Tag Archives: admiral

In which Tony finds he has secret admirers in the fast-food trade.

I love pizza. Not just pizza, but having somebody bring me pizza. I think it’s one of the miracles of the modern age that I can be wrapped up in a box set of ‘Supernatural’ and only have to reach between the remote, the beer and the phone in order to maintain a state of bliss.

But one of the unfortunate side effects of this guilty pleasure is that pizza vendors tend to mistake your obvious gratitude for something akin to a relationship and often make it clear that you owe it to them to pull your weight.

First I received a postcard addressed to ‘T. Boaks or Pizza Eater’. Admittedly this was right on both counts, but it went on to say they were ‘missing me’ and that if only I’d get in touch, everything would be just like it was before. I wanted to tell them that involved me sinking into lard-assed alcoholism and, besides which, I’d come to the end of ‘Supernatural’. But then series two became available.

I didn’t want to be accused of leading the needy vendor on, so when the box set arrived, I called a different delivery service. The transaction went smoothly enough, even though I felt they were a little over-eager, but within a week they too sent me a postcard. It said ‘Mr. Boaks, we put everything into the making of your pizza’. This was a huge exaggeration as I knew for a fact they only put in flour, water and yeast. Already I was suspicious.

Then vendor one stepped up its courtship by sending a full-colour brochure with ‘Mr. Boaks, you’re at the heart of everything we do’ emblazoned on the cover. By now, however, there was a hint of vindictiveness about these communications. They told me exactly how long it had been since I called and they addressed it to a ‘Mr. Boalloks’.

On top of this I began receiving additional direct mail from pizza vendors I’d never even heard of. They said things like ‘You don’t know us, but we want to get to know you’ and ‘Pizza 4 Boaks 4 Ever’. This was just creepy and I decided to give up on box sets altogether.

I thought I might try and get out more instead and arranged to meet The Admiral at The Malt Loaf, his preferred wellspring of vigorous dark ale. However, as soon as I stepped out my front door, various pizza vendors scuttled into the bushes, ten or twelve in all. I knew they were pizza vendors because I smelled potato wedges. Some had cameras and tape recorders, others were taking notes.

It seemed I really was at the heart of everything they do.

Mr. Boaks, You’re At The Heart Of Everything We Do

April 1, 2013

In which Tony finds he has secret admirers in the fast-food trade. I love pizza. Not just pizza, but having somebody bring me pizza. I think it’s one of the miracles of the modern age that I can be wrapped up in a box set of ‘Supernatural’ and only have to reach between the … Continue reading →

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In which Tony encounters a feline with an unusual pronunciation of the word ‘meow.’

The Admiral had found a particularly fascinating episode of ‘Extreme Trams’ on Youtube and was glued to his monitor. It wasn’t such an unusual state for The Admiral and it was best not to interfere, as this was preferable to his frequent bouts of boisterousness.

“Don’t you have any milk?” I said, trying to find things to combine that might result in a refreshment.

“On the fridge,” he said.

“On the fridge? You know milk ought to be stored in the fridge in order to keep it cold.”

“Ordinarily, yes,” he replied. “But I was experimenting and it’s now behaving like a reverse hotplate.” I ran a finger over the fridge’s surface and sure enough a layer of frost had developed. The milk was practically stuck to it.

I heard a scratching at the front door followed by a thin high-pitched voice, as if a ten-year-old had been compressed within a shoebox. I thought it might be Cyndi Lauper.

“Could you put a little milk in that saucer?” said The Admiral, rising and, without removing his gaze from the monitor, stepping to the front door. For a shoebox, it was large and had very long hair. And whilst its skulking demeanour was typical of its species, it had a most unusual cry.

“Noooo,” said the cat, in a plaintive monotone.

“Yeeees,” said The Admiral.

“Noooo,” said the cat.

“Yeeees,” said The Admiral.

“Excuse me,” I said. It’s not that I wasn’t bemused by an apparently talking cat, but I felt if this was the level of debate we were going to have, I might as well watch Scottish Questions. “Since when do you have a cat?”

“It’s not mine,” said The Admiral. “I believe he belongs to that chap around the corner.”

“What kind of person teaches their cat to speak?”

“I think you’ll find,” said The Admiral, “that the results of most experiments with verbal communication in cats have tended to be negative. This is not so much a talking cat as one with an unusual pronunciation of the word ‘meow.’”

“But when you said ‘yes’, he said ‘no.’”

“That’s not really a conversation though, is it? More like a Beatles song. Were I to ask him about Boyle’s Law, he’s unlikely to explain that, assuming temperature remains unchanged, the absolute pressure and volume of a confined gas are inversely proportional.”

“Isn’t that just because he didn’t study thermodynamics?” I said.

“Hmm,” said The Admiral. “Admittedly, he may have spent more time on Kinetic Theory. Why don’t you try talking to him?”

“Ok. What’s his name?”

“I don’t know,” said The Admiral. “Let’s call him Boyle.”

I crouched down to welcome the visitor. “Hello, Boyle,” I said, and immediately felt ridiculous.

“Noooo,” said the cat.

“Would you like some milk?” I poured a little into the saucer.

“Noooo,” said the cat, rushing towards it and eagerly lapping it up.

“You see?” said The Admiral. “His response is not necessarily negative. In fact, we don’t even know if he is speaking English. Were he a native Pole, this would actually mean ‘yes’. Or were he Japanese it would mean ‘of.’

“He’s multilingual?” I said.

“I don’t think you’re quite grasping this,” said The Admiral, doing his best to hear an explanation of electrical conduits whilst continuing our discussion. “He’s just an eccentric verbaliser, a bit like yourself.”

“But he must have been trained to talk like that.”

“Actually,” said The Admiral, “I believe it may be the other way round. The chap around the corner is quite the curmudgeon and I suspect the cat has trained him to take a negative view of life. He may have become so accustomed to hearing the word ‘no’ that it now plays a huge part in his daily discourse. In which case, Boyle has a lot to answer for, don’t you, Boyle?”

“Noooo,” said the cat.

It was a very intelligent cat who could not only speak several languages but had trained his master to behave in such a manner. I began to have some sympathy for the man who had simply been conditioned, and it made me wonder about those whose only notion of positivity is to continually repeat that we are positively screwed.

Not So Much A Talking Cat

December 18, 2012

In which Tony encounters a feline with an unusual pronunciation of the word ‘meow.’ The Admiral had found a particularly fascinating episode of ‘Extreme Trams’ on Youtube and was glued to his monitor. It wasn’t such an unusual state for The Admiral and it was best not to interfere, as this was preferable to … Continue reading →

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In which Tony and The Admiral encounter a most vocal critic of Scottish journalism.

There was an unusual squawking sound coming from within The Admiral’s flat. The last time I remember hearing anything similar was when LaFlamme had agreed to give The Admiral a haircut. It was an ill-judged move on his part, as LaFlamme kept her shades on and held a glass with a sherry-like substance in it throughout. The results, however devastating, were short-lived because as everyone knows, a haircut is just for Christmas and not for life.

The squawking continued as I stepped tentatively into the kitchen-office. On the ex-boardroom table where The Admiral conducted his greatest bodges sat a large multi-coloured vertebrate. Initially I mistook this for a bouquet of flowers but as the incongruity of a vase of flowers in The Admiral’s office sunk in I realised something was afoot. This was clinched when the vase of flowers spoke.

“Who are you?” said the bird.

“Tony.”

“Hello Tony.”

I was somewhat taken aback by this, as it was already more conversation than I would normally expect at The Admiral’s.

“I appear to be stuck,” said The Admiral, from the other side of the room. He had most of his upper body crammed into a large wire enclosure on the kitchen worktop and for a moment I wondered if there had been a body-swap incident, as he is usually the one perched on the table. I wasn’t sure whether he was trying to get in or out, but I held the back of the cage and let him decide.

“Thank you,” he said, removing himself and dusting off the flakes of wood-shavings from his sleeves. “I’m looking after the little chap and it was time to clean his cage.”

“Who does he belong to?” I asked.

“My friend Muriel,” said The Admiral. “You know. Journalist. Lots of opinions." He said this in a way which suggested she might be dangerous. "He’s not generally any trouble, but he’s most particular about the materials with which I furnish his lodgings.”

“Correct gauge of shavings, or what?” I asked.

“Underneath the shavings,” he replied, “is a lining of four or five layers of newspaper and I’ve been told on no account to use the Daily Record.”

The parrot piped up. “Utter pish,” he said. The animal’s use of the Scottish vernacular was striking.

“Why on earth,” I asked, “would a parrot object to the Daily Record?”

“Utter pish,” repeated the parrot.

muriel gray's parrot

“Well, parrots are among the most intelligent of birds,” said The Admiral. “I can only assume that the quality of journalism within its pages is simply not up to his high standards.”

“But he’s only going to crap on it,” I said.

“Nevertheless,” replied The Admiral. “He does not deem it worthy. Apparently it was only a matter of days with said paper before he insisted on crapping on The Scotsman instead.”

“Bollocks,” said the parrot.

“But soon he also became dissatisfied with The Scotsman.”

“Bollocks,” repeated the parrot.

“Then there was only one paper good enough for the little prince.”

“Which was?” I asked.

“The Herald,” said The Admiral.

“It’ll have to do,” said the parrot.

"The Herald?" I said.

“It’ll have to do,” repeated the parrot.

It probably said something for the quality of Scottish journalism that this most discerning of readers could only find one quality newspaper and even then it was to defecate on. I can only imagine the foul language had he been raised in Dundee.

I asked The Admiral what could have sparked such disdain for the papers in question.

“Perhaps he used to write for them,” said The Admiral, without a hint of sarcasm. I concluded that it was a possibility. “In any event, you’re perfectly welcome to ask him directly.”

I turned towards the parrot. “So, um.. the Daily Record and The Scotsman..”

“Utter pish bollocks,” said the parrot.

It wasn’t the most eloquent of arguments but then I wasn’t the most eloquent of guests and didn't particularly fancy debating the merits of Scottish print journalism much further. Besides, he was starting to win me over with his passionate and forthright take on the subject.

“I think I remember your friend Muriel,” I said to The Admiral. “Better get him back in his cage before he starts boffing on about Munros.”

Thanks to Kevin Robertson

Muriel Gray’s Parrot

April 25, 2012

In which Tony and The Admiral encounter a most vocal critic of Scottish journalism. There was an unusual squawking sound coming from within The Admiral’s flat. The last time I remember hearing anything similar was when LaFlamme had agreed to give The Admiral a haircut. It was an ill-judged move on his part, as … Continue reading →

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In which Tony explains the tenuous thread that links him to The King and The Colonel.

My previous post, George Lyttleton Band Manager: The Early Years, elicited some of the most imaginative comments I have ever read.

“I’m not sure where you get your information, but great post!”

“Very Informative. I’m wondering why the other experts in this sector do not understand this.”

“You say so, but then Erasmus spoke from both sides of his mouth. Thanks for posting!”

Despite being Dali-esque in their freeform association of gibberish, I was delighted that I had given joy to so many with what was, after all, a very simple tale about having grown a band manager from seed.

Even though I wondered how the subject of band managers and rusks could be considered ‘informative,’ and just what sector we were dealing with, I decided that a compliment was a compliment, no matter how deranged. I wasn’t even put off when The Admiral suggested somewhat unkindly that the messengers hadn’t read the piece, and were instead trying to solicit links to an Asiatic cartel. Rather, I believed I had been an inspiration to Dadaists across the globe, and avowed to continue writing my journal if only to encourage the spread of Merz.

However, I was awestruck when I read the following response:

“Was Parker a great manager? I don’t know. Some people said he did a lot of great things for Elvis, got him into Vegas and Hollywood. But the Colonel lost $1m in one night in Vegas, and Elvis hated those stupid films. Then Parker robbed the world of an Elvis tour because he didn’t have a US Passport and wouldn’t be allowed back in. No, I believe Parker took advantage of Elvis and robbed the world of seeing the greatest entertainer/singer/performer in history.”

This judge and jury of all things Parker had chosen my journal to deliver this impassioned critique. No matter that I hadn’t mentioned Colonel Tom or Elvis – everyone writes a non sequitur of colossal proportions from time to time – it was a glorious rant. He was clearly a waffler of some standing and his reasoned but unrequested argument was taking Merz to a new level.

I considered asking for more of the messenger’s opinions on the Colonel and Elvis, and even inviting him to write this journal, but only in the three seconds it took me to find the delete key.

Elvis, The Colonel And Me

February 23, 2012

In which Tony explains the tenuous thread that links him to The King and The Colonel. My previous post, George Lyttleton Band Manager: The Early Years, elicited some of the most imaginative comments I have ever read. “I’m not sure where you get your information, but great post!” “Very Informative. I’m wondering why the … Continue reading →

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In which Tony and The Admiral continue Project X, their quest for an effective hangover cure, with dedicated input from Suave Gav.

Suave Gav was punctual, early even, and carried a heavy briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. He strode confidently around the room as introductions were made. “It’s quite alright,” he said. “I haven’t been followed.” Without delay he unlocked the cuffs, discarded his jacket and opened the case, unpacking an apron, funnel, several small jars with cloth coverings, test tubes, various twigs and roots, a syringe and finally a sheaf of papers bound together by elastic bands. He was certainly taking this evening seriously. By contrast, The Admiral produced his notepad of equations and a ceramic jug with a cork in the top. He seemed a little over-awed by Suave Gav’s intensity. I could see a little self-doubt flicker across his face.

Gavin was generous with his knowledge, at least for one whose knowledge arrived handcuffed to him. At length he outlined the extent of his research, pinning diagrams to the wall and highlighting with a laser pen. It was the nearest thing to a lecture I would ever witness. He explained the struggle he’d had in trying to produce an elixir from the branches of the Turpitude plant and made it sound as if it had been his life’s work. It had only been a week. Clearly he’d given up his day job or abandoned the whole idea of sleep in order to focus. He was committed. And if he wasn’t, he should be.

Suave Gav Wades In

November 23, 2011

In which Tony and The Admiral continue Project X, their quest for an effective hangover cure, with dedicated input from Suave Gav. Suave Gav was punctual, early even, and carried a heavy briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. He strode confidently around the room as introductions were made. “It’s quite alright,” he said. “I haven’t … Continue reading →

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In which Tony and The Admiral continue the development of their hangover cure by inviting bon viveur Suave Gav to contribute.

The Admiral said he was only too happy to confer with a fellow gastronomic engineer on what we’d begun to call Project X. We didn’t call it Project X because it sounded cool or enigmatic, it was just the 24^th such project we’d attempted. We were two projects away from starting again at Project A or finding some other alphabet to abuse.

When I explained to The Admiral that Suave Gav wasn’t actually an engineer but merely a hardened drinker with a vested interest in dealing with troublesome mornings after, The Admiral realised we were in Lorenzo’s Oil territory.

“All the better,” he said. “We must make our own miracles.”

Project X

November 6, 2011

In which Tony and The Admiral continue the development of their hangover cure by inviting bon viveur Suave Gav to contribute. The Admiral said he was only too happy to confer with a fellow gastronomic engineer on what we’d begun to call Project X. We didn’t call it Project X because it sounded cool … Continue reading →

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In which Tony prepares for his trip to Westerchester.

Showing my trademark caution, I checked in on The Admiral and asked him what to pack. He was a regular at the Munich Beer Festival so he suggested a first aid kit. He rummaged in his bathroom cabinet for a bit. Various items crashed into the sink below, one of which he handed to me. It was a long white tube of something called ‘Cryofreeze.’

“Take this,” he said. “It’s relieved a great deal of pain for me in the past. Apply to the affected area and numb’s the word.”

“Numb’s the word?” I said.

“You won’t feel a thing,” he replied. “Cryotherapy is the new aspirin.”

“Do I rub it on my head if I get a headache?”

“Only if you’ve been hit with a frying pan.”

“What if it was a saucepan?” I said. He told me I was being facetious, although I can’t see what politics has to do with it.

I read the back of the tube. It said ‘do not use in combination with a heating pad.’ I asked The Admiral if, had I applied Cryofreeze then added a heating pad, I would start to melt. He said something about me not needing Cryofreeze to numb my head.

Cryotherapy – Numb’s The Word

October 23, 2011

In which Tony prepares for his trip to Westerchester. Showing my trademark caution, I checked in on The Admiral and asked him what to pack. He was a regular at the Munich Beer Festival so he suggested a first aid kit. He rummaged in his bathroom cabinet for a bit. Various items crashed into … Continue reading →

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In which Tony describes the recording of his radio play 'Borderline Brilliant.'

The Admiral was enthusiastic about committing his mellifluous tones to tape. I assumed it was because it would allow him to devise a method of recording our respective roles from seperate locations, something that was likely to tax his massive cranium for at least several hours. However, he was appalled at the idea of faking our encounters in such a way, suggesting that it would be similar to a retrospective duet with Bing Crosby. I wasn't sure which of us would be Bing in this situation but thought I had better take up golf in case it was me.

Because of this, much of the recording had to take place on the Burnfield Links. This explains the baggy pants I wore throughout the sessions, although I doubt whether they can be heard in the actual recording. So The Admiral was faced with a challenge after all, not virtual recording, but keeping up with a baggy-panted man who has taken up golf in case he has to pretend to be Bing Crosby.

It was on the links that we met PC Whyte and PC Mackay and I can only repeat my apologies for the damage caused. I'd like to thank them for being so understanding and for taking part in the recording. Thanks also to Chris Hurst, Alan Macdonald and Rory Macdonald for their monumental efforts. The Admiral too extends his thanks. He is recovering after the combined weight of a 16-track recorder and mixing desk caused him to slip a disc at the eighteenth hole. But no harm done, the recording was complete by then.

To hear the final recording, click here for Borderline Brilliant.

A Retrospective Duet With Bing Crosby

September 29, 2011

In which Tony describes the recording of his radio play 'Borderline Brilliant.' The Admiral was enthusiastic about committing his mellifluous tones to tape. I assumed it was because it would allow him to devise a method of recording our respective roles from seperate locations, something that was likely to tax his massive cranium for … Continue reading →

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In which Tony demonstrates the visual power of language.

The Admiral told me when he was younger he and his friends used to write the word 'why' vertically and it would look like a woman in a bikini. You know, like this:

This would be hugely tittilating for a 10-year-old but it turns out he was 25 at the time. I was relieved when Junior took a shine to him and explained (in sign language of course, as Junior is verbally challenged. And when I say sign language, not real sign language which The Admiral wouldn't understand, but a series of whistles and gestures that she produced for his benefit alone) a few things about women.

I too remember being shown this little W-H-Y trick as a pre-teen by an over-excitable friend with a penchant for fire-raising. The conversation went something like this:

"Look at this," he said.

"What?"

"Not what. Why."

"What?"

"Why."

"Why what?"

"Why. A woman in a bikini."

"I give up. Why a woman in a bikini?"

By this time he'd set fire to it and I was left none the wiser. Anyway, it seemed pretty large for a bikini and the effect was totally ruined once you added the question mark.

The Word ‘Why’

September 16, 2011

In which Tony demonstrates the visual power of language. The Admiral told me when he was younger he and his friends used to write the word 'why' vertically and it would look like a woman in a bikini. You know, like this: This would be hugely tittilating for a 10-year-old but it turns out … Continue reading →

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In which Tony is encouraged by a review of an excerpt from his journal.

Recently I allowed a small section of my journal to escape the confines of its page and be read by arbiters of good taste at an online short story symposium. The resulting assessment was that it was ‘engaging in a somewhat pointless fashion’, a glowing review if ever I’ve heard one. Such a resounding endorsement of my fledgling scribery confirms what I have suspected for some time – that I have the makings of an author of distinction. I intend to stop washing and up my alcohol consumption henceforth.

I showed the piece to The Admiral. He said I was ‘damned with faint praise,’ and I agreed that they must have really liked it. The Admiral also harbours a desire to be an author and has often said he wishes to write a ‘classic of 20^th Century literature’. Despite my misgivings about the timing of such an effort, he remains undeterred and continues to pound at his keyboard regularly, if only in frustration.

Once he showed me an example of his writing. It appeared to be in javascript. I didn’t wish to be discouraging because there are many classics of 20^th Century literature written in code. Ulysses for example, a doorstopper of some girth, requires an even bigger tome on hand for deciphering purposes. However, if it was The Admiral’s intention to compose something equally obscure, Ms-Dos might have been more appropriate, given the period.

Anyway I believe there’s only room for one great author in our circle and I should think this testament to my long-dormant genius puts me some way ahead of the fold. Soon I’ll be joining the author of the Maltese Falcon - Dan Brown I think it was - in the pantheon of literary greats, drunk, refusing to wash and asking the others what pantheon means.

Engaging In A Somewhat Pointless Fashion

August 24, 2011

In which Tony is encouraged by a review of an excerpt from his journal. Recently I allowed a small section of my journal to escape the confines of its page and be read by arbiters of good taste at an online short story symposium. The resulting assessment was that it was ‘engaging in a … Continue reading →

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