See The Stars, Page 2
John Davenport
have and to hold from this day forth until death us do part? He would be the only man in the English divorce court to have the bookies named as the third party by his ex-wife for mental cruelty.
Somebody told me that when Bob took his newborn baby out for a walk he used to leave the pushchair outside the bookies while he put his bets on. He was walking the baby in the pram once with his wife and somebody said to his wife, “Oh, that’s a nice baby; he’s got your husband’s nose.”
“Yes,” she replied, “but he’s got his father’s eyes.”
When the little boy, Bob junior, was a little older, the school teacher told the children to draw a picture of their fathers at work. Bob junior drew a picture of his dad in the bookies with him sitting outside, waiting for his dad to come out. He certainly did not get the gambling habit from his parents. His mother was a lab technician. She met Alexander Fleming, the man who discovered penicillin, in 1928. His father was a skilled aircraft worker who, during World War Two, worked on the Halifax Bomber production line.
The guy responsible was Woody, who Bob met in 1966 when he got his first job at a tailoring factory called Benjamin Simon. In their dinner hour, Woody took Bob to the bookies and that was how it all started. Oh yes, Woody has a lot to answer for. I reckoned he could have spent over ninety thousand pounds on gambling… well, you add it up. Say forty pounds a week for a year – that was about two thousand pounds a year. Multiply that by nearly fifty years and that was how I got my total. On pressing him, he did admit to about thirty thousand pounds in that time.
“Surely I couldn’t have spent that much on gambling,” he protested.
When he lived in Watford he could have bought his flat under the Right to Buy scheme for twenty thousand pounds. He thought it would now be worth a hundred and fifty thousand pounds plus; now that would have been a better investment than the bookies.
He lived in a nice area of Leeds called Oakwood, in privately rented accommodation. He once he said to me that if he had a portfolio of properties he would have nice young ladies as tenants. When it came to collecting the rent, if one of them said, ‘Oh I’m sorry, Bob, I can’t afford to pay the rent this month, Bob would say, ’Well, love, the rent will have to be paid for one way or another.’ You can guess what he meant, the dirty old sod.
Bob told me once he went on a cruise to Norway. It was so expensive, he ran out of money and had to go to the British Embassy to borrow some to tide him over. Well, how embarrassing was that! Talking about embarrassing moments, I was in Leeds city centre with him once. He asked me to go into the bank with him and change a one Euro coin he had into English money. After we’d stood in line for over ten minutes, the bank teller said, “I am sorry, sir, we only change notes back into English currency.” Oh dear, oh dear.
Another time, he went on a coach trip to North America and was staying overnight in a Canadian hotel. He decided to go for a long walk to take in the breathtaking scenery of the Rockies and surrounding countryside.
On his way back to the hotel, a car pulled up and the occupant said, “Hop in; I will give you a lift back to the hotel.”
“No thanks,” Bob replied. “I’m just stretching my legs and taking in the scenery.”
“Oh no,” the guy said, “there have been some attacks by bears on the tourists recently. You’d better get in.”
At that very moment, a ferocious growl emanated from the direction of the nearby forest. Bob needed no further encouragement – that was the quickest he had ever jumped into a motor vehicle. He firmly locked the door behind him, not wishing to end up as a meal for a grizzly bear. Mind you, he was only a small bloke and would only have made a small snack. After that, he stayed firmly in the hotel grounds until it was time to move on to his next destination.
At one time, he was a delivery driver in London. He had only just started working for a new firm so he was unfamiliar with the routes. He was very late on a delivery to the Hard Rock Café, so the manager told him off. Now, all Bob had to do was say he was sorry, he was new to the firm, there was heavy traffic and it wouldn’t happen again. But not Bob, I’m afraid. Contrition was not in his vocabulary. He started swearing at the manager and told him where to get off in no uncertain terms. On his arrival back at the depot, the boss was waiting for him.
“Sorry, Bob,” he said, “but you’re fired. We’ve had a complaint from the manager of the Hard Rock Café. Here’s your money; you know the way out.”
That’s the way it was with Bob. He said to me, “I could do with another hundred pounds a week coming in.”
“If you kept out of the bookies,” I told him, “and the Whitelocks pub at £3.60 a pint, you would be a hundred pounds better off.”
“I think you’ve got a point there, Johnny boy,” he replied.
The guy sitting on the other side of me in the bookies was Brian, who I called the Billy Dainty look-alike. What a nice full head of white hair he had. He took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his trouser legs and showed me his bad feet and legs.
I said, "Oh, Brian, you want to get to the Doctor’s with those feet. You don’t want to have them amputated, do you?"
"I’m not bothered if they take them off,” he said. “I’ll get more money on my pension."
Bob said Brian wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. Brian was seventy-five years old but he didn’t look it, he had kept his age well. He told me he had a fiancée and showed me a picture of her on his mobile phone. She looked quite a bit younger than him.
“She’ll look after me in my old age,” he said.
“Look after your money, more like,” I told him. “There’s more chance of me getting hitched to Beyoncé than you getting a fiancé.” It’s a true saying there is no fool like an old fool. Still, it would be a very dull world if we were all the same.
I remember he once asked me to buy him some fish from the fish and chip shop. I brought it back to the bookies for him and after paying me, he asked me to unwrap it for him.
“Oh Brian that’s bad,” I told him. “You are a lazy old boy. Do you want me to put it in your mouth as well? What did your last slave die of?” In fact, he is so lazy now, he won’t even turn the television to another channel because it is too much like hard work for him.
He gave me a horse racing tip once. It was called Tiber Tiger and guess where it came? Yes, you guessed it, plum last.
I said, “Brian, I would have been better off backing Tiger Woods to win the race. I think he would have finished further up the field than that donkey you told me.”
Now my day of mischief in the bookies was over and it was time for me to leave. Little did I know it was to be my last visit. I was now looking forward to tomorrow as I was going fishing to a nice well-stocked lake in Church Fenton.
Three
As I drove along the country road to Church Fenton, a place I had been visiting since I was a teenager, l could not have imagined how my life was about to change from that day on. After arriving early I picked my spot, setting up my fishing tackle in double quick time, hoping to catch some of those large tench that resided in the lake there. I sat and waited patiently, but as so often in the past, they were not biting. They had outwitted me once again. They must have seen me coming, and said, "Here’s John, no thank you."
I was so bored I decided to go for a walk to pass the time and get some exercise. I could see a derelict house in the distance so I thought I would aim for that and then make my way back in the hope the fish would be biting by the time I returned.
Reaching the house, it was a lot bigger than I had imagined. As I stood in front of the imposing structure I wondered who had lived there in the past and what stories the house would tell if it could speak. There was no longer a door, so out of curiosity I walked into the hallway, very narrow and dingy. Then I entered the main living room. Oh, what a sight! I could tell it had not been lived in for a very long time. I had seen worse before, but not since I was a teenager. The carpet was so worn, it was as bald as Walt’s head. T
he walls were bare, neither papered nor painted. Somebody had written ROB in big letters on one of the walls. Something drew my gaze to the floor and when I looked down I could see dozens of woodlice running around my feet. Instinctively I started stamping on them to thin their numbers out. The horrible things sent a shiver down my spine and then in all the mayhem, the floor gave way and I went crashing down into the cellar. It seemed as though the whole world was suddenly caving in on me. I couldn’t see a thing for all the dust and to make matters worse, it was getting down my throat.
As the dust settled, I could see just how lucky I had been, for I had landed on an old sofa which had broken my fall. So apart from my wounded pride because the woodlice had got the better of me, I was alright. When I regained my composure my first thought was to get out of the cellar so I made my way up the steps. The entrance had been sealed up with plasterboard so I had to give it a few robust kicks before it gave way.
Now back on the ground floor, I was just about to make my way out of the building after my lucky escape and then I paused. My curiosity was aroused once more and I decided to go back down into the cellar to see if I could find anything of value.
I had a good rummage around down there, but to no avail and I was just about to call it a day and throw the towel in when I
Somebody told me that when Bob took his newborn baby out for a walk he used to leave the pushchair outside the bookies while he put his bets on. He was walking the baby in the pram once with his wife and somebody said to his wife, “Oh, that’s a nice baby; he’s got your husband’s nose.”
“Yes,” she replied, “but he’s got his father’s eyes.”
When the little boy, Bob junior, was a little older, the school teacher told the children to draw a picture of their fathers at work. Bob junior drew a picture of his dad in the bookies with him sitting outside, waiting for his dad to come out. He certainly did not get the gambling habit from his parents. His mother was a lab technician. She met Alexander Fleming, the man who discovered penicillin, in 1928. His father was a skilled aircraft worker who, during World War Two, worked on the Halifax Bomber production line.
The guy responsible was Woody, who Bob met in 1966 when he got his first job at a tailoring factory called Benjamin Simon. In their dinner hour, Woody took Bob to the bookies and that was how it all started. Oh yes, Woody has a lot to answer for. I reckoned he could have spent over ninety thousand pounds on gambling… well, you add it up. Say forty pounds a week for a year – that was about two thousand pounds a year. Multiply that by nearly fifty years and that was how I got my total. On pressing him, he did admit to about thirty thousand pounds in that time.
“Surely I couldn’t have spent that much on gambling,” he protested.
When he lived in Watford he could have bought his flat under the Right to Buy scheme for twenty thousand pounds. He thought it would now be worth a hundred and fifty thousand pounds plus; now that would have been a better investment than the bookies.
He lived in a nice area of Leeds called Oakwood, in privately rented accommodation. He once he said to me that if he had a portfolio of properties he would have nice young ladies as tenants. When it came to collecting the rent, if one of them said, ‘Oh I’m sorry, Bob, I can’t afford to pay the rent this month, Bob would say, ’Well, love, the rent will have to be paid for one way or another.’ You can guess what he meant, the dirty old sod.
Bob told me once he went on a cruise to Norway. It was so expensive, he ran out of money and had to go to the British Embassy to borrow some to tide him over. Well, how embarrassing was that! Talking about embarrassing moments, I was in Leeds city centre with him once. He asked me to go into the bank with him and change a one Euro coin he had into English money. After we’d stood in line for over ten minutes, the bank teller said, “I am sorry, sir, we only change notes back into English currency.” Oh dear, oh dear.
Another time, he went on a coach trip to North America and was staying overnight in a Canadian hotel. He decided to go for a long walk to take in the breathtaking scenery of the Rockies and surrounding countryside.
On his way back to the hotel, a car pulled up and the occupant said, “Hop in; I will give you a lift back to the hotel.”
“No thanks,” Bob replied. “I’m just stretching my legs and taking in the scenery.”
“Oh no,” the guy said, “there have been some attacks by bears on the tourists recently. You’d better get in.”
At that very moment, a ferocious growl emanated from the direction of the nearby forest. Bob needed no further encouragement – that was the quickest he had ever jumped into a motor vehicle. He firmly locked the door behind him, not wishing to end up as a meal for a grizzly bear. Mind you, he was only a small bloke and would only have made a small snack. After that, he stayed firmly in the hotel grounds until it was time to move on to his next destination.
At one time, he was a delivery driver in London. He had only just started working for a new firm so he was unfamiliar with the routes. He was very late on a delivery to the Hard Rock Café, so the manager told him off. Now, all Bob had to do was say he was sorry, he was new to the firm, there was heavy traffic and it wouldn’t happen again. But not Bob, I’m afraid. Contrition was not in his vocabulary. He started swearing at the manager and told him where to get off in no uncertain terms. On his arrival back at the depot, the boss was waiting for him.
“Sorry, Bob,” he said, “but you’re fired. We’ve had a complaint from the manager of the Hard Rock Café. Here’s your money; you know the way out.”
That’s the way it was with Bob. He said to me, “I could do with another hundred pounds a week coming in.”
“If you kept out of the bookies,” I told him, “and the Whitelocks pub at £3.60 a pint, you would be a hundred pounds better off.”
“I think you’ve got a point there, Johnny boy,” he replied.
The guy sitting on the other side of me in the bookies was Brian, who I called the Billy Dainty look-alike. What a nice full head of white hair he had. He took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his trouser legs and showed me his bad feet and legs.
I said, "Oh, Brian, you want to get to the Doctor’s with those feet. You don’t want to have them amputated, do you?"
"I’m not bothered if they take them off,” he said. “I’ll get more money on my pension."
Bob said Brian wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. Brian was seventy-five years old but he didn’t look it, he had kept his age well. He told me he had a fiancée and showed me a picture of her on his mobile phone. She looked quite a bit younger than him.
“She’ll look after me in my old age,” he said.
“Look after your money, more like,” I told him. “There’s more chance of me getting hitched to Beyoncé than you getting a fiancé.” It’s a true saying there is no fool like an old fool. Still, it would be a very dull world if we were all the same.
I remember he once asked me to buy him some fish from the fish and chip shop. I brought it back to the bookies for him and after paying me, he asked me to unwrap it for him.
“Oh Brian that’s bad,” I told him. “You are a lazy old boy. Do you want me to put it in your mouth as well? What did your last slave die of?” In fact, he is so lazy now, he won’t even turn the television to another channel because it is too much like hard work for him.
He gave me a horse racing tip once. It was called Tiber Tiger and guess where it came? Yes, you guessed it, plum last.
I said, “Brian, I would have been better off backing Tiger Woods to win the race. I think he would have finished further up the field than that donkey you told me.”
Now my day of mischief in the bookies was over and it was time for me to leave. Little did I know it was to be my last visit. I was now looking forward to tomorrow as I was going fishing to a nice well-stocked lake in Church Fenton.
Three
As I drove along the country road to Church Fenton, a place I had been visiting since I was a teenager, l could not have imagined how my life was about to change from that day on. After arriving early I picked my spot, setting up my fishing tackle in double quick time, hoping to catch some of those large tench that resided in the lake there. I sat and waited patiently, but as so often in the past, they were not biting. They had outwitted me once again. They must have seen me coming, and said, "Here’s John, no thank you."
I was so bored I decided to go for a walk to pass the time and get some exercise. I could see a derelict house in the distance so I thought I would aim for that and then make my way back in the hope the fish would be biting by the time I returned.
Reaching the house, it was a lot bigger than I had imagined. As I stood in front of the imposing structure I wondered who had lived there in the past and what stories the house would tell if it could speak. There was no longer a door, so out of curiosity I walked into the hallway, very narrow and dingy. Then I entered the main living room. Oh, what a sight! I could tell it had not been lived in for a very long time. I had seen worse before, but not since I was a teenager. The carpet was so worn, it was as bald as Walt’s head. T
he walls were bare, neither papered nor painted. Somebody had written ROB in big letters on one of the walls. Something drew my gaze to the floor and when I looked down I could see dozens of woodlice running around my feet. Instinctively I started stamping on them to thin their numbers out. The horrible things sent a shiver down my spine and then in all the mayhem, the floor gave way and I went crashing down into the cellar. It seemed as though the whole world was suddenly caving in on me. I couldn’t see a thing for all the dust and to make matters worse, it was getting down my throat.
As the dust settled, I could see just how lucky I had been, for I had landed on an old sofa which had broken my fall. So apart from my wounded pride because the woodlice had got the better of me, I was alright. When I regained my composure my first thought was to get out of the cellar so I made my way up the steps. The entrance had been sealed up with plasterboard so I had to give it a few robust kicks before it gave way.
Now back on the ground floor, I was just about to make my way out of the building after my lucky escape and then I paused. My curiosity was aroused once more and I decided to go back down into the cellar to see if I could find anything of value.
I had a good rummage around down there, but to no avail and I was just about to call it a day and throw the towel in when I
