Great to see Harry Gration of BBC Look North picking up his MBE the other day. One of the few remaining reasons to actually watch the Bloated Broadcasting Corporation, Harry epitomises Yorkshire; from my personal experience he is a true gent.
When we were looking around for someone of note to open our new clubhouse back in 2007, I sent a cheeky email via his co-presenter Christa Ackroyd, alluding to all sorts of cruelty inflicted on us kids years ago by her big brother Brian.
Big Brian had an air rifle and used to challenge us to make the ten yard dash from the changing rooms to the old score-box, whilst he took aim like a sniper from his bedroom window.
We would crouch behind the home dressing room and try to crane our necks around the corner to see if Brian was “on guard”. Then it was a mad dash and a tumble as pellets rained down.
Fortunately, Brian’s shooting was as bad as his batting and so none of us were ever hit. As far as I know the English Cricket Board have yet to allocate a section in their child welfare policy as to what to do if being shot at.
All would be forgiven if Christa could persuade Harry to come and open our new club. Unbelievably we got a reply…yes Harry would do this.
He drove up the M1 from switching the Christmas lights on at Meadowhall to the Villas – managing to fit us in en route to South Africa with the great Sir Geoffrey Boycott the following morning – and he was just as he appears on screen, a really good bloke.
Predictably Harry got lost trying to find the Villas and an elderly lady had the shock of her life with Harry Gration perched on her doorstep, seemingly minutes after being on her television, asking for directions.
He was funny, extremely courteous, put up with Haighy and Browny all night and rounded off a very good night for all those that attended. Congratulations Harry on your well deserved MBE.
Watch Out Uncle Nob ‘Ed
Lovely to hear of more goodwill to all men in that cheery, sunny land of the free, North Korea. The sulky little fat lad must have got word of a dubious Christmas present from his favourite uncle and that was that.
It made me think of the fabulous Peter Kay creation, Uncle Nob ‘Ed – there’s one in every family – guaranteed to be groping someone at a Christmas party near you soon.
You can spot Uncle Nob ‘Ed a mile off; worst jumper in the room, still in his slippers, chin splattered with food, stained Farahs and flies down oblivious.
Just imagine Uncle Nob ‘Ed at happy go-lucky Kim Jong Un’s family Christmas bash. One careless fart after the turkey and its out the back and the firing squad for you son. Now pass me the horseradish!
Worse Than Being Water Boarded?
There I was driving along minding my own business and then the DJ came out with those dreaded seasonal words “…and here is Cliff Richards’ new Christmas single”.
In an instant I wanted to plunge my car down a canyon – not that many in Bradford especially now we are getting a new shopping centre for the Romanians – or at least rip the car radio from its mountings.
In a week when assisted suicide became topical again why not supply all those that wish to end it with Cliff’s latest Christmas record? That should work.
Benefits
Those nasty Tories, presiding over a coalition Government that allegedly gives £27m a year in foreign aid to China – a country that almost owns us – have another idea to cut benefits just before half of Romania lands here in their horse and carts.
The plan is to limit child benefits to the first two kids, although they don’t say whether that’s per dad, colour or estate; personally I cannot see what’s wrong with this at all apart from one thing.
There should be an incentive not to breed and you should start collecting this as soon as you get to sixteen. Why have it all one way?
And if you do decide to add to juvenile delinquency, X-Box sales and world over-crowding then you get what you’ve been paid so far deducted…simple…more beers sir!
Squirrels Beware
This is a dangerous time of the year to be on the roads; lets be honest…women drivers, shopping and crowded roads do not make good news. So it’s sensible to stay indoors if you can.
Carnage ensued on the roads of West Leeds recently as a friend of mine reduced the local squirrel population in a Da Da Doom Va Va Voom moment courtesy of Vorsprung Durch Technik.
For all its obvious attractions, an Audi TT has yet to include squirrel detection and a sad Christmas it will be for one local fluffy tailed family, decimated by one with Christmas shopping clearly on her mind.
It’ll be lonely this Christmas without you oh fluffy dad but, as the picture suggests, they may be better prepared next time.
Down Memory Lane…Up Manor Row
Who remembers when Bradford’s nightlife made Leeds look like a monastery by comparison?
I was musing about Ely Mcflys the other day, a very popular café bar where they did marvellous lunches of cheese and pate accompanied by the tinkling of the ivories and an array of foreign lagers….not Skol!
Manor Row buzzed with activity from the Manor Bar – where a few windows and glasses also tinkled occasionally – to JB’s and the aspirational Cloud Nine nightclub, where they would park your Roller out of sight…especially useful as most had been nicked.
Getting into Cloud Nine was always nervy as the bouncers looked you up and down whilst you perched on unsteady legs. Oblivious, the champagne mouth/lemonade pocket brigade walked past to the front of the queue, VIPS, at least for one day of their lives.
Of course, if all else failed there was the last chance saloon up the road – VIPs – where Sticky Vickys stuck to the sticky carpet and the moondance was created as feet were glued to the rotting carpet, bodies swaying to the effects of ten pints of Bass.
And at the end of the night you dined according to your pocket not your credit card; flush and it was the Commonwealth for a cat curry.
Down on your luck and it was a taxi or the long walk home although the Salmonella Van with its array of rancid pasties and mouldy peas offered some comfort…at least until the morning.
Bradford, my Bradford…whatever happened to you?
Fiddling Again
Where I think young Kim Jong Un may come in useful could be the House of Lords where almost 700 old dodderers can seemingly roll up, grab a bit of a warm through, read the papers with a subsidised cup of coffee and pick up £300 a day.
All just for signing a register; if only school had been like that nobody would ever have bunked off.
Once again…we are all in it together…aren’t we?
Britain’s Appalling Education Standards
I will vote for any party that announces failure to observe this sign properly results in compulsory attendance at a Cliff Richard concert. This is supposed to speed up the drudgery of filling up.
Instead, morons roll up, realise they have no idea how to read simple instructions and still wander off to the kiosk. A baboon would understand!
You Reap What You Sow
Gone again, so soon after we held them for what seemed like an eternity, although it was only four years. Still, don’t worry as good old Rupert has ensured we can have another go in 2015.
Keep that cash rolling in…and to hell with the sanctity of the contest…must keep Sky happy.
The Triumph of the MILF
I gave up on Strictly when it became clear that when Brucie finally gives up the ghost they will give the job to pokey Claudia Winkleman and I shall have to kick my television in.
Recent series have become more and more about the judges and who can out-camp who but you can always rely on the public to keep this as a popularity contest rather than pure dance, irritating old Len to the bitter end.
And so there is a distinct possibility that the public vote will, once again, determine the outcome as newsreader Susanna Reid seems a “hot” favourite.
Usually its the housewives’ vote that dominates here but could there be thousands of Uncle Nob ‘Eds up and down the country frantically pressing their iphones to keep the nation’s favourite MILF dancing?
A despairing friend of mine was moved to comment that if the public cant be trusted to get a dance contest right then how on Earth can we expect a sensible vote on staying in or out of Europe?
My advice to any political party…hire Susanna.
Tell Me It’s Not So
My generation, having thought we had stuffed several younger generations have, it appears, been stuffed too by our reckless, partying, good-time parents.
We will be the first generation – so they say – that will be worse off than our parents…have they seen how my dad dresses?
Unless I can stop him blowing my inheritance it looks like its the polyester slacks from Dunnes and a dotage moaning about the price of a pint in the club.
A sobering thought…merry Christmas from the grumpy Idlelord…and thanks for reading again, hope you have smiled along the way.
Gas man says
Merry xmas and a happy new year you old fart. Have enjoyed reading your musings, keep em coming, great stuff. Tally Ho! just of to stuff the old bird, see you in the new year.