An Appeal From The Heart

It's not often that Bill Blunt lends his imprimatur to other projects - particularly when there is no money involved. However one such project has caught my eye, and I am pleased to promote it to my readers. 

More years ago than I care to think, I saw my first Alfred Spatchcock film, and it made such an impression on me that I soon considered myself to be something of a fan of his.  I'm not sure whether it was the sheer scale of his output - he is reckoned to have produced as many as 20,000 films from his tiny studio in Hollinwood, Oldham - or the fact that, like me, he is a northerner through and through.

Whatever the reason, there's no doubting that his was a rare talent.  I will always remember the first time I saw Murder on the Transpennine Express (1974) - although the critics panned it, I could see it was a classic in the making.

Sadly, many of his films have disappeared, and now the hunt is on to try to relocate them.  Can I ask that readers check their lofts and garages to see whether they might not have a missing reel or two?

The Price Of Progress

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.

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...

What a Difference a Decade Makes

Someone recently suggested I should change my blog strapline to The Man Who Gets About A Bit. They've formed the impression I spend my time flitting about the country - one minute in Oldham, the next in North Yorkshire and then, at the blink of an eye, in County Durham. Gallivanting is, I think, the term that has been used.

It's true, I do like to put myself about. It's one of the things that divides Mrs Blunt and I, she much preferring to spend her time around the hearth at home. As I travel the land, I try to stay alert to the changes that have occurred in places I used to know.

So, as I found myself (unexpectedly) in Daventry, Northants earlier today, I was able to reflect on how a decade had taken its toll on a town that - when I first knew it - was in something of a crisis. Well known high street shops had deserted the place in droves, leaving a phalanx of charity shops and run-down pubs in their train, fighting a desperate rear-guard action against out-of-town shopping centres.

Well, I was in for quite a surprise. Daventry has re-asserted itself. The pubs are smarter, the shops more varied and bustling, and there's even a very nice Costa Coffee shop that's opened up.

When I first visited Daventry back in the early 1990's, it was at the invitation of a group of locals who were trying to stop their local Health Authority closing down the much-loved Danetre Hospital. They'd heard from somewhere that the power of Bill Blunt's pen could cause bureaucrats to quake in their comfortable, leather office chairs, and wondered if I could help them out.

My initial assessment was bleak. The NHS managers seemed intent on closing the place and flogging off the land for housing development - a fashionable way of generating revenue at the time. If that happened, the opportunity would be lost forever for future developments, and it would be another nail in the coffin for the town.

My time with the group was brief - enough, however, to organise a lobby of local councillors, MPs and health service officials, produce a few well-aimed newsletters and organise a march through the town against the proposed cuts in services. Victory in the first battle was hard won, but sweet when it came: we commissioned an independent report on the health needs of the town, and argued that the Health Authority needed to carry out their own 'health needs assessment' for the local population. They eventually agreed to do just that. I was satisfied, at the time, that my work was done.

What a pleasure, then, to see today that (all these years later) the Danetre Hospital had not only survived closure, but had been augmented with the opening, late last year, of a brand new community hospital on the same site. This, on the land that would otherwise have fallen to housing development.

There will be some readers of my blog who think that old Bill Blunt spends his time wittering on about meat pies, prostitution in Oldham, MP3 players and Walthamstow Dog Track statistics. If that's what they want to think, that's fine by me. But they'd better take note: Bill's still got his quill, and it's ready for sharpening whenever the occasion arises.

That's Better, Tommy!

Ever since my debut on the blogosphere, I have had in mind that my pitch here should look a little more like a newspaper, the better to reflect my past life as a journalist and commentator in the press.

Of course, as I have absolutely no technical proficiency, and rely very much on my kind friend, Thomas Hamburger Jnr to host this blog, I am also, by default, reliant on his decisions when it comes to layout.

Anyway, I am pleased to report that, over a couple of pints last night I was able to outline to Thomas how I thought my blog should look. After all, if I'm getting all these visitors dropping in to read about mp3 players, prostitution in Oldham and Walthamstow Dogs, they deserve to think they've found someone of some substance - something my previous (rather washed-out) blog struggled to portray.

This is much better, Tommy - well done! I wonder what my reader thinks, though?

The Searchers

I've had a report in from Jasper about How People Find Your Blog. I thought, at first, he'd been asking my readers for their opinions about the blog, which would have been interesting.



Instead, he presented me with a statistical digest, culled from something called Statcounter, which made interesting (and sometimes frankly bizarre) reading.

According to Jasper, my humble blog comes out at No 1 on Google for people who search for stats for walthamstow dogs. I know I mentioned Walthamstow Dog Track on an earlier posting, and I am sure I must have used the word 'stats' here and there since I made my debut on the blogosphere all those weeks ago. But it left me wondering whether the poor visitor who chanced upon my blog after his (or her) Google search really imagines that I am the world's foremost authority on dog racing statistics for the north east London venue?

More alarmingly, I discovered that I am ranked at No 2 on Google for a search on Oldham prostitution - this, apparently, on the basis of some comment or other I made about a Waterloo Street massage parlour I was vaguely aware of some thirty-odd years ago.

I was less surprised to learn that I am a world expert on the prolectrix 1gb mp3 player, (at least according to the Romanians) and I hope whoever visited the blog to find out my views on it were satisfied with my opinion.

As I read more of the details, I will let you know of any other surprises in the small print. Until then, I can only offer my apologies to those who have come to read my thoughts thinking, perhaps, that I am some sort of guru on dog racing, tarts and mp3 players.

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!

It don't mean a thing, if you ain't got the swing

I see from today's Independent newspaper, that Ewan Morrison, a self-proclaimed Scottish Purveyor of Erudite Filth, claims to have spent a year 'swinging', while 'between' novels.

His 17 Point Guide to Swinging (and reading about the sexual exploits of other people is always something to be relished as you tuck into your bacon and eggs on a Saturday morning) is a handy 'cut out and keep' guide to the current state of sexual mores in the UK. Two websites set up to cater for this new breed of sexual experimenters both claim to have around 700,000 'members' (no pun intended) - although swinging being what it is, I imagine there is a lot of overlap between the membership.

Perhaps I need to underline at this point that neither Mrs Blunt nor myself have ever felt the need to 'swing'. She is a fine woman, someone to be savoured and not shared. Any marital needs I might have are most ably met by her, and those that are not are filled by the admirable dishes served up at the Light of Bengal restaurant.

Not for me the wanton pleasures of watching other people in the act of copulation. I will leave that to the Scottish players, for now.

Heaven is a Door in Waterloo Street

It's quite some time since I wrote a regular column for the fledgling Oldham Athletic FC fanzine, Beyond the Bolundary. I was sad to learn of its demise since, in its hey-day, BTB rocked the very foundations of the football establishment.

I am nevertheless proud of my own, minor contribution to what one critic once described as 'poetry in print'.

Although it is some years since my family lived in Oldham, I have fond memories of the place, notwithstanding that, at the time, it was ruled by the kind of 'Old' Labour Party mafia that might have even embarassed Pol Pot's regime.

So, I was naturally delighted to stumble across a 'blog' penned by a true Oldhamer. Reading it brought back happy recollections of the time I caught a famous Oldham footballer 'straightening his tie' in a Waterloo Street doorway. I was never able to write about it, you understand: not for me, the sensationalist kiss-and-tell tabloid tales. His secret was safe with me and, I am pleased to report, Mrs Blunt never got wind of it, either.

Anyway, I trust you will enjoy Crofty's most estimable Blog. I would have been proud to have a writer of his calibre working alongside me on any one of the numerous publications I have contributed to.

Well done, that man!