would be an accurate summary of my 2 immediate colleagues’ work ethic. In my appointed role of “Trousers, Shirts and Linens Liaison Officer,” it is my responsibility to manage the post-laundry requirements of several key clients including numerous private residences, a downtown Sushi bar, and the local Funeral Director’s. My colleagues’ roles as self-appointed “Senior Trousers, Shirts and Linens Liaison Officers” stretch to tasks such as deciding which route to take in the van, selecting appropriate refreshments and literature from the petrol station having refuelled the van, and avoiding traffic wardens whilst parking the van on the double yellow lines outside the betting shop at lunchtime. Admittedly, it is a far cry from my previous career as an author, and when faced with a damp mountain of heavily creased cotton I often lament my past cutting edge efforts so sadly overlooked by myriad clueless moguls. Yes, this new challenge may not be as creatively stimulating as the last, but let me say that there is something so undeniably satisfying in using piping-hot steam on a stiff white collar. I can see a long and happy career path ahead of me being carved by the gods even as I write this – given true commitment, and a little luck, that is...
July 14th
After 3 weeks in the job slaving away trying to remove Formaldehyde stains from starchy death robes, I have come to the conclusion that the mobile ironing service industry may not actually be the right one for me after all. Perhaps I was rather hasty in my decision to take on the position and should have held on that bit longer in the world of literature waiting for my big break. However, all is not lost!!!
I have been struck with inspiration... An incident at work today involving my apparently lobotomised colleague Wayne and a rather irate pallbearer at the undertaker’s has given me a blockbuster of an idea for a new play – a bedroom farce centred on the rather accessible theme of a womanising Marxist on the loose amidst a society sanitised by a veritable tsunami of materialism. I will have one more crack at literary super-stardom... I intend to stay up all night penning the first Act before resigning from my post as Trousers, Shirts and Linens Liaison Officer first thing in the morning!
Surely, this is the one...
One thing’s for sure - if this one doesn’t make it, nothing will.
© Matthew Jenkins - June 2011
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
Friday, 25 February 2011
1 Comment
A near-veteran of this blogging business, having lasted a full 3 months on here without succumbing to the temptations of the “Delete Blog” icon, I have come to appreciate the buzz generated by posting across the globe various finely crafted episodes of literary delusion, even if my suspicions are true, and nobody reads them. A seemingly mundane activity such as walking to the local Doctors’ surgery to procure a fresh supply of Prozac can be made so much more exciting by glancing up at the passing bedroom windows, and imagining within some former swimwear model delighting over the subtle humorous textures of a latest entry onto your own personal creation.
Airing one’s literary linen upon the worldwide washing line can have its pitfalls though; even I am not sufficiently naive to believe that every bedroom window conceals some figure of fantasy frantically e-mailing their vital statistics to their new creative soul mate. Most of us dare not think what dribbling types might populate the lower reaches of our worldwide audience, let alone what they get up to at weekends. But perhaps our greatest threat comes from a race closer to our own...
Blogger-types are a strange breed indeed. We all network like a sex-crazed X-Factor studio audience in the blind hope that more people will come across our efforts and therefore hail us as the best thing since Vanessa Feltz. We stay up all night when an idea surfaces, eschewing food, drink and oxygen lest we lose our thread and the dreaded “Block” strikes.
The Block.
People with The Block stand out a mile from the rest of society. We see them shuffling round Tesco at 11.30 at night muttering to themselves; pallid, irritable, craving some flash of inspiration. One might therefore say it was plausible for desperate times such as these to push some sleep-deprived bloggers to “bend” the accepted rules of this most accessible of art forms in search of... an idea...
With these thoughts in mind, whilst slumped in a soothingly accommodating armchair of a favourite local eatery following an unintentionally lung-busting stroll on the beach, I recently dreamt up the following correspondence between a pair of enthusiastic blogger-types. A combination of the fresh sea air, a young waitress with hypnotic eyebrows, and a pastry the size of a frisbee might have led to my getting somewhat carried away...
1 Comment
Hey Brad!
Have just read your latest post, “10 Things Not to Say in Front of your Girlfriend...” ROTFL!!!! This was brilliant! Great writing – I love your style and those observations you make that are soooo true...Particularly liked number 3, “Hey babe, I think I left my toenail clippings in the bed...” That made me chuckle! I had a girlfriend once who used to shave her legs whilst driving the car. Drove me crazy, little hairs everywhere. LOL :-D Keep up the good work – I’ve been reading your posts for a while and am now officially following your blog! How about having a look at mine? I think we share the same sense of humour, maybe you’ll like it?!
Joolz T ;)
1 Comment
Hi Joolz T!
Thanks for the comment! Glad you liked it – good to have another follower... Will take a look at your blog ASAP...!
1 Comment
Hi Joolz T,
Have just been reading your blog... It is indeed very funny and right up my street humour-wise - Well written dude... You are right, we do share the same sense of humour. The only thing is, when I read your post from January 10th entitled “When Hell Freezes Over,” I was reminded of a post of my own from the end of last year called “Pigs Might Fly.” I am wondering whether this similarity is just a coincidence...?
Brad.
1 Comment
Hey Brad!
Great that you had a look at the blog... Hey! You liked it! So good to meet up with like-minded hacks. Am a bit confused how you ended your comment... It sounds like you’re suggesting you may have copied my idea for your own post, but surely this is impossible, as you wrote yours first...? Or is it, as you say, a coincidence?
Joolz T ;)
1 Comment
Hi Joolz T,
No, no, NO. What I am suggesting is that you may have read my post, which I wrote before you wrote your post, and unintentionally copied the idea to use for your own post. The theme is identical, the style is identical – basically, the only difference is the title, and even that’s practically the same. Perhaps it is no coincidence after all, but these things happen don’t they? If you could just remove the post in question and delete the piece from your hard drive, then I’m sure we can carry on as before.
Cheers,
Brad.
1 Comment
Hey Brad!
Oh, I see! You think I used your idea for my blog post? Right! I can understand how you’ve reached your rather erroneous conclusion... Don’t worry tho, I never read your post - what was it called, “Flying Pigs?” – It seems it really is just a coincidence. And coincidences are things that do happen, Brad. So, how about you just keep your post, and I’ll keep mine, and just in case I accidentally delete it from my hard drive, I think I’ll go and run off another copy onto disc. One can never be too careful about these things...
Joolz T :-D
1 Comment
My Dear Joolz,
For the sake of clarity, let us get this straight. You openly admit (or should I use the word confess) to having been following my blog for, as you put it, “a while.” Fact. A matter of weeks after I compose a post entitled “Pigs Might Fly” (not “Flying Pigs” – get it right), an almost identical post appears on your blog, entitled “When Hell Freezes Over.” Fact. And you’re telling me that you didn’t read my post before cobbling together your own pale imitation...? I can only presume that you are joking – it seems you were right about us sharing the same sense of humour, but very wrong to think you can share my posts. I shall ignore the niggling voice at the back of my head that, having read between the last few lines of your previous comment, is telling me that you are deadly serious. I am only thankful that my medication is still effectively keeping the homicidal mood-swings at bay, for the time being, at least.
In anticipation of a sensible reply,
Brad. x
1 Comment
Hey Bad Brad!
Sorry about the late reply, got a bit carried away running off those copies of my post and ended up sending it to Bloomsbury Press to a friend who owes me a favour...Those voices that come from the back of our heads can be very annoying, can’t they? But, as I’m sure you will know, they’re usually right. Yours is, Brad. Yes, I am deadly serious. Ok, ok... you want the truth...? Confession time... When I said I’d been reading your blog for a while, I might have been exaggerating a teeny bit... well, quite a lot, in fact. The truth is, I haven’t read any of your attempts at blog posts, not one. I nearly did once, but at the last moment the cat hopped on the litter tray and I somehow lost my concentration. If you must know, I came across your blog by mistake the other day while I was perusing the singles ads – it flashed up over in the corner amongst the “Mature male seeks Thai lover” section – How it got there, God only knows... How much do you pay for that, by the way...? Getting back to the point, as I can already see a reply from Bloomsbury waiting invitingly in my inbox, don’t flatter yourself, Big Bad Brad... I don’t copy ideas, and if I did, I’d aim my sights a little higher standard-wise than page 2 from “Blogging for Dummies.”
Ciao,
Joolz.
(Ps. I’m so glad your unfortunate condition is being helped by the medication. Perhaps if you stepped up the dose a little, it might take care of those voices inside your head...?)
1 Comment
Listen to this, Pipsqueak...
If those voices we hear in our heads are, as you say, usually right, I may have to prematurely terminate our delightful correspondence to allow me time to firstly visit one of those websites that gives out peoples’ addresses, before heading off down to the local hardware store to invest in a large chainsaw and several heavy-duty bin bags. If I can resist this sumptuous temptation for long enough however, perhaps I can dignify your previous comment with a worthy response. First of all, I wish you luck in your online search for love. How my blog ad popped up amongst the dirty old men ads is a mystery to me, I must say. Perhaps, as you salivated over the young, free and single hermaphrodite section, you hallucinated the whole thing – we already know you have a rather fertile imagination. To help in your quest, I can personally recommend getting out to the local pub. That way, you won’t become associated with all those greasy-haired anoraks with the dirty fingernails that you see booking flights to Kuala Lumpur in Thomas Cook. Secondly, as we are now being brutally honest with each other, I must also confess that, apart from the post that you have blatantly plagiarised from my own copyrighted work, I have not been able to find sufficient nanoseconds amidst my busy schedule to register the existence of your so-called blog. The only way I can be sure that it exists in any place other than the infinite vacuum that occupies the space between your ears is by the brief glimpse I caught of the more incriminating parts just as I was sealing the envelope addressed to the crackerjack legal firm of Waxman, Smith and Portnoy. On a final note, as I have more important things to do than converse with the sub-mental cyber class (like cleaning the toilet for example), I know that even you understand the rules of copyright when it comes to publishing. This leads me to believe that your acquaintance down at Bloomsbury is yet another figment of your addled imagination – or just a sick joke... In fact, I have decided your sense of humour ranks alongside the monologues of Hitler in terms of hilarity, so, please, knock off pulling my leg Jules, you’re not funny. Oh, and just before I go, I think you’ll find the style of prose utilised throughout my blog posts is what the educated amongst my followers might describe as “erudite.” Look it up, Jules. And whilst thumbing through your junior dictionary, also look up the word “ignoramus,” see if it reminds you of anyone.
Go play with some scissors,
Brad.
(Ps. Have just discovered that the hardware store has a sale on all lethal power tools... bonus!)
1 Comment
My dear Brad, or is it now “Leatherface?”
How silly this whole thing is becoming. I must admit, when I signed up to start blogging I wasn’t expecting to have to brush off the rantings of a raving maniac whilst sifting through my correspondence. But, I suppose that’s what we set ourselves up for when we decide to communicate with the entire planet’s population, and the gibbering mutants that frequent all those grubby bedrooms the world over. That reminds me, out of pure curiosity I managed to prise free a couple of those nanoseconds you seem unable to find in order to educate myself as to what an “erudite” blog looks like. Sadly though, yours kept popping up on the screen, so it seems that for now I’ll just have to rely on my trusty junior dictionary to understand the true meaning of the word. Having stopped for just long enough to register the general standard of prose on offer, it struck me that I would never again have to look up the word “asininity” if my usually expansive memory ever failed me. Another observation, Brad: Just to reassure myself that it’s not me who’s the ubiquitous dirty old man, I had a quick look over all those mug-shots you’ve got on there listed as your followers...Uuurrgh! Where did you find that lot?? I’m sure I recognised one of them from a programme I saw on TV once about a man who was sexually aroused by barnyard animals... the one wearing the dungarees, Brad. If he sends you any pictures, take my advice friend, and delete them pronto before Mrs Brad turns up to scoop up the dirty socks that litter the micro-habitat that is your bedroom carpet. Anyway, just to update you, my far-from imaginary friend down at Bloomsbury sends his love, along with a most flattering e-mail detailing his plans to include my blog post “When Hell Freezes Over” in a forthcoming anthology of erudite blog posts to be published by his very own department. Isn’t that a stroke of luck? Obviously, the handsome royalties I am due to earn are an entire side-issue here; I’m sure you are the same as me and are in this business purely for the intellectual workout and creative freedom rather than to simply fund that new catamaran I’ve had my eye on. Just scanning your previous comment, which for your information I have saved to a special folder on my desktop entitled “Sure-fire Incriminating Evidence,” I think I picked up on the rather ill-advised threat of legal action from some of your bald-headed buddies down at the Squash Club. I say “ill-advised” mainly due to the fact that I had taken the step of copyrighting the post in question long before you penned yours (originally in crayon, I presume), a practice I understand the importance of owing to my brain cell count outweighing that of your average dust mite. So, to summarise, don’t waste your time with the lawsuit Brad, I wrote it first. And finally, and I do mean finally, as I think that this should be the end of any correspondence between us, I really do think you should get a second opinion on the glaringly obvious psychotic condition that you’ve been struck down with. Voices in your head, a fondness for playing with garden machinery, and now, it seems, a roll-call of friends reminiscent of the cast from Southern Comfort... I can only offer my sympathy for your mental plight Brad, but heartily recommend a change in that medication... and I would definitely stay in on the night of the next full moon.
Goodbye, loser.
Your former-buddy, Joolz T ;)
(Ps. Am torn between the catamaran and that new Lamborghini coupé... Decisions, decisions...)
1 Comment
Keep an ear out for that doorbell, Klutz,
Well, well, well... Correct me if I’m wrong here, my former-buddy, but the activities of both catamaran sailing and sports car driving demand a certain cohesion between bodily parts to enable the participant to gain the full benefits from both pursuits – a cohesion that may be a tad tricky to attain if, for example, you existed in several different rubble sacks at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean. Apologies if I appear somewhat spiky, but being pushed way beyond the limits of my fragile patience by a snivelling little amoeba tends to bring out my more blood-thirsty side. I won’t go on for too long, as I have a train to catch and haven’t yet packed my disembowelling knives, but suffice it to say, soon-to-be-former Joolz, you have committed a slight boob in stealing my work and then going on to brag about it like the pre-pubescent putz that you are. Enjoy the world while you can, and may I suggest you have one last go at a passable blog post – I’ll even give you the title, just to get you started...”Well, Got to Go People, There’s a Madman Knocking at the Door...” Like it? I’m sure you can manage one last effort. Tell your pal with the cheque book down at Bloomsbury to look out for a small head-shaped parcel landing imminently in his in-tray, and also that if I ever manage to come up with anything vaguely erudite, I’ll keep him in mind. Got to go now, the next door neighbour gets home from work soon, and I don’t want him to see me leaving the house in my butcher’s apron.
Well, it’s been a pleasure talking with you Joolz, I might see you one day...
Thanks for the comment...
Brad xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
1 Comment
Hey Brad!
Well, what can I say? It’s been fun sharing some banter with you, buddy. I know I said my last message would be the end of our verbal duelling, but just thought I’d let you know that I had a eureka moment earlier today, just after reading your last comment, actually...I’ve decided to decline Mr Bloomsbury’s offer after all – I just don’t think I could live with myself knowing I’d sold out my artistic integrity to such a money-minded conglomerate. After all, Brad, we do it for love, not money. A funny thing happened too - the cat happened to jump up onto my laptop, and wouldn’t you know it, kitty went and permanently deleted my post, “When Hell Freezes Over” from the face of the earth! To think of all the time and effort I spent coming up with that post in the first place... The exciting news is, Brad, after re-reading through our quirky correspondence, I was at that moment seized by an earth-mover of an idea for a new blog post...I’ll give you a clue, because, after all, you half-gave me the idea yourself... 2 bloggers squabbling over who came up with an idea for a post first... What do you think...? Tell you what, whoever posts it onto their blog first, gets copyright... Fair???
Good luck, amigo, and adios!
(Ps. You won’t believe it, but just seen the next door neighbour leaving his house in a butcher’s apron...looked set for a long journey too...)
© Matthew Jenkins - February 2011
mattofjenko@yahoo.co.uk
Airing one’s literary linen upon the worldwide washing line can have its pitfalls though; even I am not sufficiently naive to believe that every bedroom window conceals some figure of fantasy frantically e-mailing their vital statistics to their new creative soul mate. Most of us dare not think what dribbling types might populate the lower reaches of our worldwide audience, let alone what they get up to at weekends. But perhaps our greatest threat comes from a race closer to our own...
Blogger-types are a strange breed indeed. We all network like a sex-crazed X-Factor studio audience in the blind hope that more people will come across our efforts and therefore hail us as the best thing since Vanessa Feltz. We stay up all night when an idea surfaces, eschewing food, drink and oxygen lest we lose our thread and the dreaded “Block” strikes.
The Block.
People with The Block stand out a mile from the rest of society. We see them shuffling round Tesco at 11.30 at night muttering to themselves; pallid, irritable, craving some flash of inspiration. One might therefore say it was plausible for desperate times such as these to push some sleep-deprived bloggers to “bend” the accepted rules of this most accessible of art forms in search of... an idea...
With these thoughts in mind, whilst slumped in a soothingly accommodating armchair of a favourite local eatery following an unintentionally lung-busting stroll on the beach, I recently dreamt up the following correspondence between a pair of enthusiastic blogger-types. A combination of the fresh sea air, a young waitress with hypnotic eyebrows, and a pastry the size of a frisbee might have led to my getting somewhat carried away...
1 Comment
Hey Brad!
Have just read your latest post, “10 Things Not to Say in Front of your Girlfriend...” ROTFL!!!! This was brilliant! Great writing – I love your style and those observations you make that are soooo true...Particularly liked number 3, “Hey babe, I think I left my toenail clippings in the bed...” That made me chuckle! I had a girlfriend once who used to shave her legs whilst driving the car. Drove me crazy, little hairs everywhere. LOL :-D Keep up the good work – I’ve been reading your posts for a while and am now officially following your blog! How about having a look at mine? I think we share the same sense of humour, maybe you’ll like it?!
Joolz T ;)
1 Comment
Hi Joolz T!
Thanks for the comment! Glad you liked it – good to have another follower... Will take a look at your blog ASAP...!
1 Comment
Hi Joolz T,
Have just been reading your blog... It is indeed very funny and right up my street humour-wise - Well written dude... You are right, we do share the same sense of humour. The only thing is, when I read your post from January 10th entitled “When Hell Freezes Over,” I was reminded of a post of my own from the end of last year called “Pigs Might Fly.” I am wondering whether this similarity is just a coincidence...?
Brad.
1 Comment
Hey Brad!
Great that you had a look at the blog... Hey! You liked it! So good to meet up with like-minded hacks. Am a bit confused how you ended your comment... It sounds like you’re suggesting you may have copied my idea for your own post, but surely this is impossible, as you wrote yours first...? Or is it, as you say, a coincidence?
Joolz T ;)
1 Comment
Hi Joolz T,
No, no, NO. What I am suggesting is that you may have read my post, which I wrote before you wrote your post, and unintentionally copied the idea to use for your own post. The theme is identical, the style is identical – basically, the only difference is the title, and even that’s practically the same. Perhaps it is no coincidence after all, but these things happen don’t they? If you could just remove the post in question and delete the piece from your hard drive, then I’m sure we can carry on as before.
Cheers,
Brad.
1 Comment
Hey Brad!
Oh, I see! You think I used your idea for my blog post? Right! I can understand how you’ve reached your rather erroneous conclusion... Don’t worry tho, I never read your post - what was it called, “Flying Pigs?” – It seems it really is just a coincidence. And coincidences are things that do happen, Brad. So, how about you just keep your post, and I’ll keep mine, and just in case I accidentally delete it from my hard drive, I think I’ll go and run off another copy onto disc. One can never be too careful about these things...
Joolz T :-D
1 Comment
My Dear Joolz,
For the sake of clarity, let us get this straight. You openly admit (or should I use the word confess) to having been following my blog for, as you put it, “a while.” Fact. A matter of weeks after I compose a post entitled “Pigs Might Fly” (not “Flying Pigs” – get it right), an almost identical post appears on your blog, entitled “When Hell Freezes Over.” Fact. And you’re telling me that you didn’t read my post before cobbling together your own pale imitation...? I can only presume that you are joking – it seems you were right about us sharing the same sense of humour, but very wrong to think you can share my posts. I shall ignore the niggling voice at the back of my head that, having read between the last few lines of your previous comment, is telling me that you are deadly serious. I am only thankful that my medication is still effectively keeping the homicidal mood-swings at bay, for the time being, at least.
In anticipation of a sensible reply,
Brad. x
1 Comment
Hey Bad Brad!
Sorry about the late reply, got a bit carried away running off those copies of my post and ended up sending it to Bloomsbury Press to a friend who owes me a favour...Those voices that come from the back of our heads can be very annoying, can’t they? But, as I’m sure you will know, they’re usually right. Yours is, Brad. Yes, I am deadly serious. Ok, ok... you want the truth...? Confession time... When I said I’d been reading your blog for a while, I might have been exaggerating a teeny bit... well, quite a lot, in fact. The truth is, I haven’t read any of your attempts at blog posts, not one. I nearly did once, but at the last moment the cat hopped on the litter tray and I somehow lost my concentration. If you must know, I came across your blog by mistake the other day while I was perusing the singles ads – it flashed up over in the corner amongst the “Mature male seeks Thai lover” section – How it got there, God only knows... How much do you pay for that, by the way...? Getting back to the point, as I can already see a reply from Bloomsbury waiting invitingly in my inbox, don’t flatter yourself, Big Bad Brad... I don’t copy ideas, and if I did, I’d aim my sights a little higher standard-wise than page 2 from “Blogging for Dummies.”
Ciao,
Joolz.
(Ps. I’m so glad your unfortunate condition is being helped by the medication. Perhaps if you stepped up the dose a little, it might take care of those voices inside your head...?)
1 Comment
Listen to this, Pipsqueak...
If those voices we hear in our heads are, as you say, usually right, I may have to prematurely terminate our delightful correspondence to allow me time to firstly visit one of those websites that gives out peoples’ addresses, before heading off down to the local hardware store to invest in a large chainsaw and several heavy-duty bin bags. If I can resist this sumptuous temptation for long enough however, perhaps I can dignify your previous comment with a worthy response. First of all, I wish you luck in your online search for love. How my blog ad popped up amongst the dirty old men ads is a mystery to me, I must say. Perhaps, as you salivated over the young, free and single hermaphrodite section, you hallucinated the whole thing – we already know you have a rather fertile imagination. To help in your quest, I can personally recommend getting out to the local pub. That way, you won’t become associated with all those greasy-haired anoraks with the dirty fingernails that you see booking flights to Kuala Lumpur in Thomas Cook. Secondly, as we are now being brutally honest with each other, I must also confess that, apart from the post that you have blatantly plagiarised from my own copyrighted work, I have not been able to find sufficient nanoseconds amidst my busy schedule to register the existence of your so-called blog. The only way I can be sure that it exists in any place other than the infinite vacuum that occupies the space between your ears is by the brief glimpse I caught of the more incriminating parts just as I was sealing the envelope addressed to the crackerjack legal firm of Waxman, Smith and Portnoy. On a final note, as I have more important things to do than converse with the sub-mental cyber class (like cleaning the toilet for example), I know that even you understand the rules of copyright when it comes to publishing. This leads me to believe that your acquaintance down at Bloomsbury is yet another figment of your addled imagination – or just a sick joke... In fact, I have decided your sense of humour ranks alongside the monologues of Hitler in terms of hilarity, so, please, knock off pulling my leg Jules, you’re not funny. Oh, and just before I go, I think you’ll find the style of prose utilised throughout my blog posts is what the educated amongst my followers might describe as “erudite.” Look it up, Jules. And whilst thumbing through your junior dictionary, also look up the word “ignoramus,” see if it reminds you of anyone.
Go play with some scissors,
Brad.
(Ps. Have just discovered that the hardware store has a sale on all lethal power tools... bonus!)
1 Comment
My dear Brad, or is it now “Leatherface?”
How silly this whole thing is becoming. I must admit, when I signed up to start blogging I wasn’t expecting to have to brush off the rantings of a raving maniac whilst sifting through my correspondence. But, I suppose that’s what we set ourselves up for when we decide to communicate with the entire planet’s population, and the gibbering mutants that frequent all those grubby bedrooms the world over. That reminds me, out of pure curiosity I managed to prise free a couple of those nanoseconds you seem unable to find in order to educate myself as to what an “erudite” blog looks like. Sadly though, yours kept popping up on the screen, so it seems that for now I’ll just have to rely on my trusty junior dictionary to understand the true meaning of the word. Having stopped for just long enough to register the general standard of prose on offer, it struck me that I would never again have to look up the word “asininity” if my usually expansive memory ever failed me. Another observation, Brad: Just to reassure myself that it’s not me who’s the ubiquitous dirty old man, I had a quick look over all those mug-shots you’ve got on there listed as your followers...Uuurrgh! Where did you find that lot?? I’m sure I recognised one of them from a programme I saw on TV once about a man who was sexually aroused by barnyard animals... the one wearing the dungarees, Brad. If he sends you any pictures, take my advice friend, and delete them pronto before Mrs Brad turns up to scoop up the dirty socks that litter the micro-habitat that is your bedroom carpet. Anyway, just to update you, my far-from imaginary friend down at Bloomsbury sends his love, along with a most flattering e-mail detailing his plans to include my blog post “When Hell Freezes Over” in a forthcoming anthology of erudite blog posts to be published by his very own department. Isn’t that a stroke of luck? Obviously, the handsome royalties I am due to earn are an entire side-issue here; I’m sure you are the same as me and are in this business purely for the intellectual workout and creative freedom rather than to simply fund that new catamaran I’ve had my eye on. Just scanning your previous comment, which for your information I have saved to a special folder on my desktop entitled “Sure-fire Incriminating Evidence,” I think I picked up on the rather ill-advised threat of legal action from some of your bald-headed buddies down at the Squash Club. I say “ill-advised” mainly due to the fact that I had taken the step of copyrighting the post in question long before you penned yours (originally in crayon, I presume), a practice I understand the importance of owing to my brain cell count outweighing that of your average dust mite. So, to summarise, don’t waste your time with the lawsuit Brad, I wrote it first. And finally, and I do mean finally, as I think that this should be the end of any correspondence between us, I really do think you should get a second opinion on the glaringly obvious psychotic condition that you’ve been struck down with. Voices in your head, a fondness for playing with garden machinery, and now, it seems, a roll-call of friends reminiscent of the cast from Southern Comfort... I can only offer my sympathy for your mental plight Brad, but heartily recommend a change in that medication... and I would definitely stay in on the night of the next full moon.
Goodbye, loser.
Your former-buddy, Joolz T ;)
(Ps. Am torn between the catamaran and that new Lamborghini coupé... Decisions, decisions...)
1 Comment
Keep an ear out for that doorbell, Klutz,
Well, well, well... Correct me if I’m wrong here, my former-buddy, but the activities of both catamaran sailing and sports car driving demand a certain cohesion between bodily parts to enable the participant to gain the full benefits from both pursuits – a cohesion that may be a tad tricky to attain if, for example, you existed in several different rubble sacks at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean. Apologies if I appear somewhat spiky, but being pushed way beyond the limits of my fragile patience by a snivelling little amoeba tends to bring out my more blood-thirsty side. I won’t go on for too long, as I have a train to catch and haven’t yet packed my disembowelling knives, but suffice it to say, soon-to-be-former Joolz, you have committed a slight boob in stealing my work and then going on to brag about it like the pre-pubescent putz that you are. Enjoy the world while you can, and may I suggest you have one last go at a passable blog post – I’ll even give you the title, just to get you started...”Well, Got to Go People, There’s a Madman Knocking at the Door...” Like it? I’m sure you can manage one last effort. Tell your pal with the cheque book down at Bloomsbury to look out for a small head-shaped parcel landing imminently in his in-tray, and also that if I ever manage to come up with anything vaguely erudite, I’ll keep him in mind. Got to go now, the next door neighbour gets home from work soon, and I don’t want him to see me leaving the house in my butcher’s apron.
Well, it’s been a pleasure talking with you Joolz, I might see you one day...
Thanks for the comment...
Brad xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
1 Comment
Hey Brad!
Well, what can I say? It’s been fun sharing some banter with you, buddy. I know I said my last message would be the end of our verbal duelling, but just thought I’d let you know that I had a eureka moment earlier today, just after reading your last comment, actually...I’ve decided to decline Mr Bloomsbury’s offer after all – I just don’t think I could live with myself knowing I’d sold out my artistic integrity to such a money-minded conglomerate. After all, Brad, we do it for love, not money. A funny thing happened too - the cat happened to jump up onto my laptop, and wouldn’t you know it, kitty went and permanently deleted my post, “When Hell Freezes Over” from the face of the earth! To think of all the time and effort I spent coming up with that post in the first place... The exciting news is, Brad, after re-reading through our quirky correspondence, I was at that moment seized by an earth-mover of an idea for a new blog post...I’ll give you a clue, because, after all, you half-gave me the idea yourself... 2 bloggers squabbling over who came up with an idea for a post first... What do you think...? Tell you what, whoever posts it onto their blog first, gets copyright... Fair???
Good luck, amigo, and adios!
(Ps. You won’t believe it, but just seen the next door neighbour leaving his house in a butcher’s apron...looked set for a long journey too...)
© Matthew Jenkins - February 2011
mattofjenko@yahoo.co.uk
Sunday, 19 December 2010
Bad Dinghy Sailing for Dummies
Some years ago, having fortuitously acquired a vintage sailing dinghy, I was granted the opportunity to pursue a hobby I had wanted to try ever since my Dad had taken me sailing as a land-lubbing adolescent. Now, older and slightly wiser, I have settled into a period of semi-retirement from the sport, due in equal part to me actually coming to my senses and the explosion of the vehicle employed to tow my boat. Nonetheless, creatively fuelled at the time by a rather disturbing personal life perhaps more usually associated with that of the inhabitants of Pluto, I was sufficiently inspired by my nautical experiences to come up with the following creation. To spare you the ordeal, I have included only excerpts from the full manual, which, actually, was the first thing I ever wrote, so bear that in mind, ok? In the meantime, read on, and discover how to be bad at sailing...
......It is the object of this manual to introduce the beginner to the fundamentals of sailing, and also to be of some use to the novice, as other important areas are explored. These include: How to fall overboard without looking silly, avoiding potentially violent arguments with other water users, how not to upset your crew by yelling obscenities at them, and of course, how to survive a week-long fishing trip with the in-laws.
The most common mistake made by the inexperienced sailor is to eagerly leap aboard their launch without first planning thoroughly the task that lies ahead. In fact, eagerly leaping aboard one’s launch can prove a big mistake at any time, especially if she isn’t properly tied to the jetty. Such incidents invariably end in doing the splits, and quite often a trip to hospital.
What sort of boat?
The first question to be asked is “What do I want my boat for?” A silly question you might say, but it is a fact that some boat owners never intend to launch their boat into the water, choosing instead to park it on their driveway just to look at, or sit next to.
Let us say then, that the owner of this manual is thinking about day sailing; that is, a nice leisurely trip on either inland or coastal waters involving a return home the same day. It should be pointed out at this stage that although this will technically be the case, it always seems to take ages putting everything away, and there is never time when you get home for things like having your tea, or watching telly. Clearly for us then, there is no point in buying a small child’s inflatable dinghy, nor is there any reason to own a 4-berth 25-foot cruiser, although this would dramatically improve our popularity. If this were solely our aim, a gleaming catamaran would certainly be the best choice. The boat for us should be a 12 or 14-foot dinghy: easy to transport and launch single-handed, but with the potential to be entered in a race one day, whether deliberately, or by taking a wrong turn.
What shall I wear?
The question of what clothing to buy before we go sailing is very important, and can sometimes mean the difference between life and death. Our keen young yachtsman would certainly die a death if he or she walked into a packed sailing club bar looking like something from “The Thing from 50,000 Fathoms.” Likewise, turning up wearing freshly pressed chinos pulled to the nipple would also get big laughs. Image is not our only consideration, however. Apart from keeping us warm and dry, our clothing should always be a nice colour; the brighter the better. Not only does this make us more visible in the event of falling overboard, it also helps when trying to avoid tripping over somebody who is sprawled unconscious on the deck having been struck by the boom.
What to take with you
Again, preparation is the key. As budding sailors we must learn to be as organised as possible, and to always watch other more experienced crews to see how they go about arranging their decks, learning from any mistakes we see them make. Don’t be afraid to make up lists of even the most basic requirements. Take the example of the famous Americas Cup contestant, Ralph F. Peasbody, renowned for his endless lists and obsessive drive for perfection. He had travelled 4,000 miles to get to the start of the great race, when on his arrival, although he had remembered everything on his list of things to bring, he realised he had forgotten his boat, which sat 4,000 miles away on his driveway. It said much of his skill at the helm, not to mention the hapless navigational skills of his rivals, that he still managed to finish third, even having returned home to get his boat.
As a rough guide to help with our preparations, there follows three lists detailing all manner of nautical equipment, divided into different priorities:
HIGH PRIORITY:
Boat, Mast & Rigging, Sails, Rudder, Tiller, Paddle, Lifejackets, Cool-box full of beer
MEDIUM PRIORITY:
Spare clothing, Compass & Charts, Spare ropes, Tool kit, Enormous packed lunch, Flip-flops
LOW PRIORITY:
Wife, Mobile Phone, Air rifle, Pets, Shaving equipment, Television set, Ear-muffs
These lists are by no means exhaustive; as you become more experienced you will soon add your own essentials. A note on spare clothing: Dry clothes can be a godsend at the end of a hard day’s sailing, but it can also be very useful to take a set of wet clothes with you too. A skipper emerging from his vessel at the shore sporting dripping wet attire will always get the sympathy vote from any onlookers. This can easily turn into a welcome set of helping hands dragging your boat onto its trailer (a virtually impossible task, covered in a later chapter), or at the very least, a free drink at the club bar later.
Sailing jargon explained…
Before we begin to discuss the practicalities of rigging and launching our boat, we must first familiarise ourselves with the terms used to communicate commands from skipper to crew, and vice versa. It would be pointless, and indeed potentially dangerous, if commands were misunderstood. For example, on the skipper’s call of “We’re sailing by the lee!” the crew should not all suddenly launch themselves overboard and start swimming frantically towards the shore. Nor should they start dancing round on the foredeck, singing “A Sailor’s Life for Me.”
The following is a brief list of commands followed by their meanings, and the appropriate response from the crew:
COMMAND: "Ready about?"
MEANING: Prepare to tack
RESPONSE: "Aye!"
COMMAND: "Lee-Ho!"
MEANING: We're tacking
RESPONSE: (Just concentrate on what you're doing in case you get shouted at)
COMMAND: "Stand by to gybe!"
MEANING: Prepare to gybe
RESPONSE: "Aye!" (Hold onto something, as this may well go wrong)
COMMAND: "We're running by the lee!"
MEANING: Watch out in case the wind flips the boom around
RESPONSE: "Aye-aye!" (Take evasive action immediately - safest place below the foredeck)
COMMAND: "Watch that burgee!"
MEANING: Look up at the flag atop the mast, you're not steering properly
RESPONSE: "Look, who's steering this damn thing, me or you?"
COMMAND: "Run the mainsheet, run the mainsheet...!"
MEANING: Let go of the mainsail immediately, you're about to bloody capsize us
RESPONSE: "I didn't want to steer anyway, you made me! I knew I should've played golf instead."
Okay, so we’ve planned our sail down to the tiniest detail and are now familiar with some of the commands we might expect to hear on board our boat. It’s now time to learn how to rig our boat, that is, to put up (step) the mast and sails, along with all the hundreds of fiddly bits and pieces we need to attach/arrange/coil up/fasten down/throw in the back of the car/generally sort out before we set sail.
Any captain worth his salt is always on the lookout for ways of avoiding any hard work so he can concentrate on more important skipper-type activities such as chatting to bikini-clad sunbathers, or strutting up and down the jetty admiring his reflection in the water. The procedure of stepping the mast is certainly worth avoiding, as it can easily turn into an embarrassing calamity when the inadequately controlled mast topples over, sending innocent bystanders scurrying for cover with their hands in the air. At times like these, the captain can turn to his well-rehearsed repertoire of prepared excuses to retreat to safety. Among the most widely used are: “I think I might have left the car unlocked,” or “Damn, I’ve left my sandwiches on the kitchen table,” or “Is that Larry Wiseman over there?” or, the ever-reliable “I’ve just remembered, I forgot to let the dog out for a piss.”
Now we have our boat rigged and ready for launching, it is a good time to have one last check around to make sure we haven’t forgotten anything. Many a time has a boat taken to the water without some vital part having been properly fixed. Imagine the embarrassment if, on letting fly our spinnaker, it took off into the air and flew into the distance because someone had forgotten to clip it to the halyard? Even worse, there are few more dangerous mistakes to make than disappearing from the jetty with a boat full of rowdy crew tanked-up on lager, without having first kissed your wife goodbye and promised you’ll be home in time for tea.
Launching
Let us assume we’ve taken our boat to the water’s edge and successfully got her afloat from her trailer without any embarrassing mishaps. Commonly-made mistakes here include losing one’s footing on the slippery slope and ending up sitting waist deep in water, forgetting to keep hold of the painter (the rope attached to your bow) while struggling to remove your trailer from the water and having to watch helplessly as your beloved vessel floats out to sea, or even, the water flooding in over the top of your wellingtons resulting in an unavoidable torrent of obscenities in front of your friends and family. Make secure your boat to the jetty (knots are covered later in this book), and allow time for one more check over to make sure all is ship-shape. Ensure all loose objects are tied down. Not only is this crucial in the event of a capsize, it also prevents anything from being blown away by the dangerously strong winds you are bound to encounter now that you’ve finally got round to getting the boat out of the garage (In 1963, a major shipping disaster was narrowly avoided when Captain Hamish Mactosh’s toupee was blown off in a gale, landing in the face of his helmsman and causing him to blindly steer into the path of a fully-laden herring trawler. A collision was only avoided by the quick thinking of the first mate, who deftly flicked the fluttering toupee clear with the end of a paddle).
First time out
Let us be clear with our fundamental objectives as we leave the safety of the land for the first time. All we want to do at this point is leave the shore, sail around for a bit, and then come back all without totally destroying our boat. With this in mind, set yourself a target such as reaching a specified point on the water, and on reaching that point, refusing to succumb to panic and therefore remaining capable of turning round and coming back ashore safely. A good young skipper with potential will aim for a buoy or something similar no less than half a mile out to sea. A cowardly no-hoper will drift uncontrollably into the middle of the harbour before being forced to row back to the jetty.
Now we have successfully been for a spin and have some degree of confidence on the water, it’s time to look more carefully at the various manoeuvres we must master before we can call ourselves sea-worthy. If at this point we have been reduced to a dribbling nervous wreck, then perhaps it’s time to think about selling our boat, and buying instead a nice trailer tent.
Points of sail
The term “points of sail” should never be confused with the question “What is the point of sailing?” The point of sailing is clearly an exercise in getting one out of the house for a bit of peace, while at the same time making one look sophisticated. The “points of sail” is a term used to describe the direction in which a boat is travelling in relation to the wind. These are detailed below:
Beating:
This term gets its name from the notion that you are “beating the wind”. We sail as close to the oncoming wind as possible, usually at about 45 degrees. It does not originate from the commonly-used culinary term. Any kind of culinary activities on board our boat must be strongly discouraged at this stage.
Reaching:
This manoeuvre is from where the expression “plain sailing” originates. It is commonly regarded as the easiest and most pleasant form of sailing. A particularly nice form of "reaching" is reaching for the beer and crisps stash beneath the foredeck. Reaching is always done at right angles to the wind.
Broad Reaching:
A variation of reaching, this involves turning away from the wind slightly. Too-broad-a reach can result in a calamitous gybe (covered earlier).
Running:
When running, we are sailing with the wind behind us. It is also used to describe the motion of a skipper who has hurriedly beached his vessel and is quickly making his way to the nearest large tree with his hand clamped to his groin.
Tacking:
This is the name given to the manoeuvre of turning our boat when heading windward. Its name derives from the ancient security measure of leaving drawing pins lying on the deck, causing any bare-footed intruders to dance around in a frenzy. (Note: this activity is replicated by a crew tacking in high winds.)
Gybing:
This name is given to the manoeuvre of turning our boat when heading downwind. It should not be confused with “jiving,” an activity banned on boats since the 16th century. Any crew members caught jiving were first forced to dance to the captain’s favourite record instead, then thrown overboard for having such poor musical taste.
Reefing
This is a process by which the area of sail we are carrying is reduced to compensate for a strengthening wind. It is best to do this before we actually set sail, but as always seems to be the way, the weather will drastically change the minute we leave the shore, and so the procedure is nearly always performed in a raging tempest by a panic-stricken crew. It is always best to keep a calm head in such situations. Lowering the mainsail completely and hiding underneath it crying won’t help anyone, nor would pretending to fall overboard and swimming round for a bit while your crew fix the situation; a captain should never leave his boat, even if it has accidentally been set on fire by the cook.
It is clear then, that a good captain will calmly take control of the situation. The mainsail is rolled up from the bottom and replaced on the mast with the minimum of disruption to our course, and certainly without the need to scream at the crew. This can only create unrest and resentment, and can even lead to a full mutiny. At the very least, it can lead to our being tied to the mast and forced to watch while the crew devour our packed lunch between them.
In this chapter we will examine the procedures undertaken in the unfortunate event of things going horribly wrong. It is sometimes inevitable that, although we have properly planned our trip and are fully competent in our craft, something will happen to send the whole thing pear-shaped. Always expect the unexpected to happen, because you can bet your bottom dollar it will, and quite often, just at the most inconvenient moment.
Common unexpected occurrences to be on the lookout for include:
• A sudden change in wind direction
• Other out-of-control vessels rapidly heading in your direction
• Your vessel becoming out-of-control and rapidly heading in the direction of other vessels
• Your helmsman falling backwards off the stern having consumed all the alcohol on board
• Losing control of your vessel as you fight off seagulls trying to eat your sandwiches
• Snagging your fishing hook on a passing boat and being dragged at speed over the side
• Your mother-in-law ringing you telling you to get back home to your wife.
Capsizing
It is a certainty that at some point in our sailing career we will be faced with a capsized boat. The fact that you are reading this very manual bodes well for your chances of avoiding one, but it is surprising how many people take to the water without acquainting themselves with a good basic sailing knowledge. Nonetheless, it will happen to you, especially if you insist on posing astride the foredeck, leaning on the mast wearing your sunglasses. Let us then, look at what happens in more detail.
An onlooker can always tell when a boat is about to capsize. Telltale signs include the boat leaning at an unnatural angle in an immense gust of wind, the captain and crew dancing about in a blind panic, and also, the captain swinging at his hapless crew with an oar. Therefore, we should anticipate these signs before they happen.
The golden rule when it comes to a capsized boat is always blame somebody else. A captain should never accept the blame for spilling his crew into the water together with everyone’s nibbly snacks and supply of booze. It is your fundamental right as skipper to yell at somebody else (usually the first mate), berating them indiscriminately as you bob about together in the water. Commonly-used insults are:
• I told you that was about to happen
• Well how was I supposed to know that was about to happen?
• What did you do that for, my Grandmother’s a better sailor than you
• Oh that’s just great, these are new trousers
• Help, I can’t bloody swim
Getting our boat upright again is simply a matter of splashing round in the water for as long as it takes for the crew to pull her up and bail her out. Only when this process is complete should you declare “I think I’ve got the hang of this swimming lark now,” and doggy-paddle your way back to the boat. This is an important point, as performing a complex stroke such as front-crawl or butterfly is sure to arouse the crew’s suspicions as to our true swimming capabilities.
Remember, don’t get carried away in apportioning the blame; becoming too insulting could lead to your crew sailing off without you, an embarrassing fate to be avoided at all costs. As a guide, stick to the above list until you feel more confident in your ability.
Man overboard
When a member of the crew is lost overboard, it is down to the quick thinking of the skipper and remaining crew (if any) what should happen next. Basically, the speed at which you return to the stranded person should always vary in direct proportion to their popularity amongst those still on board. For example, if the “floater” is your date who you are trying desperately hard to impress, it is strongly advisable to return to them immediately, either apologising profusely, or complimenting them on their diving technique. On the other hand, should the floater be the pain in the a**e of the crew who is always moaning and stealing everybody’s crisps, they should be left to bob about for at least half an hour while you and the rest of your crew go off for a bit of a sail. Of course, this should not be the case if the water is freezing cold. In such conditions they should be left for an hour, or until they begin to blubber, whichever comes first.
There are other points to consider when plucking a "floater" from the water. Such considerations include:
• Are you relying on them for a lift home? If so pick them up without delay
• Is the person sufficiently slim to pull aboard, if not, a capsize may result
• Failure to rescue the only sailing club member aboard could forfeit entry to the bar later
• Would it be more of a laugh for you and your mates to cheer them on as they swam ashore?
• Is the floater your wife who didn’t want to come sailing anyway? If so, rescue immediately.
Avoiding collisions
When sailing a boat in congested areas the same principles apply as when driving a car through a busy city centre. Obviously, there are certain do’s and don’ts to be considered before we charge through a busy shipping lane in our nippy little 14-foot dinghy, the main ones of which are shown below:
DO: Give way to large on-coming vessels at all times
DON'T: Try to divert the course of a cruise liner coming your way by gesticulating frantically
DO: Always remain in a fit physical condition to properly control your boat
DON'T: Get so trollied that you can't even focus, let alone control your boat
DO: Avoid sailing too close to any harbour walls, jetties or promenades
DON'T: In avoiding a collision, sail at speed into any harbour walls, jetties or promenades
DO: Retain poise and dignity at all times, treating other water users with respect
DON'T: Hurl abuse at other water users who may inadvertently get in the bloody way
Rowing
It goes without saying that rowing is the most boring, tiring and unpleasant activity that anyone can perform on board a boat. That is to say, except for dropping a shackle pin beneath the deck boards and having to search for hours amongst God-knows-what with freezing-cold fingers. Our experienced skipper can avoid the need to row by keeping an eye on weather conditions, or not forgetting to bring the sails, but sometimes there is no avoiding having to dip our trusty oars in the water.
When the decision has been made that we must indeed scramble our rowlocks, as Captain we must keep a cool head, and not resort to tantrums and foot-stamping just because we’re faced with an endless row home. An experienced skipper with skill will be able to persuade a loyal crew member to don the oars for him without receiving a single complaint, and certainly without finding himself having to take evasive action from flying rowlocks launched in his direction. And so it follows, that reclining on the deck with a nice cool beer in one hand and a bottle of Ambre Solaire in the other, saying things like “Wake me up when we get there” or, “Can’t you go any faster, I’m hungry,” should be strongly discouraged. Such insensitive comments can surely only result in an oar to the face.
So, in summary, try to avoid finding yourself in the position of having to row your boat in the first place, and if this can’t be avoided, exercise tact in forcing someone else to do it for you.
A word on a knot or two…
To our sailing dinghy, ropes are as essential an item as the sails, rudder, mast, or our emergency stash of chocolate bars that we’ve hidden behind the seats. Essentially, they are used to control the sails, secure our boat to a mooring or jetty, or generally get tangled up on some object or person just at the worst possible moment.
As our reliance on rope has increased, so has our ability to securely fasten them to our boat or jetty, or indeed any crew member finding themselves in the skipper’s bad books. There follows a brief list featuring some of the more common knots, and their uses:
Bowline:
A useful knot for making a temporary eye, or a very permanent one if you make a hash of it. Will not slip if tied by someone who knows what they’re doing.
Round turn and two half hitches:
One for the beginner: simply tie as big a knot as you can till it resembles a large bird’s nest. Used to tie up to a ring or post.
Sheet Bend:
Used to tie two ropes together. Name derives from "round the bend," which is where the beginner is driven when both ropes fall separately to the floor in a heap upon completion
Figure of eight knot:
Used to stop a rope running through a block. If it ends up looking more like the number "68,986," you’ve done it wrong.
Triple hitch thigh splice:
A very handy knot used to reduce chafing whilst wearing oversized shorts.
Smelly Granny:
One of the oldest knots known to man; highly unreliable and bound to slip just when you don’t want it to. Only tie in a complete emergency, or when you’ve forgotten how to do the other knot you know.
Sheep flank wangle:
No explanation available.
Recovering our boat from the water
Like many other aspects of sailing, it is all a matter of keeping one’s cool throughout what is sure to be an extremely stressful experience. The more helping hands you can find the better, but it is a fact that at this point in the day, most or usually all of your crew will have buggered-off home because they were “bloody freezing,” or “had some shopping to do.” So it will almost all the time be a case of having to “drag the bloody thing out yourself then.”
First things first: we must establish the safest and most efficient method of bringing our boat to the shore without causing a panic amongst the crew, or indeed a panic amongst any unsuspecting sunbathers on the beach. Also, it is always beneficial to bring our boat in without having inserted a large hole in her hull from some unseen obstacle beneath the surface (e.g. a shopping trolley, or burnt-out car). Not only would this make us look like a bunch of amateurs, it would also make landing exceptionally tricky, owing to the boat having sunk.
Obviously, the above process is determined by several factors, including weather conditions, tidal conditions, space to manoeuvre and also the amount the helmsman has had to drink. Once you have chosen your target at the shore, it is simply a matter of approaching under full control, and not at breakneck speed with your eyes closed and your crew assuming the crash position. If you are approaching in a headwind it is simply a case of choosing which tack to come in on, and upon almost reaching the shore, casting overboard your tallest crew member to see if he/she can stand up without blowing bubbles. If this is the case, lower your sails, and start packing away your lunch while you are pulled to the beach or jetty.
If, however, you are approaching with a tailwind, a different course of action is required. There are two basic methods from which to choose. Firstly, you can sail in as close to the shore as you dare, and at the last minute, flip your bow round into the wind and start frantically lowering your sails before you inadvertently take off again lengthways along the beach. The second technique involves using our newly-learned commands to warn other people of our impending landing manoeuvre. Approach the shore as normal, and upon reaching a point 30-feet away, give the command “Get the hell out of the way, we’re coming in!!!” This should certainly do the trick, alerting other traffic to your presence, and also creating a nice clear space to aim for on the beach.
An extra technique often employed is to actually jump overboard, in the hope that your vessel misses everybody. If this isn’t the case, one can always say you tripped, or even that someone pushed you in for a joke.
Now that we have successfully arrived at the shore, we must quickly and efficiently get our boat sitting on her trailer. This is important so as not to obstruct other water users from launching or landing, but also because at this point we are bound to be frozen to the bone and absolutely starving, and therefore most susceptible to violent outbursts and uncontrollable urges to throw things at our boat. The task we are faced with is almost impossible, and we must expect to get ourselves even wetter as we struggle trying to wrestle a boat, whose weight feels comparable to a jumbo jet full of pianos, onto a submerged trailer whose wheels are embedded in mud and surrounded by large television set-shaped rocks. Many exhausted sailors have been reduced to helplessly splashing about in chest-high water at this stage, still wearing their Wellington boots.
Another word of warning: be fully prepared for your boat to start floating off just when you’re ready to begin dragging the trailer out of the water. This is really most annoying, and one of the most likely causes of “boat rage” we are likely to encounter.
Let’s just hope for a nice weather forecast...
© Matthew Jenkins 2008
mattofjenko@yahoo.co.uk
Bad Dinghy Sailing for Dummies...
......It is the object of this manual to introduce the beginner to the fundamentals of sailing, and also to be of some use to the novice, as other important areas are explored. These include: How to fall overboard without looking silly, avoiding potentially violent arguments with other water users, how not to upset your crew by yelling obscenities at them, and of course, how to survive a week-long fishing trip with the in-laws.
CHAPTER 1
Before we take to the water….
The most common mistake made by the inexperienced sailor is to eagerly leap aboard their launch without first planning thoroughly the task that lies ahead. In fact, eagerly leaping aboard one’s launch can prove a big mistake at any time, especially if she isn’t properly tied to the jetty. Such incidents invariably end in doing the splits, and quite often a trip to hospital.
What sort of boat?
The first question to be asked is “What do I want my boat for?” A silly question you might say, but it is a fact that some boat owners never intend to launch their boat into the water, choosing instead to park it on their driveway just to look at, or sit next to.
Let us say then, that the owner of this manual is thinking about day sailing; that is, a nice leisurely trip on either inland or coastal waters involving a return home the same day. It should be pointed out at this stage that although this will technically be the case, it always seems to take ages putting everything away, and there is never time when you get home for things like having your tea, or watching telly. Clearly for us then, there is no point in buying a small child’s inflatable dinghy, nor is there any reason to own a 4-berth 25-foot cruiser, although this would dramatically improve our popularity. If this were solely our aim, a gleaming catamaran would certainly be the best choice. The boat for us should be a 12 or 14-foot dinghy: easy to transport and launch single-handed, but with the potential to be entered in a race one day, whether deliberately, or by taking a wrong turn.
What shall I wear?
The question of what clothing to buy before we go sailing is very important, and can sometimes mean the difference between life and death. Our keen young yachtsman would certainly die a death if he or she walked into a packed sailing club bar looking like something from “The Thing from 50,000 Fathoms.” Likewise, turning up wearing freshly pressed chinos pulled to the nipple would also get big laughs. Image is not our only consideration, however. Apart from keeping us warm and dry, our clothing should always be a nice colour; the brighter the better. Not only does this make us more visible in the event of falling overboard, it also helps when trying to avoid tripping over somebody who is sprawled unconscious on the deck having been struck by the boom.
What to take with you
Again, preparation is the key. As budding sailors we must learn to be as organised as possible, and to always watch other more experienced crews to see how they go about arranging their decks, learning from any mistakes we see them make. Don’t be afraid to make up lists of even the most basic requirements. Take the example of the famous Americas Cup contestant, Ralph F. Peasbody, renowned for his endless lists and obsessive drive for perfection. He had travelled 4,000 miles to get to the start of the great race, when on his arrival, although he had remembered everything on his list of things to bring, he realised he had forgotten his boat, which sat 4,000 miles away on his driveway. It said much of his skill at the helm, not to mention the hapless navigational skills of his rivals, that he still managed to finish third, even having returned home to get his boat.
As a rough guide to help with our preparations, there follows three lists detailing all manner of nautical equipment, divided into different priorities:
HIGH PRIORITY:
Boat, Mast & Rigging, Sails, Rudder, Tiller, Paddle, Lifejackets, Cool-box full of beer
MEDIUM PRIORITY:
Spare clothing, Compass & Charts, Spare ropes, Tool kit, Enormous packed lunch, Flip-flops
LOW PRIORITY:
Wife, Mobile Phone, Air rifle, Pets, Shaving equipment, Television set, Ear-muffs
These lists are by no means exhaustive; as you become more experienced you will soon add your own essentials. A note on spare clothing: Dry clothes can be a godsend at the end of a hard day’s sailing, but it can also be very useful to take a set of wet clothes with you too. A skipper emerging from his vessel at the shore sporting dripping wet attire will always get the sympathy vote from any onlookers. This can easily turn into a welcome set of helping hands dragging your boat onto its trailer (a virtually impossible task, covered in a later chapter), or at the very least, a free drink at the club bar later.
Sailing jargon explained…
Before we begin to discuss the practicalities of rigging and launching our boat, we must first familiarise ourselves with the terms used to communicate commands from skipper to crew, and vice versa. It would be pointless, and indeed potentially dangerous, if commands were misunderstood. For example, on the skipper’s call of “We’re sailing by the lee!” the crew should not all suddenly launch themselves overboard and start swimming frantically towards the shore. Nor should they start dancing round on the foredeck, singing “A Sailor’s Life for Me.”
The following is a brief list of commands followed by their meanings, and the appropriate response from the crew:
COMMAND: "Ready about?"
MEANING: Prepare to tack
RESPONSE: "Aye!"
COMMAND: "Lee-Ho!"
MEANING: We're tacking
RESPONSE: (Just concentrate on what you're doing in case you get shouted at)
COMMAND: "Stand by to gybe!"
MEANING: Prepare to gybe
RESPONSE: "Aye!" (Hold onto something, as this may well go wrong)
COMMAND: "We're running by the lee!"
MEANING: Watch out in case the wind flips the boom around
RESPONSE: "Aye-aye!" (Take evasive action immediately - safest place below the foredeck)
COMMAND: "Watch that burgee!"
MEANING: Look up at the flag atop the mast, you're not steering properly
RESPONSE: "Look, who's steering this damn thing, me or you?"
COMMAND: "Run the mainsheet, run the mainsheet...!"
MEANING: Let go of the mainsail immediately, you're about to bloody capsize us
RESPONSE: "I didn't want to steer anyway, you made me! I knew I should've played golf instead."
CHAPTER 2
Now we’re ready to sail…
Okay, so we’ve planned our sail down to the tiniest detail and are now familiar with some of the commands we might expect to hear on board our boat. It’s now time to learn how to rig our boat, that is, to put up (step) the mast and sails, along with all the hundreds of fiddly bits and pieces we need to attach/arrange/coil up/fasten down/throw in the back of the car/generally sort out before we set sail.
Any captain worth his salt is always on the lookout for ways of avoiding any hard work so he can concentrate on more important skipper-type activities such as chatting to bikini-clad sunbathers, or strutting up and down the jetty admiring his reflection in the water. The procedure of stepping the mast is certainly worth avoiding, as it can easily turn into an embarrassing calamity when the inadequately controlled mast topples over, sending innocent bystanders scurrying for cover with their hands in the air. At times like these, the captain can turn to his well-rehearsed repertoire of prepared excuses to retreat to safety. Among the most widely used are: “I think I might have left the car unlocked,” or “Damn, I’ve left my sandwiches on the kitchen table,” or “Is that Larry Wiseman over there?” or, the ever-reliable “I’ve just remembered, I forgot to let the dog out for a piss.”
Now we have our boat rigged and ready for launching, it is a good time to have one last check around to make sure we haven’t forgotten anything. Many a time has a boat taken to the water without some vital part having been properly fixed. Imagine the embarrassment if, on letting fly our spinnaker, it took off into the air and flew into the distance because someone had forgotten to clip it to the halyard? Even worse, there are few more dangerous mistakes to make than disappearing from the jetty with a boat full of rowdy crew tanked-up on lager, without having first kissed your wife goodbye and promised you’ll be home in time for tea.
Launching
Let us assume we’ve taken our boat to the water’s edge and successfully got her afloat from her trailer without any embarrassing mishaps. Commonly-made mistakes here include losing one’s footing on the slippery slope and ending up sitting waist deep in water, forgetting to keep hold of the painter (the rope attached to your bow) while struggling to remove your trailer from the water and having to watch helplessly as your beloved vessel floats out to sea, or even, the water flooding in over the top of your wellingtons resulting in an unavoidable torrent of obscenities in front of your friends and family. Make secure your boat to the jetty (knots are covered later in this book), and allow time for one more check over to make sure all is ship-shape. Ensure all loose objects are tied down. Not only is this crucial in the event of a capsize, it also prevents anything from being blown away by the dangerously strong winds you are bound to encounter now that you’ve finally got round to getting the boat out of the garage (In 1963, a major shipping disaster was narrowly avoided when Captain Hamish Mactosh’s toupee was blown off in a gale, landing in the face of his helmsman and causing him to blindly steer into the path of a fully-laden herring trawler. A collision was only avoided by the quick thinking of the first mate, who deftly flicked the fluttering toupee clear with the end of a paddle).
First time out
Let us be clear with our fundamental objectives as we leave the safety of the land for the first time. All we want to do at this point is leave the shore, sail around for a bit, and then come back all without totally destroying our boat. With this in mind, set yourself a target such as reaching a specified point on the water, and on reaching that point, refusing to succumb to panic and therefore remaining capable of turning round and coming back ashore safely. A good young skipper with potential will aim for a buoy or something similar no less than half a mile out to sea. A cowardly no-hoper will drift uncontrollably into the middle of the harbour before being forced to row back to the jetty.
Now we have successfully been for a spin and have some degree of confidence on the water, it’s time to look more carefully at the various manoeuvres we must master before we can call ourselves sea-worthy. If at this point we have been reduced to a dribbling nervous wreck, then perhaps it’s time to think about selling our boat, and buying instead a nice trailer tent.
Points of sail
The term “points of sail” should never be confused with the question “What is the point of sailing?” The point of sailing is clearly an exercise in getting one out of the house for a bit of peace, while at the same time making one look sophisticated. The “points of sail” is a term used to describe the direction in which a boat is travelling in relation to the wind. These are detailed below:
Beating:
This term gets its name from the notion that you are “beating the wind”. We sail as close to the oncoming wind as possible, usually at about 45 degrees. It does not originate from the commonly-used culinary term. Any kind of culinary activities on board our boat must be strongly discouraged at this stage.
Reaching:
This manoeuvre is from where the expression “plain sailing” originates. It is commonly regarded as the easiest and most pleasant form of sailing. A particularly nice form of "reaching" is reaching for the beer and crisps stash beneath the foredeck. Reaching is always done at right angles to the wind.
Broad Reaching:
A variation of reaching, this involves turning away from the wind slightly. Too-broad-a reach can result in a calamitous gybe (covered earlier).
Running:
When running, we are sailing with the wind behind us. It is also used to describe the motion of a skipper who has hurriedly beached his vessel and is quickly making his way to the nearest large tree with his hand clamped to his groin.
Tacking:
This is the name given to the manoeuvre of turning our boat when heading windward. Its name derives from the ancient security measure of leaving drawing pins lying on the deck, causing any bare-footed intruders to dance around in a frenzy. (Note: this activity is replicated by a crew tacking in high winds.)
Gybing:
This name is given to the manoeuvre of turning our boat when heading downwind. It should not be confused with “jiving,” an activity banned on boats since the 16th century. Any crew members caught jiving were first forced to dance to the captain’s favourite record instead, then thrown overboard for having such poor musical taste.
Reefing
This is a process by which the area of sail we are carrying is reduced to compensate for a strengthening wind. It is best to do this before we actually set sail, but as always seems to be the way, the weather will drastically change the minute we leave the shore, and so the procedure is nearly always performed in a raging tempest by a panic-stricken crew. It is always best to keep a calm head in such situations. Lowering the mainsail completely and hiding underneath it crying won’t help anyone, nor would pretending to fall overboard and swimming round for a bit while your crew fix the situation; a captain should never leave his boat, even if it has accidentally been set on fire by the cook.
It is clear then, that a good captain will calmly take control of the situation. The mainsail is rolled up from the bottom and replaced on the mast with the minimum of disruption to our course, and certainly without the need to scream at the crew. This can only create unrest and resentment, and can even lead to a full mutiny. At the very least, it can lead to our being tied to the mast and forced to watch while the crew devour our packed lunch between them.
CHAPTER 3
Safety procedures and what to do if things go wrong
In this chapter we will examine the procedures undertaken in the unfortunate event of things going horribly wrong. It is sometimes inevitable that, although we have properly planned our trip and are fully competent in our craft, something will happen to send the whole thing pear-shaped. Always expect the unexpected to happen, because you can bet your bottom dollar it will, and quite often, just at the most inconvenient moment.
Common unexpected occurrences to be on the lookout for include:
• A sudden change in wind direction
• Other out-of-control vessels rapidly heading in your direction
• Your vessel becoming out-of-control and rapidly heading in the direction of other vessels
• Your helmsman falling backwards off the stern having consumed all the alcohol on board
• Losing control of your vessel as you fight off seagulls trying to eat your sandwiches
• Snagging your fishing hook on a passing boat and being dragged at speed over the side
• Your mother-in-law ringing you telling you to get back home to your wife.
Capsizing
It is a certainty that at some point in our sailing career we will be faced with a capsized boat. The fact that you are reading this very manual bodes well for your chances of avoiding one, but it is surprising how many people take to the water without acquainting themselves with a good basic sailing knowledge. Nonetheless, it will happen to you, especially if you insist on posing astride the foredeck, leaning on the mast wearing your sunglasses. Let us then, look at what happens in more detail.
An onlooker can always tell when a boat is about to capsize. Telltale signs include the boat leaning at an unnatural angle in an immense gust of wind, the captain and crew dancing about in a blind panic, and also, the captain swinging at his hapless crew with an oar. Therefore, we should anticipate these signs before they happen.
The golden rule when it comes to a capsized boat is always blame somebody else. A captain should never accept the blame for spilling his crew into the water together with everyone’s nibbly snacks and supply of booze. It is your fundamental right as skipper to yell at somebody else (usually the first mate), berating them indiscriminately as you bob about together in the water. Commonly-used insults are:
• I told you that was about to happen
• Well how was I supposed to know that was about to happen?
• What did you do that for, my Grandmother’s a better sailor than you
• Oh that’s just great, these are new trousers
• Help, I can’t bloody swim
Getting our boat upright again is simply a matter of splashing round in the water for as long as it takes for the crew to pull her up and bail her out. Only when this process is complete should you declare “I think I’ve got the hang of this swimming lark now,” and doggy-paddle your way back to the boat. This is an important point, as performing a complex stroke such as front-crawl or butterfly is sure to arouse the crew’s suspicions as to our true swimming capabilities.
Remember, don’t get carried away in apportioning the blame; becoming too insulting could lead to your crew sailing off without you, an embarrassing fate to be avoided at all costs. As a guide, stick to the above list until you feel more confident in your ability.
Man overboard
When a member of the crew is lost overboard, it is down to the quick thinking of the skipper and remaining crew (if any) what should happen next. Basically, the speed at which you return to the stranded person should always vary in direct proportion to their popularity amongst those still on board. For example, if the “floater” is your date who you are trying desperately hard to impress, it is strongly advisable to return to them immediately, either apologising profusely, or complimenting them on their diving technique. On the other hand, should the floater be the pain in the a**e of the crew who is always moaning and stealing everybody’s crisps, they should be left to bob about for at least half an hour while you and the rest of your crew go off for a bit of a sail. Of course, this should not be the case if the water is freezing cold. In such conditions they should be left for an hour, or until they begin to blubber, whichever comes first.
There are other points to consider when plucking a "floater" from the water. Such considerations include:
• Are you relying on them for a lift home? If so pick them up without delay
• Is the person sufficiently slim to pull aboard, if not, a capsize may result
• Failure to rescue the only sailing club member aboard could forfeit entry to the bar later
• Would it be more of a laugh for you and your mates to cheer them on as they swam ashore?
• Is the floater your wife who didn’t want to come sailing anyway? If so, rescue immediately.
Avoiding collisions
When sailing a boat in congested areas the same principles apply as when driving a car through a busy city centre. Obviously, there are certain do’s and don’ts to be considered before we charge through a busy shipping lane in our nippy little 14-foot dinghy, the main ones of which are shown below:
DO: Give way to large on-coming vessels at all times
DON'T: Try to divert the course of a cruise liner coming your way by gesticulating frantically
DO: Always remain in a fit physical condition to properly control your boat
DON'T: Get so trollied that you can't even focus, let alone control your boat
DO: Avoid sailing too close to any harbour walls, jetties or promenades
DON'T: In avoiding a collision, sail at speed into any harbour walls, jetties or promenades
DO: Retain poise and dignity at all times, treating other water users with respect
DON'T: Hurl abuse at other water users who may inadvertently get in the bloody way
Rowing
It goes without saying that rowing is the most boring, tiring and unpleasant activity that anyone can perform on board a boat. That is to say, except for dropping a shackle pin beneath the deck boards and having to search for hours amongst God-knows-what with freezing-cold fingers. Our experienced skipper can avoid the need to row by keeping an eye on weather conditions, or not forgetting to bring the sails, but sometimes there is no avoiding having to dip our trusty oars in the water.
When the decision has been made that we must indeed scramble our rowlocks, as Captain we must keep a cool head, and not resort to tantrums and foot-stamping just because we’re faced with an endless row home. An experienced skipper with skill will be able to persuade a loyal crew member to don the oars for him without receiving a single complaint, and certainly without finding himself having to take evasive action from flying rowlocks launched in his direction. And so it follows, that reclining on the deck with a nice cool beer in one hand and a bottle of Ambre Solaire in the other, saying things like “Wake me up when we get there” or, “Can’t you go any faster, I’m hungry,” should be strongly discouraged. Such insensitive comments can surely only result in an oar to the face.
So, in summary, try to avoid finding yourself in the position of having to row your boat in the first place, and if this can’t be avoided, exercise tact in forcing someone else to do it for you.
A word on a knot or two…
To our sailing dinghy, ropes are as essential an item as the sails, rudder, mast, or our emergency stash of chocolate bars that we’ve hidden behind the seats. Essentially, they are used to control the sails, secure our boat to a mooring or jetty, or generally get tangled up on some object or person just at the worst possible moment.
As our reliance on rope has increased, so has our ability to securely fasten them to our boat or jetty, or indeed any crew member finding themselves in the skipper’s bad books. There follows a brief list featuring some of the more common knots, and their uses:
Bowline:
A useful knot for making a temporary eye, or a very permanent one if you make a hash of it. Will not slip if tied by someone who knows what they’re doing.
Round turn and two half hitches:
One for the beginner: simply tie as big a knot as you can till it resembles a large bird’s nest. Used to tie up to a ring or post.
Sheet Bend:
Used to tie two ropes together. Name derives from "round the bend," which is where the beginner is driven when both ropes fall separately to the floor in a heap upon completion
Figure of eight knot:
Used to stop a rope running through a block. If it ends up looking more like the number "68,986," you’ve done it wrong.
Triple hitch thigh splice:
A very handy knot used to reduce chafing whilst wearing oversized shorts.
Smelly Granny:
One of the oldest knots known to man; highly unreliable and bound to slip just when you don’t want it to. Only tie in a complete emergency, or when you’ve forgotten how to do the other knot you know.
Sheep flank wangle:
No explanation available.
Recovering our boat from the water
Like many other aspects of sailing, it is all a matter of keeping one’s cool throughout what is sure to be an extremely stressful experience. The more helping hands you can find the better, but it is a fact that at this point in the day, most or usually all of your crew will have buggered-off home because they were “bloody freezing,” or “had some shopping to do.” So it will almost all the time be a case of having to “drag the bloody thing out yourself then.”
First things first: we must establish the safest and most efficient method of bringing our boat to the shore without causing a panic amongst the crew, or indeed a panic amongst any unsuspecting sunbathers on the beach. Also, it is always beneficial to bring our boat in without having inserted a large hole in her hull from some unseen obstacle beneath the surface (e.g. a shopping trolley, or burnt-out car). Not only would this make us look like a bunch of amateurs, it would also make landing exceptionally tricky, owing to the boat having sunk.
Obviously, the above process is determined by several factors, including weather conditions, tidal conditions, space to manoeuvre and also the amount the helmsman has had to drink. Once you have chosen your target at the shore, it is simply a matter of approaching under full control, and not at breakneck speed with your eyes closed and your crew assuming the crash position. If you are approaching in a headwind it is simply a case of choosing which tack to come in on, and upon almost reaching the shore, casting overboard your tallest crew member to see if he/she can stand up without blowing bubbles. If this is the case, lower your sails, and start packing away your lunch while you are pulled to the beach or jetty.
If, however, you are approaching with a tailwind, a different course of action is required. There are two basic methods from which to choose. Firstly, you can sail in as close to the shore as you dare, and at the last minute, flip your bow round into the wind and start frantically lowering your sails before you inadvertently take off again lengthways along the beach. The second technique involves using our newly-learned commands to warn other people of our impending landing manoeuvre. Approach the shore as normal, and upon reaching a point 30-feet away, give the command “Get the hell out of the way, we’re coming in!!!” This should certainly do the trick, alerting other traffic to your presence, and also creating a nice clear space to aim for on the beach.
An extra technique often employed is to actually jump overboard, in the hope that your vessel misses everybody. If this isn’t the case, one can always say you tripped, or even that someone pushed you in for a joke.
Now that we have successfully arrived at the shore, we must quickly and efficiently get our boat sitting on her trailer. This is important so as not to obstruct other water users from launching or landing, but also because at this point we are bound to be frozen to the bone and absolutely starving, and therefore most susceptible to violent outbursts and uncontrollable urges to throw things at our boat. The task we are faced with is almost impossible, and we must expect to get ourselves even wetter as we struggle trying to wrestle a boat, whose weight feels comparable to a jumbo jet full of pianos, onto a submerged trailer whose wheels are embedded in mud and surrounded by large television set-shaped rocks. Many exhausted sailors have been reduced to helplessly splashing about in chest-high water at this stage, still wearing their Wellington boots.
Another word of warning: be fully prepared for your boat to start floating off just when you’re ready to begin dragging the trailer out of the water. This is really most annoying, and one of the most likely causes of “boat rage” we are likely to encounter.
********************************
I hope that you have found this brief manual interesting and of some use in your studies. It should be said that we can read numerous technical publications such as this one, but there really is no substitute for actually getting out there on the water and gaining some good experience. You have taken your first successful step to becoming a good sailor by choosing to read this book, so now its time to put it all into practice and, above all, have some fun! Let’s just hope for a nice weather forecast...
© Matthew Jenkins 2008
mattofjenko@yahoo.co.uk
Wednesday, 15 December 2010
The Entertainer
Whilst recently visiting a dentist for an X-ray of a set of spectacularly impacted wisdom teeth, I chanced upon a discarded copy of Entertainment Occasionally amongst various other glossy weeklies strewn across the coffee table. As I flicked through the pages, trying to ignore the discomfort associated with the growth of a pair of tusks, my attention was drawn to the following article:
The Entertainer
Rudy Fishkin:
Is this man a Genius...?
Rudy Fishkin needs no introduction. He is a true legend. However, for the benefit of the un-educated amongst our readership, perhaps we should introduce him anyway...
Rudy Fishkin has had arguably one of the most successful careers in show business, spanning almost 70 years. As an actor, writer, director, musician, and more recently a respected philosopher, New Yorker Fishkin has excelled in every aspect of his creative life, in the process earning the status of cultural icon amongst his legion of inspired followers. He has won numerous awards for his work from all corners of the globe, whether from the world of literature, cinema, or classical music. Famously reclusive, he has always spurned intrusion into his private life, choosing instead to express himself in his chosen artistic media. His eccentricity is well-reported, as is his troubled personal life and difficulty in dealing with fame.
During a rare public appearance as part of his recent 80th birthday celebrations, Entertainment Occasionally managed to secure an interview with the elusive Fishkin. As can be seen, he is as full of enthusiasm for his work as ever despite his advancing years, although the inevitable slowing of his great mind does occasionally lead to periods of slight confusion.
Entertainment Occasionally gives you, Rudy Fishkin...
EO: Well, first of all Mr Fishkin, happy birthday!
RF: It’s my birthday?
EO: Well, last week, happy belated birthday
RF: No, no, no – it’s not till next month.
EO: You had a special dinner put on by the British Academy of Film and Television, last week, at the Savoy?
RF: That’s why there was a cake...
Confused, Fishkin surveys the various snacks laid out on the coffee table in his plush hotel room...
EO: After 70 years at the top, it’s hard to know where to start...
RF: How about at the beginning?
EO: Yes, let’s start at the very beginning. How old would you say you were when you first realised you wanted to entertain people?
RF: Do you want a pretzel?
EO: Er, thanks.
RF: Shouldn’t myself. I have a stomach ulcer the size of a fried egg.
EO: What were your earliest creative memories?
RF: Ach, memories... I remember as a young boy making people laugh by putting ping-pong balls in my mouth and firing them across the room like a cannon. I still sometimes do it now.
EO: You were a practical joker?
RF: Oh yes. That particular one always got a laugh. Apart from the time I nearly blinded my Aunt Golda. I also remember playing the piano at family gatherings. That got stopped by my parents, who didn’t like me going off all the time spending time with strange families. Such good pretzels...
EO: Did you receive formal musical tuition at that age?
RF: Sure, sure, that’s true, my later films dealt with the moral issues faced by most puppeteers at some point in their careers. Have you ever swum with dolphins?
EO: Er, no...dolphins...?
RF: To be a dolphin – they know how to live, and such a healthy diet. Can you hear ringing?
EO: Getting back to the question... Your early musical training...?
RF: Oy vey, so touchy... Coffee? My head hurts.
EO: Thank you, yes please. When did you first play the piano in public?
RF: What’s this, sweeteners...? No sugar... Right. Figures. What did you say...?
EO: When did you first play the piano in public?
RF: At my grandfather’s funeral, I played “I Got Rhythm” at the wake. Milk or cream...?
EO: What about when you composed your first piece of music?
RF: What about it?
EO: When was it?
RF: Sheez, he wants to know everything... Maybe ’41, or’42 - who knows? Milk it is...
EO: You were often compared to George Gershwin in your early career. Did this put unwelcome weight on your shoulders as an artist?
RF: You wanta talk about my new book? I’m up to my ears in alimony, and Christmas is coming up...
EO: Ok, we can edit this up later... Tell us about your new book.
RF: To me, Gershwin was totally unique, a one-off. A bit like my ex-wife’s sister. Such jowls... Anyway, it was true that his music inspired me, but to compare my music to his would be an insult to me, or him, or the other guy. What was his name...? You play tennis?
EO: Er, not for a while...
RF: You should get out in the sun. You’re pale.
EO: Your new book, Existential Meditations, is an investigation into the potential liberty of the repressed psyche amidst the domineering collective conscience of modern society...
RF: It is? I thought it was about thinking for yourself... I should read it again...
EO: What made you want to write the book?
RF: Well, my accountant kept calling me up and talking about negative this, or static that, so I knocked the book out to keep him off my back. You should see the car he drives.
EO: Perhaps then, you could give us your views on living in a profoundly materialistic world?
RF: I’m getting such a headache... I think that too many people worry about the wrong things in life. Who needs money anyhow? Alright, alright... so my accountant and ex-wife... okay, you’re happy? People should be more content with what they’ve got, and stop buying such big cars. Who needs a car this big? You think God would drive such a car? He’d take the bus. And food is another... You seen the size of some of these people? They should play more tennis too. A sandwich...?
EO: No – thank you. Do you think the media pressurises young people to look a certain way?
RF: Like what, skinny? Sure, sure. (into phone) Hello, room service? Yeah, can you send up a bunch of roast beef on rye with mustard to room 209? Oh, and another bowl of pretzels... (to me again) You’re sure...? (hangs up phone) What are you, fasting? What was the question again...?
EO: What kind of audience is your book aimed towards?
RF: Well, it’s not aimed at the types of people who fall asleep in front of all those shiny-floored TV shows on a Saturday night with their mouths wide open, and it’s not aimed at anyone with a hat size greater than 26 inches either. Anyone in between should find it interesting. Did I tell you the hardcover is specially discounted?
EO: What plans do you have for your work now that you’ve turned 80 years of age?
RF: I’m sure I’m only 79... Anyway, 79, 80, 90 – what’s the difference? I feel great. If only I could remember who the old woman is knocking round the house. Did you ask me something?
EO: Plans for the future?
RF: Well, I have a lady friend lives not far from here, we’re going to see a show tonight. Then tomorrow I’m having lunch with my agent – he’s another one, I thought my ex-wife was highly-strung...Then, who knows? You’ll play tennis Monday? We could catch a movie...
EO: I’m afraid I have prior work commitments...
At this point, room service arrives with a tray of sandwiches and some more pretzels...
RF: (to room service boy) Great, kid... just on the table here, that’s fine. Say, you play tennis?
EO: I’d like to talk a little about your acting career. Since 1962 you’ve starred in over forty successful films...
RF: Get away, how many...?
EO: At the beginning of your acting career you studied with such luminaries as Brando, Strasberg and Orson Welles. What was it like to work with them?
RF: You’re kidding... I knew he reminded me of someone... Brando you say? He never said... such a modest guy. Who were the others again? Jimmy Stewart? Jimmy was a great guy. He was such fun to have on the set, always fooling around and playing tricks. I remember once he hid Hitchcock’s hat. Hitchcock was furious, said he couldn’t work without it. Sometimes he would go too far, like the time he pulled Bergman’s chair out from under her just as she sat down – she went crazy and stormed off the set saying he’d made her look an ass. Gregory Peck was another one. He once staked his mother-in-law on a poker game. Lucky for him, he won. Thing was, he wound up winning John Huston’s sister in the same game and had to put her up in his trailer till they finished shooting. I could go on... How long you got?
EO: Please do, it’s fascinating...
RF: Sit down, sit down...Why don’t you start at the beginning?
EO: I’m sorry...?
RF: Of my career, you’re going to ask me some questions? Say, pretzels...
EO: Er, yes, perhaps we could talk more about your early acting career first...
RF: Ach, Jimmy Stewart, there was a great guy. He was such fun to have on the set...
EO: Yes, yes, Jimmy Stewart, you mentioned him... What about Brando?
RF: Bogart? Now there was a great man. All that tough guy stuff, right? He was a pussy cat. Let me tell you, I remember once he refused to come on set to shoot because there was a spider on the drapes. Mary Astor had to get rid of it in a glass before he’d come anywhere near. And that roughin’-up the women? You ought to know, they nearly had to get him a double one time when he broke a nail slappin’ Bergman around. Great guy though, sure, he could really turn it on. And his tailor too, I should’ve had such gabardine...
EO: Your early acting roles gave you the experience to draw on in your later, more challenging portrayals of some extremely intense characters...
RF: Not really. To be honest, when I started out, I wanted to work behind the camera,
EO: To direct?
RF: No, as a dolly grip. I always wondered what they did.
EO: I see. But you went on to give some truly memorable performances for which you were nominated for several Academy Awards...
RF: Yes, yes. These are great sandwiches. You should eat. You come all this way and don’t eat?
EO: I’m not hungry, thank you.
RF: You think I’m paying? My expenses tab reads like Dostoyevski. Relax, eat something.
EO: Thank you, but no. Maybe later. Could you tell us a little about how you made the transition from acting to directing?
RF: I told you my new book’s discounted in hardcover, right?
EO: I believe you did.
RF: If you’re sure. Now, directing... directing... I directed?
EO: Perhaps you could tell us a little about it?
RF: This guy knows everything... Do you work for the IRS? Sheez, they’ll want blood next.
EO: Er, yes, I’m talking about the successful films you’ve directed...?
RF: Nope... never directed anything in my life. You should speak to my accountant. He knows.
EO: I don’t work for the IRS, Mr Fishkin, Entertainment Occasionally.
RF: I don’t care if it is only occasionally, I never directed.
EO: From an artistic perspective, your directorial debut in 1975 was greeted with glowing reviews from some of Hollywood’s most revered authorities for its technical facility and visual awareness...
RF: No, no, that wasn’t me... Ach, you mean that little guy with the beard, right? Yeah, you got the wrong guy... You think I know where he lives? He could be anywhere... Try the Yellow Pages... Ok, ok, I might’ve helped out, but only with the cold cuts in the crew mess, and that was only for expenses and a piece of the leftovers action... My accountant will straighten everything out. He’s in the Athletic Club... you want passes? Sheez, and all for a lousy book plug...
EO: Ok, moving on from directing then, do you still write music today?
RF: One day he’ll ask me about the book... Now you want music? Alright, alright, so ask me about music...
EO: Yes, do you still write today?
RF: Actually, I’ve just written a new book called Existential Meditations which, incidentally, is specially discounted in hardcover. If I could remember what it was about I’d tell you, but it’s over 400 pages long. You’ll buy a copy? I could sign it for you...You see that pen...?
EO: Thank you, but I’ve read it. Do you still find time to write music in your busy schedule?
RF: You think I’m busy? I can do what I want, there’s plenty of time. People want me here, people want me there... Relax. Who needs to rush? You’ll just get a coronary. I fit things in. My agent should learn too. He’s only just turned 40 and he’s crunching Diazepam and wearing a toupee. Life’s too short. Sure, sure, I find time for music. I’ve actually just finished writing the first ever piano quartet. I plan to perform it in the New Year.
EO: Really?
RF: Sure. It’s in three movements. Adagio, Moderato, and Breakneck.
EO: That’s an interesting idea. Do you have any plans at this stage which pianists you might use for the performance?
RF: Pianists? Who mentioned pianists? I’m playing it myself.
EO: You’re playing four pianos at once?
RF: Sure I am. I got a great deal with Steinway. They’re putting my Grandkid through college. My agent set it up. In fact, they’re putting his kid through college too. The first ever piano quartet, with just one guy sitting amongst all these pianos. It’s a great idea, they’ll be selling pianos on the moon. I suggested an octet, but they’re worried about stages collapsing.
EO: Do you feel the need to cross musical boundaries because you’ve composed so prolifically for so many years?
RF: Because I’ve what?
EO: You have written a lot of music in your career...
RF: Yes, I remember writing some once.
EO: You’ve won several Grammys, amongst other awards...
RF: Yes, but that was by mistake.
EO: I’m sorry?
RF: They thought I was someone else...
EO: I see. Do you listen to a lot of music today?
RF: Ach, what are you, my shrink?
EO: Sorry Mr Fishkin, too many questions...?
RF: There he goes again, asking me another...
EO: Okay, I’m sorry... so, you have your piano quartet, your new book,
RF: Discounted in...
EO: ...hardcover, yes, and some concerts in the New Year. Don’t you ever think of slowing down?
RF: You’re tired? You should listen. It’s lack of sun. You look terrible. Here, I saved you some pretzels...
EO: Thank you. Perhaps, Mr Fishkin, before we finish, you would like to take this opportunity to address your many fans around the world with some words of wisdom?
RF: My head hurts, and look what he chooses to ask me... Can you repeat the question?
EO: What advice would you offer to any of your fans reading this interview?
RF: And now he wants advice... Well, to all the kids out there, I would first of all say get out and play some tennis, particularly if you know any nice girls who play too. Look after yourself. Eat plenty of oily fish and cereals if you can, but don’t eat too much oily fish. If you know any nice girls who like cereals, don’t play too much tennis either, particularly after eating schnecken. (to me) You got any aspirin? I don’t feel so good. Where was I? Tennis? Alright, already. Kids should learn to be themselves, especially if their friends are trying to be them too. People follow the crowd, which is great if you enjoy socialising, but all that can ever do is stifle creativity and pass round colds. Be brave, even if people think you’re weird. They’re weird. What the hell’s weird anyway? Okay, so my friend Benny Greenblatt, for sure. Basically, don’t worry about material things, or anything that doesn’t involve armed robbery. So you don’t wear a Rolex or drive a Mercedes? Who cares? Your health is more important, as are your family, loved ones, and especially your attorney. Finally, on matters of the flesh, I have come to realise that there is no such thing as love. There is much lust, deceit, and in the case of my ex-wife, loathing, but no love. So, if I was one of the kids out there today, I’d be... I’d be... Oy vey, it’s gone again...
EO: Rudy Fishkin, thank you.
RF: Pleased to meet you, kid... Say, you look just like the guy who did my last interview. You want a pretzel? Okay, okay, so fire away...We’ll start with my new book...?
© Matthew Jenkins, December 2010
mattofjenko@yahoo.co.uk
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Harry
H
|
arry sat looking at the wine glass. It had been a difficult day. On this particular day, he had been drawn into a quarrel with a cantankerous custodian of the local library over the correct printer to use for black and white documents and had eventually been escorted from the premises by an old man dressed as a woman. Still, he had won the argument over the printer, and had even managed to leave the building with 40p’s worth of printing concealed under his coat.
What was the world coming to? pondered Harry, as he topped-up his glass. Such hostility everywhere, and now, old ladies with goatee beards. He thought back to his childhood when he had regularly attended the very same library and once vomited on their copy of Aesop’s Fables. He remembered the librarian asking him to be quiet, and also how upset he had been not to be allowed to take the book home. Nothing’s changed, he thought, and now here he was approaching middle age, and with what to show for it?
He took another sip from his glass. At 42, Harry had been married and divorced, had two teenage children, a job he hated (until recently), and a small family who made up for what they lacked in numbers in their sheer eccentricity. He thought about the mother of his children. In spite of her flaws, Harry had always loved his ex-wife, and had been shocked to discover her infidelity with a part-time bingo caller. In a rage, he had confronted his wife’s lover and attempted to force-feed him the number 37 bingo ball. He was however eventually restrained by several pensioners, one of whom had given him a mild concussion with an ash tray. Such injustice that it should happen to him, a man so devoted to his wife and family that he had turned down several advances by the opposite sex, as well as one once by a man in a train station. Well, perhaps his ex-wife had regretted her actions, something he had suspected ever since her attempt to electrocute herself one Christmas by bathing with the fairy lights. The bingo caller had soon eloped with an underwear mannequin from the local department store, and so his ex-wife, as well as having to live with the guilt of breaking up the family, would be forever plagued with feelings of physical inadequacy. Good.
And what about the children? Harry was a doting father and had found separation from his children difficult, particularly when his 17 year-old daughter had started dating a boy she had met on the internet called Harold. His son worried him too, although his fondness for all things macabre, particularly his habit of sleeping in the cellar in a boxful of earth had at least kept him out of trouble with girls. Sitting staring at the wall, as he often did whilst enjoying his after-dinner bottle of wine, Harry drifted into a world of reminiscence. He soon found himself at the birth of his daughter amidst scenes of chaos as, resulting from the effects of sufficient pain-killing drugs to send a horse doo-lally, his wife’s legs had fallen off the bed. He never forgot seeing his daughter’s face for the first time as she was brought to him soon after he came round in the arms of the obstetrician. She had been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, including his wife on their wedding day, and all without the need to spend nearly £350 on make-up. His son’s birth had been equally memorable. Harry had been very lucky, as he had first wanted a girl, then a boy, then private lessons from the long-legged brunette at the tennis club. Still, two out of three wasn't bad, and his children had loyally repaid his constant love and affection with cherished memories, and now a bald-spot that was starting to resemble a large egg in a nest.
Yes, but where are they now? Harry was becoming a little drunk. He looked down at his empty plate, then across the table to an old photograph of his smiling daughter dressed as the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. Whatever they’re doing, they’re happy, he told himself, and being well brought up, even if by a mother who had the sexual morals of a rabbit. Besides, there were more pressing issues to contend with, like what he was going to do to earn a living now that he’d packed in his job.
Harry had detested his job. Since he was at school, apart from a short period when he declared he would enter the space race, he had never known what he wanted to do when he grew up, and still didn’t now. Not wanting to think about his problem, he briefly rose to clear his things and put on some music before returning to his seat at the table that, as usual, hosted only his wine glass. As John Coltrane’s tenor saxophone caressed the curry-tinged air of the room, Harry tried hard to think of anything other than his career dilemma.
He was soon distracted by pleasant thoughts of a young lady he had recently met whilst being attacked by a dog at a local beauty spot. Recovering from an operation to repair a hernia that had evidently been carried out by some kind of trainee, Harry had taken to going for walks in his favourite places in an effort to restore feeling to his reproductive system. On this particular occasion he had been sitting on a bench enjoying the view of the sea, when his attention had suddenly been drawn by a sizeable dog approaching at a speed suggesting an intention either to make lots of puppies, or kill something. Dismayed to deduce the latter, Harry had been forced to protect his vulnerable groinal region by doubling over and assuming the crash position as the dog struck. The lady that Harry was thinking about now had eventually caught up with her pet, who was soon distracted sufficiently to begin eating instead a small stick. For Harry, this had been a typical way to meet the opposite sex, as his past experiences had all been prophetically triggered by unfortunate circumstances. He once went out with a girl he had shared a car with at a funeral, and had actually met his ex-wife when she vomited on him in a nightclub. Although he didn’t realise it, Harry sat smiling at memories of difficult situations in which he had so often found himself whilst in the company of past romantic interests. There was the time when he had mistakenly smeared hot mustard onto a sirloin steak whilst on a first date and had almost passed-out attempting to eat it rather than admit his error. Then there was the incident at his mother-in-law’s house when he had fainted whilst answering the call of nature and was found sprawled in the bathtub. And of course, he would never forget the time when he had sunk his uncle’s boat whilst trying to impress a girl with his sailing prowess and had been forced to watch as she was rescued by a windsurfing ex-Chippendale.
Returning to the present, Harry thought about the girl with the rabid dog. Was he interested in another relationship? This he didn’t know, although he did sometimes wonder about getting a budgie. Ever since his ex-wife’s adventures with the bingo caller, he had sworn never to trust any woman again, even if she did look like the one on the Timotei advert. Perhaps he would just like to be friends with someone, and therefore not have to worry about all that other stuff that only ever gave him hiccups. Yes, it seemed there was a lot to be said for a platonic relationship, particularly if one half of it was a neurotic wreck. The girl with the dog had seemed very nice, and Harry couldn’t help but think how effortlessly their conversation had lasted until they had reached her car. Admittedly, it had been parked only across the road, but even this was a result for Harry, who had usually struggled even to smile at a girl without getting his words mixed up. They had bid farewell and vowed to look out for each other again, and as she drove away with a smile and a wave, Harry had not felt so good for a long time.
Still thinking about this recent incident, Harry found himself in the kitchen opening another bottle of wine. It was no good. Even if he was somehow transformed into a strutting Adonis, since he’d left his job at the herbarium all he could ever afford would be a date at the cafe on the corner run by the woman with the tattooed forearms. He still couldn’t face thinking about what he was going to do for money, and as he took his glass to the sofa, his mind turned to his writing.
Since the breakup of his marriage, Harry had sought solace in writing when he had discovered an old-fashioned typewriter at a car-boot sale. He had written several pieces about his ex-wife for which he one day hoped to sell the rights to an occult magazine recommended by his son. He had also come up with some ambitious essays on such lofty topics as philosophy and art, as well as a one-act play based on his marriage, entitled Flies Down For a Full House. Recently, Harry had been seized with the idea to sell his work, and so had been in touch with several publishers in an attempt to promote his growing portfolio. A literary journal had shown some interest in his piece on meta-ethics but had ultimately been turned down by Harry, who had refused to remove the illustrations. His reflection on the role of country dancing in modern society had drawn a blank, despite its frankness and moral relevance. Meanwhile, universal rejection of the piece he considered his best work to date, a 180,000 word epic juxtaposing the subject of psychological dysfunction with several of his favourite pasta recipes had depressed him, and he had for a time considered retiring as a writer. As he reclined on the sofa, Harry thought about his works-in-progress. He always worked on at least two pieces at a time. That way, if he got stuck on one, he could always fall back on the other until inspiration struck. He also liked to leave his manuscripts lying around his flat, as he enjoyed their company and often had deep conversations with them. He currently had high hopes for a comedy screenplay he had written inspired by his former work colleagues at the herbarium entitled Pass the Hemlock, which he had forwarded to several agents as well as his ex-boss. Perhaps, Harry wondered, one day I will be recognised for the talent that I am, and not just as the bloke with the bald-spot like an egg in a nest who wanders round the supermarket on his own.
Harry hadn’t noticed that John Coltrane had long-since packed away his saxophone and retired to the bar. This had been a typical evening for Harry, as he had sat thinking his thoughts with his wine to the accompaniment of some favourite music, and the sound of the man in the flat upstairs apparently either entertaining a lady-friend, or bench-pressing a piano. Although he wouldn’t realise it until he tried to stand up, Harry had become very drunk. The job... the job... he thought. What are you going to do? He tried desperately to think about something else.
The girl who had saved him from her dog once more popped into Harry's head. She had been very attractive, despite the presence of the ubiquitous nappy bag that had swung at her hip like the scrotum of a large bull. She was typical of the type that Harry would go for, particularly in her habit of not only acknowledging his presence, but also for talking to him for what had seemed like a whole three minutes. Harry wondered if she had liked him. She certainly had a nice smile. Maybe I could bump into her again? Would it be obvious? Why? I go there all the time anyway... She might be hoping to bump into me! Perhaps I could ask her for a drink, perhaps...I...I...perhaps...I...
Harry woke up at 2.30 am from a vivid dream in which he had asked the girl with the dog to go out for a drink, and as she had replied yes he suddenly realised that she had a goatee beard. As he peeled himself off the sofa, Harry remembered what it was that he’d been trying not to think about all night. The job. Well, there’s always tomorrow, he thought.
Harry stood swaying in the dark room thinking about big eyes, big smiles and big nappy bags.
Then, finally, Harry went to bed, and dreamt about bingo.
© Matthew Jenkins, December 2010
mattofjenko@yahoo.co.uk
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)