“I come from a culture where the pub is the centre of the community. The pub is the Internet. It’s where information is gathered, collated and addressed.”
Rhys Ifans
Whether it was the fact that I had spent a winter largely hibernating in The Scruffy as part of my off season “conditioning” or simply the passage of time, I decided it was time for my own personal health MOT again, just in case the NHS finally foes tits up.
Like a female Russian shot putter, I had spent a week trying to rid myself of all traces of contamination – via The Scruffy – having placed myself in quarantine with Series 8 of Deadliest Catch and call-barring Big Al’s number.
Sadly I admit to falling at the last hurdle, unable to resist the temptation of Our Jackie and the pull of her throbbing right arm; I eased onto my stool and ordered my medicine on the eve of the great inspection.
The morning after I arrived at the surgery, crawling along the floor past the desk where Her Who Must Be Obeyed – Mrs Molyneux – spends her days.
The nurse was waiting as I sat down with the grilling about to begin, grateful that she was not wearing a pair of heavy-duty marigolds.
“Do you eat well?” Yes M’aam!
“Exercise?” Yes M’aam!
“Any stress?” Only when looking after my Godson M’aam.
“Work pressures?” Cue a cough and drop moment.
She patted me on the back and waited for me to recover.
And then came the killer question; do you drink? A bit, I countered sheepishly, hoping she would move on adopting the Lord Coe approach of hear all, know all and say now’t.
Sadly she was made of incorruptible stuff – unlike someone else unmentionable as he’s got more lawyers – and fixed a steely gaze at me as my eyes sought out the floor. At this point the rubber clad finger would have been a sweet release.
“How many units a week?” she asked, which was a bit of a dumb question because if we counted we would never go near a pub again.
The Government claim 21 units a week is the recommended maximum level which is roughly 10 pints; I countered that I knew a man who comfortably did this in a night but all to no avail.
She placed her pen down and sat back in her chair, a pensive look on her attractive young features. I sensed she was not about to ask me for my number.
“Do you think you could cut down a bit?” she asked.
“Only if The Scruffy shut.” I replied, my attempt at humour as flat as a bad pint.
I felt like my parents must have done on numerous occasions at school parental evenings all those years ago when I awaited their return barricaded in my bedroom with knotted sheets dangling out of the window.
The varying platitudes offered with suggestions of a bright future but only if he was not so easily distracted. The sins of the past had perhaps come full circle?
I left assured that I could live to 120 if I never saw The Scruffy again and that, if I did, I could probably afford something better than the NHS, always assuming we still have one.
Of course I could also get taken out by a meteor like in Emmerdale as I foraged for wild mushrooms to take back to my treehouse in the woods as I lived the good life.
Far better to take my chances and focus on maintaining a pivotal core part of the Big Society. With this in mind I ticked off the hours till opening time at the local internet cafe and clicked the usual mating call to Big Al.
“Early Doors?”
Puppets On A String?
For now, the threat of an assault on the voluntary sector by our allegedly cash-strapped Council has receded as the budget for the forthcoming year was agreed last week.
Make no mistake this will not go away, despite in the context of a £400m budget, the proposed savings being loose change set against the vandalism they would wreak on voluntary groups.
One salutary note, certainly as far as my experience went in attempting to garner support from our elected representatives, was that our local Councillors were utterly hopeless. Of the three of them, one could not even be bothered to reply; good value then!
Is it too much to expect any one of them to have any opinion other than that jiggled by Cllr Ear Ring’s strings?
Keep nodding and creaming those expenses!
Fame, Fortune and The Fickle Hand Of Fate
With the average salary of even the most average Premier League player estimated to surpass £100k a week as a result of the new television deal, consider this story of the plight of one who was far from average.
Another reflection on our greed obsessed times?
Cue Sledging!
News that the County Championship has new sponsors in Specsavers cannot have escaped the attention of the odd wily trundler up and down the country.
Expect one or two new send-offs this summer.
Mine Is Not To Reason Why…But?
Having written several pieces regarding the beautiful but sadly abandoned Odeon building and it’s potential to lift our city to another level, I am continually amazed at the Council’s apathy here.
When you also contrast their clear enthusiasm for nearby St George’s Hall – another beautiful venue, if lacking the potential that the Odeon clearly has – you cannot but scratch your head in bewilderment.
In recent years St George’s has failed to attract any act I can think worth seeing, often offering tribute bands and has-beens. It is a fabulous building but, as a concert venue, size seems to matter these days so its real potential should not be overstated.
Genesis may well have played there but possibly back in the days of the book of Genesis. Meanwhile, across town the Odeon represents an opportunity to being decent acts into the city.
Top class comedians now play to the larger venues. Here in Bradford they simply sit in City Hall.
I suppose it’s tempting to think that small minds struggle to think big?
That’s My Boy?
Having a bit of spare time on my hands I decided to make some soup to ward off the late winter chill. Of course I dutifully took some for my mum.
So pleased was she at my latest display of culinary skills she has altered her will to provide for later life and my Gender Reassignment Course.
Off with the apron it’s beer time and sod the cholesterol!
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