Old Andy and the cricket
My Granda would have been ninety this year. But he only made it to eighty-five. In fact his birthday would have been this month. He was a typical West coast of Scotland bloke of his generation; hard-drinking, working class and a little bit old-fashioned when it came to women. He was extremely well read and if he had been born 50 years later I’m sure would have gone to University. But working class guys from Glasgow just didn’t do that in his day. He was a foreman for Hoover and shop steward for the union.
He knew everything. Or so it seemed to me. He was a nightmare to play “Trivial Pursuit” with at Christmas as he knew everyone else’s answers and couldn’t keep quiet about it. He was also a big film buff and I think I take after him in that respect. He knew film trivia inside out having spent many hours in the cinema throughout his life. He always bought the yearly Halliwell’s Film Guides. He read reference books like you or I would read novels.
Anyway I have a cracking Granda story, which I remember telling to his youngest son (my Uncle) at Granda’s wake. I was amazed he hadn’t heard it before.
My dad used to phone his dad fairly regularly. We lived 150 miles away, so my dad couldn’t just pop round. Sometimes Granda would answer the phone, but most of the time he’d be out at the pub. The barmaid would phone if he didn’t appear, to make sure he was still alive- that’s NO JOKE.
On one occasion when he was in, Granda complained that he had a cricket in his flat. It was keeping him awake at night and he couldn’t find it. My dad laughed this off joking about the cricket in “The Last Emperor” that is found in the same place tucked behind the throne after 50 years.
“Well, you’re stuck with it, they live til they’re 50 odd” he laughed.
A month or so later, dad phones him again to check in. “Is the cricket still there?” he jokes
“Aye son, and I know what species it is.”
It turns out that Granda has been researching entymology. He has been at the library and has looked thoroughly into the various calls of crickets. He has checked into which ones could feasibly sustain themselves in a Scottish climate. This is typical of Granda. He has a house full of fishing, bird books and encyclopaedias. He taught me all about the planets and solar system when I was a kid, he took me fishing, he told me stuff. Of course he would find out what kind of cricket he was sharing his house with!
“I am convinced it’s a West African. I’ve narrowed it down.” he says, very matter of fact.
He still can’t find it though, and it’s driving him daft.
My dad, however, starts to worry that Granda is losing his marbles.
A few weeks later my parents go to see him and discover that the West African cricket call is actually a low battery tone in the smoke alarm.
Granda is not convinced. That West African cricket has been his hobby for the last couple of months. He was reluctant to let it go.
