Tuesday, 9 September 2008

Wherivvor ye gan ye're sure te find a Geordie

14st 8lb, according to the LTCB’s very depressing scales, which I do not believe for a minute; 9.7 units of alcohol yesterday; 1,245; Chester.

It was raining again this morning, just for a change, and people kept hammering on the LTCB’s front door as soon as I had walked far enough away from it to ensure that I stood no chance of making it back there before they moved on. It seems quite an achievement to cover so much ground in a house as small as the LTCB’s, but her hazardous stairs are not to be attempted in any sort of a rush. Particularly when the best you can expect if you do make it to the door is the sort of geeky youth I found on the step this afternoon, wearing an eager expression and clutching a clipboard. He got off to a bad start by congratulating me on my parking in the very restricted space of the LTCB’s front garden, and I said meaningfully that I had considerable experience of easing large things into tight spots, as well as of telling cheeky bastards to mind their own business. He then announced that he represented the British Red Cross and added that he was sure I knew what they did. I agreed that I had always been a huge fan of both their splendid work for cats and their excellent double discount sales, but apparently that is the Blue Cross. Quite a different organization, it seems. Well I never.

He then explained what the Red Cross was all about. I stopped him after a bit and suggested that he just hand over the aid and f*** off, at which point it turned out that he actually expected me to give money to them. You could have knocked me down with a feather. But then I have no experience of this sort of thing, since charity collectors are completely unknown in my part of Northumberland. I heard that some woman had once come around on the scrounge for the RSPCA, but one of my neighbours ate her. Arguing that this had at least postponed the cruelty of killing one of his pigs by about a day and a half. Sadly there was not much meat on her.

Apart from getting rid of the Red Cross man, the highlight of my day was taking the dog for a walk and finding a freshly minted graffito on one of the paving stones by the River Dee, reading “Ashley is a fat c*nt”. I suppose there is a small chance that it relates to some local person of that name, but it seems altogether more likely that it bears witness to the burgeoning popularity of the owner of Newcastle United. It just goes to show the truth of that old song about never being far from a Geordie. Or a rat, one of which is always supposed to be within ten feet of us at all times. “Haway the lads”, I murmured to myself, and right on cue a rat scuttled across the footpath in front of me, and disappeared down the river bank. Presumably another Toon supporter taking the easy way out by hurling itself into the fast-flowing waters. If I cared a toss about football, I would probably add what a real shame it is that Mr Ashley has not yet seen fit to follow the rat’s example.

1 comment:

ladythinker said...

Good God - I'd heard it was 'tuff up north' but I'd not realised just how much till now . . . still 'they' say "Charity begins at home . . "