A love a good statistic, don’t you? No? Oh well, please yourselves. But I do; always have. Not in any kind of obsessive way you understand, Lord no, not like those people who can tell you the exact time of the winning goal from every FA Cup final ever and who scored it and with what part of their anatomy, or who can tell you every number one UK chart record since time immemorial and which record it knocked off the top spot and how many weeks it remained there. No, I’m not quite that anal, although, if you saw how I arrange my CD collection you might disagree with that.

The statistics I’m mostly interested in are my own. I check my stats on the KDP, Podbean and Anchor dashboards every single day; sometimes several times a day. Often, this makes for depressing and lonely reading when I see the number zero, but at other times gives me a bit of a frisson when I see those sales and downloads.

Just recently, I don’t know why, I thought about another statistic. What, I wondered, is the total word count for all six of my independently-published novels (I prefer that phrase to self-published, so much more refined).

So, this very morning I tallied them up and it reads like this.

Ah Boy – 94788 words

The Ghost of Lenton Wattingham – 80253 words

The Pheasants Revolt – 93834 words

Mutch Wants Moor – 75695 words

Hot Eire – 91060 words

Vole – 74189 words

That makes a grand total of…

509799 words!!!

Yes, I said WOW as well when I added it all up. 509,799 words in four years. That’s just over half a million. Half-a-bloody-million!!! My mind is blown just at the sheer scale of that figure. I mean, mathematics was never my bag as my erstwhile and skilful self-esteem lowering maths teachers would no doubt happily testify, but we’ve all got calculators on our computers and I’ve no reason to suppose that mine is lying.

To think, that I have sat at this tired and knackered old budget laptop, that cost less than £200 nine years ago, and four-finger tapped out half a million words just doesn’t seem credible. And yet here we are with the statistics to prove it. It’s amazing that I have any fingerprints left.

This also means that by the time I reach book number twelve (God willing) I could actually have written over a million words. I tell you it blows my mind. And that’s not even including all the blog posts I’ve written.

So I’m going to indulge myself now and call myself a “Prolific Author” and why not.

Call it burnout. Call it writers fatigue. Call it brain fog. Call it being absolutely knackered. Call it whatever you will but I think I’ve got it. Basically, I’m mess gentle reader.

I’ll elaborate.

My current state of anguish came to light really, last Wednesday. It had been a quiet day as neither Ange nor myself were feeling at our best and the morning was spent in happy and carefree chatter between ourselves. Later on, in the early evening, I decided that I really ought to stir myself and get some writing done. After all that next novel won’t write itself.

So I positioned myself at the laptop with a pint glass of water at hand and my writing hat perched on my head at a jaunty angle and I set to it. I soon found that the process was becoming somewhat laborious and I was finding myself easily distracted. Nonetheless I wrote 850 words in just under and hour.

Then I read it back to myself.

I’m trying to think of just one single word that adequately describes those 850 words and the only one that readily springs to mind is…

Shite!!!

Yes, I’d written pure and unadulterated shite. A load of old rubbish that I never want to see in print as long as I live.

In less than one hour I had made Joe out to be some kind of rural chemist and had turned the fierce-some Lady Stark-Raven into some kind of prissy schoolmistress. As you know, Joe is a slow learner and Her Ladyship has a temper like a Bengal tiger with a port hangover and inflamed piles. However, none of their natural traits came through at all in the pathetic garbage I’d written.

Only one solution to the problem – Delete!

So what went wrong? I mean, I’ve made a pretty good start on the next novel, writing 11700 words that were incredibly good and I was enjoying it too. And then wallop. Just like that. Crash and burn.

Oh it’s just a blip, I hear you say. Well I’m not so sure.

It’s been five days now and I haven’t touched the novel since and I’ve no immediate intention to do so. I honestly believe I’ve lost my novel writing mojo, just when I was on a roll. And I think I know the reason why.

I’m a burnt out wreck. That’s what I am. It’s all been too much the last nine months and I think I’ve fried my brain to a dwindled crisp. Of course, rushing headlong into another novel when I’ve only just released the last one was a big mistake.

I should have given it time. A month at least I reckon, if not more. I should have just focussed on promoting Vole but oh no, I had to start another one straight away didn’t I and now I’m thinking that it could be a month before I even attempt to return to it.

Allow me, if you will for a minute, to expound on why I believe this has happened.

If you recall, I published Hot Eire in the latter days of June last year. I was delighted with that little book and the reaction and feedback I received towards it. So what did I do next?

1. I started work on Vole almost immediately.

2. I began work on the second series of Stevenson Speaks.

3. I moved home.

4. Buggered off to Scotland for a week in the midst of it all.

5. Contracted Bell’s Palsy.

Actually, the list could go on and on. Life has been an absolute blur of chaotic occurrence and over-exertion that I’ve foolishly ignored and kept ploughing on with the most challenging book I’ve written yet.

In fact, the whole time has been a challenge. My wife has had gout and a heart attack in that time, my own mental and physical health has been urine poor, we’ve had two good friends die from cancer, we’ve had politics, pressure and personal clashes with other people, a flood at Blessham Hall and that’s not forgetting Christmas and all the stress and financial burdens it brings.

And there’s more, believe me there’s more.

And through all of it I’ve somehow kept blogging, podcasting and working on that beastly little wretch of a novel. And now I think I’ve reached the end of my tether. What a fool I was to imagine that I could begin another novel so soon. There’s a word for that kind of person – Berk!

As I type this my shoulders, arms and neck muscles are making me want to cry with the agony they’re in and I have a nasty pain in my right hand side which is worrying me a bit. Why am I putting myself through the wringer even more by attempting to write another novel so soon?

We watched the film about Enid Blyton last week, starring the wonderful Helena Bonham Carter, and I was astonished at how prolific that lady was when it came to the old typewriter. She wrote hundreds of books that are still enthralling children all over the world today. I also think about Dickens, Collins and the Brontës who wrote those great epic classics without the aid of a laptop and word processing software. They used a pen dipped in ink for crying out loud.

I suppose I shouldn’t compare myself to such genii but I would love to reach their incredible level of output. But hey, that ain’t gonna happen.

So what’s next?

Well, I’ve taken wise council from two of the people I trust most in this world; my gorgeous wife Ange and my excellent friend and confidante Kenny (Mac magician) Scotland, and I’m stepping away from it for a while.

We’ve got another good friend visiting us from across the Channel this week for a few days and then a long weekend in the charming town of Glossop where I shall be resting my ass off.

When we come back I’m just going to put what little energy I have into promoting Vole, recording the weekly podcast and keeping this here blog updated. And in between, a whole lot more rest. Hopefully then, around the middle of April maybe, after Easter is out of the way, I’ll make a tentative return to that novel and hopefully do two of my most well loved characters the justice that I had denied them in that awful shash that I wrote last Wednesday.

Watch this space.

Ahem!

Fanfare Please!!!

Stand back and gasp in amazement. It’s finally arrived!!!

My brand new novel – VOLE!

Eight months in the making and what an almighty slog it’s been. I can’t remember such a time when I’ve been so beset with ailments and stressful situations and yet through it all I’ve plodded stoically along working on this fabulous little novel. And now I can breathe a colossal sigh of relief with the announcement that the damn thing is finally published.

You see, despite all the personal challenges of the last eight months I’ve struggled with Vole because I’ve felt totally out of my depth with the subject matter. I’ve had to research so much more than usual and if anyone ever takes a look at my Google search history they’ll wonder what on Earth I’ve been doing all this time and might even start asking questions as to my own personal moral code.

I’ll talk a bit about the central character though and that may help you understand.

The main protagonist, if he can indeed be called one, is Vole himself. And in a word he is a ‘pervert.’ Not a very likeable character at all but, he does redeem himself in the story so you may grow to like him. Hey! Even roses grow on manure.

Vole is a loner, an outcast, a pariah even, with nary a friend in this world, and his “unusual” habits in Meltry Park have caused him to become something of a local notoriety in the town of Ingleby. But even outcasts can have their time to shine, and when Vole gets his moment he finds his insular little world turned base over apex in a fight between good and evil with him in the middle.

I won’t go into too much detail as you’ll want to find that out yourself when you read the book.

Just be reassured, that despite my own battles with writing it, it is a thumping good read and I think it’s quite a clever one as well. Even if I do say so myself.

I mean, what’s not to like about a comedic story of a perv, a vicar, a therapist and a nasty Tory councillor. Oops, I’ve said too much.

As with all my novels, Vole is available on Amazon either as a Kindle download for £2.99 or a paperback for £8.99 and, can I just ask you this question? Where are you going to find a bargain like that? Some people spent more than that last week on a Valentines card with about twenty five words in the form of some schmaltzy poem in it that will end up in the recycling when they break up with the person they sent it to.

Actually, I am a bit of an old romantic at heart but you know what I mean.

Vole is value for money, me thinks, at 74,000 words. And every one of them in exactly the right place.

I’ll sign off here but will leave you with a pic of the book cover so you can find it easily on said Amazon or if you prefer here’s a link to my website where you’ll find all of my books in one easy to find place.

Enjoy the book and don’t forget to leave me that all important review.

Cheers!

Gosh! Where to begin? Well, I can say with all honesty that last week was quite possibly the very worst one of my entire life. And I’ve had some bad ones over the years let me tell you. You see, I was desperately worried that I would lose my beloved wife following a heart attack that she suffered on Sunday the 29^th of January.

Thanks and praise be to God almighty that she didn’t die but both of us were very scared at the time and it’s a feeling I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It was also the loneliest I’ve ever felt in my life. A king-sized bed is just a huge echoing void when it’s only yourself and your fears lying awake at two o’clock in the morning. Well, myself and a one-eyed black and white cat, but he snores like a tranquillized rhinoceros and isn’t exactly a great help.

I realised long ago that I don’t do so good when Ange is away, usually with work visits where she stays on Becky’s boat overnight. I get listless and aimless when she’s not around. But that was magnified a hundredfold last week with her being in Airedale hospital waiting to have a stent fitted in one of her arteries.

But, let us focus on the bright side.

She’s home now and doing well. She’s following doctors orders and I’m doing my level best to keep her from overdoing it with anything, which believe me is harder than you might imagine. I’ve caught her several times cleaning the cat litter trays out or washing up in the early hours of the morning as sleep is difficult for us both at this time.

At the end of it all though I’m just overjoyed to have her home. Ange is in good spirits and has a positive outlook for the future. We’re planning a little long weekend getaway in March to the Peak District and the break will do us both the world of good I’m certain.

I just want to take a few lines to thank everyone who has sent such kind words and wishes via Facebook, Text, Whatsapp and by phone, plus all the flowers and cards she’s had this week. You have all truly touched her heart and made her smile.

By the way, our living room looks like a branch of Interflora at the moment and we’ve had to borrow extra vases. Honestly, we’ve even had to resort to using pint glasses.

I’d particularly like to thank the following people for their support. They know why.

Paul Horrocks

Becky Cardwell

Erin Cardwell

Debbie and Barry Gibson

Shannon Landers

Peter and Jeanette Peacock

Helen Austin

Sandra Morgan

Kenny Scotland

Ann-Marie Bruder

The Whole Landers Clan

Gerry Carter

Terry and Jerry Pierce

Tona Gill

Naz Kozar

The Stevenson Family

Ah heck, I could be here all day. Thank you all, from my heart to yours.

So, I’ll just finish with these words of wisdom – Look after your heart, your health and your loved ones. Take nothing for granted and live your life well; you only get one.

I’ll be back to normality with a funny blog next week.

Take care everyone x

And so, once again, we enter the endgame. No I’m not talking about some online video shoot-em-up where countless digitized characters are annihilated in a gory and blood-thirsty assortment of ways. Or even a more relaxing game of chess. No, I’m talking about my upcoming new novel. Yes! Hurrah! I’ve finally reached that stage of the proceedings.

And oh my word what a slog it’s been. What with fibromyalgia, a virus, Bell’s Palsy, a house move and a whole host of other distractions great and small its a wonder I am where I am with it at all. And that’s before we get on to the difficulties I’ve had writing the wretched thing.

This one has not been easy, gentle reader. Not easy in any way, shape or form.

But let’s look on the bright side now shall we?

The first draft is done, weighing in at just over 72,500 words and the editing process has already begun with a sense of urgency already adding another 500. This really has been my hardest novel to write yet and I just want the damned book finished and out there.

I don’t say that from a point of view of it’s not a great book; I believe it is, one of my best. It’s just that, to use a midwifery metaphor, compared to the other five this one has been a breach birth where the others all came out like shelling peas.

I quite like editing though. I compare it to washing up after a big meal and seeing all the pots and pans all clean and sparkling on the sink drainer. Mind you, I think I’m going to need a lot of literary Fairy Liquid and a full pack of Brillo pads for this one.

Of course, after editing, spell check and proof-reading we get to that narky old nemesis of mine – Formatting.

Putting a book out every six months or so is considered quite prolific by anyone’s standards and I’m quite swollen of head with my output, but for some reason I have to refer to my copious hand-written notes every time I publish a new one to remember what to do. My short term memory ain’t so good you see; encephalitis and all that jazz.

So it’s always a bit of a challenge and of course no two books are the same length and I can’t just duplicate files, however tempting that sounds. No, it’s a painstaking and laborious process of precise measurements, paragraph layouts, font sizes and muttered profanities (and I really don’t like being profane).

But, do you know what? I think I’m going to enjoy that process more this time. I feel something akin to that Churchillian spirit of, “We shall never surrender!” I’m not going to be bested by my shortest novel yet. It’s older, and bigger, brothers all did what they were told and this one is going to as well.

Publication date for this naughty little wretch? To be announced, hopefully, in the very near future.

For now, just be assured that the end is near.

Have you ever stepped on the brakes so hard that the tyres smoked? Or started a fire using the friction method? If you have then you’ll understand why I’ve named this post ‘Smoking Fingers.’

Last Thursday my stubby little digits worked so hard and for so long that it felt as if they might spark into combustion at any given moment. In fact, I went for it with so much gusto that I haven’t fully recovered yet.

My goal on that Thursday morning was to basically make myself sit down and write for a whole day. Something I haven’t been able to do for quite some time. I think the last full writing day I had was probably last July and since then I’ve been a mere shell of a man who manages the odd 1000 to 1500 words here and then when he can.

Ok, ok, maybe not quite as bad as all that but not far off.

But, hey! I finally did it. I actually achieved what I set out to achieve. I started at nine and finished at five and somewhere in between I wrote 6800 words. No, I couldn’t believe it either.

Of course, I stopped every now and then for lunch, rooibos tea, glasses of water, toilet breaks and the desperate need to stand up and stretch my poor aching muscles from time to time. But that notwithstanding I still feel something akin to pride for what I was able to do.

Well, maybe not pride because that always comes before a fall, and nobody wants one of those, but perhaps a warm glow of self-satisfaction. The kind of feeling you get when you have to pee outside on a cold day. Or maybe that’s just me.

Anyway, the thing is, the old fingers don’t work so good these days, with fibromyalgia blighting the living daylights out of them, and reaching any kind of typing goal is something of a rarity, even on a good day. I must admit that my hands were in a bad way the day after and I didn’t type one single word on the Friday.

The next novel, or WIP (Work In Progress) as we authors like to call it, is reaching completion of the first draft and it’s a tremendously exciting time again here at Blessham Hall. It’s only a mere few weeks I reckon before I’ll be wrestling with the dreaded KDP formatting again. So with that stimulating thought planted firmly at the back of my foggy mind I’m hoping to recreate the success of last Thursday this week, only I’m hoping to do it twice. Tuesday and Thursday to be exact, with a day off in between. If I can hit somewhere near the 7000 word mark on those two days then yes, maybe I will finally have that first draft finished.

This current WIP (Work In Progress, remember) has been a real challenge. Probably my shortest novel to date and yet definitely the most difficult to write. That’s partly due to the subject of the book, where I find myself in strange, bizarre and unusual surroundings, but also to the exceptionally poor physical state of Yours Truly this last six months.

I guess what I’m really trying to say is that any more days like the glorious one I had last week are extremely welcome.

Fingers at the ready.

Type on!

Well first off I suppose I ought to wish you all a somewhat belated Happy New Year. Belated due to my lovely, lady wife having the first week and a half of 2023 on leave and there having been quite a large amount of high drama over the past ten days.

Drama? I hear you say. Pray, tell us more. We’re dying to know.

Yes, drama indeed, and plenty of it. I won’t go into all the gory details but it’s been a testing time. Not least in the culmination of it yesterday when our car conked out after travelling just a few yards from our home here at Blessham Towers. We managed to block the road, forcing other vehicles onto the footpath to get around us. Something or other to do with the fuel pump in the end and to cut a horribly long story short the whole sorry episode lasted well over three hours and left us feeling extremely red-faced in front of our neighbours.

Thankfully, we’re mobile again now.

Anyway, 2023 has begun and we’ve all got that New Year, New Me feeling haven’t we? Oh, right, just me then. Yeah, I suppose 2022 was a bit of a downer, all things considered. But I’m feeling hopeful for this one despite a bit of a rocky start so far.

Plans for this year include the publication of three (yes you read that correctly) books this year. The current ball-ache of a work-in-progress by February, the next Joe Wilkie book by Summer and the welcome return of dear old Archie and Aggie Stone by Christmas. Well, that’s what I’m aiming for at least. Watch this space.

To help me focus more in my endeavours I’ve treated myself to another new hat. I do so love a nice hat. I’m a sucker for them. You see, I received a lot of Amazon vouchers at Christmas and have dabbled a bit on the old online shopping and when I saw it I just couldn’t resist.

How will a new hat help you? You might say.

Well, because it’s my designated writing, blogging, podcasting, Youtubing hat. That’s why.

Actually, it’s what’s known as a Nepalese thinking hat and if you want to know what it looks like then watch Michael Gambon as Dumbledore in the Harry Potter films and you’ll be getting there. But in case you haven’t seen any of the films, and kudos to you if you haven’t, then there is a photo of my good self wearing said hat at the bottom of this post.

And I think it’s rather natty. Plus my beautiful Ange likes it too so that’s approval enough for me.

I want to wish you all a bright, healthy, happy 2023 and I hope I can make it a bit more fun for you with my novels/blog/podcast/videos etc. I haven’t really made any resolutions as such, other than to shift a ton of weight, but I am determined to be a lot busier and have a greater online presence than last year. I hope you’ll join me on the journey.

Anyway, here’s the hat…

Well, did you like Joe’s little Christmas message? Yeah, it was a bit of fun, wasn’t it? And let’s face it, in this current awful state that we find the world in we need a lot more fun and a bit of unfettered joy from time to time. And that’s precisely what that little blog post from our own Mr Wilkie was intended for.

JOY!

Not a word we hear too often these days, what with wars, famines, social decay, poverty, rising crime, rising costs, corruption at every level and an utterly inept Tory government the shameful likes of which we’ve never had to suffer before. But I like to think that I, and all my fellow indie authors do our little bit in providing our readers with a few hours of joyous escapism in between the pages of our books.

So, listen, I hope you all find joy this Christmas in whatever shape or form. Don’t stress about the festivities and remember, there is always someone worse off than you. But, should you find it all gets a bit too much, then my advice to you would be to take yourself out of it for a while, if you can, find a quiet spot and read a book, do some breathing exercises, listen to relaxing music, have a JD or three, make love to the other half, just do whatever it takes to find a little bit of joy.

You owe it to yourself.

I’m signing off now until January but I’ll be back that very first week into 2023 with more from Blessham Hall and, hopefully, I’ll get that demanding little wretch of a sixth novel finished too.

Have a blessed, peaceful and joyous Christmas all of you and an immensely happy new year.

See you soon.

Much love.

Alan x

Ok, I promised you something special, didn’t I? And here it is, I’ve coerced your favourite character, and mine, into preparing a Christmas message for you. Obviously he had to get someone else to transcribe it for him (Ernie O’Dyan I think it was) but other than that it’s all from Joe’s own good, God fearing heart. Anyway, that’s enough of an introduction, I’ll hand you over to Mr Wilkie himself.

Take it away Joe!

Blummin’ ‘eck, I hardly know where to start. That nice Mr Stevenson bloke asked me to put a few words together about me favourite time of the year but there’s just so much I could say, ain’t there? I like Mr Stevenson but I don’t usually trust men with beards, not since I found out that Santa Claus weren’t real. Fat, lying so and so. Santa I mean, not Mr Stevenson. Although actually, now I think about it…

Anyway, Christmas!

I blummin’ love it I do. I wouldn’t miss Christmas for all the chocolate money in the world. And I love them chocolate coins I do. Me grandma always gets me some in a little net. Of course, when I first got ‘em as a nipper I didn’t know you had to take the metal wrapper off did I? First time anyone’s ever put their fingers down me throat that were. Me auntie fished it out and she hadn’t cut her nails in a long while I can tell you. Scratched me tonsils she did, still, mustn’t complain. I take the wrappers off now; they’re dangerous if you ask me.

I tell you what else is dangerous at this special time of year and that’s holly. Well, not if you wear gloves when you handle it I suppose but her Ladyship always has me make a wreath for the Hall and I can’t do it with gloves on you see and it plays all merry ‘eck with me hands. Also, there were that time one year when I put it on one of the kitchen chairs when I took it in and then because it were so frosty out, Mrs Franks made me a cup of cocoa, which I’m right fond of, and I sat down to drink it.

Blummin’ ‘eck I nearly jumped through the ceiling. And I yelped like Mr Goodnight that time he got his thingy caught in his flies in the pub khazi on Christmas Eve after he’d had a skinful of mulled cider. Mrs Byamile gave him a right telling off about it and said he weren’t getting anything off her over Christmas which I think is a bit harsh in my hoppy-onion. I mean, he couldn’t help it could he? No need to take away all his presents was there?

Anyway, when I yelped, Her Ladyship came bounding in to the kitchen in a temper to see what were up.

‘WILKIE! What the hell are you squealing about?’ She said with a face like a storm cloud.

‘Beggin’ your pardon Ma’am, but I sat on the wreath.’ I said.

‘Oh, got an arseful of holly did you?’ She cackled.

‘Yes Ma’am, and I reckon me cheeks might be bleeding and all.’ I said clutching me rump.

‘You’ll be bleeding a damn sight worse from your skull if you don’t get your witless carcass out of this kitchen and get some work done you languorous lack wit.’ She said and then she threw the broken wreath at me as I ran for the door; hit me on the back of the head. Came keen that beggar did.

And I never got me cocoa.

I had to make another one of course and me hands were in a right blummin’ state by the time I’d finished. But it were ok in the end because Her Ladyship said that it were haddock-quit or something like that and I were fair bursting with pride.

And I didn’t really mind the holly leaves though because I love this time of the year so much. Especially the presents.

I gets lots of presents. I always get three pairs of fresh, clean, new underpants off me grandma, a mug with a picture on it of which I now have over ten of, a selection box, a soap-on-a-rope, one of them chocolate orange thingies and lots of other little knick-knacks like hankies and dipsobasle razors and what-not. Spoilt rotten I am,

Me Mum always sends a big parcel over from Ireland as well. She used to ask me what I wanted but when I asked for some of Orla’s Colcannon she said I were talking daft and instead she usually sends me some fancy slippers or clothes and things and there’s always some Irish grub as well like them crisps I like and that tea they have over there.

I get other things too from me friends. Last year Marguerite gave me a pair of boxing gloves and said she’d teach me how to use ‘em. I ain’t too keen on fighting though, as you know, so I use ‘em to take things out of the oven and empty the ashes out of the hearth. They work a treat and all. I ain’t burnt meself once since I’ve had ‘em.

Her Ladyship always gives the staff a little present each as well. This year I got a cork screw with the handle made from a piece of antler. Lovely looking thing it is. Now all I need to do is start drinking from bottles that come with corks in ‘em, but all the lemonade bottles I buy have them screw-crap jobs. I’ll use it on a bottle one day I suppose but for now I just use it clean me ears out.

Of course, I do all me Christmas shopping at the General Store. Parbeen and Narinder have everything I need to get.

Let’s see now, I bought a fancy box of chocolates for me grandma which that Mr Stevenson says I ain’t allowed to men-shun but they’re the same name as Her Ladyship’s favourite flowers if that helps. I got Gloria a big bottle of Auntie-Daffdrun shampoo (whoever she is), Ernie a four pack of the baked beans he likes and for Bob and Marguerite I bought some of that vegetable oil. I’d love to see all their faces when they open ‘em.

Of course I always put a bit of money in everyone’s cards as well, not too much, just a hundred quid like. Don’t want to spoil folks too much, do I?

Of course, the tricky part is actually buying for Parbeen and Narinder because they own the shop you see. So what I do is make ‘em something. This year I’m giving Parbeen a knobbly walking stick I cut from a piece of hazel in the woods, got a splinter off it and all, and for Narinder I got me grandma to knit her a chunky pink bobble hat. Well, I made the pom-pom for the top at any rate out of two cardboard circles and some spare wool. It’s a bit on the big side but I hope she likes it.

Then there’s all the food we have at Christmas.

Last year we had goose at me grandma’s. Mind you, she’s in her nineties now and gets a bit forgetful at times so it were quite badly burnt here and there. Me cousin Pearl said it were indelible or something. I didn’t mind though because there were a big load of them swines-in-duvets or whatever you call ‘em as well. You know, sausages wrapped in bacon. Ooh, they go down a right treat they do. Well, if you remembers to chew ‘em properly otherwise you end up gagging on ‘em and spitting them back out onto the table and getting a rollocking off me grandma. Well, maybe that’s just me.

Best thing though is the Christmas pudding. Like the size of a blummin’ cannonball it is and almost as heavy and all. Weighs a ton. We have it with something called brandy sauce which is a sauce… made with brandy… I think… Anyway, it’s right nice.

Me aunt always makes a big batch of mince pies for the occasion too. Her pastry is a bit on the thick side mind, and a bit hard like, and there ain’t too much mincemeat in ‘em for some reason and you have to wash ‘em down with a couple of cans of Fartleberry’s but it’s the thought that counts, ain’t it?

Course, it ain’t all about presents and grub, is it?

Let’s not forget that it’s Jesus’ birthday and that’s what’s so special about it. And we’re as busy as can be down at St Mildred’s. Mind you there were a bit of an hincey-dent last year when we switched the tree lights on.

There we all were, Gloria, me and all the local kiddies and their mums and dads all gathered round the tree at the front of the altar and Gloria said I could have the himp-or-tent job of switching the dairy lights on. She chatted to the parents of the kiddies while I got meself ready. Anyway, I thought it would be a good idea to wash me hands first in the font like but then I didn’t have anything to dry ‘em on but I thought ‘What the ‘eck’ and I got on me knees behind the tree and made ready to flick the switch. This were me big moment to show what I could do.

Well the organ struck up right then and everyone were singing that song about Christmas trees and Gloria gives me the thumbs up and I switched ‘em on. Me hands slipped at first and I pulled the plug out but after a bit of a pfaff I got it back in again and I flicked that switch just as the children were singing, ‘How lovely are thy branches.’

It felt like a blummin’ red ants nest had gone up me arm and I didn’t half squeal. Squealed like a little girl I did and the dairy lights all sort of flickered a bit, on and off like, and then there were this horrible burning smell and a sort of fizzing sound and before you know it the whole tree burst into flames and everyone were running for the door screaming and yelling and crying.

Thankfully, the new verger, Warren Peece, he were on hand smartish like with the fire egg-sting-swisher and he had it out in no time. We had to have the doors open half the night to get rid of the smoke smell before the carol service the next day and when we got a rip-lace-meant tree it were Warren what put the lights on as I were too blummin’ scared to do it again.

We never did find the angel off the top. Probably burnt all to beggary.

Still, we all had a right good laugh about it later in the Pig and Whistle. Bob said I were a prize-winning berk but I never did get a prize so I don’t know what he were going on about. Marguerite laughed and said, ‘Joey is a perfect fool,’ which made me feel dead proud, being a perfect fool. I mean anyone can be a fool, can’t they, but it takes a special somebody to be a perfect one.

And I’ll tell you what, the ale flowed like blummin’ tap water that night. Bob nearly ran out of best bitter and there were no cheese and onion crisps left which I were a bit pissajointed… donajispit… disannointed…

Miffed about it.

I didn’t mind too much though cause there were a full box of them brawn-crock-tile ones and I quite like them too. Sort of tangy they are and you need a good drink with ‘em. I asked Ernie who makes the brawn for ‘em and he said I were, ‘as soft as a fresh cow pat’ and ‘as daft as a scarf on the weather vane.’ I don’t know why he said that, I mean, someone has to make the brawn, don’t they? I like a nice bit of brawn I do, especially on toast. And dripping, but they don’t make dripping flavour crisps. Well not yet at any rate. Hopefully one day.

Anyway, I’m dead excited for Christmas, it’s always a special time in Blessham. People carolling and wishing each other the con-prim-hence of the season and hissing under the missile-toe and spinning a few yarns down the pub. It’s a grand time of the year.

I’d best be off now cause I’ve got to get the Yule log for Her Ladyship in. Great bug ‘un it is this year and all. Size of a blummin’ hay bale. I might have to get Marguerite to help me lift it.

I wish you all a very, merry Christmas, from me and all me lovely mates here in Blessham.

God bless

Joe x

Apologies for not posting last week, I rather dropped the ball there, didn’t I? Same old excuse of course, which I don’t need to repeat now do I? Surely not. Ok, just this once – fibromyalgia again.

Yes, last week was pretty much a wipe out creatively speaking. I managed a paltry 1500 words on the new novel and spent many hours just resting and feeling sorry for myself. One of the worst flare ups I’ve had in recent times. Also, I produced what is without doubt the worst podcast I’ve ever done. No no, I can be honest, it was absolutely dire.

And it’s still there now, the old fibro, although alongside it I’ve developed a somewhat steely determination this week to not let it override everything. So here goes with a blog post.

We’ve been at the flat, which we’ve christened Blessham Towers, quite a few months now since moving on on August 19^th, and I have to report that it’s been a truly great experience in so many ways.

Sure, both Ange and I have had a plethora of health problems to contend with but we haven’t allowed that to dull the thrill and enjoyment of our new home. In case you didn’t know, that new home is in Settle, North Yorkshire. We’ve always enjoyed visiting the town but in the last three months or so we’ve come to love it as if we’d been here our whole lives.

The flat itself is warm and comfortable with every mod con we need. The views from all our windows range from bucolic to spectacular and I don’t personally know anyone else who has such a scene through their living room window such as we have. I apologise if you do of course. I wasn’t boasting or anything.

And we’ve got the place exactly how we want it now as well, thanks to a lot of help from a lot of wonderful people (you all know who you are).

The neighbours are by and large friendly, a few sour pusses here and there but you can’t knock a coconut over every time, can you? We’ve made a lot of new friends and been welcomed and invited to several events locally. It seems there’s always something going on around here.

The town itself is an unadulterated joy. Walking through it, in any weather, one is struck again and again by the exquisite natural beauty that surrounds this ancient borough. Everywhere you look there are hills, rivers and craggy rocks a plenty and enough verdant greenery to please the most rurally minded visitor to Settle.

One of the neighbours, a bit of a misery guts, said to me that in his opinion the town wasn’t very exciting. I held my tongue and refrained from telling him that I hadn’t moved to Settle for excitement. If I wanted that I would have moved to Leeds or Manchester. What I want, at this time of life, in my mid-fifties, is peace and quiet and somewhere to breathe and feel relaxed and calm of mind.

And the truth of the matter, actually, is that if you look below the surface, there is plenty to do in this gorgeous little town.

Victoria Hall is the country’s oldest music hall and hosts many events every week throughout the year including plays, gigs, fairs and film showings. We’ve already been several times and thoroughly enjoyed each visit.

For the more athletically minded, there’s an excellent swimming pool, funded locally, which is right next door to Settle United football club, who are doing rather well at the moment and win more than they lose. There’s also a cricket club and an excellent bowling green. Oh come on, what do you expect in a place like Settle, Laser Quest? Thankfully there’s no such thing here.

If dining out is your (nose) bag then you could do a lot worse than the many wonderful local hostelries and eateries in the area and if you’re looking for a takeaway there’s plenty to choose from there as well. And, speaking as a connoisseur, I can say hand-on-heart that the fish and chips on Church Street are amongst the best I’ve ever had. The same applies to the Ruchee Indian restaurant when it comes to curry; try the Kashmiri Asian style if you like them a bit lively!

Plus, all the local pubs are awash with real ale and the Talbot has probably the best pint of Guinness I’ve ever tasted outside of the Emerald Isle. More-ish in the extreme.

If this is staring to sound like an advert for The Settle Tourist Board then I apologise for that but maybe that’s not a bad thing either.

Friends and family love visiting us here and that speaks volumes to me about the place. It’s only a small one-bedroomed flat after all but we’re always happy to pull out the old double sofa bed, plus there is a guest room available on the other side of the corridor with two single beds for £10 per night per person. I’m reliably informed by those friends and family who have stayed in it that it’s most commodious and comfortable, and, it has an en-suite WC. What’s not to like?

We’ve been a bit transient over the last 8 years or so, have Ange and I, moving almost every year or two, from caravans to houses to narrowboats. But now we feel that we’ve finally arrived at our forever home and never want to move again. Our bedroom is so spacious that we’ve both set up ample office space in there and I have a great setting to work in and rattle out those novels of mine.

So, marks out of 100 for the (final) move? Well, I’d say 95. Nowhere is perfect and you know what they say, if you ever find the perfect place don’t move there because you’ll ruin it. But we’re so happy to be here in our early Autumn years after so much gadding about that yes, we really do feel quite Settle-d here.

So there you go. Two extremely happy people.

Next week, I’m hoping to post a special Christmas article on the blog in the guise of a certain character of mine, so watch out for that.