shorter water - longer stronger - we take all kinds here - maniacal acts ; sober vicars ; defrocked nuns ; gentle jibes ; known imbibers ; poisonous spiders - Jems own Utubes cos he’s very good at it now and Spitties golden silence meditations cos he’s very good at those too and then english as she is Not spoken by our resident imbiber from zummezet i believe - well you know the fruity one! and nearly forgot to mention the tramp by the billibong - bong - bong -bong!! - opps and the cigar imbibing lady from scootlands isles??
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I speak the Queen’s English I’ll have you know. At lease, I speak the English wot 'er would have speaked if 'er had been brung up in the land of the mangold wurzel, ooh-arr!
Ive just been thinking on how many mates lve ad in my younger days, and
how many lve still got contact wiv?
The answer is very few, they either just disappeared or pegged orf ?
This got me thinking about ow many were really mates or were just using
me for the time being ??
I think l mentioned earlier that l seemed to be a late “developer” as me mum
used to. say, and l did notice that me mates seemed to be disappearing
soon after they took an interest in gels, whereas l wos quite appy to ride
motot bikes and play darts ?
Most of these activities took place in and around the " Olde Red Lion’
situated on Hackbridge corner in Hackbridge, which is near Mitcham in
south London , the “Olde Red Lion” was a courage house which came complete
wiv an outside toilet( men only) and quite nice stone flagged garden for the
use of the saloon bar crowd.
The public bar was a bit pokey but had a coal fire at one end near the door,
and a dart board at the other, the public bar was tended by George a long
faced bald and bespectacled gentleman that always had a cigarette hanging
on his bottom lip, George had a strong sense of working class solidarity and
could allways be relied on for a free pint if you were “short” as the saying goes !!Ooooer, it looks like l have lost the thread allready! So l will wrap up me
scribblin tools for now!
To be continued if anybody is still interested in the story about my retarded
yoof ?? 
lovely writings DM - this thread has a long history of original writings - just keep the 'em cummin ; churn em out we’ll tell um when ta stop - we still have valuable members missing on the front line? and I think we need stories of the ‘old countries’ as some of the young don’t know how to write 'em so much these days - too busy clickin on their mobilities?? who knows ya may get us all goin soon - the spark that lights the match?
@gumbud , l think l mentioned my age gummy, l fear my “spark” is dying,
I have reached the stage when the roof timbers have collapsed and a flurry
of sparks has erupted into the sky before complete darkness descends !
Could make a poem out of that eh ??
Bet youve allready got one you bugger ?? 
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Gosh that sounds poetic in itself…tormented…anguished even!
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my poetry often reflects peoples lives - lookin for a spark in yours right now? don’t let it die out yet!! not sure if I know you well enough yet - you remind me a little about the famous banjo patterson poem:
THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER by A.B. “Banjo” Paterson
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight. etc etc - my favorite really - yea you sound like a bushman on a donkey perhaps?
@gumbud Yeah that was good one gummy, l read it when you put it up
a coupla years ago! Great stuff !! I love the antipodean poetry, tell me
what appened to that NZ guy usedta post on ere, l cant remember is name?
Eee used ter put put some good stuff up too ??
My own favrit tho is as follows,
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up, in the old malamute saloon,
The boy that looks after the music box, was hitting a ragtime time tune,
In back of the bar, in a solo game sat dangerous dan mgrew,
And watching his luck, was his light of love, the lady thats known
as lou!
When from out of the night, which was forty below, and into the din and the
glare!
There stumbled a miner , fresh from the creek, dog tired and loaded for bear ,
Tho he looked to me like a man with one foot in the grave, and with scarcely
the strength of a louse,
He toted his poke of dust to the bar and he called for drinks on the house !
Thats all for now as l am using what remains of me memry, and not google!!
This guy was a genius imo?? 
you’d be tinkin about ciderman there - he comes and goes - haven’t seen him for a while - I’m on six different sites so its swings and roundabouts - what makes ya tick along? wot fits da bill?
you would have liked some of the old crew on this thread - this place could be hummin with steam blowin everywhere - had a fella from the shetlands and another from Hampshire and a few ‘ladies’ - but keep goin laddie ya doin OK!
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Apropos of absolutely nothing other than the date, today is the fiftieth anniversary of the day I left home at the tender age of eighteen.
I headed south by train from dear old Donny (Doncaster) to start a life anew, initially living in an apprenti hostel on Filton Aerodrome that had previously been the Brylcreme Boys ossifer’s mess.
My train was late, having been stopped for several hours near Derby due to a light aircraft that had crashed on the tracks. I have no idea if the occupants survived, but the 'plane was a mess, so probably not.
I pondered as we passed how much better or worse it could have been. To one side of the line were fields as far as the eye could see. On the other side were rows upon rows of houses. A few metres either way and the result could have been so much different.
It was my good fortune that because I was late, and upon arriving at the airfield security gate, I was told the hostel warden was inside sorting out paperwork, so he gave me and my chattels a lift across the 'drome.
I was shown to a room in an attic wing, and an hour later met the chap who was to be my roomy for a while.
More tomorrow about my first day of work.
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oeer sounds interesting - the story tellers are back again - I’ll join in eventually once I can get a head of steam!!
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It was boxing day morning ,when l pushed the door of the public bar open,
the day was clear and sunny, but frosty and cold, l had walked to the pub
as l didnt want the hassle of pushing the hercules bone shaker bicycle l
normally rode to the pub home again sfter imbibing few pints of bitter ?
I had trouble getting the door to move due to the number of people inside
the bar, the buzz of conversation and laughing was deafening, as l forced
myself further into the doorway, l could see the coal fire was stacked and
glowing fiercely and the bar was allready too hot! It was gonna be a job to
get to to the bar to order me beer ?
“Hey! Pete! Over ere!” the call came from the corner near the dartboard,(OUR corner)
It was Taffy Jones, one of me mates !
He was with Rodger Vidler, Freddie Lucette, and Bob Riley, they had a table
loaded with pint glasses of bitter and baby bottles of barley wine for toppers!
And there was a glass and a bottle there for me too!!
I forced my way onto the bench seat along the and wall and sat down,
Looking tound the table l saw that John Stannard, (the pig farmer) along
with Paddy Murphy , the stockman on the sewage farm, who was still wearing
his cheesecutter cap and wellington boots,( bejabers) were there also!!
It was going to be a good session by the looks of it ??
To be continued ?
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sounds like Jems local too! - keep em comin barman! - god those barley wines are marvellous!
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… and powerful enough to blow your socks off.
@gumbud , “barley wines”,
Me dad used to call them “depth charges !!”
He used them on unsuspecting german tourists !! 
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Friends who keep you a seat and have beers standing by are the best sort DM. It puts me in mind of a poem I once read.
The wondrous love of a beautiful male,
And the love of a staunch new man,
And the love of a baby, unafraid,
Hath existed since life began,
But the greatest love,
The love of love,
Even greater than that of a mother,
Is the tender, passionate infinite love,
Of one drunken sod for another.
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Fifty years ago today I had a most excellent breakfast in the hostel canteen, afore wandering across the aerodrome with several gaggles of apprenti. Down Hayes Lane at first, then across the hardstanding and along the edge of the taxiway, having first ensured the traffic lights were green.
The problem was, as I later found out, that it took so long to get from one side of the 'drome to the other, that quite often we would get stranded part way when the lights changed and a hairyplane taxied by. What fun!
Out the gate we went. The old lags (year 2 - 5 apprenti) went off to their designated work areas whilst the newbies like myself took our lives in our hands to cross the busy A38 to get to No 1 Canteen where our induction would take place.
There were some thirty of us in all, and our immediate and long term itinerary was explained to us, then a pile of papers was put in front of us to read, then sign to say we had read it and agreed to abide by it. 'Twas Section 2 of the Official Secrets Act.
I met a chap that day with whom I am still friends. Indeed, I made several friends during my apprenticeship whom I have known longer than I have known my Lovely Cousin.
By the way, anyone who says they have signed The Official Secrets Act is mistaken. Acts of Parliament are signed by top Neddies in Parliament. In this case is was the Secretary of State for the Ministry of Loud Bangs.
Next we were marched on mass up the road to a great seat of learning: the company college, and sat in a stuffy lecture hall.
I don’t know if it was deliberate, but the Safety Officer was very accident prone and kept bumping into things and knocking stuff over. He was however effective as I have never forgotten some of the stuff he told us.
Then came the horror show. Graphic images of injuries suffered by workers. Some of them truly were horrific, and one of the chaps behind me passed out as a result.
One of the images that stuck in my mind was of a chap who lost a finger when his wedding ring got caught on something and ended up with his full weight being suspended from it, until his finger could no longer take it.
I never wore jewellery until my Lovely Cousin gave me a sygnet ring as a chrymble present. I wore it on my right hand as a Friendship RIng for two years until I married and transferred it to my other hand to wear as my wedding ring, but I never, ever wore it to work, and always take it off when performing DIY.
The manufactory was split into four main sites, and the one across the A38 from the college housed a (subsidised) canteen where we went for lunch every day. Chips and beans and a brew for ninepence. Nobody ever went hungry.
Crossing the road was dangerous, but more of that another day.
After luncheon we went back for more lectures. When the safety photos were mentioned again, the poor chap behind me groaned and passed out again.
At the end of the day we made the trek back up the road and through the security gate, then made our way across the 'drome to the hostel, where once again we were fed another cooked meal and all the tea we could drink.
Needless to say, I put on weight.
There was a telly room, a snooker table, table tennis and darts rooms, a library, and a workshop. Everything a young chap away from home needed except the company of women.
I slept well that night.
no self-abuse then??
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Only when I perform DIY.