Holiday 2012: Part 2–Day3 Touring Torquay

After the rather soggy Tuesday I was three quarter expecting the Wednesday to be a wash out as well. It started off overcast so I wasn’t entirely optimistic about the weather.

We had decided to have a trip over the Dart Moor and visit Widecome in the Moor where there is a haunted inn. I had this romantic image of Dartmoor. Rolling plains with Tors and rocks and ponies and goblins and ruined crofts and weirdness and Kate Bush and floaty types and a scary gothic foreboding Victorian prison and a sign saying “Abandon ye hope” and a solitary pub called “The Slaughtered Lamb”, Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all.

I guess I spent too much time in Yorkshire.

Sure we saw some ponies and some stones and some tors, but the lack of crofts, pubs and prisons almost outweighed the lack of Kate Bush prancing about in a floaty dress.

Anyway, we made our way across the moor and into the sleepy Yorkshiresque village of Widecome in the Moor. You might know Widecome from the folk song Widecome Fayre or you might not. Or you might know Widecome from the Great Storm of some time long ago where the Devil blew up the church. Or you might know Widecome in the Moor from page 7 of your 1976 AA Road Atlas. Either way it is a lovely place. It was there we had breakfast. Our second and last, Full English breakfast of the week. All that meat blocks your insides you know.

Widecome has loads of interesting things like the old church and ancient wells. The Old Inn in Widecome is a haunted inn from Marc Alexander’s Haunted Inns (1973).  The story goes that you can hear the cries of a child and possibly even see the spectre of a man. Bollocks or not? Who knows.

 

From Widecome we headed back into civilization and into Torquay.

I’m sorry but my next statement might upset some people.

Torquay is a dump.

There I’ve said it.

My mental image of Torquay is sandy beaches and long sweeping promenades lined with palm trees, cafés and a harbour full of luxury yachts.  Instead it was streets full of chavs, tattooed Tommys and indiscreet Escorts. Sure there were some palm trees and yes there were some yachts but the streets had handy information notices warning the residents that their excessive drinking threatens the safety of their children and their development. Not “It’s so Bracing” or “Buy our Rock” more like “Drinking makes your children into awful people like you” and “Chavviness is born through nurture not nature”.

IMAG0723We walked to the breakwater and bawked at the cost of entrance fee to the Sea Life centre – £11.75. So £23.50 better off in pocket, we decided to try and find some geocaches. Our searching took us to a little stony beach behind the Sea Life Centre which, incidentally, we could see inside from the outside. It was on the beach we were shortly joined by a dark haired woman in her late 40s walking her dogs. She was talking on her telephone giving the caller assurances that she was good looking and that he wouldn’t be disappointed and that she lived in a discrete house and discretion was her watchword for the price he would be paying.

We left.

Made our way back to the car via an amusement arcade where Zoe won me a gold £ on the tuppenny pushnshoves followed by a direct run to the car and a continuation of our journey southward.

The roads took us towards the misnamed Slapton Sands. Misnamed because Slapton Gravels doesn’t have the same ring to it. The weather had brightened and there were lots of people there enjoying the sun and sea. In such situations I crave ice cream so joy lightened my life when I was able to buy a 99 from the ice cream van there.

Now I was always of the opinion that the top five of miserable people doing jobs went something like this:

81 bus driver
Post office counter clerk
Surveyor
Surly Pot man in a dodgy pub
Mortician

But I now have to move Ice Cream Van Man at Slapton Bits of Stone Sands to the top. I actually felt like apologising for wanting to give him my money for his overpriced wares.

From there we went via Start Point (another overpriced place; £4 parking and another £5 for a look round the lighthouse) to Salcombe.

 

IMAG0731Salcombe is a bit like Torquay should have been only without all the posh wazzaks poncing about at the Regatta that was taking place there. It was a complete polar opposite to Torquay only with awful children instead of awful parents.

Hunger got the better of us so we made our way back to Plymouth searching for a Chinese restaurant that wasn’t full.

Fire

**Bang**
What was that?
Fireworks dear go back to sleep
**Bang**
Are you sure?
No!

So I got out of bed, put on my jeans and slippers and went into the lane-with-no-name. Flames, at least 10 foot high were licking the trees on the boundary of the Brierley Social Club and Mr Pritchards garden. Behind which 3 or 4 cars were parked! All of which were on fire and going POP with frightening regularity.

“What can you see?”
“Call the fire brigade!”

4am in the morning. The fire brigade are there now, the lane blocked at the top by a car, their access not thwarted because of the nature of hoses.

This is the fourth fire in as many weeks. Looks like Brierley has an arsonist.

Neighbours

Sometimes going outside of Gnomepants Manor is like running the gauntlet. A simple task, like mowing the lawn, popping the milk bottles out for the milkman, taking refuse out or a crafty smoke in the lane with no name can be fraught with obstacles.

Tomb Raider

Sleepses

So last night I donned my tartan pyjamas, picked up teddy and hopped into bed at a respectable hour as opposed to “ungodly o clock because Warcraft is addictive”. The reason behind the early night will become clear after the weekend (because I like to add a dash of mystery to my entries these days). Anyway, I had but just nodded off, the opening credits for the nights dreamingses were starting and went something like this:-

 

Stegzy Gnomepants Subconscious presents
A Stegzy Gnomepants Dream
Dreamed in GlorioustechnicolourAvril Lavigne

and The Tight fitting cat suited lesbian vampiresses with comedy inflatable breasts

In

Steamy Sex Orgies on Underground Trains Vs the Binbaggers and that woman with the green poison VIII

In soft focus

Avril Lavigne – Ooh Thelma Blair, Liv Tyler and Hayden Panettiere come and help me rub this olive oil into my pert nipples while I do rude things to Kirsten Dunst with this cucumber. You fuckin bastard I fuckin hate you you fucking cunty bastard sweary sweary bum bum

Shouty Man on street out side – You fucking bitch I fucking hate you I’m going to smack you yadda yadda yadda shouty shouty shouty

Back to real life with a start

At this point I woke up. Very annoyed. I mean just what rude things did she mean? What a point to start and end a dream! Vexxed and annoyance levels heightened by the fact that my bedside alarm clock revealed I had but been asleep for 20 minutes, I looked toward the window in response to the shouty man on the street outside who was still shouting, wtf was going on?

Shouty Man on street out side – I’m fucking gonna slap you just fuck off fucking fuck fuck fuck slap hurt bitch arrgh toilet roll fucking pot noodle
Shouty Woman – Just fuck off you fucker

By the window Mrs Gnomepants was peeping out down onto the street with all the subtlety of a flamboyance of flamingoes in a blizzard. I shuffled grumpily toward the window listening intently. There on the street was a car, the doors wide open and a rather shouty shouty man shouting at some woman, getting rather rough and slapping her about a bit. Obviously drunk (the police in South Yorkshire don’t give two flying fucks about rural drink driving so it is rife) the man was seriously and scarily shouting at everyone in the street that he had roused from their slumber, who had obviously also started to peep out of their bedroom windows, instructing them to “FOKIN MIND YO’ ORN FOKIN BIZNIS”. At which point I shrugged and thought well fuck it then, and climbed back into bed.

Mrs Gnomepants called the police. Not to inform them of my disinterest in local drunks fighting it out on the street, but because she was concerned that a woman had been assaulted (Believe me the woman was giving that bloke a better slapping than he was giving) and that there was a drunk driver on the street and could the police come. Shouty man and Shouty woman went separate ways, shouty woman headed towards Grimethorpe still shouting at shouty man even though shouty man had driven off noisily (and dangerously) toward Pontefract Road.

As I desperately tried to get back to the sticky girl on girl action in Dream Theatre, I could hear Mr Shouty Man squeeling about further up the road and Mrs Shouty Woman screeching like a banshee in the other direction.

Honestly, it’s people like that that give booze a bad name.

Eventually I nodded off:-

Avril Lavigne – (Licking buttercream off her fingers while zipping up the all in one tight fitting pvc catsuit over her rather curiously large voluminous comedy inflatable breasts) Right then Drew, Lets get him
Drew Barrymore – (Brandishing a rather large hypodermic syringe filled with green liquid) Ok but don’t forget to bring those bin bags

Bastards. I always seem to miss the best bits.

Annoy

Wrong
In the butchers
Person:- Hello, I would like some meat
Butcher:- What type of meat?
Person:- I would like meat from a cow
Butcher:- What cut would you like?
Person:- I would like shin
Butcher:- How much shin would you like?
Person:- I would like 500g’s of shin
Butcher:- That will be £3.50 please

Right
In the Butchers
Person:- Hello, I would like 500g of beef shin please
Butcher:- Certainly. That will be £3.50 please.

See how simple it is? How an unnecessary conversation can be condensed into a just one statement and answer? It’s not hard really is it?

Iggy pop

Sat to my left are a young couple. They are billing and cooing like a bunch of teenagers. They’re supposed to be working. This is a library not behind the fucking bikesheds. He’s talking in that fucking irritating cute voice and she is clinging to him like some fucking human limpet. I’ve seen them about Uni. He talks on her behalf and she just looks sheepish and docile. I bet they’re members of some weird cult.

Yesterday I was trying to get down the Lane with no name. That irritating ignorant fuck next door but one (the aka Good Life) was trimming his hedge. Mr Goodlife, you may recall, is married to a woman that looks like that woman from the eighties BBC drama Life and Loves of a She-Devil. They give the impression that they live self sufficiently and seem to think they own the fucking Lane with No name.

They don’t.

It is communal which means it is shared ownership.

As well as that they were the only people on the row of houses we live on to not come and say hello when we moved in. Anyway, his step ladder (I say step ladder it was more like a stool) was slightly blocking the lane. Now any normal person on seeing a car trying to get past would get out of the way until the car had passed. Not fuckwit. No. He just acted as though I wasn’t there. Ignorant fuck. Instead I had to turn the car round and risk the wrath of Mr Pritchard (next door but one the other way) and go through his gate. As I turned I noticed Mr Good Life topple over onto his front into a bank of nettles. Serves the fucker right.

I told G the Human Dog this morning who added that he had also had run ins with Mr Goodlife blocking the lane with no name when G had been trying to get by.

“Next time ‘e does it ‘am gunna jus leave me car behind his see how he fucking likes it”

I added that G should get me and I’ll move my car into the lane too so Goodlife won’t be able to get past.

I’m sure Mrs Gnomepants wouldn’t approve though.

Dog’s dinner.

Caught the bus into Uni this morning with the intent of having a few pints after classes this afternoon. When you catch the peasant wagon not only are you crammed into a oblong metal box with the great unwashed, but you get to hear the various conversations that go on around. They’re like social snap shots at times.

This morning I was torn between two gents discussing their various civil penalties (magistrate court fines, community service etc) and a group of girls bitching about some Cassanova who has been putting it about unbeknownst to his current squeeze.

However, as usual the best conversation is always left until last.

**phone rings**
Girl One Hiya…….yeah….no I’ll be there in two minutes. Am just on the bus….ok see you in a bit **hangs up phone** Fucking two faced bitch
Girl Two No. That was two faced.
Girl Three LOLZ0RZZZ

Weekend

Too long off makes badger a lazy, overweight and unhealthy slob.

I need to get my Academic/creative teeth into something. Tomorrow I’m going into college to edit my film (it’s not finished filming yet and I don’t think it will be).

Today Mrs Gnomepants and I looked at bathrooms (this is the second time we have done this). I would like a bath and a free standing shower with the wash basin moved to the North wall and the toilet moved 3 ft from where it is now to allow access to the potential shower. Mrs Gnomepants wants a free standing 30’s style bath with over head shower and ornate wash basin and a toilet with one of those cisterns that are like 5 ft above the bowl. Like what my nan had. Not that you’ll know what my nan had but it was like what the wife wants in our new bathroom. We cannot agree. Compromises fall to whims. My resolve has been broken and now I don’t care how the bathroom looks. Of course I now get accused of not taking an interest in house matters. Yet it appears my opinion has the monetary value of a 1p off soap coupon (0.000001p). I learnt long ago men cannot win so why bother disagreeing.

Yesterday we had a visit from my olds. They brought us their old telly which is slightly better than our old one if a little smaller. My afternoon is but a drinky fuzz. My night, awash with weird dreams about batteries and ham.

Friday I went into work for 3.5 hours. I got told for every 9 hours I work I get 1 hour leave. Fucking A.

I’m rapidly sinking into don’t give a shit mode. My body is telling me to stop being abusive and my mind is saying “Maybe join a gym or something”. At £25 a month avg I doubt that is going to happen. Brierley/Grimethorpe “TOWN” council opened a “Community Gym” last year. Guess what? I can find nothing about it online. No joining information/opening times/facility information. Something smells in Brierley. I think it is Alec Vodden.

The more I hear and read about Vodden the more my distrust of him grows, he had definately watchout at the next local elections…