Frilly and Binx

Two of my dad's favourite things combined here: animals and poems. He had a long succession of cats from Kelly, Julian and Blackie in the 80s, through to April and Scratch in the 90s and Frilly and Binx more recently. Frilly is still catching mice and misses Spiro as much as any of us. Her brother Binx is currently whereabouts unknown - although the traffic in Roath is pretty unforgiving, there have been a few sightings now and then, and he was a tough cat . There were also the famous Video Nation budgies, Penney and Dale named after Cardiff City stars of the day.

Frilly the Cat

This poem, like most of his poems, is sweet and silly but also shares a deeper truth: in this case, the fine-balanced relationship between man and animal
But really, it shows how much he loved his cats.

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Frilly & Binx

Let’s analyse the vagaries

Of keeping pets for pleasure

Is it perhaps ridiculous

To call animals a treasure

What benefits can they provide?

What riches can we measure

Is there a profit or return

In keeping pets for pleasure?

To start: pets are a paradox

They grow up, yet they don’t

You bring them up, you nurture them

But leave home?  No, they won’t!

They are comparable to babies

In the ways they need our care

For there is a God-like quality

That eternally we share

We can condemn or punish

We can comfort or reward

We can pamper living creatures

We can put them to the sword

We are tyrant and dictator

We are master to a slave

Yet the more we learn to love them,

The more loving they behave

Yes, the more we learn to love them

The more loving they behave

A self revealed philosophy

Sounding from the psyche’s cave

Binx and Frilly, bruv and sis

They’re my cats, that’s what they is

Nose to nose is how they kiss

Binx and Frilly, Frills & Binx!

Frills is black, and Binx is too

But his belly’s white as snow

When he rolls across the floor

It’s the zebra crossing show

When he perches on my lap

Pure white shirt and pure white gloves

He’s a concert pianist

Quite the best of Frilly’s bruvs

He can balance on the telly

Between Photograph and clock

He can stare just like an ornament

Art nouveau as ‘cat with sock’

White whiskers curling upwards

Like a grin by Salvo Dahli

White cotton wool inside his ears

He can look a right old Charlie

Binx and Frilly, bruv and sis

They’re my cats, that’s what they is

Nails to nails is how they hiss

Binx and Frilly, Frills & Binx!

Frills is little, gold her glare

Black and beautiful as coal

Sleek as silk she strokes my legs

Guiding me towards her bowl

She has scratched my yucca bare

And my cordaline and couch

But I tell you I don’t care

Unless it’s me she scratches… Ouch!

While still kittens, to my folly

I released my birdies both

As they flew out for a jolly

How they screeched a budgies oath

Squash and Tickle are my budgies

The conservatory they fly

You may have guessed that with my cats

They do not see eye to eye

They perch upon the yucca

And call Binx & Frilly names

And then upon the window ledge

Pour invective from the frames

Tickle is a cobalt blue

And thinks kittens are just ground-hogs

Squash radiates a turquoise hue

And toilettes over silly old mogs

But  budgies trying to dive bomb cats

Is not a good idea

Binx caught Squash on the rubber plant

Till he got pecked on his ear

To avoid a similar fate

Happening to Tickle too

I flapped a tea towel in his face

So he’d flap up to the roof

Did he fly up to the perches

I hooked hanging from the roof

Did he make the ten foot yucca

From which he eyes the world aloof?

No, he never left the branch

Yes, my zealousness the cause

I flapped him down towards the ground

Right into Frilly’s claws

I had to pick her up and shake her

I admit I feared the worst

To pull the poor bird from her grasp

Might leave bits of him inversed

The birds were none the worse for wear

But outings now are few

They’ve both recovered from the shock

And I’ve recovered too!

The birds still yell abuse at them

From the safety of their cage

But cats can wait for ever

Revenge is sweet at any age

Now Binx thinks Frilly’s silly

And Frilly thinks Binx stinks

But Frilly’s willy-nilly

Each time she thinks of Binx

Then Binx thinks Frilly is a minx

And Frilly thinks Binx silly

So one thinks what the other thinks

And that’s my Binx and Frilly

5 September 2007

Poor Tickle died November 2009, a year after poor Squash

And Millie & Toots bought in January 2010, bright yellow and beautiful.

A Letter to Sam

As Cardiff City sit proudly at the top of the Championship, it seems an appropriate time to share one of my dad's letters to the club he loved all his life. Back in 2004, Sam Hamman wasn't such a divisive figure amongst the support. And in fairness to Sam, he did ring back, once speaking to my bewildered brother and once having a long discussion about life and tactics with my old man. He never did deliver the requested commentary, though.

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8 August 2004

Sam Hamman

Chairman

Cardiff City Football Club

Sloper Road

Grangetown

CARDIFF  

Dear Sam

My Membership No 69330

I hope I find you fit and well, and bracing yourself for the ups and downs of another football season.  So, here’s wishing all our fans a happy new season.

My first match at Ninian was aged 13.  I shall be 48 next month.  The last match I ever saw was Cardiff 0 West Ham 0 to avoid relegation.  The last match report I ever read was Luton 2 Cardiff 3.  The reason is because I was blinded in a car crash in 1981, just after my 25^th birthday.  However, this hasn’t stopped me coming to Ninian, and I even have a season ticket in the disabled enclosure.

I also remember another last match, many years ago, when Wimbledon sent us down, while they gained promotion to the top division.  And, today, Wimbledon FC no longer exist!  Strangely enough, at the last match of last season, a steward asked me to leave because I tapped my white cane against the corner flag at the end.  It was Wimbledon’s last match!

Usually friends, neighbours and radios are my commentators during City matches.  In fact anything or anyone will do so long as I can discover what is happening, good or bad.  Like any devoted fan, I am a fool for my club.  I’ve worn my radio ear-plug during christenings, weddings and school governor meetings to mention but a few times my attention should have been elsewhere.

Ok, Sam.  I am offering you the chance to be my commentator for one match.  Any City match at all.  We could sit in my low little corner, but perhaps it would be better to sit a little more central.  I guarantee you that I hardly utter a syllable during the match.  You could guide me to my seat and my friends would pick me up after the match.  I think that as club chairman, you should take a turn in helping me.  I want no hospitality, no money for I’ve already paid my ticket, I just want to see your heart.

Nobody else will do, Sam.  I would love to sit with you for just one match, for you to play the John Motson role and be my eyes to describe what is happening on the pitch.  It’s a new challenge for you.  How many club chairmen get such an opportunity; to get into the heart of the fans?

Born in Corfu, Greece, raised in Splott, Cardiff, I am the Greek Leek!  Nowadays, I teach other blind people to use computers at the Cardiff Institute for the Blind where I work full time.  Phone 20######.  Call me if you ever get a moment.

Break a leg!

Spiro

April Fool's 1998

My dad loved April Fools. His tricks were never spiteful or mean-spirited, they were always done in the spirit of fun. This one from nearly fifteen years ago demonstrates that perfectly. I know of at least two people, possibly more, that were singing out of their windows come April 1st.

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B u r g e r    K i n g    O f f e r s

Registered Office: Sties Stuftill Estate

F u l l e r t o n    B e r k s    F U 8   1 S S

Telephone & Fax:   0800 888 888

VAT REGISTRATION NO:  012 2234 1091

 29 March 1998

A very happy Easter to you.

The BURGER KING chain of happy diners is delighted to make this a truly notable Easter for you by offering you the chance to win 100 free meals at any of our 365 Burger King stores throughout the United Kingdom.

YES!  100 FREE BURGER MEALS!

One of our many Burger King Representatives will be secretly patrolling your area at some time this week.

If he happens to hear you singing the words ‘Burger King rules my Chips’ to the tune of ‘Happy Birthday to You’ he will instantly present you with a voucher which will entitle you to 100 FREE BURGER KING MEALS up to and including New Year’s Eve 1999!

Remember to keep your windows wide open this week so that he can hear you singing clearly when he’s near your home, or better still, sing the BURGER KING song on your doorstep or front lawn to make absolutely certain that this wonderful Easter offer will not pass you by.

 BURGER KING always gives customers the very best!

Yours sincerely

Hal Fabeanne

SERVICES DEVELOPMENT MANAGER

ALL OFFERS SUBJECT TO BURGER KING CONDITIONS, NO BURGER KING EMPLOYEES OR THEIR FAMILIES SUBJECT TO CONTRACTUAL TERMS AND CONDITIONS

BURGER KING INCORPORATED PUBLIC RELATIONS, DIRECTORS:  A PRILPH.  L GOTT.  U CHUBBS.  J ESSTER.  H FABEANNE

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Growing, Growing, Gone!

This is a story taken from the collection "Blind Man's Buffet" which will be available in full later this year. The collection outlines my dad's experiences with blindness and this story in particular illustrates how he managed to find the fun in everything.

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Growing, Growing, Gone!

It was a cloud sniffling sort of September morning.  The type of morn that plainly signposts the rougher route through summer’s dregs towards bleaker climes.  Overcast and comfortless to the fuming cars and grumpy, old trucks perpetually phasing in and out of ear-shot like some confused tribe of rust-gargling nomads.

My 9 year old daughter, Rania was home from school with a cold.  And so was her friend, Rachel.  Both in MY home!  Baby-sitting 2 sick kids was not exactly my cup of tea that morning, especially on finding my supplies of Earl Grey nothing but an aromatic memory.

A quick committee decision on tea gathering needed taking.  And it was!  So, with a girl guide on each hand, and our chilly, little escapade well out of radar range of any over-protective motherly instincts, we all sneaked off to the local supermarket.

At first it seemed like the wrong decision as my poor, aching arms flailed like reigns on unruly fillies, trying desperately to steer a course away from the irresistible lure of telephone kiosks, dropped bicycles, shop fronts, pillar-box slots, vegetable displays, parked car door handles, dripping drain-pipes, gutter wildlife, unclaimed litter and the like.  My feral street scavengers needed taming; and quickly!  Otherwise, I risked having my upper appendages stretching so close to the ground as to warrant my hasty re-classification to a quadruped.

My plan was minted in a minute and born of my frequently re-surfacing mission in life to cheer up the world.  On presenting my idea to my little companions, I found that I had won over their fullest attention.  Wow!  The omens were definitely good.  Rehearsals were brief and taken in our stride.

As we approached the kerb of the pedestrian crossing, little did mankind suspect the momentous moments about to unfold.  For it was here, on the lower Pelican Crossing of Crwys Road in central Cardiff that the first ever ‘Pelican Hop’ was performed.

I do confess that this particular world premiere was not exactly acclaimed with rapturous applause from those witnessing this crinkle-in-the-page of history, but even the Olympic Games must have had humble beginnings!  Probably a thrifty bunch of Ancient Greeks dashing around the outer pillars of the Parthenon to avoid the high priest’s collection tray.

The beacons bleated out our cue.  Vehicles grudgingly folded their arms and waited.  Hand in hand, we springingly stepped out onto centre stage, right foot forward.  In unison, we took 1-2-3 full striding steps, and then hopped!  It was a pedalling style hop, with one knee rapidly following the other high into the air.  Again I counted ‘1-2-3 HOP’ and we were halfway across.  Those crossing in the opposite direction made way like bewildered extras.  Again I synchronised ‘1-2-3 HOP!’  Then our finale onto the pavement ‘1-2-3 TURN ROUND AND BOW’  It all worked splendidly.  Quite splendidly!

 ‘Brilliant!’ I congratulated my sprightly gazelles.

 ‘But, dad,’ said Rania, ‘people are laughing at us.’   And indeed, people were laughing: drivers, passengers, pedestrians, loafers, window-gazers, road-sweepers, old uncle Tom Cobley and all! 

 ‘That was the whole idea, darling!’ I replied, musing on how productive our few simple steps had proved.

On our return journey, having unwittingly purchased Darjeeling (but that’s another story) we developed the choreography by replacing the middle hop with a switch, whereby the girls changed flanks, one passing in front of me and the other behind me.

And thus the ‘Pelican Hop’ was born; a novel, if slightly dotty, way of crossing the road.  Simply intended to passingly amuse passers-by.  My daughter and I developed it further over the subsequent weeks.

But now, dear reader, I must transport you forward in time by a little over 2 months, to a Sunday after midday mass.  Walking homewards in a group too desultory to resemble a family unit were my 16 and 12 year old sons, Rania and myself.  Our precise geographical location was the approach to the Richmond Road pedestrian lights.

I tried to encourage, even implored, my sons to join in the, by now, ritual Pelican Hop despite there being little hope of their participation due to the notoriety it had cumulatively gathered amongst family and friends.  They were too grown up to play ‘silly buggers’ as they put it!  Nevertheless, ever-persevering, I even tried commanding their obedience as their paternal lord and master.  But all I received in response were mockery and derision.  However, their dissension had been fully expected.  What I had not at all expected as a result of their jibes and resolute refusals to risk being laughed at by strangers, albeit in sparse Sunday traffic, was their contamination of Rania.

I was utterly dismayed to hear her also refusing to Pelican Hop; my own, true partner refusing to dance and leaving me without an act.  I couldn’t believe the suddenness of it all.  I begged and pleaded with her to re-consider as we neared the crossing and to at least accompany me in our simple original routine.  My adjurations were fruitful for she consented at the last moment.

The bleepers sounded and Peter, my eldest, ran off as if trying to break the world record for someone running 100 metres with a coat over his head.  Tony merely trotted briskly ahead of us, turning and dissociatingly laughing as if all aloof of the pursuing idiots.

Rania and I took the floor.  1-2-3 HOP!  Our first hop was long, high and handsome.  Again I urged ‘1-2-3 HOP’ but during this second hop, her feet hardly left the ground for she had followed Tony’s gaze towards a laughing driver and passenger, and, despite my redoubled promptings, there was no third hop for Rania.

It was over!

Perhaps, in later life, the aroma of Earl Grey may turn her thoughts towards making people merry, making people happy… and therein discover her own, personal route to happiness as a result. 

But enough philosophy, if you do happen to spot clowns, couples or quartets Pelican Hopping around your neighbourhood, you’ll know where it all began.  If not, you know it’s simply because my darling daughter suddenly grew up.

Introducing Spiro aka Spiro the Hero aka The Greek Leek aka Jesssster

My dad, Spiro Sueref, sadly passed away aged just 56 on Sunday the 25th of November. He left behind a loving wife, three children and his first grandchild, my son, Oscar. Not to mention his mother, two sisters, three nephews, one niece, countless cousins and hundreds of friends and family who will all miss him greatly.

My father was a character in the best sense. Karaoke singer, Cardiff City FC fan, keen gardener, gambler and Church-goer. He loved The Simpsons and Shakespeare; Gustav Mahler and Frank Sinatra. He made four Video Nation appearances, only one of which my mother tried to stop airing due to indecency. He was a master prankster and played April Fools tricks regularly. He once convinced a large enough portion of Cardiff to turn up to their GPs with vials of blood and urine that the NHS in Wales issued a hoax warning.

As a father, he embarrassed and delighted his children in equal measure, just as all great fathers should. I remember a childhood filled with wonder as my toys came to life, each with their own character, filled with my father's breath. He built paper Wendy-houses for us and a two-story den in our garden for us to play in. He built a greenhouse on the kitchen roof (while blind, no less) and we'd have rainy-day picnics in it. He'd teach us to read the horse-racing section of the paper for him and how to pick out the form, the trainer and describe the odds. He'd occasionally let us pick a horse and wouldn't even blame us when they came in last.

My father suffered a car accident aged 25, six months after I was born, which left him severely visually impaired. His sight got progressively worse throughout his life but this never hindered him. He was the centre of every room, often due to singing very passable Frank Sinatra covers. He made hundreds of friends during his time at the Cardiff Institute for the Blind and he kept in touch with everybody as his Christmas Card (and April Fool's) list attests to.

The title of this blog comes from his own words. Before he began to work at the CIB, this was what he used to tell us, his children, that his job was. Of course, our own father telling us he was a twit further goes to show how seriously he took life. He was poet, though. And a playwright. And a letter-writer. And a novelist and a songwriter. In fact, he was a prolific writer throughout his life and left copious amounts of his work. A lot of which is handwritten - and I'll get to eventually - but some of which was neatly typed and dated, and I'll share here on this blog.