Road To Nowhere

I like to sit in bed and read. And if it's a bit nippy I like to wear my manky.

Well no more. There has been a disaster. An unmitigated disaster. A domestic disaster of such horrific proportions I have been for a long walk in the rain and wandered the house like a lost waif all afternoon. Did I mention it's a disaster?

Manky is (was: more to come) an old cardigan. I've always had a manky. They are cardigans no longer fit for outside use. Frayed, holey... buttons missing... given time a cardy will evolve, sliding from cardy to manky.

Then they become a comfort blanket you can wear. Snuggle up in when it's a bit chilly. Slip round your shoulders to watch late night tele. Yes, bits of them get caught on door knobs and sometimes end up a bit shorter than they started but what better for slipping on for bedtime reading?

My latest manky is (was) a quietly unraveling alpaca number in a dusky pink. I did it up with a kilt pin (no buttons) and I'd bought it in 2001. It was soft as a cloud, well alpaca, and reminded me of Peru.

Today I stripped the bed, bundled the sheet, pillowcases and duvet cover into the washing machine, slapped it on eco-wash and got on with sundry housework things. Little did I know manky had got caught up in the bedding.

But yes, I noticed when I saw a washing machine full of PINK 20 minutes later.

I stopped the machine. I hauled everything into the sink. I pulled manky out.

It was too late.

From alpaca cosy thing to steaming, wet lump of matted wool in 10 minutes. Now Manky wouldn't fit a toy poodle.

Oh the bed linen's recovered. One of my white T-shirts is now two-tone pink.

But manky is dead.

*Sigh*

Ok, who stole all the oxygen out of the air today?

It's weird outside.

... or do others of you find as you walk down a street people come up to you and ask you questions?

In the past two days I've had:

* Do you know the time? (fair enough; it was 11.40am)

* Do you know where I can get a 252 from? (there's a bus information place over there, sorry, love I'm not from here)

* Do you know where I can get a taxi to Salford from? (you can hail one on the street or there's a taxi rank at Victoria Station or outside the Town Hall).

These conversations have taken place in Bolton, Liverpool and Manchester.

Even when stood on a platform in Brussels a woman came up to me and asked me if I knew where a train went from, in bloody French as well so the added problem of trying to work out what she was saying and then reply 'Sorry, love, I'm not from around here, I'm English'. (This mostly consisted of my best Gallic shrug and 'pardon, je suis Anglais').

Is it just me wandering around answering the public's questions? And why are they asking me? Apparently I look local in Bolton, Manchester, Liverpool, Belgium... bloody anywhere. It happened in a record shop in Paris once.

Do I have 'helpful' tattooed on my forehead in invisible ink? If so, where can i get it changed to 'sorry, I'm in a hurry'?

I at last managed to get to the Klimt exhibition at The Tate in Liverpool today. Just as well, it finishes this weekend.

Blimey, Liverpool is a busy city. There are people everywhere and God, they never shut up and they never stop laughing. Maybe it's to drown out the sound of the seagulls but if you see two scousers walking down the road one of them will be talking and the other one will be laughing his head off, I swear.

Anyway, once I'd ploughed my furrow down Hanover Street, which included virtually having to climb over three squealing teenage girls trying to flirt with a gaggle of builders, I eventually washed up at the Albert Dock.

It is a fine view: The Mersey, The Liver Building (it's clock faces are bigger than Big Ben's apparently) and the docks themselves. And rammed into the right hand corner is The Tate.

I had to wait a couple of hours to get in (you buy a ticket for a set time and I had to hang on till 2pm) so I set off for the Roscoe Head, a fine pub up from the bombed out church, on the way to the Philamonic, which serves one of the best pints of guinness I've ever had. There's no music and they have an assortment of CAMRA awards and cosy rooms. Can't recommend it enough.

So, back down the hill and for 2pm I am shuffling my way into the Klimt exhibition with the rest of the 2pmers.

God, it's busy in there. I am not good with crowds. Especially in enclosed spaces. The Trafford Centre completely freaks me out and I can't stand it at all in there when it's busy.

So my enjoyment of Klimt was marred by the hundreds of people I was surrounded by. No, the kissy one wasn't there but the selection of work on show was really interesting.

My favourite was the furniture he'd collaborated on with a bloke called Hoffmann. That was really interesting, though I'm interested in furniture design and a big fan of the Memphis movement and you could see refelctions of that in one chair, especially.

But there were some beautiful landscapes and pictures you would recognise, and some impressive friezes. Certainly enough of the art nouveau stuff to satisfy anyone's taste for the pretty side of Klimt.

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*Wondering when these questions are ever going to end?*

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Poor wee Teal died on Friday.

She's my friend, Jane's dog - you may recall my visit earlier this summer where we played The Who half the night and drank rather a lot of champagne, beer, wine...

Little Pig, as I used to call her, was an attention-seeking madam who loved nothing more than to be sitting in your lap trying to lick you to death. She actually faked a limp sometimes to get attention while out on walks. She was Queenie from Blackadder dressed up as a jack russel and she was absolutely gorgeous.

I know she brought Jane a lot of happiness for many years and she certainly caused me much amusement.

She'll be greatly missed but remembered with lots of smiles.

As the weather had apparently fast-forwarded itself to autumn yesterday, as I paddled about at dinnertime, I thought I'd try some reverse psychology.

Today I set off for work wearing a vest, a frock, a cardie, a raincoat and a scarf, draped tastefully of course.

And when I got off the train at Bolton was I greeted by brilliant sunshine? Was I 'eck as like.

It's grey. it's raining.

Sigh.

Is it me... or is it IT?

Here are three conversations I've had with the techies today:

Conversation 1
Me: Hi, I think there's a problem with email. I'm not receiving any external emails and I haven't since Friday.
IT guy: No one else has said anything.
Me: Hmm.. well, I'm pretty sure there is
IT guy: Like what haven't you had?
Me: Well, someone has emailed me PDF three times now and when she copied in my home email account it came through there immediately so I think there is a problem here because there's no sign - of any of them...
IT guy: Right, I'll call you back.

Conversation 2... 30 minutes later
Me: Hi it's me again
IT guy: Hi oh did I get back to you?
Me: No
IT guy: Sorry, we've been busy, there's a problem with the email
Me; Yes I know, I rang you about it earlier, but I have another problem now.
IT guy: Oh - what?
Me: my archive 'sent' folder has disappeared
IT guy: Did you archive?
Me: No, it archives automatically, I don't need to do anything, but it's vanished. The whole folder.
IT Guy: Who set that up for you?
Me: I've worked here five years now, that was a long time ago, I can't rememeber... Look about that archive folder...
IT Guy: Richard says his archive folder is there...
Me: Oh... (thinks) But I'm not Richard
IT Guy: Sounds like We'll have to open up a job - we'll get back to you.

Conversation 3
My phone rings
IT Guy 2: Hi
Me: Hi
IT Guy 2: I was just phoning to see if you were there
Me: Yes I am
IT Guy 2.. To send out an all-staff email
Me: Yes I am here for that
IT guy 2: So you can...
Me: Send that out? Yes I can... if you send me the information.
IT guy 2: Right... bye.
Me: Bye

Still, nearly time to go home and lie down with a cold flannel on my forehead. Oh, and no one has called me back about conversation two, no.

... wedding bells!

My friend Caroline, who has a right rotten year, poor lamb, is getting married next July.

And after a civil ceremony she's going to get a blessing from the Bishop of Bath and Wells - in his private chapel, to boot.

I was so overwhelmed with being pleased for her I had a little cry. I can't remember the last time anything happy made me cry. This appears to have slightly embarrassed my cell mate who has sloped off to the gym.

Anyway, will be a very grand and posh day out by all accounts. And I shalln't be thinking of Blackadder at all. Well, not much.

Just when you think it will never stop raining...

This chap washes up in my inbox, accompanied by 11 other gentlemen who apparently work for Houston fire service. My friend Anne says she's moving there now and immediately torching the house.

That is some sort of burning log, isn't it?

Sent to me at work this week.

Even though I've heard some of these before, they are hilarious.

Here are 12 of the finest double-entendres that were aired on British TV and Radio

1. Pat Glenn, weightlifting commentator
'And this is Gregoriava from Bulgaria . I saw her snatch this morning and it was amazing!'

2. New Zealand Rugby Commentator
'Andrew Mehrtens loves it when Daryl Gibson comes inside of him.'

3. Ted Walsh - Horse Racing Commentator
'This is really a lovely horse. I once rode her mother.'

4. Harry Carpenter at the Oxford-Cambridge boat race 1977
'Ah, isn't that nice. The wife of the Cambridge President is kissing the Cox of the Oxford Crew'

5. US PGA Commentator
'One of the reasons Arnie (Arnold Palmer) is playing so well is that, before each tee shot, his wife takes out his balls and kisses them Oh my god!! What have I just said??'

6. Carenza Lewis about finding food in the Middle Ages on 'Time Team Live' said:
'You'd eat beaver if you could get it.'

7. A female news anchor who, the day after it was supposed to have snowed and didn't, turned to the weatherman and asked,
'So Bob, where's that eight inches you promised me last night?'
Not only did HE have to leave the set, but half the crew did too, because they were laughing so hard!

8. Steve Ryder covering the US Masters:
'Ballesteros felt much better today after a 69 yesterday.'

9. Clair Frisby talking about a jumbo hot dog on Look North said:
'There's nothing like a big hot sausage inside you on a cold night like this.'

10. Mike Hallett discussing missed snooker shots on Sky Sports:
'Stephen Hendry jumps on Steve Davis's misses every chance he gets.'

11. Michael Buerk on watching Phillipa Forrester cuddle up to a male astronomer for warmth during BBC1's UK eclipse coverage remarked:
'They seem cold out there, they're rubbing each other and he's only come in his shorts.'

12. Ken Brown commentating on golfer Nick Faldo and his caddie Fanny Sunneson lining-up shots at the Scottish Open:
'Some weeks Nick likes to use Fanny, other weeks he prefers to do it by himself. '

It's clearly a quiet news week in Bolton.

This reporter rang me on Monday, very excited. He became less excited as I explained the building in question was not only empty, but partially demolished and so, pretty much, derelict with nothing of value in it. At all.

However, why let a few facts stand in the way of your 'town centre blaze' when you have 'exclusive video footage'.

That would be exclusive footage of a firemen sauntering across the road with a hose, it seems.

http://www.theboltonnews.co.uk/video/45116/

Ah, bless.

BBC4 has cottoned onto Liverpool's City of Culture year and slapped some great Scouser tele for this week.

Last night I watched The Golden Vision, Ken Loach's 1968 docu-drama about Everton, featuring the footballer Alex Young and a golden era in Everton's history.

Funny, moving, real; probably the best bit of tele I've seen in years - and it's a 40-year-old programme.

Before sloping off to bed I watched Life on Mars too, so more north-west retro tele than you can poke a stick at. Probably not surprising then that I dreamed in retro - about David Essex, no less.

It's David Essex, the Rock On years, and I'm sitting at a dining table like the one in my grandad's house talking about 1974 and he's saying 'I can't believe you remember all this' and I'm saying 'yes, but I was nine - Rock On was brilliant'.

It was only looking at an old Top of the pops recording of Lamplight this morning that I realised how popular he clearly was. Unassuming though he may be in my dream last night. Watch the looks of adoration on those girls' faces as they jiggle!!

I don't mean to be flippant *oh yes, she does* but is it really necessary to go around wreaking havoc in our bid for gold medals?

According to the BBC we 'destroyed Denmark' today.What has Denmark ever done to us?

I fainted yesterday.

Haven't done it in years. But I got out of bed, turned round, had a chat with nibs, turned back... and 'wallop'. Head bounces of the edge of the door as I go down, hand gets cut somehow and my knee manages to get in on the act.

By the time I'd found the ability to speak and the shaking had stopped I realised my forehead hurt like hell. Not surprising, it had collided with the edge of the door so I now have a whacking great bruise and look like someone's smacked me with a half brick.

I went all clammy, poured with sweat and spent another hour lying in bed with a cold flannel on my bump before I felt able to stand up.

Stupidly I went into work, coming back three hours later when I realised I really couldn't function.

I spent a very plesant afternoon watching ITV4 which has reruns of The Professionals, UFO and Space 1999 before falling asleep curled up in a ball. When I woke up I felt loads better and aside from a headache I'm fine today.

I've got low blood pressure so I'm no stranger to dizzy spells and I have fainted about half a dozen times. And almost every time I manage to smack my head, it's a wonder it's not covered in dents.

I've had a bit of a cold this week, but nothing to speak of other than sneezing and snuffling and feeling very tierd.

So I'm taking it steady this week. Nice trip to Liverpool on Friday to see the Klimt exhibition, nice tea... I'm prescribing niceness for myself - and not thinking about the overdraft!!

Thankfully the sun is out today.

I'm sitting here in me jarmies all toasty thanks to the warmth streaming through the window.

So I'm off for a good, long walk now I've stuffed my porridge and big mug of tea. Get some of that vitamin D working.

Yesterday was agonisingly dull. To pass the time I did all the housework, watched Poirot and Morse and three episodes of Father Ted while it relentlessly rained outside. I haven't seen that much tele in a month.

Right - onwards!

They came in at 4am last night and put on loud, annoying dance music.

There had previously been a woman in there who laughed like a small dog that had been accidentally sat on.

But they went out at 10 - presumably to a club.

Bloody young people!

By 4.30am I was banging on the wall with a rollingpin which did shut them up. With curlers in my hair I could have escaped from a 1970s sitcom. Possibly called Loathe Thy Neighbour.

You have to excuse me - I have loud, lengthy hoovering to do and I don't think Radio Three is on quite loud enough. Wagner - lovely!

'Hold on very tight, please' shouted the driver down the aisle this morning. I love this bus driver. He plays 1950s bus journeys and I like that.

He is super polite to everyone, wishing them a good day when they get off.

Mind you, we are very polite on the buses in Manchester. Nearly everyone says 'thank you' to the driver as they got off.

But I learned this morning that it's sacking season at the moment. And if you drive your bus too quickly you can be for the chop.

I don't mean bombing down Wilmslow Road like you're Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves reliving Speed. Bus drivers have to keep to the schedule and not pass stops earlier than expected.

It makes sense but there is nothing so frustrating as sitting on a stationery bus, especially when there's a chance you might miss a train.

And especially when the cursed Chorley works mean there are no trains at all between 7.30am and 8.15am.

What we need are some express buses that have licence to whizz.

I have done my voiceover artist recording for our new student recruitment telephone system thing.

Someone called Ian came to my office and listenend to me purr down the phone to various voicemail boxes.

We had to pause while the ice cream van trundled past.

And then I got the giggles trying to say 'you may wish to' for absolutely no reason.

But it is done and I think I go 'live' next week.

I have to say I rather enjoyed it but whether my boss likes it remains to be seen.

Of course I'm not entirely sure he's noticed I have a slight speech impediment. I can't say my rs properly when they are in the middle of words or there's a lot of them together. For instance I can say 'rabbit' but not 'Warrington' (comes out Wawwington) and I have no chance with running around rocks after ragged rascals.

But it's more fun than writing about microbiosensors - which reminds me...

Help me.

I can't stop crunching polos.

Maybe I was a little pony in a former life.

Neigh lass!

*warning: this blog may not travel well, it is a northern joke... well, bad pun, then*

I've always had my suspicions about Paris Hilton.

Suspiciously rich. Suspiciously blonde. Suspiciously pretty.

But you can't say the girl isn't funny.

That'll teach 'the white-haired dude'- eh, McCain.

McWho?

You know, the bloke who isn't going to be President of America.

So, Rangers are out of Europe.

They've lost millions.

Their followers will have no reason to trail through Europe after them this year.

And we all know what charming tourists they make.

Oh dear.

How sad.

You know, I was having an ennui day. But suddenly grey skies seem a little clearer. The sun seems to be making an effort.

Is that a chorus of angels I hear singing?

Had to go to the GP's this morning so by the time I got to Oxford Road train station it was 10.10am.

Just time to catch the Blackpool train - this week in the guise of... The Babyshit Express.

As usual rammed with chavs and pushchairs.

I stood in the aisle, again, and attempted to read a book while having my senses asaulted by the stench of babyshit.

Bloody horrible it was.

Thank god the journey only takes 15 minutes.

There was a wriggling bundle of mewling a head of me called Taylor (a girl, obviously) who I had pegged as the most likely suspect.

And so onward... into another glorious day *yes, I am taking the piss*

For reasons that have not been revealed to me, I have been asked to be 'the voice' of our university's student admissions phone service.

Should you ring up it will be me you hear saying 'If you are a British or EU applicant please press 1' etc.

I have been given my lines to rehearse for recording on Thursday.

And, of course, I am curious as to why I've been asked. Perhaps it's because I don't sound like I work in the butcher's on Coronation Street.

Due to having had something of a transient adult life - living in Banbury, Manchester, Chester, Edinburgh, Costa Rica and then Manchester again - my accent is pretty vague, though I think I sound like a posh Minnie Mouse on helium whenever I hear my out-of-office messages. Someone once said I sounded like one of the Mitford sisters, but then she didn't like me much.

I'm thinking of reading my lines in the manner of Fenella Fielding. What do you think?

My colleague Shirley would like me to point out that the current works on our train tracks around Chorley are buggering up her journey home.

She used to be able to get a direct train from Bolton to Hindley, near Wigan, just after 4.30pm.

Now she can't.

Unless she wants to wait until 6pm.

Like the rest of us she had no warning and discovered station staff no better informed.

Expecting someone to wait an hour and a half, at a peak travel time, isn't acceptable really, is it?

Bless her, she seems to think Blogging has some sort of power to change the world.

So if you are reading, Mr Fat Controller, Shirley wants her train back, please.

Laurie Lee, the author of Cider with Rosie.

Not a woman, apparently.

There's many a tall tale to be told about Tony Wilson, aka the late, much-missed Mr Manchester. The man who gave us Factory Records. The Hacienda night club. The man partially, if not greatly, responsible for putting Manchester on the music map in the late 70s.

Certainly he's a Manchester legend and of course many legends get mythologised. But many of these Tony tall tales are true.

Here's one; passed on by a former colleague of Tony Wilson's at Granada TV who I would peg as a trusted source.

Tony always said everything was going great until Capitalism reared its ugly head. As soon as they started buying their buildings, because their advisers said "buy property", their financial troubles really began.

So it got to the point where the lawyers were called in. To see what could be salvaged.

The lawyers asked about contracts. Back catalogues; always a healthy income source.

"Oh no," says Tony. "We said they'd be no contracts."

"Hmmm," said the lawyers. And they frowned and they hmmmed. And then one of them said: "Ah, but perhaps a contract doesn't have to be written down. A contract could be verbal, or even understood by both parties... a contract of intent."

"Oh, but wait," said Tony. "I think there might be something - one..." And he opened up his vast case, and he rummaged about, and the lawyers paused and watched and finally, from out of his case Tony produced a tattered piece of paper.

And on it, scrawled in blood, were the words:

THERE WILL BE NO CONTRACTS

I was late up this morning, due to staying up to laugh head off at Virgin TV documentary on Satan till past 11pm last night. ("Does Saturn exist? There is a man in Paris who believes he is possessed by a demon with the head of a dog and the tail of a donkey. In Memphis there is a wood where locals have seen a man, half goat, with wooly legs and a dog was found decapitated in 1972. In Oakland there is a club where locals say the cellar is creepy. Can this be proof of Satan's existence") Honestly, they should bill these as comedies, they're hilarious.

Anyway, I missed my usual 7am bus by miles. But also catching the 7.30am bus was Mr Musicman, who I haven't seen in ages. His MP3 player must have once been owned by Lemmy - it is beyond loud. You can hear him coming from half a mile away.

This morning, as I edged closer down the other end of the bus stop, I was treated to singing along to The Eagles and a full on air guitar display.

It is great to get lost in music but there is a time and a place and a padded cell for that kind of thing.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/7539449.stm

I'm sure she'll bounce back.

Time's on her side.

But I just can't believe Christina Applegate - aka the fabulous Kelly Bundy - is 36!

Where is time going? This is the second time this has happened this weekend.

So far today I have:

* been for a walk down the river, listening to the Arctic Monkeys on the ipod, passing a very smiley, jogging chinese girl and a rather overly-sniffy alsatian;

* read two chapters of Turn of the Screw by Henry James;

* listened to the Sunday service on Radio Four while eating breakfast and discovered Catholic services are uncannily similar to CofE (pondered what I was expecting - the audible clanking of insense burners perhaps?);

* swept front path that is, as usual, awash in leaves, including holly which is odd as no one in the street appears to have a holly bush;

* had a quick blog;

* caught up with personal emails;

* made another cup of tea and said good morning to Nibs who eventually surfaced at 9.30 muttering about some Australian thing he was watching on BBC3 till 1.30am;

* started on writing up staff member's revised job description;

* wondered at what ever happened to 'the day of rest' while glancing at the clock to discover it is all of 10.03am.

For the past two months I've been scouring the house for my little black notebook.

The one with the electrician's phone number in it.

Yesterday it turned up - half buried in a pile of papers I used for my masters research project, a pile that I should have tidied up a month ago.

Something has been stopping me putting it all away - the cuttings, the papers, the text books, the course notes.

I've moved my Leicester Uni student library card out of my purse now and that was almost physically painful.

Sometimes letting go is very hard.

So Hariet Harman is now denying the government is involved in plans for a state funeral for Margaret Thatcher.

Considering Winston Churchill was the last former prime minister to be afforded this honour the thought that she is in any way comparable just makes me want to spit, swear a lot, scream a lot and possibly hit something. Maybe I could knock some sense into Gordon Brown?

I could rant on and on and on about what she did to this country, to families, to communities, to society.

But it's too nice a day.

Let's just say I swear I will never vote Labour again if it happens. God knows the party I see today makes me hang my head and sigh, but never that. Surely?

While mooching in the bookshop in Didsbury this morning, Nibs and me overheard the bookshop owner talking to his friend.

He's your typical 30-something Didsbury urbanite. Says 'mate' a lot. As his friend left he said, and I kid you not:

'Keep it real'.

FFS - what is wrong with people?!

I understand that globalisation leads to the fusion of cultures, creating new hybrid cultural identities. New ways of talking. New words.

But do we have to talk like we've fallen out of a second-rate boy band?

'Keep it real' has to be the worst I've heard for a long time. Anyone want to raise me?

If not, pip pip!

I likes me pain au chocolat.

Greatly.

There's a new deli in Didsbury that Nibs has been raving about.

So I buys a pain au chocolat while we're up there shifting about in bookshops and buying treatsy food.

Utter bobbins. All dry and bitsy chocolate bits, not chunks, so the chocolate was the wrong texture - and pretty tasteless incidentally.

I don't know why but this kind of thing really irritates me. It costing 97p does nothing to help my mood either.

Bad cake shop. Bad!

Traditionally, nearly everyone puts their feet up when they sit on the backseat of the bus in Manchester.

Unless you are in the middle seat at the back, which doesn't lend itself to that kind of thing, but I digress...

Putting up your feet may be comfy but it is a rubbish thing to do. Edges of seats get muddy. The seat fabric gets worn out.

So Stagecoach have come up with a cunning plan. They've put up little red sticker signs on the opposite seat which say 'Please do not put your feet on the seat'.

Having zero effect, I can tell you.

According to Seaside Man what they need is a huge pair of eyes.

Are you listening, Stagecoach?

It's Ole Solskjaer's testimonial this weekend.

I remember going to Frank Stapleton's testimonial, which makes me feel about 202.

It's seems only yesterday Solskjaer joined United.

*Sigh*

Anyway, nice to see he's using his testimonial cash to help others. Good lad. Err.... man.

Maybe it's just one of those days but on three occasions today I have heard adults telling children they can't have something.

In the supermarket. Walking through town at dinner time. At the newsagent's kiosk in the station.

And on every occasion the child argued and whined and stropped while I walked away from the whinging as quickly as possible.

Have children turned into a marketeer's dream or am I romanticising my youth?

I remember having a serious mint cracknel habit, but I also remember having 10p pocket money - and that's 10p a week, I might add - with which to feed my addiction. My chances of getting sweets, or indeed anything, extra were less than minimal. I knew better than to even bother asking.

Sometimes I wonder whether a recession might do the next generation some good.