Travel
Tell Them That Today And They Won’t Believe You…
Mar 13th
259 miles, all on my own...
Moral Panic
I’ve always wanted to do a blog post with that title. I have done many of which that is the underlying theme but I’ve never been so bold as to bitch slap you in the face with it. Until now. Oh dear, I sound mad now don’t I? I don’t mean to. I am just a little excited. My new forum is filling with users far faster than I could have ever hoped for and they are even posting stuff and reading other stuff and oh…it’s just so exiting.
As you may have guessed, this is one of those posts where I just start typing and then stop when I’m finished. I didn’t quietly talk into Evernote on my phone and mumble a suggestion to myself, neither did I scribble myself a post-it. In truth, I stole the idea from someone’s post on my forum. So what am I going to share with you this week? Well, the original post came into being following a story of 2011 moral panic. A parent was relating the dangers of allowing her 11 year old child to cross the road and go to a nearby shop and a torrent of phone-in loonies called in to offer their support and nod in that way readers of tabloids do every time the word “immigrant” is mentioned in their favourite rag. They bellowed and shrieked their hideous bile for the benefit of those who didn’t realise there was a hooded pervert hiding behind every tree or post box.
On hearing this outburst, my fellow forum members and I, as one, made the same sound. Unfortunately, it’s very difficult to portray this sound precisely in print, but I’ll have a go.
“nuhhh?”
Not even close but it’ll have to do.
Along with a few hundred others, I went to a boarding school. The point of a boarding school is that you eat, sleep and play there as well as theoretically study your pants off. You only go home during school holidays. Now, because it was a military boarding school and one of your parents was most likely in the army, there was a good chance that your familial home was a fair distance away. For my first year at the school (September 1979 – July 1980), my family lived in Cyprus. They then moved back to England and over the next 6 years, lived in 4 different places; the closest of which was Beaconsfield in Buckinghamshire. The furthest was Plymouth in Devon. The school was in Dover in Kent and at the start of school holidays, you are probably imagining we all joined hands and walked down to the railway station, several teachers at the head of the crocodile and several at the back. Once there, they saw us on to the train and waved us a cheery goodbye from the platform.
Not even close.
School Civilian Dress
Me in School Civilian Dress circa 1980.
The following is absolutely true and it probably still is true of a great many young ladies and gentlemen. The only difference between me in 1979 and the young pupils of today is that everytime I left the school gates, I had to wear “civilian dress”. Don’t let the name fool you.
Look at the photo on the left. That is me in 1980 and that is “civilian dress” I am wearing. It differed from normal, everyday school dress in that you wore a white shirt instead of grey or blue and the blazer had shiny metal buttons instead of black plastic ones. In those days of violent skinheaded thugoids, we might as well have had a target painted on our backs and a big red light on our heads. These days (actually from about half way through my time at school), this requirement to dress like Lord Snooty was sensibly abandoned.
Quite severe restrictions still existed on what we could actually wear though. It was the early 80′s but words like “sandals”, “flannel trousers” and “cravats” still appeared in the dress code. The wise (not to say brave) Dukie either pushed these restrictions to the limit or in many cases, completely ignored them but for many, they had to do. In any case, our rather severe haircuts and generally smart attire was not the greatest of camouflage to the unemployed and agressive youth of Dover and Folkestone. I seem to remember the term “smart” being bandied about but not even my greatest fan could use that term to describe my appearance in the photo on the left. Despite being issued only a year earlier, the blazer is already two sizes too small. A smart mess but a mess nonetheless.
End Of Term
End of term was here. Our suitcases packed and ready. The lucky ones had parents who lived near enough or who had enough time of work to collect them by car. This was more than convenient, it was a godsend. The hapless Dukie’s parent would even carry their cumbersome suitcase from bedside locker to the waiting family car and all was well. With a cough of lead-filled exhaust, they were off. Their holiday had already started.
Not for me though and not for a great many others. For us, the day had scarcely begun.
The trips back to Cyprus (and back to England after) are stories in themselves. I was “escorted” for both of them but only by boys a few years older than myself. Maybe I’ll bang on about those some other time. In the meantime, here is generally what happened at other times, when my travels were combined to the shores of England.
Most, if not all “ends of term” were on a Friday. In your first 3 years at the school, this meant finishing lessons at 4pm and making your own way to Dover. Sometimes, a minibus would be provided but usually we got the bus. Sometimes we even walked. Train tickets were handed out the night before (paid for by the taxpayer I am almost ashamed to admit) and parents usually sent a tenner (for expenses). Don’t feel pity though, a tenner in 1979 is equivalent to about £40 now.
DYRMS CCF
From the 4th form onwards, Friday afternoons meant CCF. CCF, or Combined Cadet Force was when we played soldiers for an afternoon. It could go one of two ways. Either you were really lucky and spent it in a classroom “learning” or watching a film made in 1965, instructing you on the best method to extinguish a burning jet aircraft with a bucket of sand (true, believe it or not) or you could be pushed to the limits of exhaustion running through the mud on Dover cliffs. Whichever side of the fence you fell on, you either finished at 4pm with plenty of time or you finished at 4pm, barely a breath left in you and covered in 3 different sorts of cow shit.
So there we were. If we were under the age of 14, we’d be there in on the platform of Dover Priory station in our smart, thug-baiting,shiny-buttoned blazer and slacks and if were older, we’d be there in very, very smart casual dress trying to stand a little way away from the kids in shiny blazers.
It was by now, gone 5pm and in the Winter term, almost certainly dark and cold. At this point, some of us had several hundred miles to travel and nearly all of us had still to cross London.
Impressed yet?
For reasons that escape me, we had not even safety in numbers. Yes, there were 450 of us at the school but I never remember there being more than a hundred or so on the platform. By the time we boarded the train and spread out, the sparsity of Dukies was even more pronounced. Before the train had even left, the braver, not to say, more stupid Dukies changed out of their shiny blazers and donned their own casual dress in the toilet. This was a little soon as there were a lot of older Dukies on the train who would almost certainly give you a good kicking if they caught you. Still, they obviously wanted to show off their new trainers or “pull a bird” or something. I didn’t try this tactic until well into my 3rd form when I was travelling alone, mid term to meet my parents in London on the occasion of my dad being awarded his Military Cross after the Falklands War in 1982. Despite it being a Sunday and the middle of a term, I still managed to find myself sitting half a carriage away from a teacher. Luckily he wasn’t a bad sort and he never let on.
The journey to London from Dover took about an hour and a half. It seemed like twice that on the way home and half that on the way back to school, seemingly proving the “watched kettle never boils” principle. On arriving at Waterloo East, we stepped down from the train and a hundred Dukies vanished into the crowds. All of a sudden you were a lone 12 year old, dressed like someone with money and carrying a heavy suitcase. It was about 6pm.
Next came the trip across London.
If you were lucky, you lived in area served by Waterloo Main station and you just walked through a subway. If you were unlucky, you had to travel to one of the other Main London stations – Charing Cross, Paddington or Marylebone. Now, here’s one admission that does me no credit 30 years after the event. The tenner posted to you “for expenses” by a worried parent was intended for a taxi across London. This taxi would cost you about £5. The Underground would cost you about 40p and leave you enough to a buy something of which your parents wouldn’t approve at a nearby shop. So, we went on The Underground. It was hot, tiring, scary and stupid but we all did it. I still have two cassettes that I bought at railway stations in London with money that my parents intended for a taxi fare. I still haven’t owned up.
The Long Corridors..
On our own, we dragged our cases down endless tiled corridors and down ancient escalators into the bowels of London. People stared at us and some talked to us. I am sure they weren’t all filled with good intentions but I managed every trip across the metropolis unscathed. It wasn’t that we were brave, it was just that we had to get home and that was the way it was done. I remember being shouted at by buskers because they assumed we were loaded. Once, a member of the underground staff called me “Lord Snotty” just because I asked him a question. The London Underground is not a place for outsiders. It isn’t now and it wasn’t 30 years ago. To those who use it every day, its a smelly annoyance but they glide through it on autopilot. To those who use it two or three times a year, it is the 8th level of Dante’s hell. Everyone knows where they are going and it’s the exact opposite way to you. They know exactly what ticket to get and how much it is or they have an Oyster card and they just wave that at every machine in confident annoyance. This is so common these days, that staff are often completely unused to selling tickets or answering questions.
Despite the odds though, I made my way across London safely on every occasion. Each time, I emerged into the cold, dark London air onto the platform of the mainline station. A quick glance up at the display board would reveal the details of my onward bound train. If I was lucky, I had a little time to spare. If I was unlucky, I had no time to spare and I had to run. If was really, really unlucky, I had over an hour to spare. They don’t like you to sit on railway stations unless you are buying food or eating food you just bought. I have no idea why this is. You can wander round the few shops, buy a newspaper, buy a coffee and then wonder what the hell to do for the remaining 40 minutes. The answer is usually “sit on your case and try not to look muggable”.
Eventually, they let you on the train. It being a Friday evening, the train is not empty and on nearly every trip onwards from London, I sat on my case by the doors. Sometimes I stayed sitting there for up to 3 hours, not getting a seat until I was almost home. As Jimmy Saville was fond of telling us at the time, it was truly “the age of the train”.
Once the train arrived at my home station, I jumped in a taxi and desperately tried to stay awake for the short trip home. A knock on the door, a kiss from a parent and my school holidays had begun. I had been up since 6.30am, it was now after 9pm and I had travelled over 200 miles. Mostly on my own.
The details of such trips changed each time. The names of the stations changed, the length of the journey changed and sometimes, my mode of transport even changed. For a few trips, I travelled on National Express Busses. However, the crossing London portion of the trip was pretty constant. I was actually pretty lucky on my trips home as I know many of my contemporaries had a far rougher time of it, sometimes by their own hand. The trip home was always coloured by the fact that you were going home and it would have taken a lot to dampen the mood. The reverse trip back after the holidays was a different matter. For me, the key to a perfect trip back to school was to save as much money as possible. At the time I was given £10 for a trip back, I was making a house account of £70 last me 13 weeks. The more I saved by avoiding taxis, the more money I had left to spend on those first few weeks of term.
Some Things That Happened To Me Travelling Home From School
I was 14 or 15 and waiting on Marylebone station for a train. I was stood next to Burger King, minding my own business and trying really hard to look confident and at ease with the world. A tall (I am 5 feet 4 inches in height, so most people look tall) girl came up to me and asked if I had 10p. It was an odd amount to ask for, especially as this was 1984 and not the mid 40′s but as with most people, embarrassment overrides good sense and I plunged my hand into a pocket full of change and gave it to her. Unfortunately, I realised that the young lady was in fact a bit of what we used to call “a tramp”. Her blackened teeth and wild hair was only now apparent. She smelled like you wouldn’t believe and now that my foolish hand had noisily revealed the heavy contents of my pocket, she moved in for the kill.
“You got some more for me?”
“No”
“I’ll make you happy for some.”
Oh god. Suddenly, I had no idea what to do. The sudden realisation that I was about as street-wise as Catweazle was no help at all. As she slid towards me (I now realised she was also a bit pissed), the back door of the Burger King opened and an old Jamaican guy came out with a bag of rubbish. This freaked out the cackling hag and she walked away and I fled in the opposite direction, 10p poorer and a bit wiser.
On another occasion, I got lost looking for Victoria bus station. My money-saving self was walking in circles. I wandered around for over an hour and got to the bus station with 4 minutes to spare. I had been chased by a mad old women who was shouting “Nazi! Nazi! at me” and two dogs who actually crossed the road to attack me. On a separate trip (back to school), I was determined to go to the Virgin Megastore. I am not even sure where it was. I certainly didn’t know then and wandered around the populace for almost two hours. When I got there, I spent £2.99 on a Paul Young cassette that I saw in Woolworths, in Dover a week later for £2.49. Idiot.
Once, when I was still very young, a bloke stole my suitcase and I only got it back because he dropped it after a Policeman saw him. The copper then told me off for not taking better care of my things. He took my name and promised to telephone my parents and give them hell for allowing me to travel on my own. If he ever rang them, they never said anything.
The Up Side
Sometimes, if you had company, it was wonderful. To be honest, I had company a lot of the time and you got to talk to people you saw every day at school but never got around to knowing. In those, pre-iPod days (actually pre Walkman for the first few trips), talking was important on a long train ride. Reading was out for me as looking down during any form of motion (fnarr fnarr) still gives me an immediate migraine. A few times, I even spoke with other passengers.
On the occasions I travelled home with friends, the journey flew by. My favourite trip was with Sean Veasey, Simon Mansfield & Steve Blood. They were heading for Bicester in Oxfordshire but I was getting off about an hour early at Beaconsfield. Steve had his big radio cassette player on the seat next to him and the trip took almost the same time as it took for Heaven 17′s “The Luxury Gap” to play. A powercut meant that the carriage was dark the whole way. It wasn’t particularly loud and no-one seemed to mind. A few commented on “the new piped music” but I don’t think we were too much of a pain.
I could end with “how times have changed” but I don’t think similar trips would be any more dangerous today. That’s not to say they were totally safe when we did them, more that you just have to get on with life and not worry about everyone and everything.
Those who know me could say “well, you don’t have kids” but I am not listening. La la la la la…
Popularity: 68% [?]
Old Boys Weekend – Part Two: Saturday & Sunday
Dec 4th
Good, If Blurry Friends
Preamble
Good evening. As an unusually festive and icy wind blows around the turrets of Argue Towers, the blush of shame reddens my cheek as I realise it’s been ages since I last filled your monitor with legibly arranged letters. No excuse this time. I suppose I just ran out of weekend last week and although I often intend to knock out a few hundred words in the morning before work, I seldom succeed. So, a week late is the remainder of my Rememberance Weekend Reminiscences.
Saturday
When we last left young Neil and his chums, he was drifting off to sleep (or at least trying to) whilst the European Trade Deficit drove past below his window. He was mildly pissed, a little cold and much uncomfortable on something that was once sold as a bed….
They say it’s perfectly normal to start the day with a horn but the cacaphonic violence that reached up to room 405 at 5.15am would have woken the dead, dressed it, shown it a good time and sent it home to a surprised and terrified family. A few seconds later, I was completely awake and again surprised that I ever fell asleep in the first place. Had I not known better, you could have easily convinced me that I had fallen asleep on the pavement outside.
I will now stop mentioning the noise of the traffic.
I dozed, rolled about, gave up and an hour later, I strode into the cold fright of the bathroom. Like most hotels, the complicated genius that most of us refer to as a plug has been replaced by a metal plunger arrangement that baffles understanding, particularly after a restless night. The walls are covered in notices asking you to save the environment by “putting your towels in the bath” and “tuck the shower curtain in the bath”.
To be on the safe side, I just put everything in the bath.
Shaved, showered, medicated and dressed, I joined Sean in the dining room for our full English breakfast. “Choose from the following items” it said on the menu. We chose all of the items and were presented with all 5 items. One of each. It was possibly the most unimpressive breakfast I had ever encountered. I was sad, Sean was sad and even the food itself looked pretty ashamed. “£9.95 to non-residents” it said boldly on the front of the menu. Really? Has that idea ever been tried out?
Perhaps I am being mean. The staff at The County are effortlessly nice and the place clings to the seafront with an uncertain future. Will it have to close next year? The year after? For a while it looked like it would close 3 years ago when the modernisation of the seafront first looked like becoming reality. It’s still there though and for one weekend a year it is still full. Will I stay there next year? A definate “maybe not”.
So not a brilliant night and not a brilliant breakfast.
Oh for god’s sake Neil, cheer up.
I am happy. Honestly, I am happy. I have travelled 248 miles and spent a few hundred quid. I must be happy.
So what else happens on the Saturday of Old Boys Weekend?
Well first, thing Sean and I went for a walk in Dover. I can’t remember why. We definately had a reason but as I have again waited too long to recount the weekend, I have forgotten. A belt, that’s it. Sean wanted a belt and I wanted another poppy.
Yes! The poppy. Every year, next to the town hall. Some very nice old soldiers sell poppies and will hammer a little balsa wood cross into the grass, clustered with other crosses and arranged in regiments. I have never seen this take place in other cities but then again, I don’t travel much. It is strangely moving and I have always taken the time to thank them for the effort they make.
The pitches from the comparative warmth of the clubhouse.
At 12.30 we all head for Dover RFC to watch some rugby games. Dover RFC put up two teams (an under 30 XV and an over 30 XV) and DYRMS Old Boys put up two teams to play them. It’s all great fun and Dover RFC put a tremendous effort into looking after us. I hate to bring up the cold again but it’s hard to relate the events of this game without it becoming neccessary. It’s nobody’s fault, it’s just bloody, bloody cold. There is a great big bar and all I want is some bovril and a balaclava. The England international had an unfortunate effect on the numbers attending, even to the extent that some turned up, saw it wasn’t on in the clubhouse and headed back to Dover to find somewhere showing it. Poor show boys!
Not for the first time was I assaulted by greetings from groups of people I couldn’t remember. I always feel terrible when this happens, after all, I am the self-appointed flag bearer for my year (Class of 86) and about 5 years either way, so I should be a little more prepared and able to put names to faces. Sadly, I rarely succeed and none of the generally accepted tactics for remembering names works all that often. This year, the Class of 90 did well, particularly the crowd that Sean and I still refer to as “our lot”, namely the guys who were in Wolseley 3rd form in our final year and those who also had the dubious pleasure of our company at mealtimes. I could be wrong but I think all but 3 made it. Well done chaps.
I am not the biggest rugby fan in the world and have no idea of the final result of either match. Sean and I stayed until about 5pm and made our quiet way back to the hotel. After an abortive visit to the busiest KFC on the planet, we blessed Dover’s finest chippery with our custom and smuggled steaming packages past reception and into our rooms. As many have since pointed out, it’s not against the rules to eat fish and chips in your room and I can only conclude that a visit years ago to a Dover B&B must have instilled that idea in our heads. A feeling of wrong-doing and danger does improve the appetite however.
The Flotilla - 7.30pm
We headed over to The Flotilla at about 7.30, only to find it a little quiet. This fact probably won’t surprise anyone born after 1980 and who is now use to meeting up just after 10pm for drinkies but it struck us a little odd. There we stood, freezing cold ale in our hands and unfashionable middle-aged denim on our hips, wondering when the hell £1 for a go on a slot machine became the norm. They didn’t even have the decency to dim the lights, highlighting our shame to any young family wandering past the window on the way home from M&S.
Luckily for us and shortly before I was forced to order a cheese ploughmans and ask for a quiet table for two, others dribbled in. The place soon filled up and the next 5 hours or so were filled with drinking, laughing, Kareoke of astonishingly variable quality and generally good times. I think I caved in at around midnight whilst others lasted a little longer. For the first time in many visits, I was a bit drunk and managed to fall asleep with the telly on a few hours later.
Sunday
The weather this year was wet and the chances of the parade going ahead were slim from the start. Some years you get lucky and crisp, bright sunlight shines down. This year, it drizzled from the early hours and only stopped briefly at about 9.30am. Poppies in our lapels and umbrella’s over our heads, we wanted it to be dry and at exactly the same time 400 Dukies wanted the exact opposite. I well remember the joy at a parade being cancelled due to rain and I would like them all to know that we all understand. It’s just that we had come such a long way.
Marlborough House, 2010. Temporary and a bit scary...
After being depressed by the sad sight of a burnt-out Marlborough House on the way in, we decided to check out the temporary replacement building on the grass next to Haig House. I am not sure what I was expecting but it wasn’t the white monstrosity that we saw. To be fair, more than one person promised that the inside was great. I can’t confirm this, Marlbrough being a girls boarding house and even the good intentions of a blogger are probably not enough to secure me entry. Even if they were, a camera would probably not be appropriate. Sorry folks. It’s white, a bit like a portacabin and exactly the same shape as the other boarding houses. No, really. What it is like inside, you will just have to imagine.
Best guess wins a school scarf.
The 6th Form Block
Just round the corner and behind Haig House is the new 6th form block. From speaking to folks in the know, I understand that only the lower 6th are in there at the moment, boys on one floor and girls on the other. It all looks a bit Ikea to be honest and have no idea what it means to the school.
Biggest surprise of the weekend was Simon Whitton and Matt Colgate turning up in the Nye Hall. It was great to see them but frustrating as we only had about half an hour with them before we had to start our journey back.
..and so we did. Chris, Sean and I bid farewell to everyone and in no time at all, we were on the A2 and heading back to Sean’s place. I think Chris and I both slept most of the way back to Oxford, waking occasionally to all laugh at something we all remembered. A nice quiet end to it all really.
We stopped briefly at Sean’s for a chicken baguette and a coffee, but were soon back in my car and Devon-bound. The trip back was quieter but still full of conversation and laughs. I know Chris was a little worried at my level of tiredness and as we swerved into the M4 services, I kind of saw what he meant. Still, we were safely home in fairly good time.
So, how to sum it all up. You can’t really read the above without picking up a slightly lower level of enthusiasm on my part this year and you wouldn’t be wrong if you did. It was a bit of let down, despite being full of wonderful moments. Time spent with old friends is never wasted and if it was in a pub 10 miles from where I live, I would be one happy bunny. Perhaps I am at fault for building it all up and expected more than there is? Next year is the 25th anniversary of my leaving the place and I am going to make a concerted effort to get as many back as possible. If it looks like not happening then maybe this year has been my last visit for a while. Sad, but maybe it’s time for a rest.
*My apologies for the poor quality of the photography. I keep forgetting how badly my phone performs in poor light.
Popularity: 24% [?]
Old Boys Weekend – Part One: Friday
Nov 22nd
Room 405, The County Hotel, Dover, Kent
Offline
After a tragically enforced absence of almost a week, I am back, back back! Well, back online anyway. This blog entry would have appeared earlier in the week had I not understood the exact nature of my home’s internal telephone wiring. After an indignant semi-rant directed solely at some poor sod in Bangalore, I was transferred to someone closer to home and after an indignant semi-rant directed at some poor sod with an incredibly strong scottish accent, it slowly dawned on me that I was an idiot. 12 minutes later, my internet was back and almost 4 times faster than it had been for most of the past 8 years. Anyway, here I am.
Old Boys Weekend – Part One: Friday
I won’t bore you with the exact nature and details of my school’s traditions again, except to say that Old Boys Weekend is our annual reunion and is always held on Rememberance Weekend. My school was and still is a military boarding school and there has always been a Sunday parade, very similar to the one held at The Cenotaph in London on the same morning. I go to the one in Dover and the Queen goes to the one in London. It’s an arrangement that has suited us both for many years.
The weekend begins with a longish drive to Bicester in Oxfordshire, where my best school chum Sean lives and from where he then drives us the rest of the way to Dover. It’s a long old day and is what used to be known as “a frig of a long way”. In reality, thanks to wide, largely empty roads it isn’t and Plymouth to Dover could now probably be done in about 6 hours. This is a far cry from when I was a young nipper and being driven back to Dover after the school holidays, 20 years ago. This journey seemed to involve us getting up at dawn and at least 5 stops. There were mixed emotions as we finally neared journey’s end and the school clocktower appeared on the horizon, none of us in any hurry to get to school but all of us wanting to get out of the bloody car.
A Frig Of A Long Way, Plymouth is A, Sean's house B and Dover C
This year’s trip was different as I was not alone. Chris Mapp (Class of 96) lives in Tavistock and only 30 or so miles away from me. As is typical in these situations, we have seen neither hide nor hair of each other since last Old Boys Weekend. He was excellent company and so absorbing was our conversation that I drove slightly more slowly and took almost an extra hour to get to Sean’s. Chris left the school about 10 years after me and so we didn’t actually attend at the same time. Nevertheless, I found events at the school after I left to be as fascinating as those what took place while we were there. We stopped for breakfast at a Costa Coffee on the M4. I’d love to tell you where but I honestly can’t remember. It was an unremarkable, characterless shack, staffed by people who obviously could have done with us not bothering them. So typical is this of such places, it only bothers me now in hindsight. At the time, like most of you, I just put up with it. They talk to each other while serving you, mumble grumpily in you general direction and then expect you to understand the fact that you order in one place and pick your coffee up in another. This is so clearly for their benefit that I wonder why we put up with it. A general tone of “give us your money and bugger off out of the way” seems to pervade the place. Quite why a latte has to cost so much is a discussion that I fear would take up too much or you generously given internet time.
This was also the first year with Sat Nav, a fact that almost made up for my slow driving. Under it’s guidance, we stayed on the M4 longer and looking at the route now, I wonder at the cross-country ramble I engaged in for the past 8 years. It’s a shame really, I shall miss those landmarks, particularly those I repeatedly passed (in both directions) on the same trip in the early years. Sean’s new house was easily found and I experienced something genuinely weird when I got out of the car. It was a strange feeling of Deja Vu. Ridiculous really, as I had never been here before. True, I have driven up the road many a time (Sean didn’t move far) but I hadn’t actually stopped here and looked around. I soon realised that I was experiencing Google Streetview Deja Vu. Yes, it’s true. When Sean gave me his new address, I checked it out and wandered around in Streetview. I recognised the houses opposite and had even wandered around the general area trying to get a good look at Sean’s new place. As I said…..weird.
After a quick visit to the loo, we were soon back on the M4 and on our way to Dover. I am (almost) ashamed to admit that Sean did the driving whilst Chris and I buggered about on Facebook. I could disguise that fact with flowery verbage but we spent two hours behaving like teenagers on a school trip. If you have the time, check out our Facebook newsfeeds for 12th November and all is there to see. During the few brief periods when I couldn’t think of anything funny to write on there, I watched my GPS trace fly along the map on my phone. Don’t think bad of me, I am not a good passenger. I was amused beyond the level appropriate to one of my somber age by the names of roads in the middle of nowhere. As I watched the little blue arrow on the phone fly down the M4, roads would scroll into view with the most individual names (I wish I could remember them now) despite the fact that this small, empty road stretched to the horizon in both directions.
At around 5ish, we hit Dover. It’s hard to be honest about Dover in 2010 without seeming harsh. I’ll try but I probably won’t succeed. In it’s defence, almost 3 solid days of pouring rain added a tinge of Bladerunner to the whole mood. We have stayed at The County Hotel for the last 5 or 6 years, opting for a cut-price rate for bed and breakfast, a bar open for guests into the early hours and general feeling of familiarity. Whether we stay there again is difficult to say. As you can see from the photo at the start of this blog, the rooms aren’t bad. The noise, however, is terrible. Every year, I walk into the room and think the same thing. “The bloody maid has left to balcony door open again” and every year i open the curtains to find she hasn’t.
Traffic Outside The Hotel. Imagine noise.
The traffic is deafening and thanks to the proximity of the port, is almost 24 hour long. I tried to record it on my phone but the mic was overwhelmed.
I actually recorded 4 audio diaries over the weekend. There are almost 50 minutes of me droning into a tiny microphone, sounding like Leonard Cohen after some particularly distressing news. I had a mad idea of making them available as mp3 files on line but I fear I come across as a little grumpy and a lot introspective. Entertaining it isn’t and listening back to it an hour ago, I realised that taking out all the “ums” and “ahhhs” would reduce it in length to about 12 minutes. I’ll see what I can edit down to anyway.
First order of business on arriving at The Hotel is to head into Dover and buy some food and drink. I picked my dark alley and moved as slowly as my cowardly pride would allow but fast enough to make me feel safe. The Bladerunner effect was further enhanced by a huge TV screen in Market Square. Nobody was watching it but everyone had to listen to the deafening blurb hailing the impending Olympics (622 days to go!). Nobody looked and nobody cared but there it was. What it’s like to live in any of the buildings nearby is anyone’s guess. I am sure it get’s switched off at some point but Sunday mornings must be a joy.
I stocked up on a few essentials and a few non-essentials in M&S, bought an evening paper in WH Smith’s and headed back. It was raining harder now and my woolen coat had started to feel heavy. My umbrella stayed dry in the hotel room (see photo at the top) for reasons that now escape me. It was probably something to do with looking cool. Dover still has that effect on me. Somewhere along the route back to The County, poppy no. 8 fell from my lapel and down a rain clogged drain. I was wet, cold and now dishonouring the war dead. Party on.
I returned to the room, unpacked my vittles and set about the sodden coat with the hair dryer. I briefly considered inserting it into the trouser press like a hellish woolen panini but pondered the damage that could be caused by such an ancient device and thought better of it. Still, the hair dryer fun killed an hour.
In a huge departure from normal, Sean and I headed to The Light Of India. Yes, we had a curry on Friday night instead of on Saturday. The solicitous staff welcomed us into their empty restaurant and I was soon tucking into the traditional Meat Thali. I say traditional, but once a year hardly makes me a regular. Sean pointed this out to the waiting/manager when he came over and asked us if we were enjoying our food. “Oh yes”, I said, “I always have this”. He managed to display confusion at not recognising me, happiness at my fondness for his food and disappointment at the truth all in the space of about 30 seconds. Worth the tip alone.
We were just starting to eat when Alex Clowser (Class of 85) sent me a text from his luxuriously appointed room at the Premier Lodge, just along the seafront. 10 minutes later, he jloined us in The Light of India and his coat was scarcely off when he was bullied (there is no other word for it) into also having a Meat Thali. It was interesting sales technique that involved pointing at all the food on my table and implying that injury would be done to his person if he did not have the same. All this was done with tremendous good humour and the sort of fixed smile only found plastered the faces of curry house waiters and managers the world over.
Bloated and, to be honest, ready for bed, I recieved a text from Chris asking where we where. 10 minutes later we were in the basement bar of Blakes of Dover, a place previously unknown to us. Ben Hanson, his girlfriend Katie, Chris and a older, friendly looking bloke were already there and about 4 drinks ahead of us. The older bloke said hello and feigned offence that I had no idea who he was. It was Stuart Dimmock (Class of 80), someone who had popped up on Facebook and whose Facebook photo was actually a poppy. I think I can be forgiven for not recognising him. The fact that he left the year before I started at the school didn’t help either. Still, Dukies we all are and all that…
We never did quite catch up on the drinking front but at about 10 O’clock, one of the older folks in the corner, who we had presumed were just regulars, suddenely held aloft a mobile phone and shouted “who wants to speak to Pete Sampson?”. Pete Sampson, school master of many years and housemaster to me and Sean for 4 years was on the other end of the phone, in a state of alcholic relaxation and only a short distance away in The White Lion pub. As one we headed in his direction and as just me, I headed back to The Hotel. I had reached my limit and after 248 miles and 15 hours awake, it was time to sleep. On reflection, it’s a shame. I assumed I would get to see Pete at the Old Boys V Dover RFC rugby match on Saturday afternoon and it didn’t seem to matter. As it happened, the England rugby match kept him away on Saturday. Considering the kindness he has shown me in recent years, I wish I had gone.
After a drunken and rambling 24 minute audio diary, I showered and climbed into bed. Despite wafer-thin pillows, the unsettling experience of sheets and blankets, deafening traffic and a thumping head, I drifted off to sleep.
Day Two: Saturday…
Soon.
Popularity: 41% [?]
