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.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Those who have known Bill Blunt a good while will know he’s not a man whose endorsement is easily bought. As a columnist at the Stockport Sentinel, I built my reputation for impartiality by never being swayed by a freebie.

That’s why I was sceptical (to say the least) when - courtesy of those fine people, Kevin and Sylvie, at FMB – I was asked to ‘test-drive’ the new Azor shaving system by King of Shaves.

I have always had something of a professional interest in shaving equipment, anyway. I rarely trumpet the fact that my grandfather lost thousands of pounds in an ill-fated venture to design and market the perfect razor blade. As a project, it went well-enough, until he took it to market, that is. Lady Retrospect is a harsh woman, I know, but he’d have saved himself a few bob if he’d realised that promoting Blunt Razors was always going to be something of an uphill battle.

The Azor media pack, when it arrived yesterday, was initially impressive. Less so when my ageing laptop couldn’t access the free CD that came with it. Would it be churlish to expect King of Shaves to send out a high spec laptop just to let me view their images and logos? I think not. As it is, the web already has images aplenty for me to look at.

Well, what’s different about the Azor? As a British contender against the might of multi-nationals Gillette and Wilkinson Sword, it certainly cuts a dash in the design stakes. Cool and sleek, it’s a departure from the over-engineered, garish orange, blue and silver Gillette Fusion, which seems to sprout an extra blade every month. King of Shaves have bucked the trend, and stuck with four blades.

It appeals to my innate sense of economy, too. In a time when money is tight, there’s something to be said for a razor that costs half the price of its competitors, and doesn’t require a battery to make it work.

So far, so good, then. But what’s it like to shave with? Alas, my divorce from Mrs Blunt means I couldn’t submit the Azor to the toughest of tests (one which even the infamous Prolectix Epliator, with its 36 discs rotating and twisting bunches of hairs together and plucking them from the roots ‘like a large pair of tweezers’ was never really up to).

I had to be content with using it on myself, then. The flexible head certainly seemed to make the razor hug my famously rugged chin much more closely than other razors I’ve used. And four blades were more than enough for the task of removing my ‘Mexican Bandit’ stubble. I hope it wasn’t just the psychological fact of having read all the accompanying hype that made me feel that it did, indeed, produce a closer shave.

I hope I wasn’t mistaken, but I’m sure I got more than my normal share of admiring glances from the barmaids when I sashayed into the bar at The John Laird for my usual post-prandial whisky last night.

Frinton, Bloody Frinton!

I can’t be sure when Mrs Blunt and I first started holidaying at Frinton-on-Sea. I know, at the time, that there were no pubs at all in the place, and it was only the hotel bars that sustained us.

The Lock & Barrel didn’t open until the year 2000, and only then after stiff opposition from the locals. They like to think they’re a cut above, the people of Frinton. They describe one of their main shopping streets (Connaught Avenue) as ‘The Bond Street of East Anglia’. Hah!

This will be a difficult holiday, I imagine. I sense storm clouds looming over our marriage, and fear we may be heading for the rocks in the not too distant future. Over the last 12 months, we’ve come to realize we want different things from life: Mrs Blunt, with her new-found love of karaoke and bizarre fetish for kippers, is a changed woman. For my own part, I’m starting to wonder whether there might be more to life than Frinton.


It looks like we’ll be too late to pop down to see the stranded bottlenose whale in the nearby River Orwell. The local newspaper website has milked the story for all it’s worth, including this report filed by an eager staffer at 6.21 am this morning.

The journalist's remarkable prescience was rewarded shortly afterwards, when the website flashed up a new story (timed at 7.53 am), when the poor beast was put out of it's misery. One thing less to do while we're in Frinton, then, and a bit of a shame, as I believe it was a bit of a crowd-puller. There's nothing like watching an animal suffer to draw in the spectators, I suppose.

We'll have to content ourselves with the Frinton Summer Theatre. Alas, we’ll be too late to catch that fine murder mystery, Gaslight, which has entertained audiences for many years. It finishes tonight, to be replaced by Neil Simon’s Chapter Two, which I’m not familiar with, but which Frinton.org (the font of all Frinton wisdom) summarises thus: “Comic misunderstandings lead two to happiness!”

Time alone will tell whether a couple of weeks on the 'long clean greensward' of Frinton is capable of serving up the level of comedic misunderstanding needed to set Mrs B and I back on a path to marital happiness...

That's about the size of it

Finally tiring of deleting the endless e-mails I seem to receive promising to increase the size of my manhood, I decided I needed to do a little definitive internet research to establish, once and for all, whether size really matters.

It's not a subject I have ever discussed with Mrs Blunt. She is of the 'You Take What You're Given, And Be Grateful For It' school of thought. As my experience of women other than Mrs Blunt is rather limited (and my tryst with that kiss-and-tell bimbo, Miss Jennifer Muffin, some twenty-odd years ago is not to be counted, for these purposes) I cannot know whether my endowment is either more or less than that of the average man.

However, I did find this useful piece of documentary material, which does rather suggest that women, as a species, have contradictory views on the subject...

glumbert.com - Does size matter?

Bill Blunt's Dining Recommendations

Thanks to Daddypapersurfer, I discover I have been 'tagged' to tell my loyal readership about '5 Places Near To Me Where It's Good To Eat'.

Of course, this brings into question the whole issue of what is meant by 'near to me'. I am not an insular man by nature. The world, to me, is not a whelk, but more a delicious oyster to be savoured and relished.

I err towards the thoughts expressed by that great newspaper columnist George Ade, of the Chicago Record, who once said "A friend who is near and dear may in time become as useless as a relative".

So, my search for the top five places I like to eat has involved me casting my net a little more widely than Oldham.

In no particular order, I must mention:

Salieri's
I first discovered this little gem about ten years ago, whilst hosting a party of European visitors to our capital, and a visit to London is now rarely complete unless I drop in to eat here. In the area around Covent Garden and the Strand, there have always been many tourist traps ready to entice the unwary. Finding Salieri's was, therefore, a delight. Its modest interior is decorated with a wide variety of stage memorabilia, including photographs of West End stars past and present, puppets and masks, and the menu presents a fine selection of varied, European cuisine. Situated on the Strand, opposite the Savoy Hotel, the staff here have (usually) been particularly friendly and welcoming, the food of a high quality and the price not (too) gasp-inducing.

Nando's Restaurants
As anyone knows me will attest, I am a sucker for getting my hands around a plump thigh. If the thigh happens to be a chicken, and it is served in a ravishingly hot peri-peri sauce, then so much the better. This chain of fast-food eateries offers fresh, high-quality food (for which read almost exclusively chicken) at a very reasonable price. In my travels I have greased my fingers in perhaps 8 or 9 different branches of Nandos, and the food is always consistently good. There is bound to be one near you and I can only heartily recommend a visit if you have not already been.

The Ox
This is a miniature gastropub of the finest order. Located not far from the Castlefield area of Manchester, you can be assured of good food, superbly quaffable ales and the usual eclectic mix of customers that only a Manchester public house can provide. Handy for the museums, with a nearby metro station ready to whisk you away to whichever hotel you may happen to be staying in, The Ox will satisfy and leave you ready to return again and again. Take an umbrella.

Whitburn Lodge
This is a pub. It has none of the fancy frippery of those awful gastropubs you find in places like Manchester. It's honest, down to earth and knows what it does best - and that is serve beer and good, home-cooked food. There isn't even a terrifically good choice of beer, but it is blessed with some of the friendliest bar staff you'll find anywhere in the country. It's located just five minutes walk from a rocky coastline and about ten minutes drive north of Sunderland. Neither Mrs Blunt nor I would describe it as the homeliest establishment we've frequented, but one taste of their home-made mince and dumplings and you'll be coming back to the Whitburn Lodge for more.

Jaen Parador
The town of Jaen isn't one of the prettiest you'll ever visit in Spain, but a trip there will unveil the wondrous beauty of its parador, perched high above the town itself and offering stunning views across the olive groves of the district. The menu (in common with most of the Spanish paradors) offers local and regional delicacies not easily forgotten. Their 'Taste of Jaen' menu serves up something like twelve individual dishes all on one huge plate, so you would make a mistake if you ordered one each (unless you were accompanied by Mrs Blunt), who is a great rectifier of mistakes. Of course, it's invidious to choose one particular parador as there are so many that are attractive, but Jaen was one of the first I visited, so it holds special memories for me. I certainly learned a thing or two about Mrs Blunt's appetite during our stay there, and that's one memory that (try as I might) I have never been able to erase.

I understand that I now get the pleasure of inviting five other bloggers to share their views on the same subject (and that they in turn can invite five more when they have completed the task, so that, in time, the entire blogosphere will have had to list their top 5 eateries near to where they live).

Here's my list of taggees (and if any have already done this, my apologies in advance):

Julian Syngen-Smythe
Enumerator
Archie
70sTeen (and we are looking for a suitably '70's theme here)
and
Crofty, whose recent visit to Amsterdam may have led him to discover one or two decent places to scoff.

Looking Back

Last night, I spent the evening in quiet reflection on whether my debut in the world of blogs has been worth it. At a time in any project, just as in one's life, one needs to 'take stock' every now and again.

I wondered whether it is all, actually, worth it? At such dark moments of the soul, I usually find a glass or two of scotch helps the process along enormously. That's all it takes to get Mrs Blunt nodding off, and out of the way so I am free to pursue my exploration of angst alone, and undisturbed.

How to measure whether it has been worth it? Now, there's a tricky one. I decided to stop by a couple of websites and blogs I had mentioned in my time, so see whether my own contribution had made one iota of difference to the world.

My first port of call was at the website of Rob Wilson, a local artist chap of some considerable talent who I gently plugged in an earlier column. It's hard to know whether my brief mention of his work led to a rush of punters to his door to buy his finely-crafted works. As I hold no brief for Rob, I can tell you that, as a result of my posting he re-instituted the picture of a pigeon atop of his head on his home page - so, at least, I did have some small influence somewhere along the line. I do hope he continues to flog his pictures too, though.

Next, I dropped in on those interesting people who are hoping to buy an old double-decker bus and restore it, to see how they are faring since I mentioned them here. Unfortunately, their site is temporarily unavailable, so I can't tell whether they have raised enough dosh and have closed down, or whether they need a little more cash to feed their blog meter. A shame, as I was feeling quite sentimental last night and could easily have been persuaded to throw a couple of dollars their way again.

Finally, I wondered about those pig tarts. Since I published my first piece about them, the local campaign in Dorset has gone from strength to strength. I like to think my own, still voice has helped the campaign along a little.

Was it worth it? I think so.

Thank You, WBC!

More seasoned Bloggers than I will know that the pressures of writing a daily blog can be great. Children may go unfed; jobs may be neglected; wives may be deserted. But the blog goes on.

Never let it be said that Bill Blunt is afraid to blow his own trumpet. Just minutes ago, I learned that the World Blogging Council have awarded me one of their prestigious (and highly-coveted) Awards. At moments like these, the unfed children, neglected jobs and deserted wives truly seem worth it.

As is the unfortunate fashion, I must of course thank a few people who have helped me along the way to this singular achievement. Thomas Hamburger Jnr is first in line for the bouquet (even though he is now accusing me of somehow preventing him writing his griping tale of a family which, even after 85,000 words, steadfastly refuses to be found). I trust the word 'churlish' is springing to his mind.

Next, my dear old mother who, at 102, I still hope might yet become the world's oldest blogger (although she's got a long way to go yet).

It would be remiss of me not to thank my dear, dear wife, whose love of shopping has meant that I have had many free hours to compose my blog posts. Wally Green, my long-departed mentor, would also have enjoyed today - had he still been alive to witness it. I like to think that his spirit is hammering on the side of a massive web-fed rotary offset printing press somewhere, in appreciation.

And, of course, my sons Justin and Jasper who each, in their own way, have helped me master the technology of the internet. Not to forget my daughter, who has made her own way in the world of art, making the name Barbara Blunt a by-word for t-shirt sloganeering over the last two decades.

But none of this would have been possible without you, dear reader. Your faith in my prognostication and your ability to see beyond the mixed metaphor has given me a new lease on life. Even just today, I was dusting off the notes for my autobiography, Fatha, Get The Coals In which, when it was rejected by every publisher except Lacklustre Press in 1989, seemed destined for the remainder shelves. Not any longer! With the imprimatur of the World Blog Council, it may yet reach a wider audience.

I shall go to sleep with a smile on my face tonight - and I don't care what Mrs Blunt has to say about that.

Thank you, WBC, for making a disgruntled old man very happy and, if anyone else is seeking World Blogging Council endorsement, I can only suggest you visit their site and see whether your blog measures up to their exacting standards. A small token of your esteem (preferably used and non-consecutive banknotes) seems to do the trick.

Waving, Not Drowning

For some reason that isn't quite clear in my mind even now, I thought this morning that I should go for a swim. It's something that (many years ago) I used to enjoy a lot. Somehow, I drifted out of my habit of a weekly visit to the municipal baths.

For once, the thought was midwife to the act, and so I found myself earlier today queuing to pay for a swimming session at a nearby leisure centre. The whole experience gave me pause to reflect on the pace of change in life. I'm not a man who is fearful of change - but I like to know why it's necessary.

What happened to those foot-baths of chlorine we used to have to wade through before we were allowed to get anywhere near the pool? They were designed to promote a proper sense of hygiene, I am sure, and must have done their bit to prevent the spread of goodness knows how many millions of foot infections in their day. Yet now, they are nowhere to be seen.

Was some test carried out that I never heard of, proving them to be ineffective, after all? Or are they just another casualty of local authority cuts: an attempt to reduce the costs of providing much-needed leisure facilities?

I shall be checking my feet very carefully indeed for signs of infection, I can tell you - and I have my solicitor's number to hand, just in case.

As for the introduction of wave machines, I am merely left gasping as to why they are thought a necessary 'improvement' to a swimming pool. If I had not been able to persuade Mrs Blunt to stay at home while I swam, and had she chosen to dive in while the waves were in operation, then the prospect of a mini-tsunami would have been real. And that, I have to say, is something that makes me shudder to think about, even now.

Nostalgic Yearnings: Not For Me!

I've never much been one for raking over the past. As Bob Dylan once said (quite frequently, in fact) Don't Look Back. It's a philosophy that has served me well in my dealings with life to date.

But when I had a call at Blunt Mansions yesterday, I couldn't help but reflect that sometimes there is a proper place for nostalgia. "Bill," they said, "I've searched the internet in vain for any of your old articles for Beyond the Boundary. Couldn't you throw a few on your blog, for old-times sake?"

It's a couple of decades since I penned those articles. The political landscape has changed almost as much as the girth of Mrs Blunt. And if my time at the knee of Wally Green taught me anything, it is that 'old news doesn't sell'.

So I'm not entirely convinced my blog readers will really want to pore over articles culled from what was, I must admit, the best football fanzine of its generation. But, I suppose there's only one way to find out.

Here's one from what I consider was my finest hour - when the magazine took a stand on the issue of censorship. I was proud to lend my distinctive voice to that campaign.

I Know What I Like

Mrs Blunt and I have long since agreed to differ when it comes to the appreciation of art. She favours a more impressionistic style, whereas my own taste has always been reasonably eclectic.

Just this weekend, I came across a fine artist fellow who was selling his wares via a display of local artists' work in a shopping centre. His rendering of the Yorkshire and Northumberland coastline appealed to me greatly - so much so that I was prepared to risk the wrath of Mrs B by buying a couple of his works on the spot. It may mean one less visit to the beauticians for her each month (for a while, at least) - but what price art, I say?

It's a brave man who accuses Bill Blunt of plugging, but I don't mind spreading the word about this talented individual if it means more people can appreciate his work. Rob Wilson's website is well worth a visit, if only to see a picture of a man with a pigeon on his head.

Curmudgeonly Courtesy

I am grateful to learn that the estimable Archie has added me to his Blogroll. He is clearly a man of eclectic (and undoubtedly good) taste. I have returned the compliment by adding Archie's blog to my list of favourite sites, and would heartily recommend that you pay him a visit.

Just in case my wife should ever develop an interest in the world of blogs (and all things are possible), I feel I must point out that in no way am I 'attempting to ignore Mrs Blunt', as Archie claims. I can't for the life of me understand how he has formed this impression. If Archie were ever to meet Mrs Blunt, I am sure he would rapidly learn that any such attempt at ignoring her would be quite out of the question.

Ticket to Ride

Just occasionally, the internet reveals a little wonder or two that gets your mind thinking.

A Canadian couple have (apparently) discovered a battered, old, green double-decker bus hiding in California. Since they found it, they've nurtured a dream of buying it and restoring it.

Call me an old romantic fool, but it was on top of a green double decker bus that I first caught the eye of the future Mrs Blunt. She was a little slimmer in those days, of course - nowadays I doubt she'd even be able to squeeze up the stairs. Time takes it's toll on all of us, I'm afraid.

Perhaps it was that memory which led me to making a (small) donation to help Matthew and Sue reach their dream?