The Improbable Hairpiece

Got to tell you that the National Trust now has a permanent presence here in Eyam and for their sins they have installed a dedicated team to enhance the ‘visitor experience’

Mecannylad has got to be careful what I say here .... but one of this new team looks somewhat like an undertaker hooked on embalming fluid. He reminds me of one of those prats in the front row of Last Night of the Proms who bob up and down in time to Henry Wood’s ‘Fantasia on British Sea Songs’

And it always creases me up when he scratches the back of his head; his improbable chestnut brown hairpiece goes up and down like the lid on a pedal bin.

You’ve got to come to Eyam to see for yourself..... I can sense he is going to be quite an attraction in his own right.

Catching more flies with honey than vinegar

Sorry madam; If you sound like Barry White on the telephone, you can’t be surprised if Mecannylad on the other end thinks you’re a man.

Stupid bloody tele-sales bitch. Has anyone ever told told her that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

Crown Green Transvestites

Mecannylad is thinking of taking up Crown Green Bowling this coming summer .... hardly surprising for those of a certain age. 

But heh .... he of this certain age is  taking exception to the bloody application form.

It asks; are you male, female, or ‘prefer not to say’

How sad.The great and the good here in the Peak District have obviously cottoned on to the need to celebrate diversity. 

But cheezuz man ...come on.... Transvestites playing bowls? 

For Welsh , press three.

Mecannylad telephoned the Tax Office Call-Centre earlier today....... 

“Good morning,welcome to Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs; 

 For English, press one. 

 For Polish, press two. 

 For Welsh, press three” 

Welsh speaking Indians on the Call-Centre sub continent .... now that IS talent.

Mascara-caked killer ants and other rif-raf

As a lost parrot from a Tyneside rainforest I must say that - even after all these years - Mecannylad is still decidedly uneasy in the company of the barrow-boy millionaires and the mascara-caked killer ants I regularly bump into on the over-rated Peak District restaurant circuit.

I’m happy with a steak and ale pie anytime in my local pub. Rubbing shoulders with the rural rif-raf

Arthritis relief for the elderly

Whilst the weather is bad Mecannylad likes to make it my business to pop by dear old Hilda’s cottage on the way back from my morning errands.

Yesterday I found my favourite octogenarian massaging the back of her knee with a pink vibrator of all things.  Hilda had picked the bloody thing up from the clearance counter at Boots in Bakewell the other week.

‘I’ve read about these.’ she told Mecannylad, ‘They’re supposed to be very good for arthritis.’

Cheezuz; I felt I needed to justify why my jaw had just dropped and had no option other than to explain what such things were really meant for.

I could sense Hilda was deep in thought.

...... a ‘Well, I never’  was all I got .

F*** Off Bradley Wiggins.

Got to admit to cutting up a couple of dawdling Bradley Wiggins and spraying them with icy slush as I was motoring through Hope Valley this morning.

Isn’t it funny how a lack of vocabulary needn’t be such a handicap when one is being offensive ?

Sorry chaps.

Buz Lightyear eat your heart out

Mecannylad and my new fancy telescope have been impatiently waiting three weeks now for a clear night over the Peak District. 

Even though I have frozen my b*****ks off (and been frightened shitless by low-flying owls ...aren't they big buggas?) I am chuffed to bits at having seen such a stunning moon with my own eyes last night.

For a seasoned insomniac this astronomy lark is becoming quite intoxicating.

Hidden D H Lawrence literary piece unearthed.

Mecannylad hadn’t bumped into our Village Queen of Spoonerisms and my favourite  octogenarian Hilda since well before Xmas when I came across her in the local Post Office yesterday.

Naturally we had quite a bit to catch up on and you never quite know what to expect from Hilda. We quickly got over the New Year  pleasantries and then  for some strange reason she started to rabbit on about her long lost mother and how they once lived next door to DH Lawrence in Eastwood when she was a youngster.

“You know who DH Lawrence was don’t you?” demanded Hilda...... “He wrote that famous dirty book you know ..... Sadie Chatterley’s Lodger.”

Thanks for that Hilda ..... I wonder if they do it in Kindle !

Stary, stary night ... where the f*** are you ?

In the absence of the right sort of weather conditions, about this time in January some 55 years ago Mecannylad vividly remembers impatience getting the better of me when I trashed my new Xmas present from my parent's by putting a set of old pram wheels on a lovely traditional wooden Alpine sledge. 

Boy did I get the s*** knocked out of me by my father.

I tell you .... If the bloody skies don't clear soon that old impetuosity is likely to take hold of me again.

Just watch out for a wheeled telescope of Hubblesque proportions careering around the Peak District.


F*** off clouds will you; Mecannylad has got some serious stargazing to do.

Even with the obligatory enhancement of retro-fitted headlights she’s still just a battered old Transit.

It's that time of year when we have to suffer the inconvenience of temporary barmaids.

You're in for an eyeful if ever you come down to Mecannylad's Peak District local  in the next couple of weeks.

What a stunner.

Hair arranged with a pitchfork; blouse worn only for ventilation purposes: the demeanour of a woman who thinks she’s left the gas on at home. 

 Bless .... even with the obligatory enhancement of retro-fitted headlights she’s still just a battered old Transit.

Thank the Christ it's only for Xmas.

Only real men wear tights.

There are some things that never look good on a grown man  .....  three-quarter length cargo shorts spring to mind.

Now I”ve heard news of a frightening new trend — male leggings. Cheezuz. By all accounts they are about to be the must have fashion accessory for 2013. 

Thank God Mecannylad has passed the stage of being a ‘Dedicated Follower of Fashion.’

Come on. No man - and certainly no Geordie - is ever going to feel good going to the pub in bloody leggings.

To be honest, very few women feel good in them either ...... Isn’t that why they invariably co-ordinate a shapeless baggy sweater ?

If this silly ‘man leggings’ trend does infact take off what’s the betting that Marks and Spencer start selling cricket boxes.

After all .... only real men wear tights.

S&M Geordie style.

“Are you sure you can take the pain?” Mecannylass demanded, brandishing a new Victoria Beckham patent leather belt she had just bought herself for Christmas from Harvey Nichols in Manchester.

“OK. punish me; make me suffer like only a real woman can” I whispered submissively.

“You're worth it.” she pouted in her sexy Cheryl Cole tones.

........ Mecannylass then showed me the receipt.

Ironing, vacuuming and weapons of mass destruction

A couple of weeks ago a local rough and ready (but still canny) farmhand from across the Hope Valley called into our place to deliver a trailer of logs for the wood burner. He happened to catch me in the middle of doing the family ironing. No big deal I thought. 

Just this morning, he called again with a second delivery of logs ..... and this time caught me with the vacuum cleaner in my hand. 

The look of ‘olde world’ disgust on his face was a picture. 

“Look here mate .... I know what you are thinking .... but letting Mecannylass loose with an electric iron and a Dyson when she is suffering from hot flushes is like distributing weapons of mass destruction to some Third World Dictator“ 

I could tell the farmhand still couldn't understand. Bless him.

When you're in love with a beautiful woman .....

Don’t get me wrong; I never mind Mecannylass joining me on my daily constitutional around the lanes of our place; but more often than not she can’t resist breaking into a bloody lengthy country dweller’s soliloquy whenever she comes across a bunch of awe struck visiting ramblers. 

So when we were stopped the other day by a Canadian hiker with his predictable sugary drawl, “Gee, living in this Peak District of yours must be like being married to an exquisitely beautiful woman” I was fearful of Mecannylass’ response. 

“Aye, Mountie” she snapped back ...... and looking mischievously across at me, seamlessly added, .....

“ What’s it like being a bigamist Mecannylad?”

How posh is that ?

Mecannylad has just had a letter from our local Town Council here in the Peak District explaining that they have awarded the refuse collection contract for our particular village to a new company.

The letter was signed by the ‘Head of Portfolios  for Service Transformation and Organisational Development’ 

How posh is that ?

Knobheads.

Slave to Sell-by-Dates

Whenever she's at the Supermarket Mecannylass is a slave to sell-by-dates ..... she's always creating havoc by scouring at the back of the displays looking for the freshest items..... leaving chaos in her wake.

"Shut up will you.It's for the good of your health" she keeps telling me. 

Mecannylad even caught her ditching a full pack of six toilet rolls the other day just because they were within a few days of their sell-by-date. 

My arse ..... what has the modern world come to with sell-by-dates for bog rolls in the first place ?

Mecannylad, OCD ? .... whatever makes you think that ?

The meanest tosser in Christendom

Got to tell you about this bloke down our lane. What a mean bugger he is. Mecannylad can't quite believe it. 

Anyway, this fella uses this particular property mainly as his weekend cottage. It has a bit of a garden where he hangs up bird feeders and such things. 

I suppose he likes the sound and the fluttering of the blue tits and robins when he is in occupation..... Fair enough. 

Before he leaves on a Sunday evening though ...... he takes the bloody things down and puts them in his garden shed !

Tosser.

A degree of certainty

My globetrotting neighbour Hugo was the centre of attention in the village pub this afternoon. You see, he had just got back from a stint of working in India and was gagging for a good natter and a decent pint of beer or two with some good company.

I had to laugh..... he said that the thing he had been looking forward to most since returning home was being able to have a dry fart with some degree of certainty.

I wonder ?

Mecannylad is staring with wonderment at a fabulously crisp winter's morning unfolding here in the glorious Peak District ......

..... and thinking  .....

..... is a right-angled triangle likely to have a square on its hypotenuse ..... I mean .... in real life ?

Keep Calm and P*** Off.

The downside of living in such a beautiful part of the world is that every local shop and cafe - no matter how big or small - have been cramming their shelves with meaningless and less than useless gifts and crafts.

The latest craze is seemingly to emblazon the wartime buzz words 'Keep Calm and Carry On' on anything and everything ....... the damn phrase is bloody everywhere. On tin signs, on tea-towels, on toilet rolls, on cups, on doormats, on postcards, on plant pots ......

Please  ...... Keep Calm and P*** Off won't you .... and think of something else to put on your trashy trinkets.

Still puffed up with post Olympic self importance.

It’s three long months or so since the London Olympics yet there is still no letting up here in the Peak District. You can’t get moved for pack after pack of fat-arsed pedallers done up like C&A mannequins in their Lycra and Chamois leather.

No matter where Mecannylad ventures, you see them; straddling the centre line markings, riding two abreast, sucking out of their hydration feeders and fiddling with their ipods.

Don’t get me wrong – cycling is great ..... you help the planet, you keep fit and you save on taxes... but best of all, you are apparently completely free to ignore the rules of the road that apply to all other highway users.

I hope you all get a bloody double puncture .

The Case of the Curious Fence

Regular readers of Mecannylad will be familiar with the spoonerisms from dear old Hilda. 

Never one to disappoint, only yesterday, Hilda took great delight in telling all and sundry in the village Post Office that she has had a man around to tantalise her new wooden garden fence.

Bless ........ I think she means that her fence was made from tanalised timber.