Getting On With Life

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.

Storm Clouds Gather

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...

East of Ipswich

When people read of the breakdown of my marriage, it wouldn’t be difficult for them to assume that another woman was involved, somewhere along the line. It’s a mistake anyone might make. As one of the leading newspaper columnists of my generation, I won’t pretend I haven’t had to fight off the attentions of a fair number of ‘groupies’ in my time. The very prospect of being pictured on my arm, leaving The Conti Club in Manchester, has enticed many a siren to her doom.

But I have always managed, somehow, to stay faithful to Mrs Blunt. Not for me the easy liaison with a blonde bimbo. I’ll leave that to any number of Greater Manchester football managers I could (and someday will) name. However, the cosy reality of my life has been shattered. Yesterday, I heard that my good wife has forsaken me, and fallen for the charms of a fishmonger from Ipswich.

I wouldn’t like to give the impression that I’m gutted (no pun intended) by the news. Avid readers of my blog will know that I have, for sometime, suspected that things between Mrs B and I have not been as convivial as they should have been. So, the fact that a haddock salesman had slid his way into the affections of my wife is not as distressing as it might be. From what my solicitor tells me, this fishy love affair has potentially saved me many thousands of pounds in settlement fees. Not to mention, drastically reducing the Blunt household bill for kippers.

I must admit, I was worried what might happen to the considerable assets that had accumulated during out marriage. The prospect was real that Mrs B could claim that she had been ‘the power behind the throne’. The income from my forthcoming autobiography (‘Fatha, Get The Coals In’ – Lacklustre Press – available shortly from all good booksellers, and one or two that aren’t very good at all) was under threat.

Now, thanks to Tommy Fishfinger from Ipswich, it seems I have been saved that expense. I hope they are very happy together. I hope I’m not too old, or too unattractive, to start my life anew. There are plenty more fish in the sea, Mrs B. And I, for one, don’t mind in the least if they are aren’t scaled and cleaned, before I net them…