Monday, 25 October 2010

As I drove up Station Road I saw a colleague on his delivery...

Ginnel from Kevin Boniface on Vimeo.
As I drove up Station Road I saw a colleague being attacked by a fat black labrador with a fluorescent green collar. He managed to protect himself with his mail pouch before kicking the dog in the head. The dog ran off and my colleague gave me the thumbs up as I passed.

At the army surplus shop, a customer was asking the proprietor whether he had “a hat like Michelle wore in ‘Allo ‘Allo”. The proprietor said he hadn’t.

I was walking up the front path of a house on Orchard Street when the door opened and a large black German Shepherd ran out of it. Fortunately, the dog was attached to its owner by a length of blue rope. The man was dragged down his steps and several feet up the path towards me before he regained his footing and restrained the dog. 
“Don’t worry” he said, “He doesn’t bite as a rule, It’s your bag. He doesn’t like postmen or people with bags”. 
The dog began barking and pulled the man another foot or so up the path. 
“When I take him down on the field I have to have a good look round to make sure there’s no one with a bag about otherwise he’ll think it’s the postman and he’ll have them”.
“Oh” I said.
“Yeah, it’s just bags—and postmen. Funny, isn’t it?”

As I rounded the corner into Mill Street, a young boy of about eight or nine sped off down the hill on a BMX. Two other boys were jumping up and down excitedly. One of them pointed after the BMX boy and shouted to me “He’s shit his pants! His bum is wet!”

11.30am: A large woman in pyjamas came out of the shop holding a packet of Lambert and Butler cigarettes and a copy of The Sun newspaper. She was holding a conversation via speaker-phone, holding her phone in front of her face while she shouted into it in a southern accent: “...and then she says ‘Fuck you! It’s over! Now fuck off!' You gotta love her, haven’t you? Anyway, don’t forget your key... Love you loads and loads... Byee!”
Half an hour later I saw the woman again, she was smoking in the garden of no.17 with two other large women in pyjamas.

I watched an aggressive stand-off develop between two young men. It began with the usual cursing and swearing but soon escalated into something quite unusual, ending thus:
“You’re a fucking moo cow!”
“You fucking moo cow!”
“You’re a moo cow!”
“You’re a moo cow!”
Eventually the first man chased the other up the road and into a house.

I knocked at the door of a house. I heard the back door open and a terrier ran around the corner, squatted at my feet and started pissing. I stepped away as the dog’s owner came out saying “Don’t worry love, she’ll not bother you.”

Thursday, 21 October 2010

On my way into work I saw a bat, an owl, the short woman with the sweat shirt...

Tunnel 2 from Kevin Boniface on Vimeo.
On my way into work I saw a bat, an owl, the short woman with the sweat shirt and the peroxide perm who goes through the bins in the park and, on the pavement outside the Mortgage Introducer and International Flights shop on Marsh Street, a women’s block heeled boot.

I knocked at a house on West Moor Road. A boy of about three or four wearing nothing but a nappy was sitting on the window sill drinking milk from a baby bottle. A thin woman in her 40s with braces on her teeth answered the door and shouted “Toilet!” at me. “Oh sorry love, I thought you were someone else”, she added.

Mr Briggs intercepted me for his mail in his Bedford Rascal. He asked me whether I’d ever toured Scotland by coach. I said I hadn’t. He told me his wife had seen an advert in The Examiner. “Up one side and down the other—five hotels in a week.”
Mr Briggs went on at some length about his reservations about coach travel.
"A sore arse... compulsory seat belts... steamed-up windows that you can’t see out of... the lack of decent toilet facilities... If you get sat next to a knobhead..." and so forth.
He said "I said all this to her but she’d already gone and booked it, hadn’t she? Her and Barbara had cooked it up together, hadn’t they? So the four of us went together: me, the missus and Gary and Barbara. And do you know what?" said Mr Briggs looking up at me from over his wire-rims.
“What?” I said.
“We had a real time! It was fantastic! We’ve been another, one, two, three, four times since!”
He went on at some length about some of the exploits they’d had.
“They’re only allowed to drive for a couple of hours at a time these days so we always have chance to have a coffee or a tea.”
And how he’d got around the seat belt problem.
“If you plug the belt into the thing before you get into your seat and then just sit on it, the driver's alarm doesn’t go off. He’d had to tell me a couple of times over the tannoy before I figured that out”. Mr Briggs chuckled and did an impression of the bus driver “Passenger number 44, could you fasten your belt please!”
I told Mr Briggs that I’d once travelled from London to Paris by coach and I’d found it quite tough going. I was about to elaborate with an amusing anecdote from the journey but he cut me short saying “Anyway, I’m off to Leeds now” and he drove away.

A little girl with a big afro asked me whether I was the postman. I said I was and she said “Why?” I said I didn’t know.

Tuesday, 12 October 2010

A man is lying on his side on his asphalt driveway...

A man is lying on his side on his asphalt driveway manicuring the edge of his lawn with a pair of shears—half his backside is showing. He rolls over onto his back to say hello.

Leylandii, berberis, box hedge and open-plan lawns. Stone built bungalows with feature arches and patio-doors, swirly carpets and telephone tables. Staffordshire ladies on the window sills.

"Did you hear about the burglary two doors down? They're on holiday. They didn't draw their curtains, didn't set their alarm. What did they expect?".

Rockery islands and miniature conifers. Limestone and alpines.

Locks on doors, locks on windows, locks on cars, locks on bikes, locks on sheds, locks on greenhouses, locks on gates...

Two cars on the drive and nobody home.

Women walk the streets in fleeces and overactive reactolites. Pulling on North Faces as it starts to drizzle. Swinging little bags of dog shit as they stride on towards Strawberry Drive in spotty Barbour Wellingtons. Dragging a growling, clipped schnauzer as it tries to hold its ground.
"Why are you like this with the postman? He's usually so placid and lovely. Aren't you?" she says, without looking up.

In the week, it's old retired men with tucked-in shirts and side partings. They lie down underneath Range Rovers or fine tune their lawns. They say "What's she been ordering now?" about "the missus" who sometimes comes outside in her specs and unusually coloured hair. "Have you seen the postman?" she says as she sets down a tall glass and a hobnob.

At the weekends it's younger men who stand on their lawns in casual sportswear holding power tools. They say "All right mate?" while the missus, in her navy-blue polo shirt with the buttons undone, holds a spaniel by the collar.

There are one or two children but they are at nursery except on Saturday when one of them gets strapped into the seat of his grandad's Ford Focus and taken to the United game. His grandma waves him off, she already has her pinny on.

Saturday, 9 October 2010

I could see a small man walking towards me in the park...

Branch Street from Kevin Boniface on Vimeo.

I could see a small man walking towards me in the park. He was singing loudly to himself and occasionally performing a kind of shimmy. He stopped briefly to take a drag of his cigarette and saw me walking towards him. He began coughing in what seemed like a fake way and when he started up walking again, he did so with a pronounced swagger and an expressionless face.

Trizzle and N.Smith have both written their names on the the May Street pouch box.

On the estate I knocked at a house to deliver a registered parcel. A man answered. He was carrying a little boy in a duffle coat, mittens and a woollen hat, “Oh thanks mate, that’s great I’ve been waiting for that. Excellent”. He put down the little boy to sign for the package and a thin women in a vest top peered around the door. Her eyes widened, “Is that your new phone? Fucking hell you jammy cunt! Mine took fucking ages. Fucking hell!”

According to the large A1 laminated poster entitled The Toby Grill Hall Of Fame, Mick has served 994 drinks and Kerry over 400 meals so far this week.

A man who looked a bit like Tony Hancock stopped me in Albion Drive to ask me whether I knew why there was so much “bird muck” on the roofs of the bungalows there.

Sunday, 3 October 2010

A young man wearing a yellow vest, faded red boxer shorts and fluffy yellow slippers...

Green sign from Kevin Boniface on Vimeo.

A young man wearing a yellow vest, faded red boxer shorts and fluffy yellow slippers was sat on my neighbour's front step in the rain at 5.30am. Later, I saw a fox on Station Road.

On the bus I overheard a man telling his companion that he’d shat himself in bed after drinking too many turbo diesels in the pub.

Mrs Shaw gave me a bag of home grown tomatoes. She said she's completely self-sufficient as far as tomatoes were concerned.

Dr Groves opened his front door to take his mail. “It’s a reasonable day by the looks of it” he said.

Mr Briggs pulled up to tell me he was off to Oldham today.
He paused, then said “Actually, I tell a lie, I’m off to the office, then to Meltham and then to Oldham. I’m working on the precinct there, it’s a right bastard to park.”
That’s all he said, then he got back into his VW Passat and drove away.

At the Chartered Accountants, a chubby white male Chartered Accountant with brown plastic rimmed glasses, a white shirt and a grey suit was talking to a slim white female Chartered Accountant in a white shirt and a slightly lighter grey suit — with a fine check.
“Did you get through Chapeltown all right yesterday?” asked the man.
I know! I didn’t see a single white face!” said the woman biting her lip.
“I bet you didn’t want to stop at the lights did you?”
No” said the woman, “I pushed my door-locks down!” She mimed twisting around and pushing down the door lock. “Absolutely terrifying” she said.

Mrs Gaunt waved to me from her first floor window with a tenon saw in her hand.

Places I saw the Cross of St George today:
1. Painted across the bonnet of a white baker’s van.
2. On a flag flying from dead tree in a garden on Vicarage Drive.
3. On a flag flying from the Foresters Arms pub.
4. Painted on a drain cover by the back door of a house on Elizabeth Road.
5. On a flag flying from what used to be The Green Cross real ale pub but is now a ‘sex encounter’ club with blacked out windows and plans for a sauna.