Scrabbling for Victory

Regular readers of my blog may be surprised to learn that I am an afficionado of online Scrabble, courtesy of an obscure social networking site called Facebook.

On the whole, I put up a good fist of it and, over the last year, have won my fair share of games. But anyone who knows Bill Blunt will tell you it's not enough to win 75% of my games. I'm nothing if not a perfectionist, and I'll not be happy until my every opponent is vanquished.

That's why I've decided - unilaterally, of course - that anyone who plays me must agree that they can only win the game if they win by a clear 55 point margin. Should there be complaints, I'll point them firmly in the direction of Her Majesty's Government. What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, as far as I'm concerned.

Nice Work, If You Can Get It

As one of the foremost political commentators of my generation, I like to think nothing much has got past me over my forty years plus in the business.

But I must admit to being more than a little shocked to discover that election Returning Officers are paid handsomely for their troubles.

I suppose I imagined it was an honourary position - something done by a local authority official as an adjunct to their day job. As such, (to the extent I even gave it a thought) I might have expected they'd get a bit of overtime for having to endure the boredom of an election count. Perhaps, if they had the misfortune to be announcing the reults of a by-election where the TV cameras were in evidence, even an allowance for a new suit and a haircut, so they could look their best.

According to Wikipedia, the task of running the election often falls on the shoulders of a council Chief Executive or Mayor.

And, apparently, it's quite a lucrative affair. After the debacle of voters queuing outside polling booths in Sheffield, the council Chief Executive has decided to forgo the £20,000 he was due to.

A little rooting around on Google unearthed this little discussion, from Thurrock Council, too. Not a bad little earner, for a week or two's work - and they kept it pretty quiet, until now.

It Is Now

The waiting's over. Our collective breath is unbaited. My colleagues in the printed media and satellite news can muzzles the hounds they let loose to savage Gordon Brown.

For all their efforts, they left him bloodied, but unbowed. I doubt Labour ever really contemplated an alliance with the Liberal Democrats. The very prospect was a car crash waiting to happen.

As it is, Labour are now well-placed as spectators of the crash, rather than passengers. On Europe, expect divisons. All the Liberals in all the phone boxes in the world won't be able to protect public services. Inflation and interest rates are almost certainly set to rise. George Osborne, as Chancellor, will be in the driving seat. Heaven help us.

They Think It's All Over...

Now that the dust is beginning to settle on the General Election result, the great British public are waking up to the fact that our next Prime Minister might be either David Camelegg or Nick Clameron.

My only observation is that we seem to have managed quite reasonably over the last three days without any conclusive government, and I wonder whether we couldn't just soldier on with the status quo for a few more years. Without anyone really in control, taxes can't be altered, services can't be cut and life seems to go on quite sweetly.

I'm sure that, in the fulness of time, the lust for power will overtake one or other of the party leaders, and they'll want to interfere with this curious calm we now find ourselves in. That will be a shame.

Still, whoever finds themselves in control will be in the invidious position of having to pacify the money markets. I, for one, hope it isn't Gordon Brown. Life under ConLib is going to be pretty awful... but I don't think we'll put up with it for long.

With God On Our Side

As the ash settles from the volcanic eruption in Iceland, I'm sure I'm not the only one who has been scrutinising the small-print of their travel insurance policies, to see whether the eventuality of a volcanic eruption has somehow been 'excluded'.

As I am about to take a brief holiday in France, I needed reassuring that, should that strange-sounding geological feature to the north of us decide to explode again, I'd have suitable coverage. Particularly since I'm not sure that my own interpretation of 'reasonable costs' would necessarily marry up with the one Ryanair are likely to use. Although I imagine I'll find it pretty easy to buy a three course meal in a decent bistro for the same cost as a sandwich and a bottle of water purchased in-flight on one of their trips.

The good news is that, as a confirmed atheist, I had the foresight to take out my cover with Direct Travel Insurance. From what I can gather, they've decided to classify the eruption as a feature of the weather, rather than as some weasel-worded 'Act of God'.

It's a bizarre world indeed when major insurance companies (and I believe AXA are among them) can determine that because (in their view) some universal deity has brought about a catastrophe they can get out of paying out their customers.

I'm sure there'll be devout Christians in the USA and elsewhere who'll be advocating a boycott of the satanic Direct Travel Insurances of this world, who obviously have a different fix on things.

As for me, I'll be saying a silent prayer of thanks to Direct Travel when I go to sleep tonight.

Coming Off The Fence

It's a brave man who accuses Bill Blunt of hiding his political colours. When the chips are down, a man has to nail them to the mast, for all to see.

That's why, after half a year of demi-retirement, I've decided to pick up my quill and dip it into the scarlet ink that courses through my veins. I'm throwing my not insubstantial weight squarely behind Labour.

Elections are not a time to wander down the middle of the road - that's an invitation to get run over. As we approach 6 May, I'll be Keeping Left.

The Dilemmas of Modern Life

Anyone who knows Bill Blunt will tell you that he's not a man for moral crusades. I leave those things to the likes of Paul Foot and others.

Nevertheless, when I was in the snug of the Pin and Cushion last night, I couldn't help my hackles from rising. Charlie Bentmore was holding forth about his garage door. There he was, as proud as punch, crowing about the £200 he's saved in VAT by paying his old pal (Alfie Radcliffe) in cash for installing a new door to the place where he parks his Renault Laguna.

Fair enough, you'll no doubt be saying. That's £200 less to be frittered away on cleaning the moat of some bloated Member of Parliament who should know better when it comes to claiming expenses.

But it's also £200 less to be spent on a life-saving operation for some poor soul whose needs are obviously somewhat greater. I'm not sure Charlie would have bought that argument.

However... Charlie had - on a previous evening - been holding forth about the the failure of HMG to provide our troops in Afghanistan with basic equipment like body armour. So, when I pointed out that his failure to pay VAT might just have an impact on such matters, he was soon quieted.

Taxes are never pleasant. But there's always a moral consequence to avoiding them. Here endeth the rant.

Will The Real Deidre Moffat Please Stand Up?

It's a commonplace that standards in journalism have slipped a little over recent years. When I cut my teeth on the Stockport Leader, I was taught to walk the fine line between doorstepping a potential story and leaving people to enjoy their weekends unmolested and in peace.

Times have certainly changed. This weekend, the hunter became the hunted, as I spent the whole of Saturday avoiding the persistent enquiries of a pack of hacks, intent on getting me to spill the beans on poor old Deidre Moffat.

I'd been away a few days, so had missed the headline news that Deidre - an old sparring-partner from my days at the Birkenhead Beagle - had (apparently, and - it has to be said - rather amazingly) taken up as the mistress of a successful insurance company chief executive.

Anyone who knew Deidre would have been more than a little surprised at the idea. Apart from a fondness for the bottle and a taste in clothing that could best be described as Brodie-esque, she was never a woman who courted controversy.

That's why I was more than a little taken-aback when the baying hounds (many of them no doubt stringers) refused to leave me alone. In fact, I had to dig deep into my archives to throw them some small sop before they slunk away into the sewers from whence they came.

I can't remember where this snap was taken - I myself had supped too heartily from the vine that evening, if I recall - but it seemed to satisfy them. Of course, I omitted to tell them that the Deidre in this picture would now be around 72 years old, even if she had survived a lifetime of alcoholic abuse.

Why let the truth get in the way of a good story?

Birthday Boy

It's a brave man who accuses Bill Blunt of being worried about the advancing years. A distinguished journalist of my stature didn't become distinguished without the odd grey hair or two emerging.

The eve of one's birthday is always a time of anticipation. Never more so than if you're a Libran who happens to be a Bob Dylan fan. For more years than I can recall - and that's a worry in itself - His Bobness has chosen to release his latest album on or around my birthday. That's nice of him, and it's made for an easy response whenever my nearest and dearest have asked me what I'd like as a present.

This year, however, anticipation has turned to trepidation.

Bob's 47th album is due out next week (Tuesday 13 October, to be precise).I'm usually happy to wait a bit for the pleasure of listening to some fresh Dylan. But this time, I'm feeling more than a little anxious. Christmas in The Heart could go either way. The prospect of Bob crooning “Here Comes Santa Claus,” “Winter Wonderland,” “Little Drummer Boy” and “Must Be Santa" is perhaps just a little unnerving. I'm worried that it might add another grey hair or two to my (already) silvery head. At least the proceeds will be going to a worthwhile cause.

Anyone who's listened to Bob's rendition of "This Old Man" will know what I mean about grey hairs, however. Pedestrian isn't the word...

Give Us A Break!

Andy Fellowes is a decent enough chap. He climbed the ladder to the top of the Cirencester Bugle without making too many enemies along the way.

But I can't say I was prepared for the tirade of abuse that was waiting for me from Andy on my ansaphone when I got back from my weekend in Plymouth, tonight.

"For God's sake, Bill - cheer us up!" It was a sad entreaty. According to Andy, the whole of the UK is currently blanketed under a grey cloud, making this the worst August (weather-wise) since records began.

It's a tall order. But here goes.

This is a snap of a little village called Beaumont - which, loosely translated, is called 'Beautiful Mount'. You can see why...

In Bergerac

When most people think of a ‘holiday’, I doubt it would involve two days of hard labour trying to whip a garden into shape. If you live in a garden-less flat for most of the time, however, the chance to pose as Mellors and get down to a bit of hard graft is too tempting to resist. I suppose some might call it ‘gardening leave’, but since I am technically retired that would be a misnomer.

If I’d been on holiday with the ex-Mrs Blunt, I rather think I’d have been tempted to spend my entire first week in the garden at Bergerac - mowing the lawn, pruning the trees and generally knocking about in the out-houses. In fact, anything to avoid having to talk to the ex-Mrs B.


As it was, I was travelling with a delightful acquaintance of mine who made sure that my hours of toil were balanced by trips out and plenty of rest and relaxation, so the work element of the trip seemed really quite negligible.



It’s a huge garden, with a mix of peach, apple, pear and walnut trees The peach trees were in full fruit, with the apples and pears ‘almost’ there, so an enjoyable early morning task each day was to pop out to pick a few pieces of fruit for breakfast.



A former vegetable patch on the property was rather overgrown, so I made it a particular task to raise it to the ground with some rigorous scything, raking and burning. From my experience, that kind of work is made all the easier if accompanied by copious amounts of pastis and water, although I’m not entirely sure whether more experienced gardeners would concur on this matter.



The neighbour’s donkeys seemed to take an interest in my labours, and I repaid their solicitations by now and again treating them to a sugar cube or two. After getting the odd nip from their teeth, I decided I’d better wear a gardening glove to aid the feeding process – until one of them tugged it off and started chewing at it on the ground. It was the one in the middle – and I’ve got his number, I can assure you...




It was all worth it in the end, though.

En Vacance

When the Cirencester Chronicle invited me to write a few pieces about my summer sojourns, I was sceptical at first. What Bill Blunt gets up to on his holidays doesn’t usually make for scintillating reading, and I wasn’t convinced that the good people of Cirencester would be up for it.

But, a commission is a commission and, since they promised to pick up the tab for my travel and accommodation, I thought it would be churlish to decline the offer.

‘This is the summer everyone’s staying at home, Bill,’ the editor of the Chron told me. ‘They need a little cheering up’. Once I’d cleared it with them that I could also publish a few articles on my blog, it was time to settle back and plot my trip.

I’m not a great fan of long-haul (which I suspect the editor - with a keen eye on costs - already knew), so continental Europe was my oyster. At this time of year, I sometimes like to pootle about in mainland Spain, but something drew me back to France again. The lure of the garden at the house in Bergerac that I sometimes stay at, and which I’d only recently whipped into shape during a brief visit there, was too much to resist. So, I thought I’d combine a trip there with motoring down to the South of France for a little sun on the Cote D’Azur, which I last visited a couple of summers ago.

Hence my absence for the last couple of weeks. To follow will be the bits of my travel journal that the good folk of Cirencester didn't get to see.

A Sad Day for Blogdom

It is with a heavy heart that I have learned that my old mucker and internet comrade, Mystic Veg, has decided to hang up his trowel and retire from writing his blog.

For more than two years, Mystic has charmed us with his tales from the allotments of Lincolnshire. Ever since his first post at the end of May 2007, his ready wit and droll humour has brought a half-smile to my lips on many an occasion. We've not always seen eye to eye, but I've come to respect his esoteric take on life, and will miss logging on to read his vegetable-based stories.

Let's hope that, like Alan Milburn, his retirement is only ever temporary, and that the attractions of spending more time with his family soon pall. There'll be a space on the world wide web waiting for him when he does return, I am sure.

Durham Miners' Gala 2009

Courtesy of the wonders of modern technology, here's a clip of a video taken at yesterday's Miners' Gala in Durham.

Don't ask me how it got here - that's all down to Jasper's wizardry with the computer.

The Big Meeting

Only 24 Hours to Salsa. That's right. Saturday, 11 July 2009 will see Bill tootling up the M62 and A1(M), on what has now become my annual pilgrimage to Durham City. Destination: the Miners' Gala - or Durham Big Meeting, as it's fondly known in the area.

I'll be waving at 70's Teen and Crofty as I make my journey, as I pass close to both of them en route to the north east.

Truth be told, there won't be a lot of salsa (although one or two of the brass bands can get quite inventive in their repertoire). But there'll be lots of fun to be had, and lots of memories to be stirred, as you can see from my previous postings on the topic. I'll keep you posted.