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.

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.

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.