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!