March Madness

Is it just us or was anyone else wondering if the March “special” occasion days would ever end?

We don’t want to be a party pooping killjoy, as that’s what we pay our MP for, but we are sensing an increase in these days and fear that the calendar will soon be left bereft of any “normal” days.

Obviously, we were as sad as everyone else to have missed out on the very special day scheduled for March 29th and have even revised our New Year’s Resolution of not mentioning the B word (see Resolutions Solutions) until……err whenever but, seriously, March was way too full of these days (even weeks) set aside for………. stuff!

We had Pancake Day a little later than usual which caused conflict with us giving up pastry pleasures for Lent due to it being British Pie Week.

A really nice pie we won’t be eating during Lent.

On top of that along came World Book Day and International Women’s Day.

Not that we’re knocking either of them. We saw hordes of Hermiones, masses of Matildas and groups of Gangsta Grannies. But enough of our Thursday night in The Peahen, we at AL3 applaud anything that gets children to reed cos it helps with spulling innit.

Alice and her posse were off to the Peahen.

Seriously, by the time all of this had hit us, we were thinking of looking for respite with some Special Occasion Day Ignorance Therapy or booking a Get Over National Awareness Days Session!

But, before we knew it, along came National Butchers Week which strangely coincided with World Kidney Day (although we have since learnt that it may have not been that kind of kidney).

Steak and not that kind of Kidney

Just to top it off and in case it was all so stressful it had you reaching for the Woodbines, they threw in No Smoking Day!

Madness in March.

Thankfully today is free from any such worries and we can move in to April and focus on the important stuff like National AL3 WTF Day on April 1.

STOP PRESS – we have just been informed that not only are our clocks wrong but that it may also be wise to obtain some flowers and chocolates from the Shell garage on our way back from our lunchtime session at the King Will. How strange? We’ll update when we find out more.

Must dash.

omething happening?

Resolutions Solutions

So, January’s over and 2019 is in full swing. How’s it been for you so far? Well, if you fell in to the trap that is the New Year Resolution, chances are not too good.

Figures from the Ministry of Everything Socially Significant suggest a third of resolutions fail before the end of January. Feeling bad? Don’t. We are here to help.

crazy woman
Prof. Anna Lyze

According to Professor Anna Lyze, a Human Behaviour expert at MESS, “Most NYRs fail for two main reasons. Firstly, it is the New Year und secondly, it is a resolution. Ze timing is all wrong and you haff chosen something you don’t want to do”. (PS – We’re not sure why she talks like that as she’s from Luton?!)

We agree. You’ve just spent the Christmas Holidays acclimatising your body to excess food and drink and lounging around in your PJs, eating popcorn watching reruns of films you’ve seen before and now you’re going to force it into cold turkey (withdrawal not leftovers) mode and expect all be fine and dandy.

Bliss

Why give up chocolate when Easter is just around the corner and the shops are filled with egg or bunny shaped versions of every chocolate variety known to mankind?

The same goes for alcohol. Dry January? Why bother? It can only lead to an internal conflict of your liver’s health vs supporting the Save St Albans Pubs campaign (only one winner there!). As if that’s not enough, you’ve got a houseful of leftover Christmas booze that needs consuming before it goes out of date.

Besides, what kind of person waits all year to make a choice about something anyway? What were you doing for the other 364 days?!

That’s not to say you shouldn’t aim to change little things here and there. At AL3 Towers, for example, we committed to stop wasting.

Wasting leftover Christmas booze?
Simple! Eggnog and bacon is an obvious choice for breakfast.

Wasting away? Eat chocolate!

Wasting time worrying about the future? Easy, don’t mention the “B word” until at least March the 29th.

This is an easy one anybody can do, especially when there are so many other words beginning with B.

Border, Backstop, Brussels, Balls-up, Boris, Buffoon, Breakfast, Bacon, Bols (mmm eggnog) and, of course, BLOG!

Wasting time generally? Stop reading this!

We’ll be back soon. Stay strong.

Don’t Look Back In Anger

2018

We were asked for a review of 2018.
Now we’re the type of people who prefer to look forward but…
We must deliver the will of the people.

NB – We are no slaves to time or truth so the content may not be chronologically or factually correct.

January – Dry. Kind of. More damp really, leaning towards wet. Save St Albans Pubs!

Trains – Bad. Ticket prices up. Although cancellations and delays were up too so there’s a kind of symmetry and order at play here.

a train
Let the train take the strain.

Buses – Bad. Why aren’t they electric? Why aren’t they warm? You wait ages for one and then…

Sinkholes – Bad. You wait decades for one then…

Potholes – Bad. Efforts to rectify are on a par with bailing out the Titanic with a teaspoon.

New Mayor – Great. Cllr Rosemary Farmer. We say “great” but only because we feel a Mayor called Rose Farmer may do something pretty with the park flower beds. Plus, we can only assume that the Royal National Rose Society based at the Gardens of the Rose is her family business. Which is nice.

Roses in basket

Police – Great. New Chief Inspector vowed to tackle the wave of burglaries. Chief Inspector replaced (repeat as necessary) We think we’re still on the 3rd one? It may well be Inspector Gadget by now for all we know. Tip – Never “vow” anything. It only leads to woe. Ask Theresa.

Tree Felling – Bad. They chopped down the tree at the Clock Tower. The tree had to come down for “safety reasons” not because it interfered with any planned projections of a Christmassy nature on the tower.

Christmas lights turn on – Enlightening. But if it gets any earlier then it’ll start to compete with Bonfire Night.

Christmas Fair – Fair. But somebody didn’t want it anywhere near where they live.

Housing – Fair. Plans for 15,000 in the district but nobody wants them anywhere near where they live.

Museum – Good (ish). But £7.75m? (could have built some houses). Does anyone else start singing “1-2-3 1-2-3 drink!” when they see the chandeliers in the Georgian Assembly Room?

a chandelier
We’re gonna swing from this chandelier, this chandelier.

UK’s Strongest Man – Good. But where, exactly, was the leader of the DUP? (Yes, we know).

St Albans Boy – V Bad. Fell “up to his nose” in Verulamium Lake. We never found out if this was head or feet first? One of which wouldn’t be quite so dramatic. We also wonder if, like Dr Foster, he never went there again?

child playing in water
Don’t drink the water!

Verulamium Lake – Bad. Still dirty. Ask the St Albans boy.

Heatwave – Good. Remember moaning how hot it was? Well, say “Hello” to burst pipes and slushy pavements people!

Back soon Folks! (After we’ve saved another St Albans pub!)

Christmas in August

summer snowman

August 2018’s inaugural Meraki Christmas Festival was a huge success, selling over 4,000 glasses of mulled wine, 8,000 jars of locally produced cranberry sauce and 1,400 half-dozen packets of Redbournbury Mill‘s mince pies.

To avoid the confined space of the walled, sheltered, easy-to-reach, right-in-the-town-centre Vintry Gardens, and the inconvenience associated with the cold winter weather, St Albans District Council made the inspired decision to not only move the location of this year’s Christmas Market but to also hold the festive fair at a more user-friendly time of year during the summer holidays.

Ivor P Folio, council member for festive markets, said: “I’m going to see my brother, Keith, in Florida in December so I thought I’d get the whole inconvenient Christmas Market thing out of the way nice and early in August this year. You know how tricky it is when you’re trying to pack flowery holiday shirts and fritter away council tax-payers’ money all at the same time.”

man
Ivor P Folio

A wide range of stall-holders deemed the Merry-AKI (Albans’ Kristmas In-summer) festival a resounding winner:

Indoor comfy footwear retailers ‘All Saints’n’Slippers’ said: “Christmas is our busiest period so it’s great to get this event out of the way early.  To be honest, we didn’t actually sell that many pairs, but we think shoppers were impressed with our quality as people near us could be heard commenting ‘Ooh, they’ve worn well, haven’t they’, which was nice.”

Never Ever (leave the label on)

From her gazebo selling pirate eye-wear, stall-holder Gabrielle thought she could make a good profit at the festival if it ran for longer: ‘Give me just a little more time’, she could be heard murmuring to herself.

Sales were patchy for some stall holders

The motorcycle spare-parts tent seemed a little out of place, but from beneath a Christmassy banner offering ‘10CC’s Dreadlock Festival Holiday Deals’, sales assistants were very happy to attend. “We’ve somewhat mixed views on summer sports so to be here instead is light relief; we don’t like cricket, oh no.”

The travel advisor selling sunset tours to a secret location (near a tree by a river, there’s a hole in the ground, apparently) was a fan of the switch to summer and the longer evenings. “I won’t let the sun go down on me,” claimed Mr Kershaw, at the same time denying that he was about to start selling NASA memorabilia at his permanent Christopher Place shop, SpaceNK.

Wouldn’t it be good?

Electrical retailers Dave More and Suzie Cheeba thought the summer event would get better and better every year, stating: “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”  To labour the point, they added that this year’s event was ‘Way beyond’ their expectations and that its evolution was ‘Part of the process’ and that everyone should ‘Enjoy the ride’ and that those who were quick to complain were too ‘Trigger hippie’.   They would have commented further but a customer called Mr Wikipedia interrupted.

A special Christmas auction was a huge success at the Merry-AKI. Although the most anticipated lot, a real-life Elf On The Shelf, was unavailable at short notice, the organisers sourced a last-minute replacement and there was furious bidding amongst men in their 40s for the right to have Pixie Lott 3A in their homes for 24 hours.  Dad of six (or seven, he wasn’t sure), Brandon from Fleetville said: “I’ve had eight pints of Farr Brew and the missus is asleep in the circus tent, so I’ve re-mortgaged the house to bid for Lott 3A.”

Lott 3A: a Pixie

The successful Merry-AKI Christmas event ran over three days.  Unfortunately, it only being mid-August and his red outfit still at the cleaners, Santa couldn’t attend. However, he did send his stunt-double, Noah.  Fittingly, Noah arrived in a downpour of biblical proportions.  We were informed that Noah was Santa’s stand-in, but we are now wondering if they are one and the same person.  After all, you never actually see Santa and Noah in the same room, so I guess it’s plausible…

We sought clarification from Merry-AKI organisers about Noah’s lookalike status but a spokesman, Moses, refuted our hypothesis, claiming we’d got confused with the Council’s other summer outdoor event, ‘Larks in the Ark.’

fun in the sun

For many, the festive highlight was the Silent-Night disco where Christmas revellers could shake their jingle bells, getting them to ding-dong merrily on high whilst wearing warming ear-muffs.

It’s so quiet, shh shh.

AL3 thought it was a stroke of sheer genius to hold a giant game of ‘Ghost Bus’, where festival-goers had to search for hours for a mysterious pre-paid bus to transport them to or from the seasonal extravaganza.  The Polar (National) Express was a resounding success as a way of keeping little ones entertained although, at £8 per ticket (excluding bus ride), it was a tad expensive.

You wait for ages then…

Packed with tinsel, roasted chestnuts and festive good cheer, Merry-AKI was lots of fun.  AL3 is looking forward to the outdoor summer event that the same organisers are holding at Westminster Lodge this December.  We’re camping for the full 23 days and will be packing swimming trunks for the giant water-slide and looking forward to picnics in the sunshine and relaxing outdoor massages.

 

St Albans – Film 2017

‘The Mind’ is the theme of this year’s St Albans Film Festival. All the mind-related films below are previous winners of the prestigious American film industry’s prestigious Golden Lobe Awards and are being shown at secret locations locally this weekend.

Brain Man – Dustin Hoffman plays an autistic man from Harpenden who is very specific about which airline he flies with – “EasyJet. EasyJet never crashed…”

Billion Dollar Brain
– a film documenting the decisions of the County Councillor who decided that the hottest day of the year would be a good time to get the contractors out to do tarmac repairs.
Inside Out – a woman from Bernard’s Heath can’t find the recipe for her toddler’s favourite Quinoa dish and goes crazy, turning the kitchen upside down in desperation, as she’s got an important lunchtime play-date with the new neighbours’ kids.

Citizen Brain – a story about a scarecrow from Flamstead who follows the yellow brick road to St Albans in search of something to put between his ears.

Singin in the Brain – the tale of man from Fleetville who attends every single tribute act gig at The Horn and can’t get songs by The Jamm, The Smyths and the Kings of Lyon out of his head.

2001: A Space Odyssey – a documentary detailing the problems encountered by just over two thousand cinema-goers in finding convenient parking facilities near 166 London Road.

A Beautiful Mind
– a woman from Beaconsfield enters politics and selflessly dedicates her time in office to campaign for the one thing that matters above all else to her constituents: poo-sticks.
The (Re)searchers – a story about a couple of agricultural scientists from Rothampstead who follow the main road to St Albans in search of genetically unmodified Native American brain food for their niece.
 
Limitless – an extraordinary Council Cabinet meeting sees every member take mysterious pills in order to come up with a solution to Scum Lake (formerly known as Verulamium Lake).
 
Mad Macs – a burger flipper at the drive-thru in Griffiths Way flips his lid and turns vigilante when customers repeatedly throw food wrappers out of car windows.

Genius – a docudrama about selling sausage sandwiches at recently opened DIY stores.
 
3 Idiots – an everyday tale about men who go to Batchwood every Saturday night with only one thing on their minds: the chance to meet shy, retiring librarians who want to settle down and have children.
 
V for Vienetta – a man from Jersey Farm eats a whole ice-cream dessert and gets brain-freeze.

Happy New Year

It’s the time of year to recognise those who have made notable contributions during 2016. So, acknowledging buffoonery, incompetence and all forms of complete numptiness across the district, we give you

The AL3 WTF New Year’s Honours List

St Albans Council Environment & Waste Dept.
MBE – Many Bins Emancipated

Anyone who has been brave enough to dip a toe into Verulamium Lake
The Order of the Bath (and pronto, we suggest)

All residents of Fontmell Close
OBE – ‘Ole, Bloody ‘eck

Anne Main
MBE – My Brexit ‘eaven

The majority of people in St Albans
OBE – Our Brexit ‘Ell

Nicholas Freestone
MBE – Mars Bowie Elegy

James Hanning
BEM – Brickyard Eventually Muted

Thameslink
CBE – Calamitously Bad Expresses


​Paddy Delaney, accordion player

MBE – Music By Elbows

Priceless Roman mosaic in Arena foyer
CBE – Carpeted By Elves

Butterfly World
BEM – Butterfly Exit Mess

The Xmas Market
CBE – Closed Bloody Early

Frank Leclezio, General Manager, Alban Arena
For hosting a fab panto (‘oh, yes, he did…’) he becomes a Dame

All that remains is for us to wish everyone a happy and healthy New Year.

It’s Beginning to Feel a Lot Like…Easter (Again)

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Christmas is all about traditions and here at AL3 WTF we, like families across St Albans, like nothing more than repeating exactly the same festive habits year-in, year-out. In fact, so much so that it is customary for us to re-issue the same blog every single year. We’ve been doing this each December since our formation so that, err, actually means this is only the second time.
We’re ahead of the curve, to be honest. TV is all about repeats at this time of year and we’re blazing a trail for blogs to replicate that successful formula…
Here are eight ways to tell it’s almost Christmas in St Albans. Apart from no. 2 (+ 10 pts credit to the Council, the light turning on ceremony this year was actually pretty good; bigger, better and more spread out) they all hold true. Actually, no.6 
is even more true this year: we thought it really odd that the Christmas Market finished on the 20th last and this year it shut on the 18th (deduct 15pts from the Council – tut, tut, tut – must try harder)
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It’s Beginning to Feel a Lot Like…Easter

​…which means that it must be almost Christmas.  We’re only few days away from Cream Eggs being beside every till, and rows of over-packaged chocolate oefs glaring at us menacingly from supermarket aisles.
 
Anyway, I’ll be surprised if anyone has the time to read this blog in the pre-Christmas rush. I’ll also probably be regretting spending valuable time writing it when I’m covered in Sellotape, garish ribbon and sparkly bows come midnight on Christmas Eve, but enough about my festive fetishes…
Eight Ways We Know it’s Almost Christmas in St Albans:
 
1) The staff in Metro Bank are all wearing Santa hats. I love a Santa hat, but there’s a time and a place for everything. I know that Metro Bank is working really hard to be ‘different’, but Santa hats from 1st Dec onwards? Really? Mr Banks from Mary Poppins would turn in his grave (if snooty banker characters from films had graves, that is).
 
2) The Christmas lights are on. The Christmas lights are on! St Peter’s Street never looked so joyful. Apart from last year. And the one before. When it comes to lights, we don’t exactly push the boat out, do we. The turning on ceremony was some time back in August, I think. Basically, it was an event more about hope than delivery. Security guards at each end of the pedestrianized zone were only letting through people with pushchairs. I didn’t actually see this security cordon, but it must have been in place as there’s no other way that such a high concentration of buggies could have come to be in the same crowded, noisy, dimly lit zone. It was like a Bugaboo convention. There’s a rumour going round that next year the council are going to turn the Chrissie lights off at dusk to save money and the town centre will be illuminated solely by the glow of pub-door cigarettes.
​3) Every third house has an estate agent’s sign up. No, there’s been no sudden upsurge in the property market; these boards are to promote local schools’ Christmas fairs. If you need your annual fix of tombola action and the chance to get your hands on a ticket ending with a 5 or a 0 then this is the time of year for you. Mind, you’ll only win something you don’t want like lavender bath salts or box of monogrammed hankies (not the correct initial, obviously), but it’s the winning that’s important. Oh, and the raising of funds for the school. Oh, and it gives estate agents the opportunity to feel like they are part of the community. Yeah, right.
 
4) You’ve received an ‘exclusive’ mailer from every other shop on the high street inviting you to an ‘exclusive’ event where the only other ‘exclusive’ people attending will be absolutely everyone else in town. You probably got this much-prized invite because of some loyalty card you signed up for seven years ago just to get an extra 10% off some vaguely significant purchase or other. The thing is, we’ve all got loyalty cards for pretty much everywhere nowadays so they are hardly reserved for the diehard faithful. There’s no loyalty any more. We’ve all got disloyalty cards for everywhere.
​5) The most frequent person to knock at your door is not a relative, friend or neighbour, but the postman or some other delivery driver bringing you stuff you ordered online late one night after too much wine. Still, you can always donate it to next year’s tombola. I got a dreaded ‘while you were out note’ the other day from well-known (but not well-respected) delivery company. In the comments box it said ‘Package left over side gate’. Thing is, we don’t have a side gate.
 
6) You really, really know it’s Christmas when the Christmas Market is shut. Closed. Geschlossen. Finished. Have I missed something or am I not alone in thinking a festive market might actually benefit (both stall-holders and visitors) from being open around, err, Christmas and not shutting up shop on the 20th. I don’t know about you, but my propensity to drink warm, spiced wine and eat German sausage always increases the closer I actually get to Christmas.
​7) Christmas is almost here when half of St Albans has attended ‘Carols on the Hour’ at the Cathedral. With six consecutive sell-out performances of over a thousand people, you wouldn’t blame a clergyman for thinking ‘Where are you lot the rest of the year?’ Unlike the Christmas Market, the Cathedral has wisely decided to remain open for Christmas…
We folk of St Albans clearly loved COTH (Carols on the Hour). I am a man of the COTH. Makes me think there’s a winning formula here and that St A could get a few brand extensions going:
Barrels on the Hour – all the pubs kick everyone out every sixty minutes so it’s like an enforced festive pub crawl with people continually seeking alternative hostelries.
Darrlys on the Hour – every time the clock strikes the hour, some unfortunately named child of the 80’s is forced to run naked through Wilko’s with only a piece of tinsel to cover his modesty and a paper hat to adorn his mullet, whilst being squirted with limited edition Christmas-spice scented Mr Muscle by bargain-seeking shoppers.
Quarrels on the Hour – every sixty minutes local married couples are given a different topic about which to argue – from whose turn it is to put petrol in the car to whose relatives are the rudest. To provide the most conducive atmosphere for high-intensity quarrelling, this event will be hosted by a local supermarket.
Parallels on the Hour – this activity will be a synchronised slot parking event on Holywell: 23 cars, 23 empty spaces and 1 minute in which to all be neatly parked up. Local traffic wardens will award points for Style and Artistic Interpretation. Each hourly winner secures a place in the Grand Final to be held in the 20-minute only waiting bay outside the main entrance of the station.
 
8) Christmas is here when people are desperately buying last-minute books, CDs and DVDs in the supermarkets. Time was when these items were your stock Christmas presents: you’d be guaranteed to get a couple of each every year. Now, with the mass-ownership of Kindles, Spotify subscriptions and Netflix the people who buy you these gifts either don’t know you very well or panicked to get you something on Christmas Eve. Owners of e-readers, music subscriptions and film-streaming services are selfish: they think nothing of cutting off the gift life-line to which distant relatives have so desperately clung for years.
Me? I’m old-school: I’ve actually asked Santa for book (with pages) and a CD (complete with lyrics printed on a tiny booklet); it’s my way of showing I care about my present-buying relatives…
 
Have a fabulous Christmas and see you on the other side.
 
Now, where did I put that sherry…

Quorn in the USA

I am in a mixed marriage: my wife is vegetarian, I’m not.  

Actually, technically speaking, she’s a pescatarian as she eats fish. (I find the term pescatarian a bit of a stumbling block as it conjures up images of the closing scenes of old Scooby Doo cartoons.  You know what I mean: the bit at the end of every episode where the culprit’s mask is yanked off and he declares ‘I woulda gotten away with it if it hadn’t been for you pescatarians!’)
 
Anyway, my wife and I are just back from holiday in the land of the free and the home of the brave (no, not Hemel – went there last year and it’s a much cheaper way of getting a tan – only takes 6 minutes in a booth to go the same colour as Shaggy’s hair), and it quickly became apparent that in a country where you can be anything you want to be, one thing it’s quite hard to be is a veggie.
 
Day 3 and my wife had already sussed the need to be clear about her food requirements when ordering. We’re sitting on the sunny terrace of an independent burger joint – a restaurant’ish one, not a drive thru – we are on holiday after all. It’s lunchtime. I’m happy and would eat anything on the menu.
 
Wife:
I’m vegetarian.
 
Shaven-Headed, Body-Builder Owner/Waiter Who Looks Like He’s Going To Burst Out Of His T-Shirt:
You can have any of the burgers with a vegetarian pattie instead.
 
Wife:
I’ll have the Swiss Cheeseburger.
 
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS:
Great choice.
 
Me: (silently salivating at the thought of meat for the third day in a row)
 
Wind forwards ten minutes and my wife is enjoying her burger. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that she’s
particularly enjoying her burger – more than I’ve seen her enjoy a veggie burger for a very long time. Wind forward two more minutes and she is no longer enjoying life in any way, shape or form.
 
Wife:
That’s bacon. There’s bacon in my veggie burger (points to three unmistakable rashers).
 
Me:
Can I have it?
 
Wife: (dark stare)
 
Me: (poor attempt at cheeky smile)
 
Wife: (even darker stare)
 
I dutifully take the offending burger back inside and speak to the barman-come- manager-come-waiter. He (unsurprisingly) apologises and, somewhat stating the obvious, says ‘that shouldn’t be in there’.
 
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS:
Sorry, man. I do everything here except cook. I’m truly sorry.
 
I walk back outside.
 
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS arrives a few minutes later looking rather sheepish (it was actually quite amusing to see a testosterone-filled, protein-packed body-builder look quite so coy, his brusque persona eroded by veggie-gate)
 
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: (to wife)
Let me make amends. What can I do to make this up to you? Anything at all.
 
Wife looks pensive.
 
I’m intrigued as to how she’ll respond. What would I want if one of my defining beliefs was compromised so publically by a stranger? What if something I was so passionate about was undermined in such a way? I’d want something of note to compensate.
 
Wife:
I’ll have some onion rings to take away, please.
 
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS: (knowing he’s got off lightly)
Absolutely. Absolutely. No problem at all. I’ll make it a large box and make sure they are really hot.
 
The next time I do something (allegedly) wrong – it shouldn’t take long, probably be when my wife reads this post – I’ll know that the price of redemption is not flowers, a Champneys voucher or a child-free meal out at Lussmans, but a box of onion rings. Everyone has their price; I have found hers.
 
Before we leave the restaurant, our daughter’s diaper (see what I did there – gone native) needed changing. I volunteered, despite my scepticism that such an establishment would have changing facilities. Actually, that’s
why I volunteered, to be honest: safe in the knowledge that if there was a changing table anywhere it would certainly only be in the Ladies so, unfortunately, I’d be prevented from my fatherly duty.
 
Me: (after scouting around inside holding a smelly toddler):
Do you have baby changing?
 
SHBBO/WWLLHGTBOOHTS:
No way, dude; this is a dive bar.
 
Hmm. So a ‘bar’ that has high-chairs doesn’t offer the full spectrum of facilities? Anyway, I walked away happy; it’s a very long time since anyone’s called me ‘dude’.
 
Wind forward ten minutes and the nappy has been changed under a shady tree and the still half-full box of volcano-hot onion rings is in the (ahem) trash.
 
I tried to make light of the whole incident by telling my wife that I thought her choosing the Swiss Cheeseburger in the first place was one of her rasher decisions. She didn’t laugh.
 
She’s been a veggie since she was ten.  Then again, I reckon most of us would review our meat consumption if at a tender age we were shown around a family abattoir in Ireland by a mischievous older cousin. His intention was to scare her; it worked.
 
While we were in the States we saw several of my wife’s relatives (being Irish, she has the classic large contingent of rellies Stateside). I was somewhat amused to discover that another (different) cousin we visited was also converted to vegetarianism by being shown round an (American) abattoir at a formative age. The very same life-changing experience, but thousands of miles apart. Well, as they say, blood is thicker than water. Now, I’m all for family traditions, but this is an absolutely offal one.
 
Said American cousin was the attractively named Johneen, a name I’d never come across before. I quite like it. It’s the feminine version of John; a bit like Noel/Noeleen, Joel/Joeleen or Philip and, err, Philippeen.
 
Which brings me – conveniently – back to St Albans.
 
Quorn – the meat-substitute – used to be owned by St Albans-based Premier Foods (their HQ is by the roundabout at the bottom of St Stephen’s Hill, just past the offices with the traffic-cone wearing Roman soldier statue outside). Premier Foods sold Quorn in 2011 and it’s this month been sold on to a Philippeen company (sorry, that should read Philippine company).
 
Quorn is sold in 23 countries; my guess is that America isn’t one of its larger markets.
 
Announcing the purchase, the new owner’s CEO, Henry Soesanto, genuinely said: “Quorn represents an important new leg in our offering” which, I think, was a rather unfortunate choice of words.
 
Mr Soesanto (that’s a surname you can’t say out loud without doing it to the tune of Sinitta’s 80s hit
So Macho) would have been disappointed to hear of UK research findings revealed this week which state that 37% of vegetarians eat meat when drunk. Really? 37%?
 
Next time you’re in a pub with a veggie friend and they claim that they’re ‘just popping out for a fag’ you might want to check up that they are not actually popping outside for a hot faggot. (As we’re in the UK I can use that term; I’m confident that AL3 WTF’s readership in the States is non-existent. And if there is a random American reader, just think how confused they’ll be and what a hot-bed of non-discriminating promiscuity St Albans will appear!).
 
As far as I know, my wife has never eaten meat when drunk.  However, it’s her birthday next week so I’m very happy to put this to the test.
 
If anyone knows of a good veggie restaurant in St A that I can take her to then please let me know. Failing that, I’m thinking Prime Steak & Grill on London Road and go heavy on the onion rings…
 
 
 

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”.

Every Loser Wins

There are certain occasions in life when one has to make the odd sacrifice.

You know? Like when the other half comes home with complimentary tickets for the opening night of her best friend’s niece’s experimental contemporary dance group production and you simply ‘have to go to show support’?

Think incomprehensible floor writhing, starkly lit stage, a wooden tea chest as the sole prop and a soundtrack that will either make your ears bleed or induce a deep sleep followed by loud snoring until other half digs you in ribs. Two tortuous acts of modern movement each 1 hour long with an intermission just brief enough to have a pee or a warm can of lager – but never both.

And then there is SCHOOL SPORTS DAY.

The annual gathering that brings young and old together for a few hours of what’s-the-pointism.

Of course, you ‘have to go to show support’.

This years ‘event’ was to be my last ever Junior School sports day, bar any surprise family additions or becoming a teacher.

Still it was sunny, I wouldn’t be at work and I’d be getting tanned.

So, the usual last minute decision re appropriate attire had to be made.

Despite blisteringly hot conditions, shorts and trainers were a no-no. Turning up looking like you are actually hoping there is a parent’s race is a sports day social faux pas. Then again, wearing jeans and sensible shoes would leave this, slightly competitive, dad at a distinct sporting disadvantage should there actually be a race.

Decision made – jeans and trainers. A look that said ‘I really do NOT want to be picked for the parents’ race but, if I am, bring it!’

Mind you, I imagine the whole Sports Day fashion choice must be sooooo much worse for mums.

Apart from potentially looking like Mrs Way Too Keen if you turn up in your running gear, Ms Glam Boobs aka Jimmy’s Mum is bound to be there to cheer him on all fake-tanned in ripped jeans, crop top, high heels and designer shades isn’t she?

Don’t fret Ladies. The situation is lose-lose. Just, for pity’s sake, wear a sports bra if there is even the remotest possibility of you ending up in the sack race.

‘Lose-lose’?

That’s totally unlike sports day where ‘Every One’s A Winner Baby, that’s the truth (that’s the truth)’.

The formula for this particular school was simple.

It was a non-competitive, competitive, team event decided by individual performance where there are no winners or losers just those who get points for their team and those who don’t.

Really? I know there’s no ‘I’ in ‘Team’ but there is in ‘Win’?

As usual the 1:30pm start was delayed which meant trying to find shade, a drink and avoiding having conversation with other parents for half an hour while the kids are sorted into their teams.

Still it was sunny, I wasn’t at work and I was getting tanned.

As mentioned, just to make sure there’s absolutely no danger of competition rearing its non-pc head, each competitor, err I mean participant, was sorted into a team that was clearly identifiable by shirt colour. I say ‘clearly’ as the Green Team comprised of shirts that were green, dark green, light green, bluey green, greeny blue and yellow. Yellow? ‘Molly, you’re supposed to be with the Orangey Team under the other tree!’ Anyway, 20 minutes later and all teams were sorted and looking suitably disinterested.  

A whistle from the headmaster and the groups were each led to their respective ‘event station’. Well 5 of the groups were. For, yea verily, it was written that the 6th team shall rest and drinketh cups of water as part of a rotation system that not even the headmaster could fathom.

The head blew his whistle again and the fun began.

‘Fun’? Really?

First event.

3 Bean Bags. 3 Hoops. One hoop very close, one not so close, one impossibly far away.

Objective? Throw bean bags in hoops.

Points? 1pt per bean bag in hoop. 

(Make that rewinding tape noise in your head here. Hell! Make it out loud if you want.). 

WTF?! Yep, any bean bag in any hoop was a point. Didn’t matter if it was – near, far, wherever you are………..this event was so not about risk and reward.

The kids were bored, the parents were bored.

Still it was sunny, I wasn’t at work and I was getting tanned.

Next up, pointless side to side jumping that deserves no further description.

Blow the whistle headmaster, please blow the whistle.

Welly throwing next. This had promise after Jimmy, son of Glam Boobs, threw it over the first marker, over the second marker and narrowly over someone’s Granny. Unfortunately this lead to the teacher explaining that you got a point for throwing the boot anywhere between the two markers. Distance wasn’t actually the factor.

Perlease! In my day that would have been the signal for targeting any adult you could then quickly declaring ‘Oops! It slipped out of my hand Miss!’ (A phrase I’ve used many times myself over the years).

Two buckets. One with water, one without, 5 metres apart. Objective? Move water from bucket A to bucket B using a sponge which also acted as team baton.

Hot sunny day, kids, water. Surely this was a cue for a soaking? Nope, one by one the Green team members dutifully loaded the sponge and carefully transported water to its destination. Until it was Jimmy’s turn. If it was on purpose it was genius. Little Jimmy arrived back at the changeover with more water than he left with and the sponge receiver got soaked. The Greens immediately changed tactics which involved dipping sponge in bucket A, soaking team mate, re-dipping sponge running to bucket B and back before handing over sponge in a style guaranteed to dampen. This is what the crowd wanted but the whistle blew too soon and it was off to the final event of the rotation.

Team Green’s final event was kicking the ball into the goal. Something that could be highly recommended for those who play at Clarence Park stadium on a Sat afternoon.

This was the only event where the team were told what the target score was. 15 the score to beat. A purpose! Suddenly they came to life. Things didn’t start that well when first greenie (my youngest daughter) stepped up and kicked the ball over the crossbar, the fence, tree and halfway down the field! Fret not, Greens had a secret weapon. Yep, little Jimmy couldn’t miss. The boy had an eye for goal, 10, 11, the crowd and kids actually got excited, 12, 13, 14, hit the bar, 15 then just before the whistle went, Jimmy hit the winner! Big cheers from all concerned.

There were some relay races (which Jimmy’s team won) and some egg and spoon races (Jimmy won his). The sack race didn’t take place (much to my daughter’s disgust) there were no parent races (much to my disgust).We didn’t find out which team won and, at time of blogging, still don’t know! (Much to everyone’s disgust).

Still, it was sunny, I wasn’t at work, but I got sunburnt!

Things You Think On Sports Day

Mum & Dad        –              Do I have to go?

Mum & Dad        –              Why does it never start on time?

Mum & Dad        –              How long is this going on for?

Mum & Dad        –              Why don’t they use real eggs anymore?

Mum & Dad        –              That ginger kid is burning.

Mum                     –              What does she think she looks like?

Dad                       –              I really should congratulate Jimmy’s mum on his performance.

Mum                     –              Do you really have to congratulate Jimmy’s mum after every event?

Politics : Handle With Care

The wait is finally over and, after the big build-up, it’s here at long last: the general erection is upon us.
The five-yearly competition to see which political party can collect the most semen and run the country is under way.  Across our great nation, men have been like coiled springs in recent months in anticipation of the event.

From 7am – 10pm, men file into booths to discretely make their donation. Size is not important; it is all about taking part and making your pathetic, whimpering voice heard. Try as he might, no man can win this competition single-handedly; it’s all about uniting and pulling as one.

Over recent months, potential participants in this erection have been urged to get their fingers out and register to donate. Some have opted to take part by post. Although legal, this course of action is not much liked by the Royal Mail and is particularly out of favour with postal workers who have to sort the mail by hand.

The great leaders of our country have been busy with rallying cries for mass participation and imploring the whole nation to come together.  The coalition government has finished its five-year sperm and it is time to restock supplies. Despite being considered by most as a bunch of w*nkers, the politicians have literally run out of spunk.

This erection has been a long time coming and it is down to every man over 18 to lend a hand for the great cause.  Without restocking supplies through the erection collection programme, the country will be on its knees and staring down the barrel of a loaded weapon.

Politicians want us to come forth; to stand up and be counted. It is time to shake up or ship out. We have been instructed not to dither willy nilly, but to get involved and lend a hand where it matters most.

Some of you may wish to sport colours to support you favourite erection candidate. Many men find an appropriately coloured handkerchief in their pocket will come in handy when they make their donation. Should you wish to take a friend with you to help you donate, that is perfectly acceptable, but they must be over 18 and promise not to reveal what went on in the booth.

Party donations are allowed, but you must fill in a form so that your donation is transparent and can be viewed by all who wish to scrutinise it. (This is to ensure that there’s no repeat of previous underhand tactics when illegal donations from horses and livestock were used in a bid to bump up the nation’s semen reserves.)

Party members have for many months been trying to tie the erectorate down; trying to find out where they will aim their donation. Some say that these activists have been premature and that all that matters is what happens in the final spurt of the campaign.

AL3 WTF believes in democracy. AL3 WTF urges you to put your hands together and be a V.O.T.E.R. (Volatile Oscillation To Ejaculate Repeatedly). While you are busy supporting your local handidate, you can be assured that there will be a Cabinet shuffle (and even reshuffle) at the same time. A word of caution: if you are a floating voter, please do not cast your vote at Westminster Lodge.

Now a few words of reassurance for first-timers: donating to a political party, or ‘voting’ as it is euphemistically called, is not dirty. It is quite natural and you should not be ashamed at having gone into a cubicle and ‘voted’. You will not go blind as a result, although too much politics can make your opinions somewhat blinkered.

If you’ve read this far, I’m sure it’s ok to mention that, irrespective of the result of this month’s erection, it is sure to cause much public discussion; a mass debate will ensue, many believe.

It would be wrong to reach the climax of this piece without mentioning women. I know that as men across the nation cast their votes, women will be uppermost in their thoughts. Women fought long and hard to secure the right to enter those cubicles. What they do in there is a mystery, though. There are few things in life that men have the upper hand on.  See men, women have handcuffed themselves to all sorts of things in order to secure the vote. Should you spot a woman with handcuffs loitering by the booths as you enter, then be sure to give her a hand.

As prospective Prime Ministers have oft said in the past ‘Cometh the hour, cometh the man’. Men of the United Kingdom, your time is now. Do what comes naturally.

St Albans by Numbers

Lies, damned lies and statistics: AL3 WTF brings you the key numbers that make St Albans tick.
3         The number of neighbours you know by sight, but not by name, who you’ll bump into when you’re in the 99p Store. Don’t worry – just remember that they were there, too. Time was when you felt embarrassed like this about being spotted in Wilkos; now you think Wilksons is positively upmarket. (And such good value for toiletries, don’t you think?)

5         The amount of mini-scooters that will whizz around you per 100m travelled within AL1 between the hours of 3pm-4pm on a school day. Once your shins have been bashed 11 times or more in any seven-day period you are eligible for funding from the council for protective clothing, apparently.

494,777     Is the average price of a house in St Albans. Feeling smug? Just wait until you actually try to move to a property even 5 sq ft bigger than your house, that will wipe the smile. Your humble abode might be worth a silly % more than when you bought it…but so is everyone else’s.

Yes, it is ok to now start looking at properties in Royston instead.

7         Is the number of grown adults (as opposed to ungrown adults, who are technically called ‘children’, I suppose) you’ll see riding bikes on the pavement during the course of the average working week. Growing up, I was told that it was ‘illegal’ (even for teenager) to ride on the pavement and that, if spotted, a policeman on the beat would sternly tell you off and make you walk your bike. (No, this was not the 1950s.) Nowadays, adults ride their bikes on pavements safe in the knowledge that they’ll never be accosted by the boys in blue (or, as they are more commonly now known, the BoysAndGirlsInFlourescentReflectiveSafetyWorkwearWithPocketsAndEppaulettes). The chances of seeing a Bobby (or even a Roberta) on the beat in St Albans being slimmer than the likelihood of Weightwatchers holding their local group meetings in Dunkin’ Donuts. If an actual panda car did stop you while you were cycling among pedestrians, you’d have fair cause to argue that if the pavement is wide enough for the police vehicle then it’s big enough for you too. To be honest, 9 out of 10 times you see the police helicopter hovering above AL4 it’s because it’s tracking a middle-aged credit controller in Hush Puppies who is riding his bike too close to people’s front gates. Said ‘off-road’ cyclist will, of course, be wearing a helmet and, probably, a mini hat cam thingy as well. (Well, you never know when some pesky scooter-riding pre-schooler will come hurtling dangerously around that next corner, and you’ll need some video evidence for the ‘trauma’ claim.)

2         Is the number of local pubs I walked out of on a recent night out with a couple of mates without even having had a drink. I’m not actually that fussy when it comes to pubs; I like variety and I quite like going to different places, but there are two things I absolutely insist on in order to purchase a beer: 1. Beer actually being stocked 2. Someone being behind the bar to serve it. Is that too much to ask? Clearly, for a couple of local hostelries, yes. What sort of pub doesn’t serve draught beer (just the one – any sort at all – not asking for a cast [cask?] of thousands)? What sort of sales-based business doesn’t actually have people to sell the product? Whatever next – bakers who don’t sell bread and vegetarian butchers?

41      Is the number of seconds the average person in St Albans spends scanning the ‘Court Report’ section of the local paper in the hope of seeing a name they recognise (and, preferably, of someone they don’t really like – possibly that neighbour who spotted you in the 99p Store).  Discovering someone who’s been convicted of watching TV without a licence or, better still, caught trying to steal a joint of honey-glazed pork from Sainsbury’s, gives one a lovely warm glow inside, doesn’t it?

0.01 This is the percentage of friends of the average reader of this blog that will proudly admit to having voted Tory. Hmm, strange how that doesn’t quite stack up with a 25,000 majority. And they say it’s the politicians who are the dishonest ones…

N.B. AL3 WTF does not accept donations from any political party.  We’d love to, however, it’s just that no-one has ever offered.

93      Is the number of steps to climb in order to stand atop the Clock Tower and enjoy one of the best skyline views in the world: the Christopher Place Car Park roof.  The Clock Tower is definitely worth a visit.  Go soon as rumours abound that the council is considering making the steps a one-way route in order to ease congestion. In future, the only way down will be via zip wire. The zip wire is to be sponsored by the Starbucks store opposite and the descent will go through the (hopefully open) bi-fold doors and finish in front of a smiling barista. Or, if the glass bi-fold doors are closed, in front of a smiling no-win-no-fee barrister.

68      This is the percentage of 2014 residential conversions in St Albans that involved the fitting of bi-fold doors. Nothing says freedom and self-expression like a bi-fold door. These glass concertinas are much favoured by naturists, phlebotomists and people with shares in Windolene.

39      This is – genuinely – the percentage of respondents in an online poll who thought that Ye Olde Fighting Cocks should be renamed Ye Olde Clever Cocks. (I know, it’s the least believable of the whole blog, isn’t it.)  According to the front page of this week’s Review, a campaign group is urging the pub to change its name ‘to reflect compassion to animals’. Now, omnivorous AL3 WTF does not and never has condoned cock-fighting, but we’re wondering if the campaigners have taken a glance at the pub’s menu. If it’s animal compassion they’re after, might they be better to focus on ingredients:  “our game may contain shot”. Just a thought.

At the time of going to press, a spokesman for the newly named Slug and Pellet was not available; neither was comment forthcoming from the relaunched Mare and Mounds. No-one was able to respond to our request to The Three Horseshoes to explain why the poor horse’s fourth hoof was never shod.

Working Titles

AL3 WTF brings you a sneaky list of some of the films to be previewed at this weekend’s St Albans Film Fest.
The Redbourn Supremacy – Villagers flaunt their postcodes at nearby Hemel residents.

Das Boot – Subtitled German movie about men crammed into a small pub near the Clock Tower.

From Here to……..Eternity – An everyday drama of Thameslink commuter woes.

Vertigo – The Clock Tower opens for spring.

North by Northwest – New Greens

West Side Story – Car Broken into in Oysterfields.

The Holywell Hill Has Eyes – Opticians at no. 4

V for Viennetta – unruly crowds gather around the ice cream van in Verulamium Park.

The Sound of Music – The Horn at 1am on a Sat Night.

The Graduate – Herts Uni Caped Crusaders Invade Town Centre for Annual Ceremony.

Some Like It Hot – Vindaloo at Mumtaj

Apocalypse Now – closing time at Wetherspoon’s.

There Will Be Blood – closing time at Wetherspoon’s.

It Happened One Night – at the Adelaide, usually.

Guys and Dolls –  Tales of unsuccessful nights at Batchwood and air pumps (Cert 18)

Guest Director Season

(A series of films Directed by, Produced by, Written by & Starring Barry C. Ashin)

Tango and Cashin – Buddy movie starring a fizzy beverage drinking frustrated letter writer.

12 Angry Men – (sci-fi) Frustrated letter writer clones himself so he can write more letters to local newspapers.

Barry on Screaming – Comedy horror movie about a frustrated letter writer who has a fear of women breastfeeding in St Albans coffee shops.

How To Train Your Dragon – A frustrated letter writer gives advice to husbands of SAMs.




and finally, coming to a screen near you soon,  a musical about a frustrated letter writer and his failed foray into films. Working title………………………………….,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, Les Miserables(sod) .

Areas of St Albans: The Truth Revealed

After years of research, the AL3 WTF Historical Society has uncovered the true origins of our local place names. 
The name Bernards Heath derives from the period when comedian Bernard Cribbins was at the height of his fame and both a major St Albans celebrity and significant local employer at his condom factory on the Pioneer Skate Park site off the Harpenden Road. Cribbins’ prophylactics were known as a Bernard Sheath. This name came to represent the local area. Over time, the name was adapted to Bernards Heath to avoid embarrassment and a negative impact on house prices.

Smallford derives its name not from the fact that the Ford Ka was designed here, but because this is where the creator of baby milk brand SMA, Lloyd Lilywhite, discovered in 1978 that his breast-milk substitute enabled babies to see in 4D. Over time, the company name changed to Lloyd Lilywhite’s SMA 4D which, in turn, became SMALL 4D and then SMALLFORD. Today a local by-law ensures that all newborns in Smallford receive 12 months’ free supply of SMA. Many top London marketing agencies recruit their graphic designers from Smallford, often sponsoring them through nursery so as to secure the pick of this visionary bunch at an early age.

The Camp: Previous residents include: Dale Winton, Graham Norton, Louie Spence, Alan Carr, Julian Clary and Larry Grayson.

Marshalswick. When the Californian Gold Rush was at its height, American law-enforcers sent their fast-track recruits to St Albans for its world-renowned centre of police training. The recruits’ lodging block stood where the garages behind The Quadrant are now located. It was a risky job being a US Marshal in the Wild West and mortality rates were high. Whenever word reached the training centre that one of its graduate marshals had perished upholding the law in frontierland, a candle would be lit at the south facing bullet-proof windows of the training block. Tradition was that the candle would burn for five hours, be extinguished and then left in the window as a permanent memorial. Over the years, the strong summer sun magnified through the re-enforced windows would decay the wax, leaving the wicks draping limply over the window-ledge; hence the area became known as Marshalswick. The training centre is long gone, but today sales of Jo Malone candles are higher in the AL4 postcode than anywhere else in Hertfordshire.

London Colney gained its capital prefix so that 17th century overseas visitors wouldn’t confuse the area with Barcelona Colney, Copacabana Colney, Coney Island or Beirut.

Park Street. This is where, in 1816, Nathan Colin Prius invented the car park. Rather cumbersomely, his first venture was called Nathan Colin Prius’ Car Park Off-Street. Business was somewhat quiet for the first 70 years until the subsequent invention of the automobile. Realising that he was onto something, Prius set up Britain’s first franchise business and the initials NCP became synonymous nationwide with extortionate charges and terrible service. As the result of an accident around the time of the Boer War when an executive from Aquascutum crashed his motorcycle into the original entrance sign, the words ‘Car’ and ‘Off’ perished and, by default, the area became known as Park Street.

As viewers of Mastermind will know, Llimnottoc is the name of the chemical solution painted on the back of glass to make a mirror.  After being discovered by a German chemist working at a St Albans glass-cutting business to the south-east of the city, and written about in the book Hier Kommt Der Mirror Mann, Harper Collins (Berlin) 1867, Llimnottoc brought fame and prosperity to the city. A lazy apprentice one day idly wrote the word Llimnottoc in sand in the factory yard as his colleague stood leaning against an upright mirror placed after the letter ‘c’. And that’s how Cottonmill got its name.

The truth around the origin of New Greens is somewhat complex.  The name reflects that this part of the city is a hub of musical and entertainment talent. Hughie Green (compere of 1970s talent show Opportunity Knocks) was from the area, as was Derek Hobson host of New Faces. In tribute to these two iconic talent shows, the area became knows as New Greens (‘Hughie Faces’ being the second choice). It remains St Albans’ creative quarter, and buskers, jugglers, stilt-walkers and fire-eaters can be seen performing on street corners most evenings. In recognition of New Greens as the birthplace of the modern-day talent show, the next series of X-Factor is to be filmed exclusively in New Greens Hall on High Oaks.

As every Year 9 child knows, the name Jersey Farm originates from top secret work undertaken during World War II at the Home Office Centre for Applied Science and Technology on Woodcock Hill. Attempts to grow military knitwear made of bomb-proof Kevlar failed, but later endeavours to make sweaters out of goal stanchions and crossbars did give rise to the 1940s term ‘goalposts for jumpers’.

The name Fleetville originates from the 1740s when the area’s docks were famous the world over for building the ships of the Royal Navy. Before setting off for the West Indies, new vessels would load up with supplies from the ship’s chandlers located on the current Morrisons site. (Readers might recall that a Safeway supermarket previously stood here for over 250 years. The name ‘safeway’ itself originating from the farewell that the shop girl on the mead counter would shout to sailors to wish them safe passage as their ships disappeared into the sunset.) Fleetville’s docks have long dried up, but the fact that Morrisons has the best fresh fish counter in the city is testament to the area’s nautical roots.

Before Wheathampstead Cathedral was sacked by invaders from Welwyn in 1684, Sandridge was a wafer-thin settlement comprising mainly of delicatessens, butchers and producers of trout pâté. The village was known as ‘sandwich’ as it was the filling in the middle between the two great bread-baking cathedral cities of St Albans and Wheathampstead. Over the centuries, the village’s name evolved to Sandridge. This explanation should settle once and for all the debate as to whether the correct pronunciation is Sand-ridge or Sarrndridge; it is, of course, Sand-ridge, as in sandwich.

When oil was discovered on the outskirts of St Albans in 1923, workers used giant chisel-drills to cut through the lush turf and through the limestone to create a well; from this innovative approach the name Chiswell Green was born. Although drilling ceased in 1965, its legacy hangs heavy over Chiswell Green:

– until 2009 the council would only grant planning permission for bungalows as the subsoil was deemed highly unstable after 40 years’ deep drilling.

– In Greenwood Park, from 2 – 4am nightly the giant torch structure near the top car park burns excess oil and gas to prevent volatile underground build-ups. Each midsummer’s night, locals gather beneath the flame and toast giant marshmallows on 6m-long skewers.

– As a gas-leaking fault line runs under the park, visiting cricketers are warned before games not to have a crafty fag in the outfield as players fielding at deep mid-wicket have been know to spontaneously combust when attempting a sneaky JPS between overs.

Much to the embarrassment of the current rigidly upstanding people of Batchwood, their part of our city gained its name from pioneering 19th century work undertaken at Batchwood Hall to find alternative ways to alleviate erectile dysfunction.  The innovative approach revolved around practical therapy for men who were treated together in groups (or ‘batches’), and hence the term ‘batchwood’ was coined.

Finally – Beech Bottom Dyke: you can work this one out for yourselves…

Summertime, and the livin’ is easy

Fish are jumpin’ and the grass verges are high.

Here’s our guide to some of the exciting things that will be happening in St Albans over the next couple of months plus a few that we’d like to see in the not too distant future.
The City & District council have spent most of the entertainment budget on fly-posting the whole area with their most informative publication ‘Community News – Summer in the City’ leaflet.

Personally, I’m intrigued at the mention of the new full colour 3D illustrated St Albans City Centre map and guide, only 2 quid from the Tourist Information Centre (no we don’t get commission).

Mind you, I’ll be first in the queue for a refund if a scale model of the clock tower doesn’t pop up and poke me in the eye when I unfold the map but they do say ‘3D’ so surely I won’t be disappointed?

To be fair though, as long as it’s got the beach volleyball court location clearly marked, (presumably near the ‘bottom’ end of the park) it’ll be the best £2 I spend all summer.

There’ll be the usual giant puppets at the Alban Weekend and the equally scary Morris men will be banging their short sticks against each other as they dance.  

Which reminds us, the International Organ festival will soon be upon us too. Although seeing it advertised in the leaflet with a picture of altar boys made us wonder if someone’s got the wrong end of the stick? 

The Verulamium museum is holding numerous events this summer among them are a few that we would have been proud to have thought of ourselves.

Just for the kids, there’s the ‘Make your own Roman Fridge Magnet’ sessions.

WTF?!

Now we’ll give the Romans credit for central heating and concrete but we at AL3 know for a ‘fact’ that refrigerators were invented in 1066 by Korean ice cream van driver Mr Sam Sung.

There’s also a talk entitled “The Wicked Lady”.
Who was she? What naughty things did she do? What happened to her?”

Well (SPOILER ALERT), we can reveal that she is a 54 year old woman from Sandridge who shoplifted all over the county (a strange penchant for HDMI cables and Lego sets), is banned from numerous shops in the area and has been given a 2 week suspended sentence.

Herts Ad court report, once again, we thank you.

Coincidentally, there are ‘mock’ trials being held at the Crown Court as part of the Magna Carta 800th anniversary.

Perhaps the town planners who are responsible for the Premier Inn and Blue and Red bank in St Peters Street could be put in the dock for crimes against the City’s architecture?

Now, I expect you all put hands in pockets to help bring to life St. Albans very own boutique cinema and (KERCHING!) there it is. The Odyssey.

No longer will Snorbenites need to traipse into Londinium to see such Art House classics like MOOMINS ON THE RIVIERA (book now for this weekend’s matinee and ‘no’ we don’t get commission).

Anyway, the council will soon be asking the good people of the city for a couple of million towards the £8m needed to turn the old town hall building into a replica of the Obama’s current residence. Apparently it will be a museum and at that price we can only imagine what events they will hold there for the kids when it’s open. Make your own Roman thermo-nuclear reactor?

Finally, here are three things that may, or may not, be in the minds of the council.

Yes, they may sound ridiculous but just promise to remember where you heard it first and we promise not to say “we told you so”.

They aren’t going to pedestrianise the High Street but plans are afoot for a trolley bus system from the Abbey Station up the hill. It’s still being decided on where the trolley bus will terminate but the Peahen is our bet.

This will coincide with the new twin ice rinks planned for the former site of the gasometers down by the retail park.  Our source at the council told us “The last thing anyone wants to do after two hours of acting like Torville or Dean is to schlep back up Holywell Hill into town so we’ll try and have the trolley bus system in place in time for the opening”.

In the unlikely event that the tram and skating options don’t work out, there’s also a compromise contingency plan involving turning Holywell Hill into a giant waterslide but this is so ridiculous we won’t go into any detail here.

Enjoy the sun (if the grass verges aren’t blocking it out)  and remember – 

If you build it, they will come. 

Top Ten ISAs

 (Institutions of St Albans: Ten local things to be proud of)
1. Window shopping on Holywell Hill.

I refer, of course, to the much-loved pastime of sitting on Holywell Hill, engine on, clutch half engaged, waiting for the lights to fleetingly turn green. You can look at the fancy radiators, the expensive kitchens and strain your eyes to read a Chinese menu; you can remind yourself that one day you must actually go inside the White Hart Hotel and look for a ghost.  Surely I’m not the only person who thinks ‘Is that yet another new gents’ hairdresser?’ You can repeat this thought every few months as they seem to come and go pretty fast around there.

The best shop ever was the fish pedicure place a few years ago. You could sit in your car and soak up the carbon monoxide and wonder what sort of muppet goes in there. I did (go in, I mean). It was my birthday. I did it of my own volition. They put me in the prime window seat. A school bus stopped right outside. I was laughing at the fish; the kids were laughing at me; the fish were eating dead skin from my feet (I don’t think they were laughing, but how would one know with such tiny fish – or even with big ones). Anyway, it was my birthday treat to myself. Afterwards I went next door for lunch. Best cheese-stuffed whitebait I’ve ever had. 

2. Barry Cashin

With a name like a third-rate pawn-broker, Barry is a living legend. Well, local at least. Hell hath no fury like a Barry scorned. So if you are a car driver, a cyclist, a breast-feeding baby, a noisy child, a parent, someone who has birthdays, someone with long (or short) hair, bald, or just minding your own business keeping yourself to yourself and quietly going about your daily life in St Albans, then sure as Barry rhymes with Gary, you’re in grave danger of one day incurring some Cashin wrath.

I don’t know if the local paper has a Leader Board to keep tabs on the most prolific senders of letters, but if they did, sure as Cashin rhymes with bashin’, Barry would top it.

Love him or loathe him, Bazza makes our top ten. (I’ll admit that I ‘like’ him, inasmuch as he spices up the Letters in the local rag and elicits ‘outraged’ responses from others.)

3. St Michael’s Folk Festival

If there’s a finer place to be every first Wednesday in July then I’m yet to find it. St Micky’s Folk Fest has it all: beer, Morris dancers, barbecues, swords, beer, bands, a dragon, a closed-off road, beer. Even though the number of pubs in that neck of the woods is falling fast, the Festival is the most quintessentially English summer’s evening out you could hope for. You should go. You really should.

I once saw the ‘off-duty’ dragon get its camera out and take a photo. ‘Nuff said.

4. St Albans Mums (or SAMs to use their abbreviated title)

No, not just mothers of St Albans, these women are a bunch of complete mothers. Ask Jeeves, Google, Teletext, your Great Aunty Joan – in their day these were trustworthy founts of all knowledge, but none – repeat none – came anywhere close to ‘St Albans Mums’.

SAMs is a Facebook group. You can (assuming you’re a mum, in St Albans, and accepted to join the group) ask a simple question – maybe you’ve a tricky social dilemma and would like a little help – and get up to 6,000 responses. Of course, any simple yes or no question will give you 3,000 in favour and 3,000 against so you’ll be none the wiser, but you’ll have got your thoughts out in the open and shared with kindred spirits which, after all, is what being a woman is all about, as far as I can tell.

So, if you’re unsure what to wear today (“Will it be cold?”); want to know if what your child does is normal (it is); or if what your husband does is normal (it isn’t); if you want to know if somewhere is open/closed or if anyone can recommend a cake maker (I can and I’m not even in the group) then whatever you do, whatever you do, don’t use your initiative or common sense; throw both of these out of the window and ask a bunch of local strangers. After all, it’s obviously better to crowd-source random opinions than think for yourself. And, yes, you should get that rash looked at.

5. “Any bowl for a pound”

Camden, Portobello, Brick Lane, Borough –  there are many great markets, but if you need batteries, fitted blinds, almonds or large pieces of foam for fancy dress then St Albans is the place to head. Legally it should be “
Contents of any bowl for a pound” because you don’t actually get to keep the bowl. Just sayin’.

6. St Albans armed forces

The frigate HMS St Albans is well-known – though I’ve not once seen it on the lake in Verulamium Park – but our other local unarmed forces are less well-equipped. Military fitness (or milfit for short) is a big thing in St Albans. If we’re ever invaded by marauding hordes from Hemel, then we can sleep easy, safe in the knowledge that we will be robustly defended by new mothers in numbered bibs and middle-aged men carrying kettlebell weights. No army does a star jump quite as well as our lycra-clad public park warriors.  Although bibbed-up like a bunch of Year 7 girls at a netball tournament, these fitness enthusiasts are our territorial army-in-waiting.
“We will fight them on the beaches”, or at least jog to that tree and back and then go for a skinny latte.

Our air defences are located on the outskirts of the city at RAF Chiswell Green. Should aggressors choose an air attack (only on still, summer days, please – early mornings or early evenings preferred) they would be repelled most defiantly by a squadron of hot air balloons (or is it just the same one seen lots of times?). Armed with champagne bottles, these Virgin beasts can fire corks at ranges of up to 5m.

7. St Albans Half Marathon.

Where else do you take part in a high-profile event at the mercy of blazing sun? Oh, yeah, Qatar. Everyone should do the half marathon. Not, obviously, at the same time otherwise there’d be nobody left to hand out cups of water.

One blazing June a few years ago, I was running down Bluehouse Hill, cup of water in hand when I spied someone in the sparse crowd I knew. He was facing the other way so, safe in the anonymity of a pack of runners, I threw the full cup at him and kept running.

I’d like to now apologise to the stranger who got soaked, as it later transpired that my friend wasn’t even watching the event that day. Sorry.

8. Westminster Lodge car park.

‘Build it and they will come.’ ‘Come and they will park.’ ‘Park and they will pay.’ ‘Pay and they will complain.’ ‘Complain and they will be Cashin.’

9. CAMRA

Easy to ridicule, I know, and as a white-sock wearing, Capri-driving native of urban Essex, I love a stereotype, but you have to admit that as pressure groups go these guys have done a pretty good job over the years. (Real ale is presently in rude health). Plus, what other campaigning group allows you to drink your own bodyweight in beer each week all in the name of research.

Based on Hatfield Rd within a limp arm’s reach of a Cornish pasty from Morrison’s bakery counter, CAMRA (Campaign for Real Ale) is St Albans born and bred.

I know that it’s probably only a question of time before I join their swelling (in more ways than one) ranks. Beer. Real beer. What’s not to like. Plus, it’s just dawned on me that my enjoyment of Morris dancing and CAMRA would go pretty-much hand in hand.

10. The Alban Arena

Confession: I love the Arena. Top (mostly) entertainment within walking distance of my house. I go a lot. Ok, so I might be a bit less selective than I would be if I had to schlep into London to watch something. Why the Arena can’t link number of tickets sold and type of event to number of bar staff on duty is beyond me. The amount of revenue lost by people giving up queuing for drinks and popping out to the Wendy Barn instead must be huge. And think just how desperate people like me must be to view a Wetherspoons as any form of ‘better option’.

My wife asked me last December about Arena tickets I might like as a Christmas present. I gave her a list of ten comedians. Ranked in order of preference. Unfortunately, she’d already bought me some tickets. The show she’d bought (Paul Merton/improv) didn’t even make my top ten. Her risk. My loss. The only thing that would’ve been worse would have been any show on ice. ON ICE? Why the ice? I don’t get that. Thing is, with a young daughter I fear that prospect is heading my way some time soon.

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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