You Did Say Have Another Sausage: A Collection of Humorous, Anecdotal True Stories

2016)

Chapter One

Life from a Donkey

A Genuine Constable

You’re nicked! growled a voice menacingly in my ear as a huge forearm held me from behind with a vice-like grip round the neck.

Then a second voice grunted, We’ve been after you for months! as my left arm was forced up my back. Petrified with shock I turned to find myself face-to-face with a copper, his features contorted and spitting venom through clenched teeth like a pantomime villain.

I had just got off the bus from Rainhill to St. Helens town centre one Sunday night, after a night out with my girlfriend, Norma. It was close to midnight and there were a few people around. I had noticed a couple of policemen silhouetted by the street lights, and the next thing I knew was that I was pounced upon and apprehended. Reflected in a shop window, I caught a brief glimpse of several passers-by stopping to witness this dramatic arrest.

Eh? I croaked incredulously, I think you must have made a mistake.

Yeah, they all say that, he sneered.

Then the policeman holding my arm up my back said, No mistake, you are definitely our man.

I turned to my left and again was met face-to-face by a determined copper. But this time he was grinning broadly.

Are you trying to give me a bleedin’ heart attack? I spluttered as they released me. I patted my chest to emphasize the point.

It was Willy Fryer, or, as he now preferred, Bill. He was a former schoolmate and life-long friend who had recently joined the Police Force; so Little Willy had morphed into ‘Old Bill’. He was out on the beat as part of his training.

The two of them roared with laughter, pleased to have frightened the life out of an innocent member of the public. Once I had stopped shaking, and I felt the colour come back to my face, all I could do was join in the laughter and appreciate the joke, more relieved than amused. The few people who had stopped to watch seemed disappointed as they dispersed into the night. Bill introduced me to his colleague, a constable who was acting as his training mentor. We chatted together as I accompanied them to the police station, which was on my route home. I had known Bill since we were both five years old and had been classmates at both Merton Bank Primary and Cowley Grammar school. A few years later we were to be the best man at each other’s weddings. He was always a larger-than-life character, in more ways than one. Dark haired with bushy eyebrows, he stood 6ft 2in and weighed over 16 stones. A rugby prop forward, he was tailor-made to be a policeman. His colleague was even bigger. I wouldn’t like to bump into those two on a dark night. What am I saying? That’s exactly what I did do!

So how is your art course at the Gamble? he asked, nodding in the direction of the imposing Victorian building opposite the police station. The St. Helens School of Art was housed there, together with the public library. Its official title was the Gamble Institute, founded in 1896 by Sir David Gamble, the first mayor of St Helens.

I’ve heard that they draw and paint nude models, is that true? they asked, straight to the point without any preamble or foreplay.

Of course, I replied matter-of-factly.

What’s it like? they asked, sounding more like schoolboys than members of Her Majesty’s Constabulary. They reminded me of the character in ‘Monty Python’s’ ‘nudge, nudge, say no more’ sketch. The one when Eric Idle asks Terry Jones if he has ever seen a naked lady.

Why is it everyone always asks me straight away about drawing nude models when they find out that I am an art student? I asked rhetorically. "I am surprised at you two," I said with haughty, mock indignation.

All I will say is that nothing goes on in there to merit a police raid.

Pity, they said, laughing.

How are you enjoying your police training? I asked, changing the subject.

It’s great, replied Bill with a level of enthusiasm that seemed to be aimed as much towards his mentor as to me. "We always walk round in two’s... and that’s inside the police station!"

I finally got home at about quarter to one.

What time do you call this? asked my dad.

I’ve just been grabbed by the police and accompanied them to the station.

Why, what have you been doing?

Nothing.

The police don’t just grab people in the street for no reason, he said dismissively, convinced that I must have been guilty of something or other.

It was Bill, but thank you for your vote of confidence.

My mum then chipped in, I saw Bill in town last Saturday afternoon, and I’ve never been so embarrassed.

Why, what happened? we both asked.

I was carrying my shopping bags and trying to cross the busy road to catch the Blackbrook bus when Bill came round the corner. He looked great, proud as punch in his brand new uniform, shiny buttons and polished shoes. His face lit up as he saw me. He took my bags off me and stepped into the road and stopped the traffic so that I could cross. The bus was just about to pull away, but trainee constable Fryer had other ideas. He signalled authoritatively for the driver to stop, which he did, and then escorted me to get on the bus at the back before giving the driver a sign to move off. I waved goodbye to Bill. He stood to attention and saluted.

That’s Bill all right, said dad, smiling and shaking his head.

It was 1967, which was a milestone year in many respects. It has become known as ‘the Summer of Love’, the zenith of the swinging sixties when England set the trends in music and modern popular culture. The dedicated followers of fashion turned Carnaby Street into a catwalk to the soundtrack of ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’, ‘All You Need Is Love’ and ‘Purple Haze.’ Hippies in Hyde Park displayed their psychedelic body-art dancing to Scott McKenzie’s ‘If you’re going to San Francisco be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.’ The BBC finally responded to the competition from ‘Radio Caroline’ by launching Radio 1 with ‘Flowers in the Rain’. The year was encapsulated by the seminal album ‘Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’ by the Beatles, and its ‘Pop-Art’ record sleeve, designed by artist Peter Blake, has become an iconic image in its own right.

So what better year to leave the straightjacket of grammar school for the freedom of art college? It was a quantum leap from school cloisters with teachers in academic gowns to action-painting and nude models. It was a great time to be 18. There is a well-worn, tired old cliché, ‘If you can remember the 60s, you weren’t really there’. I must be an exception to that particular rule because, like fine wine, my memories improve with age, and, like oil paintings, they appreciate in value (well, perhaps not my paintings).

That’s Life

I enrolled at Art College with another of our school friends, Jeff, who could not have been more different to Bill. He was ‘Laurel’ to Bill’s ‘Hardy’. We had been friendly rivals in art since competing for the prestigious job of painting the main figures on the Nativity frieze at infants’ school. Perhaps not quite at the same level as Raphael and Michelangelo painting the frescoes at the same time in the Vatican, or Van Gogh and Gauguin in Arles, but, nevertheless, our rivalry spurred us both on throughout school days. Now we were starting a foundation course for one year: studying many different arts and crafts prior to specialism at degree level.

It is a very lucky person indeed who can genuinely look forward to going to work, and then enjoying every day. It was like that on my art course. I felt as though I had made the best career move since Ringo Starr decided to leave the best pop group in Liverpool, ‘Rory Storm and the Hurricanes’ to join a lesser known, up-and-coming band called ‘The Beatles’. The informality and general ambience was like a breath of fresh air, albeit tinged with turpentine and oil paint, as Jeff and I arrived for our first day with our brand new portfolios and boxes of art materials. I had spent the summer working shifts at United Glass bottle factory (now the site of St. Helen’s Rugby League Club’s Langtree Park Stadium), and, what’s more, we had been awarded grants by St. Helens Council. We felt rich. We were in a mixed class of 16 to 18 year olds, most straight from school. It was quite surprising when the tutors told us to address them by their first names, and definitely not ‘Sir’. The only similarity with school is that we were given a timetable, but one which was made up of drawing, painting, printmaking, ceramics, sculpture and life drawing.

Does that mean nude models? whispered Jeff hesitantly as he pointed to ‘Life drawing’ on Wednesday and Friday afternoons. As students in a new tutor group, we were only just beginning to get to know each other, but the prospect of drawing a life model for the first time seemed to provide common ground for discussion. Everyone, male and female, seemed a little apprehensive, even daunted, by the prospect.

Our tutor, Gerry, was a gregarious character who enjoyed a joke and a touch of innuendo, and he put everyone at their ease with banter and bonhomie. During coffee break on the first Wednesday morning of term, Jeff was quieter than usual. He confided in me that he was dreading the life-drawing class that afternoon. Even though he had been brought up on a council estate, Jeff had led a very sheltered life. He had always been quite sickly, painfully thin and quite shy. He looked as though he had stepped out of an L. S. Lowry painting. When we were kids, Jeff was never allowed to play in the street with us because we were too rough; we’d play tick rugby, knock-and-run, and throwing stones. Jeff and I were friends solely due to our common interest in art.

Have you told your mum and dad that we will be looking at a naked woman today? Jeff whispered to me innocently, as we waited in the corridor for the tutor to arrive and unlock the studio.

Jeff, I said, you make it sound as though we are sneaking off to a strip club!

"Has Gerry actually specified that the life model is female?" someone in our group speculated.

What?!! exclaimed Jeff. "Do you mean it could be a male nude model?"

Or a transvestite, said another, to lighten the mood. Some of the girls didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The general atmosphere along the corridor was one of nervous laughter as Gerry came around the corner, accompanied by an attractive blonde lady in her mid-30s.

He greeted us all in his usual manner, with a quip here and a one-liner there, as he made his way to the studio. Then he asked us to wait a couple of minutes. Just as we were all looking to each other and nodding approval, with some relief, a little old man then came around the corner and walked along the corridor towards us. The best way to describe him would be to say that if he entered an Albert Steptoe look-alike contest he would win, even if Wilfred Brambell entered as well. This is not as fanciful as you might think. If you will permit me to digress for a moment: In the1920s during the peak of his fame, Charlie Chaplin was on holiday with his wife in Atlantic City. He noticed a poster advertising a ‘Charlie Chaplin look-alike contest’, so he went to a second-hand shop and bought a bowler hat and cane. He entered the competition for a bit of a lark... He came third.

Anyway, back to ‘Steptoe’. He was carrying a small hold-all and greeted us with a cheery ‘Good afternoon’ as he made his way to the other studio.

"He can’t be the model?" I muttered with a shake of the head.

At that moment a group of senior citizens came round the corner, all chatting and laughing carrying art portfolios. Gerry came out into the corridor and greeted the pensioners with his, now expected, jokes and innuendo, which they loved and laughed at uproariously.

Ger’em off, you’re on next, he joked to one octogenarian lady, who smacked him playfully in a Dick Emery ‘Ooh, you are awful’ sort of way.

They have been coming here for years, he informed us as we filed hesitantly into the studio opposite the old folks’ art class. It was light and airy, the studio that is, not the model, who was nowhere to be seen.

I glanced across to Jeff. He couldn’t have looked more terrified if he had been locked in a haunted house. About a dozen donkeys were arranged in two concentric semi-circles. ‘What’s that smell?’ I hear you thinking. Let me explain that a donkey is an art easel that you straddle and sit on like, well, a donkey. They have lift-up stands which support a drawing board. We took our places and I had chance to look around while everyone was getting settled. A north-facing skylight occupied most of the sloping roof and one wall was taken up with racks for storing canvases and drawing boards. Just inside the doorway was a partition wall which afforded privacy to the podium area where models posed (just in case any random policemen should happen to wander in from over the road). There was a small changing room next to the podium, which was about two feet in height. As he was ready to speak Gerry stepped up on to the podium.

"Oh no, don’t tell us you are the model," I couldn’t resist saying.

Gerry laughed and quipped that it will be his turn on Friday. He told us that the model, Rita, would be emerging in a second after he had given us a brief introduction to the art of life drawing. Eventually, he asked Rita to come out of the closet, so to speak, to introduce her to us. Jeff was looking down at his toes. The model stepped onto the podium and we felt something of an anti-climax, as it were. She wasn’t naked, but wearing a pink, quilted dressing gown and fluffy pink slippers. All she was short of was a cup of cocoa and her hair in rollers. But then again, what was I expecting, Miss Whiplash? Jeff looked up from his donkey, and that is not meant as a euphemism. His sheltered existence up to now meant that he had never been out on a stag night with us. Nights that had the occasional stripper booked. Even at school Jeff hadn’t been included in the loop when any lads’ mags were passed surreptitiously around the class. He was so naïve he thought the erogenous zones were somewhere near the equator. He had never had a girlfriend, and even topless sunbathing was still in the distant future. Poor old Jeff, the nearest he had ever been to a bird’s breasts were the blue variety on his dad’s feeder table in the back garden.

Rita simply slipped off her dressing gown and took up her pose as directed by Gerry. What had we been worrying about? Once we were observing and drawing, it quickly became second nature. After a couple of minutes Rita asked Gerry, Has Mr. Shiels been in yet?

No, chuckled Gerry, I think he waits for us to get started.

We were intrigued by this. Gerry told us that they were referring to one of the pensioners in the class across the corridor. There was a knock on the door, and two cheery, blue-rinsed septuagenarian ladies entered. They had come to collect their paintings from the racks; they must have been the class monitors. They looked over towards Rita and gave her a wave of hello which she acknowledged with a smile. Just as the ladies were leaving the room, in walked Mr. Sheils, a.k.a. Albert Steptoe, his eyes firmly fixed straight ahead, not daring to look to his left where the model was posed. Gerry and Rita gave each other a knowing look. Mr. Sheils then reached up to take his canvas down from the racks and turned around to leave. He averted his gaze at all times. He held his canvas at chest height with one hand at either side while tilting his head to the left. In fact, if the canvas had been removed from his hands, he would have been in the perfect stance to dance the ‘Foxtrot’. From where I was sitting I could just see the back of his head over the top of the canvas. He walked towards the door. He was just about to disappear behind the partition, when his head turned sharply to the right just in time for him to catch the briefest of glimpses of the model. For a split second, he looked like ‘Mr. Chad’ peering over his canvas. Gerry and Rita smiled broadly, and, as the door closed, there was a ripple of laughter through the life class.

He timed that well, I said to Gerry.

I’m not surprised; he’s had plenty of practice. He knows exactly how many steps it takes. That ritual became an on-going event every Wednesday afternoon.

During break or changes of pose the model would put on her dressing gown and she would often walk around the class and look at the drawings. Like the Queen, she would rarely give her opinion about a drawing or painting, but, when she occasionally passed a favourable comment, we all felt flattered because we knew that she had seen literally hundreds over previous years.

Jeff and I lived across the road from each other. When we got home, he seemed to want to keep our conversation going a little longer as we stood in the street. I edged towards the garden gate as we talked, and then opened it, but every time I took a step towards the front door Jeff seemed to follow.

Jeff, I asked, are you locked out?

Er, no, could you do me a favour?

If I can, I answered, wondering what was going on.

So Jeff opened his portfolio and took out his life drawings and asked me if I would look after them. He gave me a sheepish look, even by Jeff’s standards.

I understand, I said sympathetically.

Thanks, he said with some relief, and walked across the road. Just as he was opening his front door I couldn’t resist shouting

Jeff! When do you want your dirty pictures back?

His index finger went straight to his lips in an exaggerated ‘shush’ as he disappeared inside quicker than a sideways glance from Mr. Shiels.

My mum and dad had always taken a keen interest in my art work and, as they perused my drawings, they wondered why Jeff’s work was also in my portfolio. They were amused when I told them the reason. All I got from my fourteen-year-old sister Linda was an expression of raised eyebrows, as if I had been caught with some top-shelf titillation magazines.

I am often asked why art students have always studied the naked human form, and not just from a bobby on the beat. The short answer is that there is no hiding place when studying the human body, for the artist that is, not the model. If a drawing or painting of an inanimate object is not totally accurate it might not be immediately apparent to the viewer. However, if you look at a picture of a nude figure, any lack of accuracy is immediately obvious. In other words, when students are studying life drawing there is no margin for error and it is the most disciplined subject to develop drawing skills.

There are examples in art history which would initially seem to contradict this explanation; for example, the rearranged facial features of Picasso’s Cubist portraits or the monumental figures of his Blue Period. But they were totally accurate observations. His models really did look like that. I am joking of course but I’m sure you catch my drift.

Anyway, all of this is what Jeff told his mum and dad as a reason for drawing a lady with no clothes on, the lady that is, not Jeff. I think he got away with it, because after two weeks he stopped asking me if he could keep his drawings in my folder.

Is it a Polar Bear in a Blizzard?

As Christmas approached, all the students started to look forward to the party season; we decided to ask if we could hold a disco in the exhibition hall. Gerry was all for it but he told us that the final decision could only be made by the principal, Mr. Gill. I was ‘volunteered’ as spokesman and went to see him one morning in mid-December. Mr. Gill was not the artiest person imaginable; he wore a tweedish three-piece suit and tie, he was bald with a Bobby Charlton style comb-over and wore glasses which were like the bottom of a beer bottle. My un-flattering description of him notwithstanding, he was a true gentleman of the old school: extremely courteous and very well-spoken. He looked as though he belonged more in the manager’s office in the bank next door. He granted permission for the party without much persuasion but, being a rather pedantic sort, he stipulated that he could only allow us to have Friday afternoon off to decorate the room. He looked at the timetable and said that he would be unable to pay Rita if the life-class was cancelled. The students quite rightly decided that this would be unfair to the model, and, consequently, we agreed a compromise with the principal, whereby Rita would pose as usual and we would take turns to be in the studio. The exhibition hall was duly a hive of activity as it was transformed into a disco for the Christmas do.

Midway through the afternoon, it was my turn to man the donkey in the life studio and go through the motions of drawing. Ostensibly, Rita was posing on a chair on the podium, but in reality she was chatting with each student. It was like shift hand-over in a factory, as I took over the donkey from the previous student.

Is it a minimalist concept? I joked as I looked at a blank sheet of white cartridge paper on the drawing board. The previous students had simply sat and chatted with Rita; it was Christmas after all, and this arrangement suited me. So we talked about Christmas, families, and holidays, as if we were two people sitting together on the bus. It seems bizarre, but we were able to small-talk and have a casual conversation while she sat opposite me, stark naked. After studying the same figure twice a week for a full term it seemed perfectly natural. Neither my eyes nor my mind were tempted to wander. I am reminded of the old saying that the only true test of a true intellectual is someone who can listen to the whole of Rossini’s ‘William Tell Overture’ without once thinking of ‘The Lone Ranger’. During our conversation, Rita told me that she was looking forward to coming to the party that night and wearing her brand new Christmas dress for the first time.

I won’t recognise you with your clothes on, I quipped, thinking I was being devastatingly witty.

Rita raised her eyebrows and replied with a sardonic smile, Nobody has ever said that to me before.

Her demeaning tone made me cringe for being so obvious.

Sorry, I groaned as I raised my hands in acknowledgement. Just as we were laughing the studio door started to open slowly. I assumed it was the next student arriving to take over, but then some bloke I had never seen before stood there, ready to walk in. I jumped up and made a sort of traffic-cop halt-sign before he got beyond the privacy partition (known forevermore as Mr. Sheils’ partition).

Sorry Sir, you cannot come in here. These are private parts, I blurted out, too late to cover up my Freudian slip.

He was about six feet tall and unshaven, wearing a flat cap, donkey jacket, jeans and steel-toe-capped boots.

Sorry mate, he said sharply, I’m looking for Rita.

I glanced towards Rita, who looked taken aback. She silently and exaggeratedly mouthed the words It’s my husband, as she quickly got up off the chair and put on her dressing gown.

I stood there transfixed as if I was on stage in a West End farce; husband entering via French windows and maids disappearing through the back door: something like ‘Run for Your Wife’ or ‘When Did You Last See Your Trousers?’ You get the picture. Although everything was perfectly innocent and above-board, I felt as though I had been caught with my pants down. Thoughts flashed through my mind: ‘Does he know that his wife is a professional nude model? Has he come to confront her? Where is the rest of the class?’ and, not least, ‘He is a big, rough-looking bugger wearing steel-toe-capped boots’.

It reminded me of the joke about a bloke who had picked up a woman one night and she had taken him back to her bungalow. As they were in bed together, they heard the front door open.

What was that? he whispered, startled.

Oh no, she blustered, it’s my husband.

"Your bloody husband... You never said you were married."

As he frantically hopped about, dressing on the run, he demanded, Where’s your back door?

We haven’t got a back door.

So he just looked around and said, "Well, where do you want one?"

Rita nodded to assure me that everything was okay, as I sat down, relieved, at the donkey and beckoned her husband to enter the studio. It was a slightly awkward atmosphere. He told her that he had just got home from work and had lost his house keys. She went into the small changing room to get her keys from her handbag and, while he was waiting, he decided to have a look at my drawing. He sidled over and peeked over the drawing board. He looked nonplussed when he was confronted by a vast sheet of virgin-white cartridge paper. There followed an interminable silence as he eyed me up and down suspiciously, and then looked back at the paper. He leaned forward to within six inches of the surface, narrowed his eyes and looked at the paper contemplatively as if he was scrutinising the texture of paint on a Rembrandt or a Van Gogh. Very slowly, he turned his head towards me, and said condescendingly, Don’t tell me... It’s a polar bear in a blizzard.

How did you guess? I spluttered, ready to enter into some light-hearted banter. However, I must have momentarily misread the situation, as his facial expression remained frozen and unsmiling. He frowned, obviously wondering why there was no drawing on the paper, then looked at me and shook his head slightly