He Who (Re)pays The Piper

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

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?

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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?

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

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)

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

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?

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

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!