PI GY 13 - Uncle Ted’s Big Balls and the Floral Floozie

“I think your Uncle Ted is having an affair.”

I stared at my 83 year old Aunt Edie as she twiddled, sadly, with a potted primrose.

Uncle Ted was 93 and I, quite frankly, didn’t think he was up to much; never mind an affaire d’passion.

“We’re down to once a week now.” She said quietly, with some embarrassment.

“Oh,” I said with a lot of embarrassment and rapidly widening eyes. My eyebrows were in the position that I would presume them to be in if a facelift had been carried out, when all is yanked upwards and a big knot of skin was tied like a bun, at the back of the head.
I really, really didn’t want to be having this conversation but Edie continued.

“I don’t really want to be bothered with a divorce but if he was I’d have to. I know you’re good at these things. Can you find out for me please?”

Early evening and I was sitting in my car waiting for my uncle to emerge and ready to follow him.
Talk about it all feeling rather surreal. Uncle Ted? Affair? No! Surely not? No! Please NO!

I looked at my watch. Hurry up Ted, I thought. With that thought, the dull green door opened and out he came. I heard Aunt Edie’s cheerful “Bye”  floating out behind him but he only grunted in return and waved his hand as though he was impatiently swotting something annoying away. The door closed softly behind him and he was off.

Not the fastest follow ever, I had to wait until he turned a corner before moving, as he took so long to shuffle down the road.
No way was this man capable of steamy afternoon sessions. Aunt Edie’s “Down to once a week” had the temerity to float through my mind and I shuddered before trying to slam the shutters down in my over imaginative imagination. Too late. The damage had already been done.

I suddenly realised that Ted had disappeared.

A slow drive saw him halfway up someone’s drive. A cherry red door opened and a woman, at least twenty years younger than Ted, stepped out. Okay, she was still in her 70s but it’s probably all relative if you’re 93.

Blowsy was the only word that sprang to mind. She had on a flowery dress which was so beautifully vintage looking I had to wonder if she’d bought it when it first hit the rails. Surprisingly trim, brown legs led down to a pair of gleaming white plimsolls. Her hair was practically yellow and a slash of red, the only added colour on her face, drew the eye, instantly, to a mouth which never seemed to keep still.

After  a hug and a kiss  - ON THE LIPS! – she turned away from Ted and they both disappeared into the house, the cherry red door creating an impenetrable barrier for my curiosity.

A few minutes later and a bedroom light went on and stayed on for the next 20 minutes.

I wasn’t sure what to make of 20 minutes. Was that an awfully long time or would it take Ted that long just to get his socks off? Did he even take his socks off? Oh God, please stop over thinking this.

Eventually, the cherry red door, once again, creaked open. It’s a good job it was noisy because I’d started to nod off. My senses, once again, were at full alert/disgust,

I watched, through narrowed eyes, as the Floral Floozy headed for the gate. Ted followed her and, behind her back, adjusted his undercarriage. OH GOD!

At the gate she waited for him and kept in pace with his shuffle as they went on their way.

I felt rather distraught for poor Aunt Edie.  She was so lovely she didn’t deserve this. Bloody Ted. I’d kill him if he was having an affair. Oh God, Tracey. Don’t even think about it...

Too late. The image of her bouncing about on top of him (albeit still in the floral frock), was already there and primed to pump up the cringe-o-meter.

Shaking my head to attempt to dislodge the frightening image, I continued my stop, start, slow follow, until they turned into a passageway between two houses. The passageway opened into a large, concrete car park with a stark, utilitarian clubhouse at the far end.

I hadn’t seen this place before and had no idea it was even here, what it was used for and for whom.

I had a quick look around but, when a disloyal lurcher barked, when it saw me peering through the window at Ted, with a pint of stout (probably needed some fortification by that point), laughing with the Floral Floozy twirling her CherryB, I had to make an hasty retreat.
Yes, I know the Floral Floozy was probably lovely, but he was my 93 year old uncle, Ted, married to my lovely 83 year old Aunt Edie.

With an heavy heart I phoned Edie and reported back.

The next day, Edie called me and asked if I would go around for tea and cake. As much as I tried to avoid cake it always seemed to just fall into my expanding lap – at least the crumbs did.

Edie was already waiting by the open, dull green door.

“It’s alright, luv, he’s confessed all.”

I was fumbling around in my pocket for a clean-ish tissue to proffer but then wondered why was Edie looking so happy?

Edie bustled me in and a plate of cake was in my hand before my bum had even connected with the my-niece-bought-it-from-Shackleton's high chair, cosily situated by the electric bar fire.

“He’s been meeting a woman called Florrie. She’s married to the lovely Jim. You remember Jim? He was always running people over with his mobility scooter. Anyway, he’s now totally bedbound which quite frankly, is safer for everyone, including Jim. Going out with Ted, gives Florrie a lovely break from all the caring and gives Jim a lovely break from all the caring. A win win.”

I was thinking that was rather bohemian of Edie and Jim, when she continued; “Anyway, Ted picks up Florrie to walk her to the bowling club  a couple of times a week. They are in the same team and found that he walked past her house, on the way.”

“But why the big secret and the sneaking around?” I queried, totally perplexed by this point.

“Apparently, the big lummox was embarrassed. He originally got dragged along by Burt and Banjo (Burt’s chilled out wiry lurcher) and found that he enjoyed it – the people and the playing – bowls not banjos.”

“But...but....why didn’t he say where he was going?”

Edie tutted. “He was embarrassed that, if he admitted to liking playing bowls,  it would make him look old and ruin his street cred...” Edie raised her eyebrows to the same level that mine had already shot up to.

“Good grief, Ted – you nearly ruined your marriage never mind your street cred!”

Ted just looked sheepish, took a massive bite of Rocky Road and then gave Edie a great big wink. Edie gave Ted a rather wicked, little smile...

I looked horrified, made an hasty exit and ran for the hills.

PI GY 12 - Waving To Petunia, Wind In His Sails and a Lot of Devotion

At the bottom of the steep, white, zig-zag, High Cliff steps, are two little shops, either side of the promenade exit.

The one on the right is a tasteful, contemporary satellite of the St. Peter’s Avenue, “Bend In The River” coffee shop. More kiosk than coffee shop, it does have some communal, polished wenge and stainless steel, skinny bench-tables on the pavement, in front. It has only been open a few weeks and probably kept going, up to now, by the owner of the left-hand unit. 

In contrast to the coffee shop, “Wind In Your Sails”  shouts a great big WHOOHOOYOO to passers-by. 

Cleethorpes, very own, informal, information officer and promoter, and drag-artiste extraordinaire, Ian B. Devotion, filled the tiny space with both himself and Local Art and Craft contemporary versions of the traditional seaside souvenir shop. As well as an outlet for his own hand-carved, wooden windmills, (highly coveted and in several high end galleries as well as the thirty metre high one on the North Prom), the joyous, colourful, space somehow managed to contain Art postcards and greeting cards, badges, keyrings, mugs, original paintings and prints, jewellery, handmade flip-flops, sliders, hoodies and towels, seaside-based smellies. Anything and everything as long as it was made by local people, reflected the local area and, most importantly, fitted in with Ian’s tasteful, if somewhat eclectic, aesthetic.  Not wanting to exclude the day trippers from the delights that Cleethorpes and Grimsby’s Artists and Creators could offer, prices ran from 50p (Badge or card bookmark) to £500 (paintings and sculptures). There was even a rack, squeezed in the corner, full of CDs and vinyl by local musicians of all genre.

Ian and I were perched upon wenge, freezing hands clasped around steaming mugs of rich, dark coffee, trying to fight off a biting cruel North Sea wind . We’d, somehow, managed to resist our usual oozing brownies. My, still dodgy knee, meant hobbling everywhere so walking a block, never mind fitness classes, were definitely out and trousers, and everything else, were definitely getting far too snug. Eurgh. 

Ian, at 6’4”, an imposing chap at the best of times, ran on caffeine alone when he had an upcoming show and tonight was such a night.  Ian B. Devotion was the host of The Estuary Elvis Talent Show and, as he proclaimed, rather loudly, 

“White and rhinestones are not terribly flattering darling. They show up every crumb of brownie. At least, several good coffees will wee out a few unwanted undulations.”

Rick, the glossy-haired, surfer-dude, owner of Bend In The River, rolled his eyes and let out a big sigh.

“You’d be my best customer if I didn’t give you mate’s rates, mate.”

“Yeah, but that’s because you love me and I encourage everyone to come and see you after visiting me AND everyone else I ever meet.”

“Fair enough. Are you sure you don’t want a brownie? On the house...”

“Ooh you temptress,” Ian pouted. “You only said that because you know I won’t! Are you coming tonight?”

“Absolutely!” chortled Rick. “I’ve got my stripy Jailhouse outfit already made and ready to Rock The Kasbah, Rock The Kasbah. Hope we won’t Clash – haha!”

Kasbah Lumpers’ Kaff, was the unlikely venue for a, potentially, crazy Elvis night but the cosy cafe had a small stage, great sound system and, at night, no neighbours to disturb, even when the clientele spilled out onto the dockside frontage.  They also did a mean cheese (or cheese-ish for the vegans) bun and pork dripping sandwich (no vegan alternative) as well as having a prized drinks licence.  The licence was always under review as someone, inevitably, fell in the dock and had to be fished out, whenever there was a ‘Do’ on. 

Other than cheese buns and the cafe itself, the other constant was Parfait Pete who had somehow transformed from the twenty year old, burly docker type, washer-upperer, to cafe owner and Parfait Petra, on certain nights (and some days, if he was feeling brave).

For some strange and inexplicable reason, a few decades ago, I’d spent my 18th birthday there eating cheese buns and drinking mugs of creamy cocoa, among burly dockers. I have absolutely no recollection of how I ended up there, or why, but, no doubt, copious amounts of snakebites were involved and not of the reptile variety – oops.

 I’m not too sure how Elvis Drag Nights would have gone down in those days though and the odd snatches of music were only provided by a tinny radio, hidden in the greasy, depths of the kitchen. There is something to be said for the 21st Century. 

Feeling a bit like I was ‘doing a deal’ I gave Ian another of my large paintings in exchange for a promise that my bank account would be a lot happier by the time that I got home. I clipped “Shaft”, the replacement for the sold “Slipways and Trails” in the coveted, blank space in the window of “Wind In Your Sails”. 

Ian gave me a big hug. I’m not a hugger but there was no escape from his flapping, vintage,  Afghan coat (which had never been cured properly and reeked to high Heaven) and Tom Baker-esque woolly scarf, which was almost big enough to wrap around The Point as a big tea cosy for the large shop and apartment block, at the top of the High Cliff steps. His favourite winter boots were Barbie Pink cowboy boots. This was his ‘restrained’ day wear. I was tempted to go to the Elvis night to see what his creation du couture would be for that – in fact, I may see if MarcieD or Ally fancy going. Thankfully, Elvis attire was optional.

It was getting on by the time I’d nipped down Seaview Street to grab some tester tins of posh paint and peered in all the shop windows, trying not to spend my portion of the recent painting sale before I’d even seen it sitting in my bank account. 

It was only when I was driving down Grimsby Road, homeward bound, that I saw the box of postcards, bookmarks and badges, sticking out from under the passenger seat. Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered but Ian was having a small event the next day and had asked for more stock, specifically.  I took a right turn, came back up the next street and started to crawl back, in the rush hour traffic. Oh joy...

Ian, knowing that he’d be short for time, had brought his night-time outfit to the shop and, after closing a little earlier than normal, somehow managed to change in the tiny toilet, at the back of the shop. Putting his slap on, using a large, hand-crafted, wooden mirror he looked with pride at his sequined, white feathered headdress, his matching sequined eye shadow, massive, jet black lashes, pouty, red, glossed lips, sparkly white, flared jumpsuit and, his signature, tulle tutu – baby pink, in this instance.  In case of rain, and due to laziness, he’d kept the Barbie Pink cowboy boots on. All he had left to put on was the Ermine (faux, naturally), trimmed white cape. 

Hoping he wouldn’t be too lonesome tonight and that plenty more Elvis’ would show up, despite the weather, he locked up and pulled the shutters down. Hearing the loud clunk, Rick, who was cleaning the small kitchen in his unit, turned around to give Ian a wave and mouth, “See you later”. He got two thumbs up, a curtsey and a big, red, glossy grin in reply. 

Ian bounded up the steps, behind Wind In Your Sails and turned around to look at the tide which was on the way in.

Something caught his eye and he squinted into the wind to see better.

Amusing myself by blasting out Radio 1, I continued my car-crawl up Isaac’s Hill, along the High Street, down Sea Road and turned right, in front of The Pier, along the seafront. At this time I knew that I wouldn’t have any problem parking and I got right in front of the shops. 

Damn, Ian had shut up shop early but, thankfully, although now closed for business, Rick was still to be seen, beavering away in the back of Bend In The River. He looked a little grumpy when I tapped on the window but, thank goodness, smiled when he saw that it was just me. 

“Thank goodness, it’s just you.” He said. “Someone always wants a fancy coffee as soon as I’ve cleaned the machine up. Every.....single.....time....” He hit me when I asked him for a coconut milk, cappuccino. 

“Ow! Actually, could you do me a favour please? I got stuck in traffic and have missed Ian. I’ve got this stock for his event tomorrow. Could I leave them here and ask you to give them to him in the morning?”

“Of course. No problem, at all. Look, I’m about to lock up but need a quick bite before I go to the Estuary Elvis Talent Show. Fancy joining me?”

“Yes please,” I salivated, “I haven’t even thought about dinner.”

Rick, locked up, pulled down his shutters and we greedily picnicked on leftovers, eyed by even greedier seagulls. Rick used me as a guinea pig to sample his new, bacon and asparagus, flavour coconut ice cream. It was surprisingly tasty and no pigs were harmed in the making. I had a goat cheese and roasted red pepper panini and Rick had some meaty version. I then caved and we gorged on three brownies between us. My clothes were shrinking by the moment.

“We probably should have saved one for Ian’s breakfast.” I said, wiping crumbs and chocolate sludge from the rather large area surrounding my mouth. 

“Don’t worry. I won’t let him starve. Hey – what is that?”

I’d had my back to the murky brown sea, which was rushing in, and, being rather brick wall-like, had blocked Rick’s view, until he moved to throw a bit of crust to the nearest seagull, which shrieked with pleasure as it swooped to claim its prize. 

“I think it’s Ian.” I frowned. “He looks like a massive seagull!  What’s he doing out there – I thought he wanted to get to the Kasbah Kaff early?”

“Dunno. Must have fancied a walk first.”

Ian, aka the big flapping seagull, turned and waved at us.

“YooooHooooo!” we yelled and waved back.

“Do you think he’s enjoying himself, Petunia?” I laughed. Rick looked confused.

“Years ago there was a public information film featuring a married couple called Joe and Petunia. They were rather dense and thought that a man in a boat was waving at them but really he was in trouble and needed the coastguard to rescue him.” 

Rick and I looked at each other and stopped laughing as we suddenly realised that we may have been rather dense ourselves. We looked at Ian again, who was waving frantically at us and mouthing something that we couldn’t hear. He started pointing at a small, black blob, just before the oncoming tide. 

I grabbed my phone and used the camera to zoom in.

“Christ. There is a child stuck in the mud. Possibly a dog, as well and I don’t think that Ian can move.”

“Call the Coastguard on 999.” Rick yelled over his shoulder as he ran across Sea Road, practically vaulted the railings and landed on the beach, a considerable way below.

“Already on it.” I yelled back and hobbled towards the direction of the lifeboat station yelling both into my phone as well as to anyone else that could hear me.

Within minutes the Lifeboat people had managed to rescue a young boy, his equally young dog, and a very bedraggled seagull come Elvis come Drag Artiste, who had all got dragged down by the hidden, sneakily-shifting, quicksand and Rick had sullied his clean machine to revive everyone with hot coffee. 

All that remained, as the angry North Sea claimed the sand, was a pair of Barbie Pink cowboy boots, rapidly filling up. 

Albeit as snug as my clothes, I was able to lend Ian my wellies, which I kept in my car for emergencies. Being Ian he snorted at the boring blackness of them as he squeezed them on over his red, silver and sandy, striped long socks.

The hero of the hour, Ian found himself plastered all over the front of the next day’s Grimsby Telegraph. As well as rescue photos, the photographer had gone to the Elvis Event and the main photo was a delighted Ian B. Devotion holding his winner’s trophy aloft for his performance of “All Shook Up”. Even Parfait Petra, MarcieD, Ally and I ended up as Cover Girls with all the Drag-Elvis’. I really wished I hadn’t eaten those brownies!

When he had belted out “Well, my hands are shaky and my knees are weak.

I can't seem to stand on my own two feet. Who do you think of when you have such luck?” 

The whole of the Lifeboat crew, who had turned out in force, responded with: 

“I'm in love. He’s all shook up. Ha ha ha, Ha ha ha, YAY YAY...”

As well as Headlining the Estuary Elvis Talent Show, The Grimsby Telegraph and The Wind In Your Sails event, Ian found himself presented with his cleaned up and dried out cowboy boots, safely retrieved by one of the Lifeboat crew, when the tide went back out and they were still suckered in the mud, plus a whole brownie cake, made especially for his very favourite customer, by Rick.

Ian B. Devotion – Local legend.