As I enter my dotage, I can only say a huge 'Thank You' to those good people at Sony for finally acknowledging that the listening public have been outrageously conned into buying into something your grandad knew (all along) was a myth.
I'm talking, of course, about 'stereo'...
I can't pretend I wasn't excited when I learned that the people behind The Independent were about to launch a new, national, daily paper. Whenever I'd been able to pick a copy up, I'd always rather enjoyed The Indie's take on the world, and always thought it rather a shame that its circulation never really reached much beyond Muswell Hill. 
Even the news that, like some Premier League football club, it had been purchased by a Russian oligarch didn't put me off. As a (semi) retired journalist, I must admit I might have harboured a slim hope that my phone would ring, and I'd be offered a regular column in this new addition to the media stables - The i. Alas, it was not to be. I can only surmise that my reputation has preceded me, and that my barbed quill was thought to have no place in the anodyne world of 21st century journalism.
In my defence, I can only parade my CV - The Stockport Messenger, The Letchworth Chronicle, The Harpenden Times and Argus, The Birkenhead Beagle, The Stockport Courier, Beyond the Boundary, The Cirencester Journal, The Stockport Echo ... I could go on ... have all, at some point, carried my byline.
Quite why the people at The i have seen fit to spurn Bill Blunt is beyond me. As I am now drawing my pension, I am quite prepared to offer my services at an appropriate rate.
My son Jasper had an interesting take on the matter. 'Pa,' he said 'This new kid on the block is clearly aimed at the Twitter generation. They're not after cutting analysis and commentary.' Alas, I think he may be right.
However, I do applaud the tactical manoeuvring of the folk behind the new project. The Independent, with its circulation in free fall, is clearly destined for the knackers yard. The new i might just capture the zeitgeist. And at 20p, even an OAP like me can afford it.
After much trailing, Chancellor Osborne revealed the extent of the ConLib cuts yesterday.
We won't know the full impact of the cuts for a year or two, but all signs point to an increase in unemployment of around a million, destabilisation in the housing market as changes to Housing benefit kick in, and a cull of public services across the board.
Although we're told that 'We're all in this together', it seems as though some are going to be in 'it' rather more deeply than others. As the BBC noted yesterday:
I know where I'll be investing my dwindling pile of cash over the next few months, anyway.
Take a tip, and buy yourself a paddle, while you still can.
England's humiliating ejection from the World Cup at the hands of our old adversaries means I am at last released (if prematurely) from my temporary contract as World Cup Correspondent with the Andover Gazette.
I've had to bite my blog-lip during this time, but our 4-1 defeat by Germany now offers me the chance to set the record straight about my thoughts on England's chances - before the history books are written and I am misquoted. I for one have always had my doubts about the capabilities of the current England players, their manager and his somewhat perverse team selection. These doubts were underlined by the predictably dire performances against the USA and the mighty Algerians, and a lacklustre 'victory' against the Slovenes.
I've never usually had much of a problem with sub-editors in my many years working in the local, regional and national press. But my experience in Andover has made me wonder whether it's perhaps time to hang up my quill.
My well-balanced and measured observations on England's chances in their campaign were regularly shredded by over-optimitic subbies who managed to twist my words to come up with a headline designed to keep the people of their fair town sweet. It wouldn't have happened at the Stockport Chronicle, I can tell you.
I hold no malice against the England players. I wish them luck as they come back to Blighty, their heads bowed in shame and embarassment. Chin up, boys! You've no real need to fear the future. There'll be an ironic (and lucrative) crisp commercial for one or two of you down the line - and that's worth more than a World Cup Winner's medal, I am sure.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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...
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...
