Read Online Dispatches From a Dilettante by Paul Rowson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Rowson
Ads: Link
up there from down on the ground.
After struggling for a day we abandoned all safety on the roof and scrabbled about the steep gables as best we could. There were three of us on the job. Lionel was the original ‘scally’ in all respects and knew no fear. I was very nervous of moving around up there and the third guy John who had just started (‘Paul, go down to the dole and get someone for this job’) was downright scared. Just before finishing on the second day John lost his footing and started to slip down the roof. He involuntarily emitted a squeal of terror and then tried to slow his descent by digging his nails into the roof tiles, but to little effect. It was an eighty foot drop and he was sliding slowly but steadily towards the edge.
Lionel glanced over and immediately started singing ‘Climb every Mountain’ from the Sound of Music, as mercifully the gutter held and saved John’s fall. I know Liverpudlians are famed for their humour but……
This had the galvanising effect of forcing us to come up with a better way of doing things. I was dispatched to go and buy several cans of slate grey spray paint and told to being them back in a plain bag. Thereafter we sat on the roof smoking and occasionally making contrived banging noises, after which we would spray the old tiles rather than replace them. Nothing was detectable from the ground. We’d chuck an old tile off now and then for authenticity, but even then we’d take the same tile back up on the next ascent and throw it off again. The miserable bastard of an owner was getting his comeuppance as we told ourselves.
Consequently we saved money, made a handsome profit on the job and I like to think played a significant part in helping put him out of business. He went broke weeks later when a Council inspection found the roof still leaked and they stopped placing people in his home.
Back at work Elwyn’s way of courting favour, in the hope that I would continue the good run of getting work for the firm, was to invite me to accompany him to the races at Haydock Park one Friday afternoon. I had not really, until this point, displayed more than a passing interest in the sport of kings. Nonetheless it didn’t take me long to accept an offer that was clearly preferable to shovelling concrete on the current house project we were bravely, and with no previous track record in house extensions, undertaking.
Haydock Park is a lovely little race track just off the East Lancashire road and in the crowd on Friday meetings there were usually a fair smattering of footballers and priests. In these pre-Premiership days footballers were still well known but not earning the vast salaries of today’s top stars. They mingled happily with the rest of the punters and some of them clearly had both a keen knowledge and genuine love for the sport. The priests were a different kettle of fish altogether and looked like prisoners on parole, who had been given a couple of hours to enjoy themselves.
On that first afternoon I recognised a priest who had been a lecturer at the Catholic teacher training college that I had attended. I accosted him at the very moment he was about to place a substantial bet. Although he was rightly a tad impatient, wanting to get his money on before the odds changed, he was not remotely embarrassed about the financial scale of his forthcoming wager. After he completed the transaction we continued our small talk and he laughed at my preferred choice of horse to bet on for the next race. He proceeded to give me, with all the authority of the Church clearly behind him, what was certain in his view to be the winner. I dismissed his tip failing to realise that he was an experienced punter, and if memory served me right a drinker of distinction, and a priest who regarded the vow of celibacy as an optional undertaking. Needless to say my horse lost and his won in a canter.
As these Friday race days became regular outings, I could hardly help but pick up a
After struggling for a day we abandoned all safety on the roof and scrabbled about the steep gables as best we could. There were three of us on the job. Lionel was the original ‘scally’ in all respects and knew no fear. I was very nervous of moving around up there and the third guy John who had just started (‘Paul, go down to the dole and get someone for this job’) was downright scared. Just before finishing on the second day John lost his footing and started to slip down the roof. He involuntarily emitted a squeal of terror and then tried to slow his descent by digging his nails into the roof tiles, but to little effect. It was an eighty foot drop and he was sliding slowly but steadily towards the edge.
Lionel glanced over and immediately started singing ‘Climb every Mountain’ from the Sound of Music, as mercifully the gutter held and saved John’s fall. I know Liverpudlians are famed for their humour but……
This had the galvanising effect of forcing us to come up with a better way of doing things. I was dispatched to go and buy several cans of slate grey spray paint and told to being them back in a plain bag. Thereafter we sat on the roof smoking and occasionally making contrived banging noises, after which we would spray the old tiles rather than replace them. Nothing was detectable from the ground. We’d chuck an old tile off now and then for authenticity, but even then we’d take the same tile back up on the next ascent and throw it off again. The miserable bastard of an owner was getting his comeuppance as we told ourselves.
Consequently we saved money, made a handsome profit on the job and I like to think played a significant part in helping put him out of business. He went broke weeks later when a Council inspection found the roof still leaked and they stopped placing people in his home.
Back at work Elwyn’s way of courting favour, in the hope that I would continue the good run of getting work for the firm, was to invite me to accompany him to the races at Haydock Park one Friday afternoon. I had not really, until this point, displayed more than a passing interest in the sport of kings. Nonetheless it didn’t take me long to accept an offer that was clearly preferable to shovelling concrete on the current house project we were bravely, and with no previous track record in house extensions, undertaking.
Haydock Park is a lovely little race track just off the East Lancashire road and in the crowd on Friday meetings there were usually a fair smattering of footballers and priests. In these pre-Premiership days footballers were still well known but not earning the vast salaries of today’s top stars. They mingled happily with the rest of the punters and some of them clearly had both a keen knowledge and genuine love for the sport. The priests were a different kettle of fish altogether and looked like prisoners on parole, who had been given a couple of hours to enjoy themselves.
On that first afternoon I recognised a priest who had been a lecturer at the Catholic teacher training college that I had attended. I accosted him at the very moment he was about to place a substantial bet. Although he was rightly a tad impatient, wanting to get his money on before the odds changed, he was not remotely embarrassed about the financial scale of his forthcoming wager. After he completed the transaction we continued our small talk and he laughed at my preferred choice of horse to bet on for the next race. He proceeded to give me, with all the authority of the Church clearly behind him, what was certain in his view to be the winner. I dismissed his tip failing to realise that he was an experienced punter, and if memory served me right a drinker of distinction, and a priest who regarded the vow of celibacy as an optional undertaking. Needless to say my horse lost and his won in a canter.
As these Friday race days became regular outings, I could hardly help but pick up a
Similar Books
