Past labours rewarded.

Fri.15.02.08. The remaining offside front wing and the nose cone have been transported to the workshop, the former being temporarily fitted to complete the basic addition of all of the wings. The rear wings were later secured, potentially permanently, with negligible alterations to the dry build. The base to the boot lining has been cut, tested requiring only a simple assembly before being painted and ready to be added to the tub.

The development and progress in the week has been exceptional but has been testament to the endless groundwork that has preceded the rapid build. Having been marooned for almost three months which I suspect was mainly caused by fatigue; the project has had a remarkable transformation. The energy, enthusiasm, newly discovered belief have returned. For the first time for a very long time we both can see a wonderful conclusion that had temporarily been forgotten, perhaps misplaced. 

Very similar to the Oak, the Bowling Green attracts much of the desperately lost and recently found, painfully lonely or partially fulfilled, numbingly dull or surprisingly vibrant collection of retarded misfits, half baked semi enlightened street philosophers, the sanctimoniously righteous and the freakishly malevolent.

‘John with dogs’ is one such person. Behind him, in a previous existence a failed, bitter marriage, diverse jobs once a night club manager on the back of six years in the Merchant Navy, both of which enterprises I find quite extraordinary for such an unpersonable guy. His dishevelled exterior, oily hair pallid vacant expression invariably excludes him from most of the company.  He is, understandably, always is connected to his present life’s work; his two German Shepherd dogs. We all suspect that he is the only dog owner who has more fleas than his pets. He now finds himself teaching IT skills to empty, adolescent Bolton dropouts, possibly the most unrewarding job in existence, trudging home at night dragging his dogs to the pub for three pints of Tetley. 

Creosote Tommy, so called because of the colour of his dried brown leathery hands and face, is another fixture, wearing the same cheap shabby garments every day he boasts an eighties style Zapata moustache with sideburns to rival Elvis. Gently floating weightless in his own small planet permanently propping up the bar, he smiles wistfully yet randomly, his eyes darting around the room hoping to catch anyone’s attention. Totally devoid of speech capable only of grunting his order for beer he simultaneously leers at the bar maid’s tits whilst slowly retracting his neck between his shoulders, turtle fashion, until only the top of his grey bob cap can be seen. He actually refers to ‘us’ as the mad people.

Then there is senseless Stuart, the token Scouser, a lifetime Liverpool football fan yet managing absolutely no knowledge of the game. His comprehension and understanding of the club is solely reliant upon the information offered by the grubby columnist of the Sun newspaper. He often screams at the TV quoting the said journalist, mispronouncing or being over familiar with the players names and, naturally, with ‘rien’ appreciation of the opposition. All of this banal gibberish he comfortably achieves whilst nimbly rolling his fag spinning on his stool wishing for reassurance from the rest of the no hopers in the bar. Small in stature, tartan winter shirt, bottle glasses permanently carrying a ruck sack he reeks of loneliness destined only for a bleak future.