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Meeting my sister, for the second time (really!)

Regular readers will know about the grindingly awful experience that was meeting my so-called mother after 20+ years. Also at that meeting was my half-sister, 'Jan' who was the one who wrote to me several years beforehand.

After much "humming and haahing", Jan visited us last weekend. She stayed in a local B&B but most of Friday-Sunday was with wifey and me. As you may imagine, it was all a bit odd. The B&B was chosen in case it all went horribly wrong and we had someone we didn't like in our spare room.

Friday morning - I collected Jan at the airport and brought her to my hometown. While avoiding any remaining neighbours who might recognise her as the spitting image of her walkout mother and want to express their views, I showed her round my old neighbourhood. It was her mother's neighbourhood too, before she walked out and left me with my Grandparents. No, I'm not bitter (any more) but unlike my in-denial mother, Jan does understand that I might have reasons to be a little pissed off.

By the end of the day, she was the one showing signs of annoyance as she realised I had gotten a far better deal out of life. OK, the town isn't much (thank you, IRA) but it's improving and like any rural town is within a few minutes walk of the countryside (not so for her, in inner-city England). The traffic's not too bad and crime is not a problem (apart from migrant workers hurting each other!). She noticed lots of churches that were still, well, churches - and not pubs, 
houses and such like. Where she's from, church is a dying habit. We enjoyed the view from the top of the town and walked on to my primary school (similar to hers) and then to my secondary school.

Like most towns it has a couple of grammar schools and the one I went to was fairly typical - old buildings, a sense of history, pitches galore, and around 700 pupils that most of the teachers have a chance to get to know. She wondered how I could have gone to such a place as where she's from it would cost thousands of pounds per year. She wondered more when I told her all I had to do was pass an exam, aged 11, and that such schools are open to anyone who passes the exam, regardless of background. She was anonymous among thousands in a couple of dodgy inner city comps and was held back by the wasters. The ones who failed the exam went to the mega-comps, she wondered - nope - same size of school and teaching at their level and plenty still going to Uni/Tech afterwards. She 'did well' to get several Ds and Es at GCSE, such was the level of expectation. To her credit, she's working hard to make something of herself now.

Lunchtime saw us bump into a guy I was at school with (the second such meeting of the day).  "Hi, this is my half-sister you've not heard of before...." For such reasons I had tried to avoid the old neighbours earlier!

I took her to her grandparents' grave and she seemed interested. I explained a bit about them and - from my perspective - what might have prompted her mother's running away. We took a walk round the town park's lake (with its island full of giant rhubarb - another talking point). Thirsty, we had a cuppa and looked round an exhibit showing off the now collapsed linen industry. Then off to her B&B in my car (the car is only 2 years old - another talking point).

Saturday saw us potter briefly in town and head to Portstewart/Portrush - somewhere her mother told her to check out. Alas, there's not much to do in Portrush on a wet weekend and once we had a pleasant cuppa and walked round Barry's (see below) we were running out of ideas. Behold Nicky (now free of the psycho woman), an actor who loves to entertain! Off to his house we went for more tea and a couple of hours of him ad-libbing. He's single, lives alone and finding tapes of Annie and Dirty Dancing raised (hilarious) questions. I got to know him when he rented my spare 
room, I explained, and unlike two previous lodgers was not removed because of poor hygiene.

That night we ate out. In a lovely restaurant with sea views we got onto a more serious conversation about her mother (who still thinks she did nothing to cause me annoyance) and the rest of her (dysfunctional) family. We also made fun of the loud American golfers sitting a few tables away.

On Sunday morning we went to church (she noticed a good spread of ages), had a lovely walk round a cliff, poked round a seaside exhibit (and she got her photo taken by the local paper!) and had lunch. Then it was off to our house with its garden and plenty of space inside (neither of which she is used to). More tea, wedding DVD, airport, hug at security and off she went.

She arrived a stranger, she left as a friend. She got the family upbringing I lost out on and maybe not much else. I've hit the jackpot on most things since then.

There's lots to think about.

Is your town becoming Belfast

Regular readers may recognise this one.  Don't complain to me - Fiona was asking after it and *shock* Google couldn't find the original posting.

If I was writing it today then I would have to add the new Olympic-size swimming pool to the list of "How do you know if your town is becoming Belfast".  Unfortunately the pool replaced a new motorway junction at short notice...

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Is your town becoming Belfast?

 

Not that long ago, the distinction between towns in Northern Ireland was simple. Anywhere outside of Belfast was 'the country' and viewed with disdain by those in Belfast. Rural 'culchies' (agricultural types) saw Belfast as an over-industrialised hole full of complete tossers with no sense of reality.

Unfortunately the people in Belfast realised what the culchies knew all along. The city itself was mostly ok, but ruined by the people who lived in it. Of course all of the Sammies (as they were then known by the culchies) thought other people were to blame. No Sammy viewed himself as a problem.

To escape the grim reality that was Belfast, some Sammies decided to move out. They went really far - 5 miles up the road to Glengormley, viewed as the edge of the world because the local bus service stopped there. For a few years this was fine - the Sammies lived among ordinary hard-working folk and learnt how to be nice to others. Then the other Sammies realised there was life outside Belfast and followed. The Glengormley people went to Ballyclare, Antrim, etc to get away while Glengormley itself became an extension of Belfast - full of little tossers with no sense of reality, all out to fiddle the dole, con other people and generally put one over on the system that they think is there to help them never do a day's work.

Over time, more nice Sammies moved to places like Lisburn, Portadown and even as far as (London)Derry. Unfortunately it only took a few years for the scummy types to find them and what used to be nice towns have now been taken over and become an extension of the state of mind known as 'Belfast'. Bizzarely, educated types from culchie backgrounds have gone to study at Queen's Uni in Belfast and found it a nice place to live. The simple reason is that due to a mass exodus, most Sammies (these days known as Spides) have deserted their ancestral home. Those Sammies that remain have turned to drug dealing in order to afford somewhere to live, as DHSS benefits cannot keep up with property prices in the City.

So the question is, how do you know if your town is becoming Belfast? Here are some ways to tell.

1) Formerly quiet bars are no longer safe to sit and have a quiet pint. Instead the sensible people have been replaced by loud, brash tossers who pour pint after pint down their throat and challenge anyone near them with "whatdyathinkyerlookinat, like?"

2) Street corners are now populated by spides - uneducated thickos in shell suits whith lots of gold chunky jewellry from Argos or H Samuel, often sharing a bottle of cheap cider / spirits. They do not speak to each other, but communicate with seagull-like noises (like "ay-ay-ay", quickly said) People who walk past are laughed at for dressing normally.

3) You cannot enter a shop without hearing the loud Belfast accent arguing with a shop assistant "Like, the this is too dear, like, the shop down the road, like, does it for half the price, like"

4) In the event of (3), above, you marvel the person in question can recognise the difference between a high number and a low number.

5) Sensible minded people cross the road in fear of Millies. These are female spides, but prone to turning on anyone whose ability to read threatens them.

6) You enter JJB Sports (or B&Q) and ask for a pair of running shoes (or a hammer) and the person stares at you blankly and replies "huh?". This person is not a spide, but has been in school among spides who have refused to be educated and who intimidated those among them who wanted to learn to read and write.

7) You often hear spides referring to former school friends who "like, thought they were, like, too effin good for us, like." This refers to the person in question learning to read, write and think and realising they had to get far, far away for their own good. A common escape route is university in GB.

8) In the event of (7) the person in question, if they have remained local, may drive 'like, a big swanky car, like'. This is the reward for their hard work as a dentist, accountant, etc. It is hated by those who drive a more simple car, paid for by benefit fraud.

9) The people in (8) often refer to "Like them effin farrenners like come here and take our jobs like and get like all the help they can like in getting a house". This is translated as "Those nasty foreigners come here to work hard, pay their taxes and not be a nuisance and show us up for the lazy bunch of dole scroungers with no intention of working that we really are."

and,
10) Like, people all around you, like, speak in this, like whiney accent, like and can't, like, stop saying, like, between words, like.

 

 

A trip to Barry's, Portrush

I first visited Barry's on a family holiday when I was around 3 or 4. Most years after that, till I was around 10 or 11 it was a must-see on a Sunday School excursion. Nowadays, it's a bit of a novelty that adults pretend to shun but really enjoy and only pretend to use the excuse of children to visit it. Maybe it's because for us, it is a trip back to our own carefree childhoods as the place has hardly changed a bit since the Queen was in nappies.

On Saturday past I 'reluctantly' allowed myself to be dragged (plus wife and a selection of nephews, nieces and their parents). For the sake of their anonymity I'll refer to them as Wife, Grandparents, Parents A (plus Nephew 1 and 2) and Parents B (plus Niece 1 and 2). It was the highlight of a family weekend to celebrate the Grandmother reaching 60 and retiring.

We trooped in the door en-masse and (as ever) were shocked at the prices. To prevent staff having to deal with lose change, all rides are priced in 'tokens'. Each token is 50p (Wife and I got a mini-pack of 24 for a tenner! Woohoo – 4 free!). Once the haggling / shock at realising this could become an expensive few hours was over, we followed our traditional route up the left-hand side of the long hall. To our right was the Experience (more on that later), overhead were the mechanised trapeze artists that were ancient when I was a lad, ahead lay.... THE HOBBY HORSES!

The Hobby Horses are a terrifying prospect, for a two-year old (Nephew 2). Nephew 1 was excited at first but after the first lap of gently going up-and-down, he looked bored. By the tenth lap, he looked embarrassed. “Been there, done that,” I thought, casting my mind back to the same spot in 1981 when I concluded that I had out-grown it. Nephew 2 got used to the thrill and squealed with delight. Nephew 1 assured Niece 1 that there was better to come. 2 tokens each (£1).

The better things were out the back door. While Nephew 1 coolly played down his lack of height, the adults squabbled over who would mind the children while the rest went on THE BIG DIPPER. Meanwhile, I wondered if we'd be safe as a less-than-distinguished ex-student of mine was involved in running the thing (he did not end his time at school of his own free will, if you get my drift...). As it happened, he was quite polite and has obviously matured since we parted company. This is not the scariest roller-coaster you'll ever come across: up we go, round the bend, 45 degree drop, back up a bit, round the bend and up a bit more, loop-the-loop, round the bend and stop. Two quid. It's all a bit rickety too – no nice smooth curves here: rather, every joint in your body feels this thing and you know before you get on that it hasn't changed one bit since you were a teenager, but we all go anyway and enjoy it.

After the adults had their fun, the kids squabbled over who would ride on the front of their roller coaster. Nephew 1 and Niece 1 got the prime spot for THE HUNGRY CATTERPILLAR. It's a typical kiddie ride with a massive apple in the middle and a 'scary' incline to race down. Nephew 1 loved it, Niece 1 wasn't so sure and Nephew 2 (aged 2), safely in car #2 with his Dad was glad to get off and head for THOMAS THE TANK ENGINE! This fearsome ride is a train that loops round on ground level a few times, with a slight side-to-side wobble. “A baby ride”, as Nephew 1 put it when refusing to go near it out of shame. Nephew 2 laughed with delight and sat with his Granny.

At this point we ignored what can best be described as a 40m tall swingboat with seats that also rotate. No idea what it's called. Didn't care. With hindsight, it would probably have been a better experience than The Experience (see below).

Next up: THE CYCLONE!! In brief, there are a number of arms with attached seats on which you sit 2/3 abreast while moving quickly on the horizontal plane, roughly tracing out the shape of a star – back and forth, back and forth. Gravity meant I kept being thrown into my wife at the edges (to her lack of delight). As we dashed to one particular side, we could reach out and almost touch Nephew 2 (who thought this was very funny). Also enjoying this one were Niece 1, Nephew 1 and their mothers. This ride has not changed a bit in years but it is still popular!

Next – waste a few 2ps on penny falls machines. I won 4p and lost 10p. The perils of gambling!

Then... THE EXPERIENCE - and what an experience it was. The central column held three arms, on each of which were seats and harnesses. I allowed myself to be talked into it (to keep Mother B company). I should have realised that any ride that required victims – I mean customers – to remove shoes in case they are thrown off is a bad idea. The mop and bucket sitting beside it also failed to deter me. Step 1 – start rotating gently in a horizontal fashion. Step 2 – arms tilt to 45 degrees. Step 3 – keep rotating while arms go up-down-up-down. At this stage we were still able to talk and it was mildly amusing. Step 4 – seats start spinning. Talking was no more.

Around two hours earlier I enjoyed a cup of tea and a white chocolate and raspberry scone in 55 North. Delicious – simply delicious. For what seemed like half an hour on the Experience (more like 20 seconds), they threatened to re-appear. Hmmmm.... I'll not go back on this one.

Eventually, it ended. The contents of my stomach remained intact and I got off, dizzily. I walked, if you can call it that, round the ride looking for my shoes – much in the style of a punch-drunk boxer who unsuccessfully trying to find his corner at the end of a round. My wife asked me if I was alright, I think. I said I was, I think. Someone asked me about the ghost train, I think. The idea of a seat appealed, I think.

THE GHOST TRAIN..... does what it says on the tin. Through the doors, a sign says “Welcome to Hell”, a pile of automated ghosts and back to daylight. My senses by now had returned.

We stopped for ice cream on the way out, apart from my wife who wanted candy-floss. The children didn't fancy it – they wondered why she was eating cotton wool. They walked back to the car with half-eaten ice creams dribbling down their arm, apart from Niece 2 who slept in her pram for most of our time in Barry's.  

There's something tacky about it – though there's something generally tacky about Portrush. There are parts of Barry's that haven't changed since my Grandfather went to the Port – which I suppose is its charm. We adults remember enjoying it as kids and knew the children in our midst would have as much fun as we did on our annual pilgrimage. In due course they'll visit Alton Towers and conclude Barry's is a bit naff and by the time they are in their 20s, they'll have fond memories of Barry's and bring their own children to enjoy it as they once did.

Olympic-invoked memories

February 1984... I remember returning home from school to watch all sort of sports that I had little clue about. Why, for example did the Swiss have to ring cowbells during the bobsleigh, making it sound like an episode of Heidi? Why did the Canadian fans hold up large signs saying “Canada #1” even when their team were not in first-position. I was a simple child. The sound I remember hearing a lot of was the USSR national anthem.

The Soviet anthem was gone from the summer games. The athletes met up in Los Angeles, I wore an LA '84 T-shirt that came cheap from somewhere and it seemed the whole world wanted to be Americans. We had learnt about “Truth, Justice and the American Way” from Superman movies and this was the year when everyone seemed to be singing “Born in the USA”. We had seen Ronnie Regan portrayed as some kind of Western saviour, facing down the Commies with his faithful bulldog Maggie, announcing the gospel of the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. We all watched as the rocket-man from the Bond movies flew in just before Ronnie-the-Saviour declared the games of the XXIII Olympiad open for business.

The Russians didn't show – not that we minded as all their women were really men in disguise and they were all on drugs, so we believed. No, these games were western and honest and free. Some guy called Steve Redgrave won a medal for rowing but we didn't care – no, my friends and I ran round the park pretending to be Seb Coe, Daley Thomson and such like. Meanwhile, the Russians were being spied on by their own ruthless, dishonest government who even tapped their phone calls and opened their post.  

24 years later and the Games of the XXIX Olympiad are about to get under way. Ronnie is no longer our Saviour and George Dubya isn't in favour of a Land of the Free, anywhere. Bulldog Maggie is tottering on her last legs and the thought that only the Russians spy on their own people would be funny if it wasn't so close to home. We no longer sing about being born in the USA and don't really expect these games to be a drug-free paradise. Indeed, if the smog clears long enough for us to see the other side of the stadium to know which junkie is in the lead, we'll be glad.

Yet when I watch the opening ceremony I'll briefly remember being an innocent 8 year old who knew that all the bad guys were far away, that drugs were things sold by American chemists, that life was good and that when I pretended to be Seb Coe I was actually quite fast.