A weekend at Terry Towers, northern branch

Friday
The best thing about the journey North is Terry Terry’s delighted face when he spies me striding along the platform towards him, then being enveloped in a big Barbour hug.

Mrs Terry proposes a shopping trip as, “You always seem to do much better for shopping when you come home, Sweetheart.” That, I think, is because you always pay, Mum, but decide to keep this to myself.

Shopping with Terry and Mrs Terry is a delight. Far from attempting to curb my tendency towards outlandish numbers, Mrs Terry positively embraces it, telling me at one point, “That’s not jazzy enough for you, sweetheart,” then strongly encouraging the purchase of a playsuit that Floella Benjamin would be proud of.

Terry is also pleased with the suit and goes off to find a matching belt. Terry is a man remarkably at ease in women’s clothes shops and will gamely wander the aisles, look for shoes in a very specific colour, hosiery etc. I suppose he’s had enough years of practice with the three women in his life. Have I mentioned he’s taken to calling the dog, “Son”? Poor Terry.

Saturday
Terry acts up on the train platform to Liverpool and I tell him sternly, “Dad, this is my limit. Don’t push it any more.” Feel a parent/child line has been crossed. Mixed feelings.
Philly Terry has bought tickets for a family trip to The King and I at the Liverpool Empire. Terry fortifies himself with a stiff G and T before we head in, even sucking the lemon to extract every last bit of gin.
Wise Terry.

Have a weird moment (possibly gin-based) when, for the first time in my life, I say words aloud that I thought were only in my head. The words were, “I wish I’d gone to Poundland,” which fell out when Mrs Terry was telling a story about her time working at the Citizens’ Advice Bureau.

It’s true, I do wish I’d gone to Poundland, but this isn’t an appropriate time to say. Fortunately, all Terrys find it funny, although Mrs Terry does not resume her story.

Today is quite an auspicious day in Terry history as Will is making his first trip to the family seat. After making sure a squiffy Terry and Mrs Terry have got on the right train back to El Porto, Philly takes Will and I on a tour of Liverpool, including a stop for baked bean tequila.

I don’t think I like baked bean tequila very much.

Sunday
Terry Terry enquires what Will and I plan to do for the day, then proposes something he’s clearly been giving some thought: he wants to take Will on a driving tour of the twon.

Obviously, I insist on going too.

Highlights of Terry’s tour include: the vet’s (“Sam spends a lot of time there”), Terry’s old school (demolished in 1978) and “the whore house” three doors down from MacDonald’s.

Terry concludes his tour with a drive past the gypsy camp, then pulls up at the boat museum and makes us get out for a better look at the oil refinery. As we stroll down the Manchester ship canal, Terry points out a South African restaurant he’s been to a few times.

“What do they serve there, Dad?” I ask.
“Oh, you know, just food,” Terry dismisses.
“ But what kind of food?” I persist.
“Nothing special, steak, that kind of thing,” Terry claims.
“I’ve never had South African food, Dad. What have you had?” I’m now wild with curiosity.
“Just ostrich, alligator, that sort of stuff,” Terry shrugs nonchalantly as though alligator is standard fare to a man of his experience, “I prefer the Indian really.”

Monday
Sammy Sammy No Balls, Terry’s pride and joy, has not performed very well this visit. Before Will arrived, I’d asked Terry to run through all Sam’s tricks with me so I can make sure he’s up to scratch.

“He can high-five,” says Terry. I know this as I taught him to high-five within days of Terry and Mrs Terry arriving home with him from the rescue centre, and still have the bite marks to show for it.

“And he’s very sly,” says Terry but refuses to be drawn on how the slyness manifests itself as a trick.

I begin to fear that Sam is just an overweight Labrador and not the wonder dog I’ve always claimed to Will, when suddenly on Monday morning, Sam runs around the sofa, writhes on the floor flapping his empty ball sacks about and nips me on the bottom. His status as probably the best dog in the world is restored.

Tuesday
Return to London. Mrs Terry rings to check we’ve arrived back okay.

“Are you and Will still together, sweetheart?” She asks, nervously.

I reassure her that we are.

“Only there was that boy who broke up with after meeting your dad.”

And that is a story for another time.

Lucy’s Lump

Have I ever told you about the dog’s cancer scare?

Before the rule of Sam, Terry Terry’s six stone bundle of Labrador fun, there was Lucy.
Lucy was a bit of a legend. She came to us at six weeks old after one of Mrs Terry’s friend’s dog got up the duff. Lucy’s mother was a pure-bred black Labrador called Cilla; this was considered the height of humour in El Porto. Of Lucy’s father, nothing was known other than his ability to jump a six-foot fence.

If there’s a better thing than a six-week-old puppy when you’re eight, tell me what it is so I can sort it out for my future kids. Because she was used to the relative rough and tumble of family life from such an early age Lucy was incredibly tolerant and put up with being dressed up and paraded down the road in a pram, being pushed down slides and jumping endless dog gymkhanas when I was going through a horse phase. To be honest, this phase is ongoing.

Mrs Terry had been a bit apprehensive about letting a black dog into her pristine house but Terry assured her that Lucy wouldn’t grow to be very big as she only had small paws. Lucy grew tall enough to sit with her bottom perched on the settee while her front paws rested on the carpet but maintained her dainty dog paws to the end of her days. By the time she grew so big Mrs Terry loved her too much to object to the Hound of the Baskervilles hogging the radiator.

In retrospect, Lucy did look like quite an intimidating dog: when she was riled by the postman, the paperboy, or just by a car going past she didn’t like the look of, hackles raised all along her spine, including a fine set of hackles on her head, giving her the look of an angry cockerel. The proudest day of Lucy’s life was when she pinned the electricity reading man against the back wall after he surprised her basking in the sun. But for all her fearsome looks she was very much loved by the Terrys, who knew that she was a gentle beast despite her blood-curdling bark.

One day, many years after Lucy’s slide-riding days, Mrs Terry, for reasons known only to herself, was examining Lucy in the area of her doggy breasts when she found a lump. Callous Terry tried to brush the lump off as meaningless but Mrs Terry reasoned, “If I had a lump in my boobs Sweetheart, I’d want it checked out.”

So, Lucy was taken to the vet and knocked out while her lump was removed.
Many hours later, the vet called and asked Mrs Terry if she wanted the good or the bad news.

“Erm ,the good news please,” Mrs Terry said nervously.
“Well,” said the vet, “the good news is, it’s not cancer. The bad news is, your dog’s just had liposuction.”

Lucy’s lump was just fat and everyone was happy except Terry who had to fork out for her slimming op.

Lucy lived to terrorise delivery men for many more years but it was only after her eventual death (of old age) that we found out about her secret other lives. About three days after she went to the great dog playground in the sky, strangers started knocking on the door asking where she was. One lady revealed she’d been feeding Lucy at 11.30am sharp every day for years. A woman and her toddler turned up, the toddler clutching a dog chew which she insisted her mum bought every time they want to the shop so that the little ‘un could feed it to Lucy through the bars of our gate. But the one that really broke my heart was the little boy and his brother who knocked on the door and asked if they could take Lucy out to play on the field.

“I’m afraid Lucy’s gone to heaven,” Mrs Terry told them.

The younger boy didn’t understand but the older one burst into tears on the doorstep. And when Mrs Terry shut the door, she was crying too.

My Band T-Shirt

This originally appeared on the excellent, award-winning,  My Band T-Shirt site.

Of course, my mother hated it. It was bright, acid-custard, yellow with a 70s style navy blue trim around the neck and arms, a discreet Pulp log on the back and I’M COMMON emblazoned across the chest.

Although we lived in a small industrial town in the armpit of the North-West, my sister and I went to the local comp and our dad was a welder, my mum had worked very hard to make sure I wasn’t common.

To tell the truth, I didn’t think I was common either. Growing up in Ellesmere Port with a name like Georgina and a school shirt from Marks and Spencer, I thought I was quite a cut above the Sharons and Nicolas in Tammy Girl that hung around outside the Wimpy. No, it wasn’t until I went to university that I realised how common I was.

But, that was still a few months away. This was mid 1995 and I was about to embark on the best summer of my young life.

I’d taken an enforced gap year between sixth form and university and in that time made a momentous discovery about life. I, was an indie kid.

From Blur to Oasis, Menswe@r to Elastica, heck, even taking in Northern Uproar, if it had a jangly guitar, a floppy haired singer, and a beat you could shuffle your Gazelles to, I was all over it. And Pulp were the crowned kings and queen of my personal indie disco.
I wore my band t-shirt with black flares, cherry red Dr. Martens, and a fitted army jacket. When I was chased out of a former-school pal’s party for being a ‘bloody hippy’ I was delighted because I knew I was getting it right: I was a Mis-shape, I was Sorted and I knew that one day I would use my mind to get my own back on all the kids who’d called me Orangina and taunted me at school. The form of this revenge was not defined but I was pretty sure it would involve coming back in a blaze of glory and lording it up in the local pub somehow.

But, for that summer, I was content to go berserk in the singles aisle of HMV, devour every word in the NME and dance Friday nights away in the nearest city’s alternative disco because, my God, other people liked this music too and some of them were wearing band t-shirts as well.

Since moving to London, playing in a band and working as a showbiz journalist, I’ve met many people my I’m Common self would have creamed her pants over, and I’ve always managed to keep my cool. But the closest I’ve ever come to Jarvis was accidentally standing next to him at a bar after another band’s gig in the Shepherd’s Bush Empire. I didn’t say anything to him, although I’m pretty certain I must have discreetly fingered his jacket, but fled to the toilet to screech down the phone about the childhood hero I’d just shared smoky air with. The person I rang? My mum. I knew she’d realise how momentous it was.

Notes on a Terry Christmas

23 December
Return to Terry Towers, northern branch. Festivities begin.
Mrs Terry informs me, a vegetarian of 16 years standing, that she’s bought Stella McCartney sausage rolls for Boxing Day tea. I tell her they’ll smell nice; she looks at me as though I’m a mental, then begins to deodorise the dog.

Later, Mrs Terry asks me to go and feed her friend’s cats, which she alleges are called Fluffy and Little Fluffy, and Philly lends us her car. Between us, Mrs Terry and I manage to find the lights (but only on the return journey) but fail to find reverse or first gear. We agree not to Philly of this.

Christmas Eve
Sam takes an unhealthy interest in Philly’s knitted nativity. I fear ginger Joseph will suffer a similar fate to Whistling Santa.
Come 11pm, Terry Terry is so tiddly he tinkles behind a hedge on the way to Midnight Mass.
I head to bed at 1am, remarking to Philly that it’s the most sober I’ve been on Christmas Eve for years. She agrees, then she and Terry come to bed at 4.30am after first blowing all the fuses in the house. The next morning I’m the first up and Santa does not seem to have been. Connection?

Christmas Day
Sam’s best present is a speaking sumo chew toy that repeatedly informs him, “I’m going to put you in a bastard crab”. Sam nearly explodes with excitement and Philly and I bellow “bastard craaaab” at each other all day.
I ask Mrs Terry what she’s got Owen, my 11-year-old nephew, for Christmas – she tells me a wii-wii game. Unsure if Mrs Terry is taking the piss.

Boxing Day
Arrive home from the Terrys’ annual festive film trip and Terry Terry proceeds to vacuum Philly’s coat. While she’s wearing it. Neither party acts as if this is unusual.

27 December
Back to London. Very sad but cheered by tinkling of bottles of wine stolen from Terry Terry’s cellar (Terry Terry’s garage) in suitcase. Mrs Terry’s parting shot: they want me to look after Sam while they’re away on their first cruise of the year. Sam’s parting shot: a cheery nip to my nether regions. Nervous.

Sam’s Christmas Accident

It was love at first sight for Terry Terry. From the moment he set eyes on Sam, the juvenile delinquent chocolate Labrador with a bad reputation, Mrs Terry knew the six stone bundle of almost feral fun was coming home with them.

He took a bit of settling in. Brought home two weeks before Christmas 2006, one of his first acts was to take Whistling Santa, a gnome-like animatronic Terry delighted in bringing out each year, into his jaws and destroying him. He didn’t confine his biting to inanimate objects either and nipped me on the top of the head on Christmas morning before giving Mrs Terry a nosebleed.

But with love, patience, and after whipping his (enormous) balls off, Sam calmed down and became the best dog I’ve ever known and certainly one who could be trusted alone in the house for a couple of hours on Christmas Eve.

Until last year.

Mrs Terry and I had been down the Asda getting a few last minute bits. Philly was boozing somewhere (probably) and Terry was at work. We came back to a house in darkness and, when we opened the front door, a very sheepish looking Sam.

“Mum,” I said, striding over the threshold, “The house smells a bit of… turd.”
“That’s just the way the dog smells, sweetheart,” trilled Mrs T, whisking past me with the bags unconcernedly.

I took her at her word, while making a mental note to bath the dog, and started to put the shopping away as Mrs T went upstairs on an innocent present-hiding trip. All was calm, until… “Sweetheart,” came a quavery voice, “Can you come upstairs please?”

Philly Terry’s bedroom looked like the scene of a dirty protest. There was dog turd on the sheets, dog turd smeared down the wall and dog turd on the windowsill. There was turd on the skirting board, turd on the curtains and turd on the valance. It was on the pillows, on Philly’s clothes and squashed into the carpet.

Somebody had been a very bad dog indeed.

Mrs Terry binned, bleached and bathed everything, including Sam who had turd smeared on his head and in his belly fur and, even when clean, was in Christmas disgrace.

He was confined to his basket and was not allowed any bananas (his favourite treat) for the foreseeable future and Christmas in Terry Towers began under a heavy cloud.

Until… On Christmas Day Linda-next-door came knocking to tell us what she had seen the evening before. She was sorting out washing in the back garden when she looked up to see Sam, about to leap out of Philly’s (first floor) bedroom window! She shouted at him to stay, then raced around the front of the house and bellowed at him through the letter box to get away from the window. Mrs Terry thinks this must have been the point at which Sam first “let go” and fell off Philly’s bed, smearing his doings into the wallpaper as he went.

It turns out that Philly’s was the only window open in the house and, desperate for the toilet, Sam had found the only means of getting out of the semi and was prepared to make a suicidal leap rather than sully Terry Towers.

Mrs Terry seriously believes that Linda-next-door saved the dog’s life by shouting at him as he was poised to spring onto the concrete patio metres below. Although his life meant the death of Philly Terry’s sheets when Sam did his business all over them, everyone thought this was a fair exchange.

So, Sam went from being the dog that ruined Christmas to the dog who saved Christmas and was allowed to open his presents and everything. With each squeaky toy he pulled out of the wrapping he did a victory lap around the dining table, safe in the knowledge that his status as everyone’s secret favourite Terry was restored.

Terry Christmas from Santa Paws.

News just in: I snatched a couple of hours at Terry Towers last week as I’d been filming in Liverpool and thought I’d treat the olds to a surprise visit. I almost regret this after finding:
Dog weirdness number one: Sam has an advent calendar. I’m unsure if he’s allowed to open all the little windows himself or if he has help.
Dog weirdness number two: Sam has a pink wart on his nose but when I pointed it out both Terry Terry and Mrs Terry refused to acknowledge it exists. I suspect they’ve been colouring it in brown when expecting company. They’ve got form: Terry used to dye the old dog’s grey hairs with black shoe polish.

Year of the moth – a conversation with Mrs Terry

A busy office. Much tapping of keys and bustling about. The phone rings and a generic work-based greeting is given. By me.

“Hello sweetheart, are you at work?”
It’s 2.40pm on Tuesday. “Yes, I’m at work, Mum. Is everything alright?”

“Oh yes sweetheart. I was just ringing to tell you that this is the year of the moth.”

Small pause while I try to adjust my brain into Mrs Terry mode. “It’s what, Mum?”

“I’ve been reading everywhere that this is the year of the moth so I was wondering if you could go on ‘the internet’ for me and buy some moth spray.”

“Now?”

“Only if it’s convenient, sweetheart.”

“Ok… sure, I’m only in work.”

“Hang on sweetheart, I’ll just go and find Good Housekeeping, I think it was in Good Housekeeping…”

Sound of Mrs Terry putting down the (cordless) phone on the hall table and doddering off, shuffling through menopause monthlies, treading on the dog etc.

Sound of footsteps in Scholls gets louder again.

“Here we go, sweetheart, the web address is w w w dot…” (slow spelling out of web address letter by letter in manner of speaking to the deaf/idiotic, which perhaps she is).

NB. Terry Terry and Mrs Terry have a very swish laptop and high-speed wireless internet, both of which they refuse to use because they are afraid of “spam”. None of us are entirely sure what they mean by this.

“Ok Mum, I’m on the site, is it the rose organic moth spray that’s £26 you’re after?”

“No sweetheart, it’s not that.”

“Is it the organic moth spray?”

“No sweetheart, it’s not that.”

“Is it the moth spray?”

“That’s the one sweetheart, it’s £26”.

There was only one moth-spray on the website.

“It’s sold out Mum, sorry. But I’ve set an email reminder so they’ll message you as soon as one comes in stock.”

“Oh”. An “oh” that registers shock, disappointment and more sadness then I thought moth spray was capable of inspiring.

“Ok sweetheart, I’ll let you get on.”
A sigh and Mrs Terry dodders off, presumably to wage a quiet war on moths, without any weapon other than her wits.

Imminent Terry visit, posted on Facebook 19 Aug

Terry Terry and Mrs Terry are making their own way to Brixton tonight. Nervous.

Friday at 1:45pm · Privacy:Friends · LikeUnlike ·

• • 

    George Terry But Terry likes to make himself Lord Mayor of Brixton when he comes down (have I mentioned when he was mistaken for a judge at Brockwell Country Show? A proud day) so probs shouldn’t be worried.

    Friday at 1:56pm · LikeUnlike
  • 

    George TerryMind you, there was that time he was nearly run over outside the tube…

    Friday at 1:56pm · LikeUnlike
  • 

    George TerryAnd the time he and Mrs Terry tried to befriend an attack dog by Khan’s.

    Friday at 1:57pm · LikeUnlike
  • 

    George TerryAnd the time Terry went out to buy the Daily Mail and was gone for over an hour and a half and I thought he was dead (turns out he was striding up and down Brixton Hill, “getting the lay of the land” read: having a good geg at everyone/thing).

    Friday at 2:00pm · LikeUnlike
  • 

    George Terry In conclusion: mixed feelings.