Norfolk and Goode Press

*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*

 

 

Alan Bowman

 

Sol Nte:

Stoke Poets on Weed/

Shirt, Pants or Wodin

The Extraordinary Trouser and T-Shirt Combinations of Sol Nte.

 

Alan Bowman 1939

First published, somewhat dubiously, in electronic format by the Norfolk and Goode Press

(a subsidiary of the Freeformfreakout Organisation – despite what either party says)

2006

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alan Bowman reserves the right as author to copyright over all parts of this publication.

 

Mind you, he also reserves the right to deny all knowledge of and refute any form of involvement with the same.

 

 

 

Sol Nte

Excerpts from “Stoke Poets on Weed/Shirt Pants or Wodin? – The Extraordinary Trouser and Tee-Shirt Combinations of Sol Nte’

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

The Early Years.

Born in 1873 to a family of immigrant Danish Pastry farmers and the youngest of 11 siblings Sol Nte is quite possibly the world’s greatest living anagram of a waterway.  Always a forward thinker Sol would often have trouble reversing his pedal car out of the shed and spent many a long day, and night and the next day, sitting in the dark.  It was whilst stuck in the garden shed that Sol developed an interest in tools and a passion for one in particular, a passion which was to get him into a lot of trouble in secondary school.  Unfortunately certain statutes of English law prevent us from expanding on these incidents, however the case files are due for public release in 2085.

The young Sol Nte was a natural entertainer.  Sol's oldest brother Tr Nte recalls, "Oh yes Sol and his endless quest did keep us amused.  He was always searching, oft dressed as a pirate, for his siblings and would ask each of us where they were.  When we replied 'here' he used to do this funny dance, holding his arms rigid by his sides, stamping his feet and spitting through his clenched tooth."

 

As a child Sol attended the Robert Downey Junior School in Elton John's Wood, North London.  On his expulsion following an incident with a recorder and Class 4's hamster he was sent to the William Hill Form School at Newton Abbott.  An exceptional student he excelled in all areas, except those of an academic nature, and really stood out among his peers, it being a girl's boarding school and that.

 

On leaving school the young Nte found that he would have to wait at least seven years before being of an age at which he could apply for a university place.  He decided to wait in the bus shelter, in case it rained.  Seven years later Sol got his first job.  Conductor Number 041614020 NTE S. would amaze passengers on the Number 2, the old 'Red Eyed Factory Lass Express' with his rendition of 'Inspector' John Cage's 4' 33" in which he would tap out a two bob return ticket 6 feet and 9 inches in length on his ticket tapping out machine.

 

It was whilst on the buses that the young Nte developed a passion for olives, a passion that would lead him to move on to a new career as a butler.  With the dream of access to as many martinis and olives as he could dream of Sol began to sleep for long periods of time. One of  Sol's habit of sleeping for days on end whilst trying still to carry out a hectic daily schedule led to a rather unpleasant scene in the Gold Cup Lane Employment Exchange, Cheltenham - when, after turning up in his dressing gown and wearing a pair of his grandmother's fluffy mules, the sleeping Sol was informed of the medical board's ruling that he was in fact fit for work.  The ensuing fracas, involving a particularly violent demonstration of his sleep-kung-fu, led to the dozing dreamer being carted of to hospital in a somnambulance.  Several days later the young Nte came to nursing a really rather splendid nurse, a pretty impressive concussion, and a fine from the RSPCA.

 

Befuddled, befiddled and befoodled, Sol took to serenading his fellow patients on the Bill Viola with a specially rosined pasta bow.  Constantly harbouring, in his heart of hearts, the desire to be a butler, Sol was surprised to discover that he was also harbouring a secret wish to sing on the stage in his vest and a small fleet of Spanish Trawlers in his codpiece.  The young Nte, or 'yng nte' as he came to be known by the teeth gritting inmates, surprised by the jolly tars from the Balearics sheltering under his bollocks, decided to quit this life of luxury, to leave the security of Cheltenham Social Services Secure Unit and to set off once more on the path to realising his butling dream.

 

Alas, by fault of accent alone, our happy, hapless hero, landed himself a plum job as Redcoat in charge of matinee wrestling at a well known Skegness holiday camp.

"I 'ate you Butlin!"  was the nightly mantra, chanted from chalet number 173694027154542356392B.

Sol held the job of wrestling referee at Butlins Skegness for many days before being let go for taking his job rather too literally.  It was the loss of this job that led Sol Nte out of a particularly badly written period of his life. The ex-wrestling ref, star of the Cheltenham Labour Exchange Tag Team Retirement for the Under Thirties Campaign Committee, had had enough. 

 

It was with heavy heart, and light fingers, that the young Sol Nte bade farewell one cold and frosty January morn, to the Employment Exchanges of Cheltenham.  Each one held fond memories (and false claims) for him, "as a memento" he thought, unsure of his spelling, "I'll take something small as a souvenir.  Just to help me remember the good times."

With pockets stuffed with blank giros and a couple of 'Approved' Disability Benefit Claim Forms in his wallet, Sol set of for distant lands.  In search of the romance of the City of Canals, the masked seducer and the scented courtesan, he took out his photocopy of a one-way bus ticket to destiny, and walked to Stoke on Trent.

It is here dear reader that we, the authors, must rely on intuition and you on MapQuest.com.  For no-one, apart from the Mighty Nte, as he liked to call himself before realising that his mummy was actually saying 'Nighty Night' from the Bingo Bound Taxi Cab Company cab's window as it sped off, Gala-bound into the dark of Wednesday night, come Hell or high water.  Where were we? Oh yes, no one except for Sol Nte, has ever found Stoke-on-Trent when they've been actually looking for it.  In fact so difficult it is to locate by conventional methods that you have more chance of finding Stoke-on-Trent by; arriving at an airport you've never heard of, because it was the only place that the low-cost airline your colleague had chosen to use flew in to, with a group of 11, 10 year old Italian children, en-route to a YMCA Activity Centre near Ulverston.  Ulverston being famous for the fact that Stan Laurel was from there, a fact that only people from Ulverston really find interesting.

 

 

Chapter Two

The Hurly Burly Years:  Stoke.

Once in Stoke Sol set about trying to make ends meet, which led to a second arrest for improper behaviour in a public place. It was whilst at repose in one of Her Majesty's Guest Houses that our enthusiastic entrepreneur founded his first business enterprise.  Prisoner 2468-m-o-t-o-r-w-a-y-NTE.S became the first practising Loan Shark in Wormwood Scrubs.  Practise as he did however, the venture was a failure, it would appear that at that time the demand for sharks was at an all time low in British prisons.  Sol's luck however was about to change.  One frosty Friday evening in the July of the current year, Prisoner 2468-m-o-t-o-r-w-a-y-NTE.S was to receive a surprise visitor.  Whilst settling into his nightly routine (carbolic face-mask and a quick game of pocket billiards) Sol was surprised to hear a knock on the back of his head as the warders truncheon announced the arrival of a new cell mate, in Morse Code.

When he came to he was surprised to see two hazy figures sitting on the top bunk, legs dangling over the edge, the H.M. Prison issue hob-nailed plimsolled feet drawing random lines on the young Nte's pillowcase.

"How tall!" mused the dazed, dreadlocked doyen of D Wing.  "My pillowcases haven't come back from the laundry block yet."

Gritting his tooth and trying his best to focus his good eye, Sol reached for a pencil and made a mental note -'Find out what doyen actually means' he scribbled hastily.  Sol always made mental notes, it played havoc with his ear and certain motor skills weren't as they should be, but  at least he had a place to hide the odd herbal jazz cigarette from the screws.  What he never got the hang of however, was that it wasn't the screws he should have been concerned about but the prison warders.

 

As his eye slowly focussed the two figures became as one and a voice spoke.

"Blimey that's clever!" thought Sol.

"But you haven't heard what I have to say yet." said the voice, which seemed to be coming from somewhere in the region of the figure's head.  "I am the voice of Prisoner 54321 bap-a-bappa-ba-bappa-ba-ba 54321 HIRST.D.

"Wotcha! I'm Damien,” said the figures head.

"Here, I wanted to say that!" said the voice sadly, realising that his small and really rather pointless part in this tale had come to an end.  Quietly he slipped out, blushing madly he adjusted his trousers and left.  He now contents himself by hanging around Trafalgar Square trying to convince drunks that that pigeon really is insulting them.

"Good Day to you Damien." said Sol, "Pickled shark?"

"Hmm, now there's an idea." Hirst mused. "Don't mind if I do, thanks"

"No problem, I've got loads,” replied Sol "To tell you the truth I'm getting a little sick of the stuff.  Luckily though my mum has sent me a couple of beef sandwiches.  There's one huge one and one little baby sized one, we could share them if you like"

And with that Sol began to meticulously cut the sandwiches in half.

"Hmm, now there's an idea." Hirst mused.

"There now, nearly done.  Just the finishing touches." Sol said carefully placing a dollop of H.P. Sauce and one of ketchup on the plate.  "Done! Here have a sandwich."

Spinning the plate round to Damien a little over zealously, Sol sent sauce spiralling out across the plate like a Catherine wheel of condiment, a glob of which hit Damien Hirst right between the eyes.

"Hmm, that gives me an idea." Hirst mused, "Have you got a tissue mate?" He asked Sol who was licking sauce from his bed frame.

"Yes, just up there in the cabinet" Sol replied pointing to a long glass case full of pills on the wall.

Hirst only got as far as "Hmmm" before fainting.

"Well I've been poorly." said Sol somewhat taken aback.

 

 

Several years later, or perhaps even more Damien was to star in his own trilogy of films based upon the life of a character who was to be taught by one of the authors of the biography of a person who had never met the person about whose life the films were based but who had in fact met one of the authors of his own biography.

 

"Tch! Three goals in a World Cup final eh!  And him such a tall, gangly chap." Thought Sol on fine summer's day in 1966.  Spelling never was his good point.

Buoyed however by the nations good cheer on having actually won something important for the first time in twenty-one years, without having the Americans stepping in and trying to claim credit for it, ("800,000,000 pounds debt, that's a lot of lawnmowers they must have sent." Sol often pondered this point.  He once had several days in which to ponder this, in the Coon Rapids Sheriff’s Office Guest Suite, after saying aloud at a rather sedate party that he was just popping out to 'smoke a fag'.  Which apparently means VERY different things depending on which side of the Atlantic  you live.)  Sol's life was full of bracketed areas.

Despite the interruption, Sol remained buoyed at his country's good fortune, ahem, skilled football team's glorious victory, and wrote a song.

"1966" by Sol 'Icky Pops' Nte and the Fudges went straight in at the Woolies bargain bin.  Three years in production and released on Sol's own 'Sticky Label' label, this masterpiece of garage pomp was eclipsed, alas, by a not altogether dissimilar sounding ditty by another doe-eyed, snake-hipped crooner from the States.

 

This disappointment led to a collapse which saw the young Nte literally vomit his thoughts in the street.  And thus SPOW was born.  Sol Pours Out Words was to be it! 

"The way forward, backwards, side to side and off at jaunty little angles every now and then is this," thought Sol, "I shall become the people's's' poet as I don’t know if I shall become the poet for just my people or in fact for lots of other peoples who populate a whole host of different countries and all that, I shall express the hopes and fears of mankind, I shall change the world with words!"

Another plan scuppered by another arrest.

Arrested for being drunk and disorderly, and for inappropriate behaviour in a public place: puking alphabetti spaghetti in a Yates' Wine Lodge may seem the most normal of things to do for many of us but to the Stoke on Trent Police Force's CID, whose annual remembrance service for Police Constable S. Haywain who died of boredom whilst guarding an exhibition of seventeenth century Dutch landscape paintings..., not so.

Sol almost got away with it, had it not been for the fact that his pastapuke had spelled out the theme tune to 'Z-Cars' in a really sarcastic fashion.

 

Whilst remanded in custody the Sol Nte actually did  fall down the stairs, walk into a door and sing like a canary, taking all the fun out of it for the Stoke C.I.D, who in a fit of temper got all confused and released him without charge.

"Coo, that was lucky!" thought Sol who had studied Pigeon English.

"I'll say" thought a psychic pigeon who had studied Human English but who still couldn't get a job.  Reduced to taking small roles in badly written biographies was beginning to wear a bit thin, he was better than this and he knew it.  He was meant for bigger things and in his quest for them he found himself outside a pie shop just off Trafalgar Square, it was there that he suddenly realised he could talk and went of to confuse a drunk into giving up his pasty.'

 

Chapter Three

The Spurious Spoutings Forth of SPOW Industries (Jobs for the Beuys).

 

It was during this particular period of his terribly badly written life that Sol's artistic career really took off. 'Sol Pours Out Words' spawned other branches of SPOW Industries:  The ill-fated 'Sol Pees Out Windows' was not to last long but the period of Community Service which followed its demise led to 'Sol Peels Off Wallpaper', 'Sol Paints On Walls' and 'Sol Pulls Out Weeds'.  The clothing range 'Sol Pride of Workington', famed for its muleskin Donkey Jackets in his trademark soft shades. After all who could resist the allure of such shades as 'Redcar Cokeworks Red', 'Grimsby Fish Processing Plant Pink' or 'Doncaster Power Station Cerise'?   As the SPOW Fashion range took off Sol began to see other opportunities for creative expansion.  A chain of upmarket eateries offering good traditional fayre, Sol's Pies of Wonder (yesteryear's tastes, tomorrow's prices!) sprang up at such a rate that Starbucks and the Guggenheim Foundation had to pool their resources to keep up, the resulting Starheim Guggenbuck's Artuccino Bars proved to be such a flop that they were eventually sold off to 'Sol's Pictures Of Wood', a chain of tea rooms offering a range of quality teas from around the world, choice sandwiches, sweet fancies and carpentry services.  The carpentry services were the inspiration for the series of artworks in which Sol attempted to capture the radiant qualities of plywood, each piece is uniquely rendered in crayon on finest quality chipboard.  Each artwork is sold by length and can be altered in-store to suit the pocket of the individual, saw hire is of course extra.

 

SPOW Industries' success inspired the now noted Mr. Nte to continue to look ahead.  As a result he never saw the bus.

 

During his time in hospital from the July of 1974 through to the March of the Mods, on until the 12^th of Never and up to his release 23 years later Sol spent his time concentrating on a collection of belly button fluff and bacon fat from his hospital breakfasts, which was to become the basis of a whole body of autobiographical artworks.  True to life, except for the colours, reproductions of his injured body parts, a chair, a nice fireside rug and a pair of reeking britches, formed the basis for a major touring exhibition which further widened the notoriety and popularity of SPOW Industries. In fact the sheer success of these felt and lard creations left Sol feeling, well beuyant.  Despite the collective groans of those who had actually read this far in his life Sol remained beuyed for several years.  The  exhibition was a hit in all the major British Cities; Gateshead, Chester-le-Street, Birtley, Thane, Kirkauldy, Ruthin, Grasmere, Clacton Tressle, Chigley, Camberwick Green and Trumpton, where the show was officially opened  by Mrs Honeyman, Secretary of State for Other Peoples’ Affairs. The riots which broke out when the Camberwick Green Vegetarian League was goaded with saveloy dips by the Chigley Carnivorous Front on the grass verge in front of  Pippin Fort have become stuff of legend.  However, as this biography already deals with one legend, another legend would make two feet and seeing as how this collection of ‘exce(r)pts, if printed, already exceeds that length it means that there is simply no real need to add an unnecessary foot.  Although SPOW Industries idea of compulsory extra legs and feet for all natives of the Isle of Man to avoid problems with trading standards when the flag was flown has been passed to the Forging Secretary for consideration.

 

Sol Nte, always looking forward, unwilling to look back, was an unsung player in the fortunes of OPEC for many a year.  The first  reader who  gets the correct reason for this to the author wins a special Sol Nte related prize.

 

Shocked by the riots however, Sol decided to withdraw from the touring exhibition scene.  From his once most highly prized exhibits he made a rather splendid greased top-coat and wighat to complement the reeking britches.  The belly button fluff he turned into a nifty detachable false beer belly, as defence from false beer and a natty pair of knee-trembler protection pads.  The courtesans of Stoke where no longer safe now that the once calloused and grazed knees of Stoke’s startlingly tee-shirted troubadour where safe behind their mufflers, ladies of the night only came out during the day, gangs of hen partying girlies turned chicken and partied at home and there was a sudden absence of sheep in the fields around the town.  Luckily for the ladies of the region Sol lost his knee-trembler protection pads in the South Shields Spot Welding Incident of 1888.  Bail was set by the magistrate as one guinea.

“Pig!” shouted Sol from the dock.

The magistrate agreed and the young Nte’s bail was reduced to one guinea pig.  Sol paid up and the court allowed him to stay locked up until his trial.

Sol’s lawyer, The Hon. Tait M’Dern of the Newcastle firm Hadaway and Shite advised a plea of not guilty to force a trial and therefore prove, m’lud the innocence of his client.

“Good call” called Sol from his place on the gallows.

It was on the dissection table at the Barber Surgeons’ hall that Sol learned of his reprieve, his brief having forced a retrial on the grounds that Sol Nte hadn’t actually stood trial before being executed and in fact that no-one had actually ever mentioned what the charge was.

“Two and six and a penny for the gaoler”  as it happened.

Sol was given an unconditional pardon and a fine of one guinea for the offence of passing a forged guinea pig as payment to his majesty’s court.

“You’ve been stitched up!” said one of the medical students attending the dissection.

“Oh great!” Sol was heard to mumble as he leapt up and promptly tripped over his own colon.

“I meant by the court…”offered the student.

After much shovelling and an awful lot of sawdust and sewing Sol Nte finally left the Barber Surgeons’ Hall a free man and with a very precise haircut.

 

Chapter Four

A Kick in the Bolsheviks.

Tired of the trials and tribulations, mainly the trials, of life in Englandland Sol tried his hand at becoming a roving minstrel. Strapping on his special knotted travelling hankie, filled with essentials for the life on the road, (a water bottle, toothcomb, forged sicknotes, a map of the Untied Kingdom complete with spare laces and a Nissan Micra) and his polystyrene travelling saxophone he set off.  With the intention of touring England, Scotland, Ireland and Walesland he took out a photograph of his thumb, hitched up his skirts, closed his eyes, held his breath, crossed his fingers, touched his nadgers for luck and put his best foot forward.

 

Within half an hour he was back at home getting dried.  The next time, he decided he would start his journey facing away from the canal.

 

It was on his eastward journey from Stoke to Liverpool, Sol wished to begin his magical mystery tour from an appropriate place, that things began to a little awry.  Sol’s musical tastes had always be impeccable, his geographical skills on the other hand lacked somewhat in finesse, and it wasn’t until he noticed that the guys wearing the cool Red Army combats and insignia were actually carrying rifles instead of the Socialist Worker, that he realised that he may in fact have taken a wrong slip-road somewhere along the way.

 

Sol  Nte walked into Moscow on his hands and knees sometime around 19:24 . Tired from his trek, hungry and thirsty Sol looked for a suitable hostelry.  Looking in his guidebook the nearest he could get was the ‘Escort and Molatov’ in Bootle which he knew from experience didn’t do food, well not unless you counted disco-biscuits at 15 quid a pop.  Undeterred Sol wandered the streets of Moscow until he came across a likely looking place. The sign read ‘The Tzar’s Head’ with a big red cross through it, apparently the place had recently changed hands. Near the entrance, a newer sign leant against the trestle table and bench of the Borscht Garden.

‘Trotsky’s Tavern’ it read, which was pretty clever for a sign, “HAPPY HOUR! Huge selection of Iced Cocktails, 2 Rubles each  between 7 and 9.  Take your pick.”  A young man was busy removing another identical sign from the other side of the door whilst another was sticking a piece of paper up at the window.  It was another sign;

“Welcome to the Stalin Saloon!” it said (even cleverer this sign!) “Darts and Dominoes Handicap every Sunday.  Free Pool and Jukebox Wednesdays!  Quiz every Thursday (with free buffet).”

 

Sol entered the bar.

“Good afternoon sir!” said a thick set barman sporting a thick set handlebar moustache, corduroy car-coat, well oiled pedal-pushers and a pair of ice skates.

“Good afternoon bar-keep!” said Sol, who’d never seen a handlebar moustache before, well not one with bell and dynamo lamp anyway.

“How can I help you?” asked the barman.

“I wonder if you can help me” asked Sol, “I am a little lost, I am tired an hungry and would like to rest a while. Perhaps I may take advantage of the warmth of your hearth and if you have a menu I’d be most pleased to peruse it.”

“You look tired and hungry my friend” offered the barman, “And if I am not mistaken have the look of a man lost, tired and hungry.  Sit you down, rest you, take advantage of our hearth, perhaps you would like to take a gander at the menu whilst you warm yourself.”

He led Sol to an armchair by the fire.  Sol settled his arm into the chair and waited as the barman pulled up another armchair, a footstool, and a headboard.  Sol settled himself and sat on the floor.

“You make yourself comfortable whilst you look at the menu,” said the barman, “I have other customers to attend to.”

“I see that you have other customers to attend to,” said Sol. “I’ll just make myself comfortable and look at the menu while I wait.  Oh and by the way, it would appear that your skates are melting.”

 

Sol had the strangest feeling that the barman was not only mumbling but in fact talking backwards as he had not understood a word he had said.

 

Reaching into his travelling bag Sol pulled out his reading monocle and looked at the menu.  Turning the menu the right way up he polished his monocle on his shirt tail, making it completely unusable, (seeing this however the barman did sneak up and cut a small portion of Sol’s shirt tail off and made his way quietly to the ‘Specials’ board, where he added a new soup.) and was still unable to read it. Squinting at the menu until his good eye watered Sol simply could not make head nor tail of what was written.

“This appears to be written in what I can only assume to be ‘foreign’.” he thought. “Perhaps I am near the docks.”

 

Just then the waiter passed.

“Excuse my good fellow,” Sol whispered as loud as he could.

The barman muttered but didn’t stop.

Sol jingled the loose change in his pocket.

The bewhiskered bartend  stopped dead and stepped back to Sol’s table.

“How may I be of assistance by good sir?” he inquired as he did so.

“Yes I’d like a menu what’s not all in this ‘for…’.Eh?!  I just understood what you said there?” gasped Sol, well he gasped the second part anyway.

“Did you just understand what I said there?” asked the barman.

“No, no it’s gone again!” exclaimed Sol, desperate for a better verb.

“Oh perhaps not then” muttered the barman as he stepped back to allow a Cossack to steppe by.

“Not then what?” asked Sol “Look I got a bit of that, do you think you could speak a bit more clearly please!” he continued, his patience wearing almost as thin as the enamel on the seat of his long-johns.

Noticing his client’s frustration and increasing bad humour the barman shrugged and walked away.

“Oiiiiii!!!” yelled Sol, having suddenly remembered another verb.  Waving the menu he continued, “Can I get something to eat?”

The barman shrugged again and pointed to the menu.  Sol pointed to the menu and shrugged, the barman shrugged again and pointed to the menu this time with a quizzical look upon his face.  Sol jabbed his finger two or three times at the menu, with a determined look upon his dial, the barman gave another quizzical look, shrugged and walked away.

Four minutes later Sol was presented with a plate of toffee sauce and mustard and a side order of diet sweetener.

 

It was while walking the streets of Moscow that Sol made his most important discovery.  In the Stalin Saloon Sol had made the acquaintance of a young lad of unpronounceable nomenclature. The lad, who must have been about 15 or 16 years, was remarkable for two things; his handlebar moustache and the way in which he walked.  He walked as if he were skating on ice, he looped and span, pirouetted did that funny thing on one leg with his nose touching his knee, but most of all – he glid.  He often glid backwards on the passing of a pretty girl.

The lad had taken it upon himself to show Sol the sights of Moscow babbling away in ‘foreign’. Seeing as Sol thought he still thought he was somewhere in the Liverpool dockland area he remained patient and kept his eye out for a bus stop.

 

The lad was babbling when they passed two pretty girls, he span round and continued to walk with Sol, backwards.  It was then than Sol made his discovery.  As the boy was wolf-whistling the girls Sol quickened his pace a little.

“Gnah no a nimute mate, listen as I was saying we can…” Another pretty girl, “go to deR erauqS txen”

“Aha!” shouted Sol, he turned to the lad as the lad turned to him. Now Sol was walking backwards and the lad forwards.

“Nrut dnuora a etunim” said Sol.

“Eh?” replied the lad.

“Nrut dnuora a etunim” said Sol.

“Eh?” replied the lad.

“Nrut dnuora a etunim” said Sol.

“Eh?” replied the lad.

Fortunately for Sol, a pretty girl walked by.

“Eh?” said the lad.

“I said turn around!” replied Sol, still crap at good verbs.

“I have turned around!” the lad gasped.

“Why did you gasp?”  croaked Sol.

“Because…”

“We are conversing?” suggested Sol.

“No, did you see that bird’s ar..Yes! We are conversing.” The lad saved himself there.

“Aha!”

“Aha!”

They said in unison and together at the same time.

“Turn around and say that again.” Said Sol

The lad turned and rather hesitantly said, “ahA”

Sol was dejected. “Oh well that’s that theory out of the window then” he thought despondently as the lad began to spin off into the distance,

“ahA! AHa! Aha! ahA! AHa! Aha!” he went as he went.

“Hey wait! YeH tiaw! Tiaw yeH!”  he screamed after the dal to no avail. “Oh well” he thought, “axit!!!!”

Chapter Five

Gee, Buddha’s Good to be Back Home.

 

The taxi fair from Moscow to Stoke on Trent came as somewhat of a surprise to Sol. Five quid including tip wasn’t bad considering, after all you couldn’t get in and out of town for that on a bus nowadays.  He’d been fortunate, our lad, the journey had taken nigh on 60 years and the driver had accepted the exchange rate as of the point of departure.  After giving the taxi driver instructions for getting off the estate Sol turned, walked towards his front door, pulled out his keys and fell flat on his face in a dead faint.  Sixty years in a Moscow taxi had taken its toll, surviving on a diet of vinyl seat covering Sol had stayed alive.  This, supplemented with the sucking of the star of his left Converse Allstar to produce drinking saliva and the gnawing of a particularly natty dread for fibre had led Sol to fondly reminisce of his days at the William Hill Reform School, well the high points anyway.

 

On being rudely awakened by the act of waking up Sol decided that;

“Hey diddley dee and actors life isn’t really a suitable choice for oneself, neither that nor the life of a poet what likes to write in rhyme.”

 

Climbing through his letter box our emaciated hero hastily put himself into an envelop, reaching into his ear and momentarily losing all muscle control down his left side and round the back a bit he pulled out his pencil which he checked by smoking half of it, and when suitably convinced that it was indeed a pencil addressed the envelope and posted himself to the nearest Sainsbury’s deli counter.

 

And thus began Sol Puts On Weight.

 

‘Deli’ Kate Essen was the Hanley Sainsbury’s best kept secret, she could sell wafer thin roast turkey ham to Bernard Matthews, mind you even he didn’t know where the name came from, it puzzled Kate too.  So did the fact that not once in her 28 years had she found a member of staff in MacDonald’s, regardless of the number of stars they had, who could explain why a hamburger was made of beef.  So well was Kate kept a secret that no one in the Hanley Sainsbury’s knew of the fact that some three months previously she has actually left and gone to work on the frozen bedding aisle at Tesco Extra.

 

Kate had decided to go to do a spot of  shopping at her old place of work, it was nice to see the old faces and catch up with the gossip and besides she still had her old uniform, to which she’s added some nice deep inside pockets. 

“Shopping, Sunderland style!” laughed Kate as she set off towards the brandy.

“Hiya June!”  she breezed happily as she popped behind the cigarette kiosk counter for a pricing gun, (after all there wasn’t that much space in her pockets, the rest of her shopping would have to be bought at a ‘staff discount’.)  “How’s things?”

“Eeeh, not so bad like hinny, y’knaa.” Replied June. “Aam gerrin ower aa’d for aal this palaver, ye knaa.  Aah mean ah work ower fowerty oors a week ana tak yem jist aboot enough foh scran foh the him an’ the bairns, a couple cans iv export foh me fatha, a neet oot at the bingur an a packit iv Craven ‘A’!  Ye knaa ah divvint knaa why ah botha!”

(“Not too bad my dear”…”I’m feel that I am becoming too old for this type of work, I work forty hours a week and barely take home enough to allow me to feed the family, see to my father and allow me a small, occasional, social pleasure”)

Kate always made the same mistake, talking to June without a translator.  June the Geordie told everyone that she was from Newcastle, but she wasn’t really.  June was from Bensham, born and bred in the shadow of the workhouse, the trouble with that was that no one had ever heard of Bensham and even when she had explained that it was a part of Gateshead the blank looks still outnumbered the pitying nods. So, she had decided to say that she was from Newcastle, at least that way she knew what the reaction would be.

“Ah, Newcastle.  Alan Shearer!”

 

Luckily Kate was saved this time by Mr. Squeart, Mr. Ulysses Squeart, the assistant manager.

“Ms. Essen, there’s some post here for the denecaltes, delincant, delentcanessant, the cold meats and provisions counter”, he announced very officiously from the other side of the tabs counter.

“Who said that?” asked Kate.

“Aah divvint knaa,” replied June “burrif aam not wrang theor’s a little baaldin pate bobbin’ up an’ doon on yon side of the coonta what looks suspishis.”

(“I’m not sure but if I’m not mistaken there’s a small prematurely balding head protruding suspiciously from the other side of the counter”)

“Hello?” inquired Kate inquiringly.

“Ms Essen, Ms. Essen, there’s some post here for the d..for the cold meats and provisions counter.” Repeated Mr. Squeart even more officiously.

“Oh hello Mr. Squirt” said Kate, “is that for the delicatessen counter? Give it here love, I’ll take it over.”

“It’s Squeart!  Squee-art, Ulysses Squee-art.” Seethed Squeart, grinding his dentures to a dust which formed a rather attractive foam at the corners of his small, puckered mouth.

“Yes dear, Useless Squirt, that’s what I said.  Now shall I take this to the delentcanessant counter?”  And with that Kate left the cigarette kiosk with the letter, a pricing gun, a tray of lottery scratch cards and 200 Rothmans.

 

Having stuffed the envelope into one of her secret pockets Kate did her spot of shopping and made for the checkout. Brian the Saturday lad, made up at being left alone on the tills for the first time, duly began to ring up Kate’s groceries – two trolley loads of fresh meat, fish and exotic fruits, wines and liquors, liqueurs and mixers from far off lands, she’d even thrown in TWO packets of Pringles – one ‘sour cream and chive’ and one of the new ‘feta cheese and chillied raspberry’.

Fifteen minutes later an rather tired and sweaty Brian pressed the ‘total’ key: £1.3s.6d rang up.

Kate put her umbrella up.

“That would appear to be one pound, fwee etheeth and 6 deeth” said Brian.

“How much!?!” exclaimed Kate, “That’s an outrage!”

“Ha ha, vewy funny thunthine.” Replied Brian sarcastically. “I know you’ve had ve pwithing gun, and I know what’th coming next too.”

“What ever do you mean Brian?” asked Kate staring wide eyed and all innocent at Brian.  A look that almost worked on the young, girlfriend free Saturday lad.

“You are going to athk me to check the bill, by weading thwough ve till woll whilst you check ve thopping in your bagth.”

“Brian, in the light of this strange and somewhat difficult to accept bill, seeing as how it would seem foolish to query such a fair price for two shopping trolleys worth of groceries..”

“You’re just going to let it wide?”

“Don’t be daft, I’d like you to check the bill for me.”

“Bah!  Wice,”

“Yes.”

“waisins,”

“Yes.”

“bwandy,”

“Yes.”

“wigatoni,”

“Yes.”

“wubber gwoveth, you’re loving thith awen’t you!”

“Yes.”

“Wed wine,”

“What sort?”

“One Cabernet Fwanc, one Amawone, a Barbawesco, two Bawolos and a Waboso.”

“Next.”

“Fweth wabbit,”

“Yes.”

“pwuneth,”

“Yes.”

“Thome thlitheth of woast beef,”

“Yes.”

“thome finetht quality Italian ham.”

“What’s that?”

“Pwothiuto.”
”What sort?”

“Cwudo.”

 “Yes.”

“Thauthageth,”

“Yes.”

“Thpam.”

“Yes.”

“Fweth owange juith,”

“Yes.”

“Thpaghetti. You’re weally dwagging thith out here awen’t you!?”

“Yes. Next!”

“Thome thoelathes, two wed thnapperth, a pound of pwanths and thome milk.”

“Pardon?”

“Milk.”

“Pardon?”

“Thome milk.”

“   -   “

“Thome themi thkimmed milk.”

“Thank you”

And tho it went on.

 

After 30 minutes or so Kate paid Brian the £1 3s 6d in pennies.  Brian, only knowing up to his ten times table and familiar with only ‘dethimal’, fainted.  Kate closed her umbrella, sponged down her spittle soaked so’wester, helped herself to the contents of the till drawer and left the shop.

Being only a slight girl Kate had difficulty in pushing the two overloaded shopping trolleys and carrying a large wad of banknotes at the same time.

“Here George!  Be a love and take my trolleys to my car for me will you.” She shouted to the spotty lad in the oversized shoes and shirt huddled under a mop of gel with a bit of hair in it next to the trolleys.

“Wha..?” replied George. “I’m busy.”

George Rake was busy trying to decide whether to light a fresh Craven ‘A’ or to spark up the Marlboro ‘nipper’ he’d started earlier.  He was smoking it in stages. “Quality should be savoured” he thought, and anyway he’d nearly had a nasty accident earlier when he'd begun to smoke the Marlboro too soon after his coffee break.

“George, take my trolleys to the care or I’ll tell your mam you smoke!” growled Kate.

George hesitated.

“And what you do with the grapefruits..!”

George took off like a fox who’d just seen one of the Windsor lads hop on a horse.

Kate watched patiently as he careered off around the car-park, sparks flying from the trolley wheels at each curve. After five minutes or so, a sweaty, acne riddled beetroot dressed in oversize shoes and shirt crawled up to Kate panting and dragging two shopping trolleys behind it.

“If my sarsaparilla sorbet has melted I’ll have your nadgers for earrings George!” threatened Kate.

“But I can’t find your car Kate.” Gasped George. “It’s not here, I can’t find it anywhere! Where is it?”

“George, my car is exactly where I left it, now will you please stop sweating on my lettuce and take my shopping to it!” Kate’s tone was serious, George squeaked and nearly had another one of his little accidents.

“Ok, ok!” cried George, blanching and giving Kate an idea for a beetroot and rocket salad. “But just tell me where your car is, please!”

“George, my car is in my garage at home and as a matter of fact so is my fridge-freezer, be a love, put my stuff away for me will you while your there.  Here’s the key run along little spotty Herbert!”

George growled and pulled out his most menacing stare.

“One of mummy’s Marlboros was it, does she know?

George’s face dropped, his shoulder sagged and he appeared to actually deflate, almost losing his trousers in the process.

“Aww, sorry George I’m just teasing.  Go on do this for me and there’s a fiver in it for you” cooed Kate.

Hiking up his oversized britches the lad was off again, leaving the car-park in a cloud of dust and sparks.

Grinning, Kate carefully rolled up the wad of banknotes, tied it up with a sparkly ‘scrunchie’, took out the envelope she’s completely forgotten about, opened it and stuffed the money right into Sol’s pocket.

 

Sol, highly sensitive in the pocket areas, bit his lip and decided just to lie back for a while whilst Kate made sure the money was secure.

He had been lying there for quite a while enjoying a peaceful roll-up when he heard voices.

“Oh George what a good lad, thank you and here’s that fiver I promised.”

Sol faced a dilemma; lie back whilst Kate rummaged around for money to pay the lad and risk discovery, or flee with the cash and get in for the happy hour at Punjab Pierro’s Poppadom, Pickle and Pizza Palace.

The Stuffed Crust Bhuna Prawn on Puri won. Sol exploded in a tangle of chewed dreadlocks and orange trousers, soggy Converse All-stars and a most peculiar tee-shirt.  Exiting Kate’s pocket like a woolly exocet, Sol heard a dull and wet sounding thud and felt something slightly greasy underfoot. Bouncing off the fridge-freezer Sol heard that noise that frozen peas make when the bag hasn’t been closed properly, before hurtling off down Kate’s driveway, into the street and off towards Stoke’s most famous Indo-Italian eatery.

 

Some fifteen minutes or so later whilst comfortably ensconced at a window table trying to decide between the Vishnu Valpolicella and the Krishna Chianti to accompany his Tandoori Chicken Lasagne, Sol was amused to see what appeared to be a 16 year old radish with spots squeezed in the shape of a footprint pass by, swinging a conker and cursing oaths to several of the lesser known and more dangerous Norse gods.

 

Kate sat on the bonnet of her car, a wooden cigar box open on her lap.  The best had gone, all her hard work, the vinegar soakings and carefully calculated times in the airing cupboard, the love, and now ….gone.  All she had left was a oner, two twoers and a fiver.  Her best conker, a tenner, robbed by that little spotty berk.  Calmly Kate set down the box, took out her mobile phone and dialled a number, somewhere a phone rang, a tree barked, a knee skinned and a woman answered.

 

“Missing any Marlboros Mrs. Rake?” she enquired breezily.

 

 

 

Chapter Six

Experiments with Mind Expanding Waistlines.

 

 

Sol  Nte polished off his Tandoori Chicken Lasagne with great gusto, much to the alarm of Pierro, Stoke’s own Indo-Italian answer to Keith Floyd.

“What the hell am I going to do with a shiny lasagne?” he asked Hector Singh, head chef.  Singh wasn’t really Hector’s surname, it was Sows but he thought that Singh sounded better, considering.

“What we always do boss.” replied Hector, “Bung it back in the fridge and keep it until the green bits outweigh the red ones.”

“Are we still serving the Ghandi Gorgonzola tarltets?” Pierro enquired.

“Oh yes boss, the go down great guns with the young and upwardly mobile lot, them what has jobs where you have to wear a tie and that.” enthused Hector.

“Ah yes, the lads from the 24 hour service station” muttered Pierro, “tell me Hector, just what is a Ghandi Gorgonzola tartlet?”

“Well boss, it’s a vol-au-vent case stuffed with my own recipe gorgonzola mix.” Said Hector.

“Which is?” asked Pierro.

“Well basically it’s grated cheddar with the gr..”

“Green bits from the lasagnes , I get the picture Hector.  What do they cost?”

“£2.25 each” offered Hector.

“Get that lasagne in the fridge lad quick smart, there appears to be a poodle sitting on a pile of old clothes trying to attract my attention.”