My Wight Little Isle

Peter Broadbent

Description

It's 2008 and Jeremy Stubbles (or 'Stubbsy' as he's better known) is due to turn 30. Born and bred in Cowes, Isle of Wight, he lives a bachelor existence in his Art Deco flat overlooking the Solent. He is the proud owner of a floor-shaking Wurlitzer Bubbler jukebox, a retro king-sized water-bed, last season's Musto jacket and a Ford Scorpio that is lovingly valeted as soon as the suggestion of a speck of dust mars its finish. Despite these enviable assets, he never seems to quite succeed in enticing eligible young women back to his flat to admire the view from the bedroom. Maybe it's the eccentric behaviour of Nobby and Bobby, his African grey parrots? Or Angela, his cleaner, who feels that having a tidy fridge would do wonders for Stubbsy's love-life?But Stubbsy's life is about to change when the delectable Judith Onions arrives on the scene...In this comic novel, Peter Broadbent perfectly captures the spirit of life on the Island - from the realities of the Isle of Wight Festival, Cowes Week and the Brambles Bank cricket match, to the fantasies of the arm-wrestling championship, the 'Thong in Cheek' underwear boutique, and skinny-dipping in the Medina.

Sujets

• Humour

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 02 avril 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781909183483
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title page
My Wight Little Isle
Very Much a Novel
by Peter Broadbent



Publisher information
First published in 2014 by
Chaplin Books
1 Eliza Place
Gosport PO12 4UN
www.chaplinbooks.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed in 2014 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © Peter Broadbent
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder for which application should be addressed in the first instance to the publishers. No liability shall be attached to the author, the copyright holder or the publishers for loss or damage of any nature suffered as a result of the reliance on the reproduction of any of the contents of this publication or any errors or omissions in the contents.



Foreword
The Isle of Wight, known by most folk as ‘The Island’, is located a short distance off the south coast of England. It is roughly diamond in shape with each of its four corners aligned with the cardinal compass points.
Cowes lies at its northernmost point, where the river Medina cleaves the town in half. On one bank is East Cowes, home to about four thousand people, and noted for Osborne House, the Island retreat of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, and where the Queen majestically passed away in 1901. East Cowes was also where the genius Christopher Cockerell conceived, designed and built the world’s first hovercraft. On the opposite bank is what should logically be called West Cowes, but is simply known as Cowes. This part of the town is home to the prestigious Royal Yacht Squadron and hosts the world’s largest sailing regatta, ‘Cowes Week’.
The two halves of town are linked by the oddly named Floating Bridge, which is actually a chain-link ferry – it’s the only way to cross, unless we feel like taking a thirty-minute detour to Newport to use Coppins Bridge, and it attracts a surprising number of local devotees… just because it’s there.
Cowes’ link to the mainland, or ‘North Island’ as we sometimes call it, is via the Red Funnel car ferry service that takes an hour to trundle its cargo of vehicles and foot passengers across the Solent from East Cowes to the port of Southampton. West Cowes is home to the passenger-only Red Jet service that does the same journey in twenty minutes, but without the slot machines.
Island residents who can prove beyond reasonable doubt that they are of pure Isle of Wight stock going back at least three generations, can proudly claim to be ‘Caulkheads’ – a term derived from the once widespread local industry of sealing the seams of wooden boats with a mixture of oakum and tar known as ‘caulking’. Another theory that better suits the exceptional character of the Island people dates back to the Middle Ages. A group of fearless, armoured Island horsemen strategically lured the marauding French into the waters of the Solent. The Islanders stood their ground on the partially submerged Brambles Bank thereby, despite their heavy armour, appeared to float in the sea… like corks.
It is rumoured that the ancient Island tradition of throwing newborn babies into the sea from the end of Ryde Pier to see if they float like true Caulkheads is no longer officially sanctioned.
Following Queen Victoria’s example, many people from the mainland have settled on the Island. These people are referred to as ‘Overners’ and have brought to our serene and pleasant island many strange and misunderstood behaviours.



Introduction
2008 was a year of global financial chaos. Lehman Brothers filed for bankruptcy and in Iceland the Financial Supervisory Authority took control of the country’s banks. An exploding star halfway across the visible universe was declared to be the farthest known object visible to the naked eye. The Moon appeared 14% bigger and 30% brighter than normal. On the last day of 2008 an extra leap-year second (23:59:60) was added to world time.
On the UK mainland, the Government nationalised Northern Rock, an earthquake with its epicentre in Lincolnshire was felt across most of Britain, London Heathrow Terminal Five opened despite insufficient testing and staff training, and Boris Johnson defeated Ken Livingstone to become Mayor of London. At the Beijing Olympic Games, Great Britain won 19 gold, 13 silver and 15 bronze medals and finished fourth in the medals table. Woolworths announced that it would close all its stores in January 2009, putting thousands of people out of work. Portsmouth won the FA Cup, beating Cardiff City 1–0.
On the Isle of Wight, ‘Popeye’ Popplewell won the Isle of Wight Arm Wrestling Championship and The Kaiser Chiefs performed at the Isle of Wight Festival. The annual mattress-moving festival, the internationally acclaimed IOW scooter rally and the mid-Solent cricket match went ahead despite the worldwide financial turmoil. The ancient custom of Medina skinny-dipping was officially revived and the subsequent unauthorised video became a surprising YouTube favourite. The grounding of the Cunard flagship on our mid-Solent cricket pitch was the year’s best-kept secret.
The Island didn’t officially change its clocks, putting itself a whole leap-year second ahead of the rest of the world.



1. January: Some serious arm-wrestling
The stringy-limbed young woman who lives with her mother in the top floor apartment is lolling on one of the foyer’s settees doing a word-search puzzle.
‘Good evening, Penthouse. Have I already wished you a Happy New Year?’ I ask.
She swings her feet to the floor, sits up and smiles. ‘Can’t remember, Stubbsy.’
‘Happy New Year then… just in case I haven’t.’
‘And a Happy New Year to you, Mr Stubbles.’
‘Waiting for someone?’
‘Mum’s having one of her special afternoons.’ She stabs a finger skywards. ‘Half-a-dozen lady pensioners getting smashed on home-distilled rum. I’m having some quiet time.’
‘I’m going for a drink, then on to Spokes for the arm-wrestling. Fancy joining me?’
She strokes her nose. ‘Sorry Stubbsy, I’ve really got to crack this.’ She waves her magazine. ‘Remember me to Popeye if you see him – tell him that Penthouse has got a fiver on him to win this year.’
Turned down again… second best to a word-search.
The brass-furnished entrance doors to Medina Court close behind me. The crimson disc of the evening’s setting sun is reflected in a glass window on the opposite bank of the river. I stand for a moment, take a deep breath, check the car-park to see if the Scorpio is OK and head towards my favourite watering hole.
The River View Inn has commanded unrestricted views of the River Medina since the 1930s. The marine blue anchor-patterned carpet is frayed near the entrance door and badly worn along the length of the bar. On the flock-papered north wall are elderly photographs of Cowes in more sedate, sepia times. The south wall honours the skill of Beken, the Cowes-based marine photographer, with monochrome photographs of yachts under billowing sails slicing through grey Solent waters. The furniture is well-worn grey – old but still comfortable. The brass foot-rail, running the length of the bar, relies solely on the feet of customers for its shine. The River View Inn’s redeeming feature is its choice of beers. Descriptions of bottled and canned beers from all over the world are displayed on a colourful poster alongside the lengthy bar. Nowhere else on the Island can you buy a chilled bottle of Negra Modelo from Mexico, a Khan Bräu from Mongolia or a Lion Stout from Sri Lanka. Conversely, only Island-brewed ales are available through the pumps: Fuggle Dee Dum, Undercliff Experience, Yachtsman’s Ale, Iron Horse, Holy Joe, Nipper Bitter and Duck’s Folly to name only those I can see.
Erin McKlusky, the River View Inn’s most eye-catching barmaid, is an exceptional young lady who can entice local ale from barrel to pint glass with extraordinary skill. ‘Pint, Stubbsy?’ she asks, coupled with her trademark welcoming smile.
‘Undercliff please.’ I’m not a natural beer drinker – I much prefer a good malt whisky – but watching Erin pull a pint is enjoyable. This evening, her waist-length auburn hair is scrunched back into a swaying ponytail and she is wearing tight faded jeans and a mint green T-shirt under a light grey cashmere jumper. Although we had attended the same school, our academic paths hadn’t crossed as she is about eight years younger than me. She’s a graceful, willowy girl with freckles that arch over the bridge of her nose.
I hand Erin a fiver and she nods towards the ‘Elders’, a group of blokes several decades older than either of us. They are huddled round a table close to the Gents and the largest working radiator. ‘They’re all in this evening.’
‘Young Stubbsy, come and join us,’ hollers Garry, swirling his red-and-white Southampton FC scarf above his head like a helicopter’s rotor blade.
Erin places my change firmly in the palm of my upturned hand. ‘Best of luck. Beware Nigel’s stowaway joke.’
‘I’ve already heard that one,’ I whisper.
‘He forgets.’
Garry drapes his red-and-white scarf over the back of his chair next to his military surplus anorak and jumps up from his chair to make room for me. Garry has an excessively lined face, which gives him a melancholy appearance. In reality, he’s a very humorous individual when you get to know him. ‘Think I’ve pulled a muscle,’ he says, grimacing and stroking his shoulder.
‘Shouldn’t be playing helicopters at your age,’ I say.
There are nods and grunts of agreement from around the table.
‘Evening, Stubbsy,’ says Nigel massaging his abundant grey hair so that it looks fashionably