Yesterday

...all my troubles seemed so far away. The weather across Sheffield and North East Derbyshire was marvellous - the most summery day since my return from Thailand. Just after midday, our ancient friends - Tony and Fiona - arrived from Hull and we ate our lunch out on the decking. Salad, pork pie, Stilton and broccoli quiche, stoneground pizza and mugs of tea. The garden looks lovely at this time of year with plants at their peak between winters - illuminated by sunshine glaring down from big blue gaps in wispy summertime clouds.

At two fifteen, we jumped in the car and headed to Chesterfield where our beloved Hull City were to play the last of their pre-season warm-up games at the new B2Net Stadium which has replaced Chesterfield's dilapidated old Saltergate ground. I was wearing the tiger T-shirt I had bought in Thailand with a day such as yesterday in mind. By the way, just in case you didn't know, Chesterfield's nickname is The Spireites. This strange term alludes to the town's famous fourteenth century crooked spire which twists outlandishly above St Mary's Parish Church.

Last week our lads beat the mighty Liverpool 3-0 and then in midweek we subdued Bradford City 3-1 so yesterday it was The Spireites' turn to be obliterated by the black and amber tsunami-army with goals from Matty Fryatt and a beautiful looping header from central defender - James Chester.

After the game we drove back to Sheffield and being hot and thirsty dropped in at "The Hammer and Pincers" at Bents Green for cooling drinks in the beer garden. Later, I booked a table at Sheffield's best Turkish restaurant - the Zeugma Ikki on London Road. Beforehand I ordered a taxi and more cooling drinks - in "The Crown" - a rather down-at-heel city pub frequented on match days by multitudes of Sheffield United fans. Last evening it was more or less empty.

The meal in "The Zeugma" was delightful. I had Albanian lamb's liver followed by shish kebab with rice and salad. We all agreed it had been a great meal but a tiny irritation -we brought two of our own bottles of wine and got charged £3.95 x 2 for "corkage". Both bottles had screw tops. Still I guess it was better than paying £15.99 a time for the restaurant's own bottle of sauvignon blanc.

After the meal, we strolled up Sharrow Lane to Sharrow Head where we had planned a further drink at "The Stag" but in the end we decided to carry on walking a further ten minutes to "The Psalter" on Psalter Lane where we sat outside to chat and drink some more. Then it was on to my local - "The Banner" for last orders. How quiet it was in there. There were days in the not too distant past when the place would be heaving on a Saturday night - standing room only - but last night it was so deserted that I expected tumbleweed to blow through the taproom.

Back at home, we watched fragments of "Top of the Pops" from the 1980's - Yazz, U2, The Communards... and then around 1am Tony nudged me. Apparently, I had been snoring.

Inexperience

Here are some things I have never done. I have never seen even one James Bond film. "Octopussy", Odd Job and 007 himself mean nothing to me - I am not interested in espionage or car chases, motor gadgets or the lechery of suave secret agents. And I have never seen any of the "Star Wars" sequence of films either. For some reason, I am usually attracted to stories drawn from real life - not from fantasy. That may be the reason that I have also never seen a Harry Potter film or read any of the Harry Potter books. I tried one - really I did but a couple of hours with "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone" left me bored to tears and unable to turn another page. The writing seemed formulaic and predictable, the characters paper thin. Sorry JK!

Over the years I have visited just about every notable place in the British Isles but I haven't been to Cardiff, John O'Groats, Ipswich, Wolverhampton, Blackburn, Burnley or Reading. Am I missing anything? I have never voted for any other political party but Labour and I have never eaten frogs' legs, truffles or sweetmeat - which is the culinary name for testicles. I have never owned a dog or a motorbike and have never attended a horse racing event of any description.

I think that I am lucky to have travelled to many different places around the world but I have never been to Russia, Alaska, Japan, Egypt, Mauritius, Tristan da Cunha, Australia, Kazakhstan, Antarctica or New Zealand. There are numerous other enticing places I could mention.

I have never drunk any alcopops or worn women's clothing, dropped litter or subscribed to "Sky". And I have never owned a mobile phone or tweeted on Twitter or had even a glimmer of interest in joining Facebook. Never had an i-pod or run a half marathon or scaled Everest or seen a stag or a golden eagle in the wild. I've never read "A Tale of Two Cities" or "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" or anything by Jeffrey Archer, Maeve Binchy or Jackie Collins.

The more I think of it the more things I realise I haven't yet done. Statisticians say that in "The United Kingdom", male life expectancy is on average seventy eight years. That means - if I am very lucky and can successfully dodge The Grim Reaper through to 2031 - I have twenty years left to tick off the above items. But I shall need sponsorship... please!

Signage

I spotted this sign near the doorway of the Choeung Ek Genocidal Centre Museum in the southern suburbs of Phnom Penh. Of course I had no intention of smoking as I find that filthy habit most distasteful. No trendy baseball caps - so good - I could still wear my knotted white handkerchief! No cameras - bah! Why do some museums ban photography? But I could live with that. No mobile phones! - Good! I don't own one and to me they are one of modern life's biggest irritants. No shoes! - No problem - I was wearing sandals!

Then in the bottom left hand corner I see that handguns and hand grenades are also banned. Phew! What a relief! It meant I didn't have to leave my Browning Automatic Rifle at the door. I mean - those things can be dangerous - what would have happened if a child had got hold of the thing? For some reason the museum cleared of visitors as I entered and I was able to view the ghastly exhibits in unhindered peace.

The sign has inspired me to design a similar one that I shall affix to the wall near our front door. These are the things that are banned - cigarettes, dogs, people with body odour, double glazing salesmen, junk mail, woodlice, Conservatives and LibDems, "The Sun", Norwegian mass murderers, dark chocolate and women with verbal diarrhoea. What will you put on the sign near your front door?

RIP

RIP Norman 1962-2011. That's him above on his wedding day in 1991. He was a "private man" who lived for his family and his dogs. We said farewell to him at York Crematorium today. His mother and father, his sisters, his wife and his sons were naturally distraught. There was no singing, just piped music, including this song by Snow Patrol:-

We'll do it all

Everything
On our own

We don't need
Anything
Or anyone

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me
And just forget the world?

Afterwards, we went to "The Marcia Inn" at Bishopsthorpe on the south side of York and ate sandwiches and sausage rolls, washed down with ales and soft drinks. When a man of forty nine dies, in the very middle of his adult life, it just doesn't seem fair and the religious promise of the presiding vicar seemed tired and hollow. I shall go out now and drink a couple of pints in memory of Norman. He wasn't my best buddy or anything like that. I only knew him through family connection and we rarely met but I always felt comfortable in his company and we could chat happily together for ages. I knew him for twenty two years and now, tragically, he's gone. Cheers Norman! The rest of us will be joining you before long old son!

Dunderhead

This is Anders Behring Breivik. I turned him upside down because that is what he has done to Norway. Blonde-haired, fit as a fiddle and blue-eyed - not the stereotypical image of evil. Not only did this egotistical monster callously destroy the lives of some of his country's most promising young people, he simultaneously concocted a sadness that will seep through the fissures of Norwegian society for many years to come. What was he thinking of and who the hell did he think he was? I picture him sitting smugly in his cell, smirking as he imagines that he has single-handedly shifted the direction of Norwegian politics, striking a blow against multiculturalism, standing up for old conservative values. What a dunderhead!

His Viking forefathers devised various methods for disposing of wrongdoers such as the "blood eagle" torture in which the victim's ribs would be cut at the spine and then forced out laterally in imitation of an eagle's wings. His lungs would then be pulled out of the chest cavity with salt sprinkled on the resulting wounds. Even though Breivik is clearly completely mad, the "blood eagle" ending would surely suit him fine - instead of twenty one years in a warm, dry Norwegian prison with a flat screen TV, games of pool and three square meals a day.

His killing spree will no doubt quietly strike a chord with other right wing extremists whose perceptions of the world are equally warped. My heart goes out to Norway, to the grieving parents and friends, to the shattered tranquility of a quiet and civilised country. Anders, Anders, Anders...what have you done?

In Henrik Ibsen's "An Enemy of the People" (1882), Dr Stockmann says "The strongest man in the world is he who stands alone." But Ibsen's character was just as wrong as Breivik was on Friday afternoon. The strongest people are those who stand together for the things that matter - for freedom, family, kindness, life itself and the future of humanity.

Sayings

We frequently absorb words and sayings without knowing where they came from or even what they really mean. Often their origins are obscure and much-debated. From my mother I am sure that I inherited many words and sayings and even snippets of songs. She was a great one for singing and when she was in a good mood, I would often hear her tuneful renditions of wartime favourites as she ironed, sewed or lugged baskets of washing into the garden:-

We'll gather lilacs in the spring again

And walk together down an English lane

Until our hearts have learned to sing again

When you come home once more.

In September 2007, at mum's funeral, I was so happy that as the wine-coloured velvet curtains closed on her coffin, her assembled friends and loved ones heard Vera Lynn's version of "The White Cliffs of Dover". It was one of her favourites and of course this song meant a great deal to her because she was in the WAAF (Women's Auxiliary Air Force) during World War II and had known a good number of young fliers who gave their lives for Great Britain and freedom.

Mum was no shrinking violet. She'd take people on directly if she felt they were in the wrong and her temper could be quite fiery. Police officers, schoolteachers, shop keepers all felt the lashing of her tongue. Demure and coquettish she was not.

One of her favourite oaths or mild curses was "blood and sand". I have often used it myself. You know - when you hit your thumb with a hammer or you hear Cameron or Clegg's weasel words on the television - "Blood and Sand!" The other day I was wondering what on earth this expression means so in a website called "The Phrase Finder" I discovered this:-

It's the title of a Spanish novel about bullfighting published in 1909 by Vicente Blasco Ibánez (the Spanish title is "Sangre y arena"). It has been filmed several times, most famously starring Rudolph Valentino. It lends itself to use as a mild imprecation, along the lines of "Hell and death!"

So there you go. All this time both Mum and I were unwittingly referring to an obscure Spanish novel. How the phrase seeped its way into the English language is another story that would take a detective of the calibre of Sherlock Holmes to clarify.

Another phrase I explored was "cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey" and was disappointed to discover that the usual explanation is most likely fanciful. It probably doesn't allude to iron cannonballs on warships jumping spontaneously off little brass deck trolleys called monkeys because of the differing effects of cold temperatures on metals. Ah well. But what about the mild insult "Wally"?

When I was sixteen at the Isle of Wight Pop Festival, I was sitting one sunny afternoon in a crowd of half a million. It could be hard to get back to your place once you left it. You had to remember homemade flagpoles nearby or you'd end up getting completely lost. In a gap between acts, I noticed a young man tiptoeing through the crowd a few yards from me. He was looking this this way and that as if lost. Then from several yards further back one of his friends called out , "Wally!" Wally looked around but still couldn't find his friends. Another called out, "Wally!" and then some unconnected wag sitting in front of me yelled "Wally!" just for mischief and before you knew it a thousand people were yelling "Wally!" from various parts of the field. There was great hilarity but finally young Wally found his mates.

As far as I know, before that day in August 1970, the name "Wally" had never been used to describe an idiot, a buffoon or a nitwit. Later, the Wally notion even spawned a series of comic books and a cartoon series. The Isle of Wight connection has been suggested elsewhere and in my mind, until someone proves otherwise, I believe I witnessed the birth of a new "saying" though of course I myself might be a Wally! I certainly feel like one sometimes.

Marbles

This afternoon the Murdoch dynasty jetted out of England, caring not a fig about how much aviation fuel their private aeroplane was burning up on their merry way to New York. Yesterday's parliamentary committee meeting was notable not just because Murdoch himself came across like a bumbling old man who had just about lost his marbles, but also because his face collided with a foam pie delivered by a certain Jonathan "Marbles". So much for the tight security!

It seems as if an official blockage has prevented publication of full frontal photos of Murdoch with his face covered in foam though immediately after the pie throwing, chief BBC political correspondent Nick Robinson remarked that the sight of tycoon Murdoch's foamy face was something he would never forget.

Apparently the hurler of the foam pie tweeted on Twitter just before his heinous assault - "It is a far better thing that I do now than I have ever done before - splat!"

Of course, it would probably be politic to sensibly deride this self-publicising Jonathan May-Bowles for his stunt. However, I tend to think that what he meted out was a kind of poetic justice. After all, how many people have Murdoch and his phone-hacking minions thrown metaphorical cream pies at over the years? Such a tycoon, such a magnate, the 117th richest individual in the world with shaving foam all over his face - just like a circus clown. There's a sense that this was the perfect punishment for Murdoch. Under questioning he had paused and bumbled like a fool and then in the end, he simply looked like one!

Pity that Mr Marbles wasn't in the Houses of Parliament today to stuff another cream pie in the smug face of Claude Ponsonby-Cameron - our truth-bending prime minister - as he cleverly dodged questions about the appointment of Andy Coulson and pretended he hadn't been close to Murdoch's News International at all! By tomorrow morning he will surely look as if he was carved by Geppetto!