Reviewing The Situation

31st December

Reviewing The Situation

New Year’s Eve seems to be the perfect day for glancing back over our shoulder at what has passed and then turning to face the undiscovered country of our futures.

From a work point of view, people continued to think I was worth employing from time to time. From the funerals of tiny babies, to those who had lived almost a century of life, I continue to tell the stories of the lives of those who died and maybe, on occasion, I did enough to ease the pain a little for the bereaved.

This was the year I also got to officiate at three weddings, all in Lincolnshire where apparently I’m very popular.

It is my plan to work a lot less next year, not least to follow my own advice about trying to get the balance between work and play right and have some fun, but also because….well, that’s a story for another day.

Personal highlights for 2019, other than the theatrical outings I mentioned the other day…attending 7 conventions and meeting some of my heroes, a wonderful family holiday to Northumberland, Polly loves going back to Pig Cottage,  enjoying classical music thanks to the Halle Orchestra, enjoying contemporary music thanks to Jack Pack, occasionally meeting up with some of those people who still, after all these years, are happy to be seen in my company.

But in truth 2019 was a rotten year and that was mostly through watching Mrs B and her family, going through the torture of seeing her mum being taken away, little by little, by dementia.

Margaret’s death was definitely something to be viewed with mixed feelings, a release from illness and pain but a cause of huge sadness for those who loved her.

This year gave me a chance to feel even more connected to the bereaved families I worked with, my empathy levels we certainly upgraded. We lost other family members this year, elderly relatives who had simply reached the end of their roads. Then Gil’s sudden death - well, that pain is still very real too.

Today our intention is to head to the coast, to spend some time walking on a beach. Fresh air, peace, time to think…about what cannot be changed and what still might.

These words, by Robert Sexton, I offer without agenda…

Time sweeps everything away. Like the ceaseless waves of a mighty sea, it clashes upon the shore of each human life, seizing the artefacts and elements with which we signify our existence; and - with neither disdain nor regard - it spirits them away. When it takes our sorrow or our despair, we may begin to believe that it is merciful. But when it steals beauty and innocence and charm and joy, we know that it is without compassion. Like the sea, time has no heart. It sweeps away everything. And neither our resistance nor our regret can stay its flow.



Thanks for being part of my 2019

I wish you enough health, both physical and mental, to be able to enjoy what lies ahead in 2020.

Here are a few faces from my year…

Are You Havin' Any Fun?

30th December

Are You Havin' Any Fun?

This morning I officiated at my last funeral of 2019 and I am now taking a well earned break from work…or that’s the plan.

Two weeks in which I might get around to some of the jobs I didn't get around to in the last 12 months.

I have some pictures to get valued and dispose of.
I have an office to de-clutter.
There is some tidying up to do in the garden.

I also have jobs that I don’t know about yet because Mrs B hasn’t planned them plus I may have jobs she already told me about but I forgot to do…that happens a lot.

I could say that as we stand on the cusp of a new year, a new decade, that I should turn over a new leaf and be more proactive about tackling these domestic chores but from experience, my newly turned leaves have a habit of blowing away.

I’m more than a little set in my ways.  I find it hard to summon up the energy to tackle the things I love so I have no chance of getting to grips with things I dislike.

I have already lived the majority of my life and I spent too many years doing things I didn't enjoy, so the days that remain are days I’d like to use wisely…or even profligately.


I know the jobs have to be done but I’m guessing like most people, when I die nobody’s going to stand over my coffin and say, “Drew regretted that he didn’t work harder on his chores”.

This is an irritating character trait that I freely admit to having. Irritating to others, not to me.

I don’t care about many of the things that others think are so important.  Not only do I not care about such things, but I also don’t care if you do care that I don’t care.

I don’t care if the lawn doesn’t look like a putting green. I’d rather be playing golf than trimming the lawn with nail scissors to make it look pristine.

I don’t care if the car is dirty. I’ll drive it to a car wash when I have a spare 15 minutes. I’m certainly not going to spend all day Sunday washing, polishing and stroking it in some lewd act of auto-masturbation. Sunday is the day of rest after all (even us atheists are willing to concede that one to whichever clever god came up with the idea).

I could list many more such time wasting jobs but that would be wasting time.

My opinion as to what is valuable in life is of course just that, my opinion and therefore very subjective. Others will find a different path to their contentment. What bugs me a little is the sometime judgmental attitude of others if you don’t power wash your hard standing every six months, or get the ladder out to check your guttering every time it rains.

If washing your car is fun for you, then carry on.
If winning prizes for the best kept garden makes your day then carry on.

But wherever you find your fun, just make sure you have some!

Some time for you, because eventually your time will run out and someone like me will be standing over your coffin, and what will I be able to say about you?



Are You Havin' Any Fun?

Tell Me It's Not True

29th December

Tell Me It’s Not True

It was a little joke that ended up with me be christened Camp-Pa.

Polly had hardly begun to talk but had mastered baby signing and someone suggested that as I was quite camp, I should be called Camp-Pa. It sort of stuck, and the sign that baby Polly would offer whenever she wanted Camp-Pa’s attention? Jazz hands.

So Camp-Pa was born although as Polly is now at school and growing up fast, she sometimes refers to me there as Uncle Andrew, which I’m equally happy to own - it’s a complicated relationship.

Anyway, at home she still calls me Camp-Pa but her little second cousin, Hugh, who is around 2 years old, he now calls me Polly’s Pomp-Pa.   How many names can one man have in his lifetime?

The reason I have spent valuable time telling you all of this is that last evening, Hugh came to call. He had been here last around Halloween, when he came trick or treating with Polly and me.

His memory of whom he had met on that occasion obviously well defined because after being here some time yesterday he suddenly asked “Where is Polly Pomp-Pa’s dog”?

Initial shock & surprise at the question being asked quickly turned to thinking how could we answer, especially as we were fighting back more than a few tears.

Hugh, bless him, unaware of the emotional impact of this query about Gil’s disappearance, kept repeating the question and it was then that Polly, aged 6, stepped in and rescued all the adults in the room.

“Hugh”, she said, “Gil was poorly and had to go to the vet and he’s still there”.

Hugh was totally satisfied with that answer and went back to playing, Polly joined him and the adults continued to sniffle just a little.

The strange thing is that earlier in the day I had a conversation with Polly about lying. She had basically asked if it was OK to tell a lie if no-one was hurt and I had thought about it a bit and then said, I think that’s OK but you have to be very careful because you don’t always know what will hurt someone else.

She obviously worked out that on this occasion a little lie was not going to hurt anyone. Or maybe she believes it was true?

It got me to thinking about lies and the truth, and which is best or better to deal in. I’m guessing most people would think that the truth is better than a lie and yet we spend much of our lives lying to people to protect them from the pain of the truth.

We lie by omission if not in words, we divert attention elsewhere or we change the subject to avoid answering a question with brutal honesty especially if we know the answer will hurt someone we care about.

I know there are some people who love to use what they perceive as the truth to hurt people. They can then claim protection from the fallout by moralistically asserting that they only told the truth. They may be truthful but are they kind?

Sometimes the truth is inescapable and we do have to face it, and this is a dilemma I deal with through my work.

Death is the ultimate hard truth, and yet we try and avoid talking about death in an honest way.  We often find solace in the beautiful lies of poetry or the unproven but supposed truth of belief and religion.

Death is nothing at all, I have only slipped away into the next room…

Goodness knows how many times a year I read those words or offer the various other platitudes that people long for during that time of loss, words like…he’s not really dead as long as we remember him.

We hope to find comfort in the web of self deceit that we conspire to spin together.

Because the truth really can hurt. And why should we live with more pain than we need to?

Gil’s ashes sit in a small wooden box just a few feet from where I’m writing these words. He joined Jake and Danny, whose ashes also rest in small wooden boxes in the same corner of our dining room.

I’m too much wrapped up in my own atheism to believe that they padded over some rainbow bridge and scamper even now through endless meadows in doggy heaven, but I know some people need that fiction to help them cope.

In a world of fake news and alternative facts we should really be fighting to uphold the truth: the unassailable truth established in fact and reality.  We certainly should fight against allowing people in positions of power to pass off their opinions as facts. But in our daily interactions with other human beings, all as vulnerable as we are to the stresses and pains of life, maybe kindness is better than the truth on occasion?

Rainbow bridges, gone to be a star in heaven, still at the vets…much more palatable than the truth perhaps?

My Little Treasures

28th December

My Little Treasures

A knighthood for Iain Duncan Smith…for services to killing off the poor and disabled and for fighting back against the prejudice shown toward those who like to pick their nose in public.  (Google it if you didn't know about his campaigns in the area).

Isn’t it time that the honours system was overhauled so that politicians were exempt from getting a gong?  I mean they get well paid, they have expenses, they even get a huge lump sum payment if they lose their seat in an election. Why do they need a title?  Other than The Right Honourable Odious Toad.

Mini rant over.

On to more serious topics and the theatre year past and the year ahead.

All over social media people are choosing their top five shows of the year so I thought I might as well jump on The Band Wagon, starring Fred Astaire & Cyd Charisse.

I cannot pick just five shows so this is my Top Ten for 2019 listed in the order I saw them:


The Dumb Waiter/A Slight Ache - Harold Pinter Theatre, London

Standing At The Sky’s Edge - Crucible Theatre, Sheffield (4 visits)

Follies - National Theatre, London

A German Life - Bridge Theatre, London

Rosmersholm - Duke of York’s Theatre, London (2 visits)

Hugh Jackman in Concert - Genting Arena, Birmingham

Ian McKellen On Stage - Crucible Theatre, Sheffield & Nottingham Playhouse

Dark Sublime - Trafalgar Studios, London (2 visits)

Life of Pi - Crucible Theatre, Sheffield

Assassins - Nottingham Playhouse

I don’t write reviews but these shows all delivered beyond expectation and for many different reasons.

I was very lucky to be able to congratulate in person some of the people involved in these productions, including Gemma Whelan (A Slight Ache) who was so happy to be asked about her stage work instead of Game of Thrones, that she gave me a huge hug.

I got many hugs this year but when Joanna Riding held my hand I just about melted. Seeing her in Follies was a real highpoint and my thanks to Tina Foote for being my guest that day and introducing me to Ms Riding. (Tina Foote knows everyone).

Had the chance to meet the hugely talented and incredibly nice Lucy Briers this year. I saw Rosmersholm twice, she had a great role as the housekeeper and although the stars of the show were Hayley Atwell, Tom Burke and Giles Terera (all of who were terrific) it was the supporting performances by Lucy and Peter Wight that caught my eye. The craft of acting displayed at its best and I loved chatting with her about that.

Of course with Dark Sublime, there was a chance to support the lovely Andrew Keates.  There is never a shortage of hugs with Mr Keates: also a mention for Piers Cottee-Jones too, a new acquaintance who is equally lovely.   I enjoyed seeing them both in Nottingham when they were promoting the play and this photo shows us all, plus the lovely James Delmond McBurnie (uber fan of Marina), doing our bit.

The play itself, by Michael Dennis, is about an ageing sci fi star (played by the seemingly ageless Marina Sirtis) meeting one of her fans. It was the perfect play for a geek like me.

There is one other person who I must mention, the most famous person I know,  Alastair Natkiel.

Ali was part of the amazing cast in Sky’s Edge and it really was great to see him perform in such a special piece of theatre. I saw the show four times, over four consecutive Thursday nights. I would willingly have seen it every Thursday this year.

Seeing people you love and respect up on stage, doing so well, that makes me a happy man.

I met one other Alistair this year, and he deserves an honourable mention not least because meeting Mr A McGowan meant getting the best hug of the year from Charlotte Page.


I look forward to the year ahead and maybe seeing more friends on stage. The year begins with a return to Sheffield for Guys and Dolls, then later on in the year there's Uncle Vanya with Richard Armitage and Toby Jones, To Kill A Mockingbird with Rhys Ifans, Hello Dolly with Imelda Staunton and Sunday In The Park…with Jake.

There’s Shakespeare, my first ever trip to see Phantom of the Opera plus Jenna Russell in Piaf.

It has the makings of a great theatrical year.

You I Like

27th December

You I Like

It’s no secret that I love the theatre.

Like many, my introduction to theatre was through attending a pantomime and I have vague recollections as a child of seeing Mrs Mills, sat at her piano, dressed as the biggest fairy in the world. Does anyone else actually remember Mrs Mills?

The first musical I saw on stage was ‘Oliver’. Both my brothers were in it, part of Fagin’s gang. I was probably too fat even then to pass as a starving waif, reliant on his nimbleness just to survive.

Even though I wasn’t in the show, I knew all the songs. I can pretty much still sing the whole score. To me that’s the secret of good writing isn’t it? That the songs stick in your memory.

My head is full of great musical theatre songs that I love, written by generations of great composers, from Jerome Kern through to Jason Robert Brown.

I can carry a tune, obviously you have to have some skill to appear in a brilliant professional production of Sweeney Todd…have I ever mentioned that? Although I can sing a bit,  there is little doubt that I always feel more confident singing a song I love.

Singing the songs of Stephen Sondheim never loses its appeal. Listening to his music is a source of constant joy, there are songs I can turn to for most moods, especially when I’m feeling like a good cry.

But if I want to sing a song that leaves a smile on my face then there is little doubt that the songs of Jerry Herman are top of my list.

Seeing 'Hello Dolly’ on Broadway, starring the wonderful Bette Midler, was certainly a theatrical highlight of my lifetime. We have tickets to see the London production next year starring Imelda Staunton.

I think my first exposure to Jerry Herman would have been the film version of ‘Hello Dolly’, but I also had in my cassette tape collection a compilation of Broadway hit songs which featured Dame Angela Lansbury singing ‘If He Walked Into My Life’. That’s a great performance of a great song from ‘Mame’, a musical that wasn’t as well received as ‘Dolly' but has just had a well received revival here in the UK, and I will be trying to see it when they bring it back.

Another cassette in that collection was the OCR of La Cage Aux Folles, starring George Hearn & Gene Barry. Another musical that I grew to love and this love was certainly cemented when our local amateur operatic society staged a production, a very good production. I have seen three productions of that show in the West End & on tour and ‘The Best Of Times’ must be one of the greatest feel good MT songs of all time.

Thanks to Torville and Dean, we discovered and fell in love with ‘Mack & Mabel’. Robert Preston and Bernadette Peters are often popping up as my iPod shuffles through my song list whilst I’m driving too and from work.

We had the great pleasure of seeing and hearing the production staged by The London Musical Theatre Orchestra with David Bedella as Mack & Natasha Barnes as Mabel.  Less enjoyable was the touring production with Michael Ball, but the songs still hit the mark.

Another song that appears on shuffle is the aforementioned Dame Angela Lansbury singing ‘I Don’t Want To Know’ from ‘Dear World’.

I have never seen ‘Dear World’ and as I now sit looking through Jerry Herman’s back catalogue I realise there are musicals he wrote or contributed too, that I am yet to discover and add to my play list…but I think today is a good day to make the choice to change that.

I hadn’t planned to write about Jerry Herman today, but the announcement of his death reminded me just how much I have enjoyed his music. Really enjoyed it actually.

Thanks Jerry. You really do leave this legacy of great songs which people will be singing for as long as we have voices.




Tap Your Troubles Away

So You Wanna Be A Boxer

26th December

So You Wanna Be A Boxer

Having almost killed myself on Christmas Day, trying to out twerk a mechanical llama, I decided the sensible thing to do was retire early.

9:30pm, fast asleep, and, other than the usual nocturnal shuttles to the bathroom for a man of my age, a fairly restful if painful night.

My legs have become pretty unreliable in recent times, hence the occasional stumble and even rarer incidents of falling over. It’s all a little annoying to say the least and the main reason why I won’t actually be able to do any boxing today…and I was so looking forward to boxing.

I’ll be honest, I know Boxing Day isn’t really about standing in a ring in your baggiest shorts, punching someone. But does anyone actually know what ‘boxing’ you’re supposed to do on Boxing Day?

A few suggestions:

Getting the boxes out of the loft to pack Christmas away?

Opening another box of Quality Street or Elizabeth Shaw Mint Crisps?

Trying to think of ways of getting the guest stopping over in your box room, to leave?

Maybe having a punch up in the queue for the sales?

Maybe it’s deciding to order in pizza?

Whatever Boxing Day is for you then that’s OK - enjoy it.

In our house, Boxing Day was traditionally the day for bubble and squeak, cold meat and pickles. And sherry.

Some people like to go for a walk, to blow the cobwebs away. Personally I love it when everyone goes for a walk, it means I have the house to myself for an hour and can find a proper Boxing Day film to watch.

Zulu was always a favourite or A Bridge Too Far: something epic with lots of my favourite actors in and of course a film you’ve seen that often you can say the lines along with he the actors.  Maybe that’s another definition of Boxing Day? Just sitting in front of the box?

Boxing Day aside, it’s the next few days that really bother me. The days between Christmas and New Year…it’s like a black hole into which all normal rules of time and space seem to vanish.

I already don’t know what day of the week it is, and until January 1st, (which I know is always a Monday), I will be lost in the vortex of the unknown, scrabbling to maintain my sanity. Surviving on left over pigs in blankets and some olives flavoured with myrrh, I will be recalling all those public information films we were shown as kids in school, how to survive a nuclear winter.

My memory isn’t that good though and all I can actually recall is someone called Petunia eating an ice cream and sending her husband, Joe,  to call the coast guard.  They were Brexit voters I think.

(I added a link for those who thought  I was going mad)

https://youtu.be/K3-Jqltwon4


Anyway, time to rise and shine, to kick these old legs into action, and scramble some eggs for Mrs B.

Have a good day everyone and remember, the only box that really matters is the one you keep all your wonderful memories in.

We Need A Little Christmas

25th December

We Need A Little Christmas

In tribute to Greta Thunberg, and because I’m really busy preparing sprouts and buttering parsnips, I bring you a recycled blog entry:



If Herod had employed reliable labour all those years ago to find and kill the baby Jesus, this would just be another cold weekend in December - instead here we are again, Christmas.

There are three stages to Christmas:

First there is the stress of the pre-Christmas rush when we all dash about like headless turkeys trying to snatch up bargains to give to our loved ones. We then battle through the aisles of our favourite supermarket trying to make sure we have plenty of sprouts to cook and then to throw away after nobody eats them.

We then 'deck the halls' with bright coloured lights and find we have the stress of running to B&Q when we discover one of the bulbs has blown. There are parcels to wrap and post, there are cards to address, there are stamps to buy and then there are post boxes too full to take your cards leading to more stress!

But eventually it all comes to an end and the pre Christmas period is past and we have the day itself to experience...more stress.


Locked in a house all day with people you spend all year avoiding. Being forced to share your television with people who only watch documentaries on coastal erosion or Eastenders.  Trying to put on a brave face when you open the presents that leave you almost speechless with shock - "wow, a nutcracker shaped like Katie Price - thanks so much." Or perhaps you might get a cook book by Heston Blumenthal.

Trying to remember who likes breast, who likes stuffing, who likes extra gravy and then trying to find something for Aunty Mary who is on a three day diet of beetroot and runner beans.

Holding back from the urge to devour a whole bottle of Pinot in one big gulp just to get you through that long long evening.  It is like an eternity; only longer,  and you begin to feel like Nelson Mandela on Robben Island (but he at least had a guard to talk to).

Eventually the day passes and you begin to think that the stress must now begin to lift, just a little. Wrong.

Now you have the stress of joining the queues in the sales to exchange the Katy Price nutcracker for something you really want, something with a little class like a Katherine Jenkins nutcracker.

Then you have to make sure you de-christmas by twelfth night or bad luck may follow throughout the year...I say leave the decorations up, what's the worst that could happen? You just survived Christmas!


The stress of the festive season hits us each and every year and still we have not learned our lesson. I think the time is coming when we should reflect on the true meaning of Christmas and try and model our celebrations around that simple message surrounding the birth of a little baby in a stable.

We should forget the rushing around and the over eating and the terrible presents and we should all go to a stable and wait for the miracle to happen. In the present cold snap it might be an ideal place for the elderly, they could all huddle around a pile of steaming manure and keep the cold at bay by sleeping under a cow, her udders warm with milk - a cosy bed and a midnight snack all in one.

Yes, we should all find a stable and if you don't know where your local stable is, just follow the bright light in the sky. It’s not a star, it's the Police helicopter, but it passes by the stable occasionally so you'll be OK.

If it's too foggy to see the chopper then follow the Shepherds, they live at No.42 and they always spend Christmas in a stable bare. Yes, they are naturists, but don't worry about the nudity because in the cold weather there is nothing to see, poor Mr Shepherd looks like he has a walnut whip instead of a penis.

If you don't know the Shepherds you could always follow the three wise men but if you live in Mansfield don't hold out much hope of finding them anytime soon as they are out searching for a virgin and so far they have struck out.


Yes, Christmas would be so much more tolerable in a stable where the only cause for stress would be what can you do with all the myrrh? Oh wait - now where did I put that cook book by Heston Blumenthal?

Yes, I'm a miserable old sod, but it makes me happy.  I just joined the board of BHS  (Bah Humbug Society) and on a serious note this Christmas will be a sadder day than usual as Mrs B and I will be thinking of those no longer with us.

Anyone who has had a bereavement this year will no doubt find the gloss of Christmas somewhat diminished and my heart goes out to you all.

The Glamorous Life

24th December

The Glamorous Life

When I look back over previous blog entries, there have been far too many that are rooted in my experiences in supermarkets or supermarket car parks. I wonder what it is about these places that brings out the worst in people?

I rarely venture to Tesco anymore.  Having referred to it as ‘The Temple of Doom’ for so many years, I really started to believe I would end up having my heart ripped out in the freezer section; sacrificed to the gods of capitalism & consumerism by a management trainee called Barry.

There I would lie, on a bed of freshly shredded red cabbage, clutching my comestibles and gasping my last words: “How much?”

Mrs B is an Aldi fan.  I cannot enter for fear of tripping over the produce that litters the floor after the marauding hordes have passed through. She made me go in with her once and I felt quite ill watching one lady interfering with the bananas.

Luckily there is a Sainsbury’s next door. It’s not quite Waitrose but the wine section is very well stocked and it’s right next to the freezer section where the fish fingers can be found.


The great thing about ‘Doom’ was  zap and pack. You could literally, enter the dreaded building, do your shopping and exit without having to interact with a single human being. Bliss.

How brilliant was it to recently discover that Sainsbury’s now offer a similar service. Packing your bags as you walk around the store and then walking past all the tweed jackets & twin set and pearl brigade who are too posh to scan their own shopping - you beat all the queues.

Of course you do have to wait for someone to authorise that you’re actually old enough to buy Merlot but that’s one minor irritant in the scheme of things.

But then the adventure really begins as you have to escape the car park. It would be easier for the Enterprise to escape a black hole.

It’s impossible to explain how badly designed the roads around Sainsbury’s are. Sufficed to say, one road services two supermarkets, a cinema, three restaurants, the bingo hall and a fast food drive through.

There are points in the day when the whole area is in gridlock.

These are the days you just have to be patient and polite.


I always make sure that as I crawl along, I let one car in from each junction I pass. We are moving so slowly that one more car in front of me doesn’t make much difference.

Today, the man behind me had a different idea - he didn't like that I was letting cars into the stream of traffic. He gave me a little peep on his horn. I ignored him and let two cars emerge at the next junction.

When I got home, the fish fingers hadn’t defrosted so all in all a successful trip.

Next time you’re sitting in a traffic jam, worrying about your perishables, resist the urge to peep.  Resistance isn’t always futile.

You Could Drive A Person Crazy

23rd December

You Could Drive A Person Crazy

The thought processes of some people on the internet, or lack of a thought process, could drive a man to use such words as ‘stupid’ or even ‘idiotic’. But I’m not the sort of man who would use words like that to describe other human beings, no matter how feeble minded and daft they are.

The internet has allowed every partially educated muppet with internet access to display their lack of basic common sense with ease.

The ‘Conspiracy Theorists’ are a favourite of mine, like those who truly believe that we did not land a man on the moon. Now think about this, we live in a  society where there is no such thing as a secret anymore. With organisations like  Wikileaks and hordes of crusading journalists spending all of their energy crawling into every nook and cranny of public life, you really think that someone might have blabbed by now if it was a hoax.

The Holocaust Deniers, the Flat-Earthers, the Climate Change Deniers, all have free rein to spread their own anti-science, and alternative facts and that’s not forgetting the Anti- Vaccination brigade. 

They have the added joy of endangering people’s lives with their theories.

It’s impossible to have a reasonable debate about such things of course, because nobody is reasonable anymore…except for me and Stephen Fry. 

I’m seriously thinking of starting a cult based on one of the theories I just made up:

When I was a child we had one bath a week and no one had heard of autism…therefore people taking too many baths must cause autism.

When I was a child we were beaten soundly just for looking at a teacher but then they stopped corporal punishment and the next thing you know we have Al Qaeda.

When I was a child we had golliwogs on the jam, then they took them off and now we have an obesity epidemic in children.

I’m sure one of them will take off big style, especially if I can get celebrity endorsements from maybe Tommy Robinson or Uri Geller.

The internet is alive with the sound of stupid and that’s without even mentioning the religious & moralistic bigots who scream their poison into the dark void of the Twitter-sphere.

Evangelical extremists who believe Jesus was blonde haired and blue eyed and spoke with a soft Southern accent.

People who memorise huge chunks of the Bible just to weaponise the word of their god against heathens and foreigners…and homosexuals of course.

It’s a foregone conclusion that if anything goes wrong in the world, any natural disasters strike, then you can bet your bottom dollar a religious nutcase will pop up and blame it all on ‘the gays’.   

Navigating your way through all of this rubbish can be tiring and you might begin to think that the world is populated solely by these mongrels and charlatans but fear not…I’m here to restore balance.

"Humans do have an amazing capacity for believing what they choose” ( And The Children Shall Lead - Star Trek) 

Poor Unfortunate Souls

22nd December

Poor Unfortunate Souls

The wedding went very well, the bride looked beautiful, the groom cried and I think I managed to stay out of all of the photographs.

I left home at 10am and arrived back at around 5:30pm, so this gave me plenty of time on the road, just me, some music and my thoughts.

And it’s strange what comes into your head whilst you’re driving through the wilds of Lincolnshire.  For example, are parents still naming their children Alexa?  How confusing must that be for the child and the little box in the corner of the room.

Alexa, come here!
I’m sorry I cannot comply with that request. I have no legs…

Alexa play some Vivaldi.
Hang on mummy, I’ll fetch my recorder…

I’m also guessing there are children in this world named Siri who suffer  equally confusing lifestyles.

Some parents bless their children with what they think are beautiful & original names don't they? I recall a child named Jelly Bean Coco from some years ago and another named Collagen.

It’s like their parents wanted them to be bullied.

I was a potential bullying target at school as I was a chubster, but apart from one incident when some huge older boy pinned me to a fence to try and take my dinner money, I managed to get through school pretty unscathed.

Or maybe I’ve blocked it out? It’s not unknown for me to ‘forget’ some of my past as there were times that are still pretty unappealing to look back on. I guess the other side of that coin is how we might romance the past to make it seem more palatable, even creating false memories which eventually even we can no longer differentiate from the truth.

Visiting Lincoln yesterday, on the return leg of my road trip, stirred up many memories. Having lived there for 22 years, I have a mixture of very happy and extremely unhappy times to look back on. The unhappy ones often over power the happy.

The move to Mansfield, almost 20 years ago now, was in no small way to physically distance myself from the source of such pain. But no matter how hard you try and keep those bad memories locked up in a dark corner of your mind, they have this habit of creeping out. It’s then that names and places come back to you, unbidden, to peel the scab off what you had hoped was a long since healed wound.

And no matter how hard you try, you cannot seem to gain a balance between the happy and the sad. You know there are great times to recall but once you start to look at your pain, it’s hard to stop.  It’s a bit like trying to eat just one segment of a Terry’s chocolate orange.


Time for some Star Trek wisdom to kick in…

You know that pain and guilt can't be taken away with a wave of a magic wand. They're the things we carry with us, the things that make us who we are.


Thanks Jim. For good or bad, we are the sum of our experiences and no life is all good, but then again no life is all bad. It’s just that some of us find it hard to see the wood for the trees sometimes.



Alexa, play something soothing.

Hang on, I’ll fetch my recorder…

Alexa…oh never mind.

You're Gonna Love Tomorrow / Love Will See Us Through

You're Gonna Love Tomorrow / Love Will See Us Through

21st December

Today I’m on the road, heading East, following a star  (sorry a satnav) and when I arrive at the inn I’m hoping there will be room for me to squeeze inside.

You see, today is one of those days when the ceremony I’m leading doesn’t involve a coffin…no, today it is a wedding that has my fullest attention.

Sadly, the antiquated system in England doesn’t afford me the privilege of legally marrying this wonderful couple but, who knows, now we have such a touchy-feely Tory government, maybe they’ll have the nerve to stand up against generations of tradition and change the way things are done. Or maybe not.

Over the years I have had the great pleasure of officiating at several weddings, some of dearly loved friends, and the thing that united all of those ceremonies was the desire of the couples involved to make the wedding day about their commitment to each other and nothing else.

I’ve overseen the exchange of vows & rings in a variety of settings, including a farmyard, a camp site, Sherwood Forest and a leisure centre.

Mrs B and I had a traditional church wedding, but one thing I’m certain of is that the location is not important: church or registrar’s office or forest glade, it matters not. What matters is the commitment to each other and to be able to publicly declare your love for another human being.

It doesn't matter who wants to get married, as Jimmy Somerville sang, there's more to love than boy meets girl...,for love is strange and uncontrolled, it can happen to anyone.

It doesn't matter how much money you spend on the wedding festivities, it matters how much time you spend sharing life and making memories.

It’s not about the piece of paper you sign, it’s about that determination to support each other through good days and bad.

If you find someone to love and to share the journey through life with then, married or not, you are a lucky person.

I’ve been very lucky to have shared 35 years of married life with Mrs B. Goodness knows how she has put up with me, but I don’t think she’ll mind me sharing this with you.

Once, on a holiday to the USA, we walked into a little shop near the Coit Tower in San Francisco. It was there we discovered the work of Robert Sexton, a gifted poet and artist.

We bought books of his poetry plus a drawing on which was written these simple words:

This much I’ll remember, when the rest of life is through, the finest thing I’ve ever done, is simply loving you.

That picture still hangs in our home, a quiet reminder of our commitment of love and support, and my goodness we needed that from each other this year!

Today as I watch two people express their love for each other,  I’ll banish all cynicism from my mind  and simply be hoping that love will see them through all the tomorrows of their life and that they  share many happy years together.

The Party's Over

The Party’s Over

20th December


As an atheist, hearing the phrase ‘the true meaning of Christmas’ is always a little irksome.  It’s as if only Christians can celebrate Christmas properly.

We live in a nominally Christian country and yet all around me I see people behaving in the least Christian of ways.

Hateful, demeaning language permeates every area of public and private life. Hearing frazzled parents screaming abuse at their children in supermarkets, seeing the pleasure some take in the misfortune of others, watching our elected representatives lie and abuse their office, none of this seems very Christian to me.

I know there has been a meme circulating on the internet basically saying that if Jesus came back today, not only would he find no room at the inn, but no welcome in our country…bloody foreign prophets coming over here and stealing English prophet’s work!

If you want my opinion, and I’m sure you’re gagging for it, the true meaning of Christmas is now wrapped up in over indulgence which it would seem is the antithesis of what Jesus would have wanted…if he had existed.


There’s no better gift than the gift of time, so spend some with the people you love. Keep your celebrations simple and sincere and you’ll enjoy the festivities no less than those who spend a fortune decorating their houses with a million lights or going into debt to buy gifts that no one really needs.

Perhaps my view is coloured by the events of this year.


Having lived through a pretty crap 2019, celebrating is not really at the forefront of my mind but when you throw a 6 year old into the mix, you have to make a bit of an effort.

Today’s the day when we hold the annual works party. Considering I’m self employed and have no other employees, it’s a pretty cheap affair.

Chips, a glass of wine and a ride down the helter-skelter in Nottingham…although I leave the helter-skelter to Polly.

Without getting too serious, I think with the state of world being as it is, a simple Christmas is called for this year.  Simple but no less valuable to those who share it.

And if you really want to claim that you understand the ‘true meaning of Christmas’ then make sure you donate to a charity instead of spending money on yourself. Remember what Jesus said…

‘the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one’.

Invocations & Instructions To The Audience

Invocations & Instructions To The Audience

December 19th

I did it. I managed to stay awake and concentrate on the film.  I shall not describe the plot nor give any hint of a review, sufficed to say that I will try and see Star Wars:The Rise of Skywalker again over the festive period.

Now to the business at hand. Audiences.

I have written on previous occasions how amusing I find it watching people struggle to find their seats in a theatre. If only they could work out a system with letters and numbers that gives you a clue as to where you might be sitting.

There was one occasion at The Royal Concert Hall in Nottingham, when Mrs B & I found two people sitting in the seats we had booked and they refused to move even when we showed them our tickets. The front of house staff did their best in trying to persuade them to budge, but they refused. I think they believed that being over 75 gave them a free hand to sit wherever they pleased!

There was another occasion when we first went to see Les Mis and again found two people sitting in our seats. This was slightly more puzzling as they also had tickets with those seat numbers on…however, on closer inspection it turned out they had booked those seats but for the following week!


People coughing, checking their phones, eating noisy and smelly food, having sex; these are just a few of the things that might distract not only fellow audience members but the performers too.

If you cannot sit still, without eating, or sticking your tongue into someone for just a couple of hours then stay at home and watch TV!

The only upside for rowdy and disruptive punters at the cinema is they are very unlikely to incur the wrath of any of the actors on screen…unless they have sneaked in to watch themselves in the movie.

So, last night, the lights go down and there’s a lot of noise and stupidity from some young men a few rows behind us but as the adverts finish and the film comes on they do at least go quiet. But that’s when the man in the seat immediately behind me starts saying to his companion, “I need a bin”.

Initially I thought, just throw your rubbish on the floor like everyone else, but then I realised he didn't want to throw rubbish…he wanted to throw up!

Fortunately I had not taken my coat off and it did have a hood attached, so I started to think about slipping the hood on to avoid getting showered in projectile vomit.

However, the man didn't throw up, as it seemed he was actually having some kind of a panic attack.

His companion assisted him to the floor, so he could calm his now hyperventilating friend.

The whole thing lasted just a few minutes and didn’t spoil the film but it reminded me of all those times I had suffered panic attacks in the past.

The last one I had in a theatre was during the interval of Death of A Salesman, a brilliant production with Wendell Pierce and Dame Sharon D Clarke. I am still sorry I didn't see the second act but that’s what living with anxiety can be like. You never quite know what will trigger an attack.

My anxiety levels have been running pretty high lately, and I’ve been forgetful and distracted…it’s why I’m planning a fortnights break in the New Year.

And you know what, for all the nuisances that other people can cause, generally speaking, being in an audience at a theatre or a cinema is one of the best places I can ever hope to be.

I have many theatre trips planned in the New Year, fingers crossed I get to see all of the show.

Back To Before

Back To Before

December 18th

Apology: It would appear that yesterday’s blog included a factual inaccuracy. Apparently you don’t plug your Prius into the mains, it’s a hybrid. I apologise unreservedly for getting the scientific facts wrong.

It also appears that I neglected to mention Star Trek! Now getting science fact wrong is acceptable but getting science fiction wrong in unforgivable.

To make up for that glaring error, today I shall write about Star Wars.

I know that there are some people who cannot bring themselves to embrace both Star Trek and Star Wars, they pick their team and support it fanatically.

I’ve always been flexible in my sci-fi tastes - I will watch anything and enjoy it for what it is. From Forbidden Planet to Babylon 5, from Dr Who to Quantum Leap…loved it all.

But back to Star Wars. Tonight I shall be sitting in my local cinema, just after midnight, to be one of the first audience members to see the final instalment in this 40 plus year journey.


I’ve avoided reading reviews, I don’t know what the story will say or how they will close this saga but I can assure you of one thing…however this thing ends, I’ll accept it.

I’m not going to be one of those people who get all upset and start petitions because they don’t like the ending! That was bad enough after the end of Game of Thrones!

It’s fiction…they can do what they want and if you don’t like it, tough.

I would have preferred that the Titanic didn’t sink. I know that undermines the emotional impact of the movie but I’ve thought about it and a small rewrite would still give us the tragedy of Jack’s death, just in a different way.

Picture the scene, Jack and Rose in the cabin as he prepares to paint her portrait. Rose slips out of her cloths exposing her breasts, nipples like puppy dog noses…and Jack has a stroke.

But Rose doesn't like being stroked so she stabs Jack in the neck! Blood spurts all over the puppies, and she then drags his limp and lifeless body to the deck and throws his carcass overboard accidentally dropping her necklace in the process.

There we have it, emotionally compelling drama but the ship sails into New York and we get a happy ending too. It’s got Oscar written all over it.

Anyway, enough of this silly fiction, let’s get back to some serious fiction.

I didn't see Star Wars; A New Hope until 1978, it didn't make it to our local cinema until well into the new year, but I had already read all about it in the fan magazines we used to read in those days before the internet. The days when only paid writers had opinions, not any idiot with access to a  keyboard.

Watching Star Wars for the first time, on the big screen, with that opening sequence of rolling text  (memories of Flash Gordon)  the music of John Williams and then the appearance of that first space craft…I was smitten. And I’ve watched with interest over the next 40 years as the franchise grew and the story developed, and we travelled forwards and backwards in time.

Some of the films I enjoyed more than others but tonight I’m guessing that the completion of the journey will give me a sense of fulfilment.

At least I lived long enough to see it through.

As a boy who always dreamed of space and adventure, Star Wars certainly did give me not only the droids I was looking for, but so much more.


Star Wars may be coming to an end but in the coming year, we shall have new Star Trek to devour and one thing is clear, no matter what else changes in the world, I shall never tire of visiting that galaxy far, far away.

Popular

Popular

17th December

This story is based upon actual events but the names and places have been changed to protect the innocent.


After restarting the daily blog, I didn't really expect that it would change the face of social media. I was right.

So much negativity and hatred permeate all the major platforms through which people ‘communicate’ and I guess my vanity project will just get lost in a sea of awfulness and wickedness.

That’s why I want to say thank you to the 40 or 50 people reading the blog.

It’s nice to be noticed. It’s nice to feel of use.

I hope you will have noted that even when I write about serious issues, there is a whiff of whimsy and a halo of humour that overarch the theme.

I don’t really want to upset people, I do want folk to smile…that’s because I’m professionally nice.

I’d like you to think about that for a minute. How hard it is to be nice to everyone, all of the time.


Just think how many idiots you meet in the course of your day and think about how you deal with them.

Are there times when someone upsets you in some way and you just let them have it…both barrels?

Do you feel better afterwards?

Well I never get that chance. I have to be nice to everyone, all of the time.

Let me explain why.

Imagine the scene; you’re walking across a supermarket car park, carrying your bags, laden with fish fingers and wine (just the essentials) and you are a little confused because your car isn’t where you parked it.

In truth your car is exactly where you parked it, you’ve just forgotten where that was.

Anyway, you’re wandering around the car park like Moses in the wilderness when you suddenly hear the loud and continuous sound of a car hooter…right behind you.


Almost dropping your precious cargo, you stop and turn around and there’s an old fellow in his immaculately clean Toyota Prius. You know, the ones that creep up on you without making any engine noise.

A lady I presume to be his wife is sat neatly beside him. Staring. At me.

I can’t raise my hand to apologise for being in his way, shopping bags prevent that simple gesture. However, he has his hands free and offers a gesture of his own.

Now that was uncalled for, and for a split second I feel like walking around to the side of his car, accidentally banging my shopping bag on his door, before shouting at him to ‘drop dead you miserable old git’.

But then the professionally nice side of my brain kicks in…just seeing his wife sitting there makes me realise that tomorrow I could actually be knocking on her door, to help sort out the funeral of her suddenly departed husband.

So, a nod of the head, you step aside and let the silent car slide by and out of sight.

I cannot tell you how many rude and idiotic people I meet every day, and I cannot tell you how sore my tongue is from being permanently bitten.


I actually don’t mind being nice to people, but there are some that take advantage of other people’s niceness by being extra bitter or cynical.

So is there a moral to this car park drama?

Yes: in a world where it’s very easy to snap and join the tidal wave of hatred flooding into our lives, why not bite your tongue and become the better person?

Then you can be like me.  In your head you’re looking at someone and thinking ‘what a dickhead', whilst a beatific smile covers your face.

You can rise above the idiots and feel totally superior because at least you have the ability to pretend to be nice to people who really need to be electrocuted the next time they plug their bloody Prius in!

Have a lovely day.

Everyone's A Little Bit Racist

Everyone’s A Little Bit Racist

Monday 16th December

Wide awake at stupid o’clock in the morning with all sorts of thoughts running through my head, so I thought where’s the best place to deposit stupid thoughts and here we are.

Have you ever noticed how there are no obese news readers?

Why is that do you think?

I mean there are great news readers and reporters who are BAME or LGBT  but not FAT.

You must be ultra thin, so you can talk about your latest marathon but you can’t be chubby and sit there cradling a Snickers.

You must be trim and dress in beautifully tailored suits but you can’t be stocky or big boned and wear slacks with elasticised waistbands.

You just cannot be fat and be on TV especially to read the news.

And, as a fatty myself, I’m going to own that word and use it for the rest of this blog.


If television is the place where diversity reigns supreme and we are supposed to see ourselves represented, where are the role models for all the fat kids who want to be news readers…or present any show on TV?

They can’t all end up as Mr Tumble can they?


If you want to see fat people on TV, it’s usually in a documentary where someone weighing 147 stone is trapped in their bedroom and has to be rescued by lots of very fit fireman and slim doctors.

Or the other time you see fat people on TV, it’s so they can be laughed at; but that’s OK isn’t it, because fat people are jolly and don’t mind a bit of leg pulling? (NB, please don’t try pulling a really fat persons leg on your own, you can get a serious back injury).

We are at that time of year when lots of thin people pad themselves up to become fat and jolly, because Santa can be fat.

Can Santa be black?

(Just thought I’d drop that in to set all the Daily Mail readers off).

I live in Mansfield, a town which has a local council and a former Mayor, that condones casual racism. I’m guessing very few people would accept and understand when and how they are being racist though.


I’d go even further and say that making jokes about fat people would be thought of as fine, and easy to do. As easy as a fat person falling from his chair as he struggles to reach his next burger and fries.

Fat people are lazy, greedy and make bad choices and so we cannot put them on TV to read the news because no one would be paying attention to the stories; they’d either be too disgusted to watch or they’d be making jokes about their size.


Maybe some fat people at home wouldn’t watch, as they’d feel uncomfortable seeing what they look like through the eyes of others, and let me tell you that’s one thing that fat people do think about a lot.

I understand there has been some research done about how we judge people, people that we see for the first time.

If someone you have not met before walks into a room, perhaps a man, in a plain blue suit, and it’s clear to see that he is weighing in at well over 25 stones, then be honest, how’d you describe him?

Fat man in blue suit?  OK you might not say ‘fat’, you might be one of those people who use ‘obese’ or ‘overweight’ and I thank you for the thoughtfulness but you’re still describing him by his appearance.

You can replace ‘fat’ for ‘black’ or ‘Asian’ and still get the point I think.


All of those words carry their own baggage, and with ‘fat’, well there are just not many positive feelings about fat people.

The world is allowed to hate and shame fat folk without regard to their personal feelings and all because you think us fat people can change.

We don’t need to see ourselves represented on TV, reading the news, because we don’t need to exist.

Except for news reports about the obesity epidemic…then you need us.  How else would you film all of those shots of faceless belly’s wobbling down working class streets?

And let’s not forget, fat also equals poor. There are no rich fat people, that’s because the rich live on a diet of quail and cocaine neither of which are fattening, even with a side order of fries.

On the inside of every poor fat person is a rich thin person trying to get out…yes, we ate them for breakfast.

Are there days when I’d like to be thinner…of course there are.
There are days when I’d like to be younger, more handsome, be able to play the piano and sing like Pavarotti too (or a thin opera singer).

But today I am just me, an ageing fat man, with more chins than a…whoops!

I can accept that most of the time.  But it’s on days like that when I look on TV and think…why are there no fat news readers?

When The Sun Goes Down In The South

Sunday 15th December

When The Sun Goes Down In The South

Warning: This blog discusses mental health issues.


Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time…

Thomas Merton


I’m pretty sure that most of you are aware that I have recurring bouts of anxiety and sometimes even depression.

Part of my coping mechanism is to escape into a world that gives me a  chance to head off the worst effects of that illness.  I know it might sounds a bit over the top but when you suffer from anxiety you really do build a wall around your life, to try and protect yourself from the things that might trigger an attack.  Behind that wall you feel a little safer, it’s the place you can always retreat to when things get a bit too much.

My love of the arts is a huge part of that coping mechanism.


Music, theatre, films and TV, literature, these parts of my defence are made up of  many people,  actors, musicians, authors, all providing me with an artistic refuge from this world that, at times, I can barely stand to live in.

Rene Auberjonois was part of that defence.


I’ve been obsessed with acting since I was a child. I have a vague memory of being a reindeer in an infant school nativity type show and although the details are foggy, I believe whilst the other reindeers did two circuits of the stage, I completed a third solo circuit!

I would spend hours watching old films on our black & white TV and soon became a huge fan of John Wayne, Laurel & Hardy, Abbott & Costello and those wonderful old horror films with Karloff and Lugosi.

It seems pretty clear to me now, that the appeal in those films was never about the stars though, it was the great supporting actors, the character actors, that drew me in.

John Wayne was great but Chill Wills and Walter Brennan were much more entertaining.


Soon I was keeping records, lists of all the actors who I enjoyed watching, and so I was the only boy in secondary school who not only knew the name Gale Sondergaard but I could bore for England on the topic of George Sanders.

My interest in character actors has never wained and that brings me to the multi talented, Tony Award winning, Rene Auberjonois.

The first film I recall seeing him in was The Hindenburg, and he was in good company surrounded by brilliant actors like Charles Durning, Burgess Meredith and Richard Dysart.  He was also in the TV series Benson playing Clayton Endicott III - the snobbish, hypochondriac chief of staff.

The face, the voice, it just worked and I became a fan.

Of course he was also well known from numerous other guest appearances on The Bionic Woman and The Man From Atlantis (you can see what my TV diet was in the 70’s) and his voice was used in countless cartoon series over the years including Scooby Doo and famously as Chef Louis in The Little Mermaid, but I’ll come back to that voice in a while.



Of course as soon as he appeared in Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country, and later created the role of Odo in Deep Space 9, he cemented his place in my list of all time favourite performers.

When you read up about him, when you see his theatrical background & pedigree, there is little doubt as to why he was able, from behind
this prosthetic and unmoving façade, to deliver such heartfelt and moving performances as Odo.

With a long and successful career, he was still cropping up in many of my favourite series of today, most recently Madam Secretary.

I did get the chance to meet him when he came over to a Star Trek Convention in Birmingham. He was a delight to spend time with: refreshingly honest and a little grumpy but still willing to chat about another aspect of his career which is narrating audio books.

I haven’t really read a book for about 10 years instead  I’ve become an addict of audio books. For me it’s not the subject that makes the book interesting, it’s the voice reading it.

It’s why if Scott Brick is reading it then I’ll buy it. The same is true for Rene Auberjonois. Luckily though he reads books that I have come to love, including the Agent Pendergast series by Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child.


18 novels bought to life by his voice and in my head the voice of Special Agent AXL Pendergast will always be Rene’s.  That low, almost whispered, southern drawl, I can hear it even now.  Goodness knows how they replace him and how I can listen to the next book without his voice reading it.

Without even knowing, or caring, Rene Auberjonois became part of the support network I have built around myself these last 20 odd years.

His voice, his appearances on TV, his humanitarian work (especially with Medecins Sans Frontieres) all part of a reassuring and stabilising presence.

Those who know me well will understand that I don’t mind talking about the somewhat fragile nature of my mental health over the years, and being quite honest I’ve been at a low ebb for sometime…it’s why I was very saddened  when I heard that Rene had died.

For his family and close friends this will be a difficult time, and although he lives on in all the good work he has done, they will miss him.

But as an artist, he will survive and today I wanted to say thank you Rene, thank you for the quality of your work, work which enabled me to lose myself when I most needed to.

With thanks to Douglas Preston for the photo

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!