I knew the cricket season could not come soon enough having hit rock-bottom and resorted to cleaning my fridge-freezer in an effort to feel “productive” last Saturday. It was touch and go whether ten years of encrusted grime in the oven would be next; my chisel was primed.
As I eased my aching bones onto my sofa – labours over and smelling like a Brillo pad – what delights were available in my box of a thousand channels?
There is no doubt that modern television is awash with utter rubbish but Date My Mum really does seem to have taken the art to a new level. Aided by the insatiable desire of people to humiliate themselves for fifteen minutes of fame, it’s open season for the programme makers.
This mockumentary followed the progress of kids trying to get their mums a date. According to the programme there are 3m single parents out there, all potentially looking for love, hopefully not all saddled with kids wearing caps back to front and looking like gangsters.
One look at the kids and mum could have been a super-model sex-addict for all I cared.
The previous day I’d had some bonding time with my godson Harry – no caps allowed in my car – and I mused as to how he might help me in later years as the format expands inevitably with Date My Pervy Uncle, Date My Smelly Granddad and Date My Embarrassing Godfather.
So I asked Harry to write an application on my behalf for his GCSEs.
“My parents must have been really desperate when they chose Uncle Stephen to be my godfather; either that or they assumed he would die an early beer-soaked death and leave all his money to me.
That way I could be like him and never do a day’s work in my life…cool!
I only really see him when my mum is desperate for the school run. He doesn’t even turn up at Christmas, just shoves some money in my hand, winks and tells me “don’t go spending that on fast women!”
When she drops me at his house she won’t even get out of the car because she likes to pretend she’s got a really important job and could really afford a proper child-minder. I think she just likes the heated seats but he’s never up and always comes to the door looking like a tramp.
When it’s raining he likes to pretend he can’t find his keys so I get drenched. He never has the heating on so I have to eat my breakfast under a blanket like a refugee and he moans all the time about crumbs but the dust on his table is an inch thick!
On the way to school he can be really embarrassing because he makes me play “Spot The Yummy Mummy” and “Who’s Got The Biggest Bum” and makes faces when we pass by. He also listens to Radio Four because he says Chris Evans is a wanker whatever that means!
Sometimes, on the way home he takes me to the supermarket as a “treat” but I know he’s too tight to shop at M&S and he’s really using me as a babe magnet for posh birds. I wish he would stop making me sit in the trolley though – I’m eleven and way past Percy Pigs as a bribe!
I can’t tell my mum most of what we talk about because then I would have to walk to school but I am recording it all and it will cost him a fortune. It’s £10 every time he’s called my mum Old Big Ginger Bum; that’s my first car sorted and no rusty Mini for me.
Sometimes he gets me to help him in his vegetable plot but ever since he told me that the big bottle of wee was orange juice I’ve been on strike; I nearly gipped! He pours it on the compost but I really wanted to pour it on him….it wouldn’t have made him smell any worse.
We do have a laugh though, especially when we ambush my mum with the hosepipe just to see how fast she can run in her heels. My mum says he will grow up one day but probably not until I’m wheeling him around a park, looking for a lake to dump him in.
I asked him what kind of woman he wanted to date so here goes.
Age – 25
IQ – less than age
Personality – Oblivious
Favourite Cricket Bat – Gunn & Moore
Favourite Pub – White Bear
Please help my godfather!”
The Big Short
There are many books out there that have attempted to explain the causes of the last crash; The Big Short takes some beating though.
As a tale of unchecked and ultimately unpunished greed by the few against the majority it begs the ultimate question; could it ever happen again? Without a shadow of a doubt is the awful conclusion.
Last Of The Great Explorers?
The text from arch schemer Molly came as a surprise.
‘Eee lad ‘ows tha fancy a walk wi Winky and Big Fat Dayks over t’moors next week?
Somehow, Molly had negotiated a pass from Her Who Must Be Obeyed and so I consulted my holiday planner; strangely the day appeared free. The sales drive would have to be suspended.
Cometh the morning and I sat there surrounded by grey clouds, skies full to the brim and the winds howling outside with thoughts of “we’re all going to die!”
A route march over the moors to Ilkley just to have a beer? Surely Her Who Must Be Obeyed would be clueless if we walked around the local park, smeared ourselves in mud and went to the pub all day? At least we would blend in with the locals.
I opened the door and it felt like I was on the deck of a trawler on Deadliest Catch as a torrent of water hit me full on. Halfway across Baildon Moor – hopelessly lost into the bargain – I had much the same feeling that the sad arctic explorer must have had.
I could imagine Molly uttering those words “Carol I have taken my last step in pursuit of the golden liquid…I can do no more!”
He pressed us on though – “there’s ale out there somewhere” – he said, like Bear Grylls looking for a snake as snot formed as icicles from his radar.
Dayks was like a giant sponge having ignored the weather forecast whereas mine and Nigel’s waterproofs were from the porous range at Go Outdoors. Being outdoors in these was not a good idea.
We reached Dick Hudson’s wetter than shipwrecked sailors to bemused looks from the staff.
One more giant effort across the vast and untapped housing plains for the Great Leader’s Housing Resettlement Plan and down the treacherous tracks we stumbled to the welcoming bosom of The Flying Duck, Molly and Dayks relying on the odd arse slide.
Four guys the wrong side of fifty hobbled through the door, gear stripped and laid in front of the fire, ales ordered, locals mystified. Good job I had another day off as I felt a chill coming on.
What a marvellous day and another coming soon with our postponed Ilkley to Grassington Pilgrimage; watch this space.
The Times They Are A Changing.
The recently announced sad closure of Riddlesden Golf Club will not be the last and it is not just golf that is struggling to survive. As with many participation sports that involve time and commitment, recreational golf is combating ever falling numbers.
The average age of the club golfer is somewhere past pensionable and youngsters are not taking up the sport in sufficient numbers to replace the dwindling cocoons.
Cricket too has many issues as regular readers here will know. Contrast the rapidly changing face of the professional game – like it or not – with the recreational game where change, so far, appears to be slow in coming.
Sport is rapidly becoming the preserve of the privileged which will be the death knell of many that have relied on mass participation and not simply the ability to pay. What a sad reflection of our times.
On that note…time for a pint…which, thankfully remains mass participation.
Have a great weekend.
Phil Baxendale says
Harry says he forgot to mention a couple of things!
“Why has Uncle Steven posted that picture of me having drunk him under the table again on social media?”
He also said “When am I going to get another “new auntie”
Mum said ” I don’t know but if he doesn’t hurry up soon it will be cricket season and we’ll be into another drought”
Dad says “he’s just misunderstood” I think he means after he’s been in the “Scuffy” for a couple of hours with big Uncle All and Uncle Patch!
Ah well it’s always easier to take money off him when he’s P@@@@d! X