Despite mentioning yesterday that I would be posting an obituary to Edward Woodward, in the process of adding an entry to A Disintegration Loop (the blog I use to collect the tired scribbles I collect in the morning having attempted to write down what I was dreaming) I noticed Edward’s name pop up part way through. It seems the name is all about the place at the minute:
As tribute, or rather garbled confused nocturnal rambling, I thought I should put it up here, with fictional additions. You can read the original to check the differences if you’re that way inclined. Most of it seems to be about me drinking, which says a lot for the state of my mind when I originally conjured the thing (sometime in 2006/7 I think, prior to moving to York for the first time any way)
“In Luton, well…initially some nondescript countryside outside Luton, where a small community has sprung up around an impressive tree, with a face carved in to it. There are buildings of various kinds, a factory, a threshers (in the tradional sense of that word), a milliners and a pub called ‘The ____ Horse’. I go there with friends, as a sort of pub crawl. Start in the country and move to the town is the idea. Fresh air and all that. We take up a table in front of the bar. Behind us is a window with a view of the tree and then rolling hills. Many people are outside, and seem to be trying to get in. For once, they are not zombies. The staff treat their presence as a joke. I drink several beers, all of which are good as I remember it (this was obviously important to me; I maintain a habit of writing down what I’ve had to avoid drinking things I hate and have forgotten the name of…sad but practical). I also order food. On the menu, the food I like is 6.95. I eat it, but when it comes to paying, a charge of £26 is made. Apparently I ate some incredibly pricey popcorn. I don’t understand how this has happened. I protest, loudly and for an extended period. The barmaid seems angry. I think she is married to the owner, making her the landlady. Her husband looks very much like Edward Woodward. He offers no help. Leaving my companions behind I storm off without paying for anything.
Outside is deserted, the odd horde of people are gone. I stroll leisurely in to the town, knowing I am not being chased for non payment. Back in Luton I attempt to board a train at the new station (located where P&T music used to be, if you know the area). I then remember that I am meant to be meeting Chris for a drink. I make my way past several establishments; one is called ‘Pete’s Place’. They are all along High Town Road.
When I finally reach the pub where Chris resides, he is on the way out, trying to find me. We return. He too has ordered food. He says ‘I thought I was eating alone again this week’ but I am unsure what to make of this. I respond by recounting my story. Two identical men sit near us, staring intently at both me and the meal Chris is eating. Eventually I order a drink, which is called Harvey’s _______. It comes in a small glass and looks like coke. I try and pay with a ten pound note but the barmaid wont accept it as she believes I have a smaller denomination.”