Dus Tha Speaky Da Lingo?

If you don't understand the above title, don't worry! I will explain in a moment.

While walking through my local town centre yesterday there was a group of devil-dodgers doing the usual shouting and praising. I noticed in the group a rather large lady, who by the sound of her accent was from the West Indies. There was a man who seemed to be the head of the group, reading from the only book in his library in a half-Shakespearian, half-trade-unionist style of voice. Every time he finished a sentence, he held his arms up to the sky (hoping a Lufthansa jet didn't fall into them). This was a sign for his devout followers to raise their Bibles high in the air and rejoice. What amused me the most was the large West Indian woman held up her Bible and shouted, “PRAISE DI LARD!” I couldn't help but think, looking at her, that maybe she should, “PRAISE DI OLIVE OIL” for a while and get a few of those pounds off!

But having thought this, I realised that here in Yorkshire where I live, we also have our own peculiar way of speaking. I have in the past while on holiday in Turkey reverted to speaking "broad Yorkshire" with a fellow traveller. Not only did the locals not have a clue what we were saying, but also most of the English people were baffled as well. So today I thought I would teach you a bit of our own strange language.

If you are thinking of visiting Yorkshire for a holiday you are in for a treat. Yorkshire is the biggest county in Britain, and very diverse. We have industrial cities, beautiful country villages, and a wonderful coastline. We have everything a traveller will need. But do be aware of our ways: we are known for our straight talking. There is no attempt to hide what we think about things. There's an old Yorkshire joke that goes like this.

Two young Yorkshire men were unfortunate enough to find themselves working down in London and were like fish out of water. They decided to go out for a night and see if they could strike lucky, with a couple of the local ladies. While in a night club they found that lots of the ladies couldn't understand the way they spoke, so one of the men asked a local man how to approach the ladies. The local told them that you should go up to a girl dance along side of them then pay them a compliment. Both Yorkies nodded in agreement. Seeing a large girl gyrating to the music on the dance floor, one of the lads thought he would go over and try his luck with her. He did a bit of "dad dancing" and slid up alongside of her, then turned and winked at his friend who was holding up two thumbs in encouragement. The other then took a deep breath and turned to the dancing queen. He had thought of a killer chat-up line that he thought couldn't fail. So in his poshest voice said, “Tha dunt sweat much for a fat lass dus tha?” Translated, “You don't sweat much for a fat girl, do you?” Unfortunately lots of Yorkshire men don't think that's a joke!

There are three "Ridings" to Yorkshire, North, West, and East. I have no idea what happened to the south riding. But South Yorkshire is where you will have the most problems understanding the locals. Try this one. "Aye up, 'ow's tha doin'?" That is a warm greeting: “Hello, how are you doing?” What about this - “Gis a sup o' that will yer?” That translates as, “Give me a drink of that will you?” The polite response here in Yorkshire when asked this question while drinking your pint of beer in a pub is, “Piss off and buy yer own, ya scrounging bastard!”

While dining out, you must remember that food without brown sauce or ketchup is known as a pile of shite! A sandwich is a butty, and when told to, “get yer laughing gear around it!” means to take a bite of your food.

When a Yorkshireman refers to your wife as "love" he is just being polite, he is not trying to smooth talk her. If he says to your wife, “Fancy a pint?” then he is trying to smooth talk her. We use the word "love" for everyone. If you are a man and a Yorkshire man calls you "love" it's not meant in a slushy sloppy way, he is being friendly. When he call you pal he is being unfriendly as in, “You got a problem wi' me, pal?”

So if you are visiting Yorkshire you will have a wonderful time. Call in on the Dales, then nip across to Whitby. Visit the ancient city of York, or go shopping in Leeds: you will have a warm and friendly welcome. But so you can understand the locals, I am setting you some homework. Look up the song, "On Ilkley Moor baht 'at!" and try to decipher the words. If you visit my home town of Huddersfield I might bump into you, so until then, "Si Thi!" (see you).

Them Bones, Them Bones!

Here in Britain, we have recently found a king in a car park! No, this isn't some salacious tabloid headline, he had been buried there hundreds of years ago. I don't think it was a Mafia hit, or that it was a car park at the time.

So let's get all the jokes out of the way before we carry on, shall we? When they found King Richard's body and stuck him in a box, he was heard to be shouting. “A hearse, a hearse, my kingdom for a hearse!” Leicester city council have hit him with a ten thousand pound parking charge! Thank you folks, I'm here all week - bring the kids!

I think the detective work to find the body is quite interesting, but the sight of the morbidly stupid queuing for four hours to pay homage to a pile of bones is beyond comprehension! Have they not read any history books? OK we know that history is to the victor, but even if he didn't kill his nephews in a Shakespearean plot, he was still, like all royalty, a dictator who was responsible for thousands of deaths, because of his vanity and greed.

Life in his time was short and could be quite brutal. His reign, like all kings and queens, did nothing for the ordinary people of Britain, just the same as with the present monarchy. Lots of people lost their lives in brutal battles to feed his thirst for power. So the sight of happy clappy types carrying white roses to lay on a box of bones belonging to a murdering despot seems like an act of stupidity to me. How come he's not ended up on a table in an archaeological department somewhere? That's what happens to all the other bones that are dug up in this country: well, either there, or a forensic lab!

Who has paid for this bone-fest? We, the great unwashed are being squeezed all the time by our government. We are told that the disabled and the vulnerable are having their benefits cut and yet we are all concerned about a pile of bones! Is it me or is there something wrong with our thinking here?

I did like the news that the only living relative of Richard III, THIS TIME IT'S SPINAL! (Sorry,I couldn't help that one) was a carpenter living in Dudley West Midlands. If you're not from Britain, Dudley is a place where kings and queens have lived for generations. It a place of great beauty that I must urge you that if you visit Britain you must pay a visit to Dudley. If you're from Britain, its quite funny, isn't it, that the lineage of a king would end up cutting up wood in Dudley?

I suppose we all have someone famous related to us if we dig back far enough, I just hope that I don't have any royal connections. Being of Irish and Italian descent, I don't think there's much chance of that happening to me. I am related to the Fortes though. If you don't now who they are, they own Trust house Forte and Welcome Breaks and lots of other concerns. The woman who does the hotel inspector program on TV is a member of the Forte family. I can't remember her name, or be bothered looking it up.

So even in my family one branch has gone on to bigger and better things, while one side has ended up writing dodgy books and bitter blogs!

Back to the royals, I recently visited a wonderful school in the Midlands. I won't mention the name of the school, but I will say that they have created a wonderful place of learning for lots of young people who find life tough. They are so good at what they do that they have won recognition for their work. So, as a thank you, do you know what they got? A visit from a minor royal. This royal is so far down the pecking order that even a direct hit on Buckingham palace with a nuclear bomb wouldn't put him in line for the throne! But they did send out secret police to check that all was safe for his visit. They did check me out because I was visiting on the same day! I hope they read the blog (probably still reading it!). They didn't come out to the school once, but several times. Why? I had never heard of this person, why do we have to pay for such rubbish? And why didn't they send Bear Grylls to the school instead, as all the kids would have been over the moon from a visit by him. This Duke or whatever title he holds didn't even spend time with the kids. His loss! The staff and the pupils there are wonderful company.

I think the British love affair and the American love affair with royalty is bizarre, we are having all our budgets slashed yet we waste millions and millions of pounds on an old woman and her ever increasing family.

I wonder if its against the law to call yourself, 'His highness'? What the hell does that mean anyway? Highness? Is it because she stands on a ladder? Or lives on a mountain? It's just another of those creepy things that royal worshippers like to say. 

My new book is called "Death's Door", out soon from the King's England Press, order your copy now! I am seriously thinking of putting my name on the book as his royal highness prince Gez of Huddersfield. I think it would increase sales!

UKIP Are Just all Xanadu?

UKIP are lots of things, but they are mainly a so-called political party representing "little Britain", that focuses on one issue, while ignoring the important issues. I am beginning to think that they are employed by the Tories to whip the great unwashed up into a frenzy over one single issue, and keeping them amused, while leaving the Tories to systematically dismantle the country piece by piece. That's enough about them!

I only mention this because the above title was shouted out this week by a wonderful old woman. She had taken to the streets of Halifax, a small Yorkshire town, to start her own political party. She had a microphone which wasn't turned on or plugged into anything. She was wrapped against the cold, biting Northern weather, with many layers of clothing. She wasn't a glossy politician type with many spin doctors. To be honest the only spin doctor I think she used was cider! But even though she was as mad as a box of frogs and people laughed at her malapropisms and her conspiracy theories, I think I fell in love with her. She had passion (most of it drink-induced) but it was a passion that at one time, I think, had reason behind it.

But the thing that I couldn't work out was the line about UKIP? What did she mean, 'Xanadu'? I checked to make sure that she wasn't actually Olivia Newton John, fallen on hard times, then I did something I really should stop doing, I went over to talk to the mad woman.

She must have been in her seventies, but drink and cigarettes have a habit of doing makeovers on the face, leaving the victim looking many years older than their true age. When I approached her, people stopped to look on and see just what I was going to do, I think they were hoping that I would do something cruel to her for their own amusement. Before I could open my mouth the old lady turned on me, accusing me of killing innocent children in Africa! I wasn't aware that I had done this. Before she could accuse me of the Holocaust as well, I quickly said, “Why do you think UKIP are Xanadu?” This threw her at first then she blurted out, “You a fucking UKIP supporter then?”

I assured her that was as far from the truth as you could get, so she seemed to physically mellow in front of my eyes, and asked me if I had any cigarettes. I seem to spend my life buying homeless types cigarettes. I promise you, I'm not trying to kill off the homeless, we already have a government that does that for us! I told her that I didn't smoke, and she looked rather peeved at this, so I nipped into a nearby shop and bought her ten cigs.

She then went on to explain her views on life and politics. Some I have to say, were not as mad as you would think. Having a northern Parliament, lowering the voting age, and re-nationalising certain industries were for me all quite good ideas. Building alien landing strips on the north Yorkshire moors and banning curry were not! The curry thing wasn't a racist slur by the way, quite the opposite. She thought it altered our view of the Asian continent. “We don't see it as a wide and diverse culture, but only as a Vindaloo!” is what she said. The thing I loved about her was her obvious intelligence coupled with her use of malapropisms. She told me that when she was going through the menopause her doctor had refused to give her HIV patches! And that politics was 'fucked up' when Lionel Blair got into power. I wish Lionel Blair had got into power: he might have done a better job!

I love malapropisms. As I get older, because of my dependence on 'spell check' and my lack of interest in checking the pieces of work that I send people, I seem to have fallen into this trap. I don't use them (that much) when speaking, but also my failure to admit my need of wearing glasses as I get older, means that my written work is often littered with many an unintentional 'malapropism'.

While doing my radio show one day, (Radio Phoenixfm 96.7fm, Wednesdays 2 till 4 pm) I quickly tried to send my wife a text in-between tracks. I have to say that, with my failing eyesight, the radio studio is the worst place for me. There is something about the lighting in there which leaves me unable to read things. My wife works shifts, so I had sent her a text asking if she had had a good shift. I received a text back saying that I was, “one sick bunny!?” I didn't understand why my wife would reply in this way so I re-read the text that I had sent her. It read, “Have you had a good shit?”

I had missed out a crucial 'F' (story of my life).

My wife is also prone to the odd malapropism herself. We were once on holiday and a young local woman started up a conversation with us. This young woman was very pleasant and quite informative about the attractions on offer locally. But no matter what she said, we couldn't help but notice that she was sporting a beard that any Imam would be proud of. We saw the same woman again just before we were due to fly back home and couldn't help but notice that the beard had gone. Her face was red and there were tiny dots along her chin so she hadn't shaved but had work done to remove the offending chin covering. We chatted with the lovely person then said our goodbyes. As we walked away, my wife whispered to me, “She's had that Electrolux treatment!” I did explain to my wife that unless she had booked an electrical appliance company specifically to come along and give the poor woman a facial, the lady may have had electrolysis treatment!

I do urge readers of this blog to stop and chat to people that you would normally run away from, the mad and the sad. As a writer, I find these people have a wonderful view of life coupled with, usually lots of pain and misery but you can learn a lot from them. If you are still wondering, by the way, why the old lady thought that UKIP were all Xanadu, well it turns out that she was trying to say "xenophobic"!

Do You Remember Your First Time?

Life is full of first times: first breath, first smile. First steps - for a child, each day if full of firsts.

Then, as we get older, we remember such things as our first kiss. I genuinely can't remember my first kiss, when, or who it was with (I'm such a slut!). I married my first love. She wasn't my first in any other respect, but she was my first love.

We also have other firsts that stay with us through out our lives, The first record you ever bought?

Now, when I have asked this on my radio show, nearly everyone phones in to say it was a David Bowie track, or the Beatles! If your first record, CD, or download is a cool track by a cool artist/artists, you are either lying or you were thirty when you bought your first piece of music. My first record that I ever bought was 'Mouldy Old Dough' by Lieutenant Pigeon! If you want to know just what a hard rocking piece of work I am, look this song up, it will blow your mind. (Sorry, what I mean is, you will want to blow out your brains after a minute of listening to it). You know you are not cool when the piece of music that first stirs some emotion in you has one of the band members' mother in the band, playing piano! The first album that I bought, though, was cool and still is cool - 'Tubular Bells' Mike Oldfield.

The reason that I'm telling you this is because I have been recently working with some young people who want to be comedy writers. They are young and full of enthusiasm for life and comedy. I love being around such people, as I'm one of life's cynics who has seen it, won it, done it, lost it, spun it all. To see things through a fresh pair of eyes makes me smile through gritted teeth! The question that I get asked by these guys all the time is, “How do you become funny?” As the great Harry Muntz once said to me, “When you know what funny is kid, sell it, and you'll never have to work again!” He was right, there is no such thing. I could tell a joke (something I never do) to one person who might laugh for a week having heard it. I could tell the same joke in the same way to another person and they might look at me as if I had just pissed on their chips! All comedians will tell you that their sure fire routine went down a storm in one venue, only to have the same routine heckled and ignored the night after at the same venue. What is funny in one town, country, continent is usually offensive in others: trust me, I know.

The young people that I'm working with, all except one, have the correct  mind set. They know that to succeed as a comedian you have to have skin as thick as a rhino. One of the group takes criticism to heart and is crushed by a bad response to his material. No one can teach you to be funny, no workshop, no book, nothing! You can get advice about performing, about the business and about how to alter your act when you are out there dying on your arse. But I believe that you are either funny, or you're not. The young guy who I have just mentioned dies because he doesn't understand comedy, and he lacks confidence, which is the main weapon of the comedian. He's a good screen/play writer, but he doesn't understand what it is to be a comedian. Comedians are the ultimate story tellers, We have to be able to read a crowd, and to know when to cut it short.

I was thinking about my first attempt at comedy. I think I was eight years old. My teacher asked us to get together in groups and write a little piece that we could perform. I wrote a piece about a priest coming to my house. What can I say, it was the sixties, and I was at a catholic school! I don't remember anything of what the plot was about, but I put these lines into the play.

Priest Arrives at a house.

Mother. Oh hello Father.

Child. He's not my father?! 

(That's it? Thank you folks, I'm here all week, bring the kids.)

This little scenario reduced my whole class to fits of hysterics. Honest, you have to remember was the sixties, with only two TV channels, when Max Bygraves was regarded as the godfather of light entertainment, This was satire from an eight year old at the time. I was hooked! This was my first fix, and I had been seduced by the sound of laughter of my peers. There was no turning back. 

Over the next few days, I worked away at home writing a script that would blow the whole class away. I had found my calling: there was no stopping me. I was only eight, so the play I wrote was in effect just a joke, of sorts. They say write about what you know. The priest joke had worked before, so now I had worked out a killer priest joke. This joke was surely going to get me on to the royal command performance. In fact I was sure that I was going to be the first eight year old to be knighted for services to comedy for this gag.

I eagerly worked out how the gag went, practised it, and laughed every time I said it out loud. I begged my teacher to let me perform this to the class. Having realised that she had finally found a way to engage me into producing some form of work, she was happy to let me have my thirty seconds of fame. On the morning of my big performance, I felt physically sick with both fear and excitement. Ask anyone who goes on stage for a living/fun and they will tell you the same. Finally my big moment arrived, I took deep breaths and stepped out into the abyss. This was the joke.

The mother had been up all night baking bread waiting for the priest to arrive the next day. Because he was a priest she used holy water and blessed the bread as she made it. That day when the priest arrived to have words with her wayward son she offered the priest some of her bread. The priest refused but said that he wouldn't mind a cup of tea and a slice of toast. The mother made the tea and made the toast from her holy bread then sat in with her son and the priest in the front parlour (Very wise move, not to leave a priest and a young boy alone). Moments later, the mother's friend called to the house to see her and asked her husband what she was doing, to which her husband replied, “She's in the parlour with the father, son and the holy toast!”

There are two kinds of silence, normal silence and the type of silence that gnaws at your bones, the type I was suffering just after telling this joke. There was nothing, until the teacher spoke, saying, “Very good , now come on class, get your writing books out, we have work to do". I was by now repeating the punch line over and over, thinking that they might not have heard me the first time. But nothing: the people had spoken, and it was crap!

I think I'm over it now, but it still makes me cringe, nearly fifty years later. I still think this is a much better gag than the “He's not my father!” line, and I still think that for an eight year old that is quite a sophisticated gag to write. I have in the past been tempted to  use it again in something that I have been trying to write, but the fear of it failing twice has always put me off trying it out again, until now.

So those were my two of my firsts, The first time I experienced the seduction of laughter, and the first time I died on stage. Well standing in front of my class. The strange thing is that out of all my firsts, these two are the ones that are still the most vivid in my mind.

The wonderful Terry Pratchett.

It was so sad yesterday to hear the news of the passing of one of Britain's greatest writers. He was, and always will be, one of my all time favourite novelists. Not only did he spin a good story, but he made you believe in trolls and demons and witches. His Discworld novels were a fantastic sideways look at the human condition. You cared about the characters that he created, making the unbelievable, believable.

The descriptive work he produced was second to none. The description of the staff taking roots in Equal Rites was a phenomenal piece of writing. His description of the Silver Horde as being, “not that fast, but never in the place you expected them to be,” was brilliant.

I discovered his work late in the nineties when I bought The Hogfather to read while on holiday. It was recommended to me by a friend, and, to be honest, I wasn't that keen on reading it, as I tend to read only factual books as a rule. Having read the book, I was soon hooked and now proudly own all his books in hardback. They are my little treasures, that I re- read often. As with all great pieces of art, you discover something new every time you read them.

If you talk to any Discworld fan, they will tell you that they have a favourite character. For me, there are so many to choose from that it is hard to say which is my favourite, though I do have a soft spot for Corporal Nobby Nobbs. But I also love the contrast between the two witches. We have all met two old women like these, who seem to be friends but you can never understand how or why!

If you have never read a Discworld novel, I envy you, because you have such a wealth of books to read and people to meet for the first time. You will be guided through a strange world that you seem to recognise. But most of all, you will laugh out loud as you journey on through each story, falling in love with the many characters.

It was well known that Terry suffered from a rare form of Alzheimer's, but this didn't stop him from writing or dull his wit. He wrote and campaigned for more study on the disease he suffered from, right up until his early and untimely death yesterday. He even donated half million pounds for more studies to be carried out. He will be sorely missed by millions of people the world over.

I would love to think that when death visited him he was carrying his hour glass in his hand and they both rode off on the horse together.

Terry Pratchett 1948-2015.

Don't Mention The War!

If you have ever seen the brilliant sitcom, Fawlty Towers, you may remember the scene where Basil (John Cleese) keeps talking about the war to a bunch of German customers. He then goes into the kitchen to announce to the rest of the staff, “Don't mention the war! I did once but I think I've got away with it!”

I had a conversation today (more like an argument) with a man who thinks that you should keep quiet and not say things that will upset people. Sorry, but everything you say and do will upset someone. I was ranting about the news today, about the mindless troglodytes Isis or whatever they call themselves. They had a child shoot a man in the head at point blank range: this is nothing more than fascism. They hate everything that is not them, in fact, they even hate what is them! 

The man I argued with said that these people don't represent the majority of Muslims. Sorry, they do! Like all religions, it's based on ignorance and fear. It worryingly claims to be the final religion, so no more can follow. This is a religion that was supposedly told to an illiterate war merchant by God! He then remembered every word, which he then passed on to his devoted, blinded followers. The religion is, like all religions, intolerant to free speech and free thinking. Why would a supreme being be bothered about who you slept with or what you ate, or on what day you ate it? This religion is a rehash of all the other middle-eastern religions. If you are part of it, you agree that to leave it is punishable by death! That if you are gay, it is punishable by death, and to call the so-called prophet is also punishable by death! These are facts about this religion. If you believe this religion, you also must believe these bigoted, retarded views of life! Like all religions, children are indoctrinated from birth, and like the Jewish religion, the Muslims practice genital mutilation on their male children. To circumcise a child for no reason is mutilation!

The man that I was arguing with today said that I shouldn't speak out about this religion, as there could be dire consequences. This is strange because the very same thing was said to people in Germany in the thirties and Forties. We have to speak out: we have to show our outrage that such barbaric acts could be tolerated in the name of anything! If I were writing this blog in the thirties I would be writing about the catholic church, which aligned itself with the Nazis. You know the church I mean, the loving, peaceful, turn-the-other cheek religion, that didn't only turn a blind eye to the massacre of millions of innocents but, by aligning themselves with the perpetrators, sanctioned the killings.

Having been through all they have endured, not only in the thirties and forties but throughout history, you'd think the Jewish nation of Israel would be the most forward thinking and tolerant country on earth. But unfortunately they behave like their tormentors when it comes to the problems with Palestine. The Old Testament, as it is known in the Christian religion, is full of genocide, where races are decimated in the name of their God. To be fair to them, their God only tortured them while they were alive - he left them alone once they died. It was that peace-loving carpenter that introduced eternal damnation and suffering!

I get really angry when people tell me that we need religion for our morals! Where are the morals of all these people who kill in the name of a so called supreme being? The supreme being that gives children bone cancer! Lets women live as second class citizens. Lets millions die a slow painful death of starvation. Remember he/she is an all knowing all seeing being, therefore it knew before these people were born that they would suffer and die this way! This supreme being also lets young children shoot another human being in his name and does nothing about it! I don't want to be part of any such practice, if your loving and tolerant God is going to punish me for eternity because I'm not prepared to worship him, then so be it, as they say!

It amuses me when people say they distrust those with no religion. Everyone on Earth is an atheist; no one worships Zeus or Venus any more, or any other of the thirty thousand gods that have fallen out of favour. I just don't worship one more God than you, if you are a believer.

I am sick of people hiding behind religions to commit acts against humanity, ALL RELIGIONS force people to live abnormal lives. The restrictions placed on the followers are not normal, and the hate and fears it teaches are also not normal. We as humans are unfortunately predisposed to a bit of the supernatural. We love the idea of an afterlife and of a supreme being that answers our every prayer, except for the ones where your loved one is dying of a horrible insidious disease which he gave them. There is no rationale to gods, demons, ghosts or bogeymen, we just want them to be true. We practice rituals to please them which at best are quite silly or at worst are a mental illness.

Throughout history there have been crusades, where one religion feels they must inflict their stupidity on others who are usually blissfully happy without their fearful gods. We here in the west are the worst offenders of this, but now a new group of hateful, bigots is trying to oppress people with their beliefs, and we cannot go back to the thirties, where we turned a blind eye to people being massacred in the name of a retarded ideology. We cannot be afraid to speak out against these people and if it offends people, then they, too, are part of the problem. How can a reasonable, intelligent person not speak out against such a fascist mindless bunch of killers?!

The Mirror Man.

I wish haircuts were charged on the amount of hair you had. Mine would be getting much cheaper each year.

While at the barber the other day I witnessed one of the most narcissistic people I have ever seen!

A young man, in his early twenties I would guess, who could have possibly laid claim to the longest hair cut in history! He stopped the barber after each snip to see how he looked, Then he informed the poor guy with the scissors where and how much he would like the next snip to be. I would have lost it with this halfwit after ten minutes and cut the lot off! After he had his hair cut to his satisfaction, he spent the next ten minutes brushing his hair and looking at it from all angles in the mirror! I don't claim to be an expert on the attractiveness of men, but I don't think that Brad Pitt would be worried about this guy's animal magnetism. I think he would be better to worry about his beer belly than his silly hair cut!

I thought that this was an isolated incident, but the barber informed me that this is a regular occurrence in his shop, where young men obsess over their hair. Surely they can't be that insecure? Which is the real reason behind this show of vanity. I'm of an age where I figure you can't make me look any better, so it's more a damage limitation exercise for me now! I may have been concerned about my looks when I was younger, but I can't remember if I was. I do have a strange arrogant streak which I'm not aware of. This is pointed out to me by others, and is also backed up by film and photos, where I seem to be sneering at people. I genuinely am not aware of this, as I think that I'm being friendly, but when I'm shown the film back, it looks like I'm about to punch someone!

My wife also told me of a woman she knows who actually tells people when they meet her that she is good looking (she's not). This woman is in her early fifties and dresses like she thinks a teenager would dress. I'm afraid she's a bit out of touch with the youth of today, as she looks more 'lady of the night' than 'girl of today'. But she does brag about how many young men she has had sex with. It's quite sad really. I have met this woman, so I'm told, but I don't remember her. My wife told me that I called her a silly cow because of her behaviour when I met her. Of course I would have received a severe reprimand for such language from my wife, even though she agreed with me.

I have been lucky in my life to meet some very beautiful women, my wife being one of them (I have to say that, by law). But these women were not beautiful in the cosmopolitan type of way, they were beautiful because of who they are or were. I really do believe that your personality can alter the way you look. I have met people who are conventionally beautiful, whatever that is. But when you sit and talk to them they seem to change and become very unattractive. This I suppose is like the film, 'Shallow Hal'. Other women may just look like ordinary people but when you spend time with them they light up the room. They seem to have the ability to radiate warmth and contentment. They are not aware of their great beauty, or of the effect that they have on people, and this is what makes them so attractive.

Could you imagine a night out with my 'mirror man'? He would spend the evening preening and posing in the mirror. There would be no conversation unless it was about him, no warmth. Can you imagine how he regards others? I have written before about how I think that people today are losing the ability to have empathy for others. This, I truly believe, is because of social media. People no longer seem to communicate on a personal level, face to face. This is also killing of the art of conversation, the witty reply. It is breeding a generation of people who hide their feelings in public only to turn into trolls in their own private space!

By the way, my comment above about having to say that my wife is beautiful is not true. She is a very beautiful woman, in both the conventional sense and in the way that I described. I have yet to meet anyone who has a bad word to say about her. She is all the things that I am not, gentle, beautiful and tolerant. But my cynical head says she refuses to see people for what they are! She says that I refuse to see people for who they are, and why they behave the way they do. I don't care about who, what, they are, though: I just want them to keep well away from me!

Who Is Gary Glitter?

The above question was asked to me the other day by a twenty something year old.

Of course, people of a certain age know that the paedophile Paul Gadd was once one of the biggest music stars in Britain. Under the stage name of Gary Glitter, he topped the charts quite often in the early to mid seventies. With his band, 'The Glitter Band' (it must have taken them ages to come up with that name) they gyrated their way to the top of the charts dressed in kitchen foil. This was to become known as 'Glam Rock'. I had forgotten about his songs many years ago, only remembering the song, 'I'm The Leader Of The Gang' - this could have course been ironically called 'Do You Want To Touch?' All his songs sounded very similar. He is now locked away, so no one except a very large and hairy cellmate will be touching him anywhere, for quite a while.

The reason I mention this is because I thought everyone knew about Gary Glitter being a pop star. But this is not the case. I asked my questioner if he knew who Noddy Holder was, to which I received a negative response. I asked if he knew the song, 'So Here It Is, Merry Christmas'. He did: I don't think anyone on earth doesn't know this song. I'm sure it will be regarded as a hymn in the future. The thing is that fame is very fleeting, but some things last forever. Although people might not remember Slade, they will remember that song. Glitter, hopefully, will be forgotten in time.

There are lots of people who have written things, sung things, and appeared in things that will be remembered for years, but they themselves are not remembered. Hardly anyone knows the authors of some of the classic novels. Who wrote 'Tarzan'? What about, 'Black Beauty'? Then there's the classic, 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang!' Look them up, the first two were one-hit wonders I think (I don't know of any other books by them) but the third was a very prolific and successful author of a very cool character who was never 'shaken' or stirred' by anything.

There's an advert on the TV at the moment which features the song, 'Let There be Love' My son loves this song and has asked me who it is on many occasions. People of a certain age will find it hard to believe that this singer is not still widely known. There have been many one hit wonders that are remembered today, but not the people that sung them. 'Sugar, Sugar'and 'Oops Upside Your Head!' are just a few songs that people will instantly recognise, but not know who sung them.

Then we have films, What about 'The Wizard of Oz'? I'll start you off: Judy Garland played Dorothy. Now name the people who played the other lead roles. Unless you are an ardent fan, you wouldn't have a clue, even though this film is shown over and over on TV.

I myself suffer from this strange phenomenon. Most young people up to the age of thirty will have seen the book, 'The Spot On My Bum'. They may call it 'the yellow book', as the cover of the book is a bright yellow. Some even say it's that book of rude poems, but they never seem to know that I wrote the book. I have to admit it is not something that has caused me any concern; at least they know the book, and that is the most important thing.

But a statistic I read recently really caused me concern. I found it very hard to believe. 40% of 14 and 15 year old in recent exams in Britain didn't know who Adolf Hitler was! This cannot be true, surely? There is something wrong with the education system if you can reach the age of 15 and not know who the man who was responsible for the deaths of millions was. But having said this, my wife pointed out to me that I'm the first to disagree with the world war memorials that we are forced to endure. I know that millions died for our freedom. The first world war was a political one though, and is a lot harder to commemorate for me. I know that the second world war was also political, but the ideologies of Hitler and his cronies had to be destroyed. Had they not been, I doubt that I would be writing and you would be reading this blog. But for lots of young people this is ancient history and has no relevance to them. This is how history manages to repeat itself! We don't need people laying flowers down for people long dead, we need education for young people who are alive and capable of making the same mistakes of the past.

The Bucket List

I have been talking to someone today who is a lot younger than me, and is as far as I know fit and well. She told me that she had drawn up her bucket list. I thought you were only supposed to do this when you reached your mid-life crisis?

I actually had my mid life crisis in my thirties, honest! I went off the rails in a big way. It was a lot of fun for me, but not much fun for others, I would imagine.

What struck me as odd was some of the things this person had on her list. She wanted to meet a presenter on our local TV here in Yorkshire. I have actually met this presenter a few times, when I have been on TV hawking my wares, sorry, promoting both myself and my work. The gentleman in question seemed amiable enough, but he wouldn't be on my list for anything! Also on her list was to go bungee jumping. I have also done this; it's OK  - nothing spectacular, though. I did my jump from a crane over a lake. It would have been more exciting had it been over the grand canyon, I suppose.

As her list went on I suddenly realised just what a low expectation she had of life. With the exception of a weekend at a beauty spa, I think I had done nearly everything on her bucket list. I have not had a particularly exciting, or unusual life, but I had done nine of her ten things to do before you die. They were all things that were easy to organise, and to achieve. My wife can't see the problem with this, saying that this person should at least be able to complete her list, whereas my ideas are just stupid!
I beg to differ. With the exception of going into space, I reckon I will easily complete my list (though I have only just started writing it tonight). I do want to travel around Australia and go on safari in Kenya, but these are easy to organise and set up when I get the time. I am a bit strange about things, because the main reason for me to visit these places are the same reasons that some people don't want to visit them. I love snakes and all reptiles, and these countries have loads of them. I would love to see some in their natural setting. I have just thought of another bucket list item, as well; to go down the Cresta run in a bob sleigh.

I do think bucket lists are a strange concept, because I believe in taking all opportunities when they come along, even the things I have little or no interest in. I have done quite a few things that I wouldn't want to do again - potholing is one. I just don't see the point. But if someone offered me a chance to go potholing in, say, Borneo I would be off like a shot!

Rather than making a bucket list, I think you should get out there, see what there is, and have a go.  Somewhere along the line, the opportunity to do one of your bucket list items might become a reality.

So, if you are reading this and you work in a school in Australia, book me to come visit you! Then I'll have my excuse to go over there, and tick my Australian odyssey off my list.

The Mad, The Bad And The Ugly!

Oh dear, I think I'm suffering from Deja Vu! Old Adolf Putin, sorry, Vladimir Hitler, sorry, I mean Vladimir Putin (I always get those two mixed up) who is definitely not gay, has been yet again blamed for something he obviously had nothing to do with!

People have accused the bachelor, who is definitely not gay, of having one of his political opponents assassinated! Why would a man such as Putin, who likes to wrestle bare chested with other men, (nothing gay about that), who loves freedom of his speech, and freedom of his liberties, have a liberal reformer killed? I notice that people have also had the audacity to say that he has something to do with the invasion of the Ukraine! These 'rebels' who have Russian passports and are members of the Russian army and are armed by Russia obviously have nothing to do with the Russian President!

The Russian people obviously love him - they have been told to! He, like Thatcher did in Britain in the eighties, is taking his country back to the good old days! Thatcher wanted to go back to 'Victorian values'! It was a shame that, when she had finished, we had no chimneys left to send the children up. The sight of a small, under-nourished child scrambling up a blackened, sooty chimney would have warmed the cockles of her heart. Likewise, Putin wants to take Russia back to the cold war days, so he can isolate the people and rule supreme... er just as he does now! This is a man that is so far on the left he has come full circle and come out on the right. Not "come out" in a gay sort of way, though!

If Russia is not behind the invasion of the Ukraine, then why doesn't he condemn the actions of the troops that are invading a country that showed no aggression towards Russia? Why doesn't he make sure that Russian arms are not supplied to these 'rebels'? If he has no connection to the recent assassination why doesn't he organise an independent inquiry into the killing? That's if he understands the concept of independent, you know, like the Ukraine, an independent country! Well what about the Russian aircraft off the coast of Cornwall, was this a show of aggression or were they fitted with the same navigation systems that Malaysian airlines use?

Maybe he's just misunderstood; he just might need a bit of love and affection, but not the gay type! He's not gay he's.... what's that other word we use for people who can't come to terms with their sexuality, you know the types that over emphasise traits to try mask their true feelings? … confused?

We have also found out who Jihadi John is, this week! I wish they wouldn't give such cartoon type names to cold blooded killers! It makes him sound like a naughty boy, who likes to scrump apples and nick apple pies that have been left on a window sill to cool, and also, now and then, ruthlessly slit the throats of those who try to help 'his people'.

It seems that he's a gentle loving type, who became very cross because the police had investigated him for going abroad to be radicalised! Poor love! These people have the same ideology as thirteenth century thinkers. They are blinded by ignorance and hatred. They have no aims, except to kill and dominate, to squash any semblance of rational freedom of thought and speech. They will only be happy when all people are back in caves, living their lives in fear!

It also seems that the ugly face of football has shown itself again! A few morons refused a black person entry onto a train in Paris last week. What a bunch of knobheads! (that's my politically correct thinking again! Doh!) The powers that be have worked hard since the bleak old days, back in the seventies, when racism was rife on the terraces. They have turned the game round to be what it should be, what it used to be, a game where a father and son or any other combination can stand side by side and cheer for their team! 

The world has no place for people with this type of mentality, and this also goes for the maniacs mentioned above. I might moan about the lack of democracy in this supposedly democratic country, but it has been a long hard battle, where people have lost their lives and their liberties to ensure that we have these freedoms. Don't let the disturbed, bigoted minds and ideologies of people written about in this blog take us back to the brink of destruction that others have done in the past!