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

Greenish Fingers

It is a fairly little-known fact that I am in possession of no less than three City & Guilds qualifications in Horticulture. Or, to put it another way, I have certificates in how to grow things. I acquired them when I left school at the delicate age of 16 with absolutely no direction or inclination about what I was going to do with myself other than get drunk, smoke fags, listen to heavy metal music and yank myself off every night.

And then a kindly man at the local Jobcentre suggested that I go on a Youth Opportunity Programme at Brooksby College where I would be taught all the finer things about Horticulture and gain said certificates. Well, it was better than sitting at home listening to Black Sabbath all day (marginally) and the princely sum of £25 a week would come in handy.

And no, £25 was not a lot of money back then, even in 1982.

But I figured it was a start in life so what the hey!

And I had fun working in Brooksby’s Horticultural Department. I made some good friends and had a few humorous mishaps for myself. It was my first proper job that involved me to work 8 hours a day 5 days a week. It gave me that sense of needing to drag my lazy arse out of bed every morning and go and earn my fiver a day.

After the initial one year on the course I sadly had to leave the department and find employment at other garden-based jobs, one of which was at a stately home where I had the time of my life blasting around 4 acres of lawn on a sit on mower every Friday. And yes, there’s a small element of what I used to do in Joe Wilkie’s Blessham adventures. Fortunately, unlike Joe, my employer was a rather kindly and dotty old lady, although some of her opinions on crime prevention mirrored those of Lady Stark-Raven. A harmless old girl though.

My career in Horticulture lasted until I was about 19 when I jumped ship for the food industry and I waved goodbye to my trowel and pruning knife for pastures new and greater fiscal rewards. Maybe it was a bit daft of me to take such a swift career curve and to forsake all I had learned; I don’t know. Hindsight is a wonderful thing and I suppose, looking back, I made the wrong decision, especially when you see what a huge business gardening is these days.

I could have been the next Monty Don. Actually, if my man boobs are anything to go by I’m more Charlie Dimmock. But I digress.

Ah well. C’est la vie.

Over the years I’ve owned houses with differing levels of gardening required in them. Some with lawns and some without, some with trees and some with shrubs, some small and some not so small. The one thing that was the same was that I always enjoyed pottering about in them. Just pottering mind you, I was never a serious home gardener, despite my early leanings into that particular craft. And I now find myself at a place in life where I have a fabulous garden at home to go and sit in but someone else does all the hard work. Which is fine by me.

However…

Ange and I have very recently been given a raised bed at the local allotment. Not a huge great thing; approximately 1.5 metres across and 2 metres in length, but big enough to grow a bit of veg in. And I feel rather excited at the prospect let me tell you. The thought of munching on my own carrots, onions and cabbage really appeals to me.

And I’m hoping beyond hope that everything I learned in my salad days (pun intended) will come back to me. Will my fingers still be as vibrantly green as they were or will the passage of time have reduced them to a sickly, faded shade of baby-poo-yellow?

Time will tell.

The good thing about this raised bed is that it’s… well… raised! It stands at just under waist high to me which is perfect as I won’t be required to bend or kneel to work on it. It’s full of well worked and equally well fertilised soil and therefore won’t require a lot of physical effort to turn it. Quite the opposite in fact. It’ll be a breeze.

We’ve even invested in some hand tools and seeds. Yes, I know it’s a little late in the season for sowing but if we have a good Summer and a late Autumn we should be ok. And besides, we’ll have had the fun of trying.

Ange is just as keen to get cracking with it as I am and perhaps the best thing about the whole project is that there are benches and tables where yours truly can crash at if I find the old energy draining, which it inevitably will do.

I think the thing I’m most looking forward to is getting back to nature a little bit. To be honest, it doesn’t really matter what kind of a crop we get, I shall enjoy getting dirt under my fingernails and feeling the soil on my hands. I shall enjoy the sight of the plants, the smell of the earth, the sound of birdsong as we spend time there and, hopefully, the taste of our own organically grown veg.

All five sense catered for!

The allotment itself is in a beautiful setting with some epic views in all directions and I’m looking forward also to just spending some quiet time there with Ange, taking it all in. After all, a bed of that size isn’t going to demand too much of our time and effort so we will have the opportunity to sit and admire the scenery. And you never know, wine might be involved as well.

So I’ll let you know how it goes. Will there be root veg a plenty later in the year or will it be slim pickings? We don’t really care at this stage; we just want to get on and have a go.

And as Lynn Anderson once sang – “I never promised you a rose garden.” So it’ll have to be veg!

Watch this space.

PS – I promised I’d write a blog this week and voila!

Tunnel Vision

I’ve done it again, haven’t I? I’ve gone an absolute eon since the last blog post, which, if I remember correctly, was all to do with alpacas and cuteness. Nearly a month ago! I suppose I could throw myself on your mercy and say I’ve got no excuses and that I’m a horrible toad of a person who doesn’t deserve to have his blog read and that you should cross the road to avoid me; but actually, I do have an excuse.

I’ve been suffering from tunnel vision.

Not the actual physical condition where one’s eyesight is badly impaired by glaucoma, which sounds absolutely awful and my heart goes out to anyone with it; but more the metaphorical condition where one is totally focused on just one thing that everything else fades into the background.

Why do I keep saying “one?” It’s not like I’m royalty or anything.

Anyway, that’s the state of play and I have definitely been so focussed on one particular thing that it would seem that I have lost sight of all my other outlets. I refer, of course, to Substack.

Now I will be completely honest right from the off that I have become somewhat addicted to it. And I don’t see that as necessarily a bad thing, it’s just that it has been a huge distraction from all else.

I really do like Substack you see. I like the whole ethos of independent writers getting paid for their work as opposed to giving it away for free, which is sadly so often the case. I personally give away more books than I sell, although at this stage of the game I look upon that as a marketing strategy, but it doesn’t alter the fact that we all like to be paid for the effort we put in and that’s what Substack is all about. Well, not all, there is the obvious benefit of simply being recognised as an author, which is worth its weight in saffron (Google it).

So yes, I admit, that all my energy (what little I have) has been poured into Substack of late but you can’t say I didn’t warn you; there was a blog post about it. As it stands I’m up to three Substack posts a week. Which usually appear on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. So far at least. And the wonderful thing about it is that despite me not being paid a penny from it thus far I am being read quite widely. And to me that is a beautiful thing. Just to know that what I’ve taken the trouble to write is being seen by people who are taking the trouble to read. And that is what is so addictive about it.

Actually being read!

But, like all addicts, I do realise that I have a problem and that problem is the neglect of all the other irons I have in the literary fire.

However, there is good news as far as The Pheasants Revolt is concerned!!! I’ve finally finished re-working the blessed, wonderful, magnificent thing and I now consider it fully fit for purpose in the same way that Ah Boy! and Medicine Show are. It’s cleaned up, de-typoed and a much better read all round. Plus it has a sexy new back cover. So you see, I can break from Substack when I need to.

Also, I’ve begun work on Hot Eire in the same vein.

“Ah!” You may cry, “what about that new Archie and Aggie novel you promised us? Where’s that you lying little hound?”

Hold your horses a minute, it’s coming; for I have indeed found time to work on that as well.

And if you so desperately want a new novel from yours truly then you can begin reading one right away. For every Friday on Substack I publish a new chapter of a book I wrote in 2006, called ‘Take a Hike.’ That’s not the original title. The original title makes me shudder with embarrassment and it shall not be uttered here or anywhere else for that matter.

Being almost twenty years old does mean that its a bit raw and perhaps even a tad naïve in places but in it you can definitely hear the fledgling start to my career as an author as I try to find my voice. And actually, it is quite a compelling story as well.

It’s there for anyone to read for free!

And so can you.

Click Here to be transported to Chapter 1.

or…

Click Here to go to my Substack Home page.

I mean look, lets be honest, at least I haven’t been idle, have I? And the thing about being a writer in the 21^st century is that you have to be flexible and fluid in your approach and be prepared to adapt to different outlets. That’s the absolute truth and it’s what I’ve been doing.

So to answer any burning questions you may have, here are the answers:

Yes, there will still be a new Archie and Aggie novel this year
Yes, I will do a damn sight better with the blog i.e. frequency
Yes, Hot Eire will be re-jigged/improved upon a.s.a.p
Yes, Substack will continue 3 days a week
Yes, I will give up all beers, wines and spirits

Just for fun, see if you can guess which one of those bullet points is false.

I do fondly and sincerely hope you will hop over to Substack and have a read of the output that’s on there so far. It’s all good clean laugh out loud fun apart from a rather sad and serious short story I wrote about a small dog, which is a bit of a tearjerker and a massive side-step from my usual scribblings.

If you’d care to subscribe to my Substack, you can still do so for free as it’s going to be some time before I start charging people (if ever) but you’ve got to start somewhere haven’t you? Also, please do leave a comment or a ‘Like’ as it’s the little things like that that keep us indies believing.

Have a gorgeous weekend everyone, enjoy the football, if that’s your thing, I hope the Sun shines wherever you are in the world and I will see you back here at Blessham Hall very, very soon.

I promise x

Marley and Us

It’s been a very educational week here for Ange and I. Well, regarding alpacas that is. I thought they were just under-grown llamas and seeing as how I’d heard a lot of negative things regarding the temperament of llamas I didn’t have high hopes that alpacas were all that different.

How wrong I was.

But let me start at the beginning…

As you know the lady of the manor, my lovely wife Ange, has had some serious health issues in the last year and a half. To wit, a heart attack, diabetes and breast cancer. Without going into too much detail she’s been through the wars. A lot.

Well, it was her birthday on Saturday and I wanted to give her a bit of a treat. Partly because I’m crazy about her and partly because after all she’s been through I thought she damn well deserved one.

Anyone who knows Ange will tell you that she’s an absolute nut when it comes to animals. And I mean all animals. She quite literally wouldn’t harm a flea. I’ve seen her shoo a fly out of the car window with the words, “Off you pop sweetheart” when someone else would have been trying to swat the thing with anything that came to hand as if their life depended upon it.

Not Ange though. All living creatures are special and all have a right to live on this earth in her eyes. And I concur. Well, apart from that little bastard of a gnat that bit my left leg in July 2014 and made it swell up like a balloon. I wished all the torments of hell on that one.

But I digress.

Anyway, I thought long and hard as to how I could bless Ange with an animal related surprise on her birthday and then I saw an advert for the Wood End Alpaca Experience. It was a lightbulb moment! I knew instantly then that we would be going to see those wonderful creatures.

And what wonderful creatures they indeed are.

And what wonderful people ran the farm as well.

I had been stressing the few days before the Saturday we were due to go as the car suffered a major malfunction and I began to panic as to how we would get there. It’s not far from us, just over in the Forest of Bowland, but there is zero public transport there and there’s no way either of us could walk 18 miles. Heck! I struggle with 18 metres.

Thankfully we had the car back on Friday afternoon and so on the big day itself we set off for the farm with smiles on our faces. I had done a sterling job of keeping it a secret. All Ange knew about it was that I was taking her for a surprise day out.

I must add at this point that the scenery on the journey was enough to make a grown man cry and in fact, I nearly did. It was beyond beautiful and then some. And, despite a bit of a contretemps with a total idiot cyclist who wasn’t watching where he was going, we arrived in plenty of time.

We were warmly met by Alison, whose family have run the farm for generations, and sat in the tea room as the other guests arrived. I hadn’t expected so many people to be interested in alpacas but there were folks there from all walks of life.

After a pep talk and some alpaca information from Alison we were ready to meet our alpaca for the afternoon. I must say that Alison knows her stuff. Alpacas are curious little things. Yes, they do spit but not at people. They tend to spit at one another and the only time Alison has ever been spat on was when she was caught in the crossfire between two of them. They don’t like being touched on their bottoms though, but then again who does, and will kick with their back legs if you pat them there.

They don’t like you coming towards them from the side either. It’s best to approach them head on and then you can gently move to the side and put your arm around their necks for a cuddle which they seem to rather enjoy.

Another interesting fact is that alpacas communicate between themselves by humming and it’s quite an amusing sound to hear. I wonder if they know any tunes.

Everyone in the group was carefully selected an alpaca that suited them best. I’d chosen to not have one myself as I had visions of being dragged screaming across the fells by it, but Ange was given a very placid and friendly little chap called Marley.

We were given a few more tips on handling these lovely beasts and then it was time to set off. I quickly called Alison to one side to enquire how strenuous the walk would be and was a little alarmed at her reply. It wasn’t too bad but there was a fair bit of walking involved. I told her that I would most likely be bringing up the rear… From a good long way behind. Alison very kindly offered to let me use the off road vehicle that they have on the farm for such occasions but I declined. Rather foolishly in hindsight; I wish now that I’d taken her up on the offer.

Nonetheless we set off and Ange was soon in her element, bonding with Marley and enjoying the sunshine. And by gum the sun was certainly doing that. It was a grand day to be out and about. I’d wisely worn my trusty tarp hat but it rapidly began to form a thick band of sweat where it came into contact with my forehead.

There was fun and laughter aplenty and everyone got along with each other. All the alpacas were marvellously well behaved and I witnessed only one minor spitting incident when one of them got too close to another for comfort. Still, they are very much like sheep in that they like to follow the rest of the herd.

Marley was very well behaved although he did keep stopping for a scratch as he’d recently been sheared. Well, you know what it’s like when you’ve just had your hair done.

We reached the halfway point and I caught up with the rest of them. By now I was sweating like donner meat in a kebab shop and my heart was going like the intro to Overkill by Motorhead. My legs were threatening to give way from beneath me and my feet felt as hot and hard as flat irons.

However, I’d made it thus far by sheer Herculean will.

We stopped for a break as it was time to feed the animals and bags of alpaca food were distributed. I think this was the part that Ange enjoyed the best. Alpacas have very soft muzzles and no upper teeth at the front so the chances of getting an accidental bite are virtually nil. Marley certainly enjoyed his lunch and I was about ready for mine.

After the feeding we made our way back to the farm. I was particularly slow by now and I told Alison that I would go straight to the tea room rather than the alpaca shed. I knew that if I didn’t sit down very soon then the chances of me falling down were seriously high.

I had two pints of Vimto and a further two pints of water in quick succession in the tea room.

Eventually the rest of the group returned. Ange and I ate a really rather splendid cream tea with scones, jam and clotted cream and then it was time to leave. We’d had fun with alpacas, seen kittens, lambs and calves and Ange had held a collie puppy. But there was one more treat for her on the way out. Two handsome looking rare breed pigs. Ange loves all things piggy and so it was a nice farewell to the farm to see them.

So what a right good day we had. I still haven’t recovered and I know its going to take a bit of time before I do. But it was worth it to see the look on my Ange’s face when she was walking Marley.

P.S – I’d recommend alpaca walking to anybody and you could do no better in my opinion than Wood End Farm. Here’s a link to their website: Wood End Alpacas.