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The Boys Are Back In Town

We have been ‘away’.
No, not at Her Majesty’s pleasure (although that would have been considerably cheaper).
Besides, we have dirt on the judge so that was never gonna happen.

Where have we been?

Well, maybe we were at the publishers working on a book deal, or perhaps we were trying out some stand-up material at the Edinburgh Festival? We could have been mixing with stars of stage and screen (The Krankies are still big aren’t they?) making preparations for the release of our first film.

Or perhaps we were abducted by aliens?

All, any or none of these may be true but, what really matters is, we’re back and – by the look of things – just in the nick of time.

Something has been going on. Yes, right here, in St Albans, under your noses and frankly we’re a bit surprised and a little bit disappointed you haven’t done anything about it!

Admittedly, you couldn’t have done much about the first “change”.

You see, we arrived back at AL3 Towers and the very first thing we noticed was that we’d been “unburgled”!

For those of you not familiar with this phenomenon, this is when you arrive back home to a place that’s cleaner and tidier than when you left. So startling was the transformation that I had to go outside to check both the colour and number on the front door were correct.

At first we let it go. We figured, that as we had left in a hurry under the cover of darkness, that we’d actually left the place a lot tidier than we initially thought.

But paranoia is a powerful thing and it had a disturbing effect for the rest of the day until it casually cropped up in a conversation with “The Perp”.
I say “casually” but it’s difficult to use the phrase “Have you noticed your cutlery tray is clean” in a casual fashion.

It was the mother-in-law.

We hadn’t noticed but, as soon as we got back to HQ, we checked the aforementioned tray and it was indeed spotless. We also noticed we had 29 teaspoons. The tray has never had that many teaspoons in it! What was going on, that’s one for every cup with leftovers for ramekins and still some to spare?

That night, in an attempt to relax and put the “unburgling” behind us, we sat down to watch some TV. Now remember, we’d “been away” so hadn’t seen anything for a while.

The adverts were on. Nothing strange there you’d think and, to start with, there wasn’t. Shiny hair because she’s “worth it”, “been involved in an accident at work?” then, wait a moment, rewind, play. What did he just say?

There he was, our (third) favourite Barry, emerging from a slide on primetime TV saying “Wow, I’ve never been through a pipe quicker!” Really? (Apart from the fact he probably has) WTF?!

As if that wasn’t enough, before we’d recovered, a toy monkey with a vajazzle then tried to sell us tea!

Seriously, we thought that maybe the “unburgular” had used a cleaning product that contained some hallucinogenic chemicals (maybe the sort that 3rd fave Bazza tries to flog?).

We needed some fresh air to clear our heads. A walk, surely that would help and bring some normality back. So off we went, we even took some sandwiches with us wrapped in some newspaper.

First signs were good, very good. The grass verges were still too long but that was good, that was “normal”.

We headed towards the park. It was a mistake, how long had we been away?

There it was. The Lake. How could this be? What had happened? Why had nothing been done?

The air was no longer fresh, we peered at stagnant liquid that was now fit only for The Creature of The Black Lagoon.

Our appetites gone, we threw our uneaten sandwiches in the lake* and began to read the newspaper they had been wrapped in.
*It’s ok, the ducks ain’t gonna eat the bread cos the ducks have sodded off refugee-stylee in search of cleaner waters. Actually, maybe there’s a quacking “unburgular” that will save the lake, do ducks have mother-in-laws?

Anyway, hopes were fading, we thought we would manage to find a small morsel of normality in the shape of a letter in the newspaper from our (second) favourite Barry.Yes, it was written in the style of one who is inebriated with the exuberance of his own verbosity, but actually it was quite sensible and not likely to wind anyone up.

Nothing, not even Bazza 2, was normal. We were fading fast.
We had been away and everything was different. This isn’t what it was meant to be like.

Wandering into town, we are ashamed to admit, we had given up. Nothing would ever be the same.

Then it happened, we arrived at the market. The market! Of course! Why didn’t we think of it sooner? But wait, what if it had changed? That would truly be the end.

Well, it was busy – that was normal.

There was the smell of fish and fromage – that was normal (nicer than the whiff of the lake!)

But what about the real test?

Were they there?

The litmus test. The Grumpies. Were they there selling their wares?

Holding our breath, hardly daring to look through the fingers of our hands covering our eyes we peeked.

There they were. Grumpy 1. Arguing with a customer who had handled his wares. Grumpy 2. Moaning about people standing by her stall.

Normal service resumed! Not that we’d ever buy anything off either stall as we don’t tend to walk around town dressed like..

But, sometimes, it takes something bad to make you feel good.

We were back and we felt good.

So we went to The Boot (other pubs are available) for a welcome home pint.

And, on the way, one of the stalls near the end of the market was playing music.
Did our ears deceive us? Could it be magic? No. it was our (1st) favourite Barry singing.

And we sang along because we were ready,
“Ready to take a chance again, Ready to take a chance again with you”.

Just the 52 of us, me and him, and him and him and her…..

We (Me and Him) were sitting in the AL3 WTF Research Centre aka “The Hub” (or something that rhymes with that) the other day and noticed that our Facebook page had just passed 50 likes.

52 to be exact.

52! That’s one for every week of the year, the number of playing cards in a standard deck, the number of white keys on a piano, the international dialling code for Mexico and the atomic number of the element that an old school pal used to call “Tell-your-mum”*.

52! That’s 50 more than the two of us ever expected.

You, our Facebook followers, you are our Spartans!
Only there’s not 300 of you and you (probably) don’t have shields or big spears.

Snorbanites! Prepare for glory!

“This is blasphemy! This is madness!

Madness…?

THIS IS SNORBANS!”

And this is AL3 WTF’s first ever (and quite possibly last) competition.

It’s simple.

There are two judges.

Just the two of us, Me and Him.

Write a caption for this picture.

Just stick your caption in the comments with your email or email us via the envelope thingy top right of the page or, if you really don’t want to scroll up, just email us here AL3WTF@gmail.com.

The one that amuses us (Me and Him) the most will win a prize.

In the (quite likely) event the judges can’t agree there will be two prizes.

We can almost hear you squealing now “What’s the prize?!, What’s the prize?!”

Well that would be telling but, it will be unique or, in the event of disagreement between Me and Him, one of a (very nearly) unique pair.

Final date for entries is 31/05/2015.Winning name(s) may be published, judge’s decision is final, blah de blah de blah blah blaah.

Oh yeah – you can tell your friends and friends of friends that they can enter too but, rest assured, they will never have the A-Lister status of you, “The 52”, for

“Tonight we dine in (enter name of favourite St Albans eaterie here) !!

*It’s actually Tellurium.

I’m an alien, I’m a legal alien…

I’m a North Londoner in Saint A.

Yes, like my fellow contributor (see To be or not St A), I am not a native.
I’ve lived here for just over 7 years and what’s not to like?

The journey from North London to South Hertfordshire is not too far as the crow flies but believe you me, St. Albans is, in nearly every aspect, a world away from Edmonton.
Yes, Edmonton, London N9, not all bad, but not much good these days either.
Anyway, in case you never get the opportunity to visit (and I can’t imagine why you would bar a court summons) here is what you’re not missing.

Trees
St Albans has them. And, as if you don’t already have enough, you are building a forest down the road just so you can have some more.
‘Building a forest’?
Edmonton had a huge space just out of town suitable for a forestation project. There, by the river in the valley, nestling between the reservoirs, they did plant. Edmonton Solid Waste Incineration Plant.
St. Albans has tree-lined avenues and parks brimming with dozens of mature trees.
Even Edmonton’s municipal golf course didn’t bother with them. After all, the electricity pylons that cross the fairways and the discarded supermarket trolleys in bunkers provide all the “natural” hazards an aspiring golfer could wish for.

Enough nature for now.

Community
St Albans actually has competitions to name things. My better half (St. Albans ‘born and bred I tell ya’) informs me that ‘The Maltings’ shopping centre was named by an old school chum of hers. I imagine there wasn’t a competition to name Edmonton Green’s shopping centre which is called Edmonton Green Shopping Centre.

Pubs
There’s a plethora of pubs and restaurants in St Albans and a coffee shop explosion (which this tea lover will ignore). In Edmonton there were two pubs you went to. Your ‘local’ and your football match pub. However, etiquette dictated that you didn’t go to the latter on non-football days as it then reverted back to being someone else’s local and your welcome would consist of stares, grunts, disapproving looks and foul-mouthed mutterings. The barmaids are pretty mean in N9. Conversely, the pubs in St. Albans are varied as are the ales and clientele and you can pretty much feel welcome in any of them. And amusingly, you have two within a stone’s throw of a place called ‘Temperance Street’, what happened there then? That’s like having two ‘saunas’ near Angel Road!

Now, I’ve dined in a few of the restaurants in St Albans. Some really good ones and a couple of not so good ones but everything is catered for from breakfast through to dinner (or do you call it supper?). Recommendations on request. Edmonton has restaurants, mostly of the takeaway variety. No recommendations but, to my knowledge, no restaurant of any kind in St Albans has been closed due to (nature alert) the discovery of cats in the freezer. But please let me know if I’m wrong.

Schools
Now there are a couple of good, nay, very good schools, in my home town but St Albans is dripping with them and I am not aware of any of the Junior schools having their surrounding fences topped off with barbed wire as I was dismayed to see at my old school the last time I passed by. I did wonder if it was there to keep intruders at bay or to stop the teachers from escaping?
Another, minor observation (although AL3 WTF would like to point out that ‘minor observation’ is frowned upon nowadays. We like trees, just not Project Yewtrees!) is this. There are a high proportion of St Albans schoolboys all seemingly coiffured by a boy band’s tonsorial artiste. Nothing wrong with that though, just sayin’.
As for famous pupils, I’ll trump your Stephen Hawking with Sir Bruce Forsyth. Yeah, Theory of Everything, but can he remember all the items on the conveyor belt?

City Centre
The centre of the city is nice. St. Peter’s Street. Trees, more trees! Mind you, beware ye the brightly coloured bank and hotel lights for they pave the way for massage parlours and a 98p shop.
One big plus of the City centre is that, should I ever wish to recreate some of the atmosphere of my old stomping ground, I just have to stroll along St. Peters Street early on a Sunday morning. Avoiding the herd of MAMILs* as they prepare for their weekly cycle ride, walk past the 99p and quid shops and there it is. The unmistakable scent of Eau du Wee by Chav Pour Homme, still lingering from the previous night’s Waterend Barn hordes who have marked their territory (presumably so they can find their way back to the taxi rank after Veeda – or is it Adelaides?).
*MAMIL – Middle Aged Man In Lycra

There’s the clock tower and its views. The only towers in Edmonton are of the block kind and the views are industrial parks and concrete. St Albans Industrial parks are away from the city centre. I’m hoping the concrete crop circles left behind by the removal of the gasometers near Homebase will be turned into ice rinks for Christmas. A quick skate, walk up Holywell Hill (though for some reason pronounced Hollywell – why?!) to see the lights, night cap at the top end of town and home before anyone has sprayed their trail.

Traffic
Wait, are the tables turned? Is St Alban the patron saint of potholes, parking restrictions and penalty charge notices? St Albans doesn’t do cars really does it? A couple of weeks ago my morning commute was bliss. I quickly realised that this was because I was travelling unhindered by the usual stream of Jeep Rover Q7s and their drivers apparent lack of girth awareness. Seriously school runners, you can get a bus through there. Yes, you Mrs Oversized SUV, in fact, a bus did get through just before you but your lack of width perception prevented movement. Half term was too short.
Edmonton traffic is, of course, constantly moving. Admittedly, fear is the key. Keep moving or get car-jacked. Only joking (or am I?) but, if the traffic does stop, you can be pretty sure there’s a road rage and/or police incident ahead.

Central locking on. Avoid eye contact.

To be or not St A

Hands up who’s from St Albans? No, I mean actually from St Albans rather than moved here because of trains, schools or just to be near a Dunkin’ Donuts. Exactly; not many, not many.

Anyway, what makes you from somewhere in the first place? Since the local maternity unit closed in the mid 80’s, no-one – home-births and roadside emergency deliveries aside – has actually been born here. Our new bundles of joy* mainly first appear in Luton, Stevenage or Watford (the ultimate ‘lesser-of-evils’ choice, perhaps?) or, as is often the case, much further afield and subsequently move to St Albans once the desire to ‘settle down’ themselves gets too great. It hurts most Snorbenites that their off-spring will be forever burdened by their introduction to the world being a WD, LU or SG postcode. But not as much as it hurts people from Harpenden to have their children both born in Luton and be saddled with a Luton dialling code, so look on the bright side. My daughter was a WD birth. This pleased me. Greatly. It’s every parent’s calling to want their off-spring to have a better start in life than they did. Not many people can say that about their child having ‘Watford’ in the appropriate section on their birth certificate. I can. As my own form states ‘Romford, Essex’. Such is the stigma associated with this that I even lie to my telephone bank and the answer to the relevant security question states my place of birth as somewhere less embarrassing; somewhere with more up-market and exotic connotations. I refer, of course, to Hemel. Petty, but true that I’ve lied. I mean, Romford! Have you been to Romford? Of course you haven’t. If you had, you’d not been reading this; you’d be out racing round what passes for our low-rent ring-road or doing (Dunkin’?) doughnuts in some deserted car park somewhere. Plus, chances are, you wouldn’t even be able to read in the first place.

St Albans draws people in like iron filings to a magnet. It has a lure. Something. Though many people are not quite sure what. And, unlike those red, horseshoe-shaped magnets from the cartoons of yesteryear, there’s no comedy ‘off’ button: once you’re in, you’re in. I know loads of people who’ve moved to St Albans; I know of hardly anyone who has moved away.

Anyway, what makes us who we are? We St All-banians are growing in number. In years to come, there will certainly be more old All-banians, but will there be as many surviving Old Albanians? I know a real immigrant Albanian who lives in St Albans. He is (unfortunately, for the purpose of this piece) not an OA. However, I know he spends most evenings pondering whether when he’s old he’ll be an old Albanian, or an old All-banian. Or repatriated by UKIP.

I like St Albans. In fact, I like it a lot. I voted with my feet (which is an electoral concept that makes the single transferable vote look positively dull). I moved here for six months in the late 90’s. And stayed. This is the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere. Does this mean I’m now technically from St Albans? Have I been given a free transfer to St Albans by Essex?

My other qualifications for naturalisation are fairly limited: I’ve been up the Clock Tower; I’ve been to every pub in St Albans (yes, every – I like to be thorough when it comes to watering-holes); I’ve done the half marathon; I’ve been on a rail-replacement bus service. I’ve flirted with starvation whilst queuing at the Waffle House. What else does it take to qualify?

For the purposes of research, out of the blue I asked my wife where she was from. After the initial blank look, she stated ‘halfway between Dublin and Belfast’. Clearly, where she is from is defined by two places she’s not from? But she was born in London. So where’s the sense in that? She sees ‘from’ in the context of ‘where I grew up’. I, too, am going to adopt this principle. One day, when I eventually grow up, I’ll then know where I am truly from.

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