Christmas is coming [but not for some]

I'm not sure who is the more fukin' stupid, people who believe what they read in the press or the fuckwits who write what people read.

Shock horror! The no-mark husband of Amy Winehouse has been remanded in custody and won't be home for Christmas.

I don't know if anybody noticed this, but he's Jewish [as is she].

Way back in the mists of time, during my nominally catholic education, one of the things we were taught as a basic difference between us [catholics] and those of the Jewish faith was that the left footers believed that the messiah had come amongst us / been born and that the four by twos were still waiting.

Hence we celebrated Christmas, the birth of Christ, they don't celebrate but get a few extra days holiday anyway.

I doubt that Blake and Amy are going to lose any sleep over not having cold turkey [joke] towards the back end of December.

Regrets, I've had a few....

Recently, there's been a series on the TV about Royal Marine Commandos. I watch anything military that's on the telly. I suppose that it's because, even after all these years, I still regret not signing up. I did though, do what I thought was the next best thing and work for the military as a civvy [civilian].

The reason I never signed on the dotted line was that I always knew that I was gay / queer and, at the time that I left school and jobs were hard to find and loads of my mate were going into the army, RAF, navy, I didn't have the courage of my convictions when it came to saying "No" when asked if I was a practicing homosexual.

So, I never joined up.

I did, though, work, and for lots of years , for the MOD as a civilian, working alongside the forces. But watching these things on the TV, combined with the deregulation against gays in the military, makes me yearn for what I knew I could [then] never have done. Only because of what I did in bed.

Relatives being relative

Oooops, I've gotten out of the habit of taking the piss out of people for the way they look but there can, and have been, exceptions. When we still lived in the pub on Euston Rd I would often see this brogdinagian creature pushing a trolley filled with black plastic bags.

I saw this woman again, the first time for a long while, the other day. It transpires that she is the sister of the former husband of an acquaintance. I don't think she was best pleased that I said that "I can see why you divorced him". Friends you can pick, family, you can't!

Christmas is coming

As the nursery rhyme goes.....

Christmas is coming

the goose is getting fat......

and that's where the whole thing goes tits. The current outbreak of "Bird Flu" may mean a shortage of turkeys, geese and ducks this Christmas. So the old bird won't be getting fat, it'll be getting incinarated.

I'm not particularly worried by this as we never have turkey at Christmas anyway. Last year, two of my friends bought a goose for Christmas [to eat, you understand, not as a pet]. £60 they paid for this damnable bird and by the time it was cooked and all the fat drained off of it, it was about the size of a small canary. We were invited for tea on boxing day with the promise of goose remnants. Not the most tempting offer in the world, but the company promised to be good, and I'd never had goose before so, off we went. Well, the goose was fine but I wouldn't rush off to pay sixty quid for one.

Generally, for Christmas dinner we have beef. With the impending slaughter of millions of poultry in the run-up to Christmas, I can see beef being expensive. Christmas shopping may start early for me this year.

He / it's back

I don't watch much TV. I can't just sit and watch whatever shit is shown, I have to scan through the listings and select what I'm going to watch, then record my selections and I'll generally spend Sunday afternoon watching them.
One thing I won't be watching is How To Look Good Naked.

Apart from the fact that it's some shite about fat old birds letting their tits fall to the deck, it's presented by Gok Wan.

The only way he'd look good is when covered in tyres, doused in petrol and then lit. Wanker.

Picture Post Birthday Picture

Nigel and Phill's birthday finds me dressing up again. In an attempt to recreate the famous picture post pic, I grabbed Jim and here is the result. The other pics can be found here.

Coming to things late in life

One of my favorite sites is Secret Leeds. It's a whole mish-mash of things about Leeds. One of the current forum topics is about dialects. I suppose that what follows isn't really dialect but it seems to be a real Leeds saying. It was normally directed at me by my mother when I was on the scrounge for something, more chocolate, generally.

"Here, what the cobbler thew at his wife. The bloody last!"

Some things, as a child you never understand. Well I never understood this as a child or, until recently, as an adult. I knew that it meant that there was to be no more, but where the cobbler and his wife came into the whole scheme of things, that was the puzzle.

A last, it transpires, is the big metal thing that a cobbler mends shoes on.

above; A Cobblers Last

The saying about the last, for me, goes hand in hand in the darkness of non-understanding, with the joke about the nuns in the shower and one saying to the other "where's the soap"? and the other replies "Yes, but isn't it fun"! I put my incomprehension of this down to my being gay and not having an interest, or understanding, of the female anatomy or its sexual satisfaction. Well, that's my excuse anyway. Being from Leeds playing on words was akin to playing on the railway lines. It just never happened. Where's, as it's stated in the joke means where is. In Leeds, if you wear something, you do so in the manner of an article of clothing. To wear something, as in the manner of the joke would never happen in Leeds. To wear away, sure. But that would never just wear; singular.

So, back to the dialect bit and here is a little youtube clip from that Yorkshire classic Kes, with the redoubtable Brian Glover. Enjoy.

Doom, gloom and Cottingley

above; Cottingley Grange

I went up to Leeds on Thursday for a funeral. The funeral was actually today, Friday, but it gave me the excuse to go and see my eldest brother and have a few drinks. I didn't anticipate that it would take me four and a half hours to drive up there.

The funeral was for an aunt, Ellen [always known as Nelly] my mothers younger sister.

Every other funeral Ive been to has been at Lawnswood Crematorium but Nelly's was at Cottingley. Christ, it was grim.

Cottingley is in south Leeds and is overlooked by two huge great tower blocks, renown as being the dumping ground for all the shit that Leeds City Council can't house anywhere else.

Poor old Nell didn't get the best send off but at least the priest was good [if that's the correct way of terming it].

I was glad to come home. Mucky Leeds.