Mo "Mad Dog" Stoneskin

They wandered into the restaurant with purpose, determination and if I’m honest, laughable coordination. She was thin, very thin, and he was fat, very fat. As they read the menu he kept touching her. A gentle squeeze of the hand, a rub down the back, an occasional tickle of the ear with a movement like a maid dusting a vase. Quirky to the extreme and (bless him) exceptionally chivalrous.

She wore extraordinary glasses, black and orange, giving her the bizarre appearance of some sort of exotic insect, accentuated by the fervent way she sucked her G&T through a straw. He was probably a banker and in all probability, a rich one with a penchant for fatty foods. Neatly and uncomfortably encapsulated in his suit, he looked like a pistachio bursting from its shell. But what struck me was their coordination.

“In a moment,” I said to my wife, “glance over your shoulder. The couple over there are in matching pin-striped suits. What would lead anyone to do that?” She waited a moment. “Some couples like to coordinate outfits,” she said, glancing over my own attire as if to remind us that we were not that type of couple.

I’m not one to psychoanalyse (would I ever?) but seriously, why would any couple wear matching pin-striped suits? Matching to the extent that the stripes were of equal thickness and frequency, fitted no doubt by the same tailor, she in a black blouse, he in a black shirt. In a game of Suit Snap it would be, well, unequivocally snap.

“What shall we wear tonight darling?”

“How about our matching Levis and white shirts?”

“What are we, a pair of Texans? Besides, it’s a slightly up-market Italian place, how about our identical green polo-necks?”

“They’re both in the wash, we wore those on Tuesday remember? Let’s go for our matching pin-striped suits.”

“Excellent idea, and they fit so perfectly too, I LOVE that tailor, and it will give us that dubious Mafia look.”

“Nobody should ever be that coordinated. It’s hilarious,” I said. “Mind if I take a few notes?”

“Suit yourself,” said my wife, and I might have noticed a slight eyeball-roll. “I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she said.

Ageing gangsters, Mafia bosses, or leaders of warring factions of the elderly population. Two old men, one at each end of a long bar. They ignore each other, pretend the other doesn’t exist, a bizarre and pointless rivalry. I witness this daily, the contrast between these two rogues is intriguing.

At one end of the bar the gentleman sits upright. With his huge forehead and high hair he looks like a cross between Beavis and a toothbrush. His skin is taught, doll-like, and his mannerisms stiff, like a mannequin. He drinks Peroni, always in a polo-neck, Italian heritage surely? People come, people go, all acknowledge him and stop to shake his hand. All apart from his opposite number.

The gentleman at the other end slouches, slumped in his chair like a giant reclining slug, a giant reclining slug in corduroys.  He holds a paper close to his face, just inches away, turning a page every ten minutes or so, a slug reading at a slug’s pace.  No Peroni for this one, he drinks real ale. Makes sense, I guess, everyone knows slugs favour real ale.

Not once have I seen them acknowledge each other, exchange weather predictions, moan about the youth of today or even wave from their respective ends of the bar.  Every so often they pass on route to and from the toilets (elderly bladders) yet even then they pretend the other does not exist.

Beavis and Slug, stoical to the extreme.  But one day there’ll be a gunfight and I intend to be here to witness it.

The box aroused my curiosity.  Not being a cat I wasn’t worried.  A little red wooden box, quaint and innocent, mounted on a badly-painted red wall. The box had a door, suspiciously without a handle.  Now why would there be no handle?  Scratched on the door was the word ‘help’. I got out my keys and set to work.  Five minutes later I was still at it, hacking frantically at the box. The door swung open…

I woke up in an antiquated pub that I didn’t recognise. Groggy, confused and with a throbbing head. It was crowded. Muttering, clinking, men telling tales, little round tables with little round stools. They dragged me to a table in the corner where a dodgy-looking character in a Manchester United shirt tapped away on his laptop.  Cigarette in one hand, whiskey in the other, a flickering candle setting the scene.  “Sit down,” he said, “let me get you a drink.” “There’s only one Leeds United,” I said, regretting it immediately, he obviously hadn’t recovered.

Elegance walked over, a lady in red, heels clicking on the ancient floorboards. She set a tall glass of beer on the table.  German it was, Erdinger perhaps, or Schneider’s Wiesen Edel Weiss, it’s hard to differentiate with such a throbbing head. “I’d have preferred a stout,” I said.

“My name,” he said, “is X, and I’ll get you a stout in a minute you pernickety sod. I represent the Illuminati. The red box is a teleportation device, a portal to wherever we want. I got it installed last week, knew you couldn’t resist.  I’ll cut to the chase. We like your blog. The observational humour, the wit, the beer. We’d like you to blog for us, be the Illuminati’s representative for the blogosphere, you know, give us a friendly, modern feel and all that, we’re fed up of all the bad press. We’ll pay you very well, give you anything you want.”

“No thanks,” I said,  “I won’t do anything for a Manchester United supporter.”  Seconds later I fell out of the red box onto the floor.  X, Elegance and Schneider’s Wiesen Edel Weiss were nowhere to be seen.

OK, so I made all of that up, you got me there.  I’m possibly crazy, a total fruitcake. But I do wonder what is inside the little red box, mounted above the urinals in the Old Bell Tavern.  Maybe next time I’ll force open the door with my keys and take a look.

Sleeping sweetly, snoring probably, dreaming of nonsense that I can’t remember.  Oh blissful slumber. Ineffably fabulous, frustratingly rare.

Poke, poke, poke.

Dream interrupted, rudely awakened by relentless poking, delivered to my ribs with surgical precision.  My wife, still asleep, has some nonsense to say.

“What?” I ask, swatting her hand away from me.

“If you like,” she said, “you can sleep in that corner and I’ll sleep in this corner or,” she offered kindly, “I’ll sleep in that corner and you can sleep in this one.”

“I’m fine where I am,” I said, “but thanks anyway.”

I found him in his van stirring a giant tub of adhesive. Bought for a fiver, he said, with supreme relish and an inane grin, retail value one hundred quid. Spoken with the matter-of-fact air of a chap who was used to such bargains. Satisfied, relaxed and definitely sleepy.

I’d met Baz down the Marquis the night before, but prior to that it had been a long time. I’d been down in Brighton getting married, making babies, commuting to London. He’d been gallivanting round the world. India, Thailand, Tibet, Guildford, Milton Keynes, all sorts of exotic places. Come and see my van, he’d said, so here I was, the fumes already hitting me hard. Guess I picked the wrong day to quit sniffing glue.

I mentioned the scratch I’d seen down the right hand side. ‘Handbrake snapped off,’ he said, sheepishly, ‘found myself rolling down Dad’s drive.’ He’d fixed the handbrake himself. I had visions of a broom handle rammed in its place.

It was an old VW. Technically a transit but an abnormally large one, once royal blue, now faded and sorry. He’d gutted the thing and was in the process of converting it into a home. Didn’t pay for this, he said, or that, or that, got this for a tenner, found this by the road. Thriftiest man I know and the son of a carpenter, his handiwork was beautiful. Fitted bookshelves, nifty bed-come-sofa, cute little gas stove mounted on a perfectly-crafted “kitchen” area. ‘What’ll you do about water?’ I asked. ‘You can always find an outside tap,’ he said with a sly wink.

‘Where are you off to?’ I asked. ‘Two weeks in Norway, ‘ he replied, ‘doing a bit of “environmental research” then up North in the van.’ I wasn’t sure whether snowboarding counts as “environmental research” but hey, why not?

He showed me the leisure battery, explained the relay switch, demonstrated where his gadgets would charge from. TV, laptop, phone. He was in the process of insulating the van.

‘Regarding insurance and all that, is this legal?’ I asked. He laughed, ‘don’t you worry about that. It will get a bit complicated when I install my wood-burning stove….’

Last I heard he was working as a “freelance environmental consultant” somewhere in the North of England. But what I’m really trying to say is, if you see a large blue van rolling backwards down a hill, a trail of burning books in its wake, chased by some angry victims of water theft, let me know.

It was one of the most unhelpful things I’ve ever said.  If you exclude countless random quotations from my toddler’s TV shows, typically made at inappropriate moments. “Oh no, it’s the Pinky Ponk” is a great eyebrow-raiser, for example. On this occasion my wife looked a bit surprised, though not unpleasantly so, and she was mildly amused I think, though not impressed.  I should work on that really, impressing my wife I mean…

One gift still under the tree, the room almost tidy, but not quite, that wreckage known as “what’s left of Christmas”, clutter on the acceptable side of chaos. A desultory crowd of reindeer lounging about on the stove, remotes scattered about (maddening I tell you, they should be lined up), the occasional fallen Christmas card abandoned mercilessly by its friends. Tins of chocolate everywhere, clearly some sort of godforsaken attempt  to make me fat.

A strong Belgian beer beside me, a book in my right hand, my left hand freely alternating between the beer and a plate of crispy duck niblets which, in my experience, are the answer. Ba da bing, ba da boom, I could easily spend the rest of my life in harmony with beer and crispy duck niblets. A happy though pointless existence.  Across the room my wife sat in a little spot filled with property papers, garden magazines and an arty book on home design with an infuriatingly trendy cover.

“Arrrrgh!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands to her head, “my mind is going completely mad.”

“Is it a bit like driving at high speed through a cloud of flies and watching them splat on the windscreen?” I asked, helpfully.

She laughed, somewhat artificially, “not really, no, but thanks for your help.”  I do like to help. Maybe I should have gone with the Pinky Ponk line.

Whenever it snows I secretly look forward to seeing people slip over. Bwahahahahaha. Let me rephrase that. Whenever it snows I sometimes get pleasure out of seeing people slip over as long as nobody is hurt.  I know, I know, my civilised instincts are unparalleled.

It snowed heavily over the weekend. The town looked fantastic. It’s always pretty, Harrogate that is, but a snowy Harrogate is a beautiful one. The Stray looked delightful, dark frames of trees contrasting sharply with a vast blanket of white. Such whiteness, it looked like a scene from Narnia. Everything was white. I even saw a chap wearing a white jacket, white hoody, white trousers and white trainers with white laces. He carried a white bag and was playing on a white Nintendo DS. Bit dangerous really, especially if the White Witch was in the vicinity. What if he fell in the snow and couldn’t get up? I’d have played on a red DS just in case.

I walked through town on my way home. A man came out of a pub for a smoke. He smoked like a true Yorkshireman, back inside 30 seconds later after a relentless, aggressive sequence of double-puffs. Flat cap, blue, long grey hair, bedraggled, a face that said ‘bloody snow, bloody cold’. He was right. The bleakness was refreshing, the town picturesque, but it was bloody cold, far too cold, and I looked forward to getting home.

As I passed the solicitors a suited gentleman stood shivering on the steps. Dark grey suit, dark red tie, dark black hair, another stark contrast against the snow. He wore shiny black brogues. Picked the wrong day to wear brogues mate, I thought. Balanced on the steps, clutching a salt-shaker, he shook it about with the delicate air of a man in brogues on snow on steps. Brogues notwithstanding it made perfect sense, the recession is bad enough without rich clients slipping on his steps and breaking bones.

I hear a cry behind me. The solicitor is on his back at the foot of the steps, floundering about in the snow like a penguin in a toboggan accident. He clambered to his feet, brushed himself off and pretended nothing had happened. I paused and savored the moment, then headed home. Time to introduce Bubba Stoneskin to snow for the first time.   She squirmed excitedly and pressed her little hands against the glass.

“Milk?” she said.

Dark Bambi eyes, cute button nose, contagious smile, dainty frame, proud little pout. She is my princess, my little princess, her father’s joy. She dances, she sings, runs to me when I get home.  ’Diddy’ she calls me and asks after me when I’m gone.

Determined she is, a little busybody. She rushes here, there, everywhere. I watch her as she potters about. Careful little steps, pouting as she goes, carrying a little handbag – mimicking her mummy – a little lady and she makes me proud…

She walks across the room to the table. Careful steps, short little baby steps, then looks round at me and grins. My soul melts. Out of her handbag she pulls a star, a chunky metal behemoth of a star. Clasped in her little fist she raises it to the sky, glances across at me, watch this Daddy, and smashes the damn thing down on a chair.

That’s right, my precious little daughter is a vandal.

Vandalism

Miniature Christmas tree, pepper mill, lighted candle. They sat on the table like three wise men or a scene from one of those unutterably dire “incredible journey” movies. An elderly couple arrived and sat at the neighbouring table. She was dressed like a confused goddess, draped in coats, shawls, scarves and things. He was clad almost entirely in black. Jacket, shirt, trousers, shoes, all were black. “Two G&T’s,” he ordered, “Bombay if you have it.”

But the tie, his tie was hideous. Capable of inflicting moral and intellectual damage upon any diner that saw it. Bright red with arty black shapes scattered in wild abandon. I could make out some stars, a couple of squares, numerous squiggles, various giraffe segments and possibly Che Guevara’s head. It probably wasn’t, he was too posh and too Tory for ol’ Che, but it was definitely a head.

His face reminded me of Sam, an old school friend who was affectionately known as “Bam”. A pointless detail, you wouldn’t know him. Her face rabbitesque, her hair phenomenal, a fluffy mushroom-like bouffant precarious on her head. She looked like a rabbit wearing a World War I helmet. I could just about hear their conversation.

“Your top looks nice,” he was saying, “much better than I thought it would.” Talk about digging a hole. Restaurant murder: Wife strangles husband with hideous neck-tie.

I never heard Rabbit’s response. A party of eight clattered in, eight extravagant well-to-do ladies. Flowing dresses, monstrous rings, necklaced to the hilt, designer glasses, massive hair-dos. One of them in a sequined jacket, I thought those things were illegal. The largest of the eight was licking her fingers. I kid you not, it must have been anticipation – no food had been served.

On the way out we had to navigate past two black bears that were fighting in the doorway. Turns out they were old ladies, not bears and they weren’t fighting either, they were grappling with the zips on their giant black fur coats. Easy mistake to make.

My lager sat on the windowsill.  Behind it traffic buzzed, pedestrians ambled and the ubiquitous riff-raff loitered outside MacDonald’s.  It was remarkably engaging.  Life is fascinating when viewed through a pint glass.  The bubbles danced in time to Radiohead, or perhaps Radiohead were playing in time to the bubbles, but what caught my attention was the chap at the bar.

Coat folded neatly on the bar, hat balanced expertly on top, his usual drinking routine I suspect.  Faded t-shirt stretched over his belly.  Horizontal stripes never flatter.  An unusually prominent bottom lip made him look like a man who is perpetually displeased.  A nose like a parrot’s beak,  jet black hair that – given his age – had to be dyed.  He had all the deportment of a gloomy cockatoo. On his left wrist was the tiniest watch I have ever seen. Anorexic black strap and a minuscule face.  Seriously, it was so tiny that I can only suppose he had stolen it from a doll.

He checked his watch repeatedly, his manner was that of a wanted man.  He lifted the beer slowly, peered in the top and then slowly rotated the glass as he scrutinised it from the side. Humph, his expression said, the beer clearly disappointed and he glared at it morosely.  He put down the glass with a melodramatic sigh, shot a few conspiratorial glances around the pub, grabbed his coat and hat and left in a hurry.  But what was behind the suspicious behaviour?

I suspect the infamous Doll Mafia are after him.