A Grand Day Out

I'm not a one for advertising. Not for me the shallow promotion of consumer goods, people or places. But I'm not afraid to share with the world when I've had a good experience. And today is a case in point.
Mrs Blunt took it into her head that we should take a Sunday drive across the Pennines. Somehow, we ended up in the pleasant, North Yorkshire town of Reeth.
I can't remember how long it is since I was in that neck of the woods, but the wonderful scenery thereabouts fair took my mind off Mrs B's usual (rather dire) conversation about her mother's lumbago.
Eventually, we had to decide on a place to eat, and there was no shortage of places to choose, I can tell you. In the end, we decided on The Kings Arms, a hostelry that not only served Black Sheep Ale, but also promised much in the way of Sunday lunch victuals.
We were not disappointed. Should you ever find yourself in the environs, you could do far, far worse than sample the roast lamb, potatoes, parsnips and cauliflower they serve up there - accompanied with one of the tastiest Yorkshire puddings you'll ever come across. All served up by some of the loveliest and friendliest people you'll come across.
10 / 10 to The Kings Arms, then. And if this is an advert, then I'm not worried. I know what I like.

The Wasted Money of Marketing

When I was a young cub reporter in Stockport, I remember the day my editor at that time, Wally Green, took me aside to discuss a recent report I'd written on a house fire. "Blunt!" he said, "Your writing is like advertising. And you know what they say about advertising?"
As a young, wet-behind the ears journalist, I didn't - but I was keen to learn.
"They say that 50% of the money spent on advertising is wasted. But no-one's sure which 50% it is."

I took it as the kind of mercurial compliment a person of Wally's brusque nature might hand to an up-and-coming writer of the new generation.
It was while I was reflecting on the new campaign by the Tripe Marketing Board that Wally's wise words came to mind. On paper, it looks like a sound strategy: tripe sales have been in steady decline in the UK since 1953. Year on year slippage has reached such a level that there is hardly a butcher left in Oldham now who stocks the stuff.
It's a tough one to crack. I discussed the dilemma with my son, Jasper, over a pint or two of Black Sheep Ale at a hostelry not far from Saddleworth the other day.
"Pa," he said, "it won't work. I'm from the generation that thinks the Welfare State was invented expressly so I would never have to eat tripe."
He may well have a point. Still, as someone who has fond memories of early married life with Mrs Blunt, and our Saturday afternoons boiling up the unguous mass of white blubber in a foul-smelling kitchen, I couldn't help but feel nostalgic for the passing of tripe.

Let's hope that the billboard campaign cooked up by the boys at the TMB works then!