You Did Say Have Another Sausage

John Meadows

Description

Light-hearted, anecdotal true stories as the author shares his wide-ranging experiences as a mischievous art student, bemused psychiatric nurse, reluctant parachutist, harassed teacher, American counsellor and time-traveller. Follow his hilarious escapades with a human skeleton, nude model and a lion, and witness incidents of mistaken identity that create comic situations in a psychiatric ward. Touring America by Greyhound Bus he encounters interesting characters and uncovers some intriguing stories. Occasionally, he takes a detour and travels by time-machine to visit his future self as a teacher supervising school art tours. Each chapter has a different scenario and whimsical, observational humour is the common thread.

Sujets

• Humour

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 04 février 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781785383861
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
You Did Say Have Another Sausage
John Meadows



Publisher Information
Published in 2016 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2016 John Meadows
The right of John Meadows to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The views and opinions expressed herein belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of Andrews UK.



Acknowledgements
A special thank you to Bill Fryer, Janette Lyon, Bill Lyon and Doreen Williams for reading my manuscript and offering encouragement and advice.



Dedication
To my wife Norma, without whom this book would never have happened.
Also, in memory of my nephew Paul Buckley (1980 - 2016)



Chapter One
Life from a Donkey
A Genuine Constable
“You’re nicked!” growled a voice menacingly in my ear as a huge forearm held me from behind with a vice-like grip round the neck.
Then a second voice grunted, “We’ve been after you for months!” as my left arm was forced up my back. Petrified with shock I turned to find myself face-to-face with a copper, his features contorted and spitting venom through clenched teeth like a pantomime villain.
I had just got off the bus from Rainhill to St. Helens town centre one Sunday night, after a night out with my girlfriend, Norma. It was close to midnight and there were a few people around. I had noticed a couple of policemen silhouetted by the street lights, and the next thing I knew was that I was pounced upon and apprehended. Reflected in a shop window, I caught a brief glimpse of several passers-by stopping to witness this dramatic arrest.
“Eh?” I croaked incredulously, “I think you must have made a mistake.”
“Yeah, they all say that,” he sneered.
Then the policeman holding my arm up my back said, “No mistake, you are definitely our man.”
I turned to my left and again was met face-to-face by a determined copper. But this time he was grinning broadly.
“Are you trying to give me a bleedin’ heart attack?” I spluttered as they released me. I patted my chest to emphasize the point.
It was Willy Fryer, or, as he now preferred, Bill. He was a former schoolmate and life-long friend who had recently joined the Police Force; so Little Willy had morphed into ‘Old Bill’. He was out on the beat as part of his training.
The two of them roared with laughter, pleased to have frightened the life out of an innocent member of the public. Once I had stopped shaking, and I felt the colour come back to my face, all I could do was join in the laughter and appreciate the joke, more relieved than amused. The few people who had stopped to watch seemed disappointed as they dispersed into the night. Bill introduced me to his colleague, a constable who was acting as his training mentor. We chatted together as I accompanied them to the police station, which was on my route home. I had known Bill since we were both five years old and had been classmates at both Merton Bank Primary and Cowley Grammar school. A few years later we were to be the best man at each other’s weddings. He was always a larger-than-life character, in more ways than one. Dark haired with bushy eyebrows, he stood 6ft 2in and weighed over 16 stones. A rugby prop forward, he was tailor-made to be a policeman. His colleague was even bigger. I wouldn’t like to bump into those two on a dark night. What am I saying? That’s exactly what I did do!
“So how is your art course at the Gamble?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the imposing Victorian building opposite the police station. The St. Helens School of Art was housed there, together with the public library. Its official title was the Gamble Institute, founded in 1896 by Sir David Gamble, the first mayor of St Helens.
“I’ve heard that they draw and paint nude models, is that true?” they asked, straight to the point without any preamble or foreplay.
“Of course,” I replied matter-of-factly.
“What’s it like?” they asked, sounding more like schoolboys than members of Her Majesty’s Constabulary. They reminded me of the character in ‘Monty Python’s’ ‘nudge, nudge, say no more’ sketch. The one when Eric Idle asks Terry Jones if he has ever seen a naked lady.
“Why is it everyone always asks me straight away about drawing nude models when they find out that I am an art student?” I asked rhetorically. “I am surprised at you two,” I said with haughty, mock indignation.
“All I will say is that nothing goes on in there to merit a police raid.”
“Pity,” they said, laughing.
“How are you enjoying your police training?” I asked, changing the subject.
“It’s great,” replied Bill with a level of enthusiasm that seemed to be aimed as much towards his mentor as to me. “We always walk round in two’s... and that’s inside the police station!”
I finally got home at about quarter to one.
“What time do you call this?” asked my dad.
“I’ve just been grabbed by the police and accompanied them to the station.”
“Why, what have you been doing?”
“Nothing.”
“The police don’t just grab people in the street for no reason,” he said dismissively, convinced that I must have been guilty of something or other.
“It was Bill, but thank you for your vote of confidence.”
My mum then chipped in, “I saw Bill in town last Saturday afternoon, and I’ve never been so embarrassed.”
“Why, what happened?” we both asked.
“I was carrying my shopping bags and trying to cross the busy road to catch the Blackbrook bus when Bill came round the corner. He looked great, proud as punch in his brand new uniform, shiny buttons and polished shoes. His face lit up as he saw me. He took my bags off me and stepped into the road and stopped the traffic so that I could cross. The bus was just about to pull away, but trainee constable Fryer had other ideas. He signalled authoritatively for the driver to stop, which he did, and then escorted me to get on the bus at the back before giving the driver a sign to move off. I waved goodbye to Bill. He stood to attention and saluted.”
“That’s Bill all right,” said dad, smiling and shaking his head.
It was 1967, which was a milestone year in many respects. It has become known as ‘the Summer of Love’, the zenith of the swinging sixties when England set the trends in music and modern popular culture. The dedicated followers of fashion turned Carnaby Street into a catwalk to the soundtrack of ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’, ‘All You Need Is Love’ and ‘Purple Haze.’ Hippies in Hyde Park displayed their psychedelic body-art dancing to Scott McKenzie’s ‘If you’re going to San Francisco be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.’ The BBC finally responded to the competition from ‘Radio Caroline’ by launching Radio 1 with ‘Flowers in the Rain’. The year was encapsulated by the seminal album ‘Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’ by the Beatles, and its ‘Pop-Art’ record sleeve, designed by artist Peter Blake, has become an iconic image in its own right.
So what better year to leave the straightjacket of grammar school for the freedom of art college? It was a quantum leap from school cloisters with teachers in academic gowns to action-painting and nude models. It was a great time to be 18. There is a well-worn, tired old cliché, ‘If you can remember the 60s, you weren’t really there’. I must be an exception to that particular rule because, like fine wine, my memories improve with age, and, like oil paintings, they appreciate in value (well, perhaps not my paintings).
That’s Life
I enrolled at Art College with another of our school friends, Jeff, who could not have been more different to Bill. He was ‘Laurel’ to Bill’s ‘Hardy’. We had been friendly rivals in art since competing for the prestigious job of painting the main figures on the Nativity frieze at infants’ school. Perhaps not quite at the same level as Raphael and Michelangelo painting the frescoes at the same time in the Vatican, or Van Gogh and Gauguin in Arles, but, nevertheless, our rivalry spurred us both on throughout school days. Now we were starting a foundation course for one year: studying many different arts and crafts prior to specialism at degree level.
It is a very lucky person indeed who can genuinely look forward to going to work, and then enjoying every day. It was like that on my art course. I felt as though I had made the best career move since Ringo Starr decided to leave the best pop group in Liverpool, ‘Rory Storm and the Hurricanes’ to join a lesser known, up-and-coming band called ‘The Beatles’. The informality and general ambience was like a breath of fresh air, albeit tinged with turpentine and oil paint, as Jeff and I arrived for our first day with our brand new portfolios and boxes of art materials. I had spent the summer working shifts at United Glass bottle factory (now the site of St. Helen’s Rugby League Club’s Langtree Park Stadium), and, what’s more, we had been awarded grants by St. Helens Council. We felt rich. We were in a mixed class of 16 to 18 year olds, most straight from school. It was quite surprising when the tutors told us to address them by their first names, and definitely not ‘Sir’. The only similarity with school is that we were given a timetable, but one which was made up of drawing, painting, printmaking, ceramics, sculp