Episode 97 'The Bramhall Lane Massive'

Courtesy of Lucy Burgess, artist - www.lucyburgessart.co.uk/

Once upon a time, there was a little boy called Thomas who lived in a charming terraced house in Stockport with his fiance Lucy. They had saved up their pocket money in a save-to-buy ISA to buy a fixed rate mortgage on this property, which was located in a very up and coming part of the town. The transport links were good, including regular trains to Manchester Piccadilly and the Peak District (Stockport's very own back yard) with a Bargain Booze that boasted delicious local ales instead of Smirnoff Ice. Thomas was very happy with his home and would often sit in the garden and marvel at how grown up he felt. With a secure job and a date set for the wedding, Thomas gazed up at the dismal grey skies above and estimated the rain would begin in no less than 7 minutes. 

No sooner had Thomas scrambled inside with the damp washing from the line, did the blisteringly shrill screams begin from the girl next door. Ignoring the pounding of angry fists upon cupboard doors, Thomas sat down to read the morning post. Aha! he exclaimed, some formal looking letters addressed to me. It's not even my birthday! But alas for Thomas, the letters bore tidings of greedy car park managers, 'outstanding' EDF bills that were not outstanding at all (by all means) and Government rejection letters, the nature of which will soon become apparent. Well, what a morning young Thomas was having. And he hadn't even made his packed lunch for work!

As casually as he could, Thomas strode neatly over the dog poop plopped strategically by the front gate and walked towards the train station for the 08:22 to Chester. This was his daily commute to work, where he would listen to a cheerful podcast or a merry playlist to skip to before alighting the train to Altrincham. 

***what really happened***

Often Thomas would tread in some nondescript mulch as he realised that he'd left his lunchbox in the fridge. This broke his concentration as he listened to a unnecessarily gory recount of a murder scene in an episode from the Crime Junkie podcast. But surely Thomas would make the train to work? Oh dear, it looks like financial cuts and poor maintenance has caused another delayed train. Luckily Thomas has enough time to wait for the next, Oh fuck they're all fucking cancelled. 

And so, life in Stockport continued... until

BOOM! COVID-19!

I am now talking in the present tense (as you read), and not in the third person, but I do hope that you enjoyed my little story of young Thomas and his adventures around the North West. Subconsciously, regaling past woes in a frumptious tale of sarcastic charm really does seem to have a positive affect on me. Perhaps we all need to poke a little more fun, especially at ourselves. I do. 

The pandemic needs no introduction, so I will only give you a description of the consequences and how it ultimately begun the demise of 2020 for Lucy and myself. OR SO IT SEEMED???!!!

The rumours were thickening. People at work ceased to work and kept updating the team with unclear and dramatic headlines from rambunctious sources (who, again, need no [Daily] introduction [Mail]). The studio I worked at Factory Create sent out a letter to inform their employees that they would be shutting down all productions for the foreseeable future. This was inevitable, and it was really good of the company to pay us two weeks leave before the Government made any final and legitimate decisions on an event called 'Lock-down'.

   

I did about twenty different versions of this
goddamn puzzle throughout lock-down

Thus it was upon us. Lucy and I became ill with the virus - I had to make sure this was the case by pouring tabasco sauce, Marmite and chilli flakes into my mouth and sniff the dog shit that still festered by the front gate. But it was all in vain; the symptoms did not lie. We quarantined for over 14 days, which continued into the rest of lock-down and gave us many weeks to ponder on our own future. What of the wedding? What of the mortgage? Would I be eligible for a Government payment scheme? Are we doomed to wait here until Brexit brightens things up as a new years day hangover cure? Answers are found at the bottom of the page. 

Lock-down for us was not such a bad thing. I had previously worked from home for long periods of time, and Lucy had always wanted to (now newly self-employed). When we finally recovered, we had the 'glory years' of lockdown. The weather was great, so I spent most days clearing up and landscaping the bottom of the garden whilst Lucy continued her Yoga training. I will interject slightly, in regards to the training, as I do get awfully jealous due to the similarities between the Yoga mantra and the Jedi code. When Lucy trains, I cannot shake the vision of her doing a hand stand with a little green Jedi Master balancing on her foot. I have to wear a cloak and ignite a lightsaber to convince myself that I have what it takes to learn the ways of the Force. Lucy already has it!

So I built a bench, laid a patio, finished off some model making projects and began writing and illustrating a children's book called the Dinosaurchestra. I got carried away with this book, became far too excited with the prospect of publishing it and almost signed away £500 to an electronic voice over the phone. Oh how my naivety runs amok. 

         

But all of these projects and ideas were merely distractions from the fact that 2020 no longer existed for us. The wedding, after waiting weeks for answers from the Government regarding social distancing and future gatherings, was cancelled. But oddly enough, Lucy and I were not devastated. It was almost a relief, to ditch the organising (which, to be fair, had not been that stressful at all) and concentrate on our true life goal - to move away and live abroad.

    We will get married one day. Heck, I even had a Zoom stag do complete with Star Wars fancy dress and each Zoomer regaling embarrassing stories of old. I was even joined by Admiral Ackbar himself, who sat comfortably upon a swing at the bottom of the garden and drank alongside me. He wore his signature swimming cap and mounted goggles. Such a lovely and polite member of the Rebel Alliance. I was dressed in my Jedi robes but wearing a floppy 'Boris Johnson' wig - a cruel joke posted to me by the best men, along with Tory memorabilia and 'Vote Leave' badges. It was simply awful to pin these to my robes (I banned any photograph opportunities), but I was absolutely blotto'd so all was cancelled out. 

The aftermath of the Stag Do. The basement blew up
like Alderaan. Unsuspecting and innocent. 

As the idea to move abroad snowballed, we wondered where we might go and what we might do. Lisbon had been talked about, and would probably be the likely candidate. We had visited the city in 2019 (remember? when you could do stuff?) and fell in love with the vibes. Previous attempts at moving abroad included buying working visas for New Zealand, much to the disappointment of our families. But alas, it was not meant to be, and the Mediterranean lifestyle became more realistic over the following years of dreaming. Brexit started it, of course, although I don't think I need to digress over that ol' chestnut (at least not just yet). The only thing you need to know is that the clock was ticking! If we failed to leave the UK before these changes in free movement across Europe, then things could potentially become much more difficult to move elsewhere. 

Lock-down continued. And I was running out of things to dress up as!

      

Hot dog - Gandalf - Chicken (new at Nandos)

My bi-annual therapy session

We brought Glastonbury to our living room for Lucy's birthday

We were very lucky to live next door to Zoe and Alan. From the very beginning of our move to Stockport, these two hammer legends were there for us. And now, with restrictions in place all over the UK, our neighbourship truly blossomed into a really fun and positive bubble. We would converse over the garden fence quite merrily, have drinks and play board games (Azul!) whilst coaxing the robin to feed from the hand of Alan himself.

FYI (abbreviated from 'For You Innit' I believe) Alan has an alter-ego. Alan is... The Admiral Ackbar.

FYI (the same applies) Zoe is a level 11 in kneighbourhood knowledge and epic glow-stick skills. Watch out. 

I miss them.

Our newest members of the Bramhall Lane Massive are a couple of chumps from Chorlton. They moved in to the house at the end of row and are completely on our wavelength and hip vibes (😅). Steffan and Ian are their names and chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool, shooting some b-ball outside of the school is certainly their game. And lo! the Massive was formed. Naturally, a WhatsApp group was created and much banter and silliness was had - usually revolving around how we were all 40-year-old losers still clinging on to life as we lived in our caves of misery (Connor, 121 Bramhall Lane, 2020).

The Bramhall Lane Massive;
[from left to right] Princess Alan Organa, Zoe with maracas,
Ian (plus a youngling), Darth Steffan, my big face and Lucy
 

Meanwhile, the wedding date came (July 4th) with heavy rain and dreary atmosphere; we celebrated this by ordering in pizza and watching Independence Day. Again, we didn't feel devastated. Things were now in motion that could not be undone. We had already contacted the estate agents (who we bought the house through) in regards to letting out the property. The day soon came when a tap-tap-tapping made everything feel very real...

The tap-tap-tapping was the
sound of the 'to let' sign
being hammered upon our wall

The decision to move abroad was final. 

But there was one thing missing from the equation. One last ingredient to make this recipe (for disaster?!) complete. 

Get ourselves a bloody van. 

*answers from paragraph 8* We cancelled it. That was the only thing lucky enough to get a  damn holiday. Of course not (this was the Government rejection letter I spoke of in the opening tale of Young Thomas). No, fuck that, we're fleeing to Portugal.