Departing

More than Just a Game

Dear Chroniclers,

I have little doubt 27th August 1994 is not an auspicious date that features prominently in your personal calendars. However, in the annals of the electrofried family it is a day of some momentous import.

Picture, if you will, a shabby but laden motor of uncertain Italian vintage, its driver a freckled and bespectacled youth adorned with the insignia of a certain Midlands football team. Up front in the passenger seat is yours truly, and behind us an excited eight year old who can but manage a few faltering words and some equally faltering steps - the young reallyfried. We're on a mission, reallyfried's introduction to the magical world of football.

It took my friend Neil and I some little time to get reallyfried safely into the ground, but once ensconced, he was a young man enraptured, his beaming face and a torrent of incoherent but excited sounds telling us all we needed to know.

The arcane recesses of the offside rule lay far beyond his limited comprehension, but even then reallyfried knew a goal when he saw one. Bang on the stroke of halftime, Steve Staunton rose majestically above a crowd of Crystal Palace defenders to head home his first of the season. My son rose falteringly to his feet, yelled in excitement and promptly toppled over the seat. And so a Villa fan was born!

Of Mascots and Men

The first few seasons we followed the great game, young reallyfried paid almost as much attention to the two Club Mascots, the lion-costumed and improbably padded "Bella" and "Hercules, than to the team itself. But as time went on his understanding of the great game grew - as did his ability to shout loudly in support of his beloved Villa.

We used to park about half a mile away from the ground and walk down together, reallyfried with his still shambling gait and myself gently easing him past sundry obstructions of varying danger en route, but we always made it safely in time. Reallyfried made sure of it, for his favourite ritual was to queue up on arrival to visit the Villa Shop, and then onward to the nearest Burger Bar for some greasy comestibles and a bottle of luke-warm Coca-Cola.

And so the boy became the man. We celebrated reallyfried's twenty first birthday last year in the Corner Restaurant overlooking the hallowed turf of Villa Park and never have I seen him so pleased. His god-parents, Doctor Phlegm and Debs the Artiste, accompanied us and we all raised a glass to toast our son. Greasy burgers were most decidedly not on the menu.

More than a Game

Right from the start it's been so much more than just a game of football for the two of us. The regular walks up and down to the ground helped strengthen reallyfried's legs and straighten his gait. So much so, I now struggle to keep up with him once the final whistle blows and we join the throng streaming out from the gates.

Reallyfried's learned an appreciation of money too, much of which has been spent over the years in the Villa Shop. He's developed so much confidence he can find his own way back to his seat through a milling crowd of supporters once the half-time pie has been despatched with customary gusto. And he's made real friends too in the fellow season-ticket holders who sit next to him - accepted for who he is, a fellow fan in search of victory come kick-off time.

I've learned something so precious too. Each walk down to the ground, each goal we celebrate, each loss we mourn on the way home brings us closer together. How far we've travelled since that sad Saturday evening Dr Phlegm broke the news to us of our son's handicap. This is indeed the great game.

Oh, and for the record, Villa drew one all with Crystal Palace that very first match. Reallyfried could tell you that for himself - he may not be able to count to a hundred, but who needs to when you can remember the score in every game you've attended!

best regards,

electrofried (mr)

Slinger

A Forest

Ten Easy Pieces

Dear Chroniclers,

so who knows where time goes ... ?

It seems like just a few moments ago I was celebrating the arrival of my half-century, but so much has happened since then. Not for the electrofried's the slowing waters of middle-age - everything in our lives right now appears to have been turned upside down, and you find us spinning like some Pooh-sticked flotsam and jetsam well out from the left bank of humanity's torrid and ever-hurrying stream.

Downwardly Mobile

If it had been just one thing it would be taken in its stride, but no, change assaults us on all sides as loudly as the competing banshee wails of shop-soiled muzak that assailed our ears this very morn as we made our way though the market-stalls of Little Wittering in search of some new mobile-phonery for my dear mrs. electrofried.

Regrettably, the half-brick that occupied much of her hand-tooled marmoset embroidery bag these years past, had all but given up the ghost. We took teenygoth with us for protection. At least she was sufficiently proficient in the language of the street to interpret the strange guttural grunts and techno-speak that passes loosely for speech these days. Just what is a "mega-pixel" and why does every telephone appear to come ready-equipped with blue dental-wear? Life is just too darned confusing!

A Puzzling Affair

Much to teenygoth's mortification, mrs electrofried seized upon the spottiest of the spotty work-experience shop-assistants who staffed the cacophonous shop we ended up in. Meanwhile, I took up position on the side-lines, pointedly ignoring the entreaties of the strangely pneumatic lady manager who spotted me dawdling in the aisles.

"Can I help you, darling?",

is perhaps not the best of opening lines in life's endlessly amusing catalogue of sales-pitches. I turned the other way, and set to with my Sudoko whilst mrs electrofried and teenygoth merrily pressed buttons and compared memory capacities. Frankly, the whole thing was a complete mystery to me and I contented myself by pencilling in a few random jottings to the squared puzzle before me.

At length, the transaction was completed. Money exchanged hands and mrs electrofried emerged blinking into the daylight from the blackened abyss of "Phones'R'Us" clutching a carrier bag containing the spoils of her foraging.

The swirl of time

I mentioned life has become a spinnying eddy of late.

Family issues spring up like the gaily-coloured daffodils and tulips that currently adorn the grounds of the House. We've moved churches too, and become Methodists, though I've yet to summon up the courage to announce this to the Vintners of Little Wittering who depend so much upon us for their livelihood. The credit-crunch will appear little more than a minor book-keeping blot in the annals of their balance-sheets once the endless stream of alcohol-related orders from the House dries to no more than a trickle. And time in the horology factory is ticking slightly faster than the norm.

But even amongst all this chaos, there is hope. Teenygoth has taken to purchasing the NME at regular intervals and in a recent, unguarded moment confessed a passing interest in the contents of the electrofried music-library. At last, a scion of electrofried who may be fit to inherit her father's burgeoning collection! So tonight, as I sit in my bath-chair sipping a restorative glass of the finest triple-strength Chimay (yet another sin to be confessed come the morn) I've set my mind to ""Ten Easy Pieces", a short catalogue of electrofried's life to date, as set to music.

This posting is accordingly dedicated to my youngest ... and I shall await, with no little trepidation, to see if she deigns post a comment in response. Welcome then, darling teenygoth, to the music of your father - the rhythm that has restored, enthused and enthralled me through a half-century and more.

And so here it is "Pop-pickers"!

10. Fresh in at no. 10, the sound of Siouxsie and the Banshees live at the Tynemouth Plaza, on their very first UK tour. I won two tickets on a (non-mobile) phone-in by spelling, "Siouxsie" correctly - not a particularly difficult task given my infatuation with her kohl-stained cheek-bones. Your mother, no more than a teenager herself, was embraced tenderly to the cascading feedback of "Mittageisen"!

9. The theme to "Midnight Cowboy", a sound tracked memory of a film that even now reduces me to tears just thinking about it. Is the reverberating harmonica of life just a last post to a sad existence, or the turning point to a bright new future in the sun? Discuss. Alternatively, you could watch the DVD once you're old enough to satisfy the British Board of Film Censors.

8. "I'm only sleeping". There has to be a Beatles song in there, somewhere. And what could be more apposite for a somnambulant father whose cat-napped existence is punctuated by the most piercing of snores?!

7. A non-mover at no. 7, the chiming guitars of "The Byrds" with, "Chestnut Mare", a particular favourite of your mother.

6. When I was but a teenager myself, I stole on occasion into my elder brother's bedroom in search of a particular album that still thrills me to this day. As you practice guitar up in the East Wing of the House, dear teenygoth, reflect on the genius that is Jimi Hendrix, and his stunning debut, "Are You Experienced".

5. "T Rex", is, I'm afraid, yet another sound of my youth. My very first foray into the purchase of music involved an off-line transaction behind the school bicycle-sheds, in which money changed hands and your father acquired a second-hand copy of the inaugural album of the freshly abbreviated, "Tyrannosaurus Rex". I sense an imminent negotiation with Master Amazon to acquire this afresh once I've finished with my tawdry list of musicology.

4. Over the last few months you have borne stoically the depletion of an ever-dwindling inheritance as yet more Miles Davis box-sets have made their way to the tradesman's entrance of the House. When you are much older yourself, spin "Kind of Blue" in memory of your father, for he found much peace amongst the space of these crystalline modal forms.

3. David Bowie, much like Miles Davis, mastered many a transformation in his time. "Heroes" is, forever, a favourite of your mother and I.

2. Sometimes life has shades of darkness, and in "Joy Division's", "Love will tear us apart", there is no finer.

1. But, as always, there is hope too! I think it unlikely you will ever chance upon the full King Tubby extended mix of this glittering jewel, but you will find the original version of "Love is a Treasure" on a Pressure Sounds' Carlton Patterson compilation called, "Psalms of Drums". It's secreted deep within the electrofried music library - enjoy, for love is indeed a treasure ...

... and much love to you, darly teenygoth!


as ever,

electrofried (mr)

p.s. mrs electrofried has passed by briefly to view my random jottings en route to the bed chamber and a relaxing infusion of Horlicks. Ears have been soundly boxed concerning the omission of anything by the Doors, the Clash and many others besides. Anyone for an extended electrofried Top Twenty?

365 Photos - Gallery 19

Stories from the Apocalypse - The Fourth Death

Sometimes I dance, spinning. Cradling a white dress and just turning endlessly in circles until the blood drains. Catch my feet awhile. Walk.

To Sleep

"Under normal conditions, humans cannot store much oxygen in the body. Apnea of more than approximately one minute's duration therefore leads to severe lack of oxygen in the blood circulation. Permanent brain damage can occur after as little as three minutes and death will inevitably ensue after a few more minutes unless ventilation is restored."

They come to me, from time to time - in the dark. Not for a while now, but one day they will come. Again. I lie paralysed in bed, and the door opens. There is no way to avert the gaze as they look at me.

A girl in a white dress, an Army Captain, a thinly veiled beating heart. They line up beside my bed and gaze down. Calling. I want to cry out, but no words come. Just endless terrored coldness freezing me to the spot as they reach out .... they're touching me!!! They're touching me!!!!!!!!

It comes from deep within, this hollow death-bed screech and now I feel the dig in my ribs and I can move and breathe and where are they? Where have they gone? I leap to my feet, heart pounding and sucking deep on this liveless oxygen. She leaves ... spinning. And my heart beats time.

365 Photos - Gallery 18

365 Photos - Gallery 17

Christmas Unwrapped

Dear Chroniclers,

the wrapping-paper has all but settled on another Christmas Day, and sundry members of the enlarged electrofried clan now occupy strategic stations around the House.

Yours truly is to be found safely ensconced in the Library, a glass of medicinal port to hand and a copy of the "Penguin Guide to Jazz" to help keep me company through the evening. Or more candidly, the next thousand of so evenings. The thing is unthumbed and immense, and I shall much enjoy exploring its more arcane recesses as the New Year unfolds.

Meanwhile, mrs electrofried is just down the corridor in the TV lounge, feet up and picking her way through a freshly-opened tin of her beloved Quality Street, as she awaits with eager anticipation the Omnibus Edition of "Eastenders". She has, undoubtedly, earned a modicum of well-deserved rest following two months of diligent planning for the Big Day.

So just what were the Christmas highlights for 2007?

Back in the Stable

We'll start where we left off in 2006. Regular visitors to "The Chronicles" will be aware of my previous exploits as Santa Claus - but despite last year's unfortunate endeavours, I still received an invitation from Sally the Flash to reprise my starring role at Flatcaps' School Christmas fete.

This time I'm pleased to report I was spared the indignity of a grand entrance mounted atop a wobbling jalopy that bore scant resemblance to a sleigh. However, as we shall discover shortly, the prospect of shame, penury and an appearance before the local judiciary dogged my every move as I set up stall once more in the make-shift reindeer stable opposite the school-gates.

Having exchanged pleasantries with the two small, but highly voluble elves assigned to assist for the evening, I sat down on Santa's throne. As I lowered myself, statesmanlike, into position, I couldn't help but notice the stable seemed somewhat cooler than last year. And this, despite the presence of a gas-powered heater of uncertain vintage, thoughtfully positioned by the organisers of the event immediately adjacent to the straw-bales that made up the backdrop to my humble abode.

There was a certain draughtiness to be felt, and as I looked down, the dreadful truth dawned. Perhaps it was my increasingly portly frame, or just the general wear and tear one might expect of these things, but the vast Father Christmas pantaloons that made up the lower part of my costume were agape at the most embarrassing of junctures. Crude Taiwanese stitching had given up the ghost, and now the wretched garmentry had taken on the character of a seedy Ann Summers back-catalogue item. Welcome then, the split-crotch Santa look.

Fearing the possibility of imminent arrest by the "Boys in Blue", I paused to tug down discretely my matching velour jacket, then sprang forth into action. My two helpers, one boy and one girl, were both duly schooled in the art of present-dispensary, then promptly christened a communal, "Bruce" for the night, in order to avoid any potential confusion on the elf-front. With that, the doors to the stable were flung wide. The first quaking child was ushered, sobbing, into my quarters to receive the mandatory "Ho, ho, ho!" from me, a Christmas sticker from Bruce No. 1 and a tawdry gift-wrapped offering from Bruce No. 2.

And so the hours passed with a succession of bemused little-ones and their accompanying elders until at last all presents had been exhausted and the job was duly done. It had been a close-run thing, but I'd managed to perform my civic functions without either setting fire to the reindeer-stable or inviting the attentions of the local constabulary.

A few days later I popped round to Sally's to return the Santa outfit. She was out, so I left the tattered remnants with her husband.

"Something red and split-crotched ... ",

I announced, as I thrust the carrier bag into his hands. Curiously he seemed less than amused, and I fear we may not feature prominently on their Christmas-card list twelve months hence.

A Feast to be Remembered

The second highlight of the season all but defies description.

I have to say, the portents were ominous. We discovered to our horror, late on Christmas Eve, that the generous supplementary allowance issued by mrs electrofried to purchase our festive fare had been squandered by Cook on two barrels of industrial-strength continental lager and a crate of fortified Buckfast wine. Worse still, if the contents of her garret hideaway were to be believed, she had single-handedly consumed half the contents of the latter during the course of the evening.

Cook is, however, nothing if not resourceful - come the morn she was to be found hard at work by the Aga, skillets a flying and her pastry-coated Chef's hat set to a decidedly jaunty angle. Fetlock was not far behind. Pausing only to run off a phrase from his new English/Slovenian dictionary (a thoughtful Christmas present from darling teenygoth), he too grabbed a random selection of kitchen implements and got down to business.

And for those who may be even vaguely interested,

"Svoj tenek svetleč papir življati been pankrt v destilirati gos svinjska mast to stran od Ljubljana.",

roughly translates as,

"My onions have been basted in the finest goose lard this side of Ljubljana".

At length, the dinner-gong was struck and Fetlock ushered us all out of the Drawing Room and down the corridor for our festive fare. Picture the electrofrieds, if you would, seated around the baronial dining-table, our heads crowned with merry paper hats constructed from the back pages of the Little Wittering Bugle, and our plates as yet empty. Despite the consumption of a schooner or two of pre-prandial cooking sherry nothing could dull the mounting sense of trepidation as Cook's faltering footsteps were to be heard in the corridor outside.

A few mumbled curses later the door burst open and in lurched the florid-faced woman, still looking much the worse for wear and clutching a silvered platter somewhat unsteadily to her not insubstantial bosom. The suspense was almost too much to bear as Cook reached for the handle on top of the platter-lid. With a dramatic flourish, she flung her head back and revealed the contents with a loud, if slightly slurred,

"Tirrah ... !!,

before falling backward into Fetlock's waiting arms.

Teenygoth was first to inspect the damage. Venturing forward, she peered down at the now recumbent Cook, and spied some crudely crafted vegetable matter on the silver tray.

"What the .... ???"

Fetlock intervened at this point.

"Eetsa Chreesmaas delicacy all ze way froom Slovenia - ees toorneep horse doovers, teenygoth meess!"

Our youngest looked perplexed, as ever. Cautiously, mrs electrofried advanced to examine the contents of the tray herself. Picking up one of the smaller chiseled pieces, she raised it to her nose, sniffed then pronounced,

"I think he means turnip hors-d'oeuvres, dear. It should be perfectly safe to eat ... albeit a trifle unappetising."

The starters set the culinary bar predictably low for the remainder of the treats to follow, and they didn't fail to disappoint. The imaginatively entitled, "Yuletide Roadkill", was a thing of many splendoured (and in the case of teenygoth's portion, many beaked) beauty. The "Yoghurt Slurp" singularly failed to cleanse the palate, our suspicion being that it had endured a little recycling at some point on its journey from kitchen to dining-room. And frankly no-one had the stomach to attempt, "Cook's Christmas Log".

It was with some relief the meal came to a premature and burped end. Cook had once again excelled herself and now it was time for presents.

We Bear Gifts

Over the years, as our children have begun to achieve an increasing measure of maturity, the pile of presents on the Drawing Room floor has shrunk by equal measure. However, it can be predicted, with a fair degree of certainty, that reallyfried's will contain sundry football shirts and miscellaneous goal-mouth periphery. And so it was this year, too.

Maximouse and His Imperial Hirsutelessness plumped sensibly for the cash option and raised scarce an eyebrow when mrs electrofried tucked into their combined Christmas stocking a complimentary copy of "Mother and Baby". She really could be just a little more subtle about her desire to become grandmother to the next generation of electrofrieds.

Teenygoth, meanwhile, was relieved to discover her father had not put in an order to Master Amazon for, "The Bumper Book of Boys", as originally threatened. Instead, she had to contend with the sharpest wrapped present of the lot, which boasted more layers than the average cooking onion.

After breaking open the paper-seal, unfolding the heavily embossed cardboard box, removing the membranous wrapper, lifting it from the complementary cup and releasing the catch that held it to a circular metallic band ... out popped a "Fatface Watch". I'm told by those who should know, these are highly valued objects of desire in the world of teenydom - though, frankly the rest of the family had quite lost the will to live little more than half-way through the unwrapping process.

Mrs electrofried, however, appeared rather more impressed with the limited edition deep-fat fryer and matching ironing-board set I had thoughtfully purchased for her on-line during a hotly contested E-Bay auction. Indeed, for a short time she was rendered totally speechless. Then the silence was broken ...

"Electrofried ... you SHOULDN'T HAVE!!!"

And that seemed to be something of a threat, rather than an acknowledgement of gratitude. Strange creatures these lady-folk!

So now it was all down to yours truly to commence the unveiling of his present pile. Imagine my surprise when I came to Grandmother's little treat. As was her norm, she had sent some money to my dear wife to purchase a few small tokens of endearment for each member of the family. Regrettably, a last minute trip to Mrs Patel's 24/7 Convenience Store and Haberdashery had found mrs electrofried purse-less, and so my share of the Christmas largesse had been pressed hastily into action.

There can be few men who will have received a gift-wrapped selection of half-price turkey drumsticks, two plastic cartons of semi-skinned milk and the Christmas special of "X-treme Crochet" for their Yuletide box this year, but I was one. Should you be interested in placing a bid, they will shortly be going on-line at E-Bay, doubtless accompanied by a deep-fat fryer and complementary ironing-board combo.

So this brings us to the last, and best Christmas surprise of 2007.

Back in the Stable ... Reloaded

This year my thespian leanings were called upon not once, but twice. The Very Reverend Giblets, Rector to the Church of the Terminally Bewildered Anglican, had approached me a few weeks earlier to enlist my services for the forthcoming annual Crib Service.

"It's the lead role, electrofried - it'll suit you to a 'T'. There's definitely only one man here who could pull this off!",

Well, how could I possibly refuse?

"I see what old Giblets meant, Dad.",

chortled dear teenygoth, a fortnight later, as she lent over my shoulder to read the script I'd just retrieved from the Church pigeon-holes.

"It say's here ... 'ENTER TIRED, GRUMPY INN-KEEPER, STAGE LEFT'!!!"

"Just ignore her, darling,"

interjected the ever-helpful mrs electrofried,

"all you need do is snore a lot and act miserable. It should come quite naturally,"

And so it came to pass. Eschewing the traditional dressing-gown and tea-towel ensemble, I took to the stage in my black Amish field-jacket and matching hat, the closest I could get to the Fagin look I was after. My carefully practiced Gielgudian roar achieved maximum impact - though not quite as I had expected. Half the cast of little ones were reduced to tears, the other half to guffaws of untimely laughter. Perhaps the worst moment of all came when young Joseph did a "runner" down the side aisle of the Church, his hysterical mother in hot pursuit.

But what really made this event so special? My instructions for the end of the nativity play were to kneel before the crib in adoration whilst two praise-songs were played and the collection taken. Half way through the second, one of the youngest members of the cast, a little boy dressed as a shepherd, stood up. He walked over to where I was kneeling and stood by me, his bright young eyes shining in wonder as he surveyed the scene before him.

One day, pray God, I may enter His Kingdom with that very same look of innocence, wonder and awe. And with that, may I wish you all a very happy 2008!

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

The Walk

And was this just a sign that turned my face to hunt you out, my friend?

Cutting across the bridge over that never-ending stream of traffic; the incandescent, restless roar deafening my ears.



















For one precious, fleeting moment, I glimpsed your reflection. I'm sure you looked too, deep into the mirror. A crumbling artifice, brick-built and decaying.




























These were intimations of mortality on my way to greet you ...























A hidden glance through the fog-bound reaches of a naked tree - just hanging there.



















And then you were in my sights! A call to drink deep.





















How long have I waited to find you? Your boundless, seeded energy seeping out from each pierced portal. The green springs of hope.




















I stood silent for a second, admiring your beauty before me. And then I called ... did you hear me?




























Just waiting for you to knock. Ready to open my door, to let you in.