First Impressions, by Anthony Bloor

Doncaster and Darlington were lovers. Or so he thought. But he wasn’t even 10 yet, and what did he know about love? Mysterious bonds with parents and siblings, a mix of emotions too deep to explore, and a passion for football, his local team. And a passion for collecting things – lollipop wrappers and bubblegum cards. And football programmes, chosen for him by a mail order firm. A lucky dip, and in the beginning there they were – Doncaster and Darlington, always together in the pile, always in the same division, so close they seemed to be chasing each other – and they always seemed to be playing each other. They weren’t married, obviously, because they were football teams and also places, up north somewhere. But they were always paired in the tables, hand in hand, promoted together and relegated together – and with a name like darling, they must be lovers, he thought.

Occasionally there was Derby, popping up in the pile to disrupt the sequence. But Derby was familiar – a bus-ride away – and Derby was bad news. A friend had told him that Derby fans had head-butted him just because he was wearing the wrong-coloured scarf. That’s why they’re called the Rams, he said. Didn’t you know? No, he said, he didn’t know, but the programme had a ram’s head on the cover, butting in between Doncaster and Darlington, like a spoiler at the wedding who objects to the couple's joining. But the joining continued regardless.

Years later, what had changed? He knew now that Doncaster was near Sheffield and Darlington near Newcastle. Miles apart, and a slim chance of playing each other because Doncaster was still bouncing up and down the divisions, while Darlington had drifted into non-league obscurity, and they'd only be playing each other in the beginning in the programmes that had been chosen for him, supposedly at random. But he'd grown up with a mental picture of the UK, moulded by those kick-off snapshots of 92 teams which were also places.

And somewhere in the picture, there was Doncaster and Darlington, still paired, and joined at the hip like Siamese twins. Or rather, like a loving couple, the Don and his Darling; the man of steel with his consort, who wears a Quaker’s hat. Those mysterious bonds, that mix of emotions too deep to explore – had anything changed? Decades had passed; yet Doncaster and Darlington were still coupled. So perhaps it was a marriage after all, even though they were football teams and also places. It was a marriage because certain beginnings are creative times, times spanning who knows how long when anything is possible, and chance comes along to tie things together – tied with a knot that’s impossible to unravel, and stored in a mental cupboard for evermore. Doncaster and Darlington were lovers, and that was a fact.

Notes on a Funeral, by Anthony Bloor

The journey the station the streets the accents the bus station the driver the accents the stop the walk the church the service the car park the drive the roads the roundabouts the creme the service the curtains the wait the car park the drive the roads the lodge the cousins the voices the memories the car park the drive the traffic the lights the queues the detour the station the rain the train the rain the rain the rain…

A cynic would say that funerals are civilisation’s way of dealing with what is essentially a waste disposal problem, best solved by cremation. One in, one out – a conveyor belt for the dead, exploited by those in the business for a tidy sum that continues to rise. Leaving the house that morning, I was more concerned about the weather. And the trains. It was just about feasible. It meant catching the first train from Church Stretton and leaving Durham fairly early to catch the last train from Manchester. The trains were on time. Then a bus ride to the rendezvous, a church in the middle of a housing estate. Leaving the church, the guests exchanged nods and smiles and words of satisfaction that the resume of Sheila’s life had been a fitting tribute. But falling asleep that night, the eulogy was lost, the details dissolved in the day’s events which were strung together like scenes from a movie.

And the movie was rewound, replayed, rewound and replayed, over and over – the journey the station the streets the accents the bus station the driver the accents the stop the walk the church the service the car park the drive the roads the roundabouts the creme the service the curtains the wait the car park the drive the roads the lodge the cousins the voices the memories the car park the drive the traffic the lights the queues the detour the station the rain the train the rain the rain the rain....

War Stories, by Anthony Bloor

“Lest we forget,” the chorus says. But if there’s no substance for the memory, what then?

I am gazing at a star. It’s a 1914-15 Star, one of an estimated 2.4 million awarded to all who served in any theatre of war outside the UK between August 1914 and December 1915. The reverse is engraved with a number, followed by PTE. J. and the paternal surname, followed by A. O. C. Who was this J, who served as a Private in the Army Ordnance Corps?

An online search takes us to the National Archives, and the number is the clue. We now have a regiment, another number, a filling for the J, and the option of paying £3.45 to view his medal index card. Who is this J? Census records, 1901: J is my father’s uncle, my father’s father’s brother, my great-uncle, born in Burton-on-Trent, 1894.

I remember our trips to Burton-on-Trent. Sunday picnics, walks by the river, the churchyard, my father searching for relatives, who might have been dead. But I don’t remember this great-uncle, aged 20 in 1914. When did he join? Where did he serve? What did he see? What horrors? What noise? And did he ever tell my father?

Somewhere down the line, there’s a blockage. I don’t remember meeting any of these relatives and my father, reticent at the best of times, didn’t tell us what J could tell us. What would he want to tell us? Did he prefer silence?

We can’t ask the old ones; silenced forever, so we shall never know. All we have is a medal, “lest we forget.” And memories of Sundays, the river, the churchyard, and my father searching for relatives, who might have been dead.

Message in a Bottle, by Anthony Bloor

The inability of a species to reproduce itself must inevitably lead to its extinction. As the person responsible for this tragedy, I must set out the facts, in the hope that another life form, human or alien, will judge me kindly. It was I who discovered that catarrh could be recycled into a source of fuel, I who produced the blueprint for the manufacture of Phlegmonium 125, and my discoveries were fortuitous. New viruses were rife; humans everywhere suffered from permanent colds; and our energy sources were depleted. But the burning of phlegmonium had unforeseen consequences. Within a generation, we knew we were doomed. The reproductive process simply failed; cloning techniques failed. Impotence and infertility; men and women both implicated – so the gynaecologists said. But I still believe that a woman’s nose is more sensitive than a man’s. My wife is here now, sneezing. She stares at me, accusingly. There are four of us left in the town. Our average age is 140. There’s nobody left to manage the phlegmonium plants; nobody capable of closing them down. The toxins are still out there. And we walk the streets regardless – we won’t be here for long.

Marty, by Anthony Bloor

Marty

(In memory of Rik Mayall)

 The circumstances were most odd. It was just like the day when Marty had a fit. Someone had given him a retro kettle a year ago and, instead of whistling as intended, the thing had started belching. The back door was swollen with the rains and needed a yank to shut properly. We were in the lounge discussing the news, Marty was standing by the door smoking a cigarette, and the kettle was on the boil. Marty finished his cigarette just as the kettle started to spit. He danced inside with a flurry, heaving the door with almighty yanks, but it still wouldn’t shut and the kettle was belching and farting like a volcano. “Oh God!” he said. “Nothing… bloody… works!” And he fell to the floor, beat the carpet with both fists, and died. Just like that. We all laughed at the time. He was such a drama queen.

Piss Pots, by Anthony Bloor

Extracts from a letter written by Mr Jackson, manager of the alum works at Boulby, North Yorkshire, 1784

                                

As I write this page, it is six days since I saw the sun. A chill wind continues to blow from the East, bringing sea frets to our coast from Whitby to Scarborough, and a ghostly pallor hangs over the land. A hoar frost has covered the works, which makes it hard for the men for the earth is like iron and does not yield easily to pick and shovel. We hope that the weather improve in the new year, lest the waters freeze and we be forced to lay men off. But I fear 1785 may bring more distress, with Sir Thomas’s wishes that we give up getting urine from the Manor. Sir Thomas has made it known that Lord Musgrave was fined by the Court Leet for allowing his casks of urine to become a nuisance. Even so, that was in London, where the casks stood on street corners and the shopkeepers complained of the annoyance. Our collectors ride by at night and carry two barrels per horse, each barrel being large enough to hold 25 gallons of urine. They collect chamber lye from our own men, who gain one penny per firkin for their urine. Should we be forced to make other arrangements, the extra expense will cost us dear and our men will face a loss. Both Sir Thomas and Lord Musgrave have expressed a wish to make urine a Manorial right which would be sad indeed as Sir Thomas could henceforth prevent Lord Musgrave, or anyone else, from collecting urine in the Manor, and where would such a measure leave our men? The demand for this article is increasing and we shall be obliged to have urine brought by sea and pay the costs of the transport. We have put off making a decision until the new year, but the men must have heard rumours of the Lord’s wishes, for a mob had gathered outside our gates when I rode home this evening and were protesting most loudly. They were there all eventide and the worse for drink I fear, for they were still there in the early hours, calling me "piss pot" and other unsavoury names. They were still there when the collectors came.

Note: Urine was widely used as a commodity from the 1600s to the late nineteenth century, not only in the manufacture of alum, but also in the production of saltpetre and gunpowder and in the scouring of raw wool. This fictional account is based on research by Alan Morrison as recorded in his booklet Alum: North East Yorkshire’s fascinating story of the first chemical industry.

Lost, by Anthony Bloor

It came as a great shock when I learnt that I too had that terrible disease. The latest memories are the first to fade but the earliest, the very earliest memories - they’re the last to vanish. And when I thought about this, I decided this was how it should be. Because the news is so awful these days, and the world has become a scary place. Best not to think about it. Whereas my earliest memories are of happier days, so it’s good that they should stay for as long as… as long as… And my house is full of nice things: photographs and old postcards, which help me to remember the happy times. I can’t wait to get back home, surrounded by the familiar, looking at bric-a-brac, and remembering how they arrived into my world of things. If only… If only I could remember… where I live.