Friday, April 14, 2006


Stuffy academics have marvelled at the way "ordinary" (i.e., stupid) people who couldn't read would pass on stories from generation to generation, therefore leading to a historical record of the day to day lives of the population. The same tradition occurred through folk music, which is still well loved by middle class types in itchy jumpers who yearn for the days when there were illiterates who lived in hedges and sang about deflowering young maidens after 15 jugs of scrumpy. There was a rich oral history, although I should imagine that the truth had been embroidered upon.

However, in the modern age we have computers and "weblogging", which, according to the Metro newspaper ("Yesterday's news, today") is no longer just the preserve of insomniac geeks. Yes, even the highly sexually attractive journalists who write for the Metro may think of starting up a "weblog"! Except that they lead very interesting lives and aren't that "sad", tee hee hee!

Anyways, there is now an opportunity for barely literate "ordinary" (i.e., stupid) people like me to present a historical record of things that have happened to them in the past, so that they become immortal, with any luck.

There will be a few of these reminiscences about ancient times, if I can be bothered.

Here goes then.

* * * * * * *


Mr Kettlewell was the music teacher at my junior school. He was generally regarded by other teachers as a genius, but I have never been able to pinpoint why. He spoke with a Lancastrian burr - well, didn't really say much at all, which gave him an enigmatic quality. Perhaps that was why he was held in awe. Once he announced that in next week's lesson he would show us the inside of a piano, and I was really looking forward to it as I imagined it would look like some sort of Aladdin's Cave. Wouldn't you know, I never found out because I was off school on that day with a heavy cold.

Mr Kettlewell's triumph in life was to write new tunes for all the hymns we had to sing at assembly. That was it. The old, traditional tunes were replaced in one fell swoop by Mr Kettlewell's new tunes. They all went along in a dull monotone, except for one or two carefully placed high notes:

"Onward Christian SOL-diers
Marching as to WAR"

He may have been a subversive, attempting to undermine the school's indoctrination of religious dogma through the medium of avant garde music.

Anyway, by the time I had reached the age of 9 he'd left and ended up at the Heath Hayes school instead.

* * * * * * *


Bring back the day of the Insomniac Geek blogger. I'm not up blogging at 4:00 in the morning (west coast of Canada time) to be put down by those smug upstarts, dammit!
You mean the bloody METRO has stolen my dissertation subject? Arse!
MJ - no, blogging is now the hobby of nice, high achieving people who have great careers, really hectic and glamorous social lives, and they look like supermodels and have piles of money and loads of friends. Whereas before the only people who blogged were the lonely, the unemployable, the desperate, the greasy haired and the penniless. Rejoice at this progress!

Oh, and there's still a place for Insomniac Greek bloggers.

Patroclus - I think the Wolverhampton Express & Star might have stolen your dissertation subject with their 20 page blogging pullout at Christmas ...
Lets leave the Greeks out of this, shall we?
Had a bit of a brush with stuffy academics myself in the 90s. I bounced into the department's Senior Common Room one morning and innocently asked if anyone had seen the previous night's stunning episode of Coronation Street....
Pins dropping, knives slicing the air etc etc.
I thought to myself: this PhD thing isn't going to work.
well, we've already ascertained that I'm stupid so I fit right in with the stupid illiterate unprofessional bloggers.

Hello? Oh, I didn't just call you stupid did I? :-)
Arabella - the PhD thing didn't work for me either (who am I trying to kid?).

Kyahgirl - I'm more stupider and illiterater than what you are because I've been blogging for about a hundred years now. Unless I go away and come back with a change of identity and pretend to be one of the sexy new bloggers.
Not happy ´cos
1 My dentist is called Mr Kettlewell
2 Lancastrian burr? Eee sounds fine to me luv
However, I have suffered from Folkies throughout my life esp. those with their hand over one ear.
Can´t wait for auntie Mabel.
Have you ever tried to read a blog affiliated to a news/corporate site?

Paint drying.

Bring on the ugly bloke.
The Head Master at my primary school was called Mr Vance.

We used to sing 'Mr Vance has wet his pants' and run away.

We woz pure dead evil.
Kaz - there is nothing wrong with the Lancastrian burr or Mr Kettlewell. Re-writing the tunes to all the school hymms suggests he was a bit of a megalomaniac though.

Funny thing - had a look at one of those news affiliated blogs ... bloody hell, hundreds of comments all written by complete bores. About as much fun as a late night phone in show on local radio.

Garfer - your headmaster was the late Tommy Vance? I'm impressed.
Betty, go and comment on one of their threads and see your own reads pour in. I still get reads from the Grauniad's Bad Science after I had a mild poke at Ben Goldacre (oddly, nothing negative).

Garfer's assemblies must have been good. "We'll sing hymn no 243 and then it's the new one from The Tygers of Pan Tang"
Middle class types in itchy jumpers? I'm pretty sure I used to go out with one of them. Are they the ones that are under the impression that if you know how to build and light a small fire to cook your beans on and you once went to Cornwall in a campervan this qualifies you to be a "Traveller?"
Richard - actually, the way to get negative commenters on your site seems to be by criticising people who own caravans. They appear to be more sensitive to criticism than Christians are.

Fuckkit - Sounds about right. Anyone who dislikes the idea of going on a holiday where there is any degree of comfort (staying in a hotel or being somewhere that's sunny or in nice surroundings) would qualify.
I have three caravans, all of which I tow behind an old Vauxhall Chevette. This year I am looking forward to my holiday along the hard shoulder of the M23.
I used to find the inside of the piano almost as fascinating as the cuboard under the stairs. But then I was brought up in the middle of nowhere and there wasn't much else in the way of intellectual stimulation on offer.

On re-reading your post it appears that it's you, Betty, rather than the Metro, that has pre-empted my dissertation subject. Thank god for that.
ugliest man in the world?


mick hucknall.

easy target, anyone?
Mick Hucknall is a man?
Richard - I presume you have been out over the bank holiday causing 5 mile tailbacks on the way back from north Wales then ...

Surly Girl - the ugliest man thing will date back to my childhood, which was free of Simply Mick, luckily enough.

Arabella - he is all man, apparently. The women find him irresistible, although I'm yet to meet a woman who admits to finding him irresistible.
Patroclus - I'm disturbed that someone has re-read one of my posts. I thought they all read the first sentence, then went to the comments, then never visited again. If they were to re-read it they would see the terrifying void at the heart of it, and all the grammatical errors.
been lurking.
the ugliest man of all times is
i thank you.
*resumes lurking*
Ah the Vauxhall Chevette - I never owned one but I always admired the name, a sort of smaller version of the Chevrelet was the image I presume GM were after creating in my mind.
Richard, you either own very small caravans, or you have done a monster engine conversion, or you don't own a caravan at all and yet again I have fallen into the trap of believing everything I read.
Tom, I am a benevolent multi-millionaire who has little use for 95% of my fortune and will shortly be employing several dozen Polish migrant workers to send out £50 notes to everyone on the electoral roll from a disused warheouse here in Crewe.
First Nations - welcome. I would say that compared to some of the pintos and holler monsters pictured on your site Keith looks like Omar Sharif. Then again, as far as I know his mother wasn't married to her brother, so perhaps he's the ugliest man who isn't inbred. Anyway, the concept of ugliness comes into its own in the English football league - http://www.uglyfootballers.com/

Tom - the bloke next door used to own an unpleasant green Vauxhall Cavalier. Sorry, I can't think of anything to say about cars.

What's wrong with owning 3 caravans? I have 7 parked along our street and a static caravan in Rhyl.

Richard - you could be breaking the law if you are telling lies on the internet, and may face a stiff fine or prison sentence. So I will expect that 50 quid in the post then.
Yeah, I definately went out with one of those. Social worker. Figures.
Not fibbing, just constructing my own urban myth.
Funny thing about journalists and blogs. They do like to take a swipe, don't they?

That's because they're worried that before too long somebody else might be doing their important work for them.
By the way, I had FIVE caravans once. They were all about three and a half inches long and hooked onto the back of my Dinky Toy Leyland trucks. In which combination they were often driven off impossibly high cliffs (the cupboard in my bedroom).

Do I win the prize for 'Most Caravans Possessed?' I think I should.
Oh. And BY THE WAY...

I think you're all being perfectly beastly to that nice Mick Hucknall.

(i) To be fair, the Guardian seems to be pretty positive about blogging, but I don't really know what the rest of the papers say. As for the Metro, I think the writers assume that their paper is read by happening 20 and 30 somethings who work in London and are sussed, fashionable and party at all the best bars, clubs and restaurants in town, rather than tired commuters. Perhaps its journalists have ideas above their station. After all, it's only a local freebie paper ...

(ii) Maybe I should do a post encouraging people to tell me how many caravans they own. I mean, I can't think of anything else to write about at the moment.

I once got trapped in a very smelly abandoned caravan with some ginger kid called Adrian when I was nine. Don't ask.

(iii) I once got trapped in a caravan with some ginger "white soul" type singer called Mick when I was 27. Don't ask.
Post a Comment

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?