Per Ardua Ad Astra 1

Tags

Arndale Centre, Astra, Bacofoil, Chevette, Colonel Sanders, Existentialism, Headingley, Hot Wings, James Bond films, KFC, Lightwater Valley, Meanwood Valley, Per Ardua Ad Astra, Royal Air Force, Tetley's beer, The Skyrack, urban farm, urban foxes, WD40, Yorkshire Ripper

The ‘G’ registered white Astra sped through a red light on Headingley

Lane and took a crazy right turn up a quiet residential street, on

burning rubber.

Gary was high on speed, but only the vehicular variety.  In his mirror,

he could see the shadowy faces of his three mates, their mouths agog

with inane laughter and the sensation of being on a seemingly out-of-

control roller coaster.  This was cheaper than Lightwater Valley and the whole

escapade would give them the ‘street cred’ they craved back at St Augustine’s

High.

Watch this! he shouted, as he took an unmade stretch of road, rutted with

pot-holes, which steeply descended towards The Ridge.

They felt Tetley’s beer slosh around their stomachs as the car’s suspension

rocked violently and its exhaust scraped sickeningly on some large stones.

It was so dark on The Ridge.  You were on top of the world and all the lights

of Meanwood Valley twinkled from the dark shapes of densely-packed back-

to-backs.  Leeds slept and Gary and his pals emerged from the car, almost

reverentially.  The trees gave a rural impression.

The urban farm’s down there, remarked Gary, lighting up a fag.  He

remembered being taken there by his Dad and kid brother, Alan.  They’ve

got horses and stuff.

So what? commented Brian.  Who needs horses when you can have

horsepower?

Gary leant over the driver’s seat and released the handbrake.  The others

pushed on the rear bumper.

As if in slow motion, they watched the Astra tilt forwards and then lurch.

It somersaulted once, like a stunt car in a James Bond film, and then rolled

on its side against a scrub-like bush.  It had only travelled a hundred yards

or so down the slope.

(Photo 2006 Lewis Collard)

Gary chucked his cigarette stub inside and the lighter fuel which had drenched

the upholstery performed its ignition.

The darkness was illuminated by a spectral bonfire.

To Woodhouse then I came,

Burning, burning, burning, burning…

Gary recalled his English teacher reading out something like that the

previous week.  The rhythms had remained with him along with an

incendiary craving.  No one else had been paying attention.

Scarper! he shouted and they headed for Kentucky Fried at the Arndale

Centre, just round the corner from the site of The Yorkshire Ripper’s final

murder.

The boxes of congealed chicken debris- Hot Wings– were thrown into a

hedge for the urban foxes to sniff out.

We had ‘Hot Wings’ tonight, a’ right!  Brian joked.

They started a competitive routine, sniggering as they built on Hot Wings; Hot

Lips, Hot Chick and Hot Rod.

Gary fingered the Royal Air Force badge on his hoodie.  Dad had given it to

him after they had all been to an airshow.  It had been in his sock drawer.

Speed and Flight.  Freedom.

But Mum had laughed.  You were never airborne. Derek.  Admit it. You were

nowt but a filing clerk. 

Like Father; like sons.  She always put her menfolk down…  Took pleasure

in’t clippin’ wings, so she did.  No wonder the old man had scarpered. That’s

what Terry always said.

Where have you been, you piece of dirt? snarled Gary’s mum.  You’ve got

school in’t mornin’.  Don’t waken Alan up.  Terry’s still at The Skyrack, lucky

for you. Get out of my sight, or I’ll crack you one!

A’right – don’t have a nervous breakdown.  He ducked instinctively, avoiding a

blow to his head.

The bedroom door needed some WD40.  It creaked and Alan roused his head

from under the duvet.

A’right?  Any joy?

This wasn’t an Existential interrogative,

Shurrup. Mum’ll hear us.  No problem, Gary swaggered.

What’s twoccin’? Alan persisted.

Takin’ without t’owners’ consent, our kid.  Now shut it.

Stepping out of his jeans, he threw his soiled hoodie into a corner before

climbing in beside Alan.

You stink of bonfires, Alan said.  And Colonel Sanders. Did you get an Astra?

Yeah, it’s down The Ridge.  I’ll show you tomorrow if you don’t believe me.

Alan had to be content with that, for Terry had come back from t’pub and,

from the sounds in the hall, it were better to pretend to be asleep…

Gary had felt responsible for Alan ever since their Dad had left.  Dad had

never owned an Astra; he had possessed a beaten-up old Chevette, with

Bacofoil filling the wings.

(Photo-Wikimedia Commons)

Every wing has a silver lining, he had once quipped.

He still had a silver halo for Gary and Alan. but it had slipped somewhat in

their mother’s eyes.  She wouldn’t let him back into the house, the idle slob.

Terry was relatively new.  Her toy boy.  He wasn’t too bad when he was

sober, which wasn’t often.  But, at least he had a job.  Sometimes he gave

you a couple of notes and told you to get lost, or to get kitted out down

t’ market.  Other times, he told you to go to Hell.

The Absolute Camel

Tags

'Ern, Ali Baba basket, Berenice of Cilicia, Bosphorus, cakes and ale, Dadaism, Dickinson, dodecagon, Existentialism, fat, Garden of Remembrance, hairy legs, Herod, Iznik, Kristin Scott-Thomas, l'enfer c'est les autres, Metropolitan Archbishop, mince pies, Morecambe and Wise, mulled wine, Osman, ouzo, Play by Beckett, Pointless, Racine, Raymond Chandler, Samuel Beckett, short, Snodland, Snodland and Ash, Suetonius, Surrealism, The Absolute Camel, tribute act, urns, Who Do You Think You Are?, William the Conqueror

Great-Aunt Augusta was studying the newly photocopied programme

published by The Snodland Players, an amateur dramatic ensemble

who took their peripatetic programmes around nursing homes and

inflicted their rudely mechanical performances on captive audiences.

At least it is somewhat more challenging than one of those Primary

School variations on the nativity, combined with excruciatingly jolly

Yuletide ditties, opined the grumpy nonagenarian.

In actual fact, she had just asked to be wheeled out to the

recreation room as she could have sworn that she had smelled

mulled wine.

‘Play’ by Samuel Beckett, she read.  She liked Beckett.  What was

that play she had once seen with her sister?  Waiting for Ouzo?

Henry, I saw the film years ago.  It had that Kristin Scott-Thomas

woman in it.  You know, the one that Jeremy Fisher salivates over.

Jeremy Fisher? 

The one on that car programme.  Top Notch, or something.

Oh, Top Gear.  Clarkson.  Terrible man.

And Henry turned off his hearing aid and settled down to wait for

the hot toddy, given that his interest in hot totty had diminished

over the years, along with his driving skills.

I suppose they don’t need much scenery, Augusta commented to

another female resident.  And it’s only a one-act play, so there won’t

be an interval.

Pity, replied Madge. That’s the bit I  usually enjoy. Do you think there

will still be mince pies?

Oh, I doubt it.  We’re no longer virtuous, so they’ll probably cut back

on cakes and ale.

Matron was trying to be helpful with the logistics.  She scurried

around and came back with a trolley which bore three urns.

The Director picked one up.  Gosh, that’s really heavy.  I can see why

you needed the trolley.  Thanks, but I’m afraid they are too small and

they seem to be full of something rather weighty.

Yes, said Matron.  They are surprisingly heavy, considering that Ethel

was only about six stone and Oscar was about eight and a half…  Maybe

that’s why the rellies didn’t bother to pick them up to take them to The

Garden of Remembrance.  They probably thought that we would scatter

them, but some of the Eastern European staff are a bit superstitious about

that sort of thing, so we just put them on the shelves in Reception.  They

look pretty much like vases and the cleaning staff don’t knock them over

so easily.

Emmm, the Director was thinking rapidly on his feet, a thespian skill

which he tried to transmit to his rather slower colleagues.  Have you

got any of those Ali Baba laundry baskets?  They might do.

I’ll just have the girls wipe them down.  You never know what’s been

in them, Matron said helpfully.

Ta-da! she flourished some a few moments later.

The Director cut his introductory speech.  Some of the audience were

already asleep and it didn’t look as if anyone had a mobile phone on

them.

Augusta was waiting for the half-line about Snodland and Ash.  Apparently,

Beckett had once been in Kent, marrying one of the corners of his love

triangle.  Hence the references.  Ash/ urn…hmmm..

Something in the town had struck him, but when he had been asked

to explain its existential relevance, he had clearly taken the hump and

merely replied enigmatically: The Absolute Camel.

So, the choice of production was clearly topical.

One of the characters suddenly addressed the favoured coterie with

the philosophical question: Why am I dead?

Join the club, muttered Gerald, who was tired of waiting for the mulled

wine. He was also agitated at the thought of missing Pointless, which,

in his opinion was a cheerier form of Surrealism.

Madge interrupted with the following: I thought you said it had an ‘Ern in

it. I thought it was a tribute act to Morecambe and Wise.  But I don’t see

anyone with short, fat, hairy legs.

Augusta patted her knee.  No, darling.  I said ‘urns’.  Honestly, the

uncultivated company that she was obliged to keep nowadays!  L’enfer

was definitely les autres.  Didn’t they know that what they were watching

was Beckett’s response to a five-act play by Racine?  Furthermore, Racine

had swiped the concept from Suetonius’ scribblings about a love triangle

involving Berenice of Cilicia.

And the reason that she was aware of that was that her younger sister

was called Berenice and their mother had had love dodefayeds– nay,

dodecagons with various Oriental types, before she had settled down with

her erstwhile nomadic, but newly-domesticated rug-seller from The

Bosphorus.

Yes, both Berenice and her mother had been the types of blondes that

Raymond Chandler had said would have caused an Archbishop-

Metropolitan, or otherwise- to have kicked a hole in a stained glass

window.

Maybe it was the Herodian tendencies that had caused the members

of her family to be so ruthless in love.

So, life was somewhat surreal.  She granted that.  She’d never really

thought about her father.  She and her sister had the maternal surname:

Snodbury.  She supposed that her pater’s name must have been

something like Sirdar, or Osman.  But that rather sun-tanned antiques

quiz guy’s surname was Dickinson and, according to the telly programme

Who Do You Think You Are? he was of Iznik extraction and came from a

family of carpetbaggers- or was it ‘sellers‘?

At any rate, she was beginning to yawn.  That quiz programme would be

on tonight- the one they all liked with that rather aristocratic chap who

was related to William the Conqueror. (Weren’t we all?)

But she did find the other chap rather amusing.  What was his name?

Ah, yes: Osman.

Wonder if he is any relation? 

If so, that would surely be Dadaism, not Surrealism, or Existentialism.

Dadaism would probably be a very low score under the Philosophy category.

Fill me up, dear!  At last- the mulled wine had arrived.  You can have two

glasses of that.  It’s not as strong as Dewlap Gin for the Discerning

Grandmother.  And, on cold nights like this, it’s the absolute camel!