Poem

History 

You speak of Auschwitz
I think of the night Dad died
In that cold cardiac bed.
You talk of Dallas November 1963
I think of Mum September 2008
And her blue-eyed passion for life.
You remember nine eleven in New York
I think of our Paul in the County Clare
Early that late June morning two years back
He the fiddling raconteur and catcher of the rat.

You tell me of kings and queens and presidents
And treaties and wars and inventions
And transient celebrities and I
I think of weddings and births and funerals
And New Years' parties and work and holidays
And grinning friends.

You show me pictures
Of assassinations in Vietnam
Of adventures in Afghanistan
Of a striking miner in a copper’s hat.
I think of photos
Of our son up a tree and things like that
Of our baby girl’s first steps
Of Shirley on our wedding day.

What can I say -

Yours is like a celluloid tale or
Something seen through a high street window
While mine courses through my veins
- Such things so close to my heart -
Yes yours is akin to fantasy or mystery
But mine, mine is the real history.

Hillsborough

Hillsborough - yesterday afternoon. Hull City substitute, Aaron Mclean is mobbed by his team-mates after forcing home the winning goal in front of the famous Leppings Lane away stand. Famous? Yes - for this is where - in April 1989 - ninety six Liverpool fans were crushed to death ahead of their team's FA Cup semi-final against Nottingham Forest. Those who died were not responsible for their deaths. Others were to blame including South Yorkshire police and the local authority and the Football Association but they were not the ones pushing and squeezing into the middle pen from the back of the stand just before kick off.

After Mclean's goal there were scenes of jubilation at the Hull City end and soon we were singing across to the Sheffield Wednesday "tribe", "We can see you sneaking out!" and "Is there a fire drill?" as frustrated Owls supporters haemorrhaged from the stadium.

Afterwards, as we made our way back up the hill to Vainor Road where Tony's car was parked, we passed lines of redundant police officers in hi-visibilty jerkins. One of them had a video camera on a tripod filming the emerging Hull City supporters. They weren't offering helpful directions or chatting cheerfully to supporters like bobbies of yore. Their aggressive expressions were reminiscent of Nazi strormtroopers. Above us, the police helicopter whirred, adding to the intimidating atmosphere as a giant grey police horse defecated on Leppings Lane.

On Vainor Road, we passed the semi-detached house that Shirley and I almost bought in 1989. We pulled out of the deal when the survey revealed that the vendors had not had building regulations approval for a loft conversion. I considered how different the pattern of our lives would have been if we had moved there. Different schools for the kids, different friends, different footsteps on different pavements. A different local pub. It's funny how random choices, random moments can utterly change the character of one's life.

We deserved to beat Wednesday yesterday afternoon. Then  we went to "The Cremorne" on London Road before a delightful Turkish meal in the Turquaz restaurant - made all the better because we were joined by our beautiful son Ian - up from London for the first time in two months. It was great to see him and our friends - Tony and Fiona were great company as usual. I also very much enjoyed the sight of a grinning belly dancer undulating sexily amongst the tables. Later we were in "The Greystones" before walking back to "The Banner" for more traditional English ales. It's weird how such nights are all the nicer when your team has earned a victory. Up The Tigers!

Leaving

Leaving on a Jet Plane (Song for Abu Hamza)

All his bags are packed he's ready to go
He's standin' there by the aircraft door
He's tried every trick not to say goodbye
But the law has spoken he'll soon be gone
A cheer goes up from everyone
Already we're so happy we could cry

So please smile for the T.V.
To America you soon shall flee
Seatbelt on it's nearly time to go
Cause you're leavin' on a jet plane
You'll never see these shores again
Oh Abu, you really gotta to go!

There's so many times you've been in court
But all those tricks have come to nought
I tell you now, you don't mean a thing
Every bitter word, I'll think of you
Every IED, I'll wish on you
If you come back, you'll get a good kick-ing

So sod off and go away
Don't come back another day
Hold on like you're on a fairground ride
Cause you're leavin' on a jet plane
You won't come back here again
Oh Abu, there's no place left to hide...

Abu Hamza al-Masri - born in Egypt in 1958. Entered Britain in 1979 on a student visa. Estimated cost to the British taxpayer - £2.8 million in welfare, medical and housing benefits plus his massive legal costs.

After his interminable and very expensive  trial in 2006, this was the end result:-

• Guilty of six charges of soliciting murder under the Offences against the Persons Act 1861. 
• Guilty of three charges related to "using threatening, abusive or insulting words or behaviour with the intention of stirring up racial hatred" under the Public Order Act 1986. 
• Guilty of one charge of owning recordings related to "stirring up racial hatred". 
• Guilty of one charge of possessing a "terrorist encyclopaedia" under the Terrorism Act 2000. This charge under the Terrorism Act of 2000 related to his possession of an Encyclopedia of Afghan Jihad an Al Qaeda Handbook and other propaganda materials produced by Masri. 

Other "crimes" include direct and indirect involvement in fatal terrorist activities in, amongst other locations, Yemen. America accuses him of several other terrorist crimes that have yet to be teased out which is why at long last he is to be extradited from our fair shores. Now America can pick up another enormous legal tab. Sometimes "justice" doesn't seem like justice at all - especially when the legal system is being manipulated by someone who clearly has so little respect for our ways or the rule of secular law. Old Abu won't be missed. Will he?

Walking

In a state of turmoil over The Real Yorkshire Pudding advertising campaign, I decided to walk away my confusion these last two days. Co-incidentally, the weather was quite lovely for October. On Wednesday, I parked up in the delightful Peak District village of Biggin for a four hour hike and on Thursday I parked on Station Road in the north Derbyshire township of Eckington for another four hour march down towards Staveley along a disused railway track and then through a plantation of willows to Foxstone Dam and back to Eckington.

Surprisingly, the River Rother had overlapped its banks south of Renishaw and I had to wade through a water meadow before reaching dry pathway again close to the curiously named Slittingmill Farm, Once back in Eckington, I visited TJ's sandwich bar where I enjoyed a mug of tea and a tuna mayo roll while reading "The Daily Mirror" and these awful revelations about Jimmy Savile which convince me he can't possibly have been a full blood Yorkshireman because we abhor any form of  sexual abuse and where children are concerned we form baying lynch mobs. What will his house plaques say now? "Here lived Jimmy Savile - TV personality, charity fundraiser, pervert and abuser of underage girls... oh, and his mother was Irish".

So, anyway, here are three choice photos from Wednesday's walk out of Biggin:-

St Thomas's Church in Biggin

Gratton Dale with evidence of lead mine workings

Rain cloud over Hartington Nether Quarter

And here are three from Thursday's walk out of Eckington:-

Toadpool Farm

At Foxstone Dam

French's Ironmonger's in Eckington

Vote

There has been much debate about whether or not to use a Yorkshire terrier in the Real Yorkshire Pudding advertising campaign. Here is Daphne - a typical Yorkshire terrier:-

I mean, she is hardly capable of embodying the spirit of the great Yorkshire republic. The current Yorkshire terrier is a rodent-like lapdog which enjoys yelping hysterically without reason. It ought to have been called the London terrier. See Brutus below. Now that's what I call a dog! Let's ditch the Rottweiler monicker and rename him a Yorkshire Postman Hunting Dog:-

Of course one Yorkshire stereotype that endures is the image of a man with a flatcap taking his whippet for a  run on a windswept moor. Below you can see John - a whippet from Grimesthorpe. A stupid looking creature but he may have commercial appeal.

Colonel Gowans, creative director of The Real Yorkshire Pudding ad campaign wants to know which pooch we should use in the filming. Daphne, Brutus or John? Please vote and give a brief reason for your choice.

Ads

Above you can see a mock up of a screenshot from the planned first TV commercial for Real Yorkshire Puddings. The ads will star a Yorkshire terrier called Ian - also pictured above. The creative director for the ad campaign is currently on location in Angola shooting ads for a garden pond company. He is none other than Maurice T. Gowans, former soldier, goatherd, whisky distiller  raconteur and life member of the Synod of the Church of England. In his application for this prestigious contract, he offered three mouth-watering scenarios for the commercials  - all featuring Ian the terrier. The Board were suitably impressed.

SCENARIO ONE

I see a man sitting at a kitchen table eating a RYP. Behind him you see a Yorkshire Terrier repeatedly leaping into the air, whatever it is he is leaping for is off the top of the screen. Sound of front door opening and a woman’s voice, ‘I’m home Love, I hope you gave the dog plenty of exercise, you know he gets restless at night if he doesn’t!’ ‘I did Love’ he replies. ‘I expect the exercise did you some good too?’ She says. ‘Oh yes!’ he says popping the last of the RYP into his mouth whereupon she walks in and stops dead in her tracks with a look of amazement. Then you get the full shot of the kitchen showing a RYP hanging from the ceiling light just out of reach of the leaping terrier. The advert could end with something like ‘Real Initiative… Real Yorkshire Pudding!’

SCENARIO TWO

Adman Maurice T. Gowans with Gabby - his pet goat

Man sitting in front of the TV. Terrier trots off into the kitchen and comes back carrying an egg and places it on the floor and looks expectantly at his master. Guy carries on drinking his ale and watching TV. Dog trots off again and comes back pushing a bag of flour. Same thing. Dog trots off and comes back rolling a milk bottle. Same thing. Dog trots off and comes back with a salt cellar. At this the man relents and says, ‘Alright, Lad’ gets up and goes to the kitchen. Next shot is of the pair of them enjoying a RYP. This one ends with ‘Real Ingredients… Real Yorkshire Pudding’

SCENARIO THREE

Man puts a banknote into an envelope and gives it to terrier who takes it in his mouth and trots off down the street. Dog comes to pelican crossing and sits down while he waits for little red man to turn green whereupon he crosses street, goes into shop and gives envelope to shopkeeper. Shopkeeper puts RYP and change into bag and dog trots off back home again. On the way dog sees gorgeous female terrier (cue romantic music) whereupon the two of them gambol off into the countryside and enjoy a romantic meal for two of RYP naturally. Terrier arrives home and man looks in bag and sees only a few crumbs of RYP and his change. Man looks a terrier enquiringly whereupon terrier looks towards door and female terrier appears. ‘You old Dog!’ says man affectionately.

Really

I'm not sure if you can read the sign on this small factory between the godforsaken townships of Thorne and Moorends east of Doncaster. It says "The Real Yorkshire Pudding Company" and below there was this sign which gay men should not misinterpret!

Please understand that I was on the premises of The Real Yorkshire Pudding Company and not the Unreal Yorkshire Pudding Company. At the Real Company, ingredients used include milk, eggs, plain flour and pinches of salt. At the Unreal Company they use magic mushrooms, French brandy, ouzo, Nescafe and other hallucinogenic substances and liquids which regularly blow people's minds.

My advice is this - if buying Yorkshire puddings - either from a supermarket or some sort of eating place - you must ask  whether or not the Yorkshire puddings in question are real as the consumption of  unreal Yorkshire puddings can be extremely injurious to one's mental health.

You may be wondering what I was doing at The Real Yorkshire Pudding Factory. Well, I have been asked to star in a sequence of TV ads for the company, extolling the virtues of the humble pudding after which I took my famous pseudonym. Ideas to date include me canoeing down the River Wharfe in a giant Yorkshire pudding, singing "On Ilkley Moor" in a suit made from small Yorkshire puddings sewn together with bacon rind and distributing thousands of Yorkshire puddings to starving children in Lancashire. Possible slogans include "Keepin' It Real!", "It's the Real Thing!" and "Real em in!". Other advertising ideas will be most welcome.