Curried Kev

One of my earliest memories involves curry.  

Bond Street, Bristol...I must be about eight or nine.  Indian cuisine was something entirely new and different.  So radical in fact, that it caused my parents to organise the one and only occasion that our family ever went to a restaurant.  I know that my parents weren't keen on the food (probably like most Bristolians in the early 1970's, they didn't have a single clue about any of the items listed on the Indian menu).  I recall the thrill of the 'giant crisps' (poppadoms) that came out in a large bowl.  Mother hated the spicy food. Father's reaction is absent from my memory, but the restaurant certainly never saw us again.  

Some people profess to find meaning in tea leaves, or wax lyrical on the day they discovered religion while ironing their socks. In a similar way, a friend and I 'discovered' curry in the early 1990's.  For a while, curry was all-consuming and dominated the food chain.  Serious books were purchased. International Curry Clubs were joined.  Lengthy discussions broke out in pubs, concerning the best type of ghee (clarified butter) to use, or whether it was proper to stick to the 'pure' cinnamon sticks, or risk cheaper supermarket ground cinnamon in one's signature dish. Cream or natural yoghurt? Red onions, white onions or shallots?  

This was my first true love for food and the delicate balances of the kitchen intrigued me.  Eventually, I would move away from Indian cuisine and branch out into other styles - especially Italian (recipe for Kev's Cannelloni to come).  

The onset of diabetes has compelled me to mainly eat foods of my own creation or only use strict recipes.  If I don't know what's in food then it doesn't tend to pass my lips...my body will soon let me know if I stray too far from the path and it won't be a pleasant experience.  

And so, curry makes a grand return to the dining table.  Fresh ingredients, healthy options, no artificial crap...great for a diabetic and pretty good for the human race in general.

Below is a recipe for a medium-spiced chicken dish.  A recipe for a milder and more creamy type of curry will follow very shortly.  It's possible to do a whole range of different types and - if I ever get around to locating my library of old curry books (never, EVER lend out a good recipe book) then I'm sure I can add some unusual/one off recipes to this Blog.

First, some ground rules.  I know I sound like I used to worship at the altar of the Curry Gods, but...ok, hands up, I freely admit to it...but I also realize that the best food is cooked while relaxed and happy.  In the past I've shamefully thrown entire woks of food into bins, because 'the chilli was the wrong texture' or 'the rice isn't ricey enough'...dammit Jim, I'm a writer, not a three star chef!

So, rule #1...enjoy the process.  I find experimentation is both very important and HUGE fun.  With curry, there are few rules, especially when it comes to taste.  I like a certain amount of chilli...you may not. So...rule #2...flexibility.  If you like the taste of ground coriander then add it...if a recipe book doesn't mention that you should, then assume that it's having an off day - probably still sulking about the time you over-salted the Chicken Korma back in 1997 and never quite managed to say sorry.  Leave it to its prolonged sulk and add some coriander.  When it comes to taste...erm...well, it's down to personal taste.  I'll lay out some basic ingredients, some tips and then it's down to you.  Good luck!

Oh...I'll also go through making a basic curry sauce.  The supermarket jars of curry sauces are no good for me as they contain huge amounts of sugar.  Likewise, I cannot eat in an curry restaurant...the sugar levels would put me into a diabetic coma.  I don't even want to think about artificial food colourings...the slightest whiff of an E-Number and I'm liable to start 'speaking in tongues'.  A simple 'Pot Noodle' could easily make me believe I am 'King of the Potato People'.  As I said, I don't usually do additives.

I am also aware that some people are better cooks than others.  I don't know how many people will read this, nor have I raided each of your dustbins, read your personal diaries, interviewed your nearest and dearest...all leading to an in-depth, scientific survey on your individual cooking skills and experiences.  I will therefore assume that everyone knows what a wok is, how to use a saucepan and from which end you fill up a jug...thereby aiming the tone of this recipe at people who might say, 'Yes, I DO know one end of a kitchen from the other, but perhaps I might NOT YET be able to make a curry sauce, however I CAN strip a chilli without blinding myself, the dog or next door's goldfish and I haven't lost a single finger yet!' 

If I do say anything that makes you go 'Oh FFS, of COURSE that's how you do it, you four-eyed baboon!' then I sincerely apologise...but I have to aim it somewhere.  

In life - and in the kitchen - I find that 'simple' works.  Hence, we'll use 'simple' as our base foundation and go from there. If that's still unacceptable then naturally you are perfectly free to buy a recipe book out of your pocket and make your own fecking curry.  

Enjoy!  :)

MEDIUM CHICKEN CURRY WITH BASMATI RICE  

Ingredients for curry sauce: 

Tomato purée
Water
Range of spices: Choose from - ground cumin, turmeric, paprika, ground coriander, mild/medium chilli, ground fenugreek, garam masala...experiment with different spices for different tastes.  (Good quality spices are key - Schwartz are expensive but high quality. Bart spices are good, but cheaper.  Avoid cheap quality spices like the plague...just not worth the effort.  You can start with say 3-5 spices and gradually build in more as time goes on.  A good basic 5-spice curry sauce would be cumin, paprika, turmeric, coriander and chilli) 
Curry Powder
Bay Leaves (2 or 3)
Ground Peppercorns

Other Ingredients:

Chicken - For simplicity and convenience, I tend to use good quality chicken breasts, although chicken legs can provide a tasty alternative. 

Fresh Garlic - alternatively, you can find excellent quality 'Lazy Garlic' jars in all supermarkets.

Fresh Ginger - as above...'Lazy Ginger' is easily found.  Use sparingly.

Fresh Chillies - an easier option is to buy 'Lazy Chillies' in white wine vinegar - available in jars from supermarkets.

Chopped Onions - optional to taste - good quality white onions, red onions or shallots.  All are good.  I'm currently experimenting with caramelised red onions.  If you don't like onions, leave the little buggers out.   

Chopped Tomatoes

Groundnut Oil

Salt & Pepper

Basmati Rice - loose.

Coriander Leaves - fresh is best.

Corn Flour

Optional Extras:

Peppers - One of my personal favourites and well worth experimenting with different types & colours,  Be careful of overusing peppers as their taste can completely overpower a wok.  In a medium-spiced curry, red and green peppers are well suited for a warm or bitter texture.

Cream/Natural Yoghurt - I tend to use these like a 'fire blanket'. If I overheat a medium dish then these offer relief from too much fire.

Naan Breads, Poppadoms, Chapatis...goes without saying. 

LET CURRY-MAKING COMMENCE

1 - Making The Marinade.

a)  Chop chicken into small cubes.  Place in casserole dish and put to one side.

b)  Make the curry sauce.  Making up a basic curry sauce is a lot easier than it sounds.  

c)  Take a jug or small bowl.  Pour in a good few squirts of tomato purée.  

d)  Add a little water and stir.

e)  Add your chosen spices - a good rule of thumb is about half a teaspoon per person.  

f)   Add more water and stir well.

g)  Place your bay leaves in the casserole dish with the cubed chicken.

h)  Pour your sauce over the chicken, making sure that no spices are left at the bottom of the bowl or jug.

i)  Add seasoning - sea salt and crushed peppercorns are wonderful.

j)  Add lid to casserole dish and place in fridge for anything up to 24 hours.  At least a few hours.

2 - Making Stuff In The Wok.

Before we touch the wok, this might be a good time to mention rice.  I tend to use loose Basmati rice, although any good quality, long-grain rice is fine.  Microwave cook-in-the-bag rice is a creation of Satan and all his disciples.  It tends to clump into lumps...which is never a good experience.  

Measure out 100g of rice per person and place into a saucepan.  Cover the rice with water and leave alone for 30 mins.  This should dislodge the bulk of the starch in the rice.  OK...the wok.

a)  We're going to start with a garlic, ginger and chilli base.  First step is to place your wok over a low heat. 

b)  Take some groundnut oil and cover the base of the wok.  The oil should be lightly steaming.

c)  If you're using fresh garlic, chilli and ginger, you will have crushed the garlic, stripped and cut some ginger and prepared the chilli. (most take the seeds out...I know some who adore the heat and keep chilli seeds in.  It's your curry; your call)  If you're using the 'Lazy' varieties of these (from a jar) then simply take a teaspoon of garlic and chilli and one half teaspoon of ginger.   

d)  Carefully, add each to the heated oil and stir well.  It's going to spit at you, so be careful...I tend to keep a table spoon or two of the curry sauce from the casserole dish and add it to the wok.  This will keep the spitting to a minimum, but won't interfere with the delightful aroma of garlic, ginger and chilli, all cooking together.  Stir well.

e)  After about a minute, add your chopped onions.  How much depends on you...I usually use about half of a chopped large onion.   If using white onions then you're heading for a 'golden' tone.  There are more complex ways of using onions, but this is a very basic recipe and so simple works every time.  Raise the heat to a medium setting and stir the onions well.  This should take 3-5 minutes, depending on how good your hob is.  If the onions start burning, lower the heat and add a little more curry sauce.  When golden, they be done.

f)  Add your chicken from the casserole dish.  Remember to remove the bay leaves first!  They're great for adding flavour - not so good for digesting.  Add as much sauce as you wish from the casserole dish.  Again...personal taste.  Some like a lot of sauce, others not so.  I like to use a ladle and add as I go.  It also depends on how many I'm serving...for one person, about 2-3 ladles of sauce should be plenty.  You can always add more later.

g)  Your chicken should now start cooking.  Let it simmer nicely...no rush.  The longer and slower it cooks, the more tender it's going to taste.  Marinating will also help with the tenderising process.  You're looking at a medium heat for about 5-10 mins.

h)  When the chicken is cooked, add the chopped tomato.  I usually use about one tin (400g) for every meal...sometimes less.  It's always a good idea to keep some back for the end, in case you need to adjust the taste slightly.

i)  Add a couple of teaspoons of corn flour to the wok.

j)  If you can, place a lid to the wok and reduce heat.  Leave the wok simmering for half an hour.  Stir well every 5 mins.

k)  Rice time!  Sieve the rice from the starchy water.  Add boiling water to the rice and place on a hob.  Basically, your curry is on simmer mode.  When the rice is done, that's curry over.     

l)  Check the wok for taste.  Add more liquid if required.  This is also the time for 'optional extras', such as peppers or a touch of cream/natural yoghurt, if required.  

m)  5 mins before serving, turn the heat up on the wok to make sure everything is nicely cooked through.  The sauce should be bubbling.  Check for taste, especially seasoning.  Add the coriander leaves to the curry, taste-test and stir well before serving.  

As with all things, there is often a terrible snobbery about the most trivial of things.  I've been lectured in the past for serving the rice separate from the curry.  Others have admonished me because I have sometimes served them together.  I have lost count of the times I have been told that for true authenticity, 'it's best done THIS way'...or 'THAT way'...or ' the ancient mountain men of 'Umbur Pumbur' ALWAYS serve their rice on separate blue plates, on a Wednesday, while leaning at a 47.5 degree angle to the horizon...blah blah blah!'  

If you want to be 'authentic' then that's deeply wonderful and I'm happy for you.  As far as I am concerned, the ancient mountain men of Umber Pumur might also sleep upside down and do their business in buckets.  I like my rice on the SAME plate as my curry and, in my house, that's how it shall be.  

If mountain men don't like it then they can kiss my arse.   ;)

   

The Concert.

The culmination of a recent university course (Open University A215 - Level 2, Creative Writing) involved a final exam (known as an EMA).  Its purpose is to test students on the three aspects of study over the last year - fiction, poetry and life writing (biographical or autobiographical writing) - or a combination of two of these.

For my EMA, I chose life writing.  Going back to my 18 year old self was an interesting journey...and at times quite a difficult one also.  I think it's also important to realise that (hopefully) we are not the person we were at 18.  In many ways that person is unrecognisable to me today.  Yet, the spirit of who I was back then still remains.  I just know more stuff in 2012 than I did in 1981 and possess more confidence to be able to do things with it.

However - probably along with 6 billion or so other people - I sincerely wish I had the ability to go back to my younger self and spend a good hour or twenty.  
Mostly, I'd tell myself that everything would be OK.  Just hang in there.

KJM

  

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‘What we have here is a failure to communicate.’

 Paul Newman, ‘Cool Hand Luke’.

PREFACE.

Communication is arguably the most precious of creative expressions; providing basic connection and bonding with our fellow humans.  Alternatively, when the priceless gift of speech is lost behind impenetrable, personal barriers, it follows that an individual’s confidence will suffer.  

    Around the age of thirteen, I become such an individual. Understandable, emotional dents form as my chronic stammer deepens. Less understandably, dents also occur materialize at school, when a couple of cruel teachers decide that I constitute an excellent source of class morale. Another of many memorable dents occurs with a local bus-driver, listening as a schoolboy politely attempts to state the designated fare of ’Fifteen please’. When a twenty second burst of echoing ’f-f-f-f-f-ffffff’s emerge, he reduces his passengers to raucous, rib-aching merriment with the arrival of a perfectly-timed punch line;

    ’I think you’ve got a puncture there, lad.’

    At such testing moments, the possession of analytical reasoning and sheer bloody-mindedness become my most valuable allies.  Through experimentation, I discover that stammering is greatly decreased while (a) singing, or (b) inebriated. Both options are quickly discarded, but soon fate provides me with an option (c). 

    During a break in lessons, a fellow pupil executes an appalling impression of the cartoon character, ‘Top Cat’.  Malicious faces in the playground excitedly turn towards me. 

      ‘Go on, Milsom…d-d-d-d-d-o…Ta-Ta-Top…C-c-c-c-cat!’ 

       I sigh inwardly, but realize that any refusal means getting thumped. It takes three lines of gibberish in Top Cat’s voice before realizing that I haven’t missed a single beat. 

       ‘Hey, that’s not bad…do another.’

       I square my shoulders and launch into John Wayne.

       ‘Okay pil-grims, we’re gonna get these wagons in a circle and keep the teachers at bay, see?’

       For the first time, an intoxicatingly, delicious sound of people laughing with me, not at me, hits my ears. I want more.  

       The threat of total strangers engaging me in conversation no longer equates to blind panic.  Of all the accents I explore, the broad London dialect is the easiest to reproduce. By placing a cassette tape recorder by the television whenever ‘The Sweeney’ is transmitted, it isn’t long before I’ve nailed John Thaw’s character, ‘Inspector Jack Regan’. Meanwhile, every day is spent before a mirror, practicing my speech and dreaming of a day when society can regard me as ‘normal’   

     Immediately prior to the beginning of the following story, my eighteen year old self has been asked for the correct time.  Somewhere in a small dressing room within my mind, a bell sounds. Enter, stage left, ‘Inspector Jack Regan’ to give suitable response.

The Concert

‘You what?  Oh, I fink iss five to nine mate.’

    My enquirer appears suitably satisfied and nods his thanks.

    ‘S’awlright…sorted.’

    After quickly checking his face to make sure that no further conversation is forthcoming, I turn my attention back to the growing commotion some thirty feet ahead.  It’s a wet, 1981 spring morning outside Bristol’s Colston Hall and the long queue in which I am standing is becoming restless as a vociferous, scruffy opportunist seeks to push to the front of the line.

    ‘No…oi bin ‘ere all along…oi only went to the toilet…’onest!'

     In unison, several fellow Bristolians relay their unanimous verdict.

    ‘Buggerrrawwwfff!’

    There is certain uniqueness about the sound of hundreds of people performing a simultaneous, sharp intake of breath, as our latest time-waster is physically ejected into a busy Colston Street; causing an oncoming 74 bus to swerve wildly.  As a driver with the physical stature of a gorilla emerges from his cab, I stare at the ground and let my mind wander away.  I’m not one for observing physical violence and I sense that the guy’s likely to get a ’knuckle sandwich’. 

      While gazing at the darkened, rain-stained pavement, my thoughts drift towards heroes, role-models and precisely how I came to be standing in this queue.  A knowing voice from the past resonates around my mind.

      ‘Always have heroes in life, son.  There’s always plenty to aim for.’  

      Ah yes, heroes.  Mentally, I leave the rain-sodden queue altogether and disappear back to the early hours of a July morning in 1969, where my father and I are seated upon our new avocado and magenta sofa.  Before us, upon the fuzzy screen of our twenty-inch, black and white television set, Neil Armstrong is about to take his first ‘giant leap for mankind‘.

      ‘We’re watching a legend, son.’

      ‘Like Geoff Boycott, dad?  Or Bobby Moore?’

      My father winced.  In his eyes, cricket and football were games invented by God Himself.  The fact that there was nothing at the start of The Bible stating that, “on the eighth day, the Creator fashioned a fine cricket pitch and taught Adam the value of the forward-defensive batting stroke…” was merely evidence that the ‘Holy Book’ had been tampered with by ‘soppy, dress-wearing non-cricketers’.

       ‘Well, almost, son...let’s not get carried away, eh?’ 

        When dad ‘nipped out for a packet of cigarettes’ in late 1976 and decided never to return, it became evident that any quest for inspirational heroes would take place outside my paternal, family line. In 1980, lurking within a highly chaotic musical genre, I discovered my ‘Holy Grail’.

        Raised on a diet of classic ‘Rock & Roll’, my major prerequisite for a song involved it being energetic, to the point where one’s entire body was unconditionally compelled to dance.  After a glorious childhood of Elvis Presley, Little Richard, James Brown and Jerry Lee Lewis, the 1970’s would have to raise the artistic bar considerably.  Unfortunately, the whole ’Glam Rock’scene - comprising men with girls’ haircuts and apparently wearing sequined tin foil with matching moon boots – stirred nothing within me. Subsequently, I was content to spend the entire decade cocooned in blessed Rock & Roll. Until punk…

       Punk was loud, brash and quite beyond articulate reason.  Punk was a chaotic cocktail of energetic noise.  Punk was the very epitome of being different.  Punk was putting two fingers up to the world and telling it where to go. Punk was… 

      ‘Have you seen her before?’

      Current thoughts immediately disintegrate as my gaze meets that of my former time enquirer, now grinning in friendly fashion.

      ‘What?  Ahhh…not before, no.  Iss my first time, mate.’

      ‘Oh.’  He seems disappointed, but continues smiling.  I’ve learned from experience that over-stretching conversation is never a good thing.  My accent can waver, I can easily lose track of what I’ve said and there’s always the risk of people asking awkward questions, such as from which part of London I originate.

       ‘Which bit of London are you from?’ 

        Sighing inwardly, I give a stock, well-rehearsed answer, avoiding any hard consonants, such as ‘B’ or ‘D’, which are more difficult for me to say.

        ‘I’m from Enfield, mate. Norfff Laandon’ 

         Recorded to memory are researched roads, postcodes, schools and landmarks, local for Enfield. I offer my enquirer nothing else; instead lighting a cigarette and expressing a scowl, perfected from many Clint Eastwood westerns, which snarls: ‘leave me alone’.  Aside from a nod, he appears to respect my wishes and I return to gazing at the ground. 

        This is a hated aspect of my predicament.  By nature, I abhor all aspects of rudeness, yet, for fear of being ridiculed as a freak, there are times when I have to become exactly what I despise.  If he sees through my façade, it could be less than ten seconds before the whole queue is pointing at me and laughing. With yet another possible new friendship in tatters, I resume my chain of thought…ah yes, my precious record collection.   Soon, I had amassed an assortment of multi-coloured vinyl offerings from bands with quirky names, such as ‘X-Ray Specs’, ‘The Clash’, ‘The Sex Pistols’ and ‘The Dickies’; mostly containing unintelligible shouting, performed at a hundred miles per hour against a whirlwind of pounding beats. 

      In 1980, I become aware of a diminutive, flame-haired singer called Toyah Willcox.  Imaginative lyrics, containing elements of mysticism and science-fiction, were often backed by thumping, tribal rhythms.  From the outset I am intrigued by Toyah.  Dubbed the ‘Princess of Punk’ by the music media, she is derided by lesser journalists for possessing a heavy lisp, along with snide remarks about her physical disabilities from birth.  Instantly, I warm to her rebellious spirit.  The more people laughed, the louder she shouted back that she didn’t give an ‘airborne act of lovemaking’ what anyone thought of her.  

      1981 returns with a jolt, as I realize that there is only one person between myself and the ticket office.  His subsequent departure leaves me at the head of a mile-long queue, and I am suddenly filled with an overwhelming desire to use my own voice.  The mere thought is enough to start my shoulders shaking, but I concentrate on my breathing, while counting slowly in my mind. 

    ‘Six…seven…eight…you can do this…nine…ten…eleven…you ca… ‘

    ‘Next please.’

    With a deep breath, I take six heroic paces forward.  For a fleeting moment, I am Clint Eastwood, Charlton Heston and Genghis Khan combined; a force of cool bravado and ultimate strength, unrivalled amongst all warriors, past and present.

     ‘Yes, sir?’

      Dimly aware that my mouth is opening and closing, it’s not until my shoulders begin rocking that I start losing hope. A large bead of sweat drops from my forehead onto my spectacles, rendering the receptionist’s facial features into swirling patterns.  With an emergency klaxon echoing around an internal dressing room, Inspector Regan rushes to the scene.

     ‘Yeah, I’m lookin’ for something in the stalls to see Toyah… as close to the stage as ya can. What ya got, love?’

     The next two months are spent sampling everything performed by my musical heroine.  Toyah’s latest album, ‘Anthem’ is her best work to date and it takes me two days to confine every lyric to memory.  Her current single, ‘It’s A Mystery’ is riding high in the charts and the words resonate deeply with me as I sing them aloud, with gusto.

‘Somewhere in the distance,

hidden from the view.

Suspended in the atmosphere,

waiting to come through...’

       Like an impatient child waiting for Christmas morning, I cross days from the calendar.  In a fit of compulsion, I purchase every badge pertaining to Toyah, punk, bands and youth culture that Bristol has to offer.  By the time I attach them to my favourite jacket, I have thirty down each side.  My mother is distinctly unimpressed.

      ‘You look like a bloody Pearly King!’

       Being in full teenage rebellious mode, I remain impassive.

       ‘R.ri…rig.ht…j-j-just for that, I’ll b-b-b-b-b…’  I pause, silently cursing whoever invented hard consonants.  ‘I’ll p…p..pur…ch-chase even mo-more!’ 

       She laughs, but her eyes reveal how much it hurts to see me struggling. 

       With a cloudless dawn, the Fourth of June, 1981 finally arrives.  The day is spent mostly pacing and trying to contain mounting excitement.  A long morning crawls into a lengthy afternoon.  By seven o’clock, an unseasonal chill has crept into the evening air, yet the exterior of the Colston Hall is positively bursting with animated warmth.  In the passing of minutes, dozens multiply into hundreds; noise levels growling upwards into higher decibels as more bodies swell our crowd…and what a crowd…rows of brightly-spiked hairstyles bob around, all vying for attention from excited owners; many of whom clearly favour studded, leather attire and an imaginative choice of body areas to pierce their skin. 

      ‘Nice one.’

       I turn around to discover an orange, Mohican-topped head closely examining my array of badges.  A heavily-ringed finger points out a badge with a young girl’s face, promoting a Gloucestershire band I liked, called ‘Pigbag’.  

      ‘I’ve got that one too.’  He turns his head, revealing the same badge pinned through the lobe of his right ear.  In no particular dialect, I mouth ‘Wow!’ He grins.

      ‘Where are you sitting?’

      Pulling my ticket from an inside pocket, I show my designated seat number, about six rows from the stage.  A huge hand slaps my back.

      ‘Just stick with me, right?’  I nod; returning his infectious smile as he spots someone he recognizes.

      ‘Marcia!’  A girl, about my age, trots over; a beaming grin surrounded by thick, black make-up and several facial piercings. Topped with three tall spikes of blue hair, she reminds me of a stegosaurus.  Between them, Mr. Mohican and Marcia appear to know everyone else in the crowd. 

      It’s an hour until Toyah.  Amid a tribal composition of stamped shoes and slapped palms upon glass barriers, the outer doors to the Colston Hall finally open. Wedged between new comrades, I am swept forward as a youthful stampede ensues, causing all in its path to react with life-preserving speed.  Everyone has an allotted seat, but as we charge towards the stage, no-one cares.  For the next couple of hours, we’re all together; a crowd of one.  A woefully undermanned team of bouncers briefly attempt to push us back.  After ten minutes, accompanied by helpful - yet largely physically impossible - advice from the crowd, they relent and leave us be. 

      Twenty-five minutes until Toyah.  A supporting act has finished a brief set to polite applause.  The crowd becomes noticeable more animated as adrenaline levels surge.        

      Ten minutes to go.  Hunger, thirst and toilet requirements are utterly forgotten.  Everything becomes immersed within a cacophony of chanting and stamped soles…a final sound check and my heartbeat gains noticeable momentum…chanting rises until it threatens to loosen the elaborate, Victorian fixtures and fittings.  Screams replace chants as finally, the lights dim.

      Then it arrives; an opening bass line that bursts through the crowd like glorious thunder from the Gods; a matching volley of drums detonating around euphoric ears as the stage lights up.  It’s her!  As one, we jump up and scream her name. 

      ‘Good evening, Bristol!’

      The bass line smoothly slides into a familiar pattern as the band launches into the opening number, ‘It’s A Mystery’.

      ‘Sing it back to me, yeah?’

      Two thousand people adoringly comply.

‘Sometimes, it’s so far away,

sometimes, it’s very near.

A sound being carried by the wind,

just loud enough to hear…’

      I’ve no idea if heaven exists.  If so, then it must equate to the ‘Utopian’ bliss, I subsequently experience as my tiny heroine completely dominates a large stage; holding a captivated audience within a masterful grasp.  Two hours and three encores later, she is gone and unwilling feet trudge towards exits. With a slap on the back, Mr. Mohican is at my side.

        ‘Was that awesome…or what?’

         I smile back and nod.

         ‘What time you got?’

         I glance at my wrist.

         ‘It’s abowt twenty-foive to ten…’

         I pause as my Bristol accent hits my ears.

         ‘Nice one…I’m Dan by the way, what’s your name?’

         ‘Me?  Oi’m Kev.  Nice to meet you, Dan.’

         ‘You too, Kev…take it easy, yeah?’

         A final slap on the back and he disappears into a dense forest of fascinating hairstyles.

         Once outside, I stop strangers just to ask them the time; each in unbroken, Bristolian tones.  One spots my watch.

       ‘Oops…oi’m a daft bugger, I am!’

       Instead of a three mile walk home, I hail a taxi.

      ‘Downend Road, Horfield, please….oi’ve just bin to see Toyah at the Colston…bloody fabulous she was…you had a busy night, mate?’

       With adrenaline still pumping, my speech is flawless. 

       A blissful week dawns before the stammering returns, but now I know – beyond all doubt - that at the culmination of this long war, I shall be the victor.

       Three years later, Inspector Jack Regan gives his final performance and is retired.  An accompanying newspaper announcement would have read:

     ‘Whilst immensely grateful for Jack’s priceless contribution of many years, it’s finally time for Mr. Milsom to commence a challenging and exciting, new chapter of his life.’

          

The Bench

The following piece was written as part of a recent university course.  (2011-2012)  The object of the exam was to produce a life-writing (biographical or auto-biographical) piece of work.  I decided to cover a traumatic time from 2009, yet use a sense of humour to balance the structure.

As my preface suggests, I don't do 'bleak'.  
I've not been to Blogger for a little while and everything seems to have changed.  Why this post should be dark font on white background, when all my other posts are the opposite, is well beyond my current technological understanding.  I'm a writer, not an engineer.  If I can find a way to change it back then I surely will.

The photograph is also mine - taken 2012 at the spot where I received the inspiration for this piece of writing, Dursley Cemetery, Gloucestershire.

KJM.

The Bench

PREFACE.

I've never been one for sad stories. As a kid I was always drawn towards movies that opened with the main character(s) in the absolute worst of dire straits, yet culminated with happy, smiling faces, preferably accompanied by cheery songs and a multitude of cheesy dancing. If my parents had consented, corners of my bedroom would have likely held shrines to both Walt Disney and Dick Van Dyke.

    To this end, I'll begin with what is commonly referred to as a low point in life or, to use my own personal phraseology, 'being at the very bottom of the well.'

August 1st, 2009.

    'He's not looking too good, Bob.'

    'You're right, Tom...he  hasn't been the same since that vicious uppercut...'

    I am seated upon a plain, wooden bench in Dursley , surrounded by an abundance of brightly-coloured flowers and the delicious aroma of freshly-cut grass. While my eyes take in luscious, green shades within the rolling hills before me, my head and stomach appear obsessively dedicated towards destructive, alternative agendas. The weather over the small, Gloucestershire town has decided to match my internal mood by adopting a dark and menacing outlook. In the past hour we have also perfected an electric, bristling air. Momentarily, I ponder that if this were a game of emotional poker then the weather and I would be holding very similar cards. For someone who delights in disciplined self-control, this is a time of major concern.

    'In 46 years, I've never seen Milsom quite so ragged, Bob...'

    'Well, with all his experience, I was expecting a lot more 'bob' and 'weave', Tom...his legs have totally gone...'

     I could never be described as a hurtful man. However, it's two weeks since my mother died and I am becoming extremely weary of the well-meant, awkward collection of facial expressions and accompanying phrases aimed in my direction .

    'Well, at least she's out of pain'...

    'She had a good innings'....

    'It's probably a blessing'...

    'You'll feel better after a good cry'...

    Naturally, there are no rule books for observing a treasured soul disintegrate on a daily basis; not a single master class. While watching the constant onset of Mum‘s physical failings, promptly followed by harsh, emotional whiplashes and the ultimate breakdown of her cognitive faculties, my resourceful side had quickly developed a stout defence system.  As usual, when personally confronted with negative life forces, my armour has been skilfully forged from the finest humour . For five hurtful years, myself and currently exhausted family have relied upon a battle-balancing arsenal of surrealism, jokes, puns, limericks and silly impressions; each worthy enough for the entire Monty Python team break out in admiring whistles. I've watched my mother use humour in exactly the same way; even in her most fragile of moments. If it's good enough for her then it'll do me fine.

    Within unfamiliar and uncertain darkness, finding slivers of comedy gold has long been my salvation. However, for the last few months, troop numbers within my 'Comedy Defence Force' have dwindled alarmingly. With Mum‘s passing, all humour has deserted the ranks. A row of outsized, steel toe-capped clown boots lay unoccupied. Military-issue custard pies go stale .

    It's a half-hour drive but this is the one place where no-one can find me. Throughout the bewildering numbness that has clung to me like morning fog for the previous fortnight, I have planned such a healing time as this. To sit in peace. To gather my thoughts. It's exactly what I need. I'm about to discover some alarming errors in my thinking.

    'The referee's looking very concerned, Bob.'

    'Milsom's got to cover up, Tom...where the hell's his defence?'

    A fair question, Tom. Currently, my boxing gloves hang limply by my side. It would make astronomical sense for them to be tight around my ears, but...to be perfectly honest...I'm well past caring. All attempts to 'gather my thoughts' have merely allowed the quick parting of internal doors. Each door, holding specific memories, has been purposely locked, bolted and barred at some stage over the last five years. By myself. For my own protection.

    'I'm not sure I can watch, Bob.'

    A gruesome, gut-wrenching collection of twisted imagery, depicting my mother throughout her weakest and most vulnerable states of frightened fragility, viciously pummels my ribs.  However, the one punch which has truly staggered me involves a sudden granite 'uppercut of realisation'; namely, I've spent a large portion of life devoted to - and reliant upon - someone who no longer exists. Not a single atom of space upon this Earth. Not anywhere. The thought sets firmly in my head like concrete, unleashing a further torrent of painful blows.

    'For God's sake...get off the ropes!'

    I tell Tom precisely where to stick his microphone and continue to absorb punches. With ghoulish images pounding away like a demented jack-hammer, somewhere within my crumbling senses I realise that I am beginning to accept the blows as a normal part of life. In time, I'll even grow to like them;  admire and respect them.

    Reaching inside my jacket, my fingers fold around a plain, brown envelope which soon emerges into the dull, grey afternoon. For a few seconds, my eyes simply scan my printed name and address, before retrieving the letter within and reading it for the countless time. From half a decade previous, my mother's agitated voice swims into range.

    'Are you sure you can afford this? Houses aren't cheap these days...'

My confident reply could have emanated from the lips of a method actor at the absolute peak of his technical craft .

    'It'll be fine, Mum. We'll just work together and get through whatever comes up. It's what we always do.' In a classic Dick Van Dyke movie, this would have been the cue for a heart-warming song about overcoming impossible odds and always chasing life's most optimistic rainbows.

    I read through the letter again, before firmly closing my eyes and pondering precisely what goes through the mind of people who can produce printed phrases such as, 'failure to pay', house possession' and 'with immediate effect'. If ever careers were designed purely for emotionless robots, then producing these types of letters must surely rank highly . Of all the words before me, the hardest to accept is 'failure'. Losing my mother and house inside twenty-four hours of each other isn't just careless. It's plain irresponsible. I am aware of my right hand gripping the Dursley bench with a force that threatens to physically separate my knuckles. I've never felt so hollow.

    'Open your eyes.'

    That doesn't sound like Bob. Nor Tom, unless he's taken my explicit instructions regarding his microphone.

    'Open your eyes.'

Obediently, I comply. There, in my immediate line of sight and dark-shaded by regular Cotswold rain, is a wooden knot on the seat of my bench. For a split-second, the knot becomes my entire universe. Memories of former sun-splashed, days burst into my view. Running with childhood friends.  Countless hours engaged in the wonderful art of cloud-watching; laying on lush grass alongside animated friends at Bristol's Brandon Hill, or up at the sprawling Clifton Downs. Whoever made the loudest, laughter-inducing images became the 'King of Cloud Weaving'. In truth, the crown was rarely from my daft head.

    Back in Dursley, to my visually-ravenous brain, the knot immediately reminds me of Chewbacca from 'Star Wars', smoking a cigar. It's very silly...but just enough to form the briefest of smiles upon my lips. All that I require. Images of Chewbacca wandering around the 'Death Star', while smoking a cigar in true, clowning Groucho Marx-style, have already started to infiltrate my imagination.

    'Bob...are you watching this?'

    Somewhere in my mind, a curtain opens before a large screen. Chewbacca, complete with ridiculous spectacles, false eyebrows and moustache, is walking towards Darth Vader with a cheeky grin; cigar waggling in his furry fingers.

    'I never forget a face, but in your case I'll be glad to make an exception!' he says, with exquisite 'Groucho' timing.

    I feel myself grinning. That'll do nicely. For the first time in months I duck as a menacing glove whistles over my head.

    'Fight back!'

    I recognise the voice as my own. The mental image replays, this time with more eyebrow wiggling. Hearing my chuckle, I draw in welcome breath.

    'Look him in the eye. Make sure he sees it. There...'

    The punch begins somewhere down by my right ankle as my body twists up into a graceful arch with the astonishing speed of Superman on ice; a purposeful glove connecting squarely with my opponent's  jaw, to send him reeling. As it connects, the empty hollow feeling in my stomach finally begins to subside.

    'Where the FU...'

    I ignore Bob and add a quick, hard jab to make sure he knows I mean business. A bell sounds...I'm tired, but more importantly, I'm back in the game. The canvas looked so soft and inviting.  One simple count of ten and the fight was over.

    Glancing down to the small rectangle of earth, beneath which the physical remains of my mother reside, I say a silent prayer and think about returning home. There's a lot to sort out and my immediate family have no further requirements for a sullen, humourless individual within their ranks.  Truly, tomorrow can be another day.

    In a final move, the Dursley weather raises the stakes as an artillery of heavy thunderclouds release torrents of rain upon the town. Defiantly, I throw in my poker hand and hang up my boxing gloves.  I'm all done with crying.