Beers on Heads

So thats it. I'm 27 years old. There were no fireworks, no sudden enlightenment. Only an impending sense of doom. 

I got some very nice presents (the Thundercats DVD still hasn't materialized though), someone also baked a cake for me at work which was pretty cool (added to the chocolate that was sent to me in the post I am feeling pretty sick).

Tomorrow I go out to celebrate at the Opera bar (next to the Opera House unsurprisingly), pictured here on my last venture:

Not a bad venue to be spending your friday night I reckon. Very sophisticated and high class.

I have to say though that its on days like this that I miss gods country the most, I miss family, I miss friends, and Lucy obviously. I even created my first podcast with loads of Yorkshire artists on the other day, but still can't figure out how to upload it.

But most of all, on this day, on my birthday...

... what I wouldn't give for a good old game of cups in the Nook!

I've been trying to get these Aussies to play cups and do beers on heads in 'Rock Star fashion. But its not the same.

They're all off to Porto this year on holiday. I am very jealous. I will just have to go to Western Australia and New Zealand to  outdo them But in honour of them, I made this short video of our time in Valencia at the same time last year.

UPDATE: The neighbours brought more cake and a chocolate bar around. I think I may puke.

Anyone Need a Lawyer?

My friend The Lawyer last Saturday in the Nook.

Operation Messiah

I haven't been doing a lot of blogging in the last couple of weeks, and there is a good reason - I am currently on holiday from my Sydney residence in the rainy, snowing and cold UK! 

I didn't tell either of my parents and surprised them 10 or so days ago, but couldn't blow my cover until just now as we had a surprise birthday for The City Worker over the weekend. Boy was it hard to plan the operation! I was thwarted at every turn by moder multimedia communication devices. I had to delete facebook wall posts, blogger comments, engage the help of several people in my deception and even get The City Workers girlfriend to hack into his email and delete tell tale messages accidentally sent through to him. Lord knows how the guy is supposed to have an affair when his girlfriend hacks his emails!

It all went well in the end and my mother was suitably surprised:

My Dad wasn't too bothered:

The City worker was hardest of all to decieve as my sources tell me he had a small paddy at the thought that no-one would come to his birthday (we told him all the other guys weren't coming too). But we had a fantastic time in The Infamous Nook. 

Under the Bridge

Retrospective Monday is here again, (I may have to change this to a fortnightly event or I will run out of stories).

This is one that my friend The Artist told me:

You may remember me talking about my local pub 'the Nook', a haven for alcoholics and underage drinkers (perhaps future alcoholics) alike? Well, along with some of my other friends, The Artist used to work in the Nook on quite a regular basis (when he remembered to turn up to work). He would spend the evening earning his wages, then as far as I could tell - blow them all on after work lock-in drinking.

One particular evening (probably sometime around 2005), The Artist was feeling pretty down, having faced some serious girlfriend problems since moving back from his university town. He was drinking heavily with a whole group of employees and a couple of regulars, descending into more and more of a drunken state. 'Going Darkside' is a very apt phrase one of my friends would use, referring to that kind of drinking that turns your mood more and more dark and destructive .

Now Holmfirth, the town in which I grew up is built on top of a couple of rivers, one of which is the river Ribble. The river Ribble runs through town, past the Nook and directly under all of the banks and shops and the high-street. It probably passes underground for a grand total of around 70 metres and reaches a depth at that point of around 1 ft.

The Artist, in his self destructive state announced to his workmates that he was going to walk under the town, and made off to clamber down the 8 ft wall into the river. He spent a lot of time scaring us (his mates) with his drunken antics, to the point where we had become kind of immune. His work mates (who perhaps didn't know him so well) attempted to stop him, but were also a little the worse for wear and didn't put any real effort into it. 

After he disappeared into the black hole, it took them a few moments, to realise that they should go round the other side and make sure he got out alright. When they finally did, they couldn't spot him. Time passed, and they got more and more worried. They thought that in his depressed and drunken state he might have fallen into the water, hit his head and drowned.

After a while, he still didn't appear and anxiety increased. Eventually (not willing to clamber into the hole themselves), The Artists work-mates saw fit to call the police. The sensible thing to do ... but unfortunately this triggered all kinds of crazy chaos. 

The police had officers down in the river searching for him amongst the rocks and in the pools but with no success. Worst of all had had mobilised search helicopters (the kind I used to see chasing down criminals in Leeds - how I miss the place) which scoured the river with roving searchlights for some distance up and down. There was no sign of The Artist. He was no-where to be seen.

The next day The Artist turned up for work with no knowledge of all of the drama of the preceding night at some point in the afternoon (on time for once). He was a little hungover, but had enjoyed a descent lie in after walking through the tunnel and deciding to walk up the hill straight home for some sleep (following his exertions).

"Christ are you OK?" was what he got as soon as he got through the doors.

"We searched for you EVERYWHERE, we had the police helicopters out and everything. We had no idea what happened to you!" Said the Landlady.

"Why didn't you try calling my mobile?" Said the Artist. "It was switched on all night!"

"..."

Ah the Nook

Today is Christmas Eve evening. Its 24 degrees C according to my computer (not so hot for Sydney). I have spent the day bathing in sunshine (and buying a fridge). But I have to say that for all the bikini clad girls and suntans in the world, it doesn't yet feel like Christmas. It might be the lack of freezing cold weather, it might be the absence of 8 hour traffic queues on the M1, or it might be the fact that I haven't bought my Christmas presents yet - but it doesn't quite feel like Christmas.

After some thought today, I have come to realise what it is that my life is missing. What I need to complete that Christmas circle. Its at times like this that I long for that great Holmfirth institution ... the Nook!

For those not in the know, the Nook (aka the Rose and Crown) is a bit of a Yorkshire legend. And here it is for your delectation in all its glory (don't get too overwhelmed, it actually looks a lot grottier than this in real life):

As a baby, I spent many an hour here (apparently) wedged under one of the scarred, battered and beer stained wooden benches, happily sleeping away whilst my parents supped on the glorious (filtered back) real ale. Ah the sweet nectar!

When I was a small child, I vividly remember my first sip of beer (in the Nook, where the pool room now stands). How I hated the vile fiery liquid (if only it had stayed that way - I would be a millionaire!).

During my teenage years, my Dad abandoned the Nook, claiming that it had been lost to undesirable local druggies and underage drinkers, reminiscing about the time that the Nook was the only place around where you would see a workman in his scruffy overalls sitting next to an accountant (or more probably an alcoholic).

At this point in the story alter egos will be assumed to preserve annonymity.

During my underage drinking years, the Nook became a haven. A place where my obligatory friend (lets call him "The Artist", the one that had more facial hair than the rest of us) could get served, whilst the rest of us cowered in the corner for fear of discovery. There is even a facebook group dedicated to those who had their first ever alcoholic beverage in the smoke filled air of that great building.

Eventually, as we came of age another of my good friends (lets call him "The Nurse" (followed years later by "The Artist") got a job there and spent 3 years observing the fruit machines (reading the fruit machine manuals) and emptying them of their wares at the end of the night, and we spent 3 years trying to empty the bar for free. Those were the good years!

Now the Nook is much as it was. The management has cleaned up the clientele significantly, though you can still find some of the underage drinkers chancing their luck. Over the bar hangs a cast iron rotating spirits dispenser that my Dad made for the place when he used to own a blacksmiths shop back in the 80s and that "The Nurse" used to complain about regularly for releasing Captain Morgans all over his head (I believe there is still a poker by one of the open fires made by him too). It still smell of stale beer and Seabrooks Crisps.

If you go there when its not busy, there is always a dog or two to pet, and a pickled onion or bag of pork scratchings  behind the bar for sampling (as well a some good real ale).

We tend not to frequent the place much nowadays as the gang and I are scattered across the globe, except at those times when we are all back in the 'firth, such as Christmas Eve. Hence the nostalgia.

Around about this time on Christmas Eve, we would be gathering (The Nurse, The Artist, The Rock Star, the Sergeant Major, The City Worker and I) - the only time that I can walk into a pub and expect a drink on the table waiting (assuming I am not first) for me. We would spend some time discussing how events over the last year had transpired. The conversation would go a little like this: 

"Alright mate?"

"Yeah, I got you a pint of Kronenburg"

"Cheers [drinks] ... its Carlsberg isn't it?"

"Yeah ... its cheaper"

This has always perplexed my other half who always asks me about how my friends are getting on, and about their relationships. I always answer - I have no idea about their relationships. I still don't understand why she would expect us to discuss all of that boring rubbish, when we still haven't concluded the argument on whether 50 midgets would beat a lion in a fight?

We would then proceed to spend most of the night avoiding people we went to school with. Either those who had never left the town, telling you how there was no point in leaving Holmfirth as there is nothing out there (always reminds me of the Arctic Monkeys song "Vampires", or some boring idiot telling you about successful they are as a London Banker and how you could never possible earn as much as they do (why do these guys think that you care?). 

Then we would get slowly drunk, do the beer salute (demonstrated kindly by the Rock Star - below) a few times, and stumble home, swearing at the local Indian Takeway which astonishingly isn't open at 3am on Christmas day (which we alway forget from the previous year).

Unfortunately tonight, I will have to make do with Coopers Pale Ale, Bundaberg Rum and coke, and watching the sunset whilst the boats manouvre around Sydney harbour with the lovely Lucy.... I guess its not so bad.

 

P.s. I did have a picture of all of the Rock Star, the Nurse, and the One That Got Away all pulling moonies in the Nook doorway, but I thought it a bit blue for publication.