Alright Darlin?

If you’ve heard the news over the past couple of days, you’ve probably heard about the case of Poppy Smart.

You might not have heard her name, a couple of things I heard on the way into work this morning just referred to her as ‘A Young Woman’ who complained to the Police about being wolf-whistled at by some builders.

A couple of the radio stations I was listening to even went as far as doing a bit of a Vox-pop to see whether their listeners were of the opinion that it was ‘all in fun’ and ‘a bit of a tradition’ rather than misogynistic, hurtful and abusive.  In amongst all the little old ladies saying how much they wished that cheeky chappies were still whistling at them like they used to when they were pottering about town wearing the seamed nylons that they got off that nice American Airman in 1943, and the middle-aged men saying how it was just how people (men) showed their appreciation towards a woman that they found attractive, there was this one chap from Lichfield I think, that said it was completely unacceptable, he was an ex-builder, and when the reporter heard that, he tried to make him into the villain for not actively doing anything about it.

In fact, one particularly well-read sounding listener had the opinion that it must be acceptable because women wolf-whistle and leer at male strippers... Cleverly forgetting the fact that this only happens during the times when they were earning vast sums of money waving their bodies at unfulfilled women, rather than just walking down the road on their way to work.

So, not mad at all then, that's lucky.

The main thing that shocked me was that both Poppy and the Police were vilified for taking it seriously.

Let’s just go back over that again… A young woman has been accused of wasting Police time because she felt that she was the victim of sexual harassment.

And the Police are being accused of wasting time and money because they had the audacity to investigate a potential sex-crime.  One of the people who complained about the Police trying to ensure the continued safety of a young girl was the potential Conservative MP for Shipley, West Yorks, Philip Davies… Nice call there Phil, Big clap from all of us here at ‘The Dandy’ – Seriously, read the guy’s Wikipedia page HERE – He truly is a Prince among men, or do I mean evil, divisive scrote? I always get them mixed up – And for some reason he’s divorced, I honestly can’t imagine why. But it certainly won't be because he's currently living with another female MP.

To an extent though, if I were to really give a crap about seeming to be unbiased, I could say that I kind of understand that being wolf-whistled at isn’t being raped, it isn’t being stabbed or having your kids set fire to by a terrorist… And I can sympathise with the people (both men and women) who’ve said that she should just accept it as a compliment, or part of modern life, or that if she didn’t like it she should walk a different way.

But, I really don’t… I couldn’t care less what the ill-informed, knee-jerk, reactionary masses think.  I didn’t start this blog because I’m shy of sharing my opinion with the world in general.

Firstly, Poppy (I hope she doesn’t mind me calling her Poppy… Perhaps Ms. Smart would be more polite…) wasn’t just wolf-whistled at on a couple of occasions, it was systematic, day in, day out, over an extended period of time.  When she made it clear to the main perpetrator that she wasn’t interested and asked him to stop, he descended the scaffolding and confronted her face to face, stopping her from leaving.

If that’s not harassment, I don’t know what is.

I’ve worked on building sites all over the country for a fairly large proportion of my life and I know that wolf-whistling (and cat-calling, and general abuse towards women, obviously effeminate men, fat people, schoolgirls, Asian people and, in fact, pretty much anyone who’s not a builder) goes on all the time.  It’s all abusive, none of it is good natured – It’s a power thing, these men (because it’s still 99.9% men on most building sites) think that they are more powerful, they’re in a gang, they’re physically higher up on the scaffold, they’re ‘hard’ from doing manual labour all day every day.  They also don’t register the target of their abuse as people… They’re ‘things’, they’re ‘a cracking arse’ or ‘a f*cking queer’ or ‘a filthy p*ki’.

I remember that I once worked for a company that was involved with the government’s ‘Building Schools for the Future’ project… We’d be on secondary schools’ premises pretty much all of the time, either putting in an entirely new building, or upgrading an existing one. In amongst all the standard signage telling you that entering the site required you to have PPE (Hat, boots, hi-viz), and that if you didn’t sign in you wouldn’t get paid, there was a really big one that said that if there were any complaints from the staff about you, if you were found to be ‘looking’ at the children or engaging them in any conversation other than that required for you to do your job (So you could happily ask them to move out of the way if you were carrying some plasterboard) – You would be removed from the site, never to return – And rightly so.

Of course, you also get those people who give it the old ‘You can’t even pay a woman a compliment any more without her thinking that you’re trying to have sex with her.’  Well, I’m sorry, but you can.  If you think someone’s pretty on the street and you just can’t keep it to yourself for some reason, smile at them – Don’t leer at them, make the two-handed groping gesture and shout “Lovely jugs – Give us a go on them!” at the top of your voice.  If you know someone well enough to talk to, and you think that they look nice, tell them... But say “Have you had your hair done, it suits you.” Not, “Is that lipstick new, it makes you look like a filthy strumpet.” And offer them a place on your lap.

It’s not rocket science, you just think about what you’re about to say… You ask yourself “How would I feel if someone said that to my wife/sister/daughter/mother?” – If your first reaction is “Well, obviously I would punch them to death” – Then maybe that’s the clue that tells you that it’s inappropriate.  Maybe you shouldn’t say it.

I’m no angel, by any means… I’ll say that at some time during our acquaintance, I have called 90% of the women that I know, ‘love’ or ‘darlin’ or ‘sweetie’ or ‘girlie’.  I’ll even go as far as the occasional ‘wench’ or ‘Tuppeny Who-er’, but only to those who know me insanely well, to those who I know, for sure, will not be offended by it, (Actually, if I've got it wrong, and you are offended by it, please tell me… I could be sat here thinking how wonderfully deconstructed I am – What all the time I’m coming across as a right git)

So, when it boils down to it, if what you’re doing is making someone feel uncomfortable, it’s wrong, don’t do it.  If they are made to feel uncomfortable by your objectification, if you are treating them as an attractive object (and in the case of another human being, you’d be petulant to think that the attractiveness was anything but sexual, you can’t tell if someone has an attractive personality from halfway up a set of scaffolding) then it’s sexual harassment, which makes you a micro-phallused deviant, and not in a good way.

And if that sexual harassment is directed towards a schoolgirl… That implies that you find a child sexually attractive…

And there’s a special word for people like that you know.

And you thought I was famous before!

Hey everyone, thanks for stopping by.

I know it’s Monday and everything, and the weather guy says that it’s the last bit of decent weather we’re going to get until Judgement Day (That’s the religious one, not the Terminator one – Although saying that…) due to some Arctic ‘Ice Plume’ or something that’s going to cause widespread ice-ages and polar bears wandering around the beaches of Southern Florida wearing Macklemore style overcoats and asking people to turn the A/C off.  But I’m in an OK mood.

Don’t get me wrong, things aren’t perfect... I mean, I only won £3 on the lottery this weekend and payday’s still almost a week away.  I had a pretty good weekend, it was the MicroDandy’s birthday weekend in fact.  We played mini-golf and ate sushi – We also saw The Avengers: Age of Ultron (Which is a great film, if you’re a nine-year-old, like I am)

But the best thing that happened to me, personally, apart from enjoying the adorable sound of my youngest child enjoying himself (Which I am in no way contractually obliged to say… *cough*) was receiving an IM which said, and I quote:

‘Did you check the blog yet today?’

It was from a Twitter friend of mine – One of those people whom I’ve never met, but talk to/about regularly, called, @tattooed_mummy – You should follow her, in fact, treat this as a #FridayFollow – But… uh… on, like… a Monday.  She’s the sort of person that comes to mind when you hear someone say the word ‘Blogger’ on the news.  She does product testing for real companies and ‘Mum stuff’ and she’s an official live-blogger for Camp Bestival and she wins iPads from popular retailers by saying clever things to their advertising departments.  Also she seems to have gone all ‘afroth’ about Poldark and her Twitter feed is full of pictures of Aiden Turner with no shirt on at the moment – Make of that what you will.

Another thing she does, is run, via her Blog ‘Tattooed Mummy’s Randoms’ (www.tattooedmummy.co.uk) The ‘Alternative Blog Awards’ This year, I was honoured enough to be nominated (by real, live, members of the public, probably) in not one, but two categories: ‘Wordy Blogger’ – An award for bloggers who use fifteen words in any situation where three would normally do, and ‘The Slacker Award’ – for bloggers who have recently lapsed in their previous output volume… Which I guess I can’t really disagree with.

And see if you can guess what happened?

I WON! – And also lost, but more of that later… I won the award for ‘Wordy Blogger’ – I was voted, possibly by one or many of you wonderful people, as the alternative blogger most likely to drown you in sheer volume of words… Which was nice… It made me very happy indeed… And I made my entire family preface every reference to me with ‘The Award Winning…’ for the entire weekend.  So, instead of my wife asking me if I’d like a cup of tea, I would force her to ask “Would the Award Winning Chimping Dandy like a cup of tea?” – Which seemingly got real old, real fast...

You normal people are hard to work out sometimes.

Anywho, I’m sure Tattooed Mummy won’t mind if I shared all the other worthy winners with you scabrous lot…

Under 16 category
The winner is https://spacebunker.wordpress.com A 15 year old with a dream of becoming an astronautical engineer.

Blogger you'd most like to take home 
Well of course there were lots of great bloggers suggested but this one stole your hearts, yes, it’s the friendly MotherScuffer at http://motherhoodjourneys.com/ (We like MotherScuffer, her life could so easily be transformed into a 70's sitcom, or gritty Alan Bennett/Bleasdale style play - She was also mentioned at the end of THIS BLOG POST which was quite popular)

Funniest 
Based on urine output of readers goes to http://www.bigfashionista.co.uk who has mostly been ranting lately but still managing to keep it witty.

Slacker 
Goes to http://claraunravelled.co.uk who needs to up her game by the sound of it, have a read, comment, nag her. (This is a total swiz, I should have won this one easily, I've not blogged for months!)

Wordy Blogger
The well-deserved http://thechimpingdandy.blogspot.com who does indeed waffle a bit <-- This is me, in case you hadn’t noticed, because I am mostly very excellent.

Unmissable 
The very worthy winner (again) is the super MotherScuffer at http://motherhoodjourneys.com - a perfectly lovely blog, full of the ups and downs of life.

Blogger who should know better 
This award won by http://fudgecrumpet.com though I doubt he will learn from this.

-oOo-

Yes, I agree that I should have pretty much swept the board (except, perhaps the under sixteen category – There’s only so much Oil of Olay will do for you) – But one’s better than none, as they say.

You should definitely take a look at all of these blogs, they’re funny, strange, informative, maudlin and thought provoking in equal measure.

They say you can gauge your success by the quality of your peers… So, all in all, I must be pretty bloody splendid to be surrounded by that lot – But you all already knew that, right?

-oOo-

What? Sorry? You want to know if I won anything?   Well, to be honest it’s more the general cachet of winning an award, it’s not about the actual statue, or the certificate, or the VIP ticket to the clothing-optional massage emporium, it’s the…

Erm… OK...

I won (I assume a year’s) membership of ‘The Tripe Club’ – The Tripe Marketing Board’s membership organisation. I’ll wear my badge proudly.

(They follow me on Twitter now, you know)

You know how the smallest thing can trigger a memory?

I was driving to work this morning, thinking how lucky I was that it only takes an hour and a half and that it’s payday tomorrow. When Status Quo came on Radio 2 (I listen to Radio 2 because I am old, and bald, and fat – and because one day, Chris Evans might make reference to the two books that I sent for him and the team to have a read of – But I shan’t be holding my breath, because: implied advertising / BBC / not in this day and age / Oh blimey no, more than my job’s worth.)

And it certainly wouldn’t happen this week (or next week) as he’s currently off and Sara Cox is filling in for him – And it’s his Birthday today (1/4/15 – April Fool’s day… Figures)– Happy Birthday Chap

So, got hit a bit with the tangent-bat there didn’t we?  Back to The Quo.  Now, I can’t actually remember which track it was that they played.  It wasn’t Caroline, or Rocking all over the World and in fairness it doesn’t matter as my vision did the whole ‘biddle-biddle-biddle’ thing and I was transported back to 1985 and a sticky-floored nightclub in Derby called…

The Rockhouse…

Now, I’ve spoken about The Rockhouse before, if you remember it’s where those nice, friendly ladies, Rockbitch, played and my gibbon-armed colleague managed to investigate their anatomy quite closely a few times. In the late 80’s – early 90’s. It was pretty much my second home.  I had a lot of ‘experiences' there, but the one that came to mind in this particular instance was one that happened most weekends (if a particular instance can happen repeatedly that is)

You know a particular song that has a dance routine?  I’m thinking of things like The Macarena and suchlike.  Or how in any given Hollywood film that features a dance-number there’s a bit where all the ‘normal’ extras clear off and are replaced by ‘super-pretty’ extras who launch into a spectacularly choreographed routine featuring a song that the leading man has only just written?

There’d be a time when the DJ would play Status Quo… Any Status Quo track would do*, and two lines of greasy biker/rocker/grebo types would line up facing each other like the chorus line of Mad-Max the musical and ‘spread’ – Now you’ve probably seen this dance even if you’ve not known what it is, it happens a lot at birthday discos for 40 & 50 somethings and wedding receptions where the just-pre-elderly enjoy embarrassing the youngsters. It consists of a number of people (Well, I suppose one person can spread, but it’s probably the saddest sight in the world) standing, facing each other and then sort of moving the top half of their bodies, forcefully, left and right with the beat whilst leaving their bottom halves immobile.

I’m not describing this hugely well am I?

But you know what I mean right?  Believe it or not, there was a hierarchy of ‘spreaders’…

Right at the bottom were the ‘swayers’ – The people who really didn’t know what was going on and just wanted to be part of something larger than themselves. They would look, nervously, along the spreading line whilst flopping about whilst repeatedly falling out of time with everyone else.  They were often felled by impromptu accidental head-butts.  I guess that you’d call them n00bs nowadays.

Then you had the ‘loopers’ – The ones who put their thumbs in the belt-loops of their jeans as they had seen on Top of the Pops the week before… This was a common misunderstanding by ‘trendies’ and this was a dance more associated with the bands The Bay City Rollers & Mudd in the previous decade.  This is the style you’d mostly see at parties.

Then, above the ‘loopers’ by quite a large amount, were the ‘punchers’. These were the first rank of ‘real’ spreaders.  The dance itself was very simple, you twisted to the right for two beats, looking down, then moved your head/hands to the upper left for a beat, then to the upper right for a beat, then down and left for two beats (Repeat ad nauseum – sometimes quite literally) – A ‘puncher’ is identified by a punching motion during the upper two beats, often with the opposite hand.  Occasionally, people stood next to punchers were rendered unconscious due to standing too close… More often than not, during a guitar solo.

Right at the top of the tree you have the ‘Ninjas’ or ‘Aces’ – These people are the elite.  They’ve been spreading to Status Quo songs since before Frank & Ricky were touring in Frank’s Dad’s Ice-Cream van singing about Matchstick men.  Their bodies move like heated quicksilver, they watch with impunity as the people next to them in line fall to the floor in exhaustion.  Where ‘punchers’ punched the air, the ‘ninjas’ would use an open hand in such graceful movements as ‘clearing away the mystic wind’ and the ever popular ‘if you only touch it gently, it’s not technically masturbation’.  There was no sweating from them, no heavy breathing, and no excuses.  And you could tell who they were even if they weren’t dancing for two easily spotted tell-tale features:

1. 1)      They wore crowns and ermine capes – A bit like Freddie Mercury’s
2. 2)      They had ‘trap’ muscles (the ones that join your head to your shoulders) like a steroid-addled cardassian weight-lifter from all of the forcefull bobbing about

I’m proud to say I was eventually one of their number, it took me years to work my way from being a humble ‘swayer’ through the ranks of myriad ‘punchers’ to the heady heights of ‘Ninja’dom. 

What did it earn me, other than the undying respect of my peers? you ask.

Well I'll tell you...

I could legally ask one of the lower ranked customers to give me a piggy-back across the 18” of flooded gents’ toilet.  And they told me who could turn off the security cameras whilst I became ‘better acquainted’ with various young ladies on the fire escape outside, rather than televising it in HD on the stage projector.

(OK, so technically that only happened once, but it was a very long time ago. And it wasn't to me, honest.)

'They' say you should dance like no-one's watching.  I beg to differ, I say you should dance like everyone's watching, but that might be 'cos I'm a massive show-off - Or a bit of a cock.

Rock-on kids

*and possibly ‘Spirit in the Sky’ by Doctor & the Medics but not all the time. 

Put on your adventuring pants Matron!

Would you like to help me on a quest?

A vision quest if you will, like the bloke off of ‘Star Trek: Voyager’ used to do every time there was an episode about him. (Did you know, that Robert Beltran, the guy who played the enigmatic Native American character Chakotay in the program was in fact, half Mexican? Which just goes to show that if an ‘ethnic’ character is needed, any minority will do at a pinch.)

Anyway, back to my vision quest. Don’t worry if you’re in two minds about the use of mind expanding herbs and the ceaseless native rhythms, I’m not going to ask you to listen to Radio 1 or anything unnatural like that. I’d just like some of you to read a couple of my Blog posts.

It’s not hugely important, I’m being selfish and mercenary and I’m just trying to cheer myself up about because things have all gone a bit crappy today and it’s taking a few more muscles to smile than it does normally (Even if I am wearing a brand-new Jeff Banks shirt that makes me look a bit like a Vicar.)

The thing is, I am just 23 page-views short of hitting my completely made up and arbitrary target of 44,000 by the end of the week.

I’m not suggesting that you just go to my Blog and start reading random stuff, for that way madness lies – And most of you are borderline mental now.

So, I thought I’d give you some suggestions of a few of my favourite post that you can take a look at to cheer yourself up – They’re not my most popular ones by any means, they’re just ones I particularly like.

1. We’ll start with ‘Pandas, the Eastern Scourge’ – where I question the very nature of our ailuropodean planet-mates and try to discover if they’re just ‘Pulling a fast one.’
2. Then there’s ‘T-wit - who?’ – This describes the particular shortcomings of having a real, live, owl as a pet.  These are many and hugely unpleasant (Does contain a picture of the MiniDandy as a small child.)
3. Many of you know that I love ASDA, It’s mainly because of the people you can run into there, but I also performed the only recorded Melonicide in UK History (Also contains a small ladies chest reference, no, actually, it’s a small reference to a ladies chest) – ‘Boobs, Melons and Jumper Lumps’
4. In ‘Maybe they explained it badly?’ – I expose my complete lack of technical understanding to a waiting world… Mainly of how huge, metal aeroplanes can glide through the aether with an alacrity that would easily wound an armoured badger.
5. POWER! – It’s something we all yearn for, but do any of actually understand what it is? – I know I don’t, but I did have a go at explaining it to myself.  It didn’t go particularly well.  But judge for yourself in ‘Any way the wind blows’
6. I’m quite proud of the mixture of Terrorism and Time-Travel that I managed to ram into ‘We are kept keen on the grindstone of pain and necessity’ – Many people reposted this, but it’s not in the top-ten anymore.
7. Now, I’m cheating here, this one is actually in the Top-Ten, but it got favourited and re-tweeted by real famous people on Twitter. ‘Pogonophilia is for everyone, even the young.’ Contains my child-like wonder about why ‘a certain kind of lady’ finds Men with Manly beards very Manly. (Warning, contains a topless, Anne Geddes style photo of me)
8. I’m a great believer that you should wear clothes that make you happy… Wearing a kilt makes me happy (and freshens up my nethers like a man possessed) in ‘Let loose The Kraken Th'Noo’ I perform in what could be construed as a slightly racist fashion, purely so that I don’t have to wear any pants.
9. Some of you might know that on very rare occasions, I ride custom motorcycles. The thing about doing this is that you attract the attention of other people who do the same thing.  These people tend to have lives that are just as colourful as mine, here’s a few stories about my, now sadly demised, friend Jock, ‘No, chopper as in motorcycle - And Greeks.’
10. And the last post I’m going to recommend today also has a slightly Scots flavour.  Well, I could really do a list without including at least one ‘Scots Mick’ story, could I? ‘Then SMick said that Chap was a bad word’ talks about my first trip to the wonderful riverside town of Dumfries, where I nearly got my arms torn off and single-handedly chatted up a xenophobic bouncers girlfriend… Well, I say single-handedly…

Hope you enjoy this quick look at some of my favourite posts, there are a lot more if you’re interested.  Feel free to repost them, or spam links to people you think might be interested.

In fact, I think I’d quite like that.

Are you nice? Does it hurt?

They say there are are a lot of different kinds of people in this world.  You’ve got your movers, your shakers, your couch potatoes.  Douches, heroes, thinkers, doers, readers, writers, leavers, cutters, people who like the taste of tinfoil, rappers, mappers, toe-tappers and, of course, the universally reviled hipsters.

But when it comes down to it, there are really only two types of people.

People who adopt stray cats, and people who don’t.

Now, if you know the real me, you’ll know that recently I’ve become one of the former.  Here’s a picture of her.  Her name’s Pipe.

Raggedy, isn't she?

She’s tiny, probably about a year old or so, and has been either mistreated, or been feral for quite a while as she has the attitude of a grumpy wood-chipper with a hair trigger.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

She latched onto my kids, specifically my son, on their way home from school about a month ago.  She was scrawny and pathetic, her coat moved of its own accord due to sheer volume of fleas and she didn’t really have the strength to do proper cat stuff like jumping or meowing loudly.

My daughter, because she’s a realist, told him that they wouldn’t be able keep the cat, because we had a cat and a dog already and also because ‘Mum & Dad are both heartless ogres.’ (and she’s right, I actually spend a lot of my time hiding behind boulders up on the moors with a stone hammer, feasting on the bone marrow of unsuspecting ramblers and the mountain rescue teams sent to find them.  It’s where we met, my wife and I. I looked at the sunlight bouncing off her knotted unibrow across a pile of sucked-dry corpses clothed only in that nice, brightly coloured, fabric that’s waterproof, but totally wicks your sweat away and thought ‘Dyamn Beeyatch! You fine!’)

He put down the kitten and started to cry, which seemingly set the kitten off and she panicked and allowed it to follow them home, across several dual-carriageways, over a level-crossing and through a ford, twice… I should probably note that this wasn’t their normal way home; I think she was trying to dissuade it.  Unfortunately, it didn’t work.

The kitten took up residence in the north formal shrubbery, between the real tennis courts and the helipad, for a day or so until we could purchase enough chemicals, pills and pastes to ensure that it didn’t pass on any dreaded lurgeys to anyone else.  And after a good couple of hours of combing, the mehsahib had dislodged, quite literally, a bin-liner full of fleas (which is now roving around the garden of its own accord, ready to chase any of us that try to escape by running away down our private beach) The worming cycle was completed, causing one unsuspecting guest to exclaim ‘Why have you fed your new cat spaghet… Oh, never mind!’ and be violently sick in my prize hydrangeas.

But not to worry, because everything’s fine now.  She’s putting weight on, OK – that’s mainly because she won’t let anyone else in the house eat, including us.  She will, and this is no word of a lie, put both her front paws on your dinner-plate and have it away with your jumbo battered-sausage before you can say, ‘You little bleeder! I’ll gut you like a fish!’

She does love ‘cuddles’ though, and will sit there and let you happily stroke her until you touch that quarter-inch square of skin that causes all four of her legs to independently swivel around and latch onto your wrist whilst she bites chunks out of the fleshy party of your thumb. (Location of this small patch of fur changes hourly, some might even say very much more often)

She’s also getting used to Morty, our occularly challenged Staffy… He can now come nearer than three feet to her before she devolves into a velociraptor and tries to tear out his eyes, which would of course, leave him much more challenged than usual.

Our other cat, Pop, can take her or leave her.  I mean, they growl, and hiss, and takes swipes at each other, but that’s pretty much standard cat behaviour isn’t it… There’s not actually been blood.

Well, there’s been blood, obviously, it’s mostly dog-blood though.  And it’s not all bad, because he now has a permanent noughts and crosses board on his muzzle that he’ll happily let you use for a biscuit.

What I’m trying to say is, erm… Well, I’m not hugely sure what I’m trying to say… If you could make something up about stray animals and being able to find enough excess affection for something that might well actually be the death of you by sitting at the top of the stairs silently in the dark, feel free to attribute it to me and imagine that it’s today’s message, OK?

But it’s not a perfect world.

Before we go any further, let me just re-iterate that what follows is MY opinion.  You may disagree, in fact, I already know that a few of my readers hold views exactly opposite to mine and that is their right.

In fact, that’s everyone’s right.  You believe what you want to believe, it’s not my place to judge and that goes for all of us.  That is, you have an inalienable right to believe what you want to right up until the point where your beliefs start impact on me or mine in a tangible way, then we’d have a problem.

Obviously, I’m talking about yesterday’s shooting at the offices of Charlie Hebdo, the French satirical magazine.  At around 11:00 Paris time, men entered the office, armed with AK assault rifles and proceeded to kill eleven people and injure about the same again.  The reports are varied about the details and it’s way too early to figure out what actually happened and what is pure speculation. 

Some reports say that the gunmen asked for their targets by name and then executed them, others that they entered a meeting room during an editorial meeting and started indiscriminately shooting. (which is pretty much what the AK was designed for, they’re not known for their accuracy)  Upon leaving the building they were ‘challenged’ by two police officers in a car, one of whom, Ahmed Merabet (also a Muslim, not that it really matters in the grand scheme of things) was shot, then executed with a subsequent bullet to the head.  Remember his name and the fact that he leaves behind a wife, I’m going to refer to him again briefly in a minute.

Let’s get the knee-jerk stuff out of the way now shall we?

Are Said and Cherif Kouachi psychopaths? – Yes they are.

Did they believe what they were doing was a reply to Charlie Hebdo’s repeated attacks (as they saw them) against the Muslim way of life in general and Allah/the Prophet Mohammed in particular? – Yes

Has the institute of Charlie Hebdo (i.e. its buildings and staff) suffered from attacks and threats from Radical Islamists before yesterday? – Yes, the offices were firebombed in 2011 after listing the Prophet Mohammed as its Editor in Chief and using his image on the cover in a less than complimentary way.

Were any of the gunmen previously known to be radicals? – Yes, Cherif Kouachi has been on various watchlists for around ten years, after being arrested in 2005 and imprisoned for his part in a plot to send volunteers to Iraq to fight against the US forces.

Did the Editor, Stephane ‘Charb’ Charbonnier seriously think his life was at risk? – I don’t know if he did personally, but he was assigned a Police bodyguard because other people did.

Was his bodyguard killed? – One was, one was injured according to reports.

Was this an attack by the Muslim people on innocent Christians? – No, it really wasn’t. 

Let me explain… (Again, remember this is just my opinion)

Forget for a second about Paris, and Charlie Hebdo, and Muslims.  Instead, imagine… Oh, I don’t know… A crocodile, living in the mud, by the riverbank.  It’s not a hugely nice fairy-tale crocodile, it doesn’t ‘tick’, it’s real and it eats things alive.  But crocodiles do, don’t they? They’re known for it, it happens all the time.  In fact recently it happens more and more as global growth crushes us all together and we’re living in each other’s back yards.  So, one day, a group of kids hears about this crocodile and to prove to themselves how brave and clever and modern they are, (and in the back of their minds, how cowardly and stupid and prehistoric crocodiles are) decide to go and poke it with a stick. They poke it a few times, the poking gets harder over time and eventually, the crocodile snaps at them.  In fact it chases them back to the safety of their houses, where it sits, watching them all through the night.  In the morning it’s gone, but you can see that it had been walking around in their gardens and had lain outside their bedroom windows.

Shortly after that, the pokings start again.  In fact, the pokings become stabbings.  The old crocodile realises that chasing the kids and scaring them again is pointless, it doesn’t work.  So it waits until night-time and goes back to the children’s houses and eats them. But that’s not where it stops, it eats the other people asleep in the houses too, because they’re there and the crocodile is so caught up in the moment that it feels invincible and it’s convinced that this is the only way to cure the situation in the long-term.  But someone raises the alarm and people come to help, despite the fact that there’s nothing that can be done.  They get eaten too.

All that’s left is to hunt down the crocodile and kill it, because it’s got the ‘Maneater’ label, and everyone knows it’s much easier to eat someone once you’ve already done it once.

You get it right? – It’s an allegory.  It’s not meant to be flippant and I agree that there’s never any excuse for killing someone just because you think they deserve to die.  There’s the whole due process and not being a psychotic religious radical thing to consider first.

Actually, I should probably add another disclaimer: I DO NOT IN ANY WAY CONDONE ANY ACT OF TERRORISM / RELIGIOUS FUNDAMENTALISM, WHETHER OR NOT IT INVOLVES ILLEGAL ACTS.

But… would the people at Charlie Hebdo still be alive today if they hadn’t continued to ‘poke’ at Radical Islam?

Do you agree that we’re living in a radically different world than we were ten years ago?

Should you broadcast an opinion that you don’t temper with common sense? (Remembering that we come down pretty hard on people we consider to be fascists, fundamentalists and Nazis because of the offence they cause to 'our' way of life)

And lastly, should Ahmed Merabet’s wife have to live the rest of her life alone because some educated men drew some pictures that someone else didn't think were funny?

My thoughts are with the families of Charlie Hebdo employees and contributors who stood up for what they believed in until the end. Elsa Cayat, Bernard Maris, Jean Cabut, Stephane Charbonnier, Philippe Honoré, Bernard Verlhac, and Georges Wolinski.

I do not think I would have done the same.

Also with the families of Frédéric Boisseau - the office’s janitor, Franck Brinsolaro – Charb’s bodyguard, Michel Renauld – a visitor to the office, and Ahmed Merabet – a police officer executed in the street, in front of the world’s press whilst trying to do his job.

All of whom were murdered through no fault of their own.

-oOo-

• In a perfect world, you would be able to say what you wanted without fear of reprisal. (as long as you remembered that it works both ways)
• In a perfect world, religious intolerance would be a fairy story, something you added to a bedtime story to prove to your children that things like that really don’t happen.
• In a perfect world you wouldn’t have to tell yourself that you’re not afraid to leave the house because a fundamentalist of any religion might wander into your bus-queue and detonate himself just because he thinks that you’re an infidel or a heathen or an unbeliever.
• In a perfect world, you could wave goodbye to your kids in the morning and be 100% sure that you’ll see them again in the afternoon.
• In a perfect world, your blood wouldn’t run cold every time you heard a siren.

Now read the title of this post again.

Pilot Project: Supernatural Mystery idea. Your thoughts required

Right, this is, as they say in my neck of the woods, 'A Longun'.

Some of you might be able to remember all the way back to last year when I wrote the second of my seasonal 'ghost' stories.  It was all moving and everything, and it had trains in, and everyone likes trains don't they?

Well, because of 'Circumstances' (Had to be very careful not to write 'Circumcisions' there - LOL!) I've read it out loud at real people a couple of times and they seemed to like it.  So I was spurred to write a similar story for this Christmas.  (Which you'll find below).  This has also been read out to real people and has had a mixed response if I'm honest.  Some people really liked it and some people... Well, didn't say much at all really.

Anyway, see what you think - Bear in mind that this is just the beginning, I've decided that I'm going to turn the Village of Lythe in North Yorkshire into the supernatural version of Midsomer (From the books by Caroline Graham) - There'll be seperate stories about Danny, St Oswalds (And its unusual vicar), The Duck Pub, The antique shop, The German Lady, The teeny-tiny Sheep, and other, odder things. 

So, sit back and try to enjoy...

The Morehouse Decoration

Emma looked up at Jamie as he showed the auctioneer the card with their bidder number on it, trying to stop herself from throwing up her hands and squealing with excitement.  Normally she would just have sat on them, but the advanced state of her pregnancy made that more of a chore than it really should have been. Instead, she steepled her fingers and placed them on her bump, clamping her lips together until they went white.   Jamie looked back at her and shook his head. She made a show of ignoring him. But there was no disguising the fact that she was grinning broadly and trying not to laugh.

The house had gone for a little under the guide price, but by the time that the fees had been paid and everyone that came up to them with their hands out had had their palms crossed with paper, their savings, and the amount that they’d been left by Jamie’s aunt, were a shadow of their former selves.

‘Let’s go and see it now,’ she said, easing her way into their car, ‘it’s only a few miles, and there’s that pub, you know that one that had the menu outside, with the duck?’

He laughed, ‘I’m going to go ahead and assume that this is what all of your books call “Baby Brain”? Where the, and I quote, “mother-to-be loses the power of rational thought and speaks mumbo-jumbo for the rest of her life” Yeah, that’s what it is.’

‘Look, all I want to do is take a look at our new house.’ She replied, still too excited to feel any affront, ‘There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’

‘Well no, but thirty-five isn’t exactly “a few” miles. You’re very pregnant, and I don’t think the water or electricity have been reconnected yet, seeing as I haven’t asked them to do it.’  He looked out of the car window, ‘And, it’s probably going to be dark by the time we get there.’

‘Well, I think it’d be romantic, the sound of the waves, the sun setting into the sea.’

‘Wrong coast… The Sun sets in the west, the bay is on the east coast.’

‘Well, let’s watch the sun rise then?’, She looked over at him as he shook his head, ‘What if we stay at the pub and go and see the house in the morning?’

He took a deep breath, but realised that he wasn’t going to get a moment of peace until he agreed.  They left the auction house car park and drove north, towards the sea.

The pub was cosy enough, and luckily for the pair, it had a double room available. Unfortunately, as it turned out, the famous duck was awful, but when the waitress cooed at Emma’s bump and asked them if everything was alright, they smiled and said it was all fine.   After the bar had emptied a little, and it just appeared to be a few, staunch regulars who remained, the landlady led Jamie and Emma up to their room.  All of the doors they passed were made of thick oak planks, studded with black iron pins, their room key was large and heavy, reminding Emma of something you’d find on a jailer’s key ring.  It turned easily in the lock and the door swung open with a loud creak.  At that same moment, all the lights along the corridor momentarily flickered.

Catching their look of dismay, the landlady chuckled, ‘Oh don’t pay any mind to that my loves, there’s probably a spot of seawater in the wiring.  It’s the spray from the cliffs you see.’

They looked suspiciously at the light fittings, which were now working perfectly, as if just to spite them.  Squeezing past the rotund landlady, they entered the room and were immediately struck by the decoration; it was a mixture of local IKEA and early 16^th Century Cornish wrecker chic.  There was even a miniature ship’s wheel attached to the back of the door that was currently acting as a coat-hook, holding a pair of dressing gowns that had seen better days.

‘HMS Kent?’ Emma asked the landlady, who had turned to look outside, ‘Is that a famous local ship?’

‘Mmm? Oh no, I don’t think so. I picked that up in the antique shop on the High Street a few weeks ago.  Don’t you two have any luggage?’

‘No, it was a last minute decision to come here.  We’ve just bought a house up at Deep Grove and I couldn’t wait to see it.  Nesting instinct I suppose.’ She gently patted her belly, ‘We’re almost there you see.’

The landlady looked at Jamie, who was making slightly more noise filling the kettle and arranging the teacups than was proper, and took this as her cue to leave.  ‘Well, if you need anything, just give us a knock.  We’re the first door at the end of the corridor with no number on.’ She frowned, and it looked as if she didn’t really want to continue, ‘But please don’t knock on the door next to ours, that’s Danny’s room, and he’s not to be… Disturbed.’

The door closed behind her and Jamie finished making their tea.  They turned on the aged portable television, but there was only static, whose waves seemed to mimic those from the sea, just outside the window.

The weak, morning sun crept around the edges of their curtains and chased them both rudely into wakefulness. Not that Emma had slept more than fitfully; the tiny passenger she carried had seen to that, he seemed to have been invigorated by the sea air, rather than calmed by it.  After a spectacular cooked breakfast, they headed down the coast towards Deep Grove.  The crunch of their tyres on the short gravel drive brought a smile to Emma’s face; it was one of the things on her ‘dream home checklist’ along with a sea view, real fires and wood panelling.  It didn’t matter that the house wasn’t particularly old, or particularly big. In her mind it was perfect, and it was theirs.  She followed Jamie inside, hugged him, and then went into the kitchen. The view through the picture window was breath-taking.  If she looked to her right, she could just make out Whitby, to her left, the sea seemed to go on forever.  She felt at home, more at home than she ever had in the house she shared with Jamie back in York.  Her mother had left them that house in her will and Jamie’s aunt had left them the extra cash they needed to buy Deep Grove.  Emma frowned as the thought of the family deaths crossed her mind.  But it was what both of them would have wanted.

She sat on the steps as Jamie contacted the service companies and arranged to have the gas and electricity reconnected.  By the time he’d arranged dates and times, it was time for them to leave.

It took them less than two months to finalise everything.  All of their furniture had been moved in, the source of a strange scrabbling noise from the attic had been attributed to squirrels and Emma had given birth to Carl, seven pounds four ounces of healthy, happy, baby boy.  Her life was perfect, she had the perfect house, the perfect child, the perfect husband and her husband had the perfect job.  Well, almost the perfect job – He usually worked from his upstairs office, but he very occasionally had to travel into his firm’s Head Office in Manchester.  Today was one such day, Jamie had left home just as the sun was rising, he’d kissed her on the cheek, gently opened the door to Carl’s bedroom to whisper goodbye then drove away, trying to be as quiet as he could on the gravel driveway.

She stayed in bed until Carl started to cry. Sitting up, she called to him that she was coming, and then noticed her own broad smile in the dressing table mirror, this was the first time in her life that she’d been truly happy, there was nothing like it and she wanted to feel like this forever.  Carl’s cries became an indignant shriek, which tore her from her reverie.  She slipped from her bed and padded into the next room, the stripped floorboards feeling warm beneath her feet, despite the fact that it was nearing the end of October.

‘So what’ll it be partner?’ She struck a pose like a cowboy gunfighter, ‘Y’hungry?’ She put her hands under her still swollen breasts and pointed them at him like a pair of six-shooters, ‘Or are y’wet?’ She walked to the side of the cot and leaned over the rails, ‘Is that it? Have y’peed y’self boy? Did it all get too much for y’all?’

Carl looked her straight in the eye, and blew a bubble from his nose before starting to giggle uncontrollably.

‘Pheweee! Doggie!’ Emma made a show of waving the smell away from her face, ‘Smells like y’all got locked in the stable overnight!’ She picked him up and hugged him, before taking him over to the table and changing him.  Within the hour they were both dressed and ready for the trip into Lythe.  They could have gone for a day in Whitby, but Emma had promised herself that she would take a look at the little antique shop that the landlady of ‘The Duck Pub’ as they now referred to it, had mentioned all those long months ago.

The village of Lythe was less than a mile down the road, but she still drove.  Carl wasn’t walking yet and she had no way to know how much shopping might accidentally get itself bought.  They drove down the empty country lanes, and as they passed St. Oswald’s church it triggered one of the only historical facts that Emma could remember.  She half-turned her head so that she was still looking at the road, but so that Carl could hear her. ‘Did you know, that St Oswald had five heads?’ She chanced a look at Carl, he seemed singularly unimpressed, but she continued unabashed, ‘they’re stored in churches all around the world and no-one knows which is the real one.  Isn’t that interesting?’ A quick look in the rear-view mirror told her that Carl thought that the contents of his nose were significantly more interesting, and not to mention more tasty. ‘Please yourself you little luddite.’ She sighed.  They pulled into the  car-park opposite the duck pub and Carl struggled in his straps as Emma wrestled the pushchair from the boot.  ‘Wait a minute Tyke, you’d better get used to being strapped in, because I’m not letting you out in the shop.  I’m going to cost Daddy enough as it is without you adding to the bill.’ She released him from the car-seat and soon had him firmly ensconced in the pushchair.

The sun was shining as they walked down the street towards the little antique shop, Emma took in a deep breath which seemed to contain a heady mix of silage and the smell of cooking from the pub across the road. ‘Well,’ she thought to herself, ’that’s lunch sorted.’ She looked down at her son, who was chewing at the straps that held him in. ‘I was going to ask you if you were hungry, but…’

‘They’re a joy aren’t they?’

Emma’s head snapped up in shock. Stood in front of her was a vicar, or at least someone dressed as a vicar. ‘Erm… Hello?’

‘Good morning My Child.’ He said, offering his hand limply, ‘I’m David Sileby, Reverend of Saint Oswald’s. Children, they’re a joy.’ He looked at her expectantly, almost hungrily.

She took his hand, which had all the warmth of a leather bag full of sticks, ‘Emma, Emma Hall, this is Carl my son.’

‘Not for long I think?’ The Reverend’s mouth spread into a wide grin, showing large stained teeth that probably weren’t original.  He leaned down to tousle the boy’s hair.

‘What?’ Emma placed her hand on Carl’s chest and stepped in between them. ‘Look here! If you’re trying to…’

‘Oh goodness, my dear lady! I’m sorry if I offended you, I merely meant that your son is very young, he hasn’t been around for very long.  Perhaps I could have put it slightly better.’ He mumbled, ‘Should we perhaps start again?’

Emma stepped back, suspicion still burning in her eyes. ‘I’m afraid I have things to do. Goodbye.’ She grabbed hold of the handles of the pushchair, steered it around the Reverend Sileby and took off down the street.  Every few steps she looked back to see him still smiling and waving, the fifth time she looked, he’d gone.

A small brass bell rang as she opened the door into the antique shop, the owner looked up from his newspaper and touched the brim of his worn fedora.

‘Afternoon, looking for anything in particular or just browsing?’ He asked, brushing cake crumbs from his jacket.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Emma, ‘Just some decorative items really.  We’ve just moved into the house up at Deep Grove, and it still looks a bit empty, even with all of our stuff in there.’ She thought back to their stay at the pub, ‘Perhaps something a bit nautical? Not too nautical though, I don’t want it to look like Captain Pugwash’s house.’

He smiled and pushed his hat further back on his head. ‘We’ve got a few things like that, down at the back.’ He pointed down the corridor which seemed to be a lot longer that the shop was deep, ‘But I’m afraid that there’s not enough room for…’ He indicated Carl’s pushchair, then pointed apologetically at the sign behind him with his thumb. It read, “All breakages must be paid for.”

Emma was in two minds, she wanted to look around the shop, and after all it was the whole reason that they were there. But she’d never met this man before, and the idea of leaving Carl with him, especially after the incident with the vicar, didn’t really appeal to her.

As if he could read her thoughts, he looked at her and said ‘He’ll be perfectly safe, if anyone steals him, you’ll hear the bell go.  I’ll look after him.’ He passed Carl a non-descript stuffed animal, that seemed to appear from nowhere and shooed her away.

Although she still wasn’t 100% convinced, she made her way into the depths of the shop and soon found herself surrounded by all kinds of random items, some of which were more easily categorised as ‘antiques’ than others.  She picked up a papier-mâché sheep, but nearly dropped it again when it unexpectedly bleated at her, she assumed that there was some hidden internal mechanism and put its strange warmth down to the direct halogen lighting.  She was tempted by a collection of whaling harpoons, mounted high on the wall above her, but the staining on their cruel points looked too dark to just be rust. Moving back towards the front of the shop, she knocked into a small cardboard box and heard the unmistakeably expensive noise of glass against glass.

‘Is everything alright?’ came the owner’s voice from the front of the shop.

‘Yes… I…’ She tried to lift the lid from the box to see what damage she’d caused, but it was much too tight and she decided that discretion was the better part of valour.  Carefully taking the box with her, she walked back to the front and placed the box on the counter. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, hoping that it was nothing of huge value.

‘I have absolutely no idea, there’s so much jun… I mean, there are so many quality items hidden at the back that I tend to lose track.  Let’s see.’ He gently slid off the lid, using no effort whatsoever. ‘Glass baubles… How very festive.’

Emma looked at the decorations, they were beautiful.  Ten simple pearlescent glass teardrops, with loops made of thin ribbon. She reached out to touch one, but her fingers seemed to encounter some resistance, ‘Look, there’s a note.’ She pointed to a slip of paper underneath the baubles.

He nodded and slipped the yellowing piece of paper from the box. Putting on a pair of thick-lensed glasses he read the inscription. ‘Presented by Her Majesty’s Admiralty to Captain David Reed Morehouse of the Dei Gratia as thanks for the resourcefulness and courage shown during the recovery of,’ He took off his hat and used it to cover his heart, ‘The Mary Celeste, 5^th December 1872.  I remember these now; they were part of a complete house clearance that I bought.’

‘How much?’ Emma was already reaching for her bag.

‘Well, I don’t know, there’s provenance, I suppose.  I’d have to get them checked out.’

‘A thousand pounds? I’ll buy them from you for a thousand pounds.’ She wasn’t sure why but the internal voice that she normally only heard in shoe shops was telling her that she needed these baubles. ‘They’re traditional, they’ll suit my tree,’ She looked directly at him, ‘I need them.’

As they walked back to the car, all thoughts of a pub lunch had been forgotten, all Emma wanted to do was to get home and start decorating the tree.  The fact that it was only October was a mere formality. Luckily, the tree was in the garage rather than the attic.  Even though she was no longer pregnant, she didn’t relish the idea of climbing a ladder or the legions of spiders and possibly even squirrels that she might have to encounter.

It took nearly an hour to wrestle the eight foot tree into position.  Carl was watching her intently from his playpen in the corner.  She’d decided to forego any other type of decoration save for the new baubles.  Taking her time, she spread the delicate glass decorations equally over the periphery of the tree, constantly moving them around until she felt that they were all in their correct places.  ‘What do you think Tyke?’ She looked at Carl, who was busily banging two wooden trucks together. ‘Well, I think it looks beautiful. Except…’ as she looked closer, one of the baubles seemed wrong, twisted almost, Emma cocked her head questioningly to one side but the decoration was still not hanging correctly. ‘If I just…’ As she touched the glass, there was a painful discharge of static electricity and the world went black.

Carl was roused from his home-made timber car-crash by a noise like thunder.  His mother was suddenly nowhere to be seen.  And he started to cry.

Emma sat up and winced, there was a stabbing pain behind her eyes which throbbed heavily as she moved.  She looked around, but could see only an oddly familiar, pearlescent fog. ‘Hello, is there anybody there?’ her words sounded flat and emotionless, as if her own voice was coming from a long way away. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello.’ The voice came from directly behind her.

Emma spun, the increased pain in her head causing flashes across her vision.  Standing almost apologetically in front of her was a small woman wearing a long Victorian dress with dark hair in a severe centre-parting. ‘Where am I?’ Emma asked.

‘I’m sorry but I have no idea,’ The woman giggled, ‘one minute I was decorating the Christmas tree on the ship, and the next… ’ She shrugged her shoulders, ‘Oh! How rude of me. I’m Sarah Briggs, pleased to meet you.  You don’t speak German do you?’

Emma was having difficulty keeping up with Sarah’s quick-fire way of speaking, ‘Erm… No, sorry… What ship?’

‘Pity, there’s a German lady who I sometimes bump into, I can’t understand a word she’s saying. The ship? The Mary Celeste, although Benji still insists on calling her the Amazon. You haven’t seen him have you? My Husband? He’s probably off drinking his way through the cargo with Richardson.’ Sarah sat down comfortably in thin air, looking past Emma’s shoulder.

‘No, I haven’t I’m sorry.  Did you say the Mary Celeste? Only that story’s a hundred years old.  Found abandoned, drifting in the sea.’

‘Abandoned? How could it be abandoned? It’s just foggy, it’s a sea mist, we’ll sail out of the other side of it soon enough.  Benji will sort it all out.  Oh! Good Lord! Where’s Sophia?  Sophia! Sophia!’ She grabbed Emma’s shoulders, ‘I’ve lost my baby, where’s my baby?’

As Jamie came through the front door, all he could hear was wracking cries.  He dropped his laptop bag and ran into the dining room, not knowing whether to be more shocked by the huge Christmas tree, or the fact that his son had almost cried himself hoarse and was desperately in need of changing.  ‘Emma? Emma!’ He lifted Carl from his pen, ‘Where’s Mummy? Where’s Mummy gone to?’ Carl stopped crying, but his breath was still coming in ragged sobs. Once he’d been changed, Jamie put him back in his pen where he immediately began to cry at the top of his lungs.  ‘Demanding little soul aren’t you? Let’s find Mummy together shall we?’ He picked him up again and held him closely whilst they toured the house looking for Emma.  She was nowhere to be found.  Her car was still in the garage, her clothes were all still there, and there was no note.  The pair went back into the dining room and stood looking at the tree.  ‘Why has your Mummy put the tree up in October? And more importantly, why is one of the baubles in the wrong place? He put Carl down on the floor and reached up to adjust the decoration, with a now familiar thunderbolt, he disappeared.

Carl sat looking at the tree for a moment, wondering just what had happened.  Both of the people who fed him and took care of him had gone away.  Usually, he could bring them straight back by making the noise, so that’s what he did.  He made the noise as loud as he could, but no-one came.  He made the noise until he fell asleep, and then when he woke up he made the noise again. But still, no one came.  He noticed that one of the shiny balls, that he had been told not to play with looked different from the others.  He crawled towards it, slowed down by the weight in his nappy. He stretched up as high as he could and touched the bauble. His head started to spin and he fell forwards, knocking the bauble onto the floor.

The sound of thunder filled the house, when Carl opened his eyes a little girl was standing in front of him.

‘Hello Baby.’ She said, with genuine concern, ‘My name’s Sophia, what’s yours?’

So, Let me know what you think.  Would you like to read more?  Do you think that it might be worth a quick publish (It'd be fairly heavily edited, cleaned up and so forth beforehand)  Feel free to submit ideas - I'd be genuinely delighted to hear creative ones... You know, ones that don't say "Give it up Baldy, you're rubbish at this!"