How not to make minestrone.

What wonderful weather we are having. Mecannylass took me out for an al fresco lunch in Bakewell the other day. We came across this quaint little corner shop. Pet Supplies & Auto Spares it said on the facia outside. Didn`t bother going in, Mecannycocker`s car is running OK at the moment … but what a weird mix don`t you think?

Almost as quirky as the place where we did eventually have lunch. They had pasta soup on the menu. Mecannylad was curious. “Isn`t that pasta soup of yours simply minestrone ?”

“Yeah.” admitted the proprietor, “but I can`t spell minestrone!”
It turned out he couldn`t bloody well make it either. Horrible muck.

The perfect gin and tonic.

Something else Mecannylad can`t weigh up. I was dashing to our village shop for some emergency provisions and came across this bloke walking up and down rattling a charity collection tin. Very odd on a quiet mid week late afternoon here in Eyam. He was tall, blond and teutonic looking; I could imagine him getting his tongue around words like faht, kunst and fuchs. He actually turned out to be white Zimbabwean and was collecting for Famine in Africa. There didn`t sound very much in his tin and frankly Mecannylad is still convinced he was up to no good. Anyway I am unable to get too worked up over food shortages in Zimbabwe; I mean when all you have on your mind is a perfect gin and tonic before dinner and the worrying prospect of the local shop not having any fresh limes left in stock then anything else is just too much to contemplate.

Mustard yellow corduroy monstrosities.

“Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you.” whispered Mecannylass rather unconvincingly. “The girl at the dry cleaners said they got all the beetroot out.”

Beetroot my arse. It was obvious that these mustard yellow corduroy monstrosities - 46inch waist at that - weren`t out of Mecannylad`s plain and simple wardrobe.

“Oh, don't tell me they have mixed up the tickets again.” says she.

Christ ! Surely Mecannylass must have noticed the mistake before she left the bloody dry cleaner`s place! I mean where does she think I get my bloody clothes from …. King Kong @ Marks & Spencer !?

What am I going to do with her?

Pert breasts, perky budgies and pearly white teeth.

Mecannylad thought that the era of endless junk mail fluttering onto the doormat every morning was a thing of the past. Not so; take today for instance…. the postman had to knock, there was so much of the damn stuff.

Senior Well-Being in the Peak District screamed this particular expensive looking front cover. Inside were 120 illustrated pages full of perfect specimens with their pearly white teeth, their pert breasts or their perky budgies to the fore. They were – believe it or not - modelling bunion correction pads, hernia corsets and the like.What a bloody charade for God`s sake ! Surely by rights these products should be advertised by the coffin-dodgers they were meant for – demented bearded ladies,old men with itchy haemorrhoids, the crotchety and the slow.

Come to think of it, these young kids may very well have deprived Mecannylad and Mecannylass a new career opportunity !

Cheezuz; hasn`t she heard of internet shopping?

Mecannylass got back from some solo shopping at the Trafford Centre recently looking very pleased with herself. A one hundred miles round trip, a whole day away from her nearest and dearest.You may ask what exactly floated her boat so much to endure such an inconvenience !? … and for just one single measly purchase.

A pair of replacement padded inner-soles for her bloody beloved furry, zip-up tartan bootees !! She`s losing it.

Crème Eggs, Lambrusco and Pelicans

As this weekend`s superb weather gets the region`s visitor season off to a flyer it has prompted Mecannylad to think back fondly over a couple of funny little tourist incidents from last Summer.

I recall one busy early season Saturday afternoon meandering through our village craft centre minding my own business when I noticed a little lad looking somewhat distressed. He had wandered out of sight of his mother. Mecannylad tried to comfort him and asked, “ What`s mum like?”
To which he tearfully replied, “Cadbury`s Crème Eggs and Lambrusco”
It`s all in the intonation I suppose: that`ll teach me !

I don`t know what got into me this particular morning. Mecannylad actually took it upon myself to check on the wellbeing of a group of perplexed looking Japanese visitors. They were in a huddle studiously consulting their maps in the field outside my house. As I got close up to them I realised that they were infact poring over phrasebooks and not maps. Anyway, after an intense conflab in Japanese - of which Mecannylad knew nowt of course! - this little man from the land of the rising sun proudly announced  in his best pigeon English….. “We have come to visit your dead black pelicans.”**

Well…. what do you say to that ?

** Our village, Eyam, is remembered for the black death/plague in the 1600`s

Breaking bread …. Crossing swords.

Rumour has it that our self proclaimed Lord of the Manor – colloquially speaking of course - has a new lady in his life. Mecannylad has broken bread and crossed swords with all sorts in my time and I know when something isn`t quite kosher ! … I can`t weigh this one up at all. She`s the sort who would be too polite to go to an orgy ….. only because she couldn`t find the time to write all the thankyou letters !!

Somehow methinks I will be reporting further on this intriguing liaison in the coming weeks.

What`s this thing with the complimentary cheese and biscuits ?

Not so long ago my old farmer friend Bo, who is always as good as his word, treat his even older retired farming neighbour Simon (I`m talking really old here!) to a Sunday lunchtime pint down at our local.

Simon doesn`t get out much nowadays, bless him. Shouldn`t laugh, but by all accounts he tried to eat a raffia beer coaster off the bar counter …. thought it was a cracker biscuit the barman had put out on the bar with the usual Sunday complimentary cheese and pickled onions.

Persecuted at Dawn.

What a bloody racket our feathered friends chuck out at this time of year. Mecannylad daren`t complain though because we have all been brainwashed into thinking that warbling wild birds are soothing and peaceful for the soul. Perhaps when there are only two or three of them; but six or seven bloody hundred yelling and shrieking their f****** heads off at six o`clock in the morning is more than anyone is expected to endure.

I have often wondered why so many Townies who retire to the Peak District tend to go mad after a while. I had always put it down to the tourists and listening to too much Radio 4. Not so. Now I know it is being woken every morning by this hideous cocophony of bloody twittering.

It`s all to do with timing.

Mecannylass has been admitting to a bit of interesting self analysis over dinner this evening! She said she thought that, like a true Geordie, she tended to wear her heart on her sleeve too often for her own good and was essentially a big softy. She wished there was more of a dispassionate and unemotional side to her makeup.

How can I tell her I`ve just spilled some red wine on her precious new rug ...  I don't think she's ready to be that dispassionate and unemotional just yet !

Lady Gaga`s Granny.

They all get on my tits quite frankly …. or should I say, my man boobs.

There is something intensely pathetic about men whose ambitions and abilities exceed their reach … or is it that their reach exceeds their ambitions and abilities. I don`t know. Anyway the weekend clientele down our village local seems to be dominated by these sort of loud mouthed tossers….. along with their designer wives of course. All bleeting on about how great their lives are at fifty, or sixty, or whatever.

I can hear them now; particularly the women. “I can still get into bikinis … short skirts … tight jeans” they say with misplaced pride.What they don`t admit is that they look like a cross between Morticia from the Addams Family, an exploded mattrass and Lady Gaga`s granny!

What business is it of theirs if I`ve had a boob job ?!

Mecannylass was furious with the cold call she took over the telephone last night.

“How dare they invade my privacy” she moaned.

I didn`t have the heart to tell her that the telephone sales person was on about PIP (personal insurance protection) and not dodgy exploding French boob implants !

Probably the best decolletage I`ve ever clapped eyes on.

Mecannylad lives in the sort of Peak District village where on some days you feel as though everyone you bump into knows who you are …. and yet on other days it seems as though you could walk up and down the High Street until the cows come home and nobody recognises you. Weird place.

Yesterday afternoon I was out exercising Mecannycocker over the fields and came across this other dogwalker (what a dynamic decolletage she had incidentally; quite the opposite to the scrawny little wire haired dachshund on the end of her lead!) She had insisted on waving at me on more than one occasion and so when I got close enough to speak I needed to tell her politely, “Excuse me; I don't know who you think I am ….. but I don't think I'm him. I don't actually know you or your lovely little wire haired sausage … I`m sorry.”

“Of course you know me …. Don`t be so daft ….. you just don't know you know me, that’s all.” said the voice belonging to the most memorable decolletage I`ve seen in green wellies for many a long time.

I went on my way thinking, … `could I have played that better ?`

Caught short in your jim-jams.

I tell you. Mecannylass is only used to seeing her husband in his dressing gown when he is poorly…. That's what dressing gowns are for.

So you can guess my astonishment when Mecannylad nipped out to our `open all hours` village shop for a loaf of bread the other tea time to find this proud gentleman of military bearing – a loose analogy you understand – scouring the shelves ….. dressed in his trusty trilby, pyjamas and dressing gown.

Now there`s something you`ll never catch Mecannylad doing ….. buying a pack of four toilet rolls dressed in your pyjamas and dressing gown !!

Diarrhoea ....dead give-away!

Not even damned by faint praise !

There are no shades of gray with the dear lady, infact most times she shows a distinct lack of emotional intelligence if you ask me. So when I overheard old Hilda discussing the latest Woman`s Institute concert performance with the new incoming Chairwoman I knew there would be trouble.

“Tell me,which bits didn't you like then Hilda?” enquires the Chairwoman.
“The beginning.” barks Hilda simply.
“Ah, we're working on it.” says the Chairwoman
“And the end.” Hilda adds sharply.
Quite deflated and looking for some semblance of praise the WI lady tentatively suggests, “But in between?”
“ Absolute rubbish.” says Hilda.

I told you; we all know where Hilda is coming from!

Condoms and Cucumbers.

Talk in the village pub got round to the lack of sex education available to us bright young things when we were mere lads still in short trousers. It made us all laugh.

I remember the extent of Mecannylad`s sex education at school was being taught by an old crusty bat of a headmistress how to put a condom on half of a cucumber. As a twelve year old in the 50`s I hardly knew what a cucumber was let alone the relevance of stretching a greasy, new fangled balloon over it ….. and I don`t think the headmistress knew much more either!

What a waste of a good cucumber.

Silly gullible bugger.

After all these years Mecannylass has just recently cottoned on to Ebay. ….and don`t I know it. Not a day passes without her bidding for some load of secondhand shite. She has even been known to abandon watching Coronation Street and Emmerdale to accommodate this new fascination of hers. Shivers run through me every time I see her on the family laptop …. it's just as if someone is walking over my wallet in hob nailed boots !

There is no rhyme or reason to her bidding tactics either. She seems to take a bearing from the moon, divides it by pi R squared and hey presto … it`s hers.

What the hell is she doing with all this crap?

Jules Verne once said `Cats have the ability to walk on clouds.`

I`m not so sure he would say the same thing about Mecannylass.

Walking on clouds excepted, I have to admit though that our very own domestic moggy and Mecannylass unerringly have so much in common with one another. For a kick off, they go through their days obsessed by things that either intrigue them or comfort them …. and although neither of them would ever admit it, in their quieter moments they remain partial to a cuddle from Mecannylad.

The big trouble, after all these years, is that Moggy and Mecannylass are both still bloody well able to pounce when you least expect it !

A twentyfour carat gilded knobhead.

I see the spring-like weather is attracting the early season day trippers to our neck of the woods already. I shouldn`t be like that should I ? …. most of them are no bother … and they spend good money. Last weekend however just when Mecannylad was beginning to think they had all gone back to their little concrete boxes for the day along sidles a genuine, twenty four carat, gilded American knobhead.

“Hey buddy,I had assumed your cute little Post Office would be open still.” he says disdainfully.

Well that's a silly assumption dickface ….. if you ignore the drawn blinds and the damn three foot sign that says closed….. and the fact it is a bloody Sunday teatime.

Where did he think he was for Christ`s sake ….. Times Square ?

Is surprise the secret ingredient of a happy marriage ?

Yeh; like when out of the blue your nearest and dearest asks you to whip the vacuum cleaner over the carpet just incase unexpected guests land on you …. at 9.49 on a Sunday evening !!

Now that`s what Mecannylad calls a bloody surprise.

Bad Manners: How do you break the vicious circle?

Hardly a day goes by without Mecannylass suggesting that I should buck my ideas up and be more of a gentleman. She says she`s kidding; but I wonder?

One of these days I am going to take her out on the town in Chesterfield and I bet you after five minutes there she`ll be thinking; 'You know, Mecannylad is Debrett`s material compared to these classless ferals!

Where do these numpties get their manners from for Christ`s sake? …. I pity their kids …. no role models.They haven`t a damn chance poor sods.

And manners – I read somewhere recently – are meant to mature seamlessly into morals. Hah!

You are never too old to pucker up.

I don`t think I have ever told you about one of our more unassuming villagers. The old guy who is a master whistler. Come hail, rain or shine Whistling Jack Smith* as we know him, can be seen marching along puckering his lips, fingers in mouth, as he strides out to collect his morning newspaper. I`ve never known anyone so passionate about such a dying art as finger whistling.

By far Jack`s favourite rendition is Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs classic `Hi ho, hi ho, it`s off to work we go.` Mind you, it`s quite strange really because Jack probably hasn`t seen a days work in years and paradoxically he`s about six feet six tall to boot. But he is always looking on the bright side of life …. another one of his favoured renditions incidentally.

I did once have the temerity to ask Jack what tune he might prefer if he, by chance, ever felt a little less than happy.
You could have knocked Mecannylad down with a feather.Without a second thought and with just a short intake of breath and a quick purse of his lips he produced a faultless chorus of `When I grow too old to dream.` I remember it brought tears to my eyes …Mecannylad was blown away; if you pardon the expression.

Whistling Jack ….. take a bow indeed; you are a star !!

*In Mecannylad`s hayday Whistling Jack Smith was a one hit wonder with `I was Kaiser Bill`s Batman.` Check it out on Youtube.

Pregnant Ewes, Jimmy Choos and Bakewell Tarts.

It`s that uplifting time of year again; when you fancy a leisurely early evening walk with your dog across the fields but can`t get moved for flock after flock of bloody cerebrally challenged, heavily pregnant ewes. Quite unreasonable I say; what are damn fields for? … for Christ`s sake!

With not a flicker of flocking intellect, these bundles of raggy arsed boucle remind me so much of the Bakewell tarts you see tottering around in their faux Jimmy Choo`s enjoying their Friday night out on the razzle.

Mecannylad is not exagerrating (much). If ever you find yourself in my neck of the woods treat yourself to an evening in Bakewell …. the style centre of the Peak District !

For better for worse, for richer for poorer, 'till the novelty wears thin.

Out of the blue Mecannylass breaks that bleary early morning silence as she opens the bedroom curtains, “You know, all those years ago when I first met your dear old mother, she was really on to something. I remember her exact words to this very day ….You`ll find Mecannylad a big disappointment she said.”

Here we go again ….. another bloody day in Happy Valley ….

Salacious ….. don`t you just love that word ?

Nice woman; bugger do I know her name though! I only ever come across her when she is walking her family dog …. and that`s not very often. The dog`s called Walter by the way!! Canny little fat thing.
“I'd better hurry on, I`m late for work” said Walter`s master, (not before salaciously spilling the beans over some seriously slanderous village gossip.) “as I say, I'd rather all this didn't go any further if you understand. It was only told to me in the strictest confidence.”

Well, how about that Mecannylad? I must have a trusting sort of face …. or she knows I`m off to the local pub tonight!!

Strangely enough these days Mecannylad doesn`t often go to places where there are lifts (elevators)

The other day however I found myself using one for the first time in what seemed ages. I was in a swish department store in Sheffield and was on the way up with this classically turned out `County Set`of a lady as my only other fellow passenger.She was the sort of person you`d expect to be able to control any tendancy to flatulate in public. Wrong. What a rasper she conjured up … just as she was getting off at the 2nd floor!
Cheezuz.
So Mecannylad – quite an inexperienced rider of lifts you understand – is now left alone with this lingering richness. What should I do ? Get off, or keep on going up? Remaining onboard was a big mistake … the bloody lift just goes and stops at the next floor to pick up some more shoppers! What a hell of a predicament...... I could hardly say “Its not mine!” could I ?!!

Mecannylad is never going to ride a lift again.

Living with an addict for over 30 years.

A horse addict that is.

Horses are more bloody addictive than alcohol , more expensive by far and there isn`t a clinic around that will cure the addiction. I suppose the one saving grace is the fact that Mr Ed doesn`t actually live with us in the true sense of the word. Mecannylad doesn`t have to share my bedroom, kitchen, bathroom and living room with the damn animal itself. And thankfully it doesn`t leave muddy paw prints on the rugs, trample all over my newspapers or chew the bed-end …. it doesn`t even share my duvet or roost purring on my chest.

Mecannylass has got a bloody cat and a dog to do that for her !!!

The biggest Cretin in Christendom.

When I was out and about in the village yesterday it was another morning after the night before for Mecannylad….The last person I wanted to bump into was Hilda, my cheery neighbour.
If you realise that Hilda`s rebellious streak probably just about stretches to having corn flakes at suppertime you`ll know why I felt like the biggest Cretin in Christendom as I made compulsory smalltalk with this innocent old lady.

Anyway, she cottoned on quite quickly to the fact that Mecannylad was hungover and took great care and delight telling me - over and over again – about the recipe for her fail-safe hangover cure.

Take a dozen leaves of sage, pour a pint of boiling water over them and let it infuse for a half an hour. Add vinegar and honey to taste. Down it in one.

I`ll let you try it !!!

It`s a dangerous job but someone has to do it.

“Darling, why don’t you use the energy you normally expend kneeing me in the bloody back and get out of bed to make a nice hot cup of tea for us both.”

When Mecannylad is not snoring like a `constipated rhinocerus` (as Mecannylass cruelly puts it) then I am quite happy to act as her unpaid time and motion advisor…..

She loves me really !

At my age I doubt whether one more piece of philosophical shite will make much difference to my life!

I`ve been thinking ….. What does `to exist ` mean?
The future doesn't exist … because it hasn't happened yet.
The past doesn't exist … because it's already over.
The present doesn't exist … because no sooner is it here

than it has gone in an instant.

This utterly random thought came to me as I was twanging away trying to get a tune on one of those giant red rubber bands left by the postman! I was nicely in the zone thankyou and felt quite like Maharishi Yogi. You remember him ? He was that shrivelled prune who used to meditate with The Beatles all those years ago.

Putting a damper on proceedings though, Mecannylass thought I was more Hank Marvin than Maharishi. ……. The rubber band snapped at that point.

"I think I`ll have a bath tonight for a change." announces Mecannylass rather regally.

So what. Who the hell does she think she is? … Does she expect Mecannylad to round up all the students in our village and ask them to come up to our place so they can learn more about water displacement at first hand ?

Roll up … Roll up … The second coming of Archimedes right here; right now.

Eu-bloody-reka !!