Story

You've probably heard these two sayings - "Today is the first day of the rest of your life" and "Live each day as if it's your last". Gloomily contemplating my mortality on Sunday afternoon, the penny finally dropped. "Yeah", I thought to myself, "life is short. You've got to make the most of every day!" So I resolved to give myself a kick up the arse, stop prevaricating, stop lazing about and change my life's gears from first to fifth. To live each day as if it were your last...

On Monday I was up at dawn. Instead of the customary bowl of muesli and a banana I had a full English breakfast. It was time for Shirley to get up. "Coo-ey!" I called up the stairs and she came down in her dressing gown. "What the hell's going on?" she said pointing at the dining table where her breakfast plate was waiting - scrambled eggs, bacon, mushrooms, sausages, grilled tomatoes and a round of wholemeal toast. I explained that I had decided to live each day as if it were my last and that I was getting an early train to London. "Well I hope you do the washing up before you go!"

An hour later, after paying £145 for a first class train ticket to London, I was rattling along through the Midlands towards our great metropolis when I noticed a familiar face. He was sitting just across the aisle from me. It was our local MP and the Deputy Prime Minister - The Right Honourable Nicholas Clegg. He was leafing through some parliamentary papers and looking very important. He certainly wasn't expecting the daunting shadow of Yorkshire Pudding to fall across his table. "Can I help you?" he whined. "You sir are a complete and utter twat!" I sneered before grabbing his attache case and proceeding to fling his papers all over the carriage. Clegg was dumbfounded and like a big girl's blouse called for the guard.

The guard was all for slinging me off the train at Leicester but I slipped him a twenty pound note and for the rest of the journey endured the congratulations of my fellow passengers. "I've always wanted to do that!" said one as Clegg cowered sheepishly in the corner casting furtive glances my way - like a well-beaten dog. 

At St Pancras I headed to the front of the taxi queue, pushing a couple of American tourists from Canton, Georgia out of the way before leaping in to the cab. "The Lyceum Theatre!" I instructed and soon we were weaving through the capital city's notorious traffic. I didn't have a ticket to see "The Lion King" so I headed for the stage door, brazenly flashing my Co-op Rewards Card at the security guard. I secured a seat in the front row of the stalls in spite of an old bejewelled biddy's protests and sat back to enjoy the show - an uplifting adventure that follows a fearless young lion cub called Simba as he learns about life on his journey to become King of the lions with memorable songs by Elton John and Tim Rice.

Afterwards I headed to "The Greenhouse" restaurant in Mayfair. "Have you got a reservation sir?" said this southern ponce at the door. "Have you got your own teeth?" I snarled, shoving him against the mahogany hat stand before claiming a corner table and enjoying a thoroughly delightful and exceedingly posh three course meal washed down with a litre of Moët & Chandon Dom Perignon White Gold.

Later, a  private speedboat sped me along the Thames towards Greenwich where we spun around and surged back towards Tower Bridge and the Houses of Parliament. It was an energising experience. Amazingly, I spotted Clegg again - on his way into the seat of government I couldn't help myself as I yelled, "Oi Clegg!". He turned. "You're still a twat!"

On the train back to Sheffield, I saw the pop singer Jarvis Cocker brazenly snorting a line of cocaine. His spectacles were clouded with the stuff - like flour in a bakery. "Want some?" he challenged and never having tried the stuff before I said yes. It was all I could do to stop myself from sneezing but in a few minutes I was on a different plane of being as Jarvis and I crafted the lyrics to a new hit album. "Tickets please!" said the guard interrupting our high jinx. "Tickets Please. Good name for the album!" I suggested.

At Sheffield Station I went into the Sheffield Tap and sampled each one of the eleven  traditional handpulled cask ales and then a busty young lady of the night called Leona asked if I wanted "business". Being a gentleman I will not detail what then happened in the disabled toilet just off platform one save to say that a dishevelled and dreamy-eyed Leona was heard afterwards mumbling, "You can't beat a good Yorkshire pudding!"

Back home in the suburbs, Shirley was just going up to bed when I put my key in the lock. 

"Well, did you live today as if it was your last?" she asked.

"I guess so," I surmised.

"And what about tomorrow? Will you be living that as if it's your last as well?"

"Nah! I'm knackered. I think I'll just do a bit of gardening. Living each day as if it's your last is bloody expensive and exhausting! Night night love!"

"Night!"

And we kissed.

Dear reader...if it was your last day, how would you live it?

History

Matthew Kelly (right) as Hector - being brought to book in the headmaster's study

Man cannot live on bread alone so last evening Lady Pudding and your esteemed correspondent duly attended The Crucible Theatre for a dose of culture. This was not in the shape of Ronnie O'Sullivan and  John Higgins knocking snooker balls over green baize but in the form of a rather engaging play - "The History Boys" by Alan Bennett which is co-incidentally set in a Sheffield school.

A group of talented grammar school boys are being coached to get through the tough Oxford and Cambridge entrance exams. Their education has been enhanced by an eccentric English teacher nicknamed Hector and in this production played by the well-known British TV presenter - Matthew Kelly. He locks his classroom door to keep out intruders and teaches not from some dry syllabus but from the heart. The boys appreciate his eccentricity and run with his uplifting ideas but occasionally they have to pay a price by riding pillion on Hector's motorbike - fully expecting that he will grope their loins whilst in transit.

The play is a mixture of wisdom, dry humour, angry protest and bawdiness. It's hard to convey a sense of such a dramatic pot-pourri but here's Hector on reading:-

The best moments in reading are when you come across something - a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things - that you'd thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you've never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it's as if a hand has come out, and taken yours.

And here's one of the students, in an art-appreciation session, discussing the nudes of Michaelangelo:-

These aren't women. They're just men with tits. And the tits look as if they've been put on with an ice-cream scoop!

And here's Posner in conversation  with the new history teacher - Tom Irwin:-
Posner  Do you ever look at your life?
Tom Irwin I thought everybody did.
Posner I'm a Jew... I'm small... I'm homosexual... and I live in Sheffield... I'm fucked.

Matthew Kelly did surprisingly well and the young men who played the scholars supported him very ably showing a range of talents including singing and dancing as each actor defined a distinct personality. There were many funny moments and after sustained applause at the end of the show, Kelly stepped forward to urge theatregoers to actively support a nationwide campaign to save local theatres. It was an impassioned plea in harsh economic times.

We left the theatre at 10.45 and walked down to Sheffield Hallam University students' union building. We gave friends Cathy and Ann a lift back to our city's sprawling southern suburbs and all was well with the world. Sometimes you don't have to squirm and shake your head at the bitterness when receiving your healing dose of culture.

Blurring

The Ugly Family - too ugly to be seen.

In recent years, I have noticed the growing amount of "blurring" you see in television programmes. Usually this happens in documentaries, real life programmes or news items, The things that are blurred include the faces of people who do not wish to be identified such as criminals or victims, car registration plates, house names and numbers, brand name advertising and people's private parts.  In addition to the things already listed, you'll often find children blurred out.

I guess, it's important to blur children in case any paedophiles are watching television but if that's the case then lusty heterosexuals like moi shouldn't be allowed to look at women. Even lady newsreaders and weather girls' faces should be blurred. Wouldn't it be easier if they all wore stylish burkhas instead? This would save TV blurring departments a lot of time. 

Of course - in this modern world we inhabit there are masses of lusty heterosexual women rampaging through our city streets and battalions of gay men too so I guess the TV authorities should also either be blurring all men's faces or making them wear full lycra body suits like the influential giants of TV entertainment - Ant and Dec:-

Ant and Dec - a huge improvement

Regarding blurring, I have taken to spotting the failings of blurring departments. You know - sometimes they'll forget to blur a car number plate in a particular frame or you'll catch the image of a blurred child in a mirror. And don't you think it would be great if we could blur people in real life so when out and about you wouldn't have to look at spotty people or ogres who can easily put you off your food? To replicate this effect downing seven pints of Tetley's (or in Hippo's case - half a bottle of scotch) will usually do the trick.

Here's Hippo in a family planning commercial for  Angolan TV.

Movie

Stanley Kubrick? Spike Lee? Walt Disney? The list of the world's most talented movie producers is now enhanced by none other than gritty Yorkshire-born film pioneer, Yorkshire Pudding who in his esoteric very first movie "Koh Lanta" expertly stitches together fragments from his recent five day shoot in southern Thailand to produce a remarkable piece of cinematography that has got the critics buzzing from L.A. to Bombay. Special permission for the Adele soundtrack came from Adele herself who said, "It is an honour to be associated with such a talented film producer and I have always naturally been attracted to Yorkshiremen anyway - they're so sexy!" Composer Bob Dylan said "Thankya! Thankya!". So blogworld - enjoy or sleep!...

Weekend

Bank holiday weekends in Britain are meant to be grey washouts - but not so this particular Bank Holiday weekend. Here in the heart of our country, the weather has been brilliant - wall-to-wall sunshine with many lard-coloured legs on show and young Tom in our local pub was even in flip flops! I told him it was a helluva long way to the beach!

Great Britain is a land steeped in history and traditions that can be traced back to the mists of time and yet most of our public holidays are boringly called "bank" holidays. Why? I mean - who cares about banks or bankers or banking? After all it's only money. I was with Jesus 100% when he got bloody angry and upturned the moneylenders' tables. Damned Pharisees! Our public holidays should be given names that matter - as in America with its Memorial Day, its Independence Day, its Martin Luther King Day etc.. How about Robin Hood Day? 1966 World Cup Memorial Day? We Stuffed the Jerries in Two World Wars Day? Other suggestions will be gratefully received.

We have seen both of our offspring this weekend. Ian stayed over before heading up to Glasgow to visit an old school friend who has had the shadow of death hanging over him for a couple of years now because of leukemia. At great expense to the NHS, he has recently received stem cell treatment and his future hangs in the balance at only twenty eight years of age. He's also called Tom. Frances, on the other hand, is excited that her steady progress as a recruitment consultant will soon see her taking possession of a company car. We went to look at Minis this afternoon. Mmm..maybe!

On Saturday I was out walking again, just east of Buxton in the High Peak and from that pleasant country ramble I have selected another five pictures to share with you. As the bishop said to the actress - "Click to enlarge"....

Old limestone barn near Tunstead

View of an old barn above Peter Dale

The vast limestone quarries near Tunstead

A blast shelter on the quarry rim

St Margaret's Church in Wormhill

True

Some things you just cannot make up. Only yesterday, I related recent news about the two young thieves who robbed me in Thailand in March. I was becoming a little anxious that I hadn't heard any more from the Thai police but then just this morning I received a follow-up email from one of the policewomen I met in Ayutthaya when making my initial statement. It seems that the two young robbers are already in jail and it also seems that they were captured when - on April 17th - an attempted robbery from a Polish tourist went wrong. 

Now we come to the comical bit. I am sure that any British coppers sending out "official" emails to victims of crimes would do so from official police email addresses. In Thailand, this is apparently not the custom because the policewoman who contacted me did so from her personal Facebook address. Clearly, because she is Thai with a no doubt long and unpronounceable name in Thai script, she has adopted an Anglicised pen name for Facebook. What is it? Penelope Plod? Lacey Cagney? No - I kid you not - she calls herself  Pumpim Hotlove! Yes - Policewoman Pumpim Hotlove. Any male criminal (and some female) would surely happily hand himself in to a policewoman  with such an appealing and promising  name. Why can't our policewomen have names like that instead of PWC Marcia Higginbottom or PWC Lettice Blenkinsop?

But may I say in conclusion that, back in March, Pumpim Hotlove was very professional and sympathetic when she dealt with my complaint so if you have, by accident, arrived at this blogpost Miss Hotlove, please accept my thanks for all your efforts in the name of justice.

Gotcha!

A few days ago I received a very surprising email from the tourist police in Ayutthaya, Thailand. It was titled: "we fond someone who took your bag".  Regular readers of this blog may recall that I was robbed by two young people on a motorcycle back in March. The email even had photographs attached and straight away I recognised the young woman. She had been the pillion passenger and I remember how she turned to look at me as they rode away. Possibly, it was not her idea  to rob me - she was just a Maid Marion on the back of Robin Hood's motorbike.

So I emailed the Ayutthaya Tourist Police right back, congratulating them on their police work and basically I finished with the question - "What next?". But since then I haven't heard a dicky bird. What do you think I should do next?

The lowlife git who stole my backpack - containing my NZ bush-hat
and the Nikon camera that Shirley, Ian and Frances bought me as a Christmas present.

Maid Marion with her pink panda top. Don't look so hurt sweetie!
If you play with fire you might get burnt!

And here they are on their motorbike
- no helmets!