Avescope HORROR

which was (and is) protected by law. I might find myself one day
watching a Bobcat digging out a trench for a new sewer,
making sure that it was not damaging any hitherto unknown
archaeology, while the next day I might be engaged on a large
scale, open area excavation, undertaken before a housing
development, open-cast coal mining or maybe road expansion
scheme. Each day was different.
It was not the best paid but we had a laugh. It was a good social
life. Newcastle – bring unable to deal with exotic headwear from
the Army of Workers and Peasants aside – is good fun. There
are some great bars (and some shit ones to be sure) and some
good food. When I say good food I don’t mean that it is as
nuanced as the French provincial kitchen. Far from it. But what
you get is honest, hearty and no-frills. Newcastle, (its neighbour,
just across the River Tyne – Gateshead) being an old ship
building town has strong maritime connections. Despite being
remote from the normal magnet for immigrants to the UK –
London – Newcastle has long had members from the corners of
the Commonwealth making their mark here….
Abdul Latif
the Curry Mentalist
Abdul came to Newcastle from Bangladesh in 1976. Like many
before him, he found his feet in catering to the British love of
curry. He would become known as the “Curry Mentalist”.
His restaurant on the Bigg Market in Newcastle city centre was
initially called The Rupali. In later years in would become known
as “Curry Capital”. Its first claim to fame was to feature in the
Guinness Book of Records for the world's longest-distance curry
delivery - from Newcastle to Sydney. In 2003 there was an offer
of free meals for five years to all British servicemen and women
who served in Iraq. Insane: in a society which loves tales of
sticking the cold steel into Johnny Foreigner, but didn’t
particularly like it when said guys and girls came back and
sometimes found an outlet in booze to quiet their demons,
here was a guy saying bring it on. An immigrant to boot.
Abdul was more “British” (whatever that means) than the
British. They also gave free curry to the Newcastle Falcons
rugby team, England rugby star Jonny Wilkinson and
Newcastle manager Graeme Souness. This guy knew the value
of advertising and word of mouth. The place featured regularly
in the adult comic “Viz”…. with cartoon characters regularly
complaining that they had a “Bad Ruby” (Cockney slang: Ruby
Murray – Curry” ). All in good fun.
The Rupali offered "Curry Hell", claiming to be the world's
hottest curry and free to anyone who managed to empty their
plate. Many attempted the challenge, but few succeeded. It was
about 6 or 7 pound. ...pretty cheap…
…. And It came with a glass of house white wine included?
I’m down. I can do that. No problem. No problem at all Dadio.I’ve
never been to a brothel, but it certainly felt seedy, going
up the steps to the first floor eatery. It was early evening. I felt
dirty, knowing what I was about to order. I still feel shame
today. Shame? Or maybe foolishness. No. It is definitely shame.
Hot Sauce and Slit Trenches
I like a curry. I do. Love it.
As a student, I had curry nearly every day for breakfast. Ok, not
real curry – they were on offer at the time in the mid nineties: a
boil in the bag thing with rice for one pound a shot. Cheap.
More money for the real necessities of student life. Not untasty,
but fairly mild. A dash of Tabasco fixed that. I loved the heat. I
had an uncle (sadly gone for some years) from the West Indies.
You ever tried West Indian goat curry? Fucking sublime with
some lime pickle.
As a younger man I had my heart set on a military career: Tanks
maybe. RAF Regiment. Parachute Regiment ideally. It did not
pan out this way – life rarely takes the exact course we set out
on.
At the time I was in the University Officer Training Corps
(UOTC): Cambrai Platoon, later Imphal Platoon. In the latter I
was the section gunner. Alas, previously I would have had the
venerable Bren gun – rechambered from . 303 to 7.62 Nato – but
a few years prior we adopted the SA80 system. I had to use a
complete turd of a shooter called the LSW – the Light Support
Weapon. It was gash. It has quietly been dropped from service,
the rumour is that they were heavily pimped and chopped
down to give to our helicopter pilots. Ask that Ginger twat
Prince Harry. I digress.
The rations in 1995 were far better than the shit from the cold
war:I was given as a child a cadet. You have in the UK the Army
Cadets and and the Air Cadets. Essentially a youth club. For kids
11- 16 or so. You go shooting, you go camping, but there is no big
pressure to join the military.
Then you have the Marine Cadets. Our instructors were either
Marines or Paras…. Sometimes with “baggage” from the shit
they seen and done – either “Down South” in the Falkland’s… or
more common, on the streets of Belfast. “Beastings” – runs
followed by press ups and sit ups with severe verbal abuse were
the norm. One time the instructor put on a ghetto blaster:
“Dance” he ordered. “Fucking dance…. Now”. The tune was
“Welcome to the Jungle”. We dance.
My dancing to Axl Rose was apparently not good enough:
“Simons… assume the civilian parachute position”. Civilian
parachuting differs from the military in that civvies pull a
ripcord, military have a static line. Civvies jump clean, military
with their shooters and all their kit. We trained as kids in the
cadets under these guys in doing PLF’s (Parachute Landing
Falls) – knees together, legs bent, hands holding the rigging
lines: the Cpl would say “Ok.. the wind is behind you... but wait…
cross wind from the left… GO!” and we children would have to
perform a perfect PLF, throwing ourselves on the floor –no
crash mats - as if hit by breeze from the left – bounce – and
recover. That’s the military way. Civvy way – different type of
chute – knees bent, arms bent and braced in front of the face –
or so I was told - leaving side of body – ribs – open to the
punches which then followed. The instructor – lets call him P –
did not pull his punches. He was a medic in the Paras – and yet
here he was punching me in the ribs.
I was young and stupid – but worshiped these guys. In a world
which worshipped soccer players, I worshipped guys who knew
the sound of 7.62 – both ways. Guys who – back then at least –
had a good pal called Willy Pete. They should maybe not have
been teaching children.
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