Bill Blunt

I'm Big, I'm Bold... I'm Back!

2012-01-12T20:43:00.002Z

I am sure that there are one or two of my loyal readers who are wondering why Bill Blunt hasn't published in a while.

Whatever the reason, I am pleased to inform you that his trenchant prose, absent from the blogosphere for months now, is set to return - and with a vengeance!

I may be in my dotage, and there may be younger journalists who are less fearless than me. Or more fearsome - depending on how you want to view it. But I, for one, will not be silenced: particularly now that the injunction has expired.

I am now free, once more, to cast my light on the murky mis-doings of business, the dingy depredations of politicians and the spurious shenanigans of sport.

Legally, I am not allowed to mention the court action that led to the suspension of Bill Blunt's Blog. So I won't. Suffice it to say that I am back, and my quill is sharper than ever!

Bill or Phil?

2011-06-09T19:21:00.005+01:00

From BBC News (9 June 2011)...

Now, just one cotton-picking moment...

From Sugar Queens Dream Blog on Friday, June 29, 2007

Merry Christmas - And May You Shop Til You Drop!

2010-12-24T18:21:00.007Z

Despite the weather, I trust everyone has been doing their patriotic duty by spending, spending and spending, to help the country out of the hell-hole it has found itself in since the election of Messrs Cameron and Clegg, Undertakers to the Nation.

As I am sure you will have recognised, supermarket shopping at this time of the year involves driving round and round a car park for 10 minutes looking for a parking space before squeezing into one that's far too small because some selfish bastard with a Y reg Vauxhall Vectra with rusty wings and a hole in the door has parked across two spaces because he doesn't want anyone to scratch his car. And you can't find a shopping trolley, apart from the one offered to you by someone with a weeping skin infection on their hands. And the store is full of miserable people buying mountains of food because fat Uncle Fred is coming with his retarded brood of mouth-breathers. And everyone is part of some infernal conspiracy to go in the opposite direction to you or stand in large groups blocking the aisle, engaged in inane monosyllabic conversation about Auntie Enid's prolapsed uterus or Kevin's piles. And everything on your list is sold out, but that doesn't matter because the queues are so long that several people have given up the will to live and committed ritual hara-kiri with a French stick. And when you do finally get to the till, it's is operated by an adenoidal teenager with the world's biggest overbite who is passing items through the scanner at the rate of one every total eclipse, and calling on the manager every 30 seconds because every item in your basket has a faulty bar code, but the manager can't help because he's cleaning up in aisle 3 because someone from the shallow end of the gene pool has had one of the supermarket's turkey dinners in the sadly misnamed restaurant and has contracted amoebic dysentry and didn't quite make it to the toilets...*

May you enjoy Christmas, and may 2011 be kind to you!

Best Wishes

Bill Blunt

* I am indebted to Mr Colin Blunt for his description of supermarket shopping.

One Track Mind

2010-11-12T23:47:00.002Z

As I enter my dotage, I can only say a huge 'Thank You' to those good people at Sony for finally acknowledging that the listening public have been outrageously conned into buying into something your grandad knew (all along) was a myth.

I'm talking, of course, about 'stereo'...

Never Mind 'I' - What About Me?

2010-10-27T19:12:00.007+01:00

I can't pretend I wasn't excited when I learned that the people behind The Independent were about to launch a new, national, daily paper. Whenever I'd been able to pick a copy up, I'd always rather enjoyed The Indie's take on the world, and always thought it rather a shame that its circulation never really reached much beyond Muswell Hill.

Even the news that, like some Premier League football club, it had been purchased by a Russian oligarch didn't put me off. As a (semi) retired journalist, I must admit I might have harboured a slim hope that my phone would ring, and I'd be offered a regular column in this new addition to the media stables - The i. Alas, it was not to be. I can only surmise that my reputation has preceded me, and that my barbed quill was thought to have no place in the anodyne world of 21st century journalism.

In my defence, I can only parade my CV - The Stockport Messenger, The Letchworth Chronicle, The Harpenden Times and Argus, The Birkenhead Beagle, The Stockport Courier, Beyond the Boundary, The Cirencester Journal, The Stockport Echo ... I could go on ... have all, at some point, carried my byline.

Quite why the people at The i have seen fit to spurn Bill Blunt is beyond me. As I am now drawing my pension, I am quite prepared to offer my services at an appropriate rate.

My son Jasper had an interesting take on the matter. 'Pa,' he said 'This new kid on the block is clearly aimed at the Twitter generation. They're not after cutting analysis and commentary.' Alas, I think he may be right.

However, I do applaud the tactical manoeuvring of the folk behind the new project. The Independent, with its circulation in free fall, is clearly destined for the knackers yard. The new i might just capture the zeitgeist. And at 20p, even an OAP like me can afford it.

We're All In This Together...

2010-10-21T06:51:00.007+01:00

After much trailing, Chancellor Osborne revealed the extent of the ConLib cuts yesterday.

We won't know the full impact of the cuts for a year or two, but all signs point to an increase in unemployment of around a million, destabilisation in the housing market as changes to Housing benefit kick in, and a cull of public services across the board.

Although we're told that 'We're all in this together', it seems as though some are going to be in 'it' rather more deeply than others. As the BBC noted yesterday:

I know where I'll be investing my dwindling pile of cash over the next few months, anyway.

Take a tip, and buy yourself a paddle, while you still can.

Family Loyalty

2010-09-29T06:16:00.005+01:00

It's been a long (and not exactly hot) summer, and I've been diverted from blogging by one or two minor things that have kept me away from my keyboard.

The first was a move of house. That's right - Blunt Mansions is no more. In an economy drive brought on by the combination of hitting pension age at the same time as savings rates have plummeted to paltry levels, I've relocated the Blunt archives to a new home.

On its own, that wouldn't be enough to silence my pen. But sometime in July, I also got the call from young Ed Miliband, asking if I'd bolster up his campaign for Labour leader by writing a few articles in support. Apparently, his young staffers had identified that I was still a powerful opinion former amongst the crucial union electorate.

I must confess I've followed the Miliband family for a number of years. Their father Ralph wrote key textbooks on Marxist sociology, David and Ed entered Labour politics, and their more obscure uncles Steve and Glenn pursued reasonably successful careers in music.

I'm pleased to say that my tireless work writing articles for the member journals of The Society of Chiropodists and Podiatrists, The Community and District Nurses Association and The Association of Flight Attendants may have been just enough to swing the vote for Ed.

He's still a mere youngster, who looks like he's got to grow into his suit, but when he does I've no doubt he'll be a powerful adversary for Cameron and Clegg.

Setting the Record Straight

2010-06-28T16:06:00.005+01:00

England's humiliating ejection from the World Cup at the hands of our old adversaries means I am at last released (if prematurely) from my temporary contract as World Cup Correspondent with the Andover Gazette.

I've had to bite my blog-lip during this time, but our 4-1 defeat by Germany now offers me the chance to set the record straight about my thoughts on England's chances - before the history books are written and I am misquoted. I for one have always had my doubts about the capabilities of the current England players, their manager and his somewhat perverse team selection. These doubts were underlined by the predictably dire performances against the USA and the mighty Algerians, and a lacklustre 'victory' against the Slovenes.

I've never usually had much of a problem with sub-editors in my many years working in the local, regional and national press. But my experience in Andover has made me wonder whether it's perhaps time to hang up my quill.

My well-balanced and measured observations on England's chances in their campaign were regularly shredded by over-optimitic subbies who managed to twist my words to come up with a headline designed to keep the people of their fair town sweet. It wouldn't have happened at the Stockport Chronicle, I can tell you.

I hold no malice against the England players. I wish them luck as they come back to Blighty, their heads bowed in shame and embarassment. Chin up, boys! You've no real need to fear the future. There'll be an ironic (and lucrative) crisp commercial for one or two of you down the line - and that's worth more than a World Cup Winner's medal, I am sure.

Scrabbling for Victory

2010-05-14T19:01:00.004+01:00

Regular readers of my blog may be surprised to learn that I am an afficionado of online Scrabble, courtesy of an obscure social networking site called Facebook.

On the whole, I put up a good fist of it and, over the last year, have won my fair share of games. But anyone who knows Bill Blunt will tell you it's not enough to win 75% of my games. I'm nothing if not a perfectionist, and I'll not be happy until my every opponent is vanquished.

That's why I've decided - unilaterally, of course - that anyone who plays me must agree that they can only win the game if they win by a clear 55 point margin. Should there be complaints, I'll point them firmly in the direction of Her Majesty's Government. What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, as far as I'm concerned.

Nice Work, If You Can Get It

2010-05-13T20:46:00.005+01:00

As one of the foremost political commentators of my generation, I like to think nothing much has got past me over my forty years plus in the business.

But I must admit to being more than a little shocked to discover that election Returning Officers are paid handsomely for their troubles.

I suppose I imagined it was an honourary position - something done by a local authority official as an adjunct to their day job. As such, (to the extent I even gave it a thought) I might have expected they'd get a bit of overtime for having to endure the boredom of an election count. Perhaps, if they had the misfortune to be announcing the reults of a by-election where the TV cameras were in evidence, even an allowance for a new suit and a haircut, so they could look their best.

According to Wikipedia, the task of running the election often falls on the shoulders of a council Chief Executive or Mayor.

And, apparently, it's quite a lucrative affair. After the debacle of voters queuing outside polling booths in Sheffield, the council Chief Executive has decided to forgo the £20,000 he was due to.

A little rooting around on Google unearthed this little discussion, from Thurrock Council, too. Not a bad little earner, for a week or two's work - and they kept it pretty quiet, until now.

It Is Now

2010-05-11T21:04:00.003+01:00

The waiting's over. Our collective breath is unbaited. My colleagues in the printed media and satellite news can muzzles the hounds they let loose to savage Gordon Brown.

For all their efforts, they left him bloodied, but unbowed. I doubt Labour ever really contemplated an alliance with the Liberal Democrats. The very prospect was a car crash waiting to happen.

As it is, Labour are now well-placed as spectators of the crash, rather than passengers. On Europe, expect divisons. All the Liberals in all the phone boxes in the world won't be able to protect public services. Inflation and interest rates are almost certainly set to rise. George Osborne, as Chancellor, will be in the driving seat. Heaven help us.

They Think It's All Over...

2010-05-09T20:46:00.004+01:00

Now that the dust is beginning to settle on the General Election result, the great British public are waking up to the fact that our next Prime Minister might be either David Camelegg or Nick Clameron.

My only observation is that we seem to have managed quite reasonably over the last three days without any conclusive government, and I wonder whether we couldn't just soldier on with the status quo for a few more years. Without anyone really in control, taxes can't be altered, services can't be cut and life seems to go on quite sweetly.

I'm sure that, in the fulness of time, the lust for power will overtake one or other of the party leaders, and they'll want to interfere with this curious calm we now find ourselves in. That will be a shame.

Still, whoever finds themselves in control will be in the invidious position of having to pacify the money markets. I, for one, hope it isn't Gordon Brown. Life under ConLib is going to be pretty awful... but I don't think we'll put up with it for long.

With God On Our Side

2010-04-22T19:24:00.007+01:00

As the ash settles from the volcanic eruption in Iceland, I'm sure I'm not the only one who has been scrutinising the small-print of their travel insurance policies, to see whether the eventuality of a volcanic eruption has somehow been 'excluded'.

As I am about to take a brief holiday in France, I needed reassuring that, should that strange-sounding geological feature to the north of u s decide to explode again, I'd have suitable coverage. Particularly since I'm not sure that my own interpretation of 'reasonable costs' would necessarily marry up with the one Ryanair are likely to use. Although I imagine I'll find it pretty easy to buy a three course meal in a decent bistro for the same cost as a sandwich and a bottle of water purchased in-flight on one of their trips.

The good news is that, as a confirmed atheist, I had the foresight to take out my cover with Direct Travel Insurance. From what I can gather, they've decided to classify the eruption as a feature of the weather, rather than as some weasel-worded 'Act of God'.

It's a bizarre world indeed when major insurance companies (and I believe AXA are among them) can determine that because (in their view) some universal deity has brought about a catastrophe they can get out of paying out their customers.

I'm sure there'll be devout Christians in the USA and elsewhere who'll be advocating a boycott of the satanic Direct Travel Insurances of this world, who obviously have a different fix on things.

As for me, I'll be saying a silent prayer of thanks to Direct Travel when I go to sleep tonight.

Coming Off The Fence

2010-04-09T22:20:00.002+01:00

It's a brave man who accuses Bill Blunt of hiding his political colours. When the chips are down, a man has to nail them to the mast, for all to see.

That's why, after half a year of demi-retirement, I've decided to pick up my quill and dip it into the scarlet ink that courses through my veins. I'm throwing my not insubstantial weight squarely behind Labour.

Elections are not a time to wander down the middle of the road - that's an invitation to get run over. As we approach 6 May, I'll be Keeping Left.

The Dilemmas of Modern Life

2009-11-18T21:13:00.005Z

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?

2009-10-25T20:31:00.009Z

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

2009-10-06T19:13:00.007+01:00

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!

2009-08-16T21:43:00.006+01:00

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

2009-08-08T06:55:00.008+01:00

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

2009-08-05T05:59:00.001+01:00

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

2009-07-13T08:58:00.002+01:00

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

2009-07-12T09:44:00.002+01:00

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

2009-07-10T06:30:00.002+01:00

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

2009-07-05T12:34:00.006+01:00

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

2009-06-28T11:16:00.006+01:00

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

2009-06-13T07:42:00.008+01:00

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.

Getting Past The Footnotes on Page 431

2009-05-23T18:08:00.008+01:00

In my early years as a cub reporter on The Stockport Courier, then-editor Wally Green impressed on me a maxim which I have pretty much tried to live my life by. "It's your role to write the news, son - not to make it. Remember that, and you'll go far."

On the whole, I managed to keep my nose clean during my distinguished career in print. Whenever I was tempted to stray, Wally's wise words would always come to mind.

It would be easy to think, therefore, that I have not had much of a role to play in the pages of history. Anyone making such a dangerous assumption would be wide of the mark, however, as I am about to reveal how Bill Blunt, during an idle afternoon in 1983, helped Michael Foot to relax during the rigours of that year's election campaign.

I'd forgotten all about the incident until, earlier today, I was flicking through a copy of Kenneth O. Morgan's Michael Foot: A Life in the Liverpool branch of Waterstones bookshop. That I was standing not more than a couple of yards from popular TV presenter Les Dennis is merely incidental to my tale...

While perusing Mr Morgan's tome, I came across an account of Foot's visit to the Manchester suburb of Chorlton-cum-Hardy, and I was transported instantly back a quarter century to the days when, as a mature student I was studying at Manchester University. My flatmate at the time, an equally mature Henry Smith, was the nearest embodiment of a Michael Foot 'groupie' it would be possible to find. To say he idolised the chap would be a gross understatement. I myself had a sneaking regard for Foot, but it was as nothing to Henry, who had collected every word that Foot had ever consigned to print.

When we learned of the impending visit of the Labour leader to Chorlton, he immediately suggested we should pop along to offer our support to the shaky election campaign. He dug out his pristine, two-volume copy of Foot's acclaimed biography of Nye Bevan which he fully intended he could persuade Mr Foot to autograph. Not wishing to appear churlish, I grabbed a paper-back copy of Jonathan Swift's Gulliver's Travels, to which Michael Foot had penned an introduction, and off we sped to meet the battle bus.

When we arrived at the carbuncular shopping centre in Chorlton, the place was a throng of folk, and it was with some dismay that Henry realised that our prospect of securing his idol's signature was somewhat remote. After half an hour of jostling, we were no nearer our quarry, and I, anyway, was getting more than a little bored by the proceedings. I told Henry I wished him well, but that I needed to pop into a nearby newsagents to buy a packet of B&H, so would meet him in a quarter of an hour.

When I emerged from the shop, the crowd had moved on, so I made my way back to our meeting point. As I turned a corner, I was confronted by a phalanx of fellow members of the press, walking backwards (as we are trained to do) while scribbling in their notepads. And there - closer to me even than Les Dennis was today - amidst the tumult was no less a person than Michael Foot himself. Rapidly stubbing out my fag, I pulled the dog-eared copy of Gulliver from my duffle-coat pocket, proffered it to the ageing politico with a pen, and asked him if he'd sign it.

I quote from Mr Morgan:

"Sometimes attempted meetings with electors could turn into 'a media scrimmage', although it was certainly not Foot alone to whom that applied. One pleasant touch came when a student in the Manchester suburb of Chorlton-cum-Hardy offered him a copy of Gulliver's Travels to sign. He did so with much charm, and gave the audience a short discourse on on Swift and how he had prophesied the existence of the bomb. It was one of the rare moments in the campaign when Foot was truly at ease." (p431)

When I finally caught up with Henry, I hadn't the heart to tell him what had happened and (thankfully) I didn't have to. The very next day, The Guardian (of which he was an avid reader) told the story in a front-page sketch of Foot's visit to Chorlton.

And so you have it. Bill Blunt's role as a footnote in history. I only hope Wally Green isn't turning in his grave.

Walkies

2009-05-18T06:48:00.003+01:00

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

2009-05-17T16:58:00.007+01:00

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

2009-05-15T17:43:00.005+01:00

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

2009-05-13T20:14:00.004+01:00

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

2009-05-10T19:28:00.006+01:00

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?

2009-05-10T11:52:00.008+01:00

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

2009-05-07T18:55:00.011+01:00

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

2009-05-06T07:13:00.004+01:00

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

2009-05-05T06:22:00.006+01:00

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?

2009-04-29T19:58:00.003+01:00

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:

The Price Of Progress

2009-04-04T05:17:00.007+01:00

Those who know Bill Blunt will tell you he's not a man to shun modernity. I like to think I can move with the times.

That's why I couldn't muster much real sympathy for the residents of Broughton, Buckinghamshire, who hit the news this week by railroading an innocent Google cameraman out of their village. There was too much of anally-retentive Middle England about the whole episode for my liking, and I wondered (idly, of course) whether the same people might also spurn the attentions of a proctologist who wanted to send a camera up their back passage.

Nevertheless, I had to rethink my attitude to Google's plan to digitally photograph the streets and roads of our country when I received a letter from my solicitors yesterday morning. One of the more attentive juniors in the offices of Aperture, Lenz & Shutter had been instructed to tear themselves away from Facebook to spend an hour or two scouring Google Street View. The result was a raft of photographs of their more famous clients in (supposedly) compromising positions, which had led Mr Lenz, at least, to suggest we may have a claim for damages.

While I realise that a stagnant property market has left a lot of solicitors with time on their hands, I can't help thinking this smacks of opportunism on the part of my briefs. It's typical of modern Britain that, the moment a new technology is introduced, someone somewhere is sniffing around for a cut of the dosh.

Speaking entirely personally, I'm not in the least perturbed by the idea that I might have been snapped by Google while straightening my tie in a Waterloo Street doorway sometime last month. I've had a few of my friends look at the image thoughtfully forwarded by Mr Lenz, and none of them recognised me through the gauzy blur Google has added.

So, my advice to the people of Broughton is to relax a little, and let the camera in. You can't stop progress.

Worcestershire Sauce

2009-03-29T11:51:00.006+01:00

As Jacqui Smith deals with the inevitable public disquiet about the UK taxpayer footing the bill for her husband to watch a couple of blue movies in the privacy of their (second) home in Redditch, Worcestershire, it's hard not to feel some sympathy for our Home Secretary.

I'm pleased to say, however, that I've managed it.

My own approach to MP's expenses is grounded in my years of toil in the cut-throat world of provincial journalism. It was cast after a fateful carpeting at the hands of the Stockport Sentinel's firm but fair editor, Wally Green. He raised his (famously bushy) eyebrows when, as a nervous, wet-behind-the-ears cub reporter (fresh from secondary school) I presented him with my first ever expenses claim.

I can still hear his stentorian tones as he scanned the carefully-typed sheet with barely-concealed contempt. "Mr Blunt!" he exclaimed, causing his secretary to look up from her typing and prepare herself to enjoy the imminent onslaught. "Since when did the vicar of St Olafs need three pints of stout and a whisky chaser to be persuaded to reveal the takings at the annual Jumble Sale? Do you think our accountants are imbeciles?"

A lesson learned early in life is one that should stay with you forever, and I'm pleased to say that, since that day, I've been altogether more meticulous in my expenses claims. Under Wally's expert guidance, I soon learnt how to draft them so they would pass across the accountant's desk with scarcely a murmur. The Miracle of St Olaf was to magic stout into sherry.

Any sympathy for Second Home Secretary Mrs Smith is hard to muster. It takes a certain lack of skill to be unable to hide the cost of a couple of pay-per-view movies in the vast pile of cash that MPs are able to claim in expenses each year. Surely Mrs Smith and her husband (employed by her, at public expense, for an estimated £40k per year) can do better than that?

We can all learn from this sorry episode. I'm sure that Wally Green, were he alive today, would have been happy to advise MPs on how to effectively massage their claims so as to make the bits they don't want the public to see disappear- for a small fee, of course. Or maybe just expenses.

Who Pays The Price When the Watchdog is Put Down?

2009-03-18T06:52:00.004Z

It's a sad day for the people of Stafford who've lost friends and relatives who had the misfortune to be patients at the town's hospital over the past few years. The Healthcare Commission estimates that 400 more people died there between 2005 and 2008 than would normally be expected - as this BBC news story explains.

I wonder what Alan Milburn thought when he heard the news? Milburn it was who promoted the abolition of local Community Health Councils, which had the right to visit and inspect local hospitals, and report on their findings. Since they disappeared in 2003, responsibility for local monitoring passed to Patients Forums (which took a year or two to set up and begin working even reasonably effectively) and then, more recently, to Local Involvement Networks (LINks).

During all this re-disorganisation, local NHS managers have effectively had free rein to pursue their policies without interference from pesky people from the community. What has happened at Stafford shows how disastrous such freedom can be. I can't help feeling that a few visits to Stafford Hospital by CHC members (if they still existed) would have spotted such alarming signs as patients who were dehydrated drinking from flower vases...

At least the Healthcare Commission got onto them - in the end. But the Commission is a national body, and can't keep their eye on the ball in every locality.

Feeling thirsty, Alan? Better pour yourself a Pepsi...

Discretion Advised

2009-03-13T15:16:00.004Z

The news that Ryanair have launched a prize competition for suggestions as to how they can increase revenue from 'discretionary charges' should fill the heart of the travelling punter with dismay.

As if it's not enough that their cheapo fares (often as low as penny) are mysteriously morphed (after taxes, charges, booking fees, insurance and the rest are added) to something approaching fifty quid, the Irish airline are apparently intent on scamming yet more dosh out of us. And there's 1000 Euros up for grabs for the best idea.

I can't complain - I've had my fair share of fare bargains in my time. But I'll bet this man will be quick off the mark to shout. Unless they offer passengers the chance to pay a supplement to fly over Bergerac without stopping, that is...

Surviving The Credit Crunch (2)

2009-03-08T18:58:00.007Z

Anyone who has ever suffered the ignominy of having a cheque returned by the bank due to there being ‘insufficient funds’ will (perhaps) identify with the financial pressures that have caused me to radically revisit the way I spend money.

In the current economic climate, the recipient of such a returned cheque might be forgiven for thinking that the absence of money was more the fault of the bank running out of dosh than the account holder.

It’s a brave man who tells Bill Blunt to ignore the sirens. I think I know when it’s time to tighten my belt, just like everyone else. I’ve taken a long, hard look at how my money drips away. And, apart from the drink and the fags, it seems that quite a lot of my hard-earned lucre goes on … shampoo.

That’s right. I’m not so proud that I won’t admit to spending a fair wadge of cash each month on both keeping my hair in good trim, and washing it. So began my little experiment.

I decided to forgo my monthly trip to Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow – one of the classiest hair stylists on the Wirral – in favour of a five quid snip from Sharon at Ken’s Kuttery, just down the road. Somewhat surprisingly, I haven’t noticed a great deal of difference in the state of my locks. And, I am pleased to say, neither have any of the ladies who have recently dated me courtesy of GuardianSoulmates.

Still, I couldn’t help feeling that even more economies were to be made. It came to me when I considered the utility of shampoo. A Proustian moment in the shower, when I was transported back to my youth, was enough to convince me.

I don’t know exactly how many of my readers are under the age of (shall we say) 40… but anyone older might recall that, when they were children, they regularly had their hair washed with soap. That’s right. A bar of soap brushed across your head was once the closest you'd get to a clean head of hair. So, in an attempt to re-create those childhood days, I treated my mane to a jolly good lathering of soap.

My readers will be pleased to learn that the end result was a head of hair that was thicker, more manageable and, well … generally much better than anything out of a bottle.

Give it a try. You’ll thank me for it. But not before you've sold your shares in Alberto Johnson.

This article first appeared in the Cirencenster Bugle.

Surviving The Credit Crunch

2009-03-06T07:09:00.004Z

As I quantitatively-eased myself out of bed this morning, ready to face the day with a spot of early worm-catching, I couldn’t help but reflect on how my fortunes have changed over the past year.

While the Government prepares to inject £75 billion into the banking sector in a desperate attempt to get them to lend money again, I began to think it was time to withdraw my hard-earned dosh from the grip of the thieving banksters and slip it under the mattress. In fact, I’m seriously considering setting up my own, on-line bank – underthemattress.com. I have it in mind to offer investors a seriously good rate of 10% interest a year for five years, so long as they promise to leave their money untouched for a decade. I’m not making any promises about the capital, however, as I’ll be warning anyone who takes a punt (via some suitable small print) that this may be at risk. Sounds fair to me. So, don’t waste your money on pointless consumer purchasers. Send it to me, and I will waste it for you.

Meanwhile, I’m re-organising my assets in the expectation that I might make a jump into property later this year. One thing’s for certain, however: I’ll be by-passing the traditional route of Estate Agents, as my experience of them over a lifetime has not exactly filled me with glee.

Last year, I dated a woman who worked in an estate agency. It didn't last long. Whenever I took her out for a meal she would complain I should be spending more on her. She also seemed to think she got more beautiful with every passing day, and constantly reminded me about the long list of other blokes who were interested in her - some of whom had already viewed and were in a far better position to proceed than I was.

I called it a day when she tried to persuade me to invest in 'some improvements' she wanted to make to her 'bay window', which she thought would increase her value. I saw her the other day. She's looking a little tired and haggard now, and hasn't had a date in months. Thankfully, there are lots of other women on the market just now and, because of that, I think she'll be open to a night in on the sofa with a fish and chip supper, a bottle of Lambrini and a romcom DVD, if I pitch my offer right.

This article first appeared in the Letchworth Chronicle.

Brother, Can You Spare Me A Dime?

2009-02-24T20:20:00.005Z

Say what you will about Bill Blunt, but no-one has ever called him a doomsayer.

These are tough economic times we live in. And none tougher than for those of us who, like myself, were advised by that odious piece of human refuse, Danny Frobisher, to invest in banking stocks just before Christmas. At the time, it all sounded such a reasonable proposition. In his own, inimitable, words (uttered as he downed his fifth double vodka followed by an advocaat 'chaser') "They're as safe as houses, boys!"

I don't think I need to rehearse the world events that have since given the lie to his assertion. Suffice it to say that Danny Frobisher hasn't shown his face in the saloon bar of The Rampant Stallion for nigh on a month, and the smart money's on it being a good while before he ever does.

What little of my life savings that were left after Mrs Blunt and her fish-loving paramour rifled my pockets after our acrimonious divorce have thus gone up in smoke or, at the very least, have gone to fund the annual bonus of some undeserving City type.

All of this is a roundabout way of explaining why my postings to this blog have been a trifle intermittent of late. Apart from spending more time than was perhaps reasonably necessary in trying to locate Mr Frobisher (the better to be able to punch his lights out), I have been forced to emerge from my supposed 'retirement' in order to earn a bean or two. That's why the more observant of my readers will have noticed that I now have a regular column in the Twickenham Globe. My weekly tips on Surviving The Credit Crunch have already been well-received, and there's even talk of my articles being syndicated in the Cirencester Chronicle. Every cloud has a silver lining, as the bloody optimists keep on telling us.

While I wholeheartedly admire the attempts of fellow bloggers to single-handedly kick-start the UK economy, it will take more than buying a Turkish-manufactured flatscreen TV to do it. I fear that I'll be working for another decade, at least, before the Blunt finances are back on an even keel. If it needs the trenchant words of a man who is prepared to tell it like it is, then so be it.

(Self) Love Is All You Need on Valentine's Day

2009-02-08T14:34:00.004Z

With less than a week to go before Valentine's Day, I know there will be many single fellows out there agonising over how to spend the evening.

That's why Bill Blunt has been working on the Valentine's Survival Kit. No more agonising about which over-priced restaurant to take you beloved to. No more agonising over whether you've even got a beloved... We've brought together everything you need for February 14th to be spent on your own, in your flat, in comfort.

Here it is - for the low, low cost of just £15 inc VAT. Included are a Valentine's Card from 'X' and a pack of tissues to dry your eyes after watching the romantic chick flit that's also included.

Imagine what you'll save - with the average meal out costing at least double!

Buy it now - you know it makes single sense!

A Family Man

2009-01-12T19:19:00.005Z

Say what you will about Bill Blunt, but there are few people in the world he would hesitate to urinate on if they were on fire. Common human decency, together with a bladder that’s not as functional as it used to be, mean I would rarely pass up an opportunity to extinguish the flames if a fellow human being were suffering in anguish while being burned alive.

There’s always an exception that proves the rule, however. In the case of the Honourable Member for Darlington, I’d keep my legs well and truly crossed.

What can be said about Alan Milburn that hasn’t already been said? He started out his political career working in a Socialist bookshop in Newcastle, peddling Marxist tracts to anyone who accidentally stepped over the threshold of Days of Hope - rising, inexorably, to a place in Tory Blair’s cabinet as Secretary of State for Health. Whilst in office, he oversaw the introduction of the so-called Private Finance Initiative – for which read letting the private sector construct hospitals, which they’d then lease back to the NHS at huge cost to the public purse.

In a little-appreciated annexe to his career, he also abolished Community Health Councils, the last vehicle for democratic influence in the health service (which, for more than a quarter of a century, had kept the worst excesses of NHS managers in check).

As Wikipedia so succinctly summarises:

“Following his resignation as Secretary of State for Health (to spend more time with his family) [in June 2003] Alan Milburn took a post for £30,000 a year as an adviser to Bridgepoint Capital, a venture capital firm heavily involved in financing private health care firms moving into the NHS, including Alliance Medical, Match Group, Medica and Robina Care Group.”

Whatever Milburn’s real motives may have been, his family clearly thought better of them since, in September 2004, he returned to Blair’s government as Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster – a role he renounced once Gordon Brown was appointed as Prime Minister in June 2007. Since then, he’s continued as a constituency MP for Darlington. He might have gained some solace when he accepted Pepsico’s offer of a £25,000 a year ‘to attend a handful of meetings and offer advice on health, nutrition and the company's "strategic direction"’.

Now, it's been 'reveled' (sic) that Milburn has been invited to head up a ‘new commission’ on social mobility. We can only presume that Gordon Brown would much prefer Mr Milburn to be inside his tent, rather than outside.

Now, there’s a tent I’d rather not be near to if it was on fire...

Back in The Saddle on The Twelfth Day of Christmas

2009-01-05T21:17:00.008Z

Young Justin was on the blower to me today. He could hardly contain his excitement, having spent the evening analysing my stats, courtesy of Statcounter.

'Pa! Pa! Pa!' he exclaimed. 'Seems like you've got your audience back!'

I can't pretend I wasn't pleased. Over the last six months, my blog has been dying a slow death, the victim of infrequent postings and the ramblings of a mind which (I don't mind confessing) has been frequently addled by a cheaper whisky than the one I was used to in my days at the top of my profession.

The weekly reports from Justin have made for depressing reading. The glory days when my simple blog could pull in thousands of readers a month have long gone - Bill Blunt was a busted flush! Quite how grim the situation had become can be glimpsed from this graph, which shows the readers who've visited Bill since I made my debut on the internet in 2006...

My theory that there was an audience out there desperate to Read It Like It Is about Sainsburys bargains, Wetherspoons pubs and cheap Ryanair flights to Europe had clearly not held up to scrutiny. If this blog was a listed company, the vultures of the administrators would be circling overhead even as you read these lines.

But no! According to Justin, old Bill's still got a bit of life in him, so those vultures can just pitch themselves off in the direction of another victim.

It's all down to the turn of the year, apparently. My simple, humble New Year Wishes posting drew an unprecedented number of visitors. Every picture tells a story...

Justin furnished me with the full data and, as you can see, a steady stream of visitors (mainly from the Indian subcontinent, it has to be said) found me by Googling 'New Year Wishes'.

There's a lesson in there, somewhere and, once I've worked it, out I'll be back on course to make this blog the first port of call for anyone looking to pick up a cheap ready-meal at their local Sainsburys after a pint or two in a nearby Wetherspoons.

In the meantime - नया साल Wishes to all my readers in Mumbai, or elsewhere.

New Year Wishes

2008-12-28T08:26:00.003Z

I ventured into town yesterday for my annual trip to the sales. This news will doubtless come as something of a shock to those readers who imagine old Bill is immune to the seduction of retailers.

It shouldn't do. A semi-retired journalist has to make his limited income stretch as far as he can, and a canny trip to the sales has become a staple in my quest to make ends meet.

Of course, those of my vintage may well remember when, here in the UK, we had something called The January Sales. They at least allowed a certain amount of time to pass before we had to endure the horror of seeing everything we'd bought as Christmas presents for our nearest and dearest savagely reduced in price.

Now, the sales begin not just on Boxing Day, but in the days (and weeks) leading up to Christmas. If you're after a new sofa, in fact, there afre few days of the year when you won't manage to catch one in the sales. Amazingly, millions of people spent their Christmas Day on the internet, taking advantage of online sales to supposedly save yet more money. That's one rubicon-shaped threshold I haven't stepped over.

In these uncertain times, though, it's clear that folk aren't spending as much as they have done in previous seasons. Wandering around PC World and Currys looking for a laptop yesterday, a sense of the nervousness of retailers could be glimpsed. Of a good two dozen laptops on display, fewer than a quarter were in stock - and I don't think it was because they'd been flying off the shelves. I was invited to buy the display model (at no additional discount, I might add), but the risk averse, anti-MRSA side of me baulked at the idea of a machine that hundreds of people had already had their digits on. I sensed a real anxiety in the sales staff, and I only hope they're still in jobs this time next month.

As for other shops... well, Next wasn't as busy as I remember from previous years, and good old M&S had little to offer in the way of real bargains. The latter had already shot their bolt with a series of pre-Christmas discount days when all stock was reduced by 20%

It's cold out there, campers - so don't forget your booties!

All the very best for 2009!

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow!

2008-12-24T18:41:00.003Z

Well, it's that time of year when I make my annual posting to a blog that has become - err... just a tad moribund of late.

It's my chance to save a small fortune on Christmas cards, and save the planet to boot, as I bring friends and family up to date with my life over the past year, with the Bill Blunt Round Robin.

First off, apologies are due to Justin, Jasper and Barbara who, by the time they read this, will probably be preparing to open their Christmas presents from their old pa. Knowing their prediliction for popular music, I decided last week to buy them all gift vouchers from that solid retail giant, Zavvi, who have today gone into administration. I have always prided myself on my prescience.

On a brighter note, my friends will - I hope - be pleased to learn that I spurned the dark corner of my soul that almost tempted me to make contact with the ex-Mrs Blunt. Once I had sobered up, and come to my senses, I realised what a favour Tommy Fishfinger had done for me.

But it's been a strange old year. The credit crunch has brought a chill wind to a world that's grown giddy on borrowing. Let's hope 2009 brings a healthier approach to economics and finance. It won't do us any harm. It's A Wonderful Life, really...

So, my condiments of the season to blog readers and writers of the world, one and all!

Getting On With Life

2008-12-01T19:26:00.004Z

Separation... divorce ... the break-up of a family. It's never as 'amicable' as some people would like you to think.

I don't wish to rehearse the circumstances that led to the breakdown of my marriage to Mrs Blunt. It isn't really of any interest to my readers to know that, after almost three decades with a woman who (single-handedly) helped Scottish & Newcastle Breweries to achieve one of the healthiest profit ratios of any UK listed company, our relationship foundered (or should that be floundered?) on the rocks when she fell into the arms of an erstwhile fishmonger from Ipswich. That's too much information for anyone to have to digest. Even with a side helping of chips.

I thought I had put all this behind me. Then, my eldest son (Justin) furnished me with the latest 'stats' from my blog. I was expecting them to make grim reading - after all, why would anyone bother checking in on a blog that seems to be updated only when the moon's blue? But I wasn't prepared for his findings.

'Pa!' he exclaimed. 'Take a look at this!' Did I detect a note of relish in his voice, as he showed me how my site had been 'chanced upon' via Google searches - courtesy of Statcounter.com?

As you can see - quite clearly - someone, somewhere, is trying to get in touch with Enid! I know it can't be the fishmonger - he's supposed to be with her now, as they enjoy their place (or should that be 'plaice'?) in Norfolk. So, what's going on?

Take a look at that entry for 29 November - mid-morning.

Call me an investigative journalist if you must, but I can't help feeling that a search via Google for a divorce club in Ipswich, so swiftly followed two days later by a hunt for Mrs Blunt's e-mail address tells a story all of its own. What if Mrs B and the fishmonger have fallen apart? I always thought that mackerel and Mackesons weren't the best table-mates.

Just as I thought I had got over her, her spectre comes back to haunt me. If you're out there, Enid... I'm still here for you! Whatever you've heard, or read about my life since you left, it isn't true. You know where I am, if you ever want to come back. And I promise you - faithfully - I will NEVER make disparaging comments about your size ever again.

Google Ate My Spam

2008-11-07T06:41:00.006Z

It's not often that Bill Blunt waxes lyrical about a product. It takes more than the inducement of a free razor and gel to prod Bill into endorsing something, as my regular readers will know. At the same time, I think I have been around long enough to know when a product doesn't deliver.

I'm of a generation that thought the Welfare State was designed expressly to prevent anyone under the age of 70 ever having to encounter reformed bits of pig, still less to have to eat the stuff. I know there are some (mainly those who lived through the War) who will try to tell you that Spam has it's virtues, but I'm not one of them. Too many Spam fritters for school lunch made that inevitable, I'm afraid. That's why, when I learned that Googlemail had a 'Spam Filter', I was fairly relaxed. I wanted nothing to do with the stuff.

Thanks to the eagle eye of my son, Justin, however, I now realise there's another meaning to the word 'Spam'.

'Pa,' he said, just yesterday ... 'take a look at THIS!' With the flick of a mouse, he took me to a place I never knew existed.

I've had a Googlemail account for over four years. It was Justin who persuaded me to become one of what he termed the 'early adopters'. What he failed to do, however, was tell me that Googlemail has a very sophisticated 'Spam Filter'. It came as something of a shock to discover that the Mighty Google was able to weed out a huge amount of supposedly 'unwanted' mail. 24,572 items, in fact.

Call me an investigative journalist if you must, but I was intrigued to find out exactly what it was that Google was automatically filtering out of my in-box. Well, here it is...

As you can see, GoogleMail has not only prevented me from winning a vast array of international lotteries over the last 4 years, but has also denied me the ability to help an awful lot of people in Africa - many of whom are apparently distantly related to me, and who have been involved in tragic accidents. If the Mighty Google had only kept it's nose out, I could even have had a larger manhood, with access to almost unlimited supplies of cheap Viagra.

I, for one, would quite like to have made contact with the lovely-sounding Loreta Tamala, Rene Cammie et al, but I suppose it's too late now.

It's pure speculation as to whether my life would have been different without the interference of the Googlemail spam-filter. But I can't help feeling that being a multi-millionaire, distributing my largesse across the African continent, and availing myself of a more pronounced manhood, would have made the last four years altogether more interesting.

When I tried to explain this to Justin, he merely laughed. I can only put that down to the folly of youth. It's more than slightly annoying that I've missed such a myriad of opportunities... thanks to the so-called (for that is exactly what it is) Googlemail spam filter.

The Dawn of An Old Era?

2008-11-05T20:18:00.006Z

Only a hardened misanthrope could have been failed to be moved by the sight of the youthful Barack Obama speaking in Chicago earlier this morning. The world has shifted on it’s political axis – and not before time.
Speaking to a nation that was less divided than it had been for a generation, Obama told how a 106 year-old voter he had met had lived through everything from the dust bowl, the New Deal, the second world war, the hatred of post-war racism in America through to man reaching the moon and going on to dismantle the Berlin Wall.

Somewhere, within the rhetoric, there is a message, and it’s one we had better get used to. The time’s they have a-changed.

When my fellow journalist, HG Wells, visited the Soviet Union in 1920 to stand witness to the great advances a socialist economy had brought to an otherwise backward, peasant society, he was scathing in his assessment. By embracing Marxism, Russia had embarked on a road to tyranny. In an era when the King of Shaves Azor was only a glint in his grandmother's eye, Wells only had to take one look at the effigies of Marx to know what had to be done:

"About two-thirds of the face of Marx is beard, a vast solemn woolly uneventful beard that must have made all normal exercise impossible. It is not the sort of beard that happens to a man, it is a beard cultivated, cherished, and thrust patriarchally upon the world. It is exactly like Das Kapital in its inane abundance, and the human part of the face looks over it owlishly as if it looked to see how the growth impressed mankind... A gnawing desire grew in me to see Karl Marx shaved. Some day, if I am spared, I will take up shears and a razor against Das Kapital; I will write The Shaving of Karl Marx."

Alas, Mr Wells never did get round to shaving Karl Marx’s beard. But if he had, he might have discovered John Maynard Keynes beneath it. A liberal to the core, it was Keynes who came up with the idea of an active economic policy by government that would stimulate demand in times of high unemployment – by spending on public works, whether that be a new dam, a new highway or (almost a century later) an infrastructure that supports the environment, rather than works against it.

Keynes had a fair point. Personally, I’m glad to have a proto-Keynesian at the helm of the British economy at this difficult time. Gordon Brown has already shown his willingness to bite the bullet. We know he’ll borrow to invest. The real test will be how far Obama follows suit. Let’s hope his grandmother, who lived through the New Deal, taught him how to suck eggs...

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

2008-11-04T05:17:00.004Z

Those who have known Bill Blunt a good while will know he’s not a man whose endorsement is easily bought. As a columnist at the Stockport Sentinel, I built my reputation for impartiality by never being swayed by a freebie.

That’s why I was sceptical (to say the least) when - courtesy of those fine people, Kevin and Sylvie, at FMB – I was asked to ‘test-drive’ the new Azor shaving system by King of Shaves.

I have always had something of a professional interest in shaving equipment, anyway. I rarely trumpet the fact that my grandfather lost thousands of pounds in an ill-fated venture to design and market the perfect razor blade. As a project, it went well-enough, until he took it to market, that is. Lady Retrospect is a harsh woman, I know, but he’d have saved himself a few bob if he’d realised that promoting Blunt Razors was always going to be something of an uphill battle.

The Azor media pack, when it arrived yesterday, was initially impressive. Less so when my ageing laptop couldn’t access the free CD that came with it. Would it be churlish to expect King of Shaves to send out a high spec laptop just to let me view their images and logos? I think not. As it is, the web already has images aplenty for me to look at.

Well, what’s different about the Azor? As a British contender against the might of multi-nationals Gillette and Wilkinson Sword, it certainly cuts a dash in the design stakes. Cool and sleek, it’s a departure from the over-engineered, garish orange, blue and silver Gillette Fusion, which seems to sprout an extra blade every month. King of Shaves have bucked the trend, and stuck with four blades.

It appeals to my innate sense of economy, too. In a time when money is tight, there’s something to be said for a razor that costs half the price of its competitors, and doesn’t require a battery to make it work.

So far, so good, then. But what’s it like to shave with? Alas, my divorce from Mrs Blunt means I couldn’t submit the Azor to the toughest of tests (one which even the infamous Prolectix Epliator, with its 36 discs rotating and twisting bunches of hairs together and plucking them from the roots ‘like a large pair of tweezers’ was never really up to).

I had to be content with using it on myself, then. The flexible head certainly seemed to make the razor hug my famously rugged chin much more closely than other razors I’ve used. And four blades were more than enough for the task of removing my ‘Mexican Bandit’ stubble. I hope it wasn’t just the psychological fact of having read all the accompanying hype that made me feel that it did, indeed, produce a closer shave.

I hope I wasn’t mistaken, but I’m sure I got more than my normal share of admiring glances from the barmaids when I sashayed into the bar at The John Laird for my usual post-prandial whisky last night.

Ten Days That Shook The World

2008-10-12T15:38:00.004+01:00

Hovering on a precipice is never an easy thing to do, at the best of times. When you're a newspaper editor faced with day after day of imminent financial apocalypse, however, it must seem near-impossible.

Staring into the abyss can get a bit monotonous when it's a daily feature of life. After all, there are only so many times readers want to know that their savings in some obscure Icelandic bank have gone down the plug hole. When we've already been told that we're on the brink of disaster, only the actual disaster is 'news'. It must all start to feel as if you're one of those chaps who used to parade our town centres carrying billboards proclaiming that 'The End is Nigh'.

For most of us mere mortals, it's easier to just switch off and watch The X Factor than to try to understand the intricate details of multi-billion pound bail-outs of our financial institutions. Gordon Brown, meanwhile, is demonstrating the kind of firm leadership we all wished he'd shown from the day he became PM. Anyone who was around during the last big market collapse (under the Tories) might be forgiven for feeling more reassured that we have a dour Scot at the helm in these difficult times. I know I am.

Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Brown seems to have an instinctive grasp of economics, even if his political judgement hasn't always been what it might be - witness his dithering over any number of issues over the past year. Well, now that the chips are down, he's rising to the challenge. I suppose a decade or more of privatisation and deregulation has taught us that the market doesn't always know best and, suddenly, nationalisation doesn't make us feel dirty any more. Still, I can't help feeling that £50billion of taxpayers money shouldn't really be 'injected' into institutions that have hardly demonstrated they can use money wisely. Far better to invest it in some decent, green, infrastructure.

It's not all doom and gloom, however. There are an awful lot of estate agents out there getting very good at Solitaire, I hear. After years of making a mint by doing err... not a great deal, really ... their chickens have finally come home to roost. According to the Daily Telegraph, they're now selling, on average, just one house a week. Such a shame.

The Stuff of Nightmares?

2008-09-08T06:21:00.004+01:00

After a life-time working in the hard-bitten world of football journalism, it's perhaps understandable if my attitude to 'art' was coloured just a tad by the apres-match banter in the saloon bar of the Dog & Duck in Stockport. We weren't much for chewing over the merits of theatre, paintings, the cinema or sculpture in those days.

Nevertheless, there's always been a bit of Bill Blunt that's had a sneaky regard for culture. That's why I joined the throngs in Liverpool, last night, to watch the finale of La Machine's visit to the city.

Some have argued that around £1 million for a piece of street theatre was a waste of public money. I can't agree. There are worse abuses of public finance than this. The giant mechanical spider that made Liverpool its home for three days has drawn huge crowds, and sparked lively discussions amongst friends, neighbours and workmates for the whole of the period. Last night's musical and pyrotechnic ballet, as the creature moved through the streets to the mouth of the Birkenhead tunnel, was wondrous to behold.

My colleague on The Times, Donald Hulera, spent 24 hours in Liverpool covering the story, but skipped off before the grand finale, missing the best of the weather and the best of the show. Like so many cosmopolitan visitors to the north, he missed the point. Was it worth it? Donald couldn't decide.

The crowd that assembled to witness the spider's swansong was of all ages, and included youngsters who, after an evening watching La Princess parade through the streets, are likely to be much less traumatised next time they see a spider in the bath - after all, once you've seen the mother of all spiders, anything else pales into insignificance.

A good dousing of water is clearly the antidote to spiders - however big. There'll be quite a few less pigeons around Lime Street station for the next few weeks too, I'll bet. And that's got to be worth £1m of anyone's money.

August

2008-08-19T22:41:00.005+01:00

I can't pretend to be a poet. And I wouldn't seek to even convince you that I had even heard of 'R. Combe Miller'. However, having spent the last week in my allotment shed sheltering from the grey rains, when I read these lines from Mr/Mrs/Ms Miller...

"Fairest of the months!
Ripe summer's queen
The hey-day of the year
With robes that gleam with sunny sheen
Sweet August doth appear"

... I have come to realise that poets know nothing.

Not about meteorology. Or rain. Or Britain in August, anyway.

Of Books And Men

2008-08-10T08:00:00.003+01:00

When I read this post, mentioned by 24 Hour Portly Person over at Occupied Country, I couldn't resist the challenge.

The BBC's Big Read reckons that the average adult has only read 6 of the top 100 books that emerged from their survey.

I don't know how you feel about that, but to my mind that's one scary statistic. It's an interesting mix of literature, dominated by the classics. I managed a reasonably-respectable 58%, and I know a lot of people who would probably score higher - which must mean that there are an awful lot of folk out there who've read less than the average 6, if my knowledge of maths is right.

1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4 ~~Harry Potter series - JK Rowling~~
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6 The Bible
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8= Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
8= His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12 Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16 ~~The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien,~~
17 ~~Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks~~
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveller's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot
21 ~~Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell~~
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24 ~~War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy~~
25 The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
34 Emma - Jane Austen
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis
37 ~~The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini~~
38 ~~Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres~~
39 ~~Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden~~
40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 ~~A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving~~
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48 ~~The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood~~
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50 ~~Atonement - Ian McEwan~~
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52 ~~Dune - Frank Herbert~~
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55 ~~A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth~~
56 ~~The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon~~
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 ~~The Secret History - Donna Tartt~~
64 ~~The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold~~
65 ~~Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas~~
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68 ~~Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding~~
69 ~~Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie~~
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses - James Joyce
76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 ~~Possession - AS Byatt~~
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82 ~~Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell~~
83 ~~The Color Purple - Alice Walker~~
84 ~~The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro~~
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 ~~A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry~~
87 ~~Charlotte's Web - EB White~~
88 ~~The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Alborn~~
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 ~~The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton~~
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92 ~~The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery~~
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams
95 ~~A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole~~
96 ~~A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute~~
97 ~~The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas~~
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

If you fancy having a go at it, here are the 'rules' ...

1) Look at the list and embolden those you have read.
2) Italicize those you intend to read.
3) Underline the books you love.
4) Strike out the books you have no intention of ever reading, or were forced to read at school and hated.
5) Reprint this list in your own blog so we can try and track down these people who’ve only read 6 and force books upon them.

The Birds

2008-08-07T13:24:00.005+01:00

There will be some who try to tell you that Bill Blunt has far more holidays than he deserves. My advice – for what it’s worth – is not to listen to those gainsayers.

After a lifetime at the peak of provincial journalism, a man deserves to slow the pace a little. Retirement can too often feel like being turned out to grass, unless it’s leavened with a little travelling.

It’s a fine line, of course, between work and leisure. There aren’t many who would choose to spend their ‘holidays’ mowing lawns, chopping wood and learning the finer points of artisan bread-making, French-style.

That’s how I came to find myself, once more, in the delightful town of Bergerac. Yes, the doubters and the critics will put it about that I spend half my life there. I can’t worry about that, at my age. Under the watchful tutelage of Jean-Philipe, I spent a happy morning moulding and shaping bread dough into all manner of shapes and designs. So much enjoyment did I have that I realised how, if I hadn’t been seduced at an early age by the smell of printer’s ink, I could have slipped easily into a career as a local baker.

Jean-Philipe makes old-fashioned bread using quality, organic ingredients. It’s a slow, thoughtful process, dependent on a fine eye for the state of the weather and the ambient temperature during the mixing of the dough. Real bread, strong enough to last a week, not the insipid, plastic rubbish that predominates in the shops in England today. Crofty would have loved it.

On my current trip, I also had the pleasure of meeting Mr and Mrs Dixie, part of the powerhouse that err…fuels Fuel My Blog. They live in La Rochelle, of course, but reasons of economy meant this was my point of entry into France, despite the three hour journey it entailed down to Bergerac. And a very lovely couple they are, too.

La Rochelle’s a fine city, which my flying visit for a coffee with Kevin and Sylvie couldn’t do justice to. Perhaps that’s why fate – and a few stray birds on the run-way at La Rochelle that managed to mangle themselves in the engine - conspired to hand me a free afternoon in the place on my return to the UK. Either that, or it was some terrible curse cast upon me by Mystic Veg, in repayment of the delays I had forced him to endure in June.

If Easyjet had been a tad more honest about the reasons for the delayed departure of their 1.15pm flight EZY5034 to Gatwick, I might even have had much longer. At first they admitted it would take four hours to fly out an engineer to check for damage, which at least meant I could leave the airport and hop a bus into town. Having been in a few airports in my time, I can tell you that La Rochelle’s doesn’t have much to hold your attention for much more than twenty minutes, so when balanced against the prospect of a bowl of moules et frites in a pleasant bar overlooking the harbour, it was what the younger set might call a ‘no brainer’.

Returning to the airport at 5pm after my modest repas, I was delighted to discover that Kevin and Sylvie were also going there, so they were able to offer me a lift. Their flight with Ryanair had, we discovered, also been afflicted by the kamikaze birds of La Rochelle.

Once the engineer had done his stuff (about 6pm) we were informed that the plane now needed a new pilot – who was similarly being flown in and – yes - it would be another (this time unspecified) delay. I suppose it was too much to expect that whoever was working on the logistics of this problem at Easyjet could have factored this matter into the equation when working out what to do about the birds in the engine, and sorting out an engineer. But that would have been too simple. Instead, we awaited hourly announcements that finally culminated in the plane taking off at 23.15pm, a full 10 hours after schedule.

To rub salt into already very sore wounds, the less than merry band of passengers we had become as the day wore on were informed that there were no refreshments available on the plane, other than a glass of water. For a group of people who had become increasingly annoyed by the surly manner of the chap who runs the bar at La Rochelle airport (where food and smiles had run out quickly) this was the final straw. By now, of course, we might have been a cowed and whimpering lot, denied our Easyjet sandwiches and Pringles, but too worn-down to complain. Or maybe (and this is what I’d prefer to think) we were strengthened in our resolve and determination not to let this last tribulation break our spirits. Our stiff upper lips prevailed.

The fate of the Ryanair passengers was furthermost from our minds, although I heard they departed shortly after us, and landed safely at Stansted. Perhaps they fared better when it came to the sarnies.

It’s a brave man who says Bill Blunt is easily put off enjoying his holiday by a simple matter like a 10 hour delay in the return journey. I’ll be back to learn a little more about bread-making in Bergerac, and I’m more than certain there’s another bowl of moules waiting for me on a table outside a harbour bar in La Rochelle with my name stamped on it.

Going Nuts

2008-07-14T22:30:00.003+01:00

A man in retirement has time on his hands. That's a truism, if ever there was one. Nevertheless, even though it's many years since I hung up my quill, I like to think my quiet, measured voice still resonates in the corridors of power.

Or, in this case, in the aisles of my local Sainsbury's. My subject today is Nuts - or, more precisely, I'm about to let you into one of Bill's ways of saving 33% on the price Sainsbury's would like you to pay for their Pine Nuts.

Pine Nuts, as any decent Italian worth his garlic, basil leaves, parmesan cheese and olive oil will tell you, are an essential ingredient in the classic Ligurian recipe for pesto. As a devotee of pesto, you will understand if I pay more than an ordinate amount of attention to the price of pine nuts. You can't make an omelette without eggs, and you can't make pesto without pine nuts (unless you buy one of those commercial brands that seems to think it's acceptable to substitute peanuts for the real thing).

On a recent foraging trip, I noticed that Sainsbury's appeared to have re-packaged their Pine Nuts, and that the price had increased by 50p per hundred grams. Have a look at this:

As you can see, they're promoting the product as a 'snacking' nut. You'll find it near the fruit and veg, and will be invited to pay £1.99 for 100grams.

That's all very well, but if you take the trouble to walk ten yards and find the 'cooking ingredients' section, you'll find the humbler version of the Sainsbury's Pine Nut still available for just £1.45 for 100grams.

If this was Bologna, housewives would be taking to the streets in protest. And I, for one, wouldn't blame them.

The Passage Of Time

2008-07-13T00:19:00.005+01:00

When you get to my age - the kind of age for which discreet veils were invented - it would be nice to think that the passage of time didn't play an unduly influential role in one's life.

But the truth is, like most other people, I spend more time than is probably healthy worrying about a future that hasn't yet happened. My old uncle Jesmond used to say "Yesterday is a cancelled cheque; tomorrow is a promisary note. Today's the only cash you have - so spend it wisely, son."

And so it proved when I made the trip north to attend the 124th Durham Miners' Gala. All my anxieties about whether it would rain were in vain. The sun had his hat on, and the pac-a-mac stayed dry. A year on from my last visit, here are one or two photos of the 2008 Gala, which I hope you enjoy. I must confess I enjoyed my cup of Labour Tea. Even though the price had gone up due to rampant inflation, I think they met the Government target of selling more than last year.

Cheap Tricks

2008-07-06T07:01:00.004+01:00

It’s a brave man that accuses Bill Blunt of stooping to cheap tricks to boost his ailing blog readership. Not for me the shoddy inducements to people to drop by to my blog, enticed by a gimmick or the strategic placement of a label or two.

I had enough of that during the infamous Stockport Circulation War of the 1960’s, which saw two fine newspapers go to the wall, and the reputation of the Stockport Leader left in tatters after it introduced its widely-copied Page 9 girl. I was working for the rival Herald at the time, and our editor (Wally Green) was firm in his belief that, while readers might flock to see such lurid spectacles at first, a reputation for truth, honesty and good writing was what would make them come back for more.

It was a long, hot summer in 1965, and many were those who tried to persuade Wally to relax his Presbyterian stance as the Herald’s circulation plummeted. But he dug his heels in, even as the Stockport Leader began to overtake us for the first time since the 1890’s. His one concession to the masses was the ill-fated introduction of Where’s Wally? - a competition which involved readers trying to spot him as he wandered, incognito, around town. Once spotted, the idea was they would challenge him and then claim the munificent sum of £5.

The game didn’t last longer than a couple of weeks, however, since the local constabulary sternly advised us to draw a halt to it. A spate of fights in pubs and clubs across the town had drawn their attention to the Herald’s competition, and the received wisdom after the dust had settled was that it was a mistake to expect punters to point at total strangers while uttering the words ‘You’re Wally – Give Me A Fiver!’

So, you’ll gather I am no fan of cheap attempts to garner readers. That’s why I don’t want my dwindling band of subscribers to read too much into my featuring Olga The Travelling Bra in this posting. I believe Olga represents a genuine cultural phenomenon – an item of lingerie that has already traversed thousands of miles in its quest to … err … traverse the globe and appear in blogs.

Here’s Olga when she visited Liverpool yesterday, in the company of 70’sTeen and Claire, two fine bloggers who had brought Olga for her day out, much to the bemusement of visitors to the Albert Dock.

I like to think it isn’t the first time Billy Fury twirled a bra strap around his index finger, but you never can tell with these pop icons, in my experience. I'd hesitate to make the same comment about Cliff Richard, for instance.

As for the Super Lamb Banana, this was already a potent symbol of Liverpool before the powers that be behind the European Capital of Culture decided to clone it and site small-scale copies across the city and the wider environs of Merseyside. I think you'll agree, Olga looks like she was made to fit the Ringo Starr version of the new icon.

Don't Rain On My Parade

2008-07-05T07:20:00.002+01:00

It's around this time of year that I get excited about the prospect of attending, once again, the Durham Miners' Gala. It's become something of a tradition that I turn up at this celebration of all that is great and good about the north east working class. Just because I shop at Sainsburys doesn't mean I have forgotten my roots.

Next Saturday, 12 July, therefore, I'll be strutting my stuff in the streets of Durham City, following one of the brass bands as it winds its way past the Royal County Hotel. In my mind, previous visits to the Gala are always associated with a day of wall-to-wall sunshine. It's July, after all, and the British people have every right to expect a bit of sun now and again. The reality, however, is often not quite so comfortable. Many's the time I've sheltered under my pac-a-mac as the relentless drizzle fails to lift.

I've been around the block enough times to know that selective memory comes out to play whenever we look back on our own Blue Remembered Hills. Our mind has a nasty habit of censoring out the bleaker parts of our life, and that includes the dismal rains which so often accompany the Great British Summer. However, the British psyche is nothing if not optimistic. That's why we are the country in Europe which apparently buys more cabriolets than any other: the triumph of hope over experience, I suppose. And that's why I'll be packing shorts and a t-shirt - just in case.

Meanwhile, I contemplate a visit to my allotment which, after the recent rain, will most probably resemble something like a World War I battlefield. Somehow, I don't think I'll be needing any of Mystic Veg's wonderful, patented Soil Improver.

Did I Mention The Dementia?

2008-06-10T21:39:00.004+01:00

As the grey hairs continue their steady advance across my head, in step with the cruel march of time, it becomes increasingly difficult to blame my forgetfulness on that old standby, alcohol.

A recent trip to Bergerac revealed this all too starkly. The first part of my holiday was in the company of a friend of mine from Chester. We go back a long way, but it was nonetheless good of her to stay calm and collected when we arrived at our place of stay to discover I had forgotten to bring the key. We drew on our collective wisdom to construct a plan, rapidly discounting breaking in or calling a lock-smith (reasoning that if two French people tried to persuade an English locksmith to break into a either of our own houses on the strength that they had forgotten their key, we'd hope they'd get pretty short shrift).

I was dimly aware that an organic baker of the name Jean Philipe held a spare key, but wasn't exactly sure where he lived. When, after some driving around, we did finally find his oven, he was nowhere to be seen. We back-tracked into Bergerac and I made what was to be the first of many trips to the Tourist Information Centre there. The girl behind the desk listened in a bemused sort of way as I told her my sorry tale. She then proceeded to do a lot of phoning around, finally locating the said Jean Philipe, who promised to deliver the key a couple of hours later at a rendezvous (which is French, apparently, for a meeting place). That left Sue and I a couple of hours to amble round the town and take in a spot of lunch, relaxing for the first time since we'd stepped off the plane a couple of hours earlier. True to his word, he turned up at 2pm, and the holiday could get back on track.

My friend was departing a couple of days later, so our time was spent in a whirlwind tour of markets, cafes, restaurants and vineyards. On her final night, I admit we may have consumed more than either of us is used to when it comes to wine and pastis. Nevertheless, I managed to deliver her to the airport safely where, once she was through check-in, I was able to position myself in a cafe outside the airport and wait for my second visitor, who was arriving off the plane she was departing on. Everything went to plan this time, with my writing-accomplice Dick Broadhean clearing the tiny arrivals hall in minutes, and his bags safely deposited at the house just ten minutes later.

We were there, ostensibly, to do some writing, and were to be joined the next day by a third scribbler. In the meantime, Dick and I had a trip out to watch Jean Philipe firing up his huge bread oven, situated in a large shed in a tiny village outside of Bergerac. Like a vast ship's engine (but not on a ship) the oven required almost constant feeding with carefully-selected pine wood. The wood had been chosen to allow the oven to reach it's optimum 'calorific weight'. Much discussion took place about this concept, I can tell you. Dick seemed to understand it more than I did. Then, it was a trip to a nearby market for a spot of food shopping.

That evening, as the sky shone with stars, Dick and me spent hours putting the world to rights. I'll admit, more wine and pastis were involved. The next day, we had one main task to accomplish - the collection from the airport of my old mucker, Mystic Veg. I'd managed to lose the paper with his arrival time on but, Bergerac airport not being exactly a hub of activity, it was fairly easy to discover that the Stansted flight wasn't due to arrive until 4.30pm, which left Dick and me with a full day to explore some of the villages around Bergerac. And very pleasant it was, too.

We were in good time to meet the flight, which arrived early. As we waited excitedly for MV's emergence from the arrivals shed, there was much 'That's him-ming' followed just as quickly by 'No - that's not him'. As the last passenger cleared customs, it was clear that MV hadn't made the flight. Unless something else could have gone wrong.

Dick and I drove back to the house, pondering what could possibly have happened. The fifteen minute journey seemed to take an hour. When we arrived, we found a note - quite a polite one, under the circumstances.

Dear Bill and Dick

After waiting two hours at the airport I decided to get a taxi here. After a further four hours sat in the garden, I decided that something must have happened to you both. I'm going to book into a hotel tonight, and will meet you outside the Tourist Information at 11am tomorrow.

MV

Mortification isn't the word. The thought that a man of such advancing years as Mystic should have had to spend the best part of a day alone and abandoned in a foreign country made me ashamed to be a Blunt.

Dick and I sped off to the Tourist Information, where I found myself instantly recognised as 'The Key Man'. It was a slim hope that we'd find MV making enquiries there, but they hadn't seen him. They gave us a list of hotels in the place, and we began our task of searching them. After we'd visited a couple, we finally had a call from Mystic, who had just booked into a hotel two minutes away from where we were standing, and where he'd found a phone in his room that didn't require a degree in french to operate. When we told the receptionist our tale, she was pleased to release him from his contract.

It's a brave man that accuses Bill Blunt of dementia. There's life enough in this old hack's frame to be able to blame the Ricard from the night before. However, there's a lesson to be learned from this whole, sorry affair.

I've learned that Lincoln is MUCH closer to East Midlands airport than Stansted is, and that only a fool would assume otherwise.

And, on the positive side, we found it easy enough, after the experience of our trip, to come up with a name for the sitcom we're working on - Losing The Plot. I like to take credit for that.

A huge Big Up is due to the staff at the Bergerac Tourist Information Office, though. They don't half get some weird enquiries.

Sowing The Seeds

2008-06-01T07:26:00.001+01:00

It will probably come as no surprise to those who have read this column that I am something of a stranger to hard graft. In fact, it's a truism to say that I have spent most of my life avoiding it like the plague.

I was fortunate to be the first member of my family to receive the blessings of a university education, and my choice of a career in journalism meant that any notion of manual labour was easily sidestepped. That's not to say that the life of a scribbler has always been an easy one. Wally Green at the Stockport Argus taught me an early lesson in life, when he said 'Son, the Olivetti is your lathe, and your brain supplies the engine oil to keep it moving.'

So, it has been something of a shock to my system to recently take on an allotment. There's a lot to be said for digging away in the sun, eagerly anticipating the point at which your seeds will be sown or your bulbs will be transplanted. Even if six hours of solid labour only managed to transform a plot little bigger than my bathroom. Admittedly, it was a bit of a jungle, but even so it gave me pause to consider whether I was doing the right thing. Six decades of studiously shunning physical exercise had not exactly prepared me for such toil.

I'll be persevering, however. To everything there is a season, in the sun, and I sense that in my own personal autumn has approached. I may be hanging up my quill, and replacing it with a hoe. At least it's cheaper than a gym membership.

Endorse and Be Damned!

2008-05-19T18:08:00.002+01:00

Older readers of my blog (by which I don't necessarily mean the more geriatric amongst you) will recall how I have sometimes pointed those who drop by here in the direction of a good bargain.

I've never been one to needlessly fritter away money on expensive food and beverages - not so long as there are expensive wines, women and other such diversions to soak up my cash. 'Look after the pennies, and you'll have more to spend on the finer things in life' is a motto that has guided me down the years.

So, when I endorse a product, it's not because I expect recompense. It's because I recognise its intrinsic worth. That's why I was so keen, just recently, to flag up one or two purchases I had made at my local branch of Sainsburys.

I've already written about how my decision to highlight the good value of Dove's Farm Organic Wholemeal Flour came back to bite me, here.

Now, I find that just weeks after pointing readers in the direction of Sainsburys Basics Ground Coffee, the company has chosen to up the price by over 25% Previously available for just 79p, this week I had to pay £1.06 for the same product.

It's the curse of Bill Blunt, and it spells, I'm afraid, the end of any further product endorsement by me. No sooner do I seem to find a bargain than the greedy supermarket barons rush to capitalise on my celebrity recommendation. Well, it won't happen again. I'll be keeping my counsel in the future.

It's a brave man that accuses Bill Blunt of chagrin, but it seems my readiness to spill the beans (so to speak) on cheap coffee has unwittingly led me to have to pay an extra £20 per annum on the stuff. There's something wrong here, surely!

A Conspiracy of Silence

2008-05-18T15:26:00.003+01:00

It would be easy for readers to imagine that my recent 'radio silence' has been prompted by threats of legal action, promoted by the powers that be who are always anxious to still the voice of the dissident.

A glance at the list of labels used for my postings over the last year (handily listed in the side-bar, to the left) will show that my potential enemies are legion, so it would be natural to assume there was a queue of potential litigants.

The truth, however, is more prosaic. I have been distracted from my blogging by one or two projects that demanded my energies. My on-going attempt to compile a Guide to the Wetherspoon Pubs of England has proven to be a task which makes the painting of the Forth Road Bridge look like a pushover. New establishments are opening by the week, and I fear it may be years before I can bring the Guide to publication.

At the same time, I have been getting excited at the idea of taking over part of an allotment which a friend has just procured. I'll doubtless be stopping by over at Mystic Veg's place more frequently for tips and tricks to guide me in my growing - although if his attempts with rhubarb are anything to go by, I may have to cast my net wider in the search for advice.

Accept No Substitute

2008-03-29T19:37:00.006Z

It's a brave man that accuses Bill Blunt of being worried about the competition. It's not my way to concern myself with imposters.

But Jasper was doing a spot of Googling just today.

William Blunt looks like the kind of guy you'd stake your pension on. Or use as your estate agent, if you lived in California.

That's OK with me. So long as he doesn't intrude into journalism. The world's big enough to take two Bill Blunts.

I like to think that my distinctive voice will set me apart from any imposters, so that readers will find the 'real' Bill easily enough.

Don't Leave Me This Way

2008-03-17T05:00:00.003Z

It’s not very often I hear from my old pal and former drinking-companion, Des Smith, but when I do my memories of our days together on the Preston Globe are inevitably stirred. Des made quite a name for himself by championing IT at a time when most of us couldn’t tell an Atari from an Apple.

His retirement has found him in Japan, of all places, where he ekes out his pension by ‘stringing’ for a couple of Tokyo dailies. His irregular missives back home are always an intriguing insight into the cultural differences between east and west, peppered as they are with accounts of his trips to bars with his work colleagues. He’s developed an out-of-character fondness for eating raw fish and sea-weed, but apart from that has slipped easily into the Japanese way of life.

Anyone even remotely familiar with that lifestyle will know that Karaoke looms large in the social currency of the country. So, it came as no great surprise to him, when attending a leaving-party for one of his male workmates who had secured an advertising job in the capital, to find the Karaoke machine was blasting away in the corner.

“What do the British sing at farewell parties?” he was asked. Des’ assertion that it was quite unlikely that anyone would sing anything was met with blank incomprehension. “Oh, go on…” they cajoled. “Sing us the British farewell song”. Not wishing to offend his friends, but stuck to know quite what might be appropriate in the circumstances, he noticed that the ‘menu’ of songs included that Peter, Paul & Mary classic ‘Leaving On A Jet Plane’ – a song which most of us, of a certain vintage, could make a decent fist of. At first glance, it would seem to be a decent enough choice for a ‘leaving’ song and the chorus, at any rate, is a familiar refrain (altogether, now):

And I'm leaving on a jet plane
I don't know when I'll be back again
Oh, babe, I hate to go

As a confident Des took to the stage and began his rendition, the smiles on his friends’ faces were enough to convince him he’d got away with not offending them. Then, as the words of the song unfurled, he began to hope that their English wasn’t up to understanding the finer points of the lyrics. Increasingly crimson with embarrassment, he ploughed his way through the song, which he later described as ‘A Stalker’s Lament’.

For those who might have forgotten, here are a few lines:

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go
I'm standin' here outside your door
I hate to wake you up to say goodbye

But the dawn is breakin', it's early morn
The taxi's waitin', he's blowin' his horn
Already I'm so lonesome I could die

So kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you'll wait for me
Hold me like you'll never let me go

There's so many times I've let you down
So many times I've played around
I'll tell you now, they don't mean a thing

Every place I go, I think of you
Every song I sing, I sing for you
When I come back I'll wear your wedding ring

Now the time has come to leave you
One more time, oh, let me kiss you
And close your eyes and I'll be on my way

As Des dashed off the stage, he could only reflect how fortunate he was not to be singing that song in the saloon bar of The Black Horse Hotel where, if our previous visit was anything to go by, he would have been lucky to escape with a couple of broken arms.

Plus ça change, as they probably don’t say in Japan.

Let Them Eat Cheaply

2008-03-14T08:32:00.007Z

An interesting post on Gail's blog got me thinking it was time I shared with my readers a recipe that has come to be a mainstay in my weekly eating pattern.

It's a regime that has made me a regular visitor to Oxfam - not only to off-load the portly size 38" jeans I used to wear, but also to stock up on the much more becoming 30" ones that have been donated by someone who is perhaps travelling in the opposite direction.

Gail's plea is for cheap, wholesome food. Here's Bill's suggestion:

Tuscan Bean Stew

Take three tins of assorted beans (available from Sainsburys for the ridiculous price of three for a pound): pinto, butter, black-eyed - it doesn't really matter.

Drain them, and throw them into a slow cooker with a couple of tins of cheap tomatoes.

Add a good spoonful of tomato puree, a little olive oil, some pepper and a bloody good sprinkling of mixed herbs.

Now - the technical bit. Switch the slow cooker on. Go out and see the world for a few hours, and return to your sumptuous dish.

If you've made enough, but can't face eating the same dish two days in a run, throw in a tablespoon of chilli powder and heat the whole thing up again for a couple of hours.

Result - a couple of nutritious, delicious meals for around £1.40, with enough left over to freeze up for another meal.

Of course, you'll need some decent bread to mop up the juices. That's why I'm teaming up with the estimable Crofty to launch the Better Bread Blogger marque.

Wherever you see this, you'll know you're reading a blog penned by someone who appreciates the taste, texture and sheer, down-to-earth goodness of a decent loaf of bread.

Anyone who wants to prove they're up to rising to support this campaign can copy the code for the BBB widget and insert it into their blog.

Battle of the Poets

2008-03-12T20:53:00.006Z

Things have come to a pretty poor pass in UK journalism when two of our more obscure quality newspapers are battling it out for circulation by trading on the reputation of the country's greatest poets.

The marketing boys at The Independent and The Guardian must be having a 'Doh!' moment, now that they've realised they've both commissioned a series of booklets profiling the nation's best poets as giveaways to boost their readership.

So - who'll win with this one? It's not an easy call when, on a slow Wednesday, Alexander Pope is pitched against WH Auden. But my money's on Auden. You heard it from Bill Blunt first.

Peace, Bread, Land

2008-03-03T18:52:00.005Z

Having eulogised of late about the reasonable price being charged by Sainsbury’s for Dove’s Farm Organic Wholemeal Flour, it came as something of a shock when I went to stock up on supplies this evening.

After months perfecting my artisan bread-making techniques, I’d grown accustomed to paying just 60p for 1.5kg of the stuff, pleased to be able to make a decent loaf of bread for little more than 25p a go. I was hardly prepared, therefore, for the price-hike that faced me tonight. The same product has all but doubled in price, and now retails at £1.19 for a 1.5kg bag.

That’s why I’ve dusted the flour off my Bill Blunt Blast accolade, to award it to whoever it was at Sainsbury’s who has sanctioned this crippling price increase. Did they give a moment’s thought to the poor pensioner, eking out their pittance of an income, when they authorised this calamitous price rise? I doubt it.

If I were Gordon Brown, I’d be sleeping a little more uneasily in my bed tonight (and it’s worth stressing that no earthquakes are anticipated). His Government has failed to deliver peace in Iraq, and now the price of home-made bread has doubled. As for land, that’s a subject we might want to studiously avoid, lest we re-awaken Bolshevik instincts in the British population.

I’ll be writing to Sainsbury’s about this outrageous matter, I can tell you. Anyone tempted to add their voice to my campaign can do so by e-mailing their Customer Services people, here.

Back to Basics

2008-02-29T20:46:00.003Z

I’ve learned the hard way in life that there are two things you should never criticize about a man: his choice of woman and his preferred coffee machine.

Just as there are men who swear by the virtues of the blonde over the brunette, so too there are those who will argue late into the night on the relative merits of their particular model of Gaggia.

There’s no doubt about it, the Italian’s produce a seductive and ultimately sexy range of espresso makers - most of which, when teamed up with that other Italian marvel, Lavazza coffee, are guaranteed to satisfy the caffeine urges of any red-blooded male.

But I want to introduce you to another (perhaps little-known) brand: Ufesa. Many moons ago, I purchased one of these on the recommendation of a couple of coffee grinders who ply their trade in an industrial unit in a backstreet of Birkenhead. At £45 it was cheap enough – but was it too cheap to produce the pressure to guarantee the crema so characteristic of a good espresso, I wondered? They argued not.

I took the risk and, since that day, have never looked back. Day in, day out, for the last seven years, my plucky little Ufesa has doled out perfect shots of coffee. It’s a wolf of a machine in Spanish clothing. The only casualty across those years has been the unfathomable loss of the nozzle that sits on the end of the frother. Periodic expeditions around the kitchen have failed to unearth it, so I can only assume it fell off and got taken out in the trash sometime.

My latest discovery, however, is also worthy of sharing. My consumption of coffee is gargantuan, and threatened to be ruinously expensive. At around £2 for 250g, Lavazza can soon become a luxury that can be ill-afforded when licking the financial wounds of a divorce. I decided, therefore, to take another risk, when in Sainsbury’s the other week. Like most supermarkets, they have a range of products for what they probably think of as the riff-raff among their customers. What in Tesco is Value, and in Asda is Smart Price, in Sainsbury’s is Basics. When I saw they’d introduced a Basics Ground Coffee, I was up to try it.

At 79p for 250g, I wasn’t expecting much. What a surprise, then, to discover that it was more than a match for Lavazza.

Well done, Sainsbury’s. And well done that reader who, after spotting this post, dashes out to try it. You’ll thank me for it.

Did the earth move for you?

2008-02-27T09:02:00.004Z

At my age in life, it's rare to feel the bed rattling against the wall, still less the very foundations of my bijoux residence shaking. It was a strange feeling, therefore, to be jolted awake at one o'clock this morning, to feel an unusual, trembling sensation - especially since I was sleeping alone.

As a well-trained newspaper hack, my first instinct was to think 'It's an earthquake' - a thought I rapidly dismissed as improbable, replacing it with the notion that it must, instead, be my next door neighbour's washing machine on it's 2000 rpm spin cycle. It wouldn't be the first time she's taken advantage of the Economy 7 tariff to freshen up her smalls.

I felt a certain sense of vindication, therefore, when turning on the news this morning. Minor earth tremor in Market Rasen, Lincolnshire - not many hurt. The kind of gem of a story we used to love on the Stockport Herald, rubbing our hands with glee as we tried to locate a local angle on the tale. Those lucky buggers at the Market Rasen News must think all their birthdays have come at once! Thankfully, the quake came too early to affect this decision, so the good people of the area may well yet get their swimming pool.

Storm Clouds Gather

2008-02-23T23:26:00.008Z

Ever since the renting-assunder of my marriage, relations with my son Jasper have not been what they should. He seems to have spent more time down in Ipswich, giving credence to my theory that he was a mummy's boy. Nevertheless, I've missed his 'dropping by', and I've been at pains to let him know my door is always open to him.

His most recent visit saw him, as usual, 'analysing my stats'. He's always been keen to ensure that my blog meets the needs of its readers, and studying where they come from, why they come her and what they think when they arrive has become a bit of an obsession for him.

'Pa,' he said, on a recent trip to the Wirral, 'you're losing it.' Apparently, my Technorati ranking has plummeted. When pressed, he suggested this might be for the simple reason that I haven't been posting as frequently as I once was.

He knows my situation. More worryingly, he hinted darkly that his mother was considering publishing her own blog, based on a diary she apparently kept during our near-forty years of marriage. I must admit, I was shocked at the prospect. It's one thing for me to post my own reflections on life, but quite another for the former Mrs Blunt to want to do the same. I can only think this has been prompted by Tommy Fishfinger, her new paramour, who has doubtless been filling her head with thoughts of the fame and fortune that might accrue were she to spill the beans on her marriage to one of sport's more infamous journalists.

I'm not happy about it - not one little bit. I have instructed my solicitors to scour the internet and to alert me to any calumnies. There's a big, fat writ waiting in the wings, I can tell you.

Meanwhile, Jasper has helpfully produced another report on 'How People Find Me'. It makes sobering reading, and suggests I need to broaden my subject-matter, lest readers think I have become obsessed by Wetherspoons, Prolectrix Mp3 players and the Georgian Massage parlour in Oldham. I fully acknowledge that, if these subjects are the ones that are driving traffic to my site, I need to think carefully how I label my postings in future. After all, who would want to be thought of as a sozzled, music-obsessed frequenter of brothels in the Oldham area? Particularly when I can aspire to become the world authority on Kappa tracksuit fetishes...

Bill Blunt's Guide to Wetherspoons: No 3: Doncaster: The Gatehouse

2008-02-23T12:35:00.005Z

Ever since its publication in serialised form in 1928, rumours have persisted that Michail Sholokhov penned the opening chapters of his seminal piece of fiction, And Quiet Flows The Don while sat in the snug of a pub somewhere in Doncaster, South Yorkshire.

It's a seductive idea and, as any journalist worth his salt will tell you, you should never let the absence of any corroborating facts get in the way of a story. But that doesn’t mean we should believe everything the Doncaster Tourist Information Centre tells us in an attempt to lure visitors to the place.

As my loyal reader will know, I’m not a man who scorns the opportunity to travel - there’s not a lot of moss on Bill Blunt, I can tell you. So, when Reggie Mackeson, my old pal on the Doncaster Free Press, invited me across the Pennines for the weekend, I was quick to accept. He’s always eulogized about the place, so I was keen to sample its delights. Now, I don’t mind dark, Satanic mills – but when it comes to dark Satanic schools, dark Satanic churches and dark Satanic supermarkets, I can tell you: I’ve had my fill. In their obviously very finite wisdom, the city planners of Doncaster have elected to knock down a ghastly 1970’s-period shopping centre and replace it with a perfectly awful 21st century one.

I thought, however, I could take advantage of the trip to add another chapter to the Bill Blunt Guide to Wetherspoons, which is starting to take shape.

No one can be sure whether The Gatehouse was the very pub in which Sholokhov dashed out the first few lines of his epic Don masterwork. But the facts are clear that there has been an inn on the site since at least 1670. Messrs Wetherspoon didn’t get in on the act until early 2002, modernizing and transforming it into the pub it is today.

Early impressions are of a clean and spacious venue, if a tad on the dark side. Perhaps the fact that I was visiting for breakfast on a rather dull, Saturday morning in February had something to do with that, or maybe the lights were dimmed to protect the sensitivities of the dozen or so sterling men who, even at 9am, seemed to have no compunction in downing a pint (and more) of ale.

The staff at The Gatehouse are an exceptionally friendly and amiable bunch. Presentation-wise, the breakfast was a little lack-lustre, with the fried egg haphazardly thrown over the baked beans and bacon. But it was hot, tasty and greaseless – well-up to the usual Wetherspoon breakfast standard. And a bit more training on the coffee machine wouldn’t go amiss, if they are ever to master the art of serving up a decent cappuccino. However, since Reggie had a couple of vouchers he’d had delivered as part of a marketing campaign, the brekkie and coffee only cost us £1.99 each, so it would be churlish to complain too much.

I wasn’t able to test out the wi-fi signal at The Gatehouse, but Reggie assures me he’s never had much problem logging on there.

All in all, then, you won’t be disappointed by this one.

Decor: 8/10
Food Quality: 9/10
Value for money: 10/10 (using discount voucher)
Location: 6/10
Wifi Access: 9/10

Cuban Heels Are Dancing - in Miami

2008-02-19T17:40:00.003Z

The news that Fidel Castro, the world’s longest-presiding political leader, is stepping down from the helm in Cuba is not entirely unexpected. When, in August 2006, he handed power, albeit temporarily, to his younger brother, Raul, there were many who thought he would never return. Those who danced on the streets of Miami must have had cause to shudder when Raul’s older sibling re-assumed the reins.*

Nevertheless, it was always evident that Castro’s ill-health meant his return to power might be brief and, less than two years later, the Cuban exiles have once again dusted off their dancing shoes. Rumours are rife that another change in leader will herald a loosening of grip of the state on the country’s socialised economy.

It’s a marvel at all that a tiny country like Cuba has been able not just to withstand the constant opposition of the United States to it’s communist economic planning (dressed up as pro-democracy), but that it has done so for almost half a century. Castro’s achievement has been to see off nine US Presidents and their pernicious sanctions.

Now, I fear, the door will open slightly, and before we know it we’ll see the dismantling of one of the world’s finest primary health care systems. One where you don’t book an appointment to see the doctor, but where he or she comes knocking on your door as part of their regular rounds to see if everyone in every home is well. I’ve no doubt that once this is gone, and replaced by a US-style pay for healthcare system, there’ll be many who look back fondly on the days of socialised medicine, and wonder how they came to lose it.

As is so often in life, the words of the slogan of that great British company, National Car Parks, ring true: “You don’t know what you’ve got, ‘til it’s gone”.

Here’s wishing Fidel a few more years of health, anyway. Adiós, amigo querido!

* All mixed metaphors are the intellectual property of Bill Blunt.

A Brave New Voice From the North

2008-02-18T08:18:00.005Z

Due to a change in my personal circumstances, I no longer get as much chance to surf for new blogs and thus point my readers towards them as often as I used to. I'm not exactly on my uppers, you understand, but the recent divorce from Mrs Blunt means I have to watch the pennies. A landline (and hence an ISP) were the first casualty in my economy drive.

However, I've recently signed up to the 3 mobile broadband service, and it's allowing me, once again, to dip a toe into the unknown.

Courtesy of those fine people at Fuel My Blog, I found a little seedling which I would like to suggest readers drop by to take a look at.

Surviving, by Elaine Stevens, is a 'novel in progress'. It differs markedly from that other novel I've pointed readers to in the past - not least because it does appear to be 'in progress'. Thomas Hamburger seems to have ground to a halt after a mere 150,000 words, despite his protestations that he's 'on a re-write'.

When you do drop by to Elaine's blog, just remember that she's a northern lass, and proud of it. A good editor will no doubt help her sort out some of the grammar and punctuation, but what appealed to me was a language that was sharp and distinctive, and a style that made me want to read on. I can't pretend I'm a fan of her chosen genre, but she kept me reading to the end of the chapters she's already posted, and left me wanting to know how it was all going to turn out.

I hope you will want to encourage this talent, by leaving her a comment and letting her know you've dropped by. You won't regret it.

Potatoes, Chicken and Madrid

2008-02-10T16:56:00.001Z

When the Spanish take a photograph, they invariably enjoin their subjects to say 'Patatas' rather than 'Cheese'. Anyone who has tasted one of the country's national dish - patatas bravas - will understand why the humble potato might be dear to the heart of the average resident of the Iberian peninsula.

At the same time, it's hard to walk around the streets of Madrid without stumbling across the ubiquitous Museo Del Jamo n chain of bars, where huge hams line the walls. You'll trip over them everywhere. And you won't be disappointed if you stumble inside. You'll search hard, however, for anything that celebrates the Spanish love of the potato in quite the same way. Thankfully, Bill Blunt has done the searching for you.

Back in 1980, two brothers in the south of the city centre surveyed the proliferation of ham museums and had the bright idea of opening something which marked the respect with which they held the potato. But fear not, this is no stuffy museum of the kind that Thomas Hamburger Jnr likes to wander round - this is a down-at-home, honest to goodness tapas bar where the potato forms the central part of every dish. Best of all - a couple of beers and a bowl of migas or other free tapas will (unbelievably) set you back less than €2. Worth the trip on the metro to Palos de La Frontera (just a couple of stops down from Sol, in the centre), the Museo de Las Patatas won't disappoint, and is well away from the tourist haunts. Particularly if you've availed yourself of Madrid's Abono Touristico, and have the freedom of the city's rail, metro and bus services for the paltry sum of €7.15 for two days. Buy it at the airport metro station, and your journey into the city is also included - Ken Livingstone, eat your heart out. For more information on the Museo de Las Patatas, and other worthy Madrid haunts, you could do worse than visit esmadriz!, which is one of my favourite blogs, from the design point of view of its header, alone.

Of course, man cannot live on just potatoes (although I'm sure the frite sellers of Belgium would make a pretty strong case to the contrary). Bill's top tip for an authentic, non-potato, Madrid eating experience is therefore to take a trip to Casa Mingo. Here, traditional Asturian sidra is served up alongside perfectly-cooked chicken. Nothing fancy - honest-to-goodness food that seeks to please the palate. Handily, you'll also get the chance to visit Prícipe Pio, where an abandoned train station has been converted, rather spectacularly, into a shopping centre.

Staying in Madrid is always a pleasure. It's a city I've visited more times than I've had hot dinners (at least, that is, more times than I've had hot dinners since my marriage to Mrs B was rent assunder), and I've always found somewhere to lay my head that is comfortable, and in an interesting area. This time, though, I was happy to leave the business of arranging our accommodation to THJnr, and he came up trumps with a modest little three star place just a potato's throw from Sol - the Hotel Ingles. It proved handy for the live jazz at Cafe Populart which he insisted on dragging me to watch, and where the drinks were 1000 per cent more expensive than those on offer at the potato museum. The staff at the hotel are attentive, and the rooms large and rather quaintly old-fashioned. I was particularly impressed with the bath, the design of which gave me pause for thought, and has given me ideas for how I'd like my next bathroom to be, when I finally get to re-establish Blunt Towers. But my views on bathroom design will have to await another posting. As will my views on jazz.

Injury Time

2008-02-07T21:00:00.000Z

Over the course of a lifetime in journalism, I have inevitably incurred my fair share of injuries. A blackened eye - administered by an association footballer who liked to think of himself as ‘professional’ (but who was strictly amateur when it came to answering questions about his alleged affair with a waitress), was not the least of them. A broken rib or two - caused by slip on a step outside the Dog and Kettle in Stockport (which the brewery solicitors refused to accept was uneven, choosing to defend my claim by producing my - admittedly rather large - bar bill) figures somewhere along the line. And an injured knee – occasioned by a hammer-wielding ex-husband in a suburb of south Manchester (which shall remain nameless: no veil would be discrete enough where that story is concerned).

But the strangest injury of all has to be the one that has got me tapping away at my keyboard much more slowly than usual, with the middle finger of my right hand splinted up for the next 6 weeks thanks chiefly to a fight with a sock.

This posting is, therefore, published as a warning to any man (or indeed, woman) out there who carelessly attempts to remove their socks tonight, without giving a thought to the potential for bodily injury.

STOP!

Think carefully before you absent-mindedly try to push off a sock with an extended finger. Had I had the foresight to be in Seattle in 2001, I might have learned about Fran Joy’s experience, and given more thought to what I otherwise had come to think was a fairly safe procedure. Having followed the advice (from an early age) of many of my teachers to ‘pull my socks up,’ I always believed I had become equally skilled at removing them. After all, in the simple act of removing a sock, no ladders, no electrical apparatus, and no dangerous chemicals are involved. And it’s an act I’ve performed at least 40,000 times in my life - sometimes more than twice a day (pass the discrete veil again, please).

However, I am here to testify about the dangers: mallet finger, and two months in a splint, awaits all who fail to heed my warning. Tonight, then, take extra care when taking off your socks. You’ll be glad you did.

Every picture tells a story...

2008-02-02T16:50:00.000Z

I forget exactly which drink it was that used to advertise itself with the slogan 'It's what your right arm's for'- but I rather think whoever sculptured this fine piece in Charleroi might have had that phrase in mind.

It's a steelworker, apparently.

Travails With My Jaunt

2008-02-02T07:02:00.000Z

It’s a brave man who calls Bill Blunt ‘unadventurous’. Not for me the easy life of pipe and slippers - even as my sixth decade starts to slip slowly away, like a golden sun setting in the west, I demand more. You’re never too old to learn, as they say – and I, for one, have that maxim branded on my chest.

So, a mini-tour of Europe (courtesy of cheap-flight pioneers, Ryanair) was ‘just what the doctor ordered’ to stimulate my decaying brain cells. Forgive the cliché, but they’re right when they say ‘a change is as good as a rest’.

As someone who is best known for his trenchant columns on sporting events, my readers may be surprised to learn that I’ve always nurtured a desire to branch out into travel writing. Another string to a bow which already resembles a seven-string guitar will never come amiss.

More than a century and a half ago, the great artists of the time pioneered The Grand Tour. At great expense, and not without some sacrifice of time and effort, it became fashionable to explore the European Continent. Well, thanks to the technological advances society has made since then, it’s now possible to follow in their paint-spattered footsteps for little more than the cost of a couple of cheap DVD players. Special offers from the low-cost airlines puts a slimmed-down version of the nineteenth century Euro-jaunt well within the reach of most people’s wallets.

An eight-day trip from the UK, taking in two Spanish cities, an Italian and a Belgian town offered the chance to sample a slice of Europe for the not-so-grand sum of £52, thanks to Ryanair’s winter sale. Getting from my home on the Wirral to Liverpool John Lennon Airport required a £1 bus fare to Birkenhead Central station, £1.75 to cross under the Mersey and £2.50 for the coach from Liverpool Lime Street to the airport. From there to Valencia was £10, including the obligatory ‘taxes and charges’. A maths teacher might find it interesting to set their pupils a challenge to work out the relative costs for each part of the journey… but I can save them the work. The 12 mile trip to the airport cost 43p per mile, whereas the flight to Valencia cost a mere penny a mile. I can’t pretend to understand the economics of it all, but since Ryanair posted a profit of £326m in the six months to September 2007, I can only think it must be because they charge a fortune for sandwiches during the flight.

My travelling companion, Thomas Hamburger, did me the great service of booking the hotels for our trip. The boy did well, managing to secure very acceptable rooms with twin beds, for around £25 for each of us per night. I must confess I was a little worried we might have to share a bed, even if it would be a la Morecombe and Wise, but in the event we found twin beds rather than doubles to be the norm everywhere we stayed. Quite how the continentals got their reputation for sexual frivolousness in the absence of double beds confounds me.

Valencia (Spain)

Once in Valencia, we took advantage of all the city offered With temperatures nudging 20 C, we got our first taste of ‘proper’ sun since October. There’s nothing like sipping a cool beer in a quiet Spanish plaza in January to lift the mood, but Valencia also offers the enticement of Chocolate con Churros – yummy twists of dough, freshly fried and ready to dip into the thick, sweet chocolate that the Spanish seem to love so much. We couldn’t help but notice that these chocolate parlours were full of ladies who lunch, adding grist to the popular theory that women lust after cocoa like a man desires a pint of Newcastle Brown.

But of course, our main target on our first day in Spain was what any red-blooded male’s aim would be … tapas. Thankfully, we found it aplenty, and no finer than in the bar opposite the magnificent city-centre market. The next day (after an evening during which THJnr philosophised about the problems of ‘writing’), we ambled into one or two bars, including a Basque one, where we partook of pinxtos (the northern Spanish equivalent of tapas – and very nice, too) and sideria, a brew which makes Magners look like the sheep’s pee it really is. We managed to fit in a trip to the coast, and dipped our toes in the Med to reassure ourselves that we weren’t in England (photographs are available, to prove the point).

Bergamo

From Valencia, the flight to Bergamo (Ryanair-speak for Milan, but actually a full hour by bus from the capital of couture) was just €10. I have spent more on a magazine (admittedly an adult one) than I have on that flight. Here, a three day tourist card was available for just €5 – a bargain since this also includes the airport transfer as well as the two funicular railways from the low town to the high town. Top tip: Italy isn’t the cheapest place to spend a few days but, if you do find yourself in Bergamo, take the funicular railway up to the high town, and take a meal – or just a coffee – in the restaurant at the top of the line. You won’t regret it – if only for the view. And the coffee. On Thomas Hamburger Jnr’s advice, avoid the Mexican Karaoke Bar in the low town, even if it sounds like a good idea at 2am in the morning.

Charleroi

The Bergamo – Brussels Charleroi leg of our journey again cost just €10 – and brought a surprise. As a former mining town, and the scene of a major colliery disaster as recently as 1956, it can sometimes seem a little rough around the edges, but as a northern lad I felt instantly at home amongst the beer bellies, flat caps and coal-dust scarred faces. The men of the town were quite interesting, too. Nevertheless, the civic burghers have done their best to move with the times. An integrated transport system is centred round the grand Charleroi Sud railway station, in front of which the canal glides sleekly by, tastefully lit at night. Head for the main square of the town, where dozens of bars battle for your business, ready to force distinctly strong Belgian beers upon you. In the evening, the bars and take-aways in the square are illuminated as if in homage to Rusholme in Manchester, and it’s a strong man who wouldn’t be tempted to sample the beers and the frites and mayonnaise on offer. The walk back down to the station will feel easier after a few of each. And the statue of a steelworker on the canal bridge, facing the station, will seem, somehow, just a little err… risqué. Thomas has an interesting photo of this, which he has promised to get to me once it's developed, so I can share it with my readers.

The big surprise on leaving Charleroi was to find ourselves departing from a different airport. In the 72 hours we had been there, the industrious Belgians had managed to open up an entirely new airport – a swanky, plush affair quite different from the shed we’d arrived at. THJnr and myself were among the first few hundred people to use the place, seemingly outnumbered by the press and TV photographers. But we were off to Madrid... (of which more, later).

Viva La Difference

2008-01-28T09:10:00.000Z

As I approach the end of my mini-jaunt around Europe, I have taken some time out to visit an internet cafe in the delightful town of Charleroi, where I am catching up on e-mails before the final leg of my journey (Madrid) tomorrow.

One might assume that a former mining town would have little to detain one after the pleasures of Valencia and Bergamo - but you'd be wrong. Maybe it's because of my own working-class up-bringing, but the place seems warm and welcoming like a wholesome Northern town, with the added bonus of dozens of varieties of Belgian beers to make the day go with a swing. Skipping from country to country as we are, it's easy to see the cultural differences that divide our nations, while at the same time re-inforcing our prejudices. The Italians were indeed smartly dressed and very dapper with it; the Spanish very stylish but in a relaxed sort of way and the Belgians - well, they're happy enough with whatever is available from the market.

Of course, the trip is proving to be a bit of a compromise. THJnr and myself are very different animals, and there's nothing like sharing a hotel room to discover a man's foibles. At least we both of us got to cast off our shoes and socks to have a good 'plodge' in the Med. Valencia's beaches may not be the prettiest in the world (vaguely reminiscent, in fact, of Seaton Carew), but the sand is fine and clean, and just feeling the sun on your face is enough to dispel thoughts of a grey English winter.

And so, like a couple of American tourists, our jaunt continues. It's Monday, so it must be Belgium.

Adios! Ciao! Au revoir!

A Ladies' Man

2008-01-20T13:43:00.000Z

I realise that some of my readers might be tempted to doubt my feminist credentials. My recent rant about Janet Street-Porter has led some to think, somehow, that I’m a whisky-soaked misogynist of some sort.

I can’t claim I wasn’t wounded by the charge. Just because I’m styled (by my publicists, I hasten to add) as The Man Who Tells It Like It Is, it doesn’t mean I don’t have a certain affinity for the female mind. Watching Willy Russell’s wonderful Blood Brothers at the Liverpool Empire last week was a truly moving experience. I’m not the kind of man who would pretend a tear didn’t cascade its way down my cheek now and again during the performance.

I like to think – alongside the estimable Crofty – that my sensitivities extend a tad further than standing on the sideline cheering the Latics as they trounce Everton in a cup encounter. I’ll also be the first to admit to occasionally listening to Alanis Morissette, without for a moment thinking I’ve dented my credibility as one of the foremost sports correspondents of my generation.

For those who doubt my claims, I can only refer them to some of my earliest writing. I’m not a man to blow my own trumpet, but should there be anyone who thinks I’m a ‘man’s man’, here’s a clipping from one of my earliest forays into journalism, when I was asked to stand in to write a column or two for Letty Bradshaw, the Stockport Leader’s much-respected woman’s correspondent. I think it speaks for itself. If anyone thinks a mere woman could have penned such prose, then they’re clearly biased.

A Friend in Need

2008-01-18T14:04:00.000Z

Just when I thought it was safe to take to the air on my mini-jaunt around Europe, a call from Thomas Hamburger Jnr comes in. Would I mind awfully, he asks, if he accompanied me on my trip? He’s had a rough time of it recently, dealing with one or two ‘issues’ he feels must be tidied up before he can re-write his fictional account of Harry McFry. I chided him with the fact that not the least of these issues is that he’s required to finish the bloody thing before he can even contemplate a re-write.

I must say, it wasn’t like this in my day. When Wally Green asked for a story for the front page, a story was precisely what he got. There wasn’t much time for intellectual agonising at the Stockport Leader. Lolling around in a flat listening to Cavalleria Rusticana and complaining about writers’ block wasn’t an option when there were bills to pay and a young family to support.

Well, I suppose I owe him one. It was Thomas who eased my way into the world of blogs in the first place, and he has continued to post whatever musings I send him (with very little editorial cuts). At the same time, I can’t help but think a very different kind of holiday is now in store for me. I’ve had to hastily re-arrange a few liaisons I had lined up en route, as it wouldn’t be seemly to have a friend in tow for some of the encounters I had planned. And I doubt very much he’ll be keen on visiting the great football stadia in Milan, Valencia, Madrid and err... Brussels, which was also part of my plan. The prospect is now real that the entire seven days could be spent in a blur of cafes, cigarettes and culture.

Still, what price friendship? It’s a brave man who accuses Bill Blunt of turning his back on a friend in his hour of need. And, who knows, maybe a few days spent ‘people watching’ won’t be such a bad thing? I’ll keep you posted.

Oh, Mrs Porter, What Shall We Do?

2008-01-14T09:34:00.000Z

So. Janet Street-Porter, the highly-paid doyen of Fleet Street, rails against the humble blog? Donchajustknowit? The much-made-over hackette seems to think blogs are nothing more than self-indulgent mediocrity (Just blog off. And take your self-promotion and cat-flap with you, Independent on Sunday, 6 January 2008).

Perhaps she thinks Joe and Josephine Blogger would be better off punting up £1.80 of their precious cash to read her whining, self-obsessed ramblings in the IoS every week? Keen to see what she was up to these days, I did just that. Her musings about Marks & Spencer, Big Brother and a plug for her latest publication Life’s Too F***ing Short (for which we are invited to punt a further £12.99) are hardly the most scintillating of reads.

She confesses to being ‘a bit nervous’ that M&S might branch out into online food delivery – worse still, that they are considering expanding their range of food to include more basic ingredients with which meals can be cooked. Well, I think JS-P needs to toughen up a bit. It takes more than a shift in retailing strategy by a high street chain to make Bill Blunt even the least bit nervy.

Janet is clearly no stranger to irony. After slagging off the lowly blogger for self-promotion, should we be surprised that her angle on Big Brother is that ‘I was allowed to hijack the programme last Friday’, or that a quarter of her column is devoted to advertorial for her own (just-published) book?

At least no one can accuse her of being a hypocrite. ‘Start each day … by telling yourself you are great. No one else is going to, believe me,’ she says. How true, Janet. Now – where’s that cat-flap? Mee-owww!

You Need Hands

2008-01-12T15:38:00.000Z

When Mrs Blunt scarpered with the fishmonger, she little realised what a favour she was doing me. Accustomed, over many years, to having the odd loaf of bread baked in a bread machine, I was quite bereft when she waltzed off with it as part of the carefully-worded divorce settlement prepared by her solicitors. There’s nothing quite like waking up to the smell of freshly-baked bread, and I must confess I was more than a bit miffed to lose the facility.

My circumstances did not immediately permit me to buy a replacement (bread maker, that is – not wife) but, after an evening of head-scratching, it came to me that I didn’t actually need one to meet my desire for the aroma of cooked dough. Everything I needed was right there in my hands – quite literally, in fact.

If she did but know it, the late Mrs B did me a great service. A consultation with my sister-in-law )not on Mrs B’s side, I hasten to add) was all I needed. She pointed me in the direction of Andrew (God Bless Him) Whitley’s seminal work Bread Matters. It’s not often that Bill Blunt endorses a product, but when he does, his readers can be assured that they should rush out and buy it.

Mr Whitley has produced the definitive reference book about bread. In 370 closly-printed pages, he expounds all there really is to know about bread, and how to make it. Forget your chemicals, your additives and your preservatives. A loaf of bread is flour, water, yeast and salt. That’s all. Since ASDA will furnish you with free yeast (just ask at the bakery), and since Dove Farm produce a very acceptable organic wholemeal flour for just 60p per 1.5kg, in no time you can be producing your own, healthy bread for less than 40p a pop (that’s 80c to our transatlantic cousins).

The only fly in the ointment is friends and acquaintances. For some reason, they seem to think that people who make their own bread use the process to ‘take out their frustrations’. They have this vision of me battering the hell out of the dough. This couldn’t be further from the truth. A good loaf is made with love, time and attention – just like a good relationship. You can’t force these things by shoving them in machines or by pummelling them to death. Bread is the staff of life. Make it with care and devotion, give the yeast plenty of time to do its stuff, and the taste will repay you in dividends.

While I was rustling up a couple of loafs and a cob last night, I got to thinking why, the world over, the classic figure of the baker always seems to be male? Whether it’s the little French boulanger or the dusty-aproned fellow who crops up in nursery rhymes now and again, there’s no doubt that, in our mind’s eye, we visualise a man.

Well, times have moved on. Thanks to campaigners like Emily Pankhurst, women, too, can get their knuckles well and truly dusted with flour. So, take a tip. This weekend, get that oven fired up and feel the thrill of the dough coming together in your hands. You’ll thank me for it.

Cheap Week Return

2008-01-10T08:37:00.000Z

Whenever the low-cost air carriers publish their new schedules, or whenever they announce a sale, Bill Blunt finds it hard to resist the temptation to wander their websites with an eye to a bargain.

So, when Ryanair began advertising their current crop of low, low air fares, I set myself the challenge of finding out how far £50 would get me. That's near enough $100 to our transatlantic cousins. Anyone booking via the likes of Ryanair, Easyjet and Flybe will have learnt to their cost that it's one thing to find a cheap flight, but quite another to absorb the 'taxes and charges' lurking beneath it.

To make my challenge more realistic, therefore, my target was that the £50 had to include their published taxes and charges. Well, here's what I came up with:

Wed 23 Jan Liverpool - Valencia £10
Fri 25 Jan Valencia - Bergamot 10 Euros
Sun 27 Jan Bergamot - Brussels 10 Euros
Tues 29 Jan Brussels - Madrid 10 Euros
Thurs 31 Jan Madrid - Liverpool 10 Euros

That makes a grand total of around £40 or 80 USD - not at all bad for a journey that takes in three countries and four European cities.

Of course, I've got to find some accommodation for each evening while I'm away. Any offers or suggestions of budget-priced places would be most welcome...

A Grand Day Out

2008-01-07T09:36:00.000Z

The dawning of a new year on Merseyside brings, for a seasoned hack like myself, a veritable plethora of cultural opportunities. For, it is finally here: Liverpool is European Capital of Culture.

I know there have been some people (mainly Mancunians, it has to be said) who have tried to make light of this accolade, even suggesting that, when the wheels are stolen from your car in Liverpool this year, you’ll return to find it resting on four stacks of books, rather than bricks. I’m not one of those who revel in such cheap stereotypes, and I think there is more than the whiff of envy in comments like that.

Given Liverpool’s new status, it was easy for me to make a personal resolution that 2008 should be my own year of cultural development. With Mrs Blunt off the scene, I can finally allow myself to sample some of the artistic pleasures of the world - free of that carping voice in my ear saying “I don’t know what the fuss is all about – it looks like a load of triangles and circles to me” (the best she could make, apparently, of Kandinsky).

With a multitude of arts activities lined up, where better place to start than the Turner Prize exhibition at the Tate Gallery, in the Albert Docks, at the invitation of an old drinking friend of mine? Now that I’m resident in the Wirral, Liverpool is but a short ferry ride away, as any Gerry Marsden fan will tell you, so it seemed an attractive proposition.

Alas, fate – and the fact that, during the day, the morning and evening ‘commuter’ ferry service is curtailed in favour of a tourist route that adds an extra half hour to the trip – conspired against me. Add to that the potent mix of a bitingly cold (‘nithering’ is the word I am looking for) wind, and building works that interfered with the otherwise short walk from ferry terminal to the Tate and, well … my readers will understand why I was seduced by the charms of a warm and cosy bar, for a reviving shot of Bells. Circumstances may even have dictated that I had another. It all meant that I missed the Turner prize exhibition, and the company of my erstwhile drinking chum.

Consolation was is store for me, however. Forsaking the bollock-withering ferry, I made my return via the ‘fast and frequent’ (and decidedly warmer) electric train that runs under (rather than over) the Mersey. Still craving art, I headed for Birkenhead’s Williamson Gallery, best described as a provincial museum and art gallery – little knowing what delights were in store for me.

The Williamson is a treat – its permanent collection is worth a trip in itself, although heavily weighted towards C19th art and with a rather unsettling room of drab, weighty furniture that includes a huge, dark fireplace that would be better broken up and burnt – but Bill Blunt was never a fan of big fireplaces. Notwithstanding that, I discovered an exhibition by students from the Upton Hall Girls School.

Now, I’ve never pretended to know much about art, but only a brave man would accuse me of being uncultured. And I think I can recognise vivid and exciting art when I see it. These 17-18 year olds had produced an exhibition that set my soul on fire, making me hungry for more. I am sure there are those who would describe their work as derivative, but I’m not sure there are many youngsters who can work free of the influence of giants such as Hockney. There’s hope yet when our teenagers can produce work of such outstanding quality, and (for what it’s worth) my guess is it will stand head and shoulders over anything given the Turner prize. Here’s a sample.

Happy New Year!

A roundabout way of spreading the news

2007-12-27T11:34:00.000Z

I've never been much of a one for round robins. They smack, to me, of a bit of a cop out. Having said that, it's a brave man who accuses Bill Blunt of not embracing popular culture, especially when it saves him having to think too much about personal letters to people.

Here, then, is my annual round robin newsletter for friends and family. Happy New Year - when it comes!

Condiments of the Season

2007-12-21T08:30:00.000Z

I know some of my stalwart readers have suspected that my recent 'radio silence' might be part of some elaborate scam, and that I would emerge,in due course, in a North London police station claiming to have lost my memory. Meanwhile, the former Mrs Blunt would be living it up in Hunstanton on the proceeds of a modest insurance policy she had the foresight to take out on me just before we divorced.

Nothing could be further from the truth! I admit that the circumstantial evidence is all there - in particular, my familiarity with a certain Seaton Carew has not gone un-noticed by the odd reader or two. But that's merely a co-incidence, I can assure you.

Instead, my last few weeks have been spent working. When I hung up my quill and faced the dizzy prospect of retirement, I little thought that my financial circumstances would alter so much that I would be forced back to work. However, a divorce and the need to move home have both taken their toll on the old finances, and needs must, etc etc. It's been a shock to the system, I can tell you.

Nevertheless, the holiday season now beckons, so I thought I would take a little time out and wish my loyal reader all the very best for the holiday season. May 2008 bring you all the health and happiness you deserve.

As a postscript, I must gratefully acknowledge that I have been tagged by the estimable Crofty, and I promise that sometime over the Christmas period I will get round to inventing 7 new things people don't know about me. Or I might just re-hash a few old ones!

Ever so humble...

2007-11-16T20:02:00.000Z

When, at the behest of my son Jasper, I launched myself into the world of blogs, it was with no thought to the honours that might be bestowed on me.

Modesty almost forbids me from mentioning, therefore, that Bill Blunt's Blog has recently been awarded the coveted Golden C*** of Excellence Award by none other than that scion of upper class virtue, Lord Likely.

Throughout my career, I have always striven to maintain a modicum of respectability. Not for Bill Blunt the easy headlines to be gained by peppering my articles with words like 'Sex', 'Drugs' and 'Rock & Roll'. I think I know my audience, and those I do know are not comfortable with words calculated to cause my good friend, the Reverend Ivan Stang, to blush.

Lord Likely's award more than made up for the panning I got when my blog was recently reviewed by Humor-Blogs.Com.
I can't pretend I wasn't just a tad mortified to have my blog described as "an absolutely snooze-fest". Nor that someone seemed to think that my reflections on my recent marital breakdown were meant to be amusing: "All this person talks about is his wife leaving him. Maybe he isn't whining about it, but geez, I don't want to read about people's marital problems. If I did, I'd read the Enquirer..."

It would be easy to be wounded by such views. Fortunately, years of working in local journalism have hardened me to comments like that. I learned, long ago, that when the constant barbs of criticism are thrust towards your open heart, you need only to turn aside to deflect them.

At my age, recognition is enough.

Have your cake and eat it

2007-11-13T10:25:00.000Z

As someone who has become increasingly concerned about my weight, a front page of the Independent newspaper came as something of a relief, last week. Apparently, marginally overweight people live longer than any other group of people. The scientists have given their blessing, it seems, to people being just a little bit porky. It’s better to be a few pounds on the plus side than either obese, thin or ‘normal’ (whatever that means).

I didn’t read the full article, in case the small print hid some kind of caveat or other. It’s quite enough to know that carrying a few pounds more than he should is not going to do Bill Blunt any harm. At the same time, another headline I saw seemed to suggest that exposure to the sun helps prolong life, too. That’s another tick in the box for Bill, then, as I reflect on all those summers spent in the ‘60’s at Juan Les Pins, before Mrs Blunt came along.

When I think about all those painfully thin, pasty-faced scientists who parade themselves on TV, telling us what we should and should not be doing to maintain our health, I can’t help stifling a smug grin. What nightmares must they now be suffering as they tuck into their fat-free cranberry and broccoli yoghurts?

As I savoured the good news (and made a mental note to book a place on that Tuscan cookery holiday I’ve always wanted to try), I couldn’t help but reflect on the wise words of the late Freddy Marple. “Women like a decent set of love handles, in my experience,” he used to say. And there were few men more experienced than Freddy. Before he settled down, his fabled address book could easily have been mistaken for the Thompson Local. Many were the times his friends, at a loose end for what to do on a Friday night, would ask to rifle through those well-thumbed pages for inspiration. It was said of any woman in Stockport that, if she hadn’t been with Freddy then she was probably only visiting for the day.

There’s hope yet, then.

Divided Loyalties

2007-11-06T08:58:00.000Z

Imagine the scene. A young boy still in short trousers and knee high socks, accompanying his Uncle Jesmond to his first ever football match. The excitement of the capacity crowd, the dashing players in their classic 1950’s kit, the roar of pleasure as the pie-man started his trail around the terraces. A mug of steaming Oxo at half-time, to take away the biting wind-chill of the Boundary Park terraces. Those were, indeed, the days - and must, I am sure, have led me into my life’s career as a sports journalist.

Although I was to later to cover many other sports, it was always to football that I returned. The steady commercialisation of the game was not something that I relished. The glorious game, made dirty by the noxious whiff of money, was the living nightmare that enmeshed Association Football during the 1980's, as television got its grubby hands on the game.

As a leading sports columnist of my generation, I sat on the sidelines as Messrs Murdoch and Co sullied the sport with their wads of cash. Somehow, it took the pleasure out of physically going to the match, as you could now watch the entire proceedings from the centrally-heated comfort of your lounge. Grey school shorts and Oxo were swapped, in later years, for bermuda shorts and a few tins of fizzy lager.

Last night, however, I had a conversion on the road to Birkenhead. Having realised that Oldham were playing my new local team, Tranmere Rovers, I decided to forsake the sofa, and don my worsted overcoat. Even as late as a few moments before purchasing my ticket, I was unsure which side to support. But, like that famous psychological test of tossing a coin to make your mind up about something (so that if it falls the wrong way, you finally know), as I approached the turnstiles my mind was made up. You can take the man out of Oldham, but you can't take Oldham out of the man.

And so it was that I joined the hardy band of away supporters, cheering on the Latics as they put up a sterling fight. Despite being close tot he bottom of the League, they fought valiantly against Tranmere, who looked shoddy and uninspiring by comparison. Tension mounted as the game drew to its close, the scoreline 0-0 after 90 minutes of play. Then, magically, Oldham managed to sneak in a winner in the final minute of extra time. Pleasure unbounded for the couple of hundred Oldham fans who had been in proud voice against the desultory silence of their Tranmere counterparts.

Tranmere Rovers 0 Oldham 1

Sex & Shopping

2007-11-05T08:15:00.000Z

I’ve discovered that I’m a bit of a tart, when it comes to supermarkets. I know some people return, time and again, to the same, familiar shop to buy their weekly groceries. I always left the shopping to Mrs Blunt but have, since our divorce, had to learn the art of foraging for food amongst the aisles.

I won’t pretend it came naturally to me. My first attempt at buying fresh fruit came unstuck when I realised I hadn’t the faintest notion of what constituted a kilogram. Two kilos of nectarines sounds like a reasonable enough proposition, until you discover that’s about twenty of the little blighters – far more than any sane man would want to consume in a week. But mostly, I’ve taken to the grocery shop like a duck to water.

I find that I am as at ease in Morrison’s as I am in Sainsbury’s, as relaxed in Aldi as I am in Asda. I can get quite chipper at the thought of popping in to squeeze melons in my local Iceland. No one could accuse me of monogamy in my dealings with the major food retailers. I like to ‘put myself about a bit’, and have even been spotted in Netto, now and again.

Yet there’s one place that always makes me feel a bit uncomfortable. Perhaps it’s all that pseudo-patriotic red, white and blue … but I’ve never yet been seduced by Tesco. They just don’t do it for me. I know that the retail analysts will tell us that one pound in every eight spent in the UK finds its way into the hands of the Tesco family, but they’d be lucky if they got a tenner a year from me. They’re obviously doing something right as they steamroller their new shops across the country. A lot of folk clearly like what they do. Not Bill Blunt, though. The remorseless Tesco-fication of Britain leaves me cold. Their pioneering ‘out of town’ supermarkets almost spelled the death knell of Britain’s corner shop. What few are left will easily be seen off by the Tesco Metro’s that are springing up everywhere. Every time I hear that phrase ‘Every little helps’, I can’t help feeling just a little queasy.

Though I have forsworn setting foot in Tesco, there are still (thankfully) plenty of other retail giants offering the opportunity to saunter down the dairy aisle, coyly smiling at the rather attractive female choosing which brand of low-fat cottage cheese to buy, while I ruminate over yoghurts. Supermarkets are now the place of choice for the single, unattached male bent on picking up women, it seems. They perform the same social function as the dance hall or the coffee bar once did, in my youth. And a glance in the basket of any woman will give you an instant appraisal of the type of person she is.

My top tip, for any man who finds himself checking out ladies at the check-outs, is to look for a well-balanced basket. Plenty of fresh fruit, veg and all that stuff. A bottle of red wine, perhaps. Fight shy of the bottle of gin types: you can’t know for sure it’s not a daily habit.

Rhapsody in G

2007-10-26T12:17:00.000+01:00

My recent return to the UK after a visit to Paris has brought with it a raft of fresh anxieties which, I can only hope, my readers will not mind me sharing. One of the young ladies I was fortunate to meet (as part of my research for an article on the much-vaunted new Eurostar service from St Pancras International) was, shall we say, quite amorous in her approach to me over cocktails. I can’t pretend I wasn’t flattered. After so many decades trapped in a loveless marriage, and now free to sample whatever delights the world can offer, it’s a tempting prospect indeed when a woman of 52 throws herself at you in a mist of perfume and silk lingerie.

It was during a post-prandial examination of our respective hotel rooms (strictly to compare notes—she being a fellow journalist covering the same St Pancras launch for a magazine for ladies of a certain age) that she made her move.

Out of due discretion, and the desire to spare you the gory details, suffice it to say that my performance was not considered entirely up to scratch. Too many years of the same, routine love-making meant that the lady in question had cause to err… question my abilities in the bedroom department.

Implausible as it may sound, I discovered that I have reached my seventh decade in life without having the foggiest notion about what or where a G spot is. For the young lady this seemed to be a matter of some concern. I lost track of how many hours we spent looking for this elusive bodily part, and I was reminded of the wise words of old Freddy Marple, a fellow-hack and former drinking partner from my days at both the Stockport Echo and the Birkenhead Beagle. Freddy it was who, after chancing upon a discarded copy of Cosmopolitan magazine on the 409 bus out of Manchester, subsequently made it his life’s work to discover, and document, his wife’s own G spot.

Each week, he’d fill in the boys in the newsroom with the latest developments, eternally hopeful that, with one further search, it would turn up. Alas, despite many years of expeditions, Freddy never did discover that spot. Before he died, he passed the torch on to a young colleague of his who, alas, had a similarly striking lack of success.

I was forced to conclude, at that point, that the G spot might be little more than an urban myth, one step down from the story about the old lady who accidentally killed her pussy in an attempt to dry it in the microwave after a it was caught in a shower. For her part, my former wife was never one to bother too much about spots of any kind, so the subject was, for many years, put to bed.

Nevertheless, the whole, sorry subject of my trystess’ dissatisfaction was a great blow to my self-esteem. On my return home, I quizzed young Jasper on the subject of G spots.

“Pa!” he said, with a guffaw that wouldn’t have disgraced his Uncle Jesmond. “Surely you haven’t fallen for that old line?”

I pretended to be unsure what he meant. “The modern woman came up with the notion of the G spot so she could persuade her partner to spend lots of time looking for it. It’s just a cover for what you might have known in your day as foreplay. It's the oldest trick in the book!”

I can't pretend I wasn't taken aback by this news. Jasper went so far as to blame ‘my generation’ for the whole business. “If your lot had spent more time on foreplay in the first place, there’d have been none of this G spot nonsense for me and my pals to have to contend with."

I did rather feel I was getting it from both sides. The sins of the fathers, and all that. Nevertheless, if I ever see that little hussy from the Eurostar junket again, I'll have a thing or two to say to her, I must say.

I Told 'Em, Oldham!

2007-10-19T21:53:00.000+01:00

It would be easy to pretend that I have spent the last few weeks swanning around the Mediterranean, in search of the kind of love and affection denied to me for so many years during my marriage to Mrs Blunt.

It's not in my interest to divulge too much information, since my decree nisi has been delayed by one or two financial matters that still need to be tied up before our marriage can be truly said to be 'wrent assunder'. Suffice it to say that Mr Tommy Fishfinger will not be getting his hands on any of my accumulated assets. My accountant has been busy salting whatever I have to my name in little pockets, here and there. At one point, I believe even Antigua was mentioned.

The truth, as ever, is rather more prosaic. Over the last three weeks, I've been beavering away on a project that promises to shake the very fabric of the RAC Road Map of Great Britain - nothing less than a plan to obliterate the town of Oldham from the face of the earth.

I know there will be many who will think I am callous. The town which, for so many years, has been my home and safe harbour may, by my efforts, simply cease to exist. And, I'm pleased to report - I'm being paid for the privilege.

The people behind the Oldham - Old Hat! campaign have engaged my services to assist them in coming up with a new identity for the place. Apparently, Oldham carries too many negative associations in the eyes of the British public to make it the kind of place where private capital might choose to throw its cash. Local Liberal Democrat Council Leader, Howard Sykes. is reported as saying “the name Oldham annoys districts such as Chadderton and Saddleworth.” Cllr Sykes was all in favour of re-naming Oldham after a "local river". If that's the case, this re-branding exercise may cost a few bob more, and take a little longer to complete, than Sykes had originally contemplated. Engineering work on the scale necessary to get a river to pass anywhere near to Oldham would be a costly affair, and I doubt the council taxpayers of Oldham have the appetite for more than a new logo and a few fancy street signs.

Personally, I don't know why. they need to bother. Readers of my column will know that I've been around a bit, in my time. Stockport holds no terrors for me. Lately, even the Wirral doesn't scare me. Yet, with a frightening regularity, it is to the grey pavements of Oldham that I have always found myself returning...

However, the promise of a big, fat consultancy fee is always appealing. He who pays the piper, inevitably pays the tune. I'm as happy as the next man, therefore, to throw my hat into the ring. I've already suggested Bluntsville to the powers that be. If that doesn't grab them, I wondered whether they mightn't re-style the town as Newham.

I realise, of course, that this name has already been claimed by a place in London. But, I don't think that should stop them. The good burghers of the London Borough of Newham might do well to think about a name-change, themselves. If they do, I've got a suggestion they might like to consider...

That suggestion's gratis, boys. When you get around to re-branding the towns that have been borrowed and blue - you know where to come.