My father was always dapper when
he left the house at the weekend. His suits were tailored by Harry Davies in
Moss Side. Saturday morning would see him shaving, polishing his shoes and
slicking back his hair with Brylcreem. Before leaving he would brush any lint
from his suit – using a clothes brush which hung on a little wooden plaque in
the hall. The plaque was next to a small font of Holy Water, but Dad would pass
on the chance to bless himself. Going back through the house, he would leave by
the back door and say the same thing over his shoulder every time:
‘Cheerio.’
I have never been fond of science
fiction. Even as a child I would only watch the likes of ‘Star Trek’ when there
was absolutely nothing else on and then for amusement only. One of the most
amusing of the many amusing conventions of ‘Star Trek’ was the way in which the
members of the crew were thrown about when an impact occurred. This phenomenon
is referred to online as ‘Star Trek Shake’ – which makes it sound like a dance
craze for geeks which, if it existed, would surely make onlookers weep tears of pity until their eyes smarted.
All reserves of the limited
acting skill available on the Star Trek set were called up and drained as the
‘actors’ threw themselves around and grabbed hold of space-age consoles with
flashing lights and vibrating joysticks. All this occurred while an emergency
klaxon blared - as though to state the bleeding obvious. Spock would wobble
ever so slightly and say something smug, before reserve jet boosts would kick in
and propel the craft back to safety. I imagine that dustpans could then be
deployed to sweep up any debris.
On an average Saturday night
throughout the 1970’s my father would return home and recreate this scene. He
would move around the building as though it had just been hit by a meteorite.
He would turn the radio volume to ‘11’ to alert the entire neighbourhood to the
emergency. In lieu of illuminated space consoles he would cling to items of
furniture. Undeterred by the debilitating effect of warp factor 9, he would
flip his congealed dinner into a frying pan and cook it until he was sure it
was piping hot. This would usually involve the creation of enough acrid smoke
to trigger the smoke alarms of our next door neighbour.
The burnt offering would be
washed down with lemonade. The smoke would clear, the craft would steady and
Galway’s answer to James T Kirk would climb the stairs to recover from another
exhausting journey into outer space. The Captain’s retirement would be signalled
by the loud cascade of loose change from his pockets into a bright yellow
Holsten Pils ashtray on his dressing table.
Bernadette asked me yesterday if I
could think of any items that could go into Dad’s room at the nursing home - to "help
him feel more at home"
I asked if we still had the ashtray.
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