Magic To Do

Saturday 14th
Magic To Do

I know what you’re thinking…how can he possibly keep up the high standard of writing he has delivered these first two days?

I will let you into a secret. I have had professional writers contacting me, begging, nay demanding, that I stop using the word ‘writing' to describe this drivel. But I feel duty bound to keep pushing forward.

Today finds me heading north, North East actually, deep into the Tory heartlands!

The plan is to stay overnight at a cheap hotel before heading even further North on Sunday to have lunch with Santa.


Perhaps I should add that I’m not travelling alone. Mrs B, Miss Twillets Senior and the younger and slightly taller 6yr old Miss Twillets Junior are also along for the ride.

It must be said that I’m quite famous for deploying bucket loads of humbug around this time of year. I even have Bah Humbug on my baubles…but the doctor gave me some cream and I think that’s cured it.

Since Polly Joan arrived, I have tried to be a little more open to the festivities. I don’t always succeed but I’m actually looking forward to this trip just to see Polly’s face when she meets Santa again. It’s become a sort of tradition, this trip to Alnwick.

How wonderful is that childish innocence that allows her to believe in Santa and the Tooth Fairy, (not Jesus as apparently that’s just a story). It is so refreshing in a world so full of cynicism.

I recall my own childhood, growing up in the flat wastelands of south Lincolnshire. Santa would visit and leave us one nice present plus he’d fill the sock we left hanging on the bedpost.

We weren’t always very happy with what he filled the sock with, on occasion it was just reindeer poop, but everything was put to good use in those days and we always had amazing rhubarb.

Life was much simpler back then, and cheaper.


You didn’t pay to go and see Santa at his grotto, you just went to bed and hoped he hadn’t forgotten where Lincolnshire was.

You did write a list, but you didn't post it (or email it), you set it on fire in the hearth allowing the message to magically make its way to the North Pole in a puff of smoke.

You didn’t ask for training shoes or a mobile phone because in my day there were no mobile phones, the phone could only move as far as the cable allowed!  And the only training shoes we had were plimsolls!

Considering the fact that my parents worked very hard and didn't have a lot of money, we had amazing Christmases. I had an amazing childhood.

And now I want Polly to have an amazing childhood - but expectations have changed.

The one thing that never changes though is that the best thing any child can have is their health and to be happy.

This has gotten very serious hasn’t it?

But the children of this word deserve to be thought about seriously, the children living in poverty not only in this country but all around the world.


It’s why Mrs B & I don’t send many Christmas cards but instead donate to Lincs2Nepal, a charity which helps to support and educate children. We even sponsor a little boy called Ayush.

I’m not sure what the Christmas traditions are in Nepal?

I am intrigued by Nepal. I’d love to go but I’m not sure about the toilets.

The tradition of the sky burial is something I always thought was brilliant - leaving the body of a deceased relative on a mountain top to be eaten by the birds.

I’d like to offer that service in Mansfield but we are a bit short of vultures and I think the two Blackbirds and the Robin in my garden might take a long time to get through a whole corpse.

Anyway, back to Santa…I guess the time will come when Polly will awaken from childhood innocence, but I hope we are giving her the chance to have a few happy childhood memories before that time comes.

Better start packing. Better check the weather. It can get very cold up North, not as cold as Nepal (or the penal colony on Rura Penthe) but cold enough that I might need an extra vest to protect my nipples from frost bite.

And having placed the image of my nipples in your head, I bid you a fond farewell until tomorrow.

Send In The Clowns

Send In The Clowns
Friday 13th December

Was there no sense of forethought in the Conservative Central Office when planning this election? The first day of this new regime is Friday the 13th!

Awful things are supposed to happen on Friday 13th, but we don’t believe in all that superstitious clap trap do we?

I mean, what can possible be scarier or more terrifying than this bloody election result?

Yes, the results are in…

Only one of two things can happen now. It’s either sunshine forever as Boris leads us to the promised land or…(in your head please hear the opening chords of War of the Worlds).

(The next section is to be read in your best attempt at Richard Burton’s voice. If you can’t do Richard Burton try Liam Neeson but it won’t be as good. If you can’t do either Richard Burton or Liam Neeson then just use any voice but please let me know who it was, so I can pay them royalties, thanks).


And so it began…on the eve of the third decade of the 21st century, a time of darkness, corruption and pestilence descended upon the land.


People wailed in the streets, (please add authentic wails here; they can be humpbacked if you wish, in tribute to Star Trek IV:The Voyage Home).

Yes they wailed I tell you.  Wailed for deliverance; but the deed was done and now only history would tell if we would survive long enough to actually have a history.


An ancient oracle was sought out, which was not easy as it hadn’t been seen on British TV since 1992!    After its palm was crossed with bitcoin, it revealed itself and began oracling.


“I foresee times of great hardship as Brexit trade discussions flounder and fail” it prognosticated.

Not quite so oven ready after all it would seem, as Boris had forgotten to remove the giblets!

Dread stalked the remains of the Liberal middle classes as rumours of an impending scampi famine spread across the internet.  Panic ensued, as they thought of all the vast quantities of tartare sauce going to waste!


But Boris had the answer. “It’s all caused by that awful flotilla of French and Spanish fisherman, plying the North Sea, luring wayward cod and floundering flounders into their evil foreign nets” he blubbered.


But then he remembered to remember what we had forgotten to remember, and he shouted above the tumult:  “Fear not; for now we are truly free to take back control”!

Boris was in heaven…he stood there, legs akimbo, just gagging to show people his election.

For the election had given him the power he had always desired.

As he stood there, stroking his throbbing majority, he smiled as he realised that he, and all who followed him,  were free to say ‘bum boys’ or ‘letterboxes’ without fear of being dragged to a Brussels courtroom.

As he tousled his already over tousled hair he talked about how people can now proudly display St George’s flags and go Morris dancing through the aisles of Aldi & Lidl whenever they please!

We are English and we have elected an Englishman to lead us!

(Scottish Nationalists please don't be offended, I’m trying to make  a point)



Yes, we have an Englishman at our helm.

A man who cares about us and who has saved us from the evil clutches of Corbyn. My God, if Corbyn had been elected we would all have been speaking Venezuelan by the New Year!

Boris. Our Boris. A man who cares about the same things we care about, like freedom and justice and the truth!

Yes, Boris Johnson really does care about the truth (almost as much as Dr Harold Shipman cared for the elderly!)

But we must not forget that this was a huge day for democracy - around 66% of the people voted and if only the other 34% could be bothered, well who knows? Who knows indeed….

OK, joking aside, I’m in a minority (not for the first time), and I’ll take it like a man and you’ll never hear the words ‘second referendum’ pass my lips!

But mark you, and mark you well, if things go wrong, I shall not be blaming this odious toad of a PM - I’ll be blaming the people who fell for his evil charms.

Now all of you bugger off and have a lovely day…I’ve got scampi to source.




PS: On the topic of Friday 13th, please don’t believe all that bad luck stuff.

Earlier today, I was just about to walk past a ladder but I saw a black cat coming towards me so I walked under the ladder. And I’m still here to write this blog, so that’s not unlucky at all is it?

Sadly the cat was eaten by a bear, but it serves him right for treading on the cracks in the pavement.

Hey Old Friends

Hey, old friend, Are you okay, old friend?

December 12th 2019, a date which will live in infamy....

Hello folks, it’s just me…crawling out from beneath the rock under which I’ve lain dormant for two blissfully blog free years.

Emerging into the bright light of the day, so that I may invite and entice  you to once more take in The View From The Hill.

Those of you who were unfortunate enough to follow my ramblings in the past will only have yourselves to blame for once again exposing yourself to the homespun wisdom dispensed by this former Guru, turned affable, yet somewhat annoying, idiot.

To those joining the fray for the first time…welcome.

Please do not expect too much in these early blogs, I’m a little rusty after my hibernation.

To important matters…I hope you have all been out and voted today? Please say yes, because if you haven’t, how can I spend the next few years blaming you for your poor choices!


As for myself,  I have not yet been to vote.I’m waiting until it’s dark as I think these things are best not done in the light of day.

Joking aside, this election has been tremendously divisive and I really do hope that when we get the results tomorrow, we begin to put this country back together again.

Dear God, I sound like one of them! I must have election-itis.

Moving on…

It is my intention to write a fresh blog each day, until further notice (maybe until an injunction is served or I forget)  and in doing so, to chart my ongoing journey through life, work, my not so brilliant health, my hobbies, and not forgetting the occasional rant about the state of the world.

I may occasionally drop some serious thoughts into the mix, but on the whole I just want you to read the blog and smile as you realise your problems are nothing compared to mine.

Each blog will feature an epigram taken from musical theatre songs. I apologise in advance if any Lloyd Webber splashes on your nightie. Best to wear a bib.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, popularity.


Not to brag, but at the last count, I find I have 1664 followers on Twitter (all lager drinkers obviously) , 269 followers on Instagram and 480 Facebook friends. I think that’s absolutely marvellous because in real life I only know 7 people, and none of them like me very much.


But think about this, if just 1% of you decide to peruse my jottings, that’s almost 25 people who can claim compensation for post blogmatic stress disorder.  It’ll be worth it as I think the minimum payment is 3 Groats.

Or was it goats?

I do love goats, especially fainting goats - they fall over more than I do!

Hang on, maybe they faint because they have post blogmatic stress?

You see it all makes total sense when you think about it.


I am going to try and keep each entry to around 500 - 700 words: manageable for me as a writing task each day and not too long and boring for you; but I will apologise in advance as I’m very bad at sticking to the rules.

That’s already 541 words and I’ve not even mentioned Star Trek! Please do not worry as I’ll soon remedy that.


Well, this was easier than I expected. Maybe I’m not that rusty after all?

Maybe the ability to spread electronically generated drivel is my superpower?

I must get a costume!

And so to the Star Trek reference:

Welcome aboard this latest Enterprise, what a Discovery you have made. Enjoy the ride as we journey together into the undiscovered country of our shared future.


See you tomorrow. If there is a tomorrow!

Things That Go Bump...

I know what you're all thinking, it must be bad if the old fellow is rolling out a blog!

I've given up on being a Guru, the incense bills were eye-watering and to be honest so was the incense.

Instead I've morphed into an affable old grandfather figure with slightly rumpled dress sense and an occasionally grumpy persona.

But the reason I decided to write to you all today is that with it being Halloween you might be scared and I wanted to calm you all with my simple homespun philosophy.

So, things that go bump in the night; like two strangers meeting in the dark on a common somewhere in London. One of them loses his phone but then many years later loses his dignity and credibility.

Not because he is gay, but because he uses the shield of his sexuality to somehow defend his deplorable acts against a 14 yr old boy.

And before you all start shouting 'innocent until proven guilty', he's not actually denying this is he?

A powerful and talented man who it now seems was well known for his predilections.

Too powerful to be challenged by those in the know?

In light of the events from Savile to Weinstein, we have seen how power can be used to destroy and cripple the lives of others. The scandals bubbling under the surface at Westminster will soon burst through and prove again that men in positions of power may sometimes misuse that power.

I'm letting the cat out of the bag now...many years ago, in another life, there was a Police operation to entrap men who were using public toilets to meet other men for sex.  Endless nights of recording car number plates, identifying 'suspects'. There was so much information gathered it filled a number of filing cabinets (pre computers)  and then one day it all disappeared. The filing cabinets were emptied.

It was rumoured that the operation had gathered information on the wrong people, some very 'powerful' people and so, the operation ended.

Fast forward some 30 years and we see abuse of power still has a hold and this is made worse by our own deference.

When an MP starts talking about 'witch hunts', you know you're on the right track and you should keep bloody hunting. Being an MP doesn't mean you get a free pass on asking your secretary to buy sex toys or putting your hand on a female journalists knee. You get called out!

Being a world class actor like Kevin Spacey doesn't earn you any privileges when it comes to molesting boys.

And if you knew about this behaviour and said nothing, did nothing, then you are part of the problem.

The powerful only have power because it is granted to them...deny them that power if you can.

The thing I want to hear go bump, is all those pompous, arrogant, bastards who think they are better than everyone else, hitting the deck as they come crashing down to reality.

Happy Halloween.

Do I Believe In Angels?

I have not written a blog entry since June 2016 and it took something very special to motivate me into re-opening The View From The Hill. My usual tongue in cheek humour (sarcasm as some would call it) has been sidelined. I write about a serious subject and one that recently overlapped very nicely with one of those pastimes that brings the greatest of joy into my life…theatre.

On Saturday 29th July 2017, I entered the National Theatre in London to watch their production of Angels in America. Two plays, almost 8 hours of powerful and moving theatre. The acting talents of Andrew Garfield, Denise Gough, Nathan Lane, Russell Tovey, James McArdle, Susan Brown, Nathan Stewart-Jarrett and Amanda Lawrence (amongst others) were incredible….but wait, let’s just have the blog entry please Mr B:

I’m not sure there is anything I can write about Angels In America. Certainly nothing that hasn't already been penned by people with more skill and expertise at reviewing theatre than I.  There is just one thing I can offer that nobody else can: a personal insight as to why these two plays have been and still are so important to me. 

In Angels in America Part Two: Perestroika,  just before Roy Cohn dies, (I don't think that’s a spoiler is it?) he is laughing; laughing at his ‘Win’ over Ethel Rosenberg. 

As I watched that scene unfold, beautifully played by Nathan Lane and Susan Brown, I couldn't help but suspect that if it were possible, Roy Cohn must be laughing his ass off as he looks up from his grave and sees what’s happening in America today.

Thirty years on, there is evidence that the real Cohn helped shape and mould the present occupant of the White House, but I’m not sure that even Tony Kushner could have imagined characters like Donald Trump and the coterie of super bigots that surround him.

The spectre of Cohn and his ilk also hangs over our own government and the deal they made with a party who espouse some very unenlightened opinions.

So it was with the dark angel of Roy Cohn circling over the Trump presidency and with me sitting only a short walk away from the seat of our own parliament, that I was present in the Lyttleton Theatre, joining an enthralled audience and a company of excellent actors as we revisited Angels in America, Parts One & Two. 

I use the word ‘joining’ as it did feel like a joint enterprise in which we were necessary witnesses to the past as it played out before us. It was a long day but I felt we were carried along for what was the best part of those eight hours.  Not carried on the wings of angels perhaps, but on the talents of the performers, technicians and those who brought their vision of these great plays back to the National Theatre. It was simply theatre at its very best.

This is where I have to declare an interest though, this is where the personal insight is revealed. 

As some of you will be aware, thirty years ago I was part of the Lincoln HIV/Aids Support Group. I saw at first hand just how devastating HIV & Aids could be. I lost friends. I carried the coffin of one of them into his funeral. So this is a story that already had a hold over me.

I also know people living happy and productive lives today, people who are HIV+ and whose prognosis for a long life is much better than we could have hoped or dreamed thirty years ago.

So, with plenty of emotional baggage, I let myself enter the world of the play, the world of the characters (all beautifully played by this mega talented cast) and I laughed really loud and I cried very quietly.

It was not easy to witness the  pain and suffering visited on those dying with Aids in the play, even the reprehensible Cohn; not easy to separate this portrayal of reality from your own memories. 

Cohn is portrayed, quite truthfully it would seem, as a man who hates others, and he does so with ease and relish. 

Thirty years ago the abuse and hatred hurled towards the people I knew (and had grown to love) was just horrendous. It was a real battle to try and change perceptions and to grant these very ill men (I only knew male patients at the time) some dignity. 

Physical and verbal abuse, property attacks, broken windows, Police refusing to take action - people being treated as less than human by people who were displaying their own lack of humanity. You may call it fear or ignorance but that is no defence. How can there be a defence when there were many, like me, who decided to try and learn all they could learn about the illness and more importantly the people affected by it?

By the way, we were not angels, we were just people helping someone in need.

Anyway, returning to the present, or rather the past as shown to us in the present, a past so precisely depicted through the words of Tony Kushner in his plays. 

There is a speech towards the very end of the play which should resonate deeply within anyone with a social conscience and most certainly should be shouted from the rooftops as well as the stage of the National Theatre. 

You might say it is just a political statement from a political play but in a world where some in power enjoy using that power to diminish others rather than raise them up, it becomes a clarion call for decency, acceptance and common humanity.

Prior Walter: “We won't die secret deaths anymore. The world only spins forward. We will be citizens. The time has come. Bye now. You are fabulous creatures, each and every one…”

To each and every one of you, I commend this play and the thought that the better angels in America, in our world, need to prevail.