The Dilemmas of Modern Life

Anyone who knows Bill Blunt will tell you that he's not a man for moral crusades. I leave those things to the likes of Paul Foot and others.

Nevertheless, when I was in the snug of the Pin and Cushion last night, I couldn't help my hackles from rising. Charlie Bentmore was holding forth about his garage door. There he was, as proud as punch, crowing about the £200 he's saved in VAT by paying his old pal (Alfie Radcliffe) in cash for installing a new door to the place where he parks his Renault Laguna.

Fair enough, you'll no doubt be saying. That's £200 less to be frittered away on cleaning the moat of some bloated Member of Parliament who should know better when it comes to claiming expenses.

But it's also £200 less to be spent on a life-saving operation for some poor soul whose needs are obviously somewhat greater. I'm not sure Charlie would have bought that argument.

However... Charlie had - on a previous evening - been holding forth about the the failure of HMG to provide our troops in Afghanistan with basic equipment like body armour. So, when I pointed out that his failure to pay VAT might just have an impact on such matters, he was soon quieted.

Taxes are never pleasant. But there's always a moral consequence to avoiding them. Here endeth the rant.

Will The Real Deidre Moffat Please Stand Up?

It's a commonplace that standards in journalism have slipped a little over recent years. When I cut my teeth on the Stockport Leader, I was taught to walk the fine line between doorstepping a potential story and leaving people to enjoy their weekends unmolested and in peace.

Times have certainly changed. This weekend, the hunter became the hunted, as I spent the whole of Saturday avoiding the persistent enquiries of a pack of hacks, intent on getting me to spill the beans on poor old Deidre Moffat.

I'd been away a few days, so had missed the headline news that Deidre - an old sparring-partner from my days at the Birkenhead Beagle - had (apparently, and - it has to be said - rather amazingly) taken up as the mistress of a successful insurance company chief executive.

Anyone who knew Deidre would have been more than a little surprised at the idea. Apart from a fondness for the bottle and a taste in clothing that could best be described as Brodie-esque, she was never a woman who courted controversy.

That's why I was more than a little taken-aback when the baying hounds (many of them no doubt stringers) refused to leave me alone. In fact, I had to dig deep into my archives to throw them some small sop before they slunk away into the sewers from whence they came.

I can't remember where this snap was taken - I myself had supped too heartily from the vine that evening, if I recall - but it seemed to satisfy them. Of course, I omitted to tell them that the Deidre in this picture would now be around 72 years old, even if she had survived a lifetime of alcoholic abuse.

Why let the truth get in the way of a good story?

Birthday Boy

It's a brave man who accuses Bill Blunt of being worried about the advancing years. A distinguished journalist of my stature didn't become distinguished without the odd grey hair or two emerging.

The eve of one's birthday is always a time of anticipation. Never more so than if you're a Libran who happens to be a Bob Dylan fan. For more years than I can recall - and that's a worry in itself - His Bobness has chosen to release his latest album on or around my birthday. That's nice of him, and it's made for an easy response whenever my nearest and dearest have asked me what I'd like as a present.

This year, however, anticipation has turned to trepidation.

Bob's 47th album is due out next week (Tuesday 13 October, to be precise).I'm usually happy to wait a bit for the pleasure of listening to some fresh Dylan. But this time, I'm feeling more than a little anxious. Christmas in The Heart could go either way. The prospect of Bob crooning “Here Comes Santa Claus,” “Winter Wonderland,” “Little Drummer Boy” and “Must Be Santa" is perhaps just a little unnerving. I'm worried that it might add another grey hair or two to my (already) silvery head. At least the proceeds will be going to a worthwhile cause.

Anyone who's listened to Bob's rendition of "This Old Man" will know what I mean about grey hairs, however. Pedestrian isn't the word...

Give Us A Break!

Andy Fellowes is a decent enough chap. He climbed the ladder to the top of the Cirencester Bugle without making too many enemies along the way.

But I can't say I was prepared for the tirade of abuse that was waiting for me from Andy on my ansaphone when I got back from my weekend in Plymouth, tonight.

"For God's sake, Bill - cheer us up!" It was a sad entreaty. According to Andy, the whole of the UK is currently blanketed under a grey cloud, making this the worst August (weather-wise) since records began.

It's a tall order. But here goes.

This is a snap of a little village called Beaumont - which, loosely translated, is called 'Beautiful Mount'. You can see why...

In Bergerac

When most people think of a ‘holiday’, I doubt it would involve two days of hard labour trying to whip a garden into shape. If you live in a garden-less flat for most of the time, however, the chance to pose as Mellors and get down to a bit of hard graft is too tempting to resist. I suppose some might call it ‘gardening leave’, but since I am technically retired that would be a misnomer.

If I’d been on holiday with the ex-Mrs Blunt, I rather think I’d have been tempted to spend my entire first week in the garden at Bergerac - mowing the lawn, pruning the trees and generally knocking about in the out-houses. In fact, anything to avoid having to talk to the ex-Mrs B.


As it was, I was travelling with a delightful acquaintance of mine who made sure that my hours of toil were balanced by trips out and plenty of rest and relaxation, so the work element of the trip seemed really quite negligible.



It’s a huge garden, with a mix of peach, apple, pear and walnut trees The peach trees were in full fruit, with the apples and pears ‘almost’ there, so an enjoyable early morning task each day was to pop out to pick a few pieces of fruit for breakfast.



A former vegetable patch on the property was rather overgrown, so I made it a particular task to raise it to the ground with some rigorous scything, raking and burning. From my experience, that kind of work is made all the easier if accompanied by copious amounts of pastis and water, although I’m not entirely sure whether more experienced gardeners would concur on this matter.



The neighbour’s donkeys seemed to take an interest in my labours, and I repaid their solicitations by now and again treating them to a sugar cube or two. After getting the odd nip from their teeth, I decided I’d better wear a gardening glove to aid the feeding process – until one of them tugged it off and started chewing at it on the ground. It was the one in the middle – and I’ve got his number, I can assure you...




It was all worth it in the end, though.

En Vacance

When the Cirencester Chronicle invited me to write a few pieces about my summer sojourns, I was sceptical at first. What Bill Blunt gets up to on his holidays doesn’t usually make for scintillating reading, and I wasn’t convinced that the good people of Cirencester would be up for it.

But, a commission is a commission and, since they promised to pick up the tab for my travel and accommodation, I thought it would be churlish to decline the offer.

‘This is the summer everyone’s staying at home, Bill,’ the editor of the Chron told me. ‘They need a little cheering up’. Once I’d cleared it with them that I could also publish a few articles on my blog, it was time to settle back and plot my trip.

I’m not a great fan of long-haul (which I suspect the editor - with a keen eye on costs - already knew), so continental Europe was my oyster. At this time of year, I sometimes like to pootle about in mainland Spain, but something drew me back to France again. The lure of the garden at the house in Bergerac that I sometimes stay at, and which I’d only recently whipped into shape during a brief visit there, was too much to resist. So, I thought I’d combine a trip there with motoring down to the South of France for a little sun on the Cote D’Azur, which I last visited a couple of summers ago.

Hence my absence for the last couple of weeks. To follow will be the bits of my travel journal that the good folk of Cirencester didn't get to see.

A Sad Day for Blogdom

It is with a heavy heart that I have learned that my old mucker and internet comrade, Mystic Veg, has decided to hang up his trowel and retire from writing his blog.

For more than two years, Mystic has charmed us with his tales from the allotments of Lincolnshire. Ever since his first post at the end of May 2007, his ready wit and droll humour has brought a half-smile to my lips on many an occasion. We've not always seen eye to eye, but I've come to respect his esoteric take on life, and will miss logging on to read his vegetable-based stories.

Let's hope that, like Alan Milburn, his retirement is only ever temporary, and that the attractions of spending more time with his family soon pall. There'll be a space on the world wide web waiting for him when he does return, I am sure.

Durham Miners' Gala 2009

Courtesy of the wonders of modern technology, here's a clip of a video taken at yesterday's Miners' Gala in Durham.

Don't ask me how it got here - that's all down to Jasper's wizardry with the computer.

The Big Meeting

Only 24 Hours to Salsa. That's right. Saturday, 11 July 2009 will see Bill tootling up the M62 and A1(M), on what has now become my annual pilgrimage to Durham City. Destination: the Miners' Gala - or Durham Big Meeting, as it's fondly known in the area.

I'll be waving at 70's Teen and Crofty as I make my journey, as I pass close to both of them en route to the north east.

Truth be told, there won't be a lot of salsa (although one or two of the brass bands can get quite inventive in their repertoire). But there'll be lots of fun to be had, and lots of memories to be stirred, as you can see from my previous postings on the topic. I'll keep you posted.

I Took This

Freshly-back from gardening duties in Bergerac, it was a relaxed and tanned Bill Blunt who travelled last Sunday to the Lancashire County Cricket ground in Old Trafford to watch popular musical ensemble Take That play their final concert in Manchester.

Lest my readers think I have always harboured a love of boy bands, I should explain that I was redeeming my part in a bargain that had involved my current squeeze going to see Bob Dylan when he played in Liverpool earlier this year. I'd like to pretend that I got the better of the deal, but I'm almost embarrassed to say that I thoroughly enjoyed my outing last weekend. The Liverpool Echo Arena is a wonderful venue, but it can't compare to Old Trafford on a balmy Sunday evening, with a light breeze cooling the summer sun. And Bob Dylan's performance (though adequate) paled into insignificance beside the four showmen who turned out in Manchester.

Take That never really appeared on my musical radar before, so I was surprised how easy it was to join in the sing-along, since their songs had managed to penetrate my subconscious without me being exactly aware of it.



As a cub reporter, I learned early to distinguish between my ultimates, my penultimates and my ante-penultimates. But I can't quite work out what comes after something that's already been touted as the Ultimate Tour. Whatever it was, I was there: not a zimmer frame in sight. And it wasn't half bad.

The Pepsi Challenge

I can't pretend I was the most disappointed person in the world when I heard that part-time MP for Darlington, Alan Milburn, was stepping down from the House of Commons at the next General Election.

In fact, I've only just surfaced from the mother of all celebratory benders during which, I can assure readers, we were consuming something slightly stronger than cola. The people of Darlington have been waiting for years for this moment, and they weren't about to miss the opportunity for a street-party.

Alan returned to frontline politics in 2004 (after he'd resigned as Secretary of State for Health to spend more time with his family), but his decision to quit again is apparently to let him "balance my work and my family life with the time to pursue challenges other than politics". It's clear from his blog (which is updated less frequently than my own - which is saying something) that there just aren't enough hours in the day for juggling being a family man, an MP, a blogger and a consultant to Pepsico.

Being a part-time MP is clearly a lucrative business - but it's clear that the Pepsi Challenge comes first for this particular honourable member. So, farewell then, Alan Milburn. I'm sure I'll be raising another drink to your departure before the day is out.

Finger On The Pulse

As a gentleman of advancing years, I like to think I keep myself in trim. Despite decades of abuse, my body has kept up with the ravages of time remarkably well, and a lifetime in provincial journalism has left few scars on my body.

I'm told I still cut a dapper figure when I take to the floor at Flanagan's Apple and, since Mrs Blunt's departure from our marriage, I won't pretend I haven't attracted the attentions of the fairer sex every now and again. The recent popularity of James Blunt has helped, of course, and I'm a little ashamed to admit I've done nothing to dissuade those young ladies who assume I'm somehow related to the stubble-faced singer songwriter. Whether I'm taken as young Jim's father or his brother seems to be directly related to the number of WKD's or Smirnoff Ice's the said young ladies have supped that evening.

Maintaining the illusion comes at a cost - and I don't just mean having to keep stocked up on Grecian 2000. I also need to keep my finger firmly on the pulse of popular music.

That's why the launch of a new website by media giant EMI got my heart racing. A showcase for the 335 artists signed to their stable (not all of whom are dead, by any means), the site allows the reader to easily preview individual tracks and albums to get a taste for new musicians.

When I logged on, I was a tad surprised to discover that '60's crooner Peggy Lee was described as a 'Breakthrough Artist'. Way to go, Peggy!

Easy to navigate, and a portal to thousands of tracks, EMI's new site means that anyone trying to pretend they're younger than they are should have no problem sorting out their Flex's from their KJ-52's. It's an easy way to discover new artists - in the way that Fuel My Blog let's you find new blogs - and I was particularly taken with attractive songstress Bethany Dillon.

Give the site a spin - you'll be glad you did.

Walkies

When a young lady of my acquaintance recently suggested I might accompany her on a walk along the coastline of the Wirral, I can't pretend I wasn't flattered. I try to keep myself in trim, despite my advancing years, and the prospect of a seaside saunter with a beautiful lady at my arm was rather enticing.

As my alarm went off at 6.30am yesterday, however, I must confess to having had second thoughts. I'd envisaged a mid-afternoon stroll - perhaps followed by fish and chips for tea - but her instructions were quite firm. I was to meet her at Seacombe Ferry at 8.15am.

As I parked the car beside the ferry terminal, my sense of foreboding only increased. The car park was jam-packed with vehicles, and hundreds of folk were milling around at a time on Sunday which most normal people reserve for breakfast and a cursory review of MP's expense claims.

It soon became apparent that this was no ordinary walk. I had been enticed - unwittingly - to join the thousands of people who every year complete the Wirral Coastal Walk. When my companion rolled up with a packed lunch at the ready, any thoughts I had of a gentle amble quickly evaporated. "It's only 15 miles," she said. "We should have it done by lunchtime."

It transpired she'd done the walk a number of times before, usually as part of a group, but wanted this time to establish a 'personal best' time for it. After enrolling, we set off at 8.25am precisely, at a pace that might charitably be called 'brisk'.

My readers will be glad to know I put on a brave face and did my best to keep up with the human dynamo at my side (or, more accurately, just slightly ahead of me). We covered the first five miles in an hour. I've been in traffic jams that moved less quickly, and I felt surprisingly exhilarated at the achievement. As my old bones began to feel the strain, rain clouds began to gather across the Dee estuary and an ominous sense of foreboding gripped me. This woman was clearly on a mission, and any thoughts I had of us perhaps having a rest were repeatedly batted away. "If we stop, you'll never get started again," she said.

And so, the miles fell away, the last five in pouring rain. En route, we were passed by only two people - both of whom had strides that would not have disgraced a Roman centurian. I am sure my aching legs held us back but, nevertheless, we completed the 15 miles in a little under 3 hours 45 minutes.

Enjoyable though the experience undoubtedly was, I have made a mental note to ensure that, when I consult my diary for Sundays in May 2010, I will discover that I am due to be watching television.

SpotifyWhack

Thanks to that wonderful website, Spotify.com, Bill Blunt is proud to launch a new challenge. After GoogleWhack and CensusWhack, it's time to play the odds with SpotifyWhack.

Following the principles of previous Whacks, the aim is simple. Using the Search Facility conveniently supplied by the site, can you come up with a word or a phrase that only appears once on Spotify?

Here are a couple to start you off... 'Gynacologist' (sic) and 'Loss Adjustor' - for whom we have Die Kassierer and Jarvis Cocker (respectively) to thank for that.

Rubber Banned

I am sure there is a whole generation of youngsters growing up for whom the concept of popping into WH Smiths for a box of elastic bands must seem a rather alien, and even antique, business.

Ever since the Royal Mail adopted its policy of strewing our pavements with rubber bands, the need to trot off down to the stationers to replenish supplies has become unnecessary. Our postal service has - in between deluging us with junk mail – thoughtfully made the buying of elastic bands a redundant occupation.

I’m not exactly sure how they achieve this, but it’s almost impossible to walk more than a hundred yards in any town or city without seeing one of these bright red rubber bands. I like to think they have fleets of vans patrolling our streets in the dead of night, distributing them by the fistful through open windows as they speed along.

However they manage it, I take my hat off to them. They certainly know how to win the hearts and minds of the British population, and it can’t be long, surely, until they move on to phase two of their master plan – Operation Paper Clip. If that goes well, it’s only a matter of time until every street corner will have its own Community Stationery Cupboard, and gone will be the need for the middle classes to pilfer items from the office.

That day can’t come too soon, in my book.

He Who (Re)pays The Piper

Amid the clamour of our 'Honourable' Members of Parliament scrambling to write cheques to repay the dosh they so easily grabbed from the taxpayer over the last few years, it's easy to become blasé about the odd few grand spent on upgrading second homes.

I know there will be some who will wonder whether I can justify employing my techno-savvy son, Jasper, to redesign my blog. I want to take this opportunity to reassure my readers that any (presumed) increase in the value of Bill Blunt's Blog will be declared to the tax authorities. Nepotism does not come cheaply - as any MP will tell you. In any case, my accountant has assured me that this is not, in fact, my first blog, so there should be no question about tax liability that he can't handle.

If only it were the same for Hazel Blears. Poor Hazel has done her best to keep her punters onside (by which I mean her voters, obviously) in electing to repay any Capital Gains Tax otherwise due on her second home. Well done that woman!

It's a brave man who would ever accuse Bill Blunt of being a financial whiz-kid. I don't pretend to understand these things but - nevertheless - I can't help wondering whether she's still made a tidy profit on all this first / second home 'swrching' she's supposed to have been involved in.

If that's the case, just paying the tax on the profit doesn't seem enough.

Life in The Old Dog Part II

Just because Bob Dylan can't be bothered to refresh his concert programme with tracks from his new album, it doesn't mean we should all take his cue and sit back on our laurels.

Whilst ambling about the Secret Gardens of Oxton this afternoon, I was fortunate to bump into my good friend Bob, a partner in Knowles, Ranterby and Suffolk, the renowned PR agency that was (partly) responsible for the recent relaunch of the Fiat Cinquecento. Bob took half an hour out from his day job to cast his eye over my blog - and his conclusions were pretty much in line with previous critiques.

"You've got to simplify it," he said. "It's as simple as that!" He liked the fact that I'd managed to post an article about The Secret Gardens of Oxton only a couple of hours after they opened. "But your punters won't really know if they're going for a red-top or something more traditional."

I can't pretend I wasn't a bit shocked. I was brought up in the 'substance over style' world of journalism. No one at the Stockport Herald was ever taught to put layout before words - whatever the subbies said.

Still - I know free advice when I see it. So I've set the dogs loose and overhauled my blog - for good or ill. I like to think it's now the kind of place Elizabeth Hurley and John Torode would feel at home in. We'll have to see how it goes.

Can You Keep A Secret?

Those readers of my blog who haven't happened by because of their interest in Bob Dylan will know that I have long had an interest in gardening - by which I mean the proper cultivation of fruit and vegetables.

I take my cue in all matters horticultural from the estimable Mystic Veg, and now and again from the even more estimable Crofty.

I've never had much of an inclination for lawns and flowers. Nevertheless, when I was invited to join a friend on a visit to the Secret Gardens of Oxton this morning, I thought it would be churlish to refuse.

I'm glad I went. Oxton is a delightful old village that has been all but engulfed by the suburbs of Birkenhead. It's the kind of place where John Torode, if he was ever thinking of opening a new restaurant, would find a ready audience.

It's hard not to imagine Elizabeth Hurley - fresh from her Indian wedding, perhaps - taking tea on one of the carefully-manicured lawns. Not when it comes to trying to increase the number of readers of your blog, anyway.

Not everyone will have been able (whether through indolence, over-indulgence or churchly-responsibilities) to get up bright and early to tour the secret gardens of Oxton this Sunday morning so, for those who couldn't make it, I thought I'd post a small, select sample of what you've missed.

When all is said and done, there's something peculiarly British about enjoying poking about in a stranger's garden, and thanks to the Oxton Society it can all be done legitimately in something like 30 venues for just a fiver.

I'm off for a spot of lunch just now, after this morning's pleasant stroll. It's looking as though the weather might fair up a little, with the sun set to break out when I resume my tour.

Bill Blunt's Dream

As someone who was once (self) proclaimed as the distinctive voice of my generation, I can't pretend I have enjoyed the seemingly steady slide into obscurity since I officially 'retired' from being a jobbing-journalist.

The odd syndicated article in the Harpenden Gazette notwithstanding, I have had to slowly acknowledge that my time in the spotlight was over. The halcyon days of my scoops at the Stockport Sentinel are but dusty memories - yellowing cuttings stored in boxes in my attic, yesterday's news that quickly became today's fish and chip wrappings. Or, rather, the day after yesterday's. If you know what I mean.

When I was first introduced to the world of blogging, I'll admit I thought I'd easily recreate my audience. The early signs were encouraging. My technologically-adept son, Jasper, assured me with his regular analysis of the stats gleaned from Statcounter that my readers were, indeed, weeping. Then, the rot set in. Perhaps I took my new-found fame for granted - although it would be a brave man indeed who accused me of that. Whatever the reasons, no matter how often I mentioned Wetherspoons, Waterloo Street in Oldham, Prolectrix products or Kappa tracksuit fetishes, my readers seemed to melt away.

As reality started to bite, it was easy to start posting less frequently.

Until, that is, Jasper rang me last night.

'Pa!' he exclaimed - 'Your stats have just gone mental!' Apparently, my recent post about Bob Dylan had touched a nerve amongst the recent readers of the online fanzine Expecting Rain. To underline the point, he faxed me through the Statcounter figures which, in case there are any circulation auditors out there reading this, I am more than happy to reproduce below:


As you can see, I think I accidentally stumbled on blogging Paydirt - my average 10 or 11 visitors per day increased to 550 just by an accidental mention of the singer from Hibbing (I wouldn't want to tempt fate by mentioning his name so, rather like the Scottish Play, I'll resist).

There's a lesson in this somewhere. When I've worked it out, I'll be back. Broken, but not unbowed. Or something like that.

Of course, it's quite possible that my circulation increase was due to the free fridge magnet in my last post - so here's another one.

Expecting Visitors

I was heartened by the number of visitors who popped across to read Bill Blunt's account of his visit to the Dylan concert at the Echo Arena earlier today. Many of them came from Expecting Rain - the most comprehensive list of Bob Links you'll find anywhere.

Call me a shameless old hack, but I know an audience when I see it.

By way of thanks, here's a handy 'cut out and keep' Fridge Magnet of Bob. Time to recycle all those old magnets adorning your fridge, and update them with a Dylan one, methinks.



Sound advice from Bob, too.

Life In The Old Dog Yet

It's heartening to learn that travelling troubadour and songsmith, Bob Dylan, has claimed the No 1 spot in the UK Album Charts this week. Just a couple of weeks short of his 68th birthday, he's now the oldest artist to top the UK charts - a fact that should encourage all of senior age to keep plugging away.

It's incredible (and sobering) to reflect that it's 38 years since Bob last reached the pinnacle of the UK music trade. I had to wait until I returned from holiday before I could take Together Through Life out for a spin, and I'm pleased to say it was worth the wait. It's a warm and engaging album, suggesting someone who is at ease with himself for the first time in many years (check it out on Spotify, if you haven't already bought it).

It was surprising, therefore, that he chose not to play a single track from his new album when he appeared at the Liverpool Echo Arena last Friday. Watching Dylan perform live is always a challenge. His constant re-invention of his back-catalogue (surely one of the largest of any recording artist?) makes it hard to Name That Tune In One - they invariably emerge in a new style, with a new patina and presentation. Anyone seeing Bob play live for the first time will sometimes struggle to recognise even his most famous hits, so altered can they become when played on stage.

I was accompanied at the Arena by my latest squeeze, who hadn't seen Dylan live before, and she was aghast that so few people were dancing in the aisles - until she realised the number of zimmer frames that possibly impeded movement, that is. Thankfully, Dylan was off the stage by 9.40pm, so us oldies could be home for our Horlicks and bed in good time. Unless they were lured to Flanagan's Apple, that is, where the music can at least be guaranteed to get you bopping. In his younger days, one could imagine Bob himself visiting a live music venue like Flanagan's for an apres-show wind-down. Not now, of course. He'd be tucked up in bed by then, I'm sure, having kicked off his slippers and ensuring his false teeth were safely stored on his bedside cabinet. How I envied him that night.

Where's Bill?

Even the likes of a retired journalist such as myself gets to treat himself to the odd holiday now and again. When April showers do their best to remind us that summer is still a good few weeks away, it's time to scour the Ryanair flight schedules and see what bargains they can reveal.

Thankfully, they haven't yet instituted their dreaded 'fat tax', or it would be Easyjet for me, every time.

As a seasoned traveller, I've learned to keep my itinerary under wraps, just in case I'm offered favourable travel conditions or upgrades that might seek to influence my later reviews. Not much chance of that with Ryanair, though. Even getting the cabin crew to smile can be an achievement.

Nevertheless, before I vent my customary spleen on the Irish low-cost carrier, I thought I'd invite readers to have a guess where I've been.

Here are some piccies, to help you along: