Death by Teapot

I’ve been reading quite a few murder mystery novels these last couple of years and have been toying with the idea of doing one myself. Plus, I am a mega-fan of all things Sherlockian.

So this week I thought to myself, why not? Not a whole novel, not yet, but a short story perhaps. And that’s what I’ve done. I’ve written a comic murder mystery short. The thing is, I haven’t revealed the name of the culprit. That’s for you to work out.

So here, without any further ado, I give you…

Death by Teapot

“Final item on the agenda,” said the vicar, “acquisition of a new teapot for the Ladies Luncheon Club.

“Yes, and not before time.” Snapped Mrs Baggley. “The old one has a crack in it and it’s only a matter of time before the thing starts to leak and then where shall we be?”

“Without a teapot.” Said Mrs Windebank, who had a rare talent for stating the utterly obvious.

“Precisely!” Said Mrs Baggley, the most forthright member and chairwoman of the PCC.

“Well I don’t foresee any problems there,” said the vicar with a reassuring smile, “surely there’s enough money from last month’s jumble sale.”

“Have you seen the price of teapots these days vicar?” Mrs Baggley snapped.

“In truth Mrs Baggley, I have not, but it can’t be much more than say ten to fifteen pounds, surely.” He replied.

“Hah!” Mrs Baggley almost spat the word out.

“More than that?” Asked the vicar.

“Oh much more than that!” Mrs Baggley spoke as if she was addressing an errant small child. “A teapot large enough to adequately cater for the luncheon club will cost well in excess of thirty pounds at least. Possibly even forty.”

“Forty pounds for a teapot?” The vicar sounded incredulous.

“Erm… we would like a nice one vicar.” Said Mrs Dunwoody, a timid lady but still always one to speak up, nonetheless. “I’ve seen a nice earthenware one in the shops.

“Yes of course, but even –” began the vicar but Mrs Baggley stopped him short.

“The luncheon club has a reputation to uphold vicar.” She barked. “We can’t have just any old teapot.”

“I realise that Mrs Baggley but funds are in short supply you know.” He said.

“Worrabart t’ jumble sale then?” Said Mrs Wenlock without looking up from her crochet. Mrs Wenlock was a bluff northern lady who liked a nice cup of tea from a proper teapot.

“How much did it raise last time?” Said Mrs Windebank.

“Fourteen pounds and fifty-two pence.” Said Mrs Dunwoody in a quiet voice.

“How come?” Asked the vicar.

“Well, there weren’t too many people there.” Simpered Mrs Dunwoody.

“I know. But every item was fifty pence,” said the vicar, “where did the two come from?”

“I found it on t’ floor outside.” Said Mrs Wenlock, still intensely working on her crochet.

“Ah well, every little helps.” The vicar smiled.

“I dunna think tuppence is goin’ t’ ‘elp much.” Mrs Wenlock’s fingers continued their crocheting without her breaking her gaze.

“Precisely so!” Said Mrs Baggley. “So where is the money coming from then?”

“We could hold a raffle.” Said Mrs Windebank.

“That’s one possibility.” Said the vicar.

“A raffle? A raffle?” Said Mrs Baggley. “In the house of God? That would be a grievous sin vicar, as you yourself should know.”

“I think in the circumstances we could persuade ourselves to let it slide on this occasion.” The vicar sounded nervous but then Mrs Baggley made everybody she came into contact with nervous.

“The congregation won’t stand for it.” Said Mrs Baggley.

The vicar looked at the four women sat around the table. He was in the presence of half of the weekly congregation as it were. The others were old Mrs Bates who was well into her nineties, Eric Stamford who played the organ (badly) and was as devout a man as possible who had served the church faithfully since his youth, Stan Pickles who always brought his Jack Russell, Missy, to the service and often let it bark during the hymns, another old lady of questionable fragrance who refused to give her name to anyone and only came in on a Sunday morning for a warm and then there was himself. That was it. The congregation of St Winifred’s in the Wold. A raffle would hardly cause too much consternation amongst them.

“No, it’ll have to be something else.” Continued Mrs Baggley.

“Very well, what about cakes?” Said the vicar.

“Cakes?” Said Mrs Baggley with more than a hint of suspicion in her voice.

“We could sell cakes.” Said the vicar.

“Ooh lovely.” Chimed Mrs Windebank and Mrs Dunwoody at the same time.

“I love baking.” Said Mrs Windebank. “Arnold always says my Victoria sponge is to die for.”

“And my scones are the talk of the Womens institute.” Said Mrs Dunwoody.

“Yes, for all the wrong reasons.” Huffed Mrs Baggley.

“What on Earth do you mean by that?” The hurt was plain to hear in Mrs Dunwoody’s voice.

“Your scones are more like rock cakes.” Said Mrs Baggley. “I nearly lost a tooth on one of them at the fete.”

“They are not.” Mrs Dunwoody tried to defend her scones but the vicar raised a placating hand.

“This is not the time nor the place to discuss an individual’s baking ability.” He said. “We’re here to discuss buying a new teapot.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my scones.” Said Mrs Dunwoody, meaning to say it under her breath but it came out audibly. No-one noticed the tear in her eye.

“Huh!” Was all Mrs Baggley had to say to that.

“Ladies please, can we focus on the matter in hand.” Pleaded the vicar. “Vis-a-vis the new teapot for the luncheon club.”

“Vizzy what?” Said Mrs Wenlock looking up from her crochet for the first time.

“Vis-a-vis.” Said the vicar. “It means with regard to.”

“Thank you vicar but we don’t need a lesson in Spanish.” Mrs Baggley spoke pointedly.

“Erm… it’s French actually.” Said the vicar.

“Even worse.” Snapped Mrs Baggley. “Blummin’ Froggies. Don’t talk to me about them. Where were they during the war? Hiding behind their baguettes, that’s where! Bunch of cowards the lot of them.”

“Actually,” said Mrs Windebank folding her arms, “my grandfather was French and fought in the resistance. He was awarded for bravery.”

“Huh! What with? A string of onions?” Mrs Baggley cackled at her own joke. No-one else did.

“I’ll have you know Dora Baggley that my grandfather was—” began Mrs Windebank.

“PLEASE!” The vicar felt the need to raise his voice. “This is getting us nowhere and I have my sermon for tomorrow morning to write.”

“Well I hope it’s a lot better than last weeks.” Huffed Mrs Baggley.

“What do you mean by that?” Said the vicar.

“All that nonsense about the wise and foolish virgins.” Said Mrs Baggley raising herself up in her chair. “Talking about virgins on a Sunday morning. That isn’t right.”

“It’s from the Gospel of Matthew if you recall Mrs Baggley.” The vicar said in a somewhat self-righteous tone.

“Well, I didn’t like it, that’s all.” Said Mrs Baggley.

“I rather enjoyed it Vicar.” Said Mrs Wenlock focussing on her crochet once more.

“You would!” Said Mrs Baggley who was now atop a very high horse of her own making. “Anything to do with the S word!”

“The S word?” Said the vicar.

“You know perfectly well what I mean.” Said Mrs Baggley.

“I’m not sure I do.” Said the vicar.

“Then let me spell it out: S – E – X!” Said Mrs Baggley.

“The parable of the ten virgins isn’t about sex.” Said the vicar supressing the urge to smile at such a ridiculous notion. “It’s a story about being always ready for our Lord’s return.”

“’Old on a minute,” said Mrs Wenlock, finally putting her crochet down, “are you sayin’ that I’m sex mad Dora?”

“Ladies please!” Said the vicar but he was ignored.

“You always have been Lily Wenlock. Every week at the luncheon club you constantly talk about that Daniel O’Donnell.” Said Mrs Baggley.

“I like ‘is singin’.” Said Mrs Wenlock.

“And the rest.” Said Mrs Baggley. “Two weeks ago I heard you telling poor old Mrs Bates about how you thought he had the loveliest smile and you wished he’d give you one. Deny that if you can!”

“That dunna make me sex mad though, does it?” Mrs Wenlock was filled with indignation.

“I hardly think that this is the time for us to talk about Daniel O—” said the vicar before being rudely interrupted.

“Wanting someone to give you one does!” Said Mrs Baggley.

“I meant one of ‘is smiles ya dizzy old mare.” Said Mrs Wenlock.

“Don’t you call me names Lily Wenlock or I shall take steps.” Said Mrs Baggley sounding utterly affronted.

“I wish you would take blummin’ steps an’ clear off somewhere else.” Said Mrs Wenlock.

“Well that’s a fine thing to come out with I must say.” Said Mrs Baggley, her face going a strange shade of tartan.

“Did you hear that Vicar?” Mrs Baggley pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’m not staying to be insulted. Either she goes or I do.”

“LADIES, PLEASE STOP THIS!!!” The vicar raised his voice louder than any of the ladies could ever recall. “How did we get from wanting to purchase a new teapot for the luncheon club to arguing about cakes and the French and… and the S word?”

All the ladies looked shamefaced and each to a woman stared downwards.

“Now let’s all show a little decorum and get back to the matter in hand, please.” The vicar was vexed and they knew it.

“Sorry vicar.” Said Mrs Windebank.

“Sorry vicar.” Said Mrs Dunwoody.

“Aye, an’ I’m sorry too vicar.” Said Mrs Wenlock.

They all turned their gaze onto Mrs Baggley who sat stern faced with her arms tightly folded across her bosom.

“Anything you’d like to say Mrs Baggley?” Said the vicar.

There was a silence that lasted about eight seconds but felt to the vicar more like eight minutes.

“So where’s the money coming from for this teapot then?” Said Mrs Baggley at last.

“The vicar mentioned a cake sale, I believe.” Smiled Mrs Windebank.

“That’s right.” Said the vicar. “Surely we can raise forty pounds selling cakes. We could get a stall on the market on a Tuesday; the council won’t charge us for it, and we could all take turns in manning the stall.”

“Sounds like a wonderful idea.” Said Mrs Dunwoody.

“Well I’m up for it.” Said Mrs Windebank.

“Count me in vicar.” Said Mrs Wenlock. “I’ll knock up a fruitcake an’ an apple pie or two.”

There was another silence that was eventually broken by the vicar.

“And yourself Mrs Baggley?” He said.

“Only of I can have full say on what cakes we sell and for how much.” Said Mrs Baggley, after what felt like an eternity.

“Why should you decide?” Said Mrs Dunwoody.

“I’m the chair of the PCC.” Said Mrs Baggley in a most matter-of-fact way.

“That’s no reason why you should—” Mrs Windebank began but her voice was suddenly interrupted by the sound of the organ outside the vestry.

“Ah,” said the vicar, “It’s Eric, he always practices at eleven on a Saturday morning, he’s just tuning up.

“Well we can’t sit here and have a discussion with that racket.” Said Mrs Baggley.

“We have over-run the meeting time.” Said the vicar. “All those in favour of a cake sale raise your right hand.”

Three hands shot up straight away, Mrs Baggley’s hand was slowly raised.

“It’s agreed then.” Said the vicar. “We’ll discuss the ins and outs of the sale at the next meeting.”

“And what are we going to do before then vicar?” Said Mrs Baggley, her voice rich with sarcasm.

“How do you mean?” Said the vicar.

The sound of Eric tuning up had ended. Soon he would be hammering stoically away at the keys with tomorrow’s hymn list in front of him.

“The next meeting is in a months’ time.” Said Mrs Baggley. “What if the crack in the teapot gets worse by then and the useless thing breaks? Someone could get scolded. Think about that, eh? What if that happens. I don’t know about you but I don’t want that on my conscience.”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake!” Said Mrs Windebank suddenly expostulated whilst standing up and clenching her fists. “I’ll buy the bloody teapot myself!”

“Ooh, I never heard such language in church in all my life.” Said Mrs Baggley but before she could say anymore Mrs Windebank hurried out of the room with a tearful apology.

“I think we should all go home now and calm down.” Said the vicar.

“Well I, for one, am not using that dangerous teapot anymore.” Said Mrs Baggley. “And you can put that in the minutes for all I care.” And with that she jabbed a finger towards Mrs Dunwoody who had been taking the minutes right up until the teapot debacle.

“It’s rude to point.” Said Mrs Dunwoody. “My mother always told me to never—” Began Mrs Dunwoody.

“Your mother spent most of her time in the Dog and Duck so what did she know about manners?” Mrs Bagley cackled.

“I don’t think there was any call for that.” Said the vicar.

“And I’m not wasting anymore of my Saturday in here.” Said Mrs Baggley. “Good day Vicar, see you in the morning. I’ve a good mind to report you to the bishop for letting this meeting get out of hand.”

The three remaining members of the PCC watched her go, Mrs Dunwoody brushing a tear off her flushed cheek.

“Full o’ ‘ot air is that one, dunna you worry Vicar.” Said Mrs Wenlock with a reassuring smile.

“My mother was no drunk.” Sniffed Mrs Dunwoody.

“It’s alright lass.” Said Mrs Wenlock. “Dunna cry. Dora Baggley ‘as allus ‘ad a big mouth on her.”

“I think perhaps we should all go home now and try and forget about this whole teapot business.” Said the vicar.

“I shouldna worry abart t’ teapot Vicar,” said Mrs Wenlock. “If Emily Windebank sez she’s going t’ buy one then rest assured she’ll be as good as ‘er word.”

“Well she will be reimbursed for every penny.” Said the vicar. “Even if I have to give it her myself. Now, I’m going to say a prayer and close the meeting.”

The vicar offered up a short prayer asking for peace between the PCC members and forgiveness for one and all. He finished the prayer with a request for the new teapot to be suitable to everyone and for the matter to be put to rest.

The two ladies both said “Amen” and got to their feet and made towards the door.

“She wants blummin’ sortin’ out does that Dora Baggley. For two pins I’d swing forrer meself.” Said Mrs Wenlock to Mrs Dunwoody.

“She’s so cruel,” replied Mrs Dunwoody, “I think I actually hate her. It’s a horrible thing to admit but I sometimes wish she were dead even.”

The door closed behind them and the vicar exhaled a long, drawn-out sigh.

After closing his eyes for half a minute he got up and walked to the door himself and into the church. Eric was now attempting to tackle Nearer My God to Thee with only limited success. Eric had recently had a new hearing aid but unfortunately had no ear for a tune and as many wrong notes as right ones always emanated from the organ.

The vicar smiled as Eric’s fingers continued to torture the hymn. At least Eric was doing his best. He always put the good of the church above everything else. A lovely, kind and gentle man but a poor organist, but God please bless the dear fellow for trying.

He smiled to himself again and set off to the vicarage to write his sermon.

Dora Baggley’s body was found on the path leading to the church door the following morning. She had gone to unlock the building at eight o’clock sharp as always but, unbeknownst to her, had been followed. She was face down on the ground in her Sunday best.

When the police arrived they found that Mrs Baggley had been killed by a violent blow to the head and that scattered around her body were many broken pieces of a large and heavy earthenware teapot, which, it seemed, had been the instrument of her untimely demise. The spout of the teapot was snagged in Mrs Baggley’s wiry, grey hair.

After investigating, the police arrested the wrong person.

But can you tell whodunnit?

The clues are there.

Answers in the comments please.

Granny Vs “The Experts”

It seems that every time I go on social media or Youtube or even merely surf the web for various products these days, I am inundated with adverts from so-called “experts” on how to lose weight and keep fit.

There’s dozens, possibly hundreds, of them. And every single time I go onto the internet there they are.

One expert after another espousing on how their way is the best to get fit, lose pounds and have a healthier gut. There’s Slimming World, Weightwatchers, V-Shred, Chair Yoga, Dr Grundy, Intermittent fasting, Dr Drew, ZOE, NOOM (which is actually quite good) and a whole host of others too numerous to mention.

And here’s the thing…

They can’t all be right, can they? Surely not?

I mean, for one thing they all contradict one another. One will tell you to avoid carbs like the plague whilst another will warn against the folly of doing so. One will tell you not to do intense exercise whilst another will promote physical activity. One will have Davina McCall grimacing away on it and another won’t make you scream “Oh God! Not her again!!!”

I saw one recently that said don’t eat apples or tomatoes. Two foods that I particularly enjoy and are surely beneficial to my health; and I adore tomatoes like no other food on Earth. Apparently, instead of eating Gala apples I should be eating crab apples. Really? Listen, I’m not suggesting you’re talking a load of shit there but that’s what I’ll be producing if I start eating crab apples.

All these experts claim to have tried and trusted methods to help you lose that gut and feel the best that you ever have.

Well, I know another person who lived a healthy life…

My Granny; and I’ll tell you how she did it.

My Granny didn’t follow fad diets or undertake any exercise classes or listen to advice from Tom, Dick and Harry about what she should or shouldn’t be eating.

She ate white bread (unsliced from the local baker) and brisket of beef with all the fat on it. She loved fried breakfasts, apple pies with custard and enjoyed a glass of beer now and then. She had a spoonful of sugar in her tea and regularly bought herself a bag of tuffies (that’s what they call sweets in Derbyshire) and if truth be known she had something of a sweet tooth overall.

That, by today’s standards, all sounds very unhealthy. However, what she also did was to eat plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables with every meal. She wasn’t the best cook in the world but she knew the value of eating those foods.

And I’ll tell you what else she did – she walked!

And I mean everywhere because she never learned to drive.

There were no such things as supermarkets in the little town where she lived but there were greengrocers, butchers, bakers and corner shops and several times a week she would make her way down the hill, across the common, into town and then repeat the journey home with a heavy bag of shopping; bearing in mind she was quite diminutive in stature.

And when she wasn’t doing that she was walking her Jack Russell, Patch, all over the place.

In short, she kept highly active at all times.

That’s what she did all her life and I can say with all honesty that apart from toothache, on one occasion, I can’t remember her having a days’ illness in her life. She lived to be 93 years old and right up to the end her mind was as sharp as a scalpel.

Look, it’s not for me to say what you should or shouldn’t do to get in shape. But likewise, I don’t think all those internet experts are going to help you too much either. Plus you have to pay for what they’re offering.

What I will do, perhaps, is suggest that you take a tip from Granny. Enjoy the foods you do like, but eat a ton of greens alongside and then get those pins working as much as possible.

And the best thing is, with the Granny technique you don’t need yet another app cluttering up your phone!

Win-Win!

Derbyshire Days

It won’t have escaped your notice that there was no blog post from yours truly last week and whilst this may seem slipshod, believe me I have a ripping good reason.

Derbyshire to be precise.

Following what can only be described as a torrid time recently my good lady wife and I headed for the hills in need of a break and some peace and calm. And we found it in the High Peak.

So get yourself comfortable for a few minutes while I tell you all about it…

Ange and I were feeling very world weary after what can only be described as “a bastard of a time.” We’ve had illnesses, bereavements, worries and woes and it was definitely time for a holiday of some sort.

We like AirB&B and so we sought one out that was reasonably priced, wasn’t too far to travel to and would afford us the aforementioned peace and calm. We chose Curlew Lodge at Sitch Farm in the High Peak of Derbyshire, a few miles south of Glossop.

And we’re damn glad that we did. It was wonderful. Absolutely wonderful in fact. A delightful little lodge set in the most beautiful scenery you could imagine and completely hidden away from the hustle and bustle of life.

Perfect! Just what we needed.

Our accommodation was compact yet still spacious enough; even for my massive bulk. It was spotlessly clean, smelled beautifully of reed diffusers and was full of so many nice little extra “touches” that it made it feel almost luxurious.

All for sixty quid a night!!!

We didn’t find one single fault with the place. Not that we were actively looking for one but you know what I mean. There were zero downsides to the lodge.

Four nights we stayed – Monday to Friday, and we made it a mix of exploring and relaxing. My legs will only allow us to do small amounts of exploring but I’m a past-master at the old relaxing.

So we arrived on Monday afternoon to be met with by a rather shouty German Shepherd. A dog I mean; there wasn’t some guy in a Tirolean hat and lederhosen loudly mouthing off at us. But this dog was letting the whole world and it’s owners know that we had arrived. The big fella was just doing his job.

And if truth be known, as well as a clean lodge this was an incredibly clean farmyard. The whole place screamed neatness, in a good way. We then met Julia, our host, who couldn’t have been more helpful if she’d transformed herself into a High Peak guidebook. Her local knowledge was excellent.

We spent the rest of Monday doing some of that relaxing I mentioned and yes, wine and G&T’s were opened and consumed. We were on holiday after all and the weather (so shite all Summer) was quite glorious. We felt both blessed and spoilt at the same time.

I was so relaxed, in fact, that I didn’t even have the energy to turn the telly on and watch the BBC2 quiz shows. Instead we told Alexa to play some Jethro Tull and just crashed out and enjoyed the music and the ambience.

The next day we headed for the town of Buxton. The weather was again stupendous and it was a pleasure to drive over the dales to that bucolic little spa town. We paid for six hours of parking with the view that we were going to take our time. To be honest my legs weren’t feeling great and therefore necessitated that I go as slowly as possible.

Actually, it was so nice to merely amble about the place. It’s a gorgeous town is Buxton and there’s so much to see. We did a bit of shop browsing and I bought some records before heading to the park to eat the lunchtime samosas we had acquired from a market stall. They were as delicious as samosas can get and as we sat on the park bench under the shade of the trees Ange threw a little of the crust of one of her samosas to a plump little pigeon who was clearly no stranger to being fed by tourists…

Within moments we were surrounded by avian beings of all shapes and sizes. There were ducks, Canada geese, crows, jackdaws and a host of even more pigeons. For a brief moment or two it felt distinctly Hitchcockian as these feathered friends all competed for our samosa crusts.

However, they were the politest park birds I have ever come across and they all acknowledged that the food was gone and slowly moved away in a most dignified fashion.

We moved away too and took a slow stroll to the pavilion where I had the most delicious pint of local porter and we sat in the sunshine for a bit whilst we had our drinks to top up the old vitamin D.

There were quite a lot of folks milling about for a Tuesday, which was nice to see. It seems to me that Buxton is doing well; thriving even.

We visited the Crescent and stopped at St Ann’s Well where I filled my own bottle of Buxton mineral water for £2.50 for 250ml. A bit steep for water but it was straight from the source. After a latte we made our way back through town at a snails pace, stopping for ice creams and a bit more shopping.

Look, when I say shopping, I don’t mean that we dragged ourselves round M&S and Fat Face and all those other high street regulars. Ange and I don’t do that kind of thing. No, we like charity shops and all those quirky little places that sell incense and hippie-ish things. We go into dusty old antique emporiums, second-hand bookshops and absolutely anywhere that sells vinyl. That’s the kind of shopping we do.

We arrived back at the car at half past four after a splendid day and despite having another 90 minutes on the parking ticket I was pretty much done in by now. The car itself was like stepping into a pottery kiln and we opened all four windows for a while before setting off on the scenic journey back to the lodge, stopping at the Lantern Pike pub for some “light refreshments” on the way. Smashing little place is the Lantern Pike. A proper old local village pub.

By the time Wednesday rolled around I was in quite intense pain and so we decided that a full day of rest was the order fo the day. And that’s precisely what we did. Yet again we were treated to the most magnificent weather of the week so far and so we sat outside on the decking all day with a beverage or three and just inhaled the pure, clean Derbyshire air.

We read a lot too. I began to re-read Vole and make little highlighter marks here and there where it needs cleaning up a bit. I don’t count it as work because it was so enjoyable and it reinforced my view of the book as a great piece of comic writing. I really enjoyed myself actually.

We ate too much during the day; of course we did, we were on holiday, but we did have a healthy evening meal – salmon for Ange, steak for me, broccoli and baby potatoes. Washed down with a very decent little cabernet sauvignon.

Spent another evening engaged in the fine art of listening to music and watching the little robotic lawnmower going erratically about its business in the paddock next to us. I don’t know why but every time I saw that funny little machine I laughed. If it had gone up and down in straight lines it wouldn’t have been so amusing but the fact that it went in every possible direction apart from straight lines made it hilarious. My sense of humour I suppose.

Thursday arrived and we were nearing the end of our short stay. We vowed to make the most of it and headed south to the Matlock area. That’s an area I know very well from childhood. My dad was from Belper and my mum is from Wirksworth so I spent a lot of my youth roaming that neck of the woods.

Our first stop was the village of Cromford. The village itself is not spectacular. It’s pretty enough and there are some great walks around the place but I wanted to go there for one reason and one reason only – Scarthin Books.

Without the merest shadow of a doubt Scarthin is the best bookshop in the known universe. Yes, even better than Thraags World of Books on Planet Skryk. Oops, I’ve said too much. Seriously though, it is a marvel of a bookshop.

The phrase Aladdin’s Cave doesn’t do it justice. The place is a veritable temple to literature both new and second-hand. The smell is enough to make any bibliophile wet themselves with glee and its almost as if you don’t know where to look. There’s just so much choice which at first seems random but you soon realise that it’s all actually very cleverly worked out.

It also boasts a small yet superb little café. We each had a bowl of green vegetable soup for lunch and I swear I could feel it doing me good even as it was going down my gullet! I felt most virtuous with myself at that point. Another time I’d have plumped for a less healthy option but that soup was incredibly flavoursome. I think it had mint in it as well.

And yes, I did buy some books.

After that we drove back up to Matlock and spent an hour or two roaming the town. I was struggling by now and desperate for a sit down. So after buying a very cute little antique kitchen cupboard from a shop called Junk and Gems (or something like that) we made for the park and had ice cream and a well-earned rest.

We left Matlock at four thirty and headed back North. We were booked in for a meal at the Lantern Pike at six and we made it with twenty minutes to spare. Not that we needed to worry about being a few minutes late if we had have been, they are so chilled out there that it wouldn’t have even been a point of contention.

Had a lovely meal. I can still taste the lamb shank with mint gravy and creamy mash in my dreams and the three pints of Guinness that I rinsed it all away with were pure excellence in a glass. If you’re ever in that area then you would be doing yourself a big favour by visiting the Lantern Pike. Not only is the food superb it is also very reasonably priced plus the staff and locals are so friendly.

Friday morning came, as it tends to do, and our little break came to an end. However we determined to make the most of the journey home and so we bid a fond farewell to Curlew Lodge and after having driven through some clouds (literally) we stopped for lunch in Holmfirth.

We dined in Sid’s Café, which of course was made famous in the long-running sitcom – Last of the Summer Wine. I was pleasantly surprised to see that the place hasn’t actually changed all that much since the programme began in the 1970s. The only major difference was all the “souvenirs” for sale. Mind you, I did buy a tin of toffee for my mum.

The journey back home was slow due to horrendous roadworks in Halifax. I don’t know what Halifax has done to deserve such ill treatment but it must have been something bad. However, it didn’t spoil things and we carried the memories of the last few days with us.

So home again and feeling very relaxed, thank you very much.

Ok, so we didn’t visit any famous landmarks like the Pyramids of Giza or the Taj Mahal and we didn’t get an all-over golden tan from lying on a sun-drenched tropical beach nor did we swim with dolphins, scuba dive with turtles or get off our tits on duty free or make berks of ourselves in a karaoke bar. We just had a quiet little time in North Derbyshire and we felt all the better for it. It had been our kind of holiday.

And now…

Now we’re already planning the next one!

Ditties and Desserts

Well first of all, welcome to Blog Post Number 100. Yay!!! I’ve hit the ton. 100 not out etc.

Right, I’ve got that out of my system so on with this week’s entry.

We had the most delightful and fun evening at our local church last Friday. I know that a lot of people don’t associate church with fun and delight but believe me it was. And besides, some of you could do a lot worse than to get your ass to church of a Sunday, but I digress.

The delightful evening I refer to was an evening of poetry called Poems and Puds, which basically did what it said on the tin. It was a time of reading poetry and eating puddings. I ask you, what’s not to like about that?

There were no “professional” poets there, if there is such a thing, just a lot of enthusiasts who got together over apple pie and custard and raspberry pavlova (drool) to read either their favourite poems or ones they had written themselves. And there where quite a few self-written entries.

But I know what your mind is thinking. Did you read out a poem Stevenson?

Actually I did!

My wife (the adorable Ange) is quite the fan of poetry and likes to dabble herself. She attends a poetry group here in Settle and meets regularly with one of our neighbours (Liz) to write and discuss their own work.

So when this event was announced Ange was eager to go. The thing is that on the evening in question we were looking after our daughter’s Labrador (Noel) and so I reckoned I’d be stationed here at Blessham Hall to manage the beast.

That turned out to not be the case. I asked the vicar (Julie) if Noel could come along as well and she said that dogs were more than welcome in the church.

Win win! I was in.

The thing is, you see, that on the Thursday evening I wrote a poem. I had intended for Ange to read it on my behalf but thanks to the vicar’s progressive views on canines I had the opportunity to read it myself.

I’m not a natural poet, although I find it easy to rhyme things. The problem is that whenever I do write poetry it tends to be of the comical kind and turns out to be more Dr Seuss than Alfred Lord Tennyson. And this one was no exception.

I was inspired to write it by a sign on the toilet door at Victoria Hall. The sign said “Gentlemen” and something inside my head went ‘It’ll have to do!’ Not considering myself to be a gentleman.

And it stuck with me all afternoon until I began to put it into verse in my head.

We were paid a visit by our utterly smashing granddaughter (Erin) and went for a nice meal in the Golden Lion (can heartily recommend the fish and chips) and then gave her a lift home to Bingley. It was whilst on the journey that I actually took my phone out, open the notebook app and began to type my thoughts in. By the time we had got back home I had a fully formed poem on my hands. I hasten to add that Ange was driving.

Well, Friday evening soon arrived and after about an hour and a half it came to my turn to read.

Bloody hell, I was shaking like a wet gun dog as I mounted the small stage, praying that I could get a phone signal in the building. Thankfully I could and I opened my little poem and began to speak into the microphone.

I cracked a couple of jokes to break the ice (not that there really was any; good atmosphere actually) and then I cleared my throat and, with a trembling voice, read my hastily car-written opus.

And to my huge relief, when I’d finished I received a very warm round of applause and several nice compliments on it, including one from the vicar herself. Phew! I’d done it. I returned to my seat with a beaming smile on my face.

But what you’re all wondering now is – what was the poem like?

Well, as a special treat for you, here it is in all its glory. Ladies and Gentlemen, I proudly present to you…

Gentleman by Alan Stevenson (58 and a quarter)

The sign on the door said Gentlemen

But I was desperate, for the loo

You see I’m not a toff or squire

My blood is red, not blue

That sign it made me start to think

About my lack of airs and grace

I’m not a gent like a Lord or Earl

I’m firmly in my place

I never wear an expensive suit

Don’t own a black bow tie

And I don’t have a monocle

Gleaming in my eye

Don’t have a silk top hat

Or even a jaunty bowler

I drive a battered old Renault

I can’t afford a Roller

Not married to a Duchess

Not wed to a Queen

Well, she is one in my eyes

If you know what I mean?

Don’t live in a mansion

Don’t live in a manor

No posh education

I’m a bit of a spanner

No social climbing

And no fancy etiquette

And I’ve not got bags of money

Just great big bags of debt

I’m not well turned out

And not that well spoken

Don’t have a Rolex watch

My cheap Casio is broken

Don’t eat in high end restaurants

Never have tried caviar

I’d rather have lasagne

That I’ve ordered from the bar

Don’t have a smoking jacket

Don’t play no country sports

I think I would look daft in tweeds

I prefer T shirt and shorts

Don’t know how to play polo

Can’t even ride a horse

My language it ain’t dainty

In fact, it’s sometimes coarse

But, I actually quite like myself

D’you know what, I really do

I’m generous and I’m kind to others

And my words are honest and true

I like to help my neighbours

I’m a good and faithful friend

Love for my fellow man

Well of that I have no end

I’ll open the door for a lady

And chat to a perfect stranger

I’ll give to those who are in need

Help those who are in danger

I don’t judge folks by religion

Or the colour of their skin

If you need a shoulder to cry on

Then brother, I’m always in

I like to have a pint with pals

And spin a good yarn or two

I’m a friend to everyone

Not just the chosen few

I do my best to be my best

A diamond in the rough

My family they all love me

And that’s more than enough

So when my time is over

That day I know not when

I hope people will say I was

One of nature’s gentlemen

The End

So what do you reckon to that then? Not bad for saying I wrote it on my phone in a moving vehicle in the space of an hour or so. I don’t know about you but I’m rather quite chuffed with it and, despite the jitters on the night, I did enjoy reading it.

Where could this lead to? Who knows? I don’t get the poetic muse very often so don’t expect an anthology any time soon. I’m more about prose than poetry. But from time to time I will pop up with the occasional ditty and I hope you will enjoy them.

Weeping Willow – A Testament of Youth

I’ve written a short story based on my final year of high school and I think it’s so good that I’ve decided to share it here. It may resonate with some of you.

Read on…

The following is a true story. Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

A classroom, somewhere in the East Midlands – June 1979

Oh God, I loathe Maths. And it’s a double lesson until the end of the day. Worst of all there’s a sodding clock over the top of the blackboard. And as usual I shall be watching it as it slowly ticks away eighty minutes of my life in this boiling hot classroom while I try and get to grips with my worst subject.

Look at that Sun. Just look at it! An egg yolk coloured ball of blazing gold in a crystal blue sky and I’m in here listening to Mr Kilpatrick who hates my guts.

He must hate my guts. I get everything wrong and I’ve never seen him crack a smile behind that scraggly ginger beard and National Health glasses. Certainly not at me anyway. And he’s a bloody ogre when he loses his rag and that board rubber comes keen when it flies at you from the other end of the room at fifty miles an hour.

Why can’t this be English or Art or P.E? Something I’m good at to end the week on. But oh no, it has to be old beardy Kilpatrick and bloody fractions.

I mean, are fractions even going to help me that much when I leave school? I suppose they must otherwise they wouldn’t try to be teaching them to us. And what of algebra, square roots and logarithms. Will I ever use them? I can never find out what x or y equals.

Kilpatrick thinks I’m an idiot but he should see me in Geography or History. As for English, I excel in that. Mr Stones actually likes me and gives me praise.

Worst of it is, there’s that lovely old weeping willow right outside the window. Gorgeous thing! I’ve never known one so big. It must have been there since the school was built. How I’d love to climb it. I’ve always loved tree climbing and that looks a beauty of a climb.

What’s he droning on about now? And what’s that he’s drawing on the board. Oh, it’s a pie chart. At least I know that much. I like pies actually. Especially my Granny’s apple pies. They’re the best.

That willow does look so gorgeous. Look there’s just the lightest of breezes out there make the lower part of it sway a little. So beautiful.

“STEVENSON!!!”

“Y… yes sir?”

“Stop staring out of that window boy or I’ll give you something to stare at.”

“Sorry sir.”

“Now pay attention.”

“Yes sir.”

Oh great, now the whole class is giggling at me. Even that horrible Katy Gillen and she’s even worse at Maths than me. And that ginger bastard is letting them. Look, he’s actually smiling himself now. Well, grinning like a Cheshire cat might be a better way of saying it.

Right, got to concentrate and try and work out these sodding fractions. I wish I could understand what he’s saying. May as well be in Japanese or Eskimo for all the good it’s doing me.

Bloody hell, Katy Gillen is still smirking at me. I’ll give a her a glare and see how she likes that.

“Please Mr Kilpatrick?”

Oh God.

“Yes Katy?”

“Alan Stevenson is glaring at me.”

Just great, that’s all I need.

“Stevenson, I told you five minutes ago to concentrate on your work and now you’re gawping at Katy. What is wrong with you today?”

“She was smirking at me sir.”

“Rubbish!”

“It’s true sir.”

Oh oh, he’s going for the board rubber. Oh shit, he’s coming this way. Just stare at your desk Alan, just stare at your desk.

WHACK!

“OW!”

Brilliant, just brilliant, now I’ve got a sore head and hair full of chalk dust. Bastard! And as for that Gillen bitch, I’ll get even with her. Just wait until we have English next and she fails the spelling test, like she always does. It’ll be me doing the smirking then.

They’re all giggling at me again and we’ve only been in this lesson for fifteen minutes. Feels like five-hundred.

I’d love it if we could sit outside. It’s so hot and stuffy in here. Imagine if we were all outside and sitting under the cooling shade of that weeping willow. I might actually be able to take in whatever he’s trying to teach us.

Such a lovely shade of green. Like an emerald. Aaah, it’s rather enchanting really…

“STEVENSON!!! YOU’RE DOING IT AGAIN! What do you find so fascinating outside boy?”

Quick, think fast.

“I was just thinking sir, about what you just said about fractions.”

“Oh really?”

There’s the Cheshire cat again.

“Yes sir.”

“And pray tell, what was I just saying?”

Gulp!

“Erm, you were just talking about fractions sir.”

“Yes, I think we’ve established that.”

Bloody giggling again, I feel like a right berk.

“But what exactly was I saying about fractions?”

I’m sweating. I’m actually sweating with fear.

“Erm, you were talking about pie charts sir.”

“Hmmm. And what was I saying about pie charts?”

“Erm… you were saying how all the little segments look like slices of pie…”

Please God let me be right.

“I think that’s a lucky guess. But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt this time.”

Phew!

“But for the rest of the lesson I’d appreciate it if you could look ahead and not at that tree outside.”

“Yes sir.”

“Perhaps you’d like to swap places with someone on the other side of the room?”

“No thank you, sir. I’ll concentrate from now on. Promise.”

“You’d better.”

Right, come on Alan, focus. You can do this. Don’t let him have the satisfaction of ridiculing you again.

Bloody Gillen is still smirking. No good telling on her, he’d never believe me.

Oh God, fractions do my head in. I get the halves and quarters and even eighths but beyond that I’m knackered. And he’s dividing that pie into all sorts of shapes and I’m now supposed to work out how much is left, plus, I’ve got to show my working out on the page. Sheesh!

So hot in here and he hasn’t even said we can take our blazers off. At least the windows are open, that’s something at least. Mind you, they only open about six inches so it’s barely better than nothing.

Oh shit, my mind is wandering again. Concentrate you fool.

I can feel a bead of sweat running down my side from my armpit. And I’m so thirsty. I could kill for a big glass of water to refresh myself. I even wish it was raining.

Mind you, that willow tree wouldn’t look half as nice in the rain. It would probably look quite sad and a bit bedraggled. But on days like this when the sun is out it looks so lush and green and—

GA-DOING!!!

What the hell?

There’s a compass embedded in my desk top. Point first. Oh shit, Kilpatrick is standing over me and he looks really mad. He’s actually thrown a compass into the wood of my desk, like a spear! Bloody hell it’s still vibrating!!!

“THAT’S YOUR FINAL WARNING!”

“Sorry sir.”

“What on Earth is the matter with you today? I know you’re hopeless but even by your own low standards you’re even worse today.”

“Sorry sir, it’s just…”

“It’s just what?”

“I’m so hot. I’m sweating.”

More giggling from the sheep.

“Oh, so you’re hot are you?”

“Yes sir.”

“Anyone else feeling the heat like Stevenson?”

Thank God they’re all agreeing with me.

“Right, in that case you can all take your blazers off if you wish.”

Thank Heaven for that. Feels like the damn thing is stuck to me. There, it’s off and on the back of my chair. Ooh, that’s feels much better. Bloody hell, there’s chalk dust on the shoulders. My Mum will go flaming mad at that.

Oh, hang on a minute.

“Sir?”

“Yes Stevenson?”

“Sir, you’ve left the compass in my desk sir.”

More giggling.

“I’ve left it there as a reminder for you to pay attention.”

Giggling again.

Git!!!

Right, this is it. I can and will focus on the blackboard. But why does it have to be black? Such a depressing looking thing. Why can’t it be another colour, like blue or purple. Or even green. Yes, green like the willow tree outside.

Out there, with it’s lower branches swaying in the breeze. Swaying to and fro like it’s almost dancing in the sunshine like some kind of ethereal creature or Heavenly body. Like a ballerina. Almost beckoning me towards it. Lush and green and fresh and shade-giving and I really wish that I could—

“RIGHT!!! THAT’S IT. GET OUT STEVENSON AND GO AND STAND IN THE CORRIDOR! I’ll BE REPORTING YOU TO YOUR FORM TUTOR ON MONDAY.”

Report me to whoever you like you baboon faced old twat. It’s got to be better than being in here. And besides, Mr Stones is my form tutor and he likes me.

Listen to that lot in there, squealing with laughter like a pack of hyenas.

Well, I think I’m much better off out here. This corridor is so nice and cool compared to being in that sweat box.

The only downside is, I can’t see the weeping willow from here.

The End – For That Week

The next blog post I do will be my 100th and I hope you’ll have a read of that.

Has Someone Farted?

A few years ago I tried my hand at writing a children’s book. It was aimed at kids aged between 6 to 8 years old and if I’m perfectly honest it was riding on the coat tails of the My Bum is Broken book that was getting a lot of social media attention at the time. You know, the one where the Scottish grandmother reads it to the small child but can’t stop laughing.

Anyway, here is my half-arsed attempt at a children’s book, which was inspired by a comment our granddaughter made in the car one day when we drove past a water treatment works. That comment became the title of the story.

And so I present to you…

Has Someone Farted?

By Alan Stevenson

For Erin (obviously)

One day whilst she was playing

With all her favourite toys

A little girl she heard a sound

A dreadful, tearing noise

And then there came an odour

Quite an awful reek

And so to all her family

The little girl did speak

“Has someone farted?”

Said the little girl to her mum.

“I thought I heard the sound of one

Come from someone’s bum”

“It wasn’t me my darling love.”

The little girl’s mum replied

“All of my own mummy farts

Are still kept well inside.”

“Has someone farted?”

Said the little girl to her Dad.

“I feel so sure that someone has

The air smells oh so bad.”

“It wasn’t me my cherub.”

Said Daddy to her so kind.

“I haven’t let a single thing

Come out of my behind.”

“Has someone farted?”

Said the little girl to Big Sis.

“I could have sworn that I heard one

It made an awful hiss.”

“Wasn’t me my sister dear.”

Big Sis said with a grin.

“When I’m in polite company

I always hold mine in.”

“Has someone farted?”

The little girl asked her brother.

“I heard a sound so very loud

And I’m afraid I’ll hear another.”

“Defo wasn’t me our kid.”

Big brother told her so.

“I’ve just come in from playing

And I haven’t let one go.”

“Has someone farted?”

The little girl questioned her aunt.

“I won’t tell on you if you have

I promise you I shan’t.”

“I certainly did not dear niece.”

The aunt replied most prim.

And pointing to her husband said

“Why not go ask him?”

“Has someone farted?”

Of her uncle she enquired.

“I feel so very certain

That a bottom burp’s been fired.”

“Not me no young lass.”

Said uncle, wise as a sage.

“Go and ask your granny

She’s at that funny age.”

“Has someone farted?”

Asked the little girl of her granny.

“The air in here was oh so sweet

And now it smells uncanny.”

“I haven’t done it my princess.”

Said Granny looking over her glasses.

“But there’s someone we know very well

That’s always releasing gasses.”

“Has someone farted?”

Said the little girl to her Grand-pappy.

“Nobody will tell me if they have

And now I feel so unhappy.”

Grand-pappy. put his finger to his lips

And “shushed” as their eyes met.

“T’was me my precious little child

But let’s keep it our secret.”

And so the little girl found out

Whose bum had gone put-put.

It was Grandfather who had let one rip

From out of his old butt.

Sadly, there our story ends

Though the moral is plain to see.

Grandpas do loud, stinky farts

But that’s just between you and he.

The (rear) End

Here endeth the posts from the Stevenson archives. I’ve rather enjoyed re-visiting them and I hope you’ve found something to smile about in them.

Its painfully obvious that I will never make it as a children’s author and will now stick to my day job of writing adult comedy.

Thank you.

Kicking Against the Pranks

I wrote this one last year, intending it for the blog but for reasons I can’t now remember I held fire on it and published something else instead.

At the time I was feeling somewhat incensed about the behaviour of a certain young thug who was in the news for all the wrong reasons and it sort of wrote itself out of my anger.

So without further ado, I give you – Kicking Against the Pranks.

I’m growing increasingly worried, gentle reader, about the state of this world we live in. No, I’m not talking about wars, famine, pollution and crime; although those things are more rampant now than at any point in modern history and certainly worth worrying about. What I’m concerned with is the actual state of humankind in general, especially in the Western Hemisphere.

Is it just me or are human beings actually becoming more and more degenerate by the day?

Thus, I’d like to draw your attention, if I may, to this character I keep hearing about who goes by the epithet Mizzy! Not his real name of course.

In short, he wants locking away from decent members of society. For there are still some of us left.

Mizzy, apparently, is what they call a prankster. He makes videos of himself “pranking” people in the belief that this is providing entertainment for others. These videos are shown on the internet platform Tik-Tok, something to which I beam with pride to say I have never watched. Nor never will. To be frank, if I want to see a load of heavily made up young women in yoga pants and crop tops with micro-bladed eyebrows, hair extensions and trout pouts then I’ll just wander along to the nearest nail bar. I don’t need to see it on any of my screens.

These “pranks” that Mizzy plays range from entering peoples houses without permission to stealing peoples hats from off their heads in the street. Well, surely the first of those is unlawful entry and warrants investigation from the police and the second one is surely interference and theft and therefore warrants that somebody gives him a bloody good hiding for it. If someone stole one of my many hats off my head in the street they would receive the business end of my walking stick betwixt their legs for their troubles.

However, it gets much worse. Now our friend Mizzy is actually in trouble with the law (hurrah!) for entering the drivers compartment of a train and messing about with the controls. Well, call me an old-fashioned alarmist if you will but in my eyes that’s attempted murder.

Oh come off it Stevenson, I hear you cry, that’s pushing it a bit too far. No, damn it no, I’m serious. In doing what he did on that train he risked the lives of a lot of people. If that train was derailed or in a crash with another and people died then that’s precisely what he would have done – murdered them all by his intolerable actions.

And all in the name of a “prank”. It’s a pathetic example of how piss-poor we’ve become as a society when young people think of this as entertainment or see this young man as some kind of role model or hero. For that, my friends, is the scary truth.

And before anyone accuses me of being overly pious, yes I did pull some stunts when I was a teenager, knocking on doors and running off etc. But I never entered anyone’s home without permission, I never stole anything and I never endangered the lives of a train full of commuters. I knew what the consequences were if I went too far. Back then we were scared of the police.

Mischief is nothing new, I know that. All kids get up to naughtiness of some sort but this notion of modern day “pranking” has gone too far. It’s not amusing, it’s obscene cruelty dressed up as humour. And it’s about as funny as a blind boil on the butt cheek.

I suppose we could say it all started with TV shows like Trigger Happy or Jackass, maybe even Game For a Laugh and Beadle’s About, or heck, even further back to Candid Camera, but I believe it goes much deeper than that.

You want my honest opinion? Very well, I’m not ashamed to give it.

We removed any and every trace of God from our schools decades ago and the devil walked right in and took his place.

We’ve had a few generations now of school kids who were given free reign to behave exactly how they wished without fear of retribution. What happens if you misbehave in class these days? You get a letter B (for Behaviour) written in your student planner by the teacher. Wow! That must be absolutely terrifying to all those little miscreants.

I’m not tarring all of them with the same brush but there is certainly a decline in moral standards amongst the youth. And yes, there are a good many fine, upstanding members of society in the young who are a credit to both their parents and teachers, millions of them, but the balance has definitely shifted somewhat.

And no, I’m not one of those “Bring back the cane” types who are living too far in the past. But there has to be some kind of a deterrent. Although, for the life of me, I can’t think what it might be.

Our lovely daughter is a teaching assistant. Recently she has been head-butted, spat at and had a chair thrown at her. All by the same kid. A friend of ours is also a teaching assistant and she told me of how she tried to help one teenage boy with his work only to for him to say that he wasn’t bothered about it and he then wrote the letters CBA on his book and then fell asleep on the desk. CBA, by the way stands for Can’t Be Arsed!

Is that where all our progressive thinking and liberal mindedness has got us? Kids writing CBA on their work and violently abusing members of staff who are there to help them? No wonder Mizzy and his ilk are so popular.

Listen, I’m a socialist. I am. Equal opportunities for everyone, that’s what I believe. But there has to be some barriers here or where will we be in another ten years time and another generation of young people who feel it is their given right to grotesquely torment others in the name of fun? It’s gone beyond pranking when lives are endangered.

And don’t even get me started on the knife issue.

Maybe I had a sheltered upbringing in the countryside, but I have no recollection of seeing stories on the news when I was a child of kids murdering other kids with knives and machetes. And it wasn’t even illegal to carry a knife back then. Every kid I knew, myself included, had a pen knife. We just didn’t plunge the blades into one another.

It’s a sick world we live in and I can’t see it improving at any time in the near future. Something’s got to change or we really do risk having the lunatics running the asylum. If it hasn’t already begun.

That is all.

I shall return to something humorous next time when I have calmed down a bit. Sorry for ranting, it’s just that this whole crappy Mizzy thing just made my blood boil.

There will be a final post from the archives next week.

Soup and Serenity

I thought I might try something a bit different for the old blog for a few weeks. I’ve been raking through all the older files on my laptop and have found some little gold nuggets of writing that I think ought to be shared and so here is the first one – Soup and Serenity.

During the lockdown of 2020, The Canal and River Trust (CRT, formerly British Waterways) ran a writing competition. It was open to anyone who had any kind of link to the canals and seeing as how we were living on board a narrow boat at the time I thought I’d have a go.

At that point I only had Ah Boy! and The Ghost of Lenton Wattingham published but I figured I knew my way around a short story and why not try.

The rules were simple. Your story could only be 300 words long and had to revolve around the canals in some way. The following is my attempt and it recalls a rather special moment for Ange and I when we stopped cruising for a break near Gargrave on the Leeds/Liverpool.

See what you think…

The sunshine and the warmth of the day made a mockery of November whilst the mugs of hot soup and the hunks of crusty bread gave it credence. A few days making our way to the splendid town of Skipton had given us a renewed zest for cruising and as I was still fairly new to boating, and as eager as a schoolboy to explore further, we decided to head the four miles to Gargrave.

There was not a breath of wind to be felt as our wide-beam craft left it’s wake behind us but rumbling stomachs made us think it was time for a break and a bite. We stopped after a farmer’s swing bridge and moored up. Behind us was a rolling green landscape, that spoke volumes of all that is great and good about the English countryside, and before us was an imposing hill, ablaze with reddening gorse and spiked with lofty pine trees.

Ange disappeared into the galley, while I secured the ropes fore and aft, and returned soon after with two mugs of piping hot chicken soup and thickly buttered slices of bloomer; I always smile at her generous buttering. We sat on the deck with our humble yet hearty little meal and took in our surroundings. It all felt right. The weather, the food, the view, each other’s company and above all the sense of freedom that only being on the water can bring. Countryside smells competed with the warm odour of the diesel engine for the interest of our nostrils and a sense of perfect peace was upon us.

The labour of locks beckoned us towards the nearby village but for now we thought only of that golden, tranquil moment in time. We happily sipped our soup and smiled contentedly at each other.

Exactly 300 words to the letter. Needless to say, I didn’t win the competition but I enjoyed rising to the challenge and reminiscing about a rather special Autumn day in our lives.

Vinyl Safari

I wrote this initially for my Wednesday short story on Substack. But I feel it is too good not to be shared further and therefore why shouldn’t I utilise the blog as well.

So here for you delight and delectation I give you – The Joy of The Vinyl Safari.

I believe it was Jimmy Page who first coined the term “Vinyl Safari.” It basically means standing in a record store or antiques emporium or even a charity shop and perusing the 33rpm vinyl records, hoping to find that gem you’ve long been looking for. I did it a lot in my younger days, however, with records being between £4 – £5 a pop at the time and with me earning the princely sum of £25 per week, and having an overly healthy fondness for beer, it meant that actually buying records was something that only happened only a few times a month. Maybe four or five.

But on those days when I did have a bit of spare cash I would pop down to Revolver Records or dear old Woolies and re-appear from within, half an hour later, with a square carrier bag in my hand bearing a freshly purchased LP and feeling as pleased as punch with myself.

Buying a record, back then was a multi-sensory experience. For one thing, record shops (particularly second-hand ones) smelled different to other shops. A blind person would know they were in one. Then there was the thrill of slowly (slowly now) letting your fingertips flick through the records, relishing the touch of those gorgeous cardboard sleeves, before stopping on the one you’ve been searching for with lit up eyes. Then of course there was the cover itself. A whole square foot of artistic wonderment which often led to many of us judging the music by the cover.

And who can forget that feeling of walking down the high street with the bag in your hand? I was almost tempted to do a Travolta-esque strut at the time.

Of course, I couldn’t wait to get home and put it on the turntable for that first listen and then sitting and reading the lyric sleeve as it played. Then when you’d exhausted all the lyrics you would move on to finding out who the producer and sound engineer were and in what part of the world it was recorded. Every single word on that album cover was thoroughly read and inwardly digested as if it were some great Victorian literary classic.

You’d bought a record, and it felt bloody ace!

But time has a way of changing us and different fads come and go and it was in the early nineties that vinyl came under a sustained and prolonged attack from the, now much-maligned, compact disc.

And I can remember when CDs were ushered in, hailed as the saviours of recorded music and I confess that I fell under their crystal-clear-sound spell too. My records were, over time, consigned to the loft with childhood toys, dusty old suitcases and broken cassette players, there to languish for decades – forgotten and uncared for.

Until now!

I’m back on the vinyl with gusto! And I’m enjoying the thrill of the Vinyl Safari once again. Vinyl has resurged back on to the music scene and my cherished old records are being aired once again.

I’ve got my lovely wife to thank for that. For it was she who bought me a record player for my birthday in 2014 with the words, ‘You need to play those old records again Al.’ And damn it she was right. I started playing them and the floods of memories that they brought back was pure, immeasurable joy to me. I’d heard those songs many times on CD but to blow the dust off of Dark Side of The Moon or those old Quo albums and put the needle down was like hearing them again for the very first time. Yes there were plenty of snaps, crackles and pops but they were always there anyway. They were all part of the charm. It was great.

Fast forward to present day and we find ourselves living in a delightful flat on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales and my records have suddenly found a whole new level of usefulness. Every six weeks or so a bunch of us at the flats get together, we have something to eat, a music quiz and then I play records for about three hours.

And people love it. It’s brilliant to see them singing along and air-guitaring to rock classics. Heck, I even had them all doing the YMCA dance a couple of times. Which was a lot better than it sounds.

Something else that has been pretty cool is that other people are bringing their old records to Vinyl Night and hearing them played for the first time in ages as well. It makes for a wonderful, fun-filled evening

And so, to ensure the continued success of Vinyl Night I find myself buying records at every available opportunity. Why, only today I toddled off to the local antique shop which has a veritable wealth of vinyl on offer. I spent a good long time letting my fingers do the walking before setting off home again with two YES albums and one by Steeleye Span. Plus I bought one of those Top of the Pops cover version albums from 1972 because I had that exact one and I don’t know whatever happened to it.

I felt like that starry-eyed teenager from forty years ago again. I couldn’t, in fact, wait to get home before I had a look at them and stopped for a sit down outside a café to have a gander. They were all utterly gorgeous of course, although, on second thoughts, perhaps taking them out of the bag and sniffing them in public in broad daylight wasn’t the best idea. I got some funny stares off people, but who cares?

I’m really enjoying connecting with vinyl records again and my collection is growing quite rapidly. I’ve taken it very seriously too, buying replacement stylus and proper cleaning cloths. I’m also on the lookout for a carrying case to protect those precious 12-inch beauties on their travels.

I’ve still got my CDs, well most of them at least. I did sell a big load off last year with the thought, “What the hell was I thinking of when I bought this?” at the forefront of my mind. But the good stuff I’ve hung on to. Just in case.

Who knows, in twenty years time we could be doing “CD Night.” But somehow, I doubt it.

Vinyl rocks!!!

If you’re interested, here’s a to my Substack Home Page.

Inflammation Explanation

I have gotten a little behind with everything this week and I have a truly valid reason. I’ve been as sick as a pike. And not just with the usual stuff, although that has been horrendous too, but I’ve been smitten with a foul and purulent entity on my body that caused me to miss out my Substack posts on Monday and Wednesday.

So look, rather than having to explain everything all over again, how about I just put the Substack post I wrote yesterday, detailing it all, on here for you to read.

Yes, I know it’s a cop out but if you will just have a glance at this then I think you will permit me this one extravagance. Seriously, it’s been that bad.

Anyway, without further ado, check this out…

From Substack: 27^th June 2024

I was struggling for a title for this post. My initial thoughts were “Abscess Makes the Heart Grow Fonder” or perhaps “Come To the Boil” or even “Cyst-ematic!” At one stage I even contemplated “Simon and Carbuncle!” In the end I’ve gone for What’s New Pus-sy Cat? And that’s because I’m currently having a bit of an issue with pus.

I know, I know, gross isn’t it? But it’s a fact of life that from time to time most of us will need a bit of lancing at some point in our lives. And right now, I’ve had a go at it.

I have an abscess on my back the size of the Isle of Wight and it’s making me feel extremely poorly. That’s the reason why I failed to post on Monday and Wednesday; I was feeling just too damned ill.

Like all idiots I tried to lance the seething, glistening, pulsating thing myself and did manage to get some gunk out of it. My beautiful better half also attempted in a less aggressive fashion and got some more out of it using a combination of tea tree oil and hot water. But with every attempt we just seemed to make the thing angrier and angrier and now it’s reached the stage where it resembles a 1:1 scale model of Ayres Rock and I had to seek urgent medical attention.

I didn’t know that our local surgery had an Advanced Practice Nurse but I made an appointment to see her on Monday morning. She was very good and I could see the pity in her eyes as she tended to this poor, old, pus-filled man who had crept into her consulting room like a grotesque and hellish vision of corruption and diseased flesh. I was hoping that perhaps she might have a crack at lancing it herself but no, it had gone way beyond that; the situation called for medication. Strong, powerful medication. Arse-kicking medication.

So I’m now on Flux… floxi… flummox…

…antibiotics.

And they’re having a positive effect already after only 48 hours. I’m much more comfortable to the point where I feel well enough to write and catch up with my Substack and other things. Mind you, I don’t want to get one stuck in my throat; they’re like trying to swallow rugby balls.

I’ve no idea how this thing first came to be either. It just appeared one day and has grown like a well-manured marrow ever since. At first I thought that it might be a bad insect bite as I am terribly prone to having mozzies and horseflies sink their filthy little teeth into me every Summer. But that’s another story. And how does one get an abscess in the first place? I do not know.

Anyway, I’m on the mend now and hopefully can get back to some sort of normality.

Oh! I’ve just thought of another title – Sir Lanced-a-lot! Which, in hindsight, might have been better.

(sigh…)

So there you go. It’s all been rather unpleasant here at Blessham Hall this week, be assured of that. The good news is that the abscess has reduced greatly in size to where it’s more molehill than mountain and I’ve not had any adverse reactions to the medication.

Phew!

I’ll be back with a proper blog post next week.

Thank you for your patience.

In the meantime you can read and subscribe (for free) to my Substack HERE