Join the Party

Back in the late 70s and early 80s, the drinking culture was not like it is now. We didn't have the range of strong lagers, real ales, shots and alcopops that are available today. Instead we had to make do with watery bitter and weak lager, unless you wanted to progress to the hard stuff. I used to drink a bitter called Double Diamond and, if you wanted lager, it was generally Skol. The mildly serious alcoholics drank cider but the more dedicated drank Carlsberg Special Brew which looks and tastes like a liquefied, nicotine-based tar.  However, if you were on your way to a party or a night of underage drinking down by the canal, the thing to have was a Watneys Party Seven.

For those that haven't sampled the delights of the Watneys Party Seven, or its smaller sibling the Party Four, I shall explain the concept. Take a large paint tin, fill it to the brim with seven pints of watery bitter,  seal it so you can't easily access the contents, then sell it as a ready-made party in a tin. It was great. The only way you could get booze in those days was either to steal it off your parents, or visit an off-license and convince the watchful gatekeeper you were old enough to buy the goods. Therefore, a man with a seven pints of beer became instantly popular.

The Party Seven could never win any awards for design or convenience and there were several problems with it.  Firstly, it was extremely heavy to carry around. Secondly, you could only access it with a tin opener of the type that punched a hole in the top of the can. Of course, we didn't carry such things around with us, and I remember trying to punch holes with any sharp piece of metal or stone we could find lying around. We were lucky we didn't injure ourselves. Anyone with a knowledge of physics will know that you need two holes so the air can flow into one while the beer flows out the other. This made the hole punching exercise doubly difficult. The third problem was a result of the first two problems. Because you agitated the beer while transporting it, then shook it up further trying to open it; you often ended up wearing a pint of sticky, brown liquid.

The next hazard involved trying to decant a very heavy tin into a receptacle you could drink out of. This time it was the carpet that took the soaking. If you managed to open it correctly and didn't spray the first pint all over yourself, you were faced with problem five. Because the tin was so full, as you tipped it up, the beer would flow out of the top hole as well and dribble onto your shoes. Oh what fun we had.

For all its faults, the Party Seven was an icon of its age. Those wags at Watneys may well have been having a joke with us by marketing their fizzy bomb in a tin but we will never see its like again; fortunately. For all you budding drunkards out there who are too young to remember the distinctive red can, in the words of Harold Macmillan, 'you never had it so good.'

The Bigger They Are.

Randy Newman once wrote a song called 'Short People' apparently mocking those of diminutive stature. Although it was actually a satirical song about prejudice most people missed the point and thought it was actually about, well, short people. As a vertically challenged person myself, I am here to tell you big is not necessarily beautiful.

My Stepfather is a lovely chap but suffers from excessive tallness. I believe he is about 6ft 7ins tall and stocky with it.  In the days before the internet he had to get his clothes and shoes from specialist shops. Not for him a quick trip down the High Street for a new suit off the peg, people of his size just weren't catered for and generally still aren't. I can remember my brother and I being fascinated by his size 13 shoes which looked big enough to climb into and sail across the English Channel. A couple of my friends are well over six foot and recount stories of nearly knocking themselves out on Low beams and doorways. They probably live in a permanent state of semi concussion. I used to go and see a few bands with one of my height afflicted buddies. I would be pushing my way to front to be able to see and he would be hanging round at the back, why? Because he was so self-conscious of his height he didn't want to block peoples view. I don't have any such foibles.

And it's not only people, even stuffed toys can be too big. When our grandson was ill some relatives bought him a huge, cuddly, toy dog. Their intentions were for the best and they were just trying to show their affection but it stands about 5ft tall and is bigger than a 10 year old child. It's too big for him to play with and takes up the entire corner of a room. My lovely wife has already scared herself once by coming across it in the dark thinking it's an intruder. His mother is worried about putting it in his bedroom in case he wakes in the night and it frightens him. When we drove up the motorway to deliver the cuddly dog to our grandson, I had it strapped into the back of the car like an elderly relative. I'm sure we created much amusement for the other traffic.

We took our one of our sons on holiday to Corfu. There was a little shop near the beach which sold all the flip flops, beach paraphernalia, inflatable li-los and the like. Hanging up in the rafters was an inflatable killer whale; it was huge. Of course our son wanted one. Against my better judgement we indulged him and bought it and for some reason, I know not why, he named it Jeffery. The vendor cheerfully blew it up for us and we headed to the beach. I must admit we spent a merry time trying to ride it in the sea and towing him around on it. The problem was that every time we let go of it the wind would catch it and take it swiftly out to sea and I would have to swim like Mark Spitz to get it back again. The same problem happened when it was on the beach, a tiny gust of wind and I would be racing up the beach to retrieve it. My wife is still laughing about it.

We used to have a silver birch tree in our front garden that was planted when the estate was built. Over the years it grew to be an impressive specimen and became a beautiful tree. Unfortunately, it became so large it blocked out the light and filled the neighbours guttering with leaves every autumn. It was just too big and had to go although I did feel bad about it.

Pity the poor roadies who have had their backs broken over the years by moving those Marshall stacks; they look impressive on stage but some poor sod has got to lug them about. It's hard to look cool when you are dragging a speaker cabinet up a flight of stairs.

So the moral of story is big is not necessarily better and, if you are deciding which musical instrument to take up, remember; It's better to be the sexy, glamorous saxophonist leaving the gig with his instrument case in one hand and a girl in the other than the timpani player, dripping in sweat, loading his kit into back of the van while the rest of his mates party.

Little Miss Muffet

What does September mean to you? In our house it means it's the start of spider season. It's the time of year when spiders that have been hiding under the floorboards growing fat decide to come out and party. The garden spiders also seem keen to join in as their large, bulbous, brown bodies suddenly appear in your shrubberies and conifers overnight.

My dearly beloved doesn't like spiders. In some households the little dark demons are left alone to wander about, but not in our home. No mercy is shown to the spindly fiends if they present themselves in the open. They are carefully captured, taken outside and stomped on. I have made the mistake of killing them indoors by squashing them against the walls but, unfortunately, the evidence remains for all to see until the next time I decorate. I have also tried to take them outside and release them but I am certain the little buggers run back in again. I believe I have had to capture the same large spider three or four times before now. Hence, the death sentence is mandatory. In the mornings I find myself checking all the likely places such as the in the bath and the sinks, on the stairs and in the corners of ceilings to prevent my honey getting a nasty surprise. She has been known to get me out of bed before now and I have even been called home from work for a spider in the linen basket on one occasion.

My lovely wife is not alone in her fear of the eight legged terrors. According to a particular statistic I read, 50% of women and 10% of men suffer from arachnophobia. Personally I think that's rubbish, it's much more than that. Fear of spiders is most common in European societies which is odd considering all the dangerous ones live on the other continents. According to the sages who are supposed to know these things, it developed as a survival instinct against the little critters. They also suggest it is so strong because spiders are small, common and adept at hiding in your house and therefore potentially more dangerous than some of the larger animals we have developed defences against.

There was a study where a wolf spider whose fangs had been covered in wax so he couldn't inject venom was allowed to hunt crickets in a tank. The crickets were then allowed to breed and the offspring put in the tank with the spider. The offspring of the crickets who had been exposed to the spider were much more likely to hide from the predator than crickets with no previous exposure. Eureka, shouted the scientists, that proves that fear of spiders can be passed from a mother to its unborn foetus. Unfortunately, the figure they claimed was 113% more likely which, as everyone knows, is a very unscientific figure. It tends to throw a shadow over their findings in my opinion.

They have developed virtual spiders now to assist in the treatment of arachnophobia. Personally, I think they should just make the patients watch the film of the same name which is so laughably ridiculous that it would cure anyone. Of course other things do happen in September, it's also the month of my brother's birthday but I don't think the two are connected.