Halifax, a review
Excerpt from the Halifax Chronicle..."Halifax has suffered from a reputation for hard drinking and fighting, and traders fear this may be deterring people from enjoying a night out in the town."
Recent Newcastle experience suggests that hard drinking and fighting does not put anyone off going out in a town and possibly even encourages it.
But what do I know? I'm from Croydon, so I thought hard drinking and fighting was a night on the town. I didn't realise there was an alternative.
And you know what? I haven't seen a fight here yet anyway, so it can't be that bad.
posted by Peter The Great @ 4:59 PM
13 Comments:
Unlike our Mandarin friend- who is apparently so very un-busy at work that he is developing a specialised form of OCD where he sits on your blog 'hitting refresh every 2 hours' (he said hours but merant minutes..)- I have not visited your lovely blog for a while. I therefore missed my chance to comment on your delightfully London/rest of the UK assumptions that not only are London girls more attractive but that Brum is sort of the same thing as Halifax as it's all North/not London. YOu're right, of course.
In other news, upstairs has been gutted, and I miss you.
Aaahhh!
I miss you too, Pete... but not as much as I miss use of my left leg.
Let's have some more tales of woe from Halifax to lift our spirits.
When I was little, my Mum and Dad used to point to grainy pictures of starving Ethiopians, accompanied by insincere commentaries from painfully liberal journalists, and remind me how lucky I was.
Now I look at my lessees and the native population of the North and remind myself of the same. In one case, the Venn diagram intersects at a block of flats in Crosby... where the mongrels in the top flat started a fire in a bin in their living room on Thursday to keep warm.
Mads, you're from Shropshire, aren't you? That's actually pretty close to the BirMINGham epicentre ...
I was once married to a woman from Shropshire. The scars haven't healed...
Why is the second city getting such a kicking? I know there are a high incidence of pie arses, but these unfortunates are centred around the Black Country - West Brom, Dudley, Tipton et al. Also, and not surprisingly, the centre of this country's pork scratching industry.
Norm,
Have you considered finding your inner child to help those scars heal? When you do so, give him a bloody good hiding.
Pellet,
I think you'll find that the Mayor of Tipton is also Europe's most senior Al Qaeda lieutenant. The swivel-eyed, hook-handed beardy bastard. Oh no... sorry, my mistake. That's Abu Hamza.
Barry... I love you.
Well, Anonymous, you seem to be the only one who does!
Apart from my dear old Mum. And she has to catheterise herself. And sometimes smells.
Barry, leave the comedy to the experts - I do.
Don't stop the comedy, Barry! You are well loved by anon and myself (and possibly your mum and others, but no guarantees there.)
Thanks Butterfly! And there was me about to return to suicidal ideation, armed with a bucket of Tramadol, a bottle of Bells and my well-thumbed copy of Paradise Lost. Now as I think of it, that’s how I spent last night. Strangely, I don’t feel too good today. Must’ve been something I ate.
Do you think I’ve got a book in me somewhere, then? I’m hoping to lay bare the dark core of human suffering told through the eyes of a disenchanted, sub-psychopathic particle physicist-cum-slumlord. Who enjoys wearing Mum’s nightie.
Tramadol, Bells and Paradise Lost? If all three were consumed, then yes. I do believe there is a book in you. Though possibly not for long depending on your digestive capabilities. I did also hear a rumour that Milton himself was fond of his Mother's nightie. There is hope.
According to Wikipedia, Milton’s Mum was a “woman of purest reputation, celebrated throughout the neighbourhood through her acts of charity.”
My Mum scares small children and I have to call the police when she breaches her ASBO. However, she does have her uses… I’m considering pushing her down the stairs later and sending the footage into “People do the Funniest Things”.
Alas, in my present condition the camerawork is likely to be shakier than Michael J Fox’s handwriting and about as focussed as a student’s morning.
In the meantime, there are ominous rumblings in my colon and the average bowel transit time in South Croydon can now be measured in minutes rather than hours.
Do some work Hastings!!! And lean on Mr Dementia to provide more vignettes of life in the ‘Fax.
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