MEMORY OF A GOLDFISH

Oh fuck. I’ve forgotten what I was going to rant about.

Yeah, that’s it. Memory. Fucking useless mine is. I go upstairs to get something, the wife asks me a question on the way up, and by the time I get to the top I’ve forgotten whatever it was I climbed the stairs for. It’s bollocks.

I have to go back down and stand in the place where I thought of getting whatever it was originally (if I can remember where I was) and think hard. Suddenly it comes back to me and off I go. Half way up the stairs I’ve forgotten again.

The other day, the wife dropped me at the station to catch the train to London. Made it in good time. Gave her a sloppy kiss and made my way over the stairs to the platform. Just about to climb aboard when I realised I’d left my wallet at home with all my cards and Oyster card, Network card etc. Buggery bollocks. I had £2.40 in my pocket, so I couldn’t even buy a single tube ticket the other end. Rang the missus and she made a dash back home to get the wallet. She was never going to make it before the train left. The guard looked at me wondering if I was getting on. I told him why I couldn’t, but also explained that I had a dirt cheap ticket that only allowed travel on that particular train and I would have to buy another full price ticket. He asked for the document and scribbled something down on his bit of paper, tore it off and told me to show it to the guard on the next train. He’d requested that I be allowed to travel on the following train, even though the ticket was not valid. Brilliant – thanks mate, and to South West trains, I take back all the shit I threw at you during a recent rant here.

Anyway, wife came back with wallet after the train had left, but all was well, even though it was a balls-ache.

Where was I?

Memory. Useless. Thought it was linked to age, but thinking about it, I have always been crap at remembering anything, from an early age. My Mum would always ask as I left the house for school, if I had my hanky. I never did. Why would anyone blow all that sticky snot into a cloth and then put it in their pocket? That’s disgusting. All that phlegm oozing around in your trousers. And when you need to pull it out again, you have to find a bit of the hanky that isn’t squelching or crusty. My mates would never let that go, always asking if I had my hanky, the bastards. And then, as a teenager, on my way out to a gig, it would be, “Have you got your tickets?”. Invariably, I’d have to turn around and go back inside to get them. More laughter from my mates.

Then, later in my teens and early twenties, my favourite trick was to leave stuff on the roof of my car and drive off. Mother would sometimes send me off to work with a plate of salad wrapped in cling-film. Usually, a slice or two of ham with some limp lettuce, branston pickle and beetroot – oh happy days. Spoilt rotten, I was. One day I put in on the roof of the car while I loaded my other stuff in and then drove off oblivious to the fact that lunch was sitting directly above my head. It was only when I had to brake suddenly for some asshole who stepped out onto a pedestrian crossing in front of me, that I noticed. My plate of ham and lettuce and beetroot etc launched itself into the air as a food projectile, skimming over my bonnet and smashing right in front of this bloke, who got splashed with beetroot up his legs.

Another time in the mid seventies, I left the office in a hurry with a Rolleiflex camera on the roof of the car. As I lurched out of the yard I noticed something in the mirror bouncing across the road. Surprisingly, it still worked and I went off to the job and used the equipment – no problem.

After driving from Brixham to Paignton once, again in the mid seventies, I was waiting at the traffic lights, when a bloke started waving at me from the pavement. I wound the window down and he told me there was a box on my car roof. Sure enough, it’s my camera gear again. But this time it stayed on, despite my speed, as it was in a leather camera box and my car roof was a soft-top: I had a Triumph Spitfire at the time, so the weight of the box and the fabric of the roof stopped it from moving too far.

What a fucking numpty. But not because I was driving a Spitfire, even though it was apparently a hairdresser’s car. The car was OK, but I just looked like a twat in my Brutus shirt with Spaniel ear collars and thirty-inch flares, with a brain like a sieve. A dough-bake, or a daft Apeth, as my old Nan would say.

Now I’ve forgotten what the fuck it was I am supposed to be doing today…..