What with Christmas shopping (in my mind at least – the actual physical act of shopping is something I prefer not to contemplate until the last minute), departmental disruption at my top secret hush hush job for the government, and the last outstanding tasks to be completed on the couple of websites I am currently working on for various people, I haven’t had much time in the last few days for Old Heatonian.

It’s starting to be a busy old time socially as well – Saturday saw the Grumpy Club decamp from it’s regular haunt in the Kings and get a coach over to Skipton, where we drank a few beers while the girls went and did a bit of shopping round the market, then moved on to the Tempest Arms to tuck into the first Christmas dinner of the season…

After a bit of a false start, involving a late coach (admirably driven by Jeff the driver) and Captain Kidd getting in to the wrong minibus, (frowning as he counted the seats and noted that there weren’t enough available for our party, presumably secretly chuffed though that he had managed to nab one for himself), we were on our way.

On enquiring why the bus had been late, Mark the organiser asked Jeff where he had come from. With a heavy South African accent, Jeff replied ‘Cape Town’, to much mirth, merriment and rubbing of split sides as Mark exclaimed ‘No wonder you were bloody late – we thought you’d got caught up on Manningham Lane’.  Really, you couldn’t make this stuff up!

Anyway, at first we were a man down, as Captain Kidds mysterious other half had been called away to more pressing issues in London. However, with the prospect of a free meal wafted under his nose, it didn’t take long for Fanackapan to agree to take her place.

Predictably, Fanackapan spent a good hour before setting off searching frantically for suitable clothing, rejecting a modern business like skirt/jacket/blouse ensemble in favour of a more casual jeans and t-shirt, which went well with his dishevelled blonde wig and lipstick as red as newly spilled blood.

The meal was excellent, and the company superb, although the Captain didn’t seem too impressed by the stand in ‘wife’ we had arranged for him. Most members of the party were pleasantly merry by the time we set off back to Bradford.

Fanackapan melted the hearts of a couple of elderly ladies – Mark had complained to them that Fanackapan was his son and he didn’t know what to do with him – they replied, saying that it was ‘probably just a phase he was going through’ and that he looked ‘perfectly delightful’ as he was.

He didn’t, however, look as delightful later on, with blood streaming out of his nose and his arse hanging out of the window of the bus…

To Be Continued…

www.fanackapan.co.uk apparently seeks to address the lack of content about our hero on the woefully inadequately updated (at the moment) Old Heatonian, and serves as a braindump for the often bizarre thoughts that roll around his fevered mind.  Check it out – your brain will never forgive you!

Moving on, I found this article on an American newsite.

Given that the Kings Arms will soon be closing for a few days to get some essential maintenance out of the way (and hopefully, fingers crossed, the installation of the Mighty Dyson Airblade in the gents bogs), perhaps landlord Andy will consider installing similar equipment in the public bar, although aerosol Stella would be a better choice as far as I’m concerned…

INSTALL IT AND THEY WILL COME!!

As related in some detail in the comments, the curry that was purchased was intended to be consumed by the ‘Catsaver’, aka Cod. However, he had the misfortune of leaving it unattended while he bravely began to dismantle the house, leaving Rosie (fragrant wife of the RHQM), hungry from a long day, on supervision duty.

In an effort to ‘share the guilt’ when Fanackapan caught her tucking in, she shared it with him, leaving the poor Catsaver supperless. He had his revenge the following day though, by devouring Fanackapans chapattis when they went for a meal with the Hallidays to celebrate the return of Jess.

‘ I was gobsmacked to say the least’ moaned Fanackapan. ‘They disappeared so fast he may as well have inhaled them!’

For weeks now, Spike and Fanackapan have been planning a trip to Leeds, to study and perhaps participate in the activities at one of the premier fleshpots of the North – The Blue Coyote (Link possibly not safe for work!).

However, their ardour was diminished somewhat when they alighted from the train.  ‘Charlie’, sniffer dog supreme and essential frontline tool in the war against drugs and possibly various shades of terror, took a bit of a shine to Spike.  Prompted by Charlies attention, West Yorkshires finest boys in blue pounced and escorted our non plussed hero off to the on site police station, with a cackling Fanackapan in hot pursuit.

After a good, thorough, but ultimately fruitless search (Spike has consistently chosen not to reveal whether an ‘intimate’ search was carried out, although he does go quite misty eyed when the subject is mentioned), the interrogation began:

‘Why did Charlie stop you then?’

Not having access to Charlies operating parameters, it was difficult for Spike to answer this question, although he did reveal that he had shared a car with someone who was smoking a joint, so perhaps the residue from that had triggered a response… who knows?  Spike revealed that he was a graphic designer by trade, so eventually the police chalked it up to the ‘inks’ that Spike uses and released him to continue his evening, after handing him his ‘pink slip’, with the details of his arrest.  I quote:

‘Stopped by dog Charlie.  Scruffy facial hair – genitals not exposed’.

Of course, this was BEFORE they got to the Blue Coyote…

But it was not to be, primarily because Nat from the Kings had graciously volunteered to join Team Heatonian, and it wouldn’t have been right to let her do it on her own. Or would it?

Mrs Funk put paid to my nefarious scheming with a good talking to and a bacon sandwich, complete with a pot of real tea, which she normally refuses to make because of all the tea leaves. So, 9.20am saw me drive down to the park (I know, ‘I only live 5 minutes walk away’, but who knows whether I would be in any fit state to walk back?) and join the rapidly assembling throng around the registration desk, the cold wind whistling round my bare knees. Nat was there already, with a look of panic mixed with simmering fury at the prospect of me bottling the whole thing. After the obligatory patronising speech from the Lord Mayor and the introduction of various local sporting dignitaries, plus the pointless rallying call from our local minor non celebrity (he used to be Bombhead in Hollyoaks or something – I booed him anyway!) it was soon time for the official warm up.

Mrs Baker ran up to me in mid star jump, obviously surprised that I’d turned up at all, and wished us well. And all too soon, we were off…

I must admit, I had been really dreading this. My training schedule fell woefully by the wayside in the past couple of weeks, due to big things being afoot etc., and I felt I would be lucky to finish the course. Nevertheless, when it came down to it, I determined to do as well as I could, even if it meant walking round most of the course.

But, to be honest, I started to enjoy myself. I got a real buzz out of being part of such a large crowd of people who were all in it together. And running, with a destination in sight rather than my chubby, sweating visage in the mirror in front of the treadmill at the gym, seemed oh so much easier. So I ran. Run, run, run, walk a bit on the uphill stretch to get my breath back a bit, then run run run.

I finished. I sprinted the last few yards, even though my heart was threatening to hammer it’s way through my chest wall by this time.

I was handed a goody bag.

A big thank you to all those who have donated to this cause – either to me or to Nat, or both of us. Thanks to Mrs Funk for the bacon sandwich.

And huge thanks to Nat, for joining me on this madcap adventure. I definitely wouldn’t have done it without you!

My final time was around 12 minutes, which I didn’t feel too bad about. Mrs Baker finished the course in 1 hour and 7 minutes…

Hopefully they are all now resolved – it got to the point where I couldn’t even log in myself, meaning that my magnum opus on the subject of Valentines Day will now have to wait until next year, as it probably wouldn’t make much sense now. Ho hum…

Nothing much to report really. I could wax lyrical about my recent encounter with a self described ‘International Master Spy’ cum scrap metal dealer – whom I and a couple of other members of the Sunday drinking crowd aided with his impossible pub quiz. But, well, I do believe he has ’00′ rating, and wouldn’t want to get my arse kicked.

Observing the younger bar staff members at the Kings spending their time in the online cornucopia that is World of Warcraft has inspired me to dust off ‘Malintent’, my trusty Gnome Warlock and get stuck back in – I have once again started logging on for an hour before I set off to work. Frustration set in this morning however, when I really really really had to set off, leaving poor Malintent stuck in the caverns of Ulduman, knowing full well that as soon as I log back in (tonight if Mrs Funk allows), if I don’t get stuck straight into battle he is going to get his arse kicked hard!

If I hadn’t left, I personally would have got my arsed kicked at work. As it was, I was 10 minutes late due to traffic, my phone was ringing and I already had 10 emails in place to deal with.

All proceeds from the sale of the book will be donated to the War Child charity.

In an effort to get myself immortalised in the mind of the general public, I have submitted my recent story ‘Psssh‘. I’m sure regular readers will agree that this is an admirable choice.

And please, regardless of whether my entry is accepted for publication or not, don’t hesitate to purchase a copy when it becomes available. I’ll keep you updated.

‘Old Heatonian – Charity is my middle name’

Training at the gym is coming on in leaps and bounds – I have now managed to run the full mile on the treadmill at least, although it was a particularly knackering feat, but my goal is in sight.

I was amazed though to discover that a young lady who frequents the Kings has recently completed her own feat for Sport Relief, which frankly puts my own meagre ambitions into perpective.  She managed to run 50 miles, row 50 miles and cyle 50 miles over an eight hour period.  Albeit, this event took place at the University gym, but when you consider it is taking me the best part of quarter of an hour at the moment to complete my mile, I am suitably humbled by her.

Well done Jodie!

He proposed the theory that we may have fated his death somehow by (among other things of course) making jokes about the poor guys gimpy withered hand in the Kings on Sunday.  With this in mind, we would like to invite all members of the group who were involved in that conversation to meet up again to discuss Manchester United in some depth.

That includes Herbie, who MUST wear his mexican sombrero, as we are working on the premise that a new career direction has landed him the job as Angel of Death and the hat is part of his divine uniform.

If that is not the case, well, it DID suit him!