Technicolour Memories

I spent some time chatting to my oldest friend the other day. He's my oldest friend because I have known him longer than other friends, not because he'd one hundred and ten years old, by the way.

We both have a shared history. He lived no more than twenty yards from my house and until we were teenagers our days were spent together doing what all young lads of my generation did, getting up to mischief. Here in Yorkshire, we were described as a couple of little buggers! Now if you don't live in Yorkshire and have just choked on a biscuit having read this, it's not what you think. A 'little bugger' here means that you are a mischievous little scamp. Think Dennis the menace, and you get the idea. My wife, on hearing stories of my past, always claims that, as a child, I was feral! There is a slight truth in that: we were not bothered by our parents and left to get on with things. While my wife had parental guidance all through her childhood, we were allowed to run free in the countryside where we lived and during the summer holidays we would go camping together for weeks on end, and then we would really turn feral!

As we spoke the other day, memories came flooding back. All our good childhood memories have been cleaned down, then re-shot in HD Technicolour Panavision. They are the mind's equivalent of hot chocolate and marshmallows, they exist to give you a warm glow of nostalgia, with all the boring and nasty bits sent to the recycling bin!

In my mind's eye, I can see the fields we walked through carpeted with a lush pile of deep chlorophyll-green grass that gently swayed in an hypnotic ballet, as a warm summer breeze teased its way through each individual blade. In the distance, I can still see the woods which were our playground, our theme park. The woods had thick vegetation that clung to their perimeter, giving the impression that the trees had been drawn onto the landscape by a small child. From a distance, it looked like a forest of broccoli. Birds and animals provided our soundtrack, not loud and intrusive but, like all surround-sound, it was there to embrace you, and to add to the ambience. Each day had perfect cloudless blue skies, that radiated happiness. All my childhood memories are of long hot summers and short but magically white winters.

The woods were next to small rivers, or becks as they are known locally. We have no large imposing rivers here. Where we lived is near the moors, which are the source of many a powerful river. So most of the becks that we played in were, like ourselves, young and new to the world and not knowing what lay ahead. The water in the becks was cool and crystal clear, and there was life in them such as sticklebacks, bullheads and brown trout. The trout would swim against the fast flowing currents with just enough force to keep them in one spot. Their mouths were wide open waiting for any morsel of food to be washed down into their waiting ambush.

We would camp out in the woods, which, to us, were filled with dangerous escaped lunatics or murderous beasts. but in reality the most dangerous things in there were our own imaginations. Our tent always smelled of mouldy old socks and damp clothing, giving the impression of living in a mushroom farm. When the dark descended, hungrily eating up any glimmer of light, our imaginations would take over our rationality. Each creak and crack of trees or the sound of any nocturnal creature passing by, was to us, surely a mad, axe-wielding lunatic, or a hungry primeval beast looking for human flesh. We were always sure that something that was about to kill us. The axes we had brought with us to chop fire wood and the knives we had to cook with were seen as swords and battle axes and would be firmly held in our hands as we nervously waited for the imminent attack which never came. Many is the time that we awoke the next morning still clutching hold of an axe or knife, when in reality the most dangerous thing we ever encountered were foxes which regularly came to our camp to steal our food.

We would wander off into new horizons, which in reality were no more than ten miles from where we lived, but to us they were epic journeys of adventure. On stumbling upon a housing development we would encounter the natives. These were kids that never left their estate. For them, the woods and fields were of no use, they needed some form of entertainment made for them. But they didn't like kids from other estates on their patch. We would encounter what was usually one mouthy kid with a few sheep-like followers. The mouth would tell us that we were trespassing on their land and what they were about to do to us. My grandfather had taught me from an early age how to deal with bullies. As with all beasts, if you take care of the mouth, you usually render it useless. I would inflate my little skinny body as much as possible then scream and attack. I was soon known as 'That Mad Kid' but I didn't care because other kids left us alone.

Sometimes, we would encounter large mouthy kids with an even larger following. This was like 'The Lost Boys' meets 'The Lord of the Flies'. Then we would have no option but to run. We were fast and knew the woods, where the other kids only ever played around the edges. Threats would be hurled at us as we led the party of hunters deep into the woods, snarling them up on brambles and jumping across ditches, which they promptly fell into. Once deep in the woods we would wait in ambush for them and hurl stones at them. My friend had an uncanny accuracy with a stone. The group would fall into disarray, many crying as they were lost, while others swore and cursed promising to get their revenge on us if we ever strayed onto their patch again. This, for us was an invitation.

In my mind, there were only ever two seasons, summer and winter. Where my imaginary summers were always hot and long, my winters were short and cold. The snow would fall, re-carpeting the landscape and turning it into a winter wonderland. We couldn't afford gloves, so we put socks over our hands to keep them warm, but this was useless as, after the first snowball fight, they were cold and wet, so we just threw them away! My father was a joiner on the building sites, and when my brother and I were young, he made us a sledge out of plywood and conduit. This sledge was famous all over our estate. Others had sledges bought or made for them, but none could hold a candle to our super sledge. We could get four kids on it at a time, and the speed of it was phenomenal! This would often result in one of my many child hood trips to the local A&E with suspected broken bones or to have various wounds sewn up yet again.

As my friend and I relived these false memories of childhood, it filled us both with gooey sentiment. They were shared false memories which have, over the years, become important to us. Two middle- aged men who should know better laughing at each other and mocking each other, as we chatted about the things we did. But in reality, what we were doing was reaffirming our bond that we had cemented all those years ago. We were the only two people on the planet that could have this conversation, as we were the only two people who had experienced this childhood.

Lots has happened to us both since those days. We have often drifted apart. Not because of any fall outs, just because that's what happens in life. Back then, we had no responsibilities, no worries, the world was big, new and waiting for us to discover it. Now, many years later, we have responsibilities and have discovered the world and found that there are human beasts much worse than the ones we imagined and feared as children. I'm often saddened, and sometimes reduced to tears, when I hear of children who were not allowed a childhood. The terrible news this week of the aberrant crime committed by the retarded ill-educated sheep who rejoice in the name of Taliban, was too much for me to bear The thought of children cowering under a desk begging for mercy, as a low-life mindless Troglodyte shot them, gave me nightmares. To attack an establishment which should be a place of safety for children goes beyond any rational thought. These sheep want the people of the world to live in caves and stop developing as a species. The only modern inventions that they love and embrace are guns and bombs! Surely the world has no place for such inhuman beasts as these?

I'm glad that I had a chance to experience the life that I have had. I'm also glad that the friends that I made back then are still true friends and a big part of my life. I know that my childhood summers weren't all hot and sunny, I live in Yorkshire: we would have had a week of sunshine followed by three weeks of rain, just as we do now. Nor were my winters all cold and snowy, but that's how I shall remember them, and relive them, over, and over in my mind.

Long live technicolour childhoods!

Insects, Bugs, Rocks 'n' Holes

When Charles Darwin first released his book, The Origin of Species, he thought that the church would be up in arms against his theory of evolution. But the church (Anglican, not Papal) were not so much bothered by the thought of evolution - some even agreed with him. What the church couldn't get its head round was that life for animals was so short, cold and brutal. They had bought into the idea of the hymn, All Things Bright And Beautiful and couldn't accept that God would create lives for animals in such a way, even though, in Victorian Britain, the average working class life was no better!

If you were to take an acre of land anywhere except the poles you would be shocked to find how much insect life there was contained there. To the insects, an acre of land is a whole world, where, just like our world, there are wars, murders, sex and pain each and every second of every day. And just like our world, there are many diversities.

I'm telling you this because my beautiful little granddaughter, Harleigh, has developed a fear of everything that crawls. She was once so brave and fearless, but unfortunately when it comes to insect life and being confronted with it, her mother, Kim, is a screamer. This, of course, has been experienced by Harleigh, who has now developed her mother's fears.

So when she stayed with us this week, I decided to show her that, here in Britain, most of our insects are quite harmless to us butch human types. We have wasps, bees and hornets, horse-flies, and (I think) about six spiders that can hurt us slightly. I have been on the receiving end of all these, except the spiders. I'm yet to find one that can bite. Although, this week, my first demonstration to Harleigh to show her how harmless a spider is went terribly wrong. I found quite a large spider curled up in the corner of our living room and tried to pick it up. As my big fat fingers approached the poor creature it jumped at me and somehow grabbed my wrist. It didn't bite me, as I felt no pain whatsoever, but it was hanging from my wrist somehow! This of course freaked little Harleigh out, and she retreated behind my wife for safety. She couldn't have found a worse place to hide from a spider, as my wife also has an irrational fear of them.

I have been bitten and stung by many things in my time. I have even been bitten by quite a few humans, but I won't go into that just now. My generation as children would go hunting poor hapless creatures and bring them home. I was a nightmare for my parents, as our shed was always full of snakes, frogs, newts, mice, tortoises, hedgehogs and any other poor creature I could buy or catch. Many of them escaped, only to find their way into our house, which then usually caused chaos as they jumped, scurried or slithered their way around. But now it seems that young people are quite terrified of most animals and insects, with the exception of dogs, cats, or anything cute and fluffy. I know that my wife has an irrational fear of moths but she, too, as a child, was kept away from nature.

When we were first married, my wife had gone to bed early and I was sitting downstairs watching TV, when I heard the mother of all screams, coming from my wife upstairs. I quickly ran upstairs fearing the worst, thinking a burglar had broken in, or my wife had had a bad fall. How wrong I was! When I reached the bedroom that my wife was in, I found her sitting on the bed with her nightie tucked firmly between her legs and her hands over her head. I looked around the room for any danger and couldn't for the life of me see any. I asked her what the problem was and she replied in a semi- coherent babble, “It's dive-bombing me!” I again looked around the room and couldn't see anything. Fearing that I had unwittingly married someone with severe mental health issues (I had!) I asked in a calm and reassuring voice, “What is it that's dive-bombing you, love?” thinking that her mind had completely gone and she would reply with something like, 'The dragon".  She then turned and with a look of terror in her eyes she replied, “That moth!”

All though I love looking at insects I am glad that they are not as big as humans, because we would be either very few in number or very scared, as the insect world is very much kill or be killed. All the records for everything relative to size goes to insects. They are the fastest, strongest, jump the highest, longest, everything-est! We wouldn't last long against any of them, especially the ants. They have to be the most scary and interesting of all creatures on earth. They are relentless, clever and powerful. It is well documented that we humans are making quite a mess of this beautiful planet of ours, but if the ants were in charge, trust me it would be an ant-shaped world. Everything would be altered to suit them. I suppose they aren't much different to us in that way.

When it comes to loving, the creature who holds the record for love making is not an insect, but a most unlikely candidate, the leopard slug. They copulate for up to twenty four hours. I think they slip a bit of Barry White on the old slug deck, turn the leaf down low, and slither and slide in a balletic dance of love. Now that's what you call a love-a-thon!

For me, the most humorous and the most unfortunate of insects has to be the dung beetle. I think the clue is in its title why its the most unfortunate of creatures. But if you have ever seen one of these creatures, with its herculean strength, rolling a massive ball of dung over any obstacle, only to lose it over the end of a cliff, you would have to have a heart of stone not to feel for the poor beast but also not to laugh! It does remind me of the awful TV programme we had here in Europe in the seventies called , It's a Knockout. One of the hosts of this show also turned out to be a piece of dung! He has been convicted of paedophilia.

I'm now going to religiously show Harleigh all the forms of insect life that I can find in the garden and in the wood in which we live. The more she becomes accustomed to insects now, the more she will both love and appreciate just how wonderful and diverse our planet is when she gets older. And who knows, when in the future if she decides to have children, and one screams at the sight of a spider in the bath tub, she will calmly bend down and pick it up and turn to her child and say, “You know what my Babo told me about spiders when I was a little girl...?”

Uninteresting Times

The Chinese have a saying which is, 'May you live in interesting times'. But it depends on what you call interesting times. If your idea of interesting is being shot at, or running for your life, then I'm positively, blissfully happy being uninterested, thanks. I think that exploration into space is very interesting and love reading and listening about it, but I don't want to be the first man on Mars. It already has a bad atmosphere and I would only make it worse. So what exactly is 'interesting'?

People often tell me about their wonderful trekking holidays in some Godforsaken country whose name usually ends in 'Stan'. They tell me of the danger they encountered and the strange foods they ate, yawn, yawn. If you are in country whose name ends in 'Stan', there's a good chance that their human rights ideology ends in 'hanging'! And I don't care if you ate Camels' testicles: what's wrong with a meat pie, it probably has camels' testicles in too, but they are hidden and given a much more appetising name. Such as 'meat of the desert!' 

Someone once told me how they were lost in the desert and drank their own urine: I prefer a nice Merlot, myself. Though I would imagine at some times in my life my urine would have been 90% Merlot anyway! Why would you want to do such things? I love to travel, but I want a few bars and restaurants in the places that I end up.

I don't want to wake up in a wet, cold tent with the smell of unwashed undergarments and socks burning into the lining of my nostrils. And when you exit the tent, there's a beautiful view of a misty morning around a large expanse of water. You are cold and hungry, so you get a fire going and fetch some water. And set about cooking a sub-standard breakfast, mmm... sounds so appealing. There's probably a B&B on the other side of the river, with double glazing and central heating and a nice woman who cooks a lovely full English breakfast. But the best thing is that while you are sitting in this nice, warm, comfortable guest house, eating your lovely breakfast, you are looking at the same view, along with some ejits freezing their bollocks off, outside a tent!

I have also been shown the future of food today. I know what a drain on the world resources meat production has become. I know that in many third world countries insects are a valuable form of protein. But today someone on TV was making mince pies out of meal worms and locusts! It's strange that here in Britain, takeaways are closed down by health inspectors when insects are found in the food. What about the future? Will takeaways be closed down if meat is found in their food?

Can you imagine how the complaint will go? There will be a slim woman (all food will be fat-free) with tears in her eyes, complaining to the health and safety bods, “I took a bite of my meal worm burger and found a lump of sirloin steak in there. I could have thrown up thinking I had actually eaten beef!”

I have eaten insects in the past and I have to say that when they are fried or cooked with chillies, or both, they are quite tasty. But I don't want them in my mince pies! I don't want a cockroach roast for my dinner or moth pate on my toast: I want what I'm used to eating, thanks! I know this makes me sound like a petulant child and in some respects I am, when it comes to food. When you hear someone saying, “That's quite interesting?” when they have just sampled some strange delicacy such as 'Gonad Soup', what they are really saying is, “This tastes like shit but I don't want people to think I'm ill-educated!”

Have you ever thought why people who live out in the mountains drinking gonad soup or even worse their own urine, want to come to Britain? It's so they don't ever have to do it again! I will also add that the more idyllic the country, the more brutal the government seems to be. I'm not talking about the Costas here, although Spain has had its moments in the past, I'm talking about the far-flung white beach resorts.

I was at an event for Oxfam last night and was fortunate enough to talk to a really lovely woman from the Maldives. She was bright and intelligent and spoke eloquently about the plight of her friend who was a journalist who spoke out against the regime there. He has mysteriously disappeared. Even though the Maldives are a small group of islands where most people know each other. When you see the brochure images of the Maldives, or of any country with idyllic beaches for that matter, you don't ever think of the political situation there.

But having said all this I can't stand people who go abroad, then moan about everything. If you want fish and chips and kiss me quick hats, go to Blackpool, and leave me in peace, will you! Wherever I go in the world, I always seem to get stuck with some moaning Brit telling me just how crap the country we are in is. I don't know how the waiters and the hotel peeps abroad put up with this on a daily basis. When these people are back home in Blighty, they will happily put up with any shit that is thrown at them.

So for me, I want my holidays to be stress free, where the most difficult decision I have to make is what to choose for dinner. I don't want insect mince pies, I want mince pie mince pies, thanks.

Remember, when someone starts a sentence with the line, “I'll tell you what might be of interest to you..?” It won't be, so beat a quick retreat!

Right, Write the Last Rites!

One of the things I hear from people when they find out what I do for a living is, “That must be a really interesting job?” Actually, it's like any other job: it has its highs and lows. The highs for me are working in schools and the lows, believe it or not, is the actual writing!

I used to be a joiner many years ago and have worked on many building projects. The thing about having a skill such as joinery is that, even though you are creating something, you have something to work with. You will have all the necessary tools, materials, drawings etc. In other words you have something physical to work with. There is also a list of dos and don't s while building. Trying to cut corners and trying to build against the laws of geometry always ends in disaster. Whereas, as a writer I have nothing to work with; everything has to be created from scratch. There are no write and wrong ways (see what I did there?).

The world you create has to be believable to the reader, and has to engage the reader. When you find the foolproof way of doing this, can you send me the formula please. All types of art are subjective: with some, you will like your work, while others you will hate. I'm a strange 'bod' about this, because if someone really hates my work, with a passion I'm just as happy as when they really enjoy it. Because it has provoked a response. The worst thing for me is to be nice. I hate it when people describe me as a nice person. I can't remember this ever happening, though. Nice is a word to describe the tepid and non offensive. Nice is the acceptable, where we can all have a cup of tea and cucumber sandwiches. If you are afflicted with the terrible blight of needing to write, then you must develop rhino skin and be prepared to rock the boat: if not, don't bother, find yourself a nice little job in a shop instead.

Don't think that the piece that you have written now is a failure because you can't sell it. You must keep hold of it, as it may be the next big thing in ten years' time. Also don't be too critical of yourself, but don't be blind about your faults either. We all write a pile of crap from time to time, some of us more than others!

But it is odd the way we treat some professions better than others. When you have a journey in a taxi often people will give the driver a tip. But you wouldn't think of doing this to a bus driver, who has just provided the same service. When you go out for a meal, you might give the waiter/waitress a tip (In America you will give them a tip, they will make sure of this). But when someone serves you in a clothes shop, you don't tip them, same service, different products.

When my wife worked in nursing, people would say, you people are saints. Most of their time they are up to their armpits in pus and crap: not very saintly. But a person that gives up their time to walk the cold streets at night feeding and helping homeless people is doing just as much of a valuable job, usually without pay, but they don't usually get a mention.

We are seen and assessed by what we do for a living. If you are a doctor, you are a responsible pillar of society, but I know of lots of doctors that I wouldn't leave my cat alone with. While if you are a person that empties the bins, or a cleaner in an office, some people will look down on you. Try going with out your rubbish being taken away for a month, or cleaning your workplace while also trying to work, and you will soon see the need of such professions.

The strangest thing about job snobbery is how it changes over time. When I was a kid here in Britain, being a chef was not regarded as a particularly good profession to be in. Those of us that were apprentice-trained in the building trades didn't see the catering apprenticeship as a 'proper' trade! Now it's the new rock and roll, and everyone wants to make a claim to being a chef! Talking of rock and roll, many years ago, people wanted to make music and have fun. They learned to play instruments and sing. Now, you appear on a karaoke show and have the career that encompasses the same length of time as the life-span of a moth!

I know that some jobs, such as a computer programmer, weren't really a career option a hundred years ago, whereas a knocker-upper is not in great demand today! A knocker-upper, by the way, was a person who walked the streets pre-alarm clock days and tapped on people's windows to wake them up for work. There was one famous lady who used a pea-shooter to do this.

But to get back to my original point, if you write for a living it's not interesting, it's mainly frustrating, and now I have to find something to write a blog about, but I can't think of anything: any ideas?

Little Boxes!

It's better to give than to receive, but seemingly this doesn't apply to herpes! It is the season to be jolly, so why is everyone so stressed and miserable? We like our little phrases don't we? No matter how inane or bland or downright untrue they are. When losing the love of your life, aged only sixteen, how many people told you that there were 'Plenty more fish in the sea'? What do you think I am, a fucking cod? 'Too many cooks spoil the broth' Not true if you work in a busy kitchen. One cook will make a bollocks if left alone. You get my drift. Now, we use these platitudes to try make people feel better about situations or to advise, but are they of any use?

We like the one-size-fits-all remedies for life, just like we like to categorise people to fit them into nice little boxes. I try not to do this, but as I have written in previous blogs, I, like everyone else, do this from time to time. I myself am often labelled because of my work. But it depends on what part of my life you knew me. I could be Gez the joiner, social worker, writer, comedian, or lazy git! There are many more to add to the list, but I can't be bothered (lazy git!)

There have been two occasions this week where I have come across this pigeon-holing.

A woman was telling my wife that she had a new job, working with people with learning difficulties. She went on to say that someone had turned up to assess some of the clients, and everyone was a bit scared of the assessor, though she didn't say why. It seems that this person is very thorough, and not a person that you should mess with. As she went on to describe this officious jobsworth, it suddenly dawned on me that she was actually talking about my sister!

Anyone who knows my sister knows that she is the most fun-loving, loyal and easy going person you could meet. Yes, she is good at her job, because she is working to improve people's lives. If you only knew my sister socially you would agree with my description, but of course professionally she has to have a different persona. So which box do we put her in?

The other occasion was while I was waiting to meet up with someone this week who was running late. I do seem to possess a 'weirdo magnet' somewhere on my body: when I find out where it is secreted it's getting taken off! If I stand still for only a few minutes when I'm out and about someone will try sell me something I don't want or need, such as pet insurance or Jesus! Or someone will decide to tell me their life story.

This week, while waiting on a bench in the town centre a wizened old man sat beside me. He had a few dirty old bags full of what looked to be his worldly possessions. His clothes, of which there were many, were unkempt and dirty. His skin was was weather-beaten and wrinkled. The one tooth he sported had turned a nicotine shade of brown and danced alone in his mouth as he spoke. He fumbled around his clothing and produced a box full of old 'Tab Ends' that he had picked up from the floor and began to strip them down. The dirty little butts that were formerly someone else's nicotine fix were of different sizes, as he crumbled them all into one cigarette paper. He then proceeded to roll himself a cigarette. After taking a long drag on the vile-looking home-made death-stick he turned to me and said in a rasping tone, “Bit cold today, innit?”

This had to be the understatement of the year: it was freezing! I had all the modern hiking clothing on, and I was cold, so I have no idea how this old guy who was probably homeless survived such temperatures.

I agreed, and he went on to ask, as most people do this time of year, if I was ready for Christmas. I told him the usual reply that I give to everyone who asks me this question, that I'm not bothered about it. I dare not ask him the same question, as he looked like he was only ready for the mortuary. He went on to ask if I had a family and to be honest, to my shame, I was ready to stand up and walk away from him at this point. When he turned and said, “You don't recognise me do you?” I scanned his old and tired face, just to make sure it wasn't a member of my family that I hadn't seen for a while (you never know) then agreed with his prognosis: no, I didn't recognise him.He then went on to tell me just who he was, which came as a shock, as he had been at school with me. He wasn't someone who hung about with my circle of friends, but I did indeed remember him - though not as he looked right now.

We got chatting, and he told me how he had 'dabbled' with drugs. I think he was understating his dabbling! He had ended up on the street after losing everything he owned and loved. But things were now looking up for him, as he had a  little flat and was working as a gardener for a, 'nice old lady at Almondbury'. This man had a degree in economics and, at one time, a successful business.We chatted for a while about old times at school and people we knew. He did make me laugh a few times when mentioning people then adding, “Do you know he ended up being a right piss-head?” I think this is the most severe case of pot, kettle and black you could hear. I have to admit I really liked his company and enjoyed reliving a small part of my past with him.

What I thought was going to be an old smelly type trying to cop a few bob off me (beg some money) turned out to be a pleasant and quite refreshing chat with an old acquaintance. I eventually said my goodbyes and wished him well and hoped that he too had a very happy Christmas, then went to my meeting.

Later that day, when I was making my way back to my car I saw him looking in bins for.. Well, I don't know what he was looking for... I went into the nearest newsagents and bought him a couple of lighters and cigarette papers along with a super-dooper bag of tobacco. I walked over to him and gave him the little bundle of gifts (which will probably only add to his early demise) and wished him 'Merry Christmas'. He beamed a happy smile back at me and said, “Thank you, but I didn't want anything from you, in fact you gave me all I needed by giving me your time”. Just how lovely is that? He didn't give me my gift back though!

So ,what I thought was going to be a brief and slightly embarrassing encounter with some drunken halfwit, turned out to be a pleasant and eye-opening experience, with an old acquaintance.

Which just goes to prove that, 'You can't judge a book by its cover'.

There is no Sanity Clause

There are certain things we, as adults, don't want to have to explain to our children. Such as where do babies come from?, what happened to my pet hamster? Who was that woman I saw you with last night? We know, as adults, that these are all themes that it's difficult for a young mind to deal with. The last one would also be difficult for your wife's mind to deal with!

Because we don't want to face up to the reality of explaining the issues of life and death to children, we invent stories such as, the stork brings them, Hammy as gone to play with his friends and she was my cousin who is going through hard times! The last one doesn't work, by the way.

Can you imagine when a child asks you these questions and can see the consequences of the actions?

There are millions of children around the world who are suffering famine, war and abuse. How do you explain to a child that is starving that Mummy and Daddy are having another baby, when they can't afford to feed them. How do you explain to a child that its mother has died of an illness that the world has turned its back on, because it doesn't involve them? You can no longer whitewash over the reality. To many children around the world, this is not a time of anticipation and happiness. For them each and every day is the same, and life can be short and brutal!

The third world exists so we, the west, can live the lives we do! You can gloss over it as much as you want and try to give as many political and social reasons as you wish, but it's the truth. I know that aid that is sent to help benefit these people is filtered into bank accounts of the politicians of these countries. I know this, you know this, and the powers that be know this, So why don't they do something about it? It's all part of the insane game! We lend them money at over inflated prices, the money goes to the banks of the politicians, and the country struggles to pay the debt back. You don't have to go to the third world to see this process in action, go to Wonga and see how the poor of Britain are given the same treatment. Little money, at ridiculous interest rates that most who are applying for the loan don't know or understand. The masses are left with nothing, while a few pocket the cash.

It would be easy for me to go off on a rant about this, but today I'm not going to, because this blog is not about my rants, this blog is an invitation.

I don't normally do charity events: charity is a way for governments to relinquish their responsibility. I do events each year for Children in Need, which I also have a problem with (See previous blogs) but I do these because I believe passionately in education and this is one time when I can reach lots of children.

But I have been asked by Oxfam to appear at a charity night in Skipton, North Yorkshire. I'm going to be 'strutting my stuff' at the Black Bull Pub, The High Street, Skipton. On the 16th December 2014 at 7-30 pm. got all that?

It's in aid of the Ebola appeal. That's to get rid of Ebola, and not an invitation for it to visit. I can't speak for anyone else on the bill but my section will just be pure comedy; no preaching, no begging, just me doing what I do.

So, if you're in the area, why not come along? It's free, but no doubt someone will have a bucket, hopefully to be filled with cash - there is a toilet for other things.

So I hope to see you on Tuesday the 16^th December at 7-30pm at the Black Bull On Skipton High Street, feel free to come and have a chat to me if you wish, any offer of a free drink is always gratefully accepted.

I'm doing this because, even though there's a real Santa Claus, the world unfortunately doesn't have a Sanity Clause!

The Black Widow

I have, unfortunately, had to attend a funeral this week. I'm at the age where I seem to do this more and more. Don't get me wrong, I haven't developed a perverse interest in coffins and crematoriums, I just seem to be losing lots of people I care about, of late.

The funeral I attended today was that of my wife's closest friend's husband. It was a shock to us all when he died, as he seemed to be in perfect health and didn't drink much or smoke. It's strange, isn't it that some people can abuse themselves all their lives, and they live to a ripe old age, while others pop their clogs after catching a cold?

A while ago, while having a quiet lunch in a country pub, a woman walked in with a man. This, of course, is not that unusual. In fact, I would go as far as saying this is a very common thing to happen, not only in this pub, but in buildings here, and all around the world. I did know this woman: she was in my class at school. The man she was with was not, as far as I could remember, her husband, I did once meet him some years ago. And it was clear by the way they were acting with each other that this was more than just a platonic relationship. They giggled and cuddled and kissed all the time. They obviously hadn't been together long, otherwise they would be on the "speak and touch only when necessary" regime.

I turned to my wife, who knew this woman a little better than me, and asked if she had recently got divorced, or had we just caught her having a little extra-marital experience?

It seemed that my knowledge of this woman's remarkable life was somewhat out of date. The husband that I knew seemingly died over twenty years ago! (I must live in some kind of time warp!) He didn't die of some hideous decease, or like my wife's friends husband, of a sudden heart attack. He died while walking home after a night out with friends. They were walking over a bridge one dark and quite windy night, and stopped to try and light up a cigarette, which can be quite difficult when you have a force nine blowing. As he turned from the wind, he was caught unaware by a quick gust, which blew him off the bridge and onto the road below where he was hit by a truck that was passing! Quite a dramatic way to go, I suppose.

“That must have come as a terrible shock to her?” I asked my wife, as she unfolded the story.

“Not as much as a shock when she found her second husband,” she replied.

“How many husbands has this woman had?”

“Four!”

“What happened to the second one?”

“She came home from work one evening to find him in her underwear and hanging in the hallway!”

Now to lose one husband in strange circumstances is a tragedy, to lose two is very strange. I dare not ask what happened to the other two but it didn't matter as my wife was now in full swing and there was no way I could stop her from telling me this woman's tragic life story.

“The third one was even stranger.”

“Never!”

“Yes they were on holiday in I think, Tunisia!”

“Don't tell me it was a plane crash?”

“No stranger than that, they went on a camel ride, as you do when visiting a desert-type country, mainly because there's bugger all else to do. The camel he was on was in heat or something and went crazy trying to mount another camel. It threw him from his saddle or whatever it is you sit on when riding a camel. The camel then trod on his head by accident, killing him out right.

“Have the police never sat her down for a chat?”

“I don't know, but you've got to admit she's had an interesting life.”

You would think the way that this woman goes through the men in her life that she is some sort of femme fatale? But she is very ordinary-looking and quite plump. However, if the way she was fawning up to the man in the pub was anything to go by, she knew how to get her way with men. I would imagine it involved men getting their way with her.

“So what happened to the fourth husband? Was he abducted by aliens?” I asked, thinking the poor sap had probably ended his life with an extra terrestrial probe up is arse. As it turned out, I was nearly right.

“He ran off with the guy who owned the baker's shop up in the village!”

“I guess he had a lucky escape?”

“Not really, he died of a heart attack last year!”

“How do you know all this?”

“Her last husband worked with me for a while and told me everything.”

“Did he tell you why he married her when he knew he was gay?”

“She was fantastic at sex, he said.”

“But he was ga..” I gave up here because it was all getting a little to much for my tiny brain to deal with. I only called in there for steak and chips and a pint, I didn't expect a run down on Mata Hari's life story.

I turned to my wife and said, “Do you not think that our life is really boring?”

“Yours might be, but mine isn't.” 

I don't know what she meant by this? Does she mean that life with me is exciting, or she has some secret agent spy-type existence, that I know nothing about? We paid the bill and started to leave the pub. As we walked out, the man with the black widow started to laugh uncontrollably.

We opened the door to leave his laughing turned into the mother of all coughing fits.

May God have mercy on his soul!

It's good to be boring.