Denis Kilcommons
  • Home
  • Books
  • More Books
  • Blog
  • Bits of a Life
  • Send a message
  • Links
  • Untitled
  • Untitled
  • Untitled

The Power Of A Manchester Screwdriver

4/12/2019

1 Comment

 
Picture
​DO-it-yourself has sometimes been a necessity but never an enthusiasm that led me to fill the garage with a work bench and an array of electronic tools. My old chum, the late Fred Wood, knowing of my shortcomings with anything complicated, once gave me what he said was a Manchester screwdriver: it was a mallet. I found it a boon in simplifying jobs around the house. Sadly it has gone missing since our move.
In our new house there are still improvements to be made. I have a list in my head that I will nurture until they fade into memory.
There are, of course, some domestic jobs I am happy to relinquish to my wife Maria, on the grounds that she knows how to operate a washing machine and I don't. She remains in control of the oven even though, when we had a new one installed two months ago, she complained it was taking ages to cook anything, until she realised she had miss-interpreted the dials and attempted to roast a joint on steam clean.
My pal Jimmy, on the other hand, displays an open policy of equal rights, which he explained when we met at the bar the other day and he was without his wife.
“Where's Julie?”
“
She's at home, she had a few jobs to do. She's finished the tiling and now she's working on the roof.”
Arthur looked at him askance: “You've left her working on the roof?”
“Well, she's nearly finished. She enjoys it.”
“Arthur, “ I said. “Jimmy is a Scouser. He's having you on.”
At least, I think he was.
Mind you, it would be handy if Maria could do a bit of ladder work now and again, what with my bad back. But on the whole, I think we have the balance of shared responsibilities about right. Take duvets, for instance.
It was her decision to guide me into Honest Freddy's and point out they were selling “hotel quality duvet sets” at a bargain price. And a lovely quality they are, too.
The trouble came at home when I retired to my office. An hour later, I discovered Maria downstairs in the living room struggling to shove a floppy duvet inside a new cover. I had to step over the thing to get to the kitchen to make my coffee.
Half an hour later, she had dragged it upstairs and into the bedroom and I was unable to further ignore her grunts and curses. I wandered through to say how nice it looked. It didn't.
“I can't get the lumps out,” she said. I gave a manly sigh and took over. Cover to corner, shake and smooth. It remained lumpy. Together we beat it into submission. Combined operations sometimes work. Until we got into bed that night.
Instead of buttons to seal it, the cover had a large overlap like an envelope, which was face down at the wrong end of the bed. Our feet went straight into the envelope, which could have spelt disaster if either of us got up swiftly during the night. We slept warily and realignment took place the next morning. These chores are, after all, sent to try us if we can't ignore them.
After my shower, I found Maria inspecting the full length mirror we had bought from the Hospice shop, which was still leaning against a wall.
“You could hang it there,” she said.
“I'll do it as soon as I can find my Manchester screwdriver,” I said. “Unless you want to ask Julie to come round to help you do it.”






1 Comment

The Big Sleep

4/5/2019

0 Comments

 
Picture
​ASSISTING a suicide is a criminal offence. But 84% of Brits polled supported terminally ill people having the right to die. The Royal College of Physicians is neutral on an issue which provokes strong responses from those in favour and against.
Sarah Wootton of Dignity In Dying said: “In these divided times there is a cause that unites the majority – a more compassionate law for dying people.”
Alistair Thompson of Care Not Killing said: “There is no safe system of euthanasia or assisted dying anywhere in the world.”
Others have views based on religious beliefs as well as compassion.
I envy our last and very beloved dog Lucky, a black Labrador cross, upon whom Maria and I doted. When she was literally on her last legs and unable to stand, a vet came to our home and gave her an injection as she lay on the rug in front of the fire. She passed away quietly, with dignity and with the two of us by her side.
As I get older, I have my own views on death and, while I know you cannot compare ending a dog's life with that of ending a human life, I do wish there was an easier solution to the endgame that awaits us all.
Raymond Chandler's private eye Philip Marlowe named it the Big Sleep and, when I nod off for the last time, I will regret leaving life behind but hope to accept the inevitable in the manner of close chum Alex Kersey-Brown. He faced a year-long death sentence from cancer with equanimity, wit and the courage he had displayed throughout his life. What I fear more is losing my marbles. I have had friends who shuffled off this mortal coil not knowing who they were.
My wife's grandmother Mary, a staunch Catholic, would pray for those close to her to have an easy death which, at the time, I thought strange but now understand completely. Her own wasn't too bad.
The widow of Blackpool businessman Diamond Tony Colaluca, Mary had been a character who drank whisky and smoked King Edward cigars most of her life, until a doctor advised her to cut down. She switched to cheroots.
In her final weeks, infirm and at an advanced age, she continued taking her daily intake of whisky through a Tommee Tippee, although she had given up on the cheroots.
I confided my own concern to my eldest daughter and said: “If I start going daft, get me some pills.” To which she tartly replied: “How will we know?”
So, no help there, then. I'll just keep my fingers crossed and hope for an easy death.







0 Comments

This Time Next Blue Moon I'll Be A Millionaire

4/1/2019

1 Comment

 
Picture
ONCE in a blue moon, I buy a lottery ticket on the grounds that I might have a similar chance of becoming a millionaire. So, after seeing an advert for a new game from the National Lottery, I logged onto the website to discover what might make this more appealing than the rest and found there are now games on which to waste your money six nights a week.
The UK Lottery started in 1994 and was once a week on Saturday. A Wednesday draw was introduced in 1997. Thunderball and Lotto Extra were added in 1999 and 2000. Lotto Hot Picks, Daily Play and online games followed, along with the scratch-cards people buy at store till points.
Euromillions was added in 2004 and is now drawn on Tuesday and Friday. With this wide choice of games, do we really need Set For Life, which is played Monday and Thursday? If you win, you get £10,000 a month for 30 years. This totals £15.6 million.
Odds of winning first prize in the Euro Lottery are 139 million to one; UK Lotto is 45 million to one; Set For Life is 15 million to one, which makes it sound attractive until you take into account your age. I am highly unlikely to last another 30 years and even those in their prime have to consider illness or being knocked down by a number 19 bus.
Whichever you pick, the chances of winning are still as likely as a blue moon.




1 Comment

Don't Get In Arthur's Way

3/31/2019

0 Comments

 
Picture
​I READ with alarm that UK supermarkets are preparing for looting and riots because of food shortages if there is a no deal Brexit. By heck, I'm off to town to buy a crash helmet, elbow pads and a pepper spray for when it comes to a fight over the avocados in Sainsbury's.
Almost two thirds of fresh fruit and veg in our shops come from Europe. That's a big gap to fill and it's not even taking into account Prosecco and Stella Artois.
In fact, it might be better to go shopping as a pack, with my mate Arthur on point in pit boots (he's 80, small and lethal), Maria and me pulling trolleys, and Phil and Rag on the flanks (they're both 6ft plus) carrying heavy duty plastic bin lids to ward off the opposition. We can sweep the aisles in a wedge formation.
“Grab the onions.”
“Leave room for the Brioche.”
“We need those Maris Pipers.”
“Careful. You nearly squashed my plums.”
It could become a team event for only the brave or those in dire need of an iceberg lettuce for a ham tea on Sunday.
Residents of Skelmanthorpe, which is just down the road, would, of course, be barred for having an unfair advantage. The village has two claims to fame. It's where Jodie Whittaker, the current Doctor Who, grew up, and it's known as Shat.
In ancient times its inhabitants were known as The Shatterers and their local sport was shin-kicking and lug-hole biting. They'd take home the lettuce every time.




0 Comments

Failure with a view

12/4/2017

0 Comments

 
Picture
DEPORT me now. I just failed a UK Citizenship Test.
A recent survey by Privilege Insurance said most Britons would fail so I had to give it a go.
To become a citizen you must pass a language test, have spent a period of time living here and have no criminal record. You must also take a test that must be completed in 45 minutes. A 75% pass mark is required. Last year, 36% of would-be citizens failed. They could take it again, but at £50 a shot it's not cheap and it's not easy. The survey suggests home-grown Brits might fare even worse.
I had a look at several versions of the test which are available online. The questions range from obvious to difficult, through devious, confusing and obtuse. I didn't know when the Battle of Bannockburn was fought. Who would, apart from a pub quiz expert? But in case you're planning on taking the test, it was 1314. That's almost a quarter past one.
The fine for not having a TV license? I guessed £200. Turns out it's £1,000. Better check where mine is. But I knew where Anne Boleyn was beheaded and that the Age of Enlightenment was not called Hogmanay. Unless you're a Scotsman, that is. He might insist Hogmanay is always enlightening.
When I finally took the Test for real, I scored 15 out of the 24 questions, which is only 62.5%, which makes me a failed Brit.
So if I am due for deportation, can I ask Immigration Enforcement officers to send me somewhere warm with a nice view? And can I have a re-settlement fee with that?



0 Comments

Last orders at the bar ...

11/24/2017

1 Comment

 
Picture
Colin Crompton
SUCH excitement was caused when a Poundworld store opened in the Welsh seaside resort of Rhyl that a quarter mile long queue formed for the opening. What do the residents normally do for entertainment? Go out and watch the traffic lights change?

This is a line deadpan comedian Colin Crompton made about Morecambe, another seaside resort with a sleepy reputation. Crompton, a classic comic of British variety, was the fictional chairman at The Wheeltappers and Shunters Social Club on TV in the 1970s.
He had a routine that made fun of Morecambe: “It's like a cemetery with lights … Stockport with sea … for excitement they go to the grocery store and watch the bacon slicer. Nice girl.”
There were complaints from both the resort and chairmen of workingmen's clubs who alleged he made them look daft by ringing a fire bell to shout: “Order round the room” and make announcements such as: “The pies have come” or “On behalf of the Committee, I should like to tell you we made a mistake in offering the raffle prize of a diving suit. It is, in fact, a divan suite.”
Many years ago,
I was at a workingmen's club to watch Ray Dorset and the band Mungo Jerry when the chairman rang his bell halfway through their major hit In The Summertime to say: “Excuse me, Mr Mungo”, before announcing last orders at the bar, followed by: "Carry on, Mr Mungo."
Never has a rock band been so nonplussed.
Colin Crompton's finest hour at the Wheeltappers came when he interrupted ventriloquist Ray Alan halfway through his act. “E
xcuse me Mr. Alan," he said. "We've had some complaints that they can't quite hear you at the back. Could you hold your dummy a little closer to the microphone please?"



1 Comment

Warning - Intercourse ahead!

11/2/2017

0 Comments

 
Picture
A HOLIDAY firm listed places in Europe with unfortunate names that include Rottenegg in Austria, El Moron in Spain, Piles in Spain, Windpassing in Austria and Bidet in France.
“Where did you go for your holidays?”
“We had two weeks in Bidet. Nice place but a bit wet.”
But European names can't compete with America, that has Slaughterville in, Oklahoma, Satan's Kingdom in Massachusetts, Accident in Maryland and Dogtown in Alabama.
And wait, there's Embarrass in Minnesota and Imalone in Wisconsin, you could have Intercourse in Pennsylvania, get bitten in Mosquitoville in Vermont, be Okay in Oklahoma, Rough and Ready in California, have Toast in Carolina, be Uncertain in Texas and find Hell in Michigan.
Let us also take pride in Britain. We have an even better collection of quirky names and most of ours come with a touch of class. Here's a selection, without resorting to any of the downright vulgar:
Loose Bottom, Slackbottom, Ramsbottom, Broadbottom, Curry Mallet, Matching Tye, Nasty, Great Snoring, Barton in the Beans, Jump, Blubberhouses, Wetwang, Giggleswick and Crackpot.
Wait, there's more: Pity Me, Dull, Lost, Brokenwind, Sodom, Knockerdown, Crapstone, Piddle, Pucklechurch, Nomansland, Nether Wallop, Bishop's Itchington, Ugley and Nasty. Not forgetting Penistone, which can cause amusement if pronounced incorrectly.
And let us not forget
Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch in Wales which, with 58 letters, is the longest name in Great Britain and which translates as: "St Mary's Church in the Hollow of the White Hazel Near to the Rapid Whirlpool of Llantysilio of the Red Cave."
Or you could just say
LlanfairPG.
Dull in Scotland is enterprisingly twinned with Boring in Oregon. Now if only Beer in Devon and Droop in Dorset could get together ...



0 Comments

October 26th, 2017

10/26/2017

0 Comments

 

Maharishi, The Beatles and me

Picture
RESEARCH at Coventry University says meditation alters the activity of genes to help ease stress and depression.
It's a technique that has been used by religions and philosophies throughout history, but you no longer need to visit an ashram or retreat for guidance. These days, you can download an app onto your smartphone to bring "clarity, joy and peace to your daily life". Apparently.
So of course I tried a couple of free samples. The first provided relaxing music until disrupted by an annoying female American voice telling me to be calm The second had the smug male upper-class English voice whose owner deserves a smack.
I learned Transcendental Meditation 40 years ago and met Maharishi Mahesh Yogi who taught the Beatles. Two 20 minute periods a day reciting a mantra to ease away stress. It worked. Trouble was, managing to set aside two 20 minute periods with the demands of work and family.
Over the years I have often returned to TM and it still works in short bursts if I need to relax in stressful situations, such as when I visit the dentist or prepare my tax returns.
Others say music, jogging or long walks in the country help them.
But how about sheep?
Calm, one of the foremost meditation app providers, has release a film called Baa Baa Land, which shows sheep grazing in a field for eight hours. They are hoping people will flock to it.
Of course, it could be that people start counting the sheep and find it so relaxing they fall asleep and wake up at the end wondering what they missed.
"What happened to the big black one?"
"Sausages."
"And the little lively one?"
"Lamb chops."
Which might be a reality upon which it is best not to ponder for anyone searching for mindfulness and stress relief.



0 Comments

Long and the short of it

10/16/2017

1 Comment

 
Picture
THE long and the short of it are always picked on.
We have laws that protect equality yet if you are short or tall you are fair game for being poked fun at by anyone of medium height. And if you don't laugh, you don't have a sense of humour.
John Bercow, House of Commons Speaker, said:
"Whereas nobody these days would regard it as acceptable to criticise someone on grounds of race or creed or disability or sexual orientation, somehow it seems to be acceptable to comment on someone’s height, or lack of it."
At five foot six, he should know. He's been called a stupid, sanctimonious dwarf, before now.
I've put up with comments all my life for being on the short side. But, as my mother said, they don't make diamonds as big as coal bricks.
As a short person, I have always had tall friends. At school, my best mates were two prop forwards, I shared a flat with a chap who was six foot six. I played inside right to a centre forward who was seven foot tall. I drink with two chaps who are well over six foot and if I stand between them and put my arms out we look like rugby posts.
I'm used to the banter I'm supposed to accept with a smile: Stand up. Oh, you are standing up. I also know the jokes tall people are supposed to laugh at as if they've never heard them before: What's the weather like up there?
Oh how they chortle.
Plus points for tall people are that they can always get served in bars and reach top shelves. On the minus side, they have problems finding trousers long enough and have trouble fitting into an aeroplane seat.
Being short means you often can't get served in bars and you can't reach the top shelf and you always have to have your trousers shortened. On the plus side, an aeroplane seat is no problem.
Tall and short people both have a sense of humour but also a sense of social decorum. They could retaliate by pointing out the physical defects of others but rarely stand back, hands on hips in faux shock, and say: "By heck, but you're ugly. Did you fall out of the Ugly Tree and hit every branch on the way down?"
We're not like that. We have learned to accept the facile humour with equanimity and treat it with the antipathy and disdain it deserves. My tall chums are above it and it goes straight over my head.




1 Comment

Zombies, life and sex

10/10/2017

1 Comment

 
Picture
PEOPLE who use mobile phones walk differently.
We've all noted this as we go shopping around town, avoiding them or negotiating the aisles in stores while they carry on deep and meaningful conversations about the price of fish. Now it has been proved in research from Anglia Ruskin University.
Dr Matthew Timmis said: "We found that using a phone means we look less frequently, and for less time, at the ground, but we adapt our visual search behaviour and our style of walking, so we're able to negotiate static obstacles in a safe manner.
"China has already started segregating footpaths with special lanes for those using their phones. Initiatives are also being introduced in a number of European countries to place fixed warning on the ground to alert pedestrians to roads."
I can make a few suggestions of how they might be phrased. How about: "Slow. Road Ahead" followed by "Slow. Road Imminent" followed by "Ouch! I told you so. Now use your phone to call an ambulance."
Those who suffer from this affliction of dependence are known as smartphone zombies.
Maybe there could be another solution rather than road signs on pavements. Why not have collection points in towns and cities like bus stops where smartphone zombies could meet, drawn by the pull of a particularly strong wi fi signal. They could be roped together and led by carers to other points in the city, like a crocodile line of school children. Or we could have Guide Dogs for the Smartphone Addicted.
Or we could ban their use altogether during perambulation with glass-sided shelters provided at intervals where they can stop off and make a call. We could call them telephone boxes.


I'M about to have my third coffee of the day and a chunk of dark chocolate. This is my attempt at immortality and to stave off memory loss.
A European study suggests that blokes who drink at least three cups of coffee a day will live longer. An extra cup of coffee a day could apparently extend life by about three months. Perhaps the NHS should make coffee available in pill form so you can ingest more, although that would be open to substance abuse.
"Eric took an overdose."
"Will he be all right?"
"He'll live for an extra five years but he'll be awake until 2020."
Dark chocolate is, according to other research, a rich source of flavanols which boost mental ability and memory, which will be essential once I become a centenarian so that I still know who I am.
"What's it like to be 100?"
"Half past three."



HAVING more sex can boost the brain power of elderly people, according to researchers at Oxford and Coventry universities. But, of course, the urge can lapse, which is why an elderly friend of mine went the doctor about his sex drive. "At your age, it's all in the mind," said the doctor. "That's the point," said my friend. "I'd like you to lower it."





1 Comment
<<Previous

    About writing

    A blog about writing. And maybe other things that take my fancy.

    Links:
    Donkin Life

    View my profile on LinkedIn

    Archives

    April 2019
    March 2019
    December 2017
    November 2017
    October 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    January 2016
    December 2015
    November 2015
    October 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    January 2015
    December 2014
    September 2014
    July 2014
    March 2014
    February 2014
    January 2014
    November 2013
    October 2013
    September 2013
    August 2012
    July 2012
    June 2012
    April 2012
    March 2012
    August 2011
    July 2011
    June 2011
    May 2011

    Categories

    All
    Agents
    Death
    Donkin
    Donkinlife
    God
    Harold Robbins
    Kindle
    Newspapers
    New Technology
    Openwriting
    Peter Hinchliffe
    Publishing
    Reaper
    Sunday Sport
    Typewriters
    Writing

    RSS Feed

Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.