Not In Front Of The Children

Not for the first time, and probably not for the last, a posting over at Sugar Queen Dreams made me think. How could I find out if my blog was suitable reading for people of all ages?

As usual, it was young Jasper Blunt who came to the rescue. "Pa," he said, "you need to take the Cinema Test, which rates your blog content just as if it were a movie."

Well, having put my 'URL' to the test, it seems that Bill Blunt is not deemed suitable for children,at least not without some guidance from their parents...



This, apparently, because I mentioned the words 'death' and 'stab'.

My regular reader (and I know who you are) will doubtless be surprised, as you will be aware that this is not a place that encourages people to take knives to their enemies. And the thought that I must offer guidance to my children (who are all now in their late 30's or early 40's), before they dip into their father's writings, is not one that sits easily with me.

I must admit, I am careful with my language. I try to stay true to the maxim of my old colleague from the Birkenhead Beagle, Johnny Mercer, who famously said: 'There's no need for profanity when you can dazzle them with inanity'.

It's a brave man who calls Bill Blunt a prude, however. There are times and places when euphemism isn't enough, where only a carefully-chosen swear word will fit the bill. I won't easily sacrifice my PG rating, however, now that I've got it.

On the subject of profanity, however, I am aware that some readers have a more relaxed attitude than Bill does to the use of bad language. Such readers may enjoy this pastiche of the popular children's animation, Postman Pat, re-worked for an adult audience, which attempts to re-locate the beloved postie to a suburb in Middlesbrough.

But, please, don't press that 'Play' button unless you're prepared for more than a few shocking words...

The Beautiful Game

It’s been a long while since the Bill Blunt by-line appeared at the head of a football match report. Time has moved on apace since those halcyon days of the late ‘60’s and early ‘70’s when I was at my peak, and it would be graceless of me not to recognise it.

Last night, I spent an amiable few hours in the company of an old friend, watching the semi-final of the European Champions League in which the Mighty Merseysiders, Liverpool, finally demolished the hopes of the South London arrivistes, Chelsea.. A triumph of substance over style, the match had me on tenterhooks right until the last penalty clincher.

Tonight, the prospect is real that another north-west team, in the shape of Manchester United, may accompany Liverpool to the final at Athens on 23 May 2007. This could, then, be a great day for English – and more potently, north-west English – football.

The particular triumph, for me at least, has been that much of the tournament has been broadcast on terrestrial television. I am someone who turned his back on the Empire of Murdoch many years ago, which means for me that I not only spurn his Sun and his Sunday Times, but also his satellite services. You will search in vain for an ugly dish stapled to the outside of Blunt Mansions.

How I wish dear old Johnny Mercer had been alive to witness this potentially proud day for his native north-west. How he would have enjoyed the hubris of the soft southerners as they left the field last night, their metaphorical tails betweens their legs, like a pack of limp dogs in search of an apt simile!

“Money Can’t Buy Me Love,” as the Beatles put it all those years ago. Last night, their fellow Scousers proved it couldn’t buy a Russian businessman a place in the final at Athens, either.

We were barking for them

Ever since I 'retired' from journalism, there has been a constant stream of visitors to the door of Blunt Mansions anxious to find the secret to the elixir of my writing style. At one point, my articles featured on the syllabus of a northern university which I do not need, here, to name.

When confronted with some nervous student, and asked the inevitable question 'Of what have you been most proud in your life, Mr Blunt?' I invariably replied that it was my time at the Birkenhead Beagle which gave me most pleasure.

Thomas Hamburger Jnr has featured the Beagle prominently in his griping new mystery story about the missing family of Laurel McFry, on which I have written earlier.

Few outside of Birkenhead may have heard of it, but the Beagle was renowned for its strapline 'We're barking for you!' Over the years, it boasted the writing talents not just of Thomas Hamburger and myself, but also of Johnny Mercer and Frederick C Marple - both men remembered for their acerbic pens.

The Birkenhead Beagle is probably best known for it's achievement, in October 2001, of managing to produce more editions in one day than any other UK national or regional daily paper. What herculean efforts were required to achieve such a record can only now be guessed at. From the first edition at 8am, through to the final at 4pm, the Beagle can truly be said to have left it's mark on the streets on that day.

My own paltry contribution to that momentous day was to pen a few brief words for each issue - and I was proud to do so.

Alas, neither Johnny Mercer nor Freddy Marple lived to see that day. This post is, therefore, dedicated to them, and to their contribution to journalism over many years. Wherever they are now, I am sure they have a ready audience for their acid tongues.