A Cat Called Birmingham Read online

  'I'. G. Wodehouse had his pekes, A. A. Milne his teddy bear - Chris l'.Pascoe has his cat. A Cat Called Birmingham is the début of an original comic voice RIGHT SQUARE BRACKET wry, assured, sometimes whimsical and sometimes surreal but throughout refreshingly uncynical. As a result of reading his book, I have taken to laughing at cats in the street, much to the puzzlement of the owners. We all know that the funniest bits of You've Been Framed are the animal slapstick - well, this book is all that and more besides: Pascoe relates the comic misadventures of his pet with unflagging energy and relish, underpinned with an affection that never becomes mawkish. He has the ability to fashion fine humour from the minutiae of everyday life RIGHT SQUARE BRACKET which is the best kind of humour. I have news for anyone who has laughed at the antics of an animal but not bothered to write it down. Someone has - Chris Pascoe.'

  Julian Dutton, writer, Alistair MacGowan Show

  'This eccentric memoir has very little to do with the West Midlands favourite conurbation. Instead, it's the rather charming story of Mr Pascoe's own pet, a madcap moggy who can't help but cause mayhem . . .' Birmingham Sunday Mercury

  'Charming' Free Press

  'Laughed out loud several times as did colleagues who I passed it on to . . .' Ella Reid, My Weekly

  'Anyone who loves or knows cats will be able to relate to Chris Pascoe's hilarious and affectionate account of the hapless Birmingham's adventures. I literally cried with laughter.'

  Jo Rothery, Cat World Magazine

  A CAT CALLED BIRMINGHAM

  Chris Pascoe

  Chris Pascoe lives in High Wycombe with his wife, daughter and two cats (at the last count). This is his first book.

  Copyright © 2.004 by Chris Pascoe

  First published in Great Britain in 2004 by Hodder and Stoughton

  First published in paperback in 2,005 by Hodder and Stoughton

  A division of Hodder Headline

  The right of Chris Pascoe to be identified as the Author

  of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form

  r by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor

  be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed

  on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library ISBN O 340 83607 5

  Typeset in Sabon MT by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Polmont, Stirlingshire

  Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

  Hodder Headline's policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable

  and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests.

  The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the

  environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  Hodder and Stoughton Ltd

  A division of Hodder Headline

  338 Euston Road

  London nw1 3BH

  To Lorraine

  Contents

  Introduction 1

  Fire! 9

  A Very Brief History of Cats 17

  Down on the Farm 2.3

  One Cold Winter 31

  Psycho 39

  Sammy's Story 45

  That's Not Flying 51

  Where Sparrows Dare 63

  Incompetence 69

  Brummy Jones's Diary 79

  Batman in White Ankle Socks 85

  Crackpot Theories 93

  A Fate Worse Than Fireworks 101

  It's a Knockout! 107

  The Babysitter 113

  Baby Trouble 119

  Cat on a Bit o' String 129

  The Shadow Cat 135

  The Hall of Fame 147

  Pet Passports 153

  The Anti-Sunday Boy 165

  A Chat With a Cat 171

  Introduction

  'A life spent making mistakes is not only more

  honourable, but more useful than a life spent

  doing nothing at all.'

  George Bernard Shaw

  Brum was born on the outskirts of Slough, so things weren't going well from the start. He was the runt of his litter but, unlike many cats, born into a home that housed both his mother and father. His father was a huge jet-black, long-haired monster cat, his mother a petite and elegant short-haired tabby.

  It's a triumph of crossbreeding genetics, therefore, that Brum has ended up a semi-long-haired grey tabby with a jet-black streak down his back and tail - almost like a skunk in negative. There is something comical about his whole appearance, the stunned, wide-eyed look of someone who's just realised he's about to be hit by a meteor, and in all truth, I expect he probably is.

  By many people's reckoning of the nuclear family, having both parents around should have given him advantages in life. Good solid foundations, a loving environment - that sort of thing. It's not every cat that has a framed photo of his parents above his food bowl for example (although this may be less a case of strong family values on my cat's part, and more a case of sad and unusual behaviour on my own).

  Whatever advantages he may have attained have obviously yet to manifest themselves. Eleven years down the line they really ought to be getting a move on. Brum is the unluckiest, dangerously clumsiest and least graceful cat that you could possibly hope to meet. Time may just be running out for him.

  Brum's father was named Paris after the city, his mother Camber after the seaside resort, and Brum's full name is Birmingham, also after the city. That his father should be named after the world's most romantic and glamorous city and he should

  be named after the grey industrial capital of the West Midlands sums it up well for him.

  Paris and Camber were owned by my sister, and so I have a little information on Brum's early days. If I'd had any inkling back then as to how unusual (disastrous) a cat Brum would turn out to be, I'd have asked her to take notes. By the time Brum had shown himself in his true colours, much of his kittenhood had been forgotten. One thing that my sister does remember, and would have trouble not remembering, was an incident involving a very young Brum and a Hotpoint Automatic.

  She doesn't know how he managed to get stuck behind that washing machine, only that he did. Trying to climb his way out, he trapped a claw in its meshed back plate. With four other kittens to worry about, he was barely missed for the little while he was gone. It was, however, a traumatic experience for him I understand, trapped in the dark, unable to move or get his front paws onto the ground.

  But overall it was the spin cycle that he won't forget.

  NASA astronaut training springs to mind in attempting to understand this experience. It makes you shudder, though not even close to Brum's incredible shudder rate that day of around 1000 r.p.m.

  I first saw him when he was four weeks old. His general appearance at that time was of a man who'd spent time attached to a washing machine.

  I chose him immediately, not because of his scruffy long-haired tabby and black appearance or those big round eyes, not even because he was the friendliest of the bunch and made a beeline for me. To tell the truth, and I'm hoping that there are no major feline evolution advances in the next few years and Brum ends up reading this, I chose him because all of his siblings had already been chosen. I'm not saying I wouldn't
have chosen him anyway, but that was why I ended up with Brum.

  Some people are born with cats, others aspire to owning cats, and others have Brum thrust upon them.

  I believe it to be one of life's pleasures taking a kitten home

  for the first time. On the night I collected him, I rushed home from work, filled the car with old newspapers and headed for Slough with a feeling of happy excitement, and it will probably be a long time before you hear anyone say that again. He purred all the way home and slept on the bed. He seemed happy and contented from the moment he arrived. I just hope he wasn't too optimistic, that's all.

  As his early life progressed, I became steadily more aware of his ability to constantly end up in hot water. He never did things by half either. He couldn't just fall off a shelf or something, his fall had to have ridiculous consequences. He somehow had the ability to humiliate himself at every turn and quite often manage to take me down with him, making me look even more of an idiot than himself (I really don't need any help in the field, believe me).

  Had it not been for a Border collie named Zac, who was owned by my next-door neighbour, I don't believe he'd have reached the age of one, never mind the age he has. Zac was one of those dogs that wasn't allowed indoors. He had a kennel in a shed, but rarely used it. Instead he spent his entire life on my front doorstep.

  This dog, whilst a considerable hazard to footing, turned out to be a godsend. Border collies tend to make great sheepdogs, and Zac seemed to instantly recognise in Brum the qualities of a clumsy, dull-witted grazing beast. He therefore decided Brum needed herding.

  And Brum was herded. He was constantly prevented from reaching the semi-busy road in front of our flat, and instead driven back into the woods behind. If Brum had thought it all through, he'd have very quickly realised he could have gone over the fences, and got out onto the road a few doors down. Either he didn't think it through (incredibly likely) or he was simply happy to accept directions.

  I don't know or care which was true. All I know is that, as far as I'm aware, Brum didn't venture out onto the road throughout the whole of his first year, a fact that kept him alive until he was that little bit (emphasis on 'little bit') smarter.

  By the time Brum was two years old he already had to his name an impressive history of comically unlikely mishaps and near fatal disasters. I began logging it all at about this time, wishing I had done so sooner.

  I've known a great many cats down the years, but I've never known any like this one. He is, for instance, the only cat I have ever seen knocked unconscious by a self-inflicted blow to the jaw. Twice!

  He is the only cat I've seen break a window with his head, or fall twenty feet onto the roof of a moving car. I have seen him set his face alight, hurl himself into a fish pond and suffer regular embarrassments at the hands, or otherwise, of small, near helpless creatures such as mice and birds. He has also blown up the household electrics and damn near collapsed an entire room with little more than the flick of a paw. And all this is just the tip of the iceberg.

  When he's not causing the problems, the problems come to him. Whether it be fast-moving paper boys, babies with plastic mallets and malicious intent or heavy falling objects, all will find their way to Brum.

  Life has been a little unfair on him really, because he is actually a nice chap. Unlike most of his kind, he doesn't even commit barbarous acts of torture and murder, although I'm sure he knows he's meant to.

  Overall, I would say that he's probably the feline manifestation of Norman Wisdom. Well-meaning, likeable, bumbling through the daily routine, getting on with life as best he can and CRASH! all hell breaks loose, the place is totally wrecked and Norman (or Brum) staggers around, not knowing quite what happened.

  I now realise, however, that those who didn't choose him as a kitten missed out. He may be a walking accident, but he is a great cat and I'm honoured that he chose to spend his chaotic life with me.

  This book is a series of connected stories from Brum's life, and from the lives of family and friends around him.

  My ambition now is to keep him around long enough to be

  able to write many sequels (your subject having nine lives is a huge bonus to a biographer).

  Knowing Brum as I do however, asking him to try and stay alive may well be asking a bit much. As back-up therefore, I'd considered writing about his live-in-partner-girl-cat Sammy, but a sleeping cat offers little in the way of new material, and Sammy is seldom conscious.

  So, the onus is on the unique and troubled Brum. Everything is riding on him staying in one piece.

  No pressure mate.

  Fire!

  'Nothing is more dangerous than an idea, when you have only one idea.'

  Emile-Auguste Chartier

  Despite the lead-in I've already given my disaster-prone friend Birmingham, it's difficult to understand the levels of absurdity he can cause our lives to sink to at the drop of a hat. Or drop of a cat.

  Perhaps one of the most outstanding features of his life so far has been his extraordinary ability to catch fire.

  The sad truth is that Brum and fire don't mix. Well, in fact they probably mix far too easily, which is a problem. Being a long-haired tabby as well as an incredibly clumsy git makes the naked flame one of his greatest hazards. Sitting here now, writing this, I am amazed at how many separate incidents I can recall in which Brum has actually gone up in flames.

  I would imagine that a great majority of cats glide singe-free through their entire lives without ever having to be extinguished. However, Brum isn't most cats. I've now finished counting and 1 can remember five occasions on which he's caught fire, and I've a feeling I've probably forgotten at least another two.

  That's an average of one personal ignition every two years.

  If that was a human recording those sort of averages, you'd really start to wonder, wouldn't you . . . ?

  'Did you hear about that Chris Pascoe, Mrs Dawson? Went up in flames again on Tuesday he did.'

  'Oooh, he didn't, did he Mrs Jackson? That's eighteen times that's happened to him. His wife must worry so.'

  'I know, liability he is, carries a smoke alarm on a chain around his neck now, you know?'

  'Really? Well I'm not surprised. It's just a relief they decided to build the new fire station next to his house. They've got their own key nowadays, save keep smashing his back door in.'

  Brum's finest attempt at self-immolation involved setting his head alight, but I'll save that until last. The first time I saw him on fire was during his kittenhood, not long after he'd moved into my bachelor-years flat. Until that moment, I'd hardly begun to understand what Brum was all about. I'd just kind of assumed he was going through a clumsy adolescent phase and that the rising repair bills would one day stop. But, sitting in my lounge watching the six o'clock news, I received my baptism of fire.

  I'd left a pan of water on the gas ring in the kitchen, and was waiting for the 'boiled alarm' RIGHT SQUARE BRACKET usually a loud hiss accompanied by the stench of leaking gas. Glancing towards Brum as he casually walked into the room from the kitchen, I performed a genuine jaw-dropping, full-blown double-take.

  Brum was trailing a stream of smoke behind him like a shot-down Messerschmitt. I really didn't know what I was looking at, at first. As he started to pass by, I realised that his tail was fully on fire and billowing smoke. Diving on him, I hurtled into the kitchen and immersed his backside in cold water.

  He went ballistic. My shirt was torn open, arm slashed and neck raked into four bloody, parallel lines. I looked good, I can tell you.

  Crazy really. To somebody who seemed totally oblivious to the fact he'd been on fire, you'd have thought a drop of water wouldn't have had any effect whatsoever.

  As later experiences would tell me, once Brum has found a comedy prop of this nature he will seldom waste the opportunity to use it again.

  Around a year later, dinner was simmering on the oven whilst myself and my new girlfriend were er . . . resting ... in the bedroom. M
y passion was interrupted somewhat by the unexpected sight of a column of smoke rising from the floor on the opposite side of the bed.

  Certain that I wasn't so amazing a rester to have set the bed on fire, and unaware of any Apache tribes living in the bedside cabinet, I realised that something must be very wrong. Mumbling an embarrassing apology and leaping out of bed, I found myself

  galloping naked after a smoking tabby and again being torn to pieces as I fought to put his tail out at the bathroom sink.

  The girlfriend didn't last that long. I cringe when I imagine the sort of conversations she must have had with her friends.

  'Did you sleep with him then Sally?'

  'Yeah, I did Mandy.'

  'What was he like?'

  'Oh, he was all right, but his cat caught fire.'

  'Oh, I hate it when they do that!'

  'Tell me about it.'

  Or, possibly:

  'Do you know Mandy, I reckon he's a bit weird.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  'Well, halfway through, he started shouting that he had to put

  the cat out and went running off down the hall.'

  'Oooohh!'

  'And then when he gets back, he's all covered in blood.'

  'Oooohh, you wanna dump him Sal.'

  He completed his hat trick of gas ring/tail accidents this year, .it a dinner party we were throwing for a few friends. Nowadays, being older, marriage-trained and tabby-aware, I've learnt to always shut the kitchen door whilst leaving anything cooking. But through being older, married and tabby-aware, I'm often totally distracted and disorientated and so hadn't actually done so.

  Brum has never been strong on manners and, try as I might, 1 find it difficult to keep him off of work surfaces and tables. Kid enough, then, that your tabby jumps onto the dining table during a meal for six, without him billowing black smoke and flames over everyone.

  I have never seen so many stunned faces. I myself had become so acclimatised to this sort of thing (especially as in between this and the two incidents I've already related he'd set himself alight twice in different circumstances) that I simply smiled politely and asked my guests to excuse me in a 'James Bond

  about to coolly dispatch a bad guy' sort of way, before marching him off to the kitchen for our now familiar drenching and bloodletting ceremony.