Tuesday, 21 January 2014


How not to make mistakes

Vol 7 white cider

I don’t want to mislead you, my Grandma didn’t like white cider, we’ll come to that in a sec. 
Grandma’s are fab aren’t they.  My Grandma was typical of her day, short, generously upholstered, grey, short-sighted, deaf when necessary, emitting a lackadaisical pump on occasion and a true matriarch; we all loved and love her still.  Here’s an episode that includes her and of, course, my inevitable mistake.

Here we are then on this particular evening, me, Muttley, the kids and Grandma, finally cosily ensconced in a caravan in Scarborough circa 1989. 

We hated Bingo.  Grandma loved Bingo and so it was that me and Muttley were off to play Bingo by proxy.  So far, so good.   Bear with me a minute here, we’ll be back to the Bingo in no time.  Now in those days I liked a drink, cider being a relic of our send-the-tallest-to-the-offy-for- a-bottle-of-Woodpecker days.  So far, that is because tonight, in the red and black dralon-clad Maxime’s Show Bar, I faced a novel conundrum;

“… a bottle of white cider?”

White cider? White? Really?  Okay why not.  (Why not?  It was double and then some, the proof I was used to)  I’m not justifying my actions here look, I do REALLY hate Bingo, so I swiftly ingested two or three (it was three) bottles, and, in a flash, the bloody Bingo was over.

“You go back to the kids and Grandma, I’ll go the chippy.” I offered.

It started to happen as I reached the front of the queue.  An alarming warmth began in my neck and spread rapidly through my core and it suddenly hit me that my legs were pissed while my brain was still startlingly alert and cruelly and efficiently registering my embarrassment.  Bemused holidaymakers sniggered past as, clutching my pungent packages, I listed crab-like in a never ending zed fashion to the interminably far away caravan.      

It doesn’t even end there.  An hour or so later, the insidious white cider eventually also laid claim to my brain and had me wailing with laughter, tears coursing down my face in the tiny tin bedroom while no. 1 son hammered on the adjoining wall pleading;

“MUMMMM!  Pleeease shut up!  Will you shaddap!  This is RIDICULOUS!”

and thereby guaranteeing fresh, shuddering paroxisms of mirth. 

And yet another hour later, and not remembering precisely how it happened, somehow Muttley was blasted, canon-like, off the bed, through the unlockable door and into the corridor beyond in all his naked glory in full view of The Grandma, gales of laughter from me accompanying his journey.

The next morning saw me fronting it out brightly.

“Cornflakes is it?”

Grandma raised a knowing eyebrow.

“Jolly windy night wasn’t it.”