RuKsaK

Done a bit on Saudi, Russia and Seoul so far – more will come.
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Bridlington hasn’t had a look-in yet and I’ve been to some places, none yet quite as disquieting or misleading as Brid can be.
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There’s a bridge named Donkey where people lose virginities weekly, but get sand in their crotches. People discuss the price of potatoes daily, but the price never changes. I've never seen a nurse selling poppies from a tray.
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As with all places, though, it’s best done in scraps – not in blanket glances.
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It’s more than likely that, each time a true story is retold, it comes out a different tinge. People add their own reds and greens, a bit more taste.
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So, Grandad and Scooby:
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This is a true story.
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My granddad truly is an unlovable cantankerous old git. He’s not so much a Grumpy Old Man as Grumpy Old Cunt. I won’t describe any other instances than the following one – this one’s his biggest.
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In remission from cancer my grandmother was about to return home. The doctor paid a visit to my granddad:
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Doctor: I see you’ve got a new dog.
Granddad: Yes, I’m calling him Scooby – like the last one.
Doctor: I’m afraid you’ll have to give him to someone.
Granddad: I’m not getting rid of the dog.
Doctor: Your wife is in remission – having a puppy around the house will be disruptive, potentially harmful.
Granddad: I’m not getting rid of the dog.
Doctor: You really shouldn’t have him in the house for your wife’s return. Do you understand that?
Granddad: I’m not getting rid of the dog. It’ll be alright.
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My grandmother returned home. I was just a teenager at the time and didn’t visit, had no idea how the dog affected things – whether it shat all over or not – whether it killed my grandmother. My grandmother was dead in under 3 months. As before, I don’t blame the dog, I blame bastards.
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His ‘not getting rid’ chant rendered his life yet another petty experiment in existence – Brid, like many similar towns, is a hothouse for this. I’m sure there’ll be no Blackfriar’s Bobby for him, nor anything remote.
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This true story helps describe Brid, rather than my grandfather. I’ve never known him and until I was 27 lived no more than 20 miles away.
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Of course, all the above is salted.
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Ah, Brid! Here’s a funny postcard:

I don't blame the dog.

Sunday, October 31, 2004

Best of Luck from Bridlington