Sentimental Journey Part 4.

Odd Things That Plagued Me While I was in Poole and Had Little Access to The Internet:

1)      “Why Waste Your Time” by Bizarre Inc. Unshakable, unless…

2)      I actively thought about the “Picture Box” theme, or “Maneche” by Jacques Lasry as it’s known to its mum.

3)      That time that Terrence Trent Darby replaced the newly dead Michael Hutchence on the invitation of the pragmatic still living members of INXS, despite the fact that there is no similarity in their vocal styles at all. I suppose they’re both thin. Was that it, lads?

4)      Arthur Marshall from “Call My Bluff” and his special link to R.E.M.

5)      A new joke I invented where I would tell Susan that she had lovely, soft skin and she would say thank you and I would say “it’s not a compliment. I prefer women with horrible, rough skin.” I did variations on this joke several times. WHY YES THE LONG WINTER EVENINGS DO FLY PAST…

The comb-over still reigns in Poole. The extraordinary example, in the seat in front of me on the bus, is like a coiled pot and propped up on a neck like an elephants knee. It crosses the parabola of his head in pink and black stripes like something dangerous in nature, or a bitten into Turkish Delight. It contains the sort of structural engineering that is usually seen in the roof of a Victorian railway station. He goes into the barber’s with a biography of Isambard Kingdom Brunel.

I miss these. The standard look for your John Bull these days is cargo pants, tattoos, a popped collar, sunglasses and a shaved head. That's fine, but I prefer a man who injects a bit of mystery, a bit of theatre into his look. That hairy creation took a while to get right. There is planning in it. He is a man risking ridicule just to maintain standards. I am all for this. I’m toying with the notion of dying my hair. Looking at my passport – which runs out the day after we return – I realise I’ve looked approximately the same for a decade – the hair now whiter, the cheekbones more elusive, but basically the same. Maybe it is time to do something stupid. There should always be opportunities to be stupid otherwise you wither on the vine. And drop off.  

A distressed gentlewoman gets on the bus at Poole station, a station which never fails to be a locus for colourful characters.

“Looks like Minnie Mouse’s shoes,” she says to one confused passenger, “Your bag – it looks like Minnie Mouse’s shoes.” She moves on, recognising the woman in the next seat. “Hello,” she says. “Hello,” says the woman. “How are you?” “I’m fine.” “I’m done with horrible nasty Sue,” she says, sudden and savage, “I’m never going to speak to her again and I’m not one bit sorry.”

She retreats to a seat next to a woman who visibly flinches and makes eye contact with some distant point on the horizon.

“She’s a horrible person,” she continues, shouting down the bus, “her marriage split up, had her kids taken away from her and I don’t care one bit. She spent thousands on that gown and I don’t give a shit. She’s a horrible person.”

With this she stops. The woman in front hasn’t reacted. The now silent Sue hater gets off at the next stop. She’s been on the bus for two stops, about 500 yards.

There is a man conversing with a young mum while waiting for the barriers to lift outside the train station in Poole. He is middle-aged, five foot four, wears glasses, a short white beard and a baseball cap. He would be easily eliminated in a game of “Guess Who”. The rest of the short distance from his head to his feet is entirely wrapped in sports leisure-wear. A sovereign ring flashes on his fingers as he gesticulates and as he is discussing the paternity of a child, he gesticulates a lot. He maintains that he is the child’s father as “Ayesha is a dead spit”, but it transpires there are two other contenders. One of these is unknown but the other is Mark Bates. “You know Batesey?” he enquires of the young woman, who happily doesn’t. “I went after him – we went toe to toe.” He claims. I find it odd that he would refer to a romantic rival and potential father to his child by his nickname: “Batesey”, as though he was alright really, just being a bit of a dick.

I know I’m naïve and I know people watch Jeremy Kyle for exactly this sort of window on the world but I find myself extrapolating all manner of narratives out of this scenario: what is the relationship of the young woman he is confessing this to to him, and what of the little girl? Who is this erotic siren who is playing off these three suitors against each other? What is his relationship with Batesey, and what was the outcome of the fight? (There’s not a mark on this little man so what does Batesey look like?) Who is the shadowy third man? Harry Lime grinning up from a shop doorway again – the cat who got the cream.

There is a world in this.

Following Oedipus’ Sphinx foiling riddle, that man has four legs in the morning, two at midday and three in the evening, there would appear to be a perpetual twilight in Poole. This, more than The Isle of Man, is the land of the three legged fellow.  Everyone is propped up on sticks, walkers and wheelchairs. I’ve not seen any wicker bath-chairs being promenaded up the quay, housing a claret hued retired major with a hip flask, an ear trumpet and a rotting parakeet named Mafeking, but I wouldn’t be surprised.

The mobility scooter is king here. They travel about in gangs like superannuated hell’s angels, menacing the seagulls, and if the scooterists have a dog on a leash they can take up the same area as a Bedford van. In Poole these scooters are often accessorised with blaring radios, union flags and poppies. Poole wants no part of Europe with their busy-body rules and footling health and safety mimsyisms – they want a Wild West world where they are free to mow people down on pavements without fear of censure. This is why they often wear leather Stetsons.

A man in Bournemouth looking like Harry Dean Stanton (they’re always men and they all look like Harry Dean Stanton – men seem to surrender their legs earlier than women) pelts down the pavement blaring “Rocks” by Primal Scream. This is surely what that Primal Scream intended for that song. The man on the scooter may even have been Bobbie Gillespie – this chap had kept the weight off too. He looks so happy, so care-free even joyous. It’s hard to begrudge him his reckless endangerment of my life. Good on you. Wagons roll.

Later we’re in Wareham at “The Old Granary”, presumably where they keep the old Grannies. And lo, it proves to be the case – Susie looks like the youngest person here by about twenty years. I, at least, can slip under the radar as a sort of stealth gammon, but if conversation turns to their favourite subjects: favoured roads and minor skirmishes with the tax system, I have to make my excuses and leave.

You may have noticed a creeping gerontophobia here. It’s hard to criticize the south coast of England for having a lot of old people in it given that a) they live here and b) I knew that already and c) they fucking live here.

I blame Brexit for my prejudice and the, often wrong-headed, notion that all old people voted for it. There do seem to be a lot more flags, poppies and a fetishistic worship of the military around than there used to be, but maybe it was always there and I just didn’t notice. Or maybe it’s just me being middle-aged:  teenagers look gormless and half formed now, old people are blinkered go karting idiots squandering their grandchildren’s futures to put Golliwogs back on Robinsons jars. Well I am wrong. Obviously I am wrong.

As I sat in The Old Granary, notebook flat in front of me nib dipped in vitriol, a party of four old duffers came in: pullovers, tanned hairless legs, the usual chuntering and coughing. Typical, I thought, I can’t even have an entire pub to myself! Look at them over there – talking, like idiots. Probably going on about the ration and sharing a toilet between six families. Duffers.

They were psychology professors. They sat around talking about their long, successful, interesting, useful lives. They weren’t boasting – there was no sense of one-up-manship: they were all colleagues and equals. I found that I had stopped writing and was just listening as they went on, softly and kindly, indulgent old friends, comfortable in each other’s company. I looked down at my own cramped and cribbed scribbles about my total lack of recognition or success, and wondered how long it would remain seemly to be this sniping, antagonistic adolescent, sneering at the success of others. I should probably have stopped a long time ago.

I finished my pint of bitter.