Check Your Facts!

It's a long time since I've had to make reference to Wally Green. As a cub reporter on the Stockport Examiner, Wally was a great influence on me. It was towards the end of March, 1967, and I received a phone call inviting me to a meeting of the Avril Phirst Appreciation Society - supposedly a group set up to commemorate the career of an Oldham actress from the 1930's. 

I was all ready to attend, when Wally suggested I make a few enquiries about the Society. Needless to say, they didn't check out, and I managed to avoid a bit of egg on my face by covering something which was clearly an April Fool's joke. If only the Wally's Wise Words were available to today's journalists. It started here: 

http://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk

and in less than 24 hours had appeared here 

http://www.mirror.co.uk

not to mention here

http://www.dailymail.co.uk

Now, did anyone even attempt to contact Sir Norman Wrassle, who is quoted so extensively? Wally's Wise Words should be tattooed on the arm of every journalist. Check your facts - especially if they appear on the World Wide Web! 

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.

Cheap Tricks

It’s a brave man that accuses Bill Blunt of stooping to cheap tricks to boost his ailing blog readership. Not for me the shoddy inducements to people to drop by to my blog, enticed by a gimmick or the strategic placement of a label or two.

I had enough of that during the infamous Stockport Circulation War of the 1960’s, which saw two fine newspapers go to the wall, and the reputation of the Stockport Leader left in tatters after it introduced its widely-copied Page 9 girl. I was working for the rival Herald at the time, and our editor (Wally Green) was firm in his belief that, while readers might flock to see such lurid spectacles at first, a reputation for truth, honesty and good writing was what would make them come back for more.

It was a long, hot summer in 1965, and many were those who tried to persuade Wally to relax his Presbyterian stance as the Herald’s circulation plummeted. But he dug his heels in, even as the Stockport Leader began to overtake us for the first time since the 1890’s. His one concession to the masses was the ill-fated introduction of Where’s Wally? - a competition which involved readers trying to spot him as he wandered, incognito, around town. Once spotted, the idea was they would challenge him and then claim the munificent sum of £5.

The game didn’t last longer than a couple of weeks, however, since the local constabulary sternly advised us to draw a halt to it. A spate of fights in pubs and clubs across the town had drawn their attention to the Herald’s competition, and the received wisdom after the dust had settled was that it was a mistake to expect punters to point at total strangers while uttering the words ‘You’re Wally – Give Me A Fiver!’


So, you’ll gather I am no fan of cheap attempts to garner readers. That’s why I don’t want my dwindling band of subscribers to read too much into my featuring Olga The Travelling Bra in this posting. I believe Olga represents a genuine cultural phenomenon – an item of lingerie that has already traversed thousands of miles in its quest to … err … traverse the globe and appear in blogs.

Here’s Olga when she visited Liverpool yesterday, in the company of 70’sTeen and Claire, two fine bloggers who had brought Olga for her day out, much to the bemusement of visitors to the Albert Dock.

I like to think it isn’t the first time Billy Fury twirled a bra strap around his index finger, but you never can tell with these pop icons, in my experience. I'd hesitate to make the same comment about Cliff Richard, for instance.

As for the Super Lamb Banana, this was already a potent symbol of Liverpool before the powers that be behind the European Capital of Culture decided to clone it and site small-scale copies across the city and the wider environs of Merseyside. I think you'll agree, Olga looks like she was made to fit the Ringo Starr version of the new icon.

Sowing The Seeds

It will probably come as no surprise to those who have read this column that I am something of a stranger to hard graft. In fact, it's a truism to say that I have spent most of my life avoiding it like the plague.

I was fortunate to be the first member of my family to receive the blessings of a university education, and my choice of a career in journalism meant that any notion of manual labour was easily sidestepped. That's not to say that the life of a scribbler has always been an easy one. Wally Green at the Stockport Argus taught me an early lesson in life, when he said 'Son, the Olivetti is your lathe, and your brain supplies the engine oil to keep it moving.'

So, it has been something of a shock to my system to recently take on an allotment. There's a lot to be said for digging away in the sun, eagerly anticipating the point at which your seeds will be sown or your bulbs will be transplanted. Even if six hours of solid labour only managed to transform a plot little bigger than my bathroom. Admittedly, it was a bit of a jungle, but even so it gave me pause to consider whether I was doing the right thing. Six decades of studiously shunning physical exercise had not exactly prepared me for such toil.

I'll be persevering, however. To everything there is a season, in the sun, and I sense that in my own personal autumn has approached. I may be hanging up my quill, and replacing it with a hoe. At least it's cheaper than a gym membership.

A Friend in Need

Just when I thought it was safe to take to the air on my mini-jaunt around Europe, a call from Thomas Hamburger Jnr comes in. Would I mind awfully, he asks, if he accompanied me on my trip? He’s had a rough time of it recently, dealing with one or two ‘issues’ he feels must be tidied up before he can re-write his fictional account of Harry McFry. I chided him with the fact that not the least of these issues is that he’s required to finish the bloody thing before he can even contemplate a re-write.

I must say, it wasn’t like this in my day. When Wally Green asked for a story for the front page, a story was precisely what he got. There wasn’t much time for intellectual agonising at the Stockport Leader. Lolling around in a flat listening to Cavalleria Rusticana and complaining about writers’ block wasn’t an option when there were bills to pay and a young family to support.

Well, I suppose I owe him one. It was Thomas who eased my way into the world of blogs in the first place, and he has continued to post whatever musings I send him (with very little editorial cuts). At the same time, I can’t help but think a very different kind of holiday is now in store for me. I’ve had to hastily re-arrange a few liaisons I had lined up en route, as it wouldn’t be seemly to have a friend in tow for some of the encounters I had planned. And I doubt very much he’ll be keen on visiting the great football stadia in Milan, Valencia, Madrid and err... Brussels, which was also part of my plan. The prospect is now real that the entire seven days could be spent in a blur of cafes, cigarettes and culture.

Still, what price friendship? It’s a brave man who accuses Bill Blunt of turning his back on a friend in his hour of need. And, who knows, maybe a few days spent ‘people watching’ won’t be such a bad thing? I’ll keep you posted.

Doing it My Way

The late, great Wally Green used to say 'the cliche is the last refuge of the scoundrel'. As a young cub reporter on the Stockport Herald, I never fully appreciated his wise words at the time.

It's too easy to dismiss the wisdom of the elderly as just so much piffle. Of course, now that I've reached that point in life where I too am eligible for the substantial discounts on stairlifts offered by adverts in SAGA magazine, I can see the value of listening to the older generation. Theirs is a wisdom born of experience.

Sometimes, however, a cliche is all there is to hold onto. When Frank Sinatra sang that glorious refrain about Love and Marriage going together like a Horse and Carriage, I wonder if he stopped to think how true his words were? Over the last few weeks, I've had more than a little time to contemplate Frank's philosophy of life, as my long marriage to Mrs Blunt has unwound itself and I now find myself single again. Who was the horse, and who the carriage, in our relationship, I've wondered?

I've made a few decisions, too. There's nothing to hold me in Oldham, now, particularly given the rather disappointing performance of the town's so-called football team. The world is my oyster!

Now, late in life, I'm faced with a blank canvas. Young Jasper has suggested a long holiday, somewhere on Caucasus. "Pa," he said, "within a couple of days you'll have picked up a thirty year old blonde and the world will seem a sweeter place."

For once, I'm not taking his advice. My good pal, Tommy Hamburger, has offered to take me off to Bergerac again, and it's an offer I'm seriously considering. A snake has taken up residence in the compost bin there, by all accounts, and a party needs to be dispatched to err... dispatch it.
Any tips on snake killing that my readers may care to share would be most welcome.

Taking views from a wider circle of family and friends, I've decided to move back to the Wirral, where some of my fondest memories were forged during my days at the Birkenhead Beagle, and where Tranmere Rovers are at least putting up a reasonably decent fist of trying to make it into the Premier League.

I must admit I'm growing fonder, too, of my own company. Mrs Blunt's departure from the marital home has brought with it a more relaxed regime at Blunt Mansions. The constant drone of television has been stilled, and in its place the soothing tones of BBC Radio 3 and 4 have formed a more harmonious backdrop to my life. I've realised, too, that my endless hours spent trawling the internet was actually an escape from the reality of life with a woman whose idea of entertainment was to watch endless re-runs of The High Chaparral, The Waltons and Last of The Summer Wine, so that my life had come to feel like one long (and painful) Sunday afternoon.

So, as a new chapter in my life beckons, I leave you with this thought. It is better to have loved and lost - particularly if your wife was a High Chaparral fan.

I'm a celebrity look-a-likey: get out of here!

In an age which celebrates celebrity, it's always comforting to think that, as you wander down the shop to buy your paper, there's always the chance you might be mistaken for someone famous.

Sometimes, it's the only thing that gets me out of the house, and was the reason I invested in a decent fountain pen a couple of years ago.

Those seeking re-assurance that they have that 'certain something' could do worse than visit MyHeritage.com (as I recently did) to discover precisely who they resemble.

In choosing which photo of myself to upload, I chanced upon a snap taken from my days at the Stockport Herald. Wally Green was fond of using it atop my regular column, and I must confess it always led to a flurry of correspondence from ladies of a certain age. Looking back, that may have been the start of Mrs Blunt's insane jealousy, which has bedevilled our marriage ever since.




Of course, the process is hardly scientific. But it does go some way to explain why I was once beset upon by a horde of hippies who seemed a little high on something, all yelling "Tommy!" and demanding to be told the true story of Keith Moon.

And, why I was so popular on my holiday to the Nile delta in 1972, when taxi drivers were positively falling over themselves to offer me a seat in their cab...

Bill's First Big Up

Old Wally Green used to say 'Give a wide berth to any journalist who doesn't offer round their Players'. He little knew it, but his sage advice was to stand me in good stead in my subsequent career.

In those days, everybody smoked, of course. We hadn't quite reached the stage of countries like France and Spain, where it seemed to be almost compulsory, but we did our best. Helped along by seductive advertising, we may have been low in the league of European smoking addicts, but we held our own. As plucky British smokers, we always felt our brands were more distinctively superior to those of our neighbours over the Channel. Our Park Lane, our Mayfair and our Embassy led us to believe we wandered the exclusive parts of London every time we lit up.

Wally's wise words meant that it became easy to spot the tight-wad, the colleague who slyly pulled out a cigarette without giving a thought to handing them around. They, inevitably, were the ones who held onto their stories for dear life, never sharing a word of them for fear of losing a scoop.

Well, times have changed. I like to think that we've all become a little more generous now. With just two days left before the UK government implements its ban on smoking in public places, I was struck by a posting made by Sugar Queen, whose blog I stumbled on thanks to Fuel My Blog, which can always be relied upon to uncover a hidden gem.

It's a powerful piece, written from the heart, and I urge you to read it and share it with others.
It's inspired me to join my pal Tommy Hamburger, who has already publicly avowed that he intends to quit the evil weed.

And, it's earned Sugar Queen's Dream Bill Blunt's 1st Big Up! Should she wish to display the widget on her site, all she has to do is contact me, and I'll send her the necessary, courtesy of my son, Jasper, who knows a thing or two about that kind of thing.

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.

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.

Memories of Mentoring

As a young cub reporter on the Stockport Herald, I was very fortunate to be taken under the wing of the then editor, Wally Green. Wally was of the old school of journalists: hard-bitten, sometimes terse, but a man with printer's ink in his very veins.

Wally it was who taught me the value of never using four words when you could get away with five - "Especially if you're being paid per word, son" he used to say.

The words of Wally Green came to mind when I heard about an American chap who is trying to win a competition to be paid to 'Blog For a Year'. Imagine that - some fancy entrepreneur has offered up this fabulous prize, and all people have to do is vote for whoever they think should win it.

Young Ben Spark has turned Wally Green's wisdom on it's head. Every day, for some considerable time now, he has posted a 'Picture A Day'. If a picture paints a thousand words, then Ben has already written War & Peace. His photos are often thought provoking, as good art should be.


So Ben has had my vote every day for the last two weeks. He still has some way to go to overtake the current leader, so I know he'll appreciate any help you can offer him. Five seconds a day of your time could make Ben a very happy man for a year.

If you want to help Ben (and everyone needs a Wally Green sometime in their life) all you need to do is click here and vote. Early and often, is my best advice to you (just like with that Fuel My Blog logo you've got to click, to the right - or so Jasper tells me).

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!