Vagueness and the Aftermath - A sporadic diary

[booder]

Tom, don't let age be a barrier to Minnie Driver. A 16-year old Minnie succumbed to the charms of Jack Nicholson.

Did he screw driver?

Yes he did.

Sadly for you Kinboshi, she doesn't take a Philips.

 

 

 

[Claw75]

Tom, don't let age be a barrier to Minnie Driver. A 16-year old Minnie succumbed to the charms of Jack Nicholson.

Did he screw driver?

Yes he did.

Sadly for you Kinboshi, she doesn't take a Philips.

 

 

 

brilliant - post of the, er, day!

[RED-DOG]

Tom, please tell us more of those Gypsy tales, like the Grinding man

Tell us some more of these Gypsy expressions please Tom.

This little incident has always amused me, and it fits both those criteria. It might not survive the telling though; you sort of had to be there.

When I was about 10 or 11, I went out grinding with my grandad Dennis (My mam's dad) and a man called George, who everyone knew as "Blacking Brush" on account of his enormous bristly moustache.

They were an unlikely pair. Grandad was a shortish, plumpish man with mischievous eyes and a devil-may-care attitude. He looked like a slightly overweight makak.

Blacking Brush on the other hand was a tall thin streak of misery. Whenever you saw him he would be wearing the same three things. A trench coat, a bowler hat, and a lugubrious expression. He looked like a cross between an insecure vulture and a suicidal Zebadee.

This odd couple did however have one thing in common; they shared a fondness for beer drinking.

I was too young to know whether it was an addiction, an obsession, or just something they liked to do. My Grandad Dennis had always been a drinker, that was the way it was, I just accepted it.

Now while I didn’t understand why they drank, I did understand perfectly well the effect that drinking had upon them. I don’t mean physically, but mentally. Beer consumption always served to exaggerate their respective natural dispositions to an alarming degree.
 

In those days, grinding barrows were always home made, and driven by a treadle, a bicycle, or sometimes even a 12-volt lawnmower motor. But to everyone’s astonishment, grandad had just invested in a new fangled “Shop bought” grinding machine called, believe it or not “The Bazooka”.

Once you saw it, it became obvious why it was christened thus. It consisted of a four foot length of pipe (presumably housing some sort of crown wheel and pinion type cog arrangement) At one end there was a pedal, and at the other there was a grindstone. Pumping the pedal with your foot caused the grindstone to rotate. A vice like clamp in the middle of the tube allowed the operator to clamp it to a bench to keep it stable as he worked, and that was it. Simple.

Of course, we didn’t have a mobile bench to clamp it to, but my granddad did have an ex sausage factory A40 van that had been converted to a pickup. He bolted the Bazooka to the tailboard in such a way that when it was up the bazooka was out of sight, and when the tailboard was lowered, it rested nicely on the ground which gave it additional support.



This particular morning we had been working an estate of houses near Clay Cross in Derbyshire and we were having it hard, we hadn’t taken a penny.

Try as we might we couldn’t drum up any business. It was now approaching lunchtime and despite our best efforts, our cheery smiles were beginning to look more like snarls and our jovial patter was definitely becoming lack-lustre.

“We’re wasting our time here, these houses are putrefied” Said grandad. “Lets get a bit of dinner and try somewhere else”   

Blacking Brush agreed immediately. He knew, as I did, that “A bit of dinner” was a euphemism for a few pints at a local hostelry and his huge moustache bristled in anticipation. For a moment I even thought I saw a little glint of pleasure in the corner of his miserable eye, but on closer inspection it turned out to be the beginnings of conjunctivitis.

We stopped at some or other pub and while they went inside, I was left on the car park with half of shandy, a bag of crisps, and instructions to keep an eye on what was somewhat pompously called “The firm’s vehicle and equipment”

I didn’t mind at all, I had pop and crisps and all I had to do was sit in the cab and watch the world go by.

An hour or so passed, and I was daydreaming for all I was worth when suddenly I was brought to my senses by a loud knock on the window. I looked up to see a ruddy-faced constable gesturing at me to wind down the window.

This window however didn’t have a winder as such. It was held in place by a wedge shaped piece of wood pushed between that and the door. I removed the wood and the window dropped like a guillotine, causing the policeman to snatch his hands away so quickly that one of his gloves flew right across the car park. He retrieved it with as much dignity as he could muster and then, in that classic policeman type voice, he asked me what I was doing.

“I’m looking after my grandads Bazooka” I replied innocently.

For some reason, he didn’t seem to believe me. His face went several shades redder and his voice rose a few octaves. “You’ll be looking after a thick ear in a minute Sunshine” He advised me.

Just then, my grandad and Blacking Brush came out of the pub. When they saw the policeman, Blacking Brush rolled his eyes, and in an alcohol induced panic cast around for the best escape route. The same alcohol level in my grandad had entirely the opposite effect. He often became belligerent and confrontational.

“OY” he shouted as he strode purposefully toward the policeman, “What’s your problem, pork brains?”

In the silence that followed, I distinctly heard the faint parp of escaping gas, a sound which suggested that Blacking Brush was now very scared indeed.





To be continued…

[Laxie]

 

The first half was brilliant, but don't you dare leave us hanging like that!!!     Get back in here and spill part 2 Mr. Red!

[boldie]

The first half was brilliant, but don't you dare leave us hanging like that!!!     Get back in here and spill part 2 Mr. Red!

Indeed..I had better have that story before I go on holiday tomorrow!

[RED-DOG]

The policeman turned swiftly to face my grandad. "What did you say?" He demanded.

Grandad's face was wreathed in smiles "Oh, I was just saying how I always have a problem with these pork rinds officer, now, what seem to be the problem?"

I relaxed. I knew now that everything would be OK. I had seen this this version of grandad many times. Totally relaxed, confident, charming, and incredibly, irresistibly  persuasive.

He began to talk the police officer in an affable, soothing, almost hypnotic voice. I sat spellbound watching the magic work. Within the first minute or so of grandads monologue, the policeman, like a punctured balloon, seemed to shrink to about half his original size. As he talked, grandad put a comforting arm around the now docile constable, and gently ushered him away from the part of the pickup windscreen where the road tax was supposed to be.

Five minutes later, we were on our way. Grandad grinning from ear to ear, Blacking brush still quaking in his boots, and the policeman standing on the car park, waving fondly as we sped away.

"We'll have a ride into Pilsley" said grandad, "It can't be any worse than Clay Cross"

As we drove, grandad, as he always did when he was in a good mood, broke into song. His songs (Like his speech) were often heavily punctuated by "Poggardi Jib"  The "Broken Tongue" that is mixed with the language of their particular country and used by Gypsies the world over.

As with most peoples, there are subtle changes in dialect from region to region. For instance the word "Jelled" might become "Velled" in another county. 
 
Below is the song, followed by a rough translation of most of the words. They are more or less in the order that you will need them for the rest of the text.

Mandi jelled to puv the grai
Down by the pani side
Up jelled a mingri to lell mandi’s grais
Mandi made to pogger him
Delled him on his bori chin
And dordi, dordi, dordi, mandi can't kor!

Mandi = I;
Puv (or poov) = literally ’earth’ - thus field or pasture
Grai = horse
Pani = water
Jell (or jall) = to go
Mingri = policeman (same root as muscro or muskrer)
Lell = take;
Pogger = break, hit, punch or poke
Dell = to give or strike
Dordi = exclamation, something like Dearie me!  Good Grief!  Christ!  Bugger me!  or worse, depending on the speaker.
Kor = fight.
Bori = big
Varta = look, see.
Duvver = this
Rai = rich man, gentleman, landed gentry.
 

Without warning, grandad swerved the pickup off the road and onto the long drive of what looked like some sort of stately home.

"Dordi dordi!" exclaimed Blacking Brush, instantly gripped with fear at this unexpected turn of events, "Where ever is we jellin' Dennis?"

"Don't worry" replied grandad as we rattled across a cattle grid, "I just want a quick word with his Lordship"

"Dordi dordi" muttered Blacking Brush with a resigned sigh "We'm all gonna be lelled"

Eventually we came up to a big house set in what appeared to be several miles of manicured grounds. Grandad stopped the pickup by throwing it sideways in the gravel, much as a skier would stop in the snow. Alerted by the noise of our somewhat exuberant arrival, a lone figure began to walk towards us from the far side of a two acre lawn.......

[Laxie]

AND?!  Who was the lone figure?!  What were ye doing there?!  I'd better not be    by the time you tell the rest.

[RED-DOG]

AND?!  Who was the lone figure?!  What were ye doing there?!  I'd better not be    by the time you tell the rest.

Every time I write something, I intend to keep short. Then I remember something else that I want to add, so I break it down into smaller pieces in the hope that peeps won't get too bored.

Did the translations make some sort of sense?  It's hard for me to tell because I know what all the words mean anyway. 

[Laxie]

Makes sense to anyone who's interested enough to take the time to make sense of it.  Did that make sense?     And yes, thanks to your translations below the song, yours made sense.

[boldie]

OHNO, there's a third part? lol I had to log on to see how this finished and now I won't know for 2 weeks....I wonder if the hotel has interweb access and if the nice Cuban people have blocked Blonde or not.....

Great story, Mr Red.

[Karabiner]

"Poggardi-jib" seems to me like the Romany form of "Yiddish", it varies from country to country.

I would imagine that much like Yiddish it can also vary slightly from family to family.

Great story Tom, and it seems that tikay did not invent the old cooey-wooey

[RED-DOG]

"Poggardi-jib" seems to me like the Romany form of "Yiddish", it varies from country to country.

I would imagine that much like Yiddish it can also vary slightly from family to family.

Great story Tom, and it seems that tikay did not invent the old cooey-wooey

I don't know too much about Yiddish Ralph, but do you think the similarities stem from the fact that it's speakers, like Gypsies, are scattered throughout the world?


The trouble with my grandad was that when he was under the influence, you never knew until he opened his mouth if you were going to get cooey-wooey or crabby wabby. Sometimes he could pick a fight in a morgue.

[Tonji]

AND?!  Who was the lone figure?!  What were ye doing there?!  I'd better not be    by the time you tell the rest.

Every time I write something, I intend to keep short. Then I remember something else that I want to add, so I break it down into smaller pieces in the hope that peeps won't get too bored.

Did the translations make some sort of sense?  It's hard for me to tell because I know what all the words mean anyway. 

Charles Dickens had the same idea. His novels were originally published in weekly parts.

Certainly not getting bored. Keep em coming Red in as many parts as you like 

[Rod Paradise]

Rod. Does your dad do digital? Try to get him to take some general "Get the feel of the place" shots of where you live if you can. It sounds great when you write about it. (also some pics of the dogs)

I didn't forget Red - but my mum has a very special (as in special ed) way of filing pics - I'm being harangued now for not understanding her filing system 

Anyway - here's a pic of the sodgers' (soldiers) pool up Crawick river - it looks small but because it's quite a deep gorge and the river has worked its way though rock, the pools are deep - we used to jump off the cliffs at the side into them - only 1-2 ambulance calls a year . I'll post more tomorrow.

[RED-DOG]

Can anyone see it?