Cheshire Swingers Club

I think that Maslow, our furball baby cat, has been using his psychic powers again and has got wind of our imminent holiday. And, his imminent internment in cat camp. And, he’s decided to throw a potential spanner in the works. He’s a bit poorly.

Actually, it is hardly a cat camp. It is more like a luxury five star cat palace. Maslow will be taking his sojourn in a place called Catsworth House. Corny or what? He has his own private sofa. They play the radio to the cats in the morning. They watch TV in the evenings, the cats. And, in the afternoons they have two hours of communal time when all of the cats get together in a big room full of settees. Spoilt rotten! But, he’s worth it.

At least that is the plan. But, Maslow was back at the vets this weekend. He’s been sneezing. Not all the time, but when he sneezes he does so six or seven or eight times, with a very surprised look on his face. It is always a bit of a worry when Maslow shows cold or flu symptoms because he had cat flu when he found us and has, what my grandma used to call a “weak chest”. He was sneezing a lot on Friday, especially in the evening. And again Saturday morning. So, off to the vets to get him checked out.

The vet was quite confident that it wouldn’t be pepper that was making him sneeze. This was one theory because Cathy had left some fresh ground pepper on the work surface over night on Thursday. Maslow could easily have jumped up and done a line. The other theory is that he might have picked something up when hunting. Sticking his nose into something he shouldn’t. As we know, he has caught at least two mice this week (including the one that I sat on and killed) and was getting up front and personal with a hedgehog. He pricked his little pinkie as a consequence.

No, the vet thought his glands were up and his temperature was at the high end of normal. So, Maslow was given an anti-inflammatory and an antibiotic jab that will last two weeks, so, for most of the time that we are away. He’s back to the vet on Wednesday just in case. The day before he is due to go to Catsworth House.

I have to say though that Maslow was as good as gold at the vets. He kind of know when he’s going so hides in strange places, but I managed to grab him and get him in his carry box. I hope it will be just as easy the next two times I have to do it this week. He was a bit reluctant to get out on the vet’s treatment table. But, once he was out he sat there licking my hand while the vet checked him out and gave him his jabs. He did go slightly cross-eyed when the vet checked his temperature. Maslow that is. Not the vet. He has to go back for a final check up on Wednesday. Before cat camp. Maslow that is. Not the vet.

Meanwhile, our pleasant little hamlet has been invaded by strange folk again. Outsiders. Our rural idyll has succumbed to the influx of the Caravan Club staying at the Village Hall. There must be some 30 or 40 vans crammed onto the car park and the adjacent field. Why? Why? Why? Why?

Caravans at the Village Hall are quite a common occurrence. They come from near and, well actually, near. Such far-flung places as Warrington, Stoke or maybe even North Wales. Ok it is a different country but it’s still only an hour away.

They come on a Friday afternoon and they are gone by Sunday lunchtime. But the weirdest thing (other than the basic question of why anyone would want to camp on a car park in the middle of nowhere with no pub, restaurant or places to visit) is that you never see the people. You would expect to see them round the village. Walking, or cycling. You would expect to see them on the footpaths or bridal ways. Nothing. Never. They just stay indoors. They stay in their caravans behind steamy windows. Or they stay in the village hall, behind steamy windows.


We can only assume that the whole caravan thing is a front. We suspect that it is one great swingers’ club. Some of these suspensions must have the workout of a lifetime. I can’t imagine it is very comfortable on a foam-padded mattress. Maybe Calor Gas is an aphrodisiac. That, or tinned new potatoes and Smash. Presumably the Village Hall is used for orgies. Just imagine it. Swinging scallies. All of that cheap polyester rubbing together in a confined space, with gas bottles. One hell of a safety risk. The static electricity generated could run a small city. Fortunately most of the caravaners seem to be beyond breeding age. Thank goodness for that. Just imagine what could crawl out of that genetic soup. It doesn’t bear thinking about. And this in Cheshire too………

If not swingers then we must assume Satanic ritual at the very least. Or sheep shaggers.....When I do get my bike out of the garage after the holiday I will be sure to cycle very quickly past the Village Hall when the caravans are in situ.

Royston Vasey (Where My Mother-in-Law Lives)

My in-laws live in a place called Hadfield, in Glossop, the High Peak, in Derbyshire. For those of you who are interested, I would encourage you visit http://www.glossop.com/. It is a mine of “interesting” information. It is certainly the only place I know that has a development scheme called the “Liveability Pilot". Pilot? Liveability? They have to pilot living? As opposed to what – Dieability? Some parts of Glossop do still seem to belong to a bygone age. Which is not necessarily a bad thing at all.

I also like the Wikipedia entry for Hadfield which stresses that: “The town has a railway station on the electrified line to Manchester…..” How very modern! No steam trains for modern Hadfield! Hadfield is where they filmed the League of Gentlemen. Actually, it would seem, that the League of Gentlemen was based upon Hadfield. Hadfield is Royston Vasey. Royston Vasey is Hadfield. My in-laws live in Royston Vasey.

Royston Vasey, is actually the real name of Roy “Chubby” Brown being the very blue, often offensive comedian who plays the town’s foul-mouthed mayor in the TV programme. Steve Pemberton, one of the writers, claims that Royston Vasey is an amalgam of northern towns in which the writers have had strange experiences.

My in-laws don’t like the League of Gentlemen very much. I am not sure that either of them have ever watched it. Anything not on BBC1, Radio 3, Sky Sports, or Irish, is likely to have passed them by. In any case, they dislike the association with their home. Being from Birmingham myself, this is something that I can associate and empathise with. It is never nice to have your hometown denigrated in such a way. I was so glad when Crossroads finished. Both times.

My mother-in-law expressed her unhappiness about Hadfield's association with Royston Vasey one Sunday lunch, with C’s three younger sisters in attendance. We were sat around the table, wine in glasses, plates full of roast meat, and Irish tunes gently playing in the background. My mom-in-law is very proud of her Irish heritage. She is second generation off the boat. Her bookcases groan under the weight of Irish literature, and, our earplugs groan under the weight of Irish dirges. Incidentally, it is often said that Glossop people, being sophisticated, tell 'Irish' jokes about people from Hadfield. (As Irish people tell jokes about people from Cork. And French people tell jokes about Belgians.) People from Hadfield tell jokes about people from Padfield. People from Padfield don't tell jokes, they just pick plums.

In any case, “The people in town do not like all this Royston Vasey business!”, declared my mother-in-law. ( I could have added a few “to be sure” and “bejesus” but she doesn’t actually talk that way.) “In fact, last week a bunch of women in the town got so annoyed that they started to throw stones at the film crew!”. So, not like Royston Vasey at all!

Incidentally, the meat we ate that very Sunday was bought from Mettricks' butcher. H Briss & Sons Butchers in the show. This is the butchers where the “special sausages” are made. Indeed, in real life, the butcher does market a range of “special sausages”, but with alcohol as an ingredient rather than body parts. I am glad to say that Mettricks , at least, is cashing in on its notoriety with an online ordering facility (http://www.mettricksbutchers.co.uk/gentlemen.htm). Other, entrepreneurial “local shops” and businesses are also looking to cash in. The local burger bar is now called “Burger Me”. And, the local pubs are happy to entertain those doing the tourist thing on the back of teh show. It seems that not all of the locals dislike the association with the programme quite as much as my mother-in-law.

Indeed, when C and I were looking for venues for our wedding reception, C’s mom took us to a place called Windy Harbour – a B&B with a decent sized breakfast room that was use for events. I’m so glad that we chose Palace Hotel in Buxton instead. Windy Harbour, though a perfectly adequate B&B, is where they filmed the swingers club in the League of Gentlemen – the so-called Windermere Guest House. I am quite glad we chose to go elsewhere. Starting married life in a swingers club recommended to you by your mother-in-law is probably not the best start.

Steve Pemberton, one of the four writers of The League, has admitted that "75 or 80% of the characters do have basis in real people, believe it or not." So, mom, I was right after all………