grumpyf1

Andy Warhol said that “Everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes”. He was almost right. It’s a nice quote. And, in my case, he was bang on. If you replace “world” with “North West of England”. And change “famous” to “briefly recognisable”. And swap “15 minutes” for “7 seconds”. Yes, my shot at the big time occurred last week, when I popped up on BBC North West tonight, just before 7pm, and probably put many viewers off their dinner. Whilst I had hoped to come across as intelligent and a bit dashing, I actually managed to pull off the far trickier ‘dishevelled and incoherent’. Result! My brief moment in the limelight came about courtesy of my employer, Brathay Trust, who have their HQ in Ambleside. This is where I hang around during the week, pretending I know something about marketing, and generally making the place look untidy whilst drinking cappuccinos. Brathay’s marvellous octogenarian archivist, Maurice Dybeck, showed us an amazing film from 1953, featuring young me

The year is 2117. In an underground bunker, a battered tablet screen flickers in the gloom. On it’s screen are the words “The 2018 Broccoli War”... A scrawny old man, dressed in tattered clothes enters the room and slumps in a worn chair. Picking up the ancient electronic device, his trembling finger hovers over the screen, before descending on the blinking button bearing the words “Begin lesson”. Prior to 2017, The United Kingdom (as it was then known) was a relatively stable and affluent place. There was concern about a forthcoming “Brexit”, although most were unclear what this actually involved, including the elected government of the day. The preceding year’s high ‘celebrity’ (see ‘singers’, ‘actors’ and ‘reality TV’) death count, had left the inhabitants of UK on edge, and a seemingly insignificant shortage of courgettes (see ‘watery vegetables’ and ‘middle class food’) early in ’17 was the starting point of a rapid descent into chaos. Cold and wet weather in Spain (see

You’re having a bad day when you’re taken ill suddenly. What could make it worse? Maybe the police having your car blown up? I really feel for the poor guy who was taken ill in Workington recently. Helpfully, the police kindly looked after his car and took it back to the station. So far, so good. Unfortunately, by the next morning they’d forgotten about it due to an “internal communication error” and spotting “suspicious objects” within decided to be on the safe side and call out the artillery. Evacuating the station, closing the A596 and putting a 100m cordon in place, they carried out a controlled explosion on the vehicle. I’m making a wild guess here, but the local police getting a bomb disposal team to blow up your car probably affects your no claims discount adversely. In a wonderful example of hiding your mistake inside a complicated sentence, following the unnecessary detonation of the innocent Vauxhall Corsa the aftermath of this high-drama moment was beautifully desc

I’ve got a new(er) car! Red, shiny, doesn’t get overtaken by every other car on a slight incline – it’s great... except for a lock-up cock-up. Considering it’s got a tiny 898cc engine, my new-to-me 2nd hand Renault is really quite nippy. Thanks to a turbo (which makes me feel like an F1 star), and the fact that I’ve yet to find any actual metal in the bodywork, it’s lovely to go up a hill and not be overtaken by tractors, milk floats and the occasional cyclist. And, bless those petit French designers, they’ve incorporated a Crystal Maze-style quest into it too! Unfortunately, it’s only for one player, though. If you’ve got the main key with central locking buttons, you’re not allowed to play. Non! But if you have the spare, manual, key then – Oui! Prepare to begin your quest – you have 2 minutes to complete the following mission: You must get into the car, start the engine, turn it off again and exit the car, leaving it locked. Easy, right? Let’s Twin-go! “OK team – I’ve got

I’ve been doing my bit to assist the NHS this week, and help to not worsen the “humanitarian crisis” reported by the Red Cross. By avoiding using the emergency services, or visiting A&E, I have played my part in reducing pressure on a chronically overloaded system. Whilst I think a medal of some sort is probably in order, I’ll accept public recognition of having been a very brave boy instead. It’s a debilitating injury. In a bleary-eyed state, I crawled out of bed at the weekend on my usual pilgrimage to the kitchen to rustle up a fortifying cappuccino. Unfortunately, pre-caffeine, my co-ordination isn’t very good. This resulted in my bare foot straying slightly off course, initiating a high-speed little toe/chair leg interface situation. As any qualified medical professional will tell you, very few things are as painful as this, or more difficult to do anything about in the immediate aftermath. I did what all hurty-toe sufferers do, producing a stream of swear words so o