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Knock once for Yes & Twice for No

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The past two weekends I’ve been raking about in the dark til silly o’clock in the morning. Armed to the teeth with gadgets, in an attempt to converse with the dead. When I say ‘converse with the dead’, I mean, pratting about with my mate, sniggering like Beavis & Butthead & tutting at fakery & those more gullible than ourselves. Not that I am a non believer. More of a hopeful skeptic who needs to test all scientific reasoning first.

Our first adventure was at Fort Paull with Glen, the resident skeptic, from the ‘Most Haunted’ team.


I am in there somewhere – in a yellow coat


We liked Glen

In the supposedly haunted train carriage (which nobody seemed to know the history of) we almost had a stand up row with a lady who was determined to kill a moth.  “It deserves to die!” she screeched whilst removing her walking boot to try and squish it against the window.  “They’re not like butterflies inside you know” said her mate.  “A butterfly has innards and stuff when you squash one – but a moth is just dust. They’re just made of dust”.

Who the hell squashes a butterfly?

Who does that?

We managed to persuade her to leave the moth alone by employing stern teacher voices.

The venue was very interesting.  Comprising underground tunnels, a Beverley Bomber and various artillery gun thingumies  – and a shitload of moths, just for our lepidopterophobic friend.  An entertaining session on a ouija board ensued where I was seemingly contacted by someone called ‘Ash’. I denied any knowledge of knowing anyone of this name until Linda could tell by the look in my eye that I did.  Through stifled laughter I explained that the only Ash I knew was my eldest childerbeast’s dead dwarf hamster!  And that I doubted very much that he had gained the ability to spell in the afterlife, particularly as he only had one eye when he was alive!  One of the ladies around the board then suggested that perhaps the deceased had been cremated and this is why they were spelling out ‘Ash’ when asked their name.


Time for a wander and an explore.


Anybody there. Where? There on the stair


Creepy Wheelchair in the Victorian Hospital area

We did have a moment like that film “Left Behind” when the Rapture comes and claims the pious.  We got split up from our group in one of the tunnels and realised we were wandering about a deserted garrison on our own, calling out to the living this time rather than the dead.  “Hallooo is there anybody there?”  We were half expecting to find piles of clothes on the ground.
We were finally put out of our misery by the lovely Glen who appeared behind a laser-grid pen from inside the Beverley Bomber.


There’s those Lidl blow-up dolls again


Come aboard the lurve train


Note to self:  if you want to keep things on a serious note, it’s probably best not to say things like “Have we got any seamen with us?” and not expect at least a bit of an immature titter in the dark.

Making the most of our visit to Hull, we decided in the morning to visit the supposed haunted hostel in DeGrey Street, Hull where Bman used to live.  He didn’t live at the haunted property (although he says he wouldn’t go in the attic room out of fear). He lived 3 doors up.  I say lived.  I mean squatted.  🙂

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Money for old rope anyone?

Am not convinced by the authenticity of this alleged haunted property.  It smacks to me of a decrepit old house someone can’t be arsed to renovate to a livable standard so a spooky back story has been invented.  I’ve told Bman we need to do this ourselves.  Bid on some old battered fixer-upper at auction and float some ideas out on the internet about spectral goings-on and then charge ghosthunters £40 a head to wander around it in the dark with torches on a weekend.


Last Friday we opted out of the (not quite yet) end of term drunken teachers shenanigans in Leeds and went instead to Bradford City Hall.  A beautiful building in the middle of a big shithole.  


They don’t build them like they used to 




Raking about again in the dark. debunking charlatans and trying not to actually laugh out loud at Stuart the Medium as he rather camply said; “Ooh hello Colin. I’ve got a gentleman called Colin here” and “Push the table harder for the ladies Colin, they like it harder. get it up on two legs for them Colin rather than 4”. as well as, “Let’s have a bit of vibration Gerry (it had changed from Colin to Gerry by this time) the ladies like things that vibrate.”

Alright Stuart – that’s enough now!


Steve Irwin was here before the stingray got him

Not sure that Stuart liked it when we went rogue and wandered off around the old police cells by ourselves.  Not sure he could cope with us being seemingly unperturbed by the dark and the unknown, or the fact that we had our own tech.  Admittedly his tech was way funner (it’s a word) than ours:-  Sound amplifying headphones, weird rag dolls with light up eyes, interactive bears and night vision goggles.  We found ourselves especially hilarious at 1:45am when using an Ovulus speaking device and decided we must surely have contacted the spirit of Norman Collier.


Why hello there Norman

Am pretty sure Stuart was glad to be rid of us at 2am.  No comedy wanderings through the streets of Bradford, chasing lights this time – just straight home.

Until next time, at Armley Mills in October, where I may not be so blase about it because that place is creepy in the bloody day time, as I think I have said before.

Ciao MoFos (alive or dead)









Vive le weekend

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Movie Quote of the Day:  “Take the blue pill – the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill – you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes.” – The Matrix

In explanation of the staffroom being over-run with BT Openreach engineers earlier this week, I was informed that “There was some kind of loop going on with the interface”. 

“I fucking knew it!” I yelled. “I knew we were in the bloody Matrix!”


Not sure which one of us on the faculty is Neo but I know that when it comes to the choice of the red or the blue pill, I’m grabbing both and necking those fuckers dry.

By lunchtime we seemed to be plugged back in and ‘normal’ service was resumed. I have mixed feelings about that.


Today I had to venture into Sadford town. Realised as I was about to set off that my MP3 had been on all night in my coat pocket. No battery.  I had to go into town with full aural capacity.


There was a girl on the bus who had eyelashes so pumped and fake that I wondered if she would be able to press the bell just by blinking.  She didn’t, but if I had been her I would totally have tried.

Obviously Sadford does have its attractions.  Namely, Brown Muff. Not a euphemism or a nod to the female Asian community, but of course the legendary firm of solicitors long since gone.  The sign remains however as a testament to puerile humour and the immature.  Natch, I have a photo.

I was on a mission for a few essentials and a few treats for B’s birthday.  Usual epic fail trying to get a decent bra.  Either I have deformed breasts (SHIT TITS!) or everyone in Sadford is the same cup size.  Not a bra I liked to be found in the right size. Not unless it was some old lady number or something hideous made from easy-wipe faux PVC.  Neither being over 80, or a sex worker in a Sheffield brothel, I gave it up as a bad job.  It’s almost Valentines Day y’all. The stores need to up their game.
I eventually found some jeans I liked that weren’t ‘super skinny high-waist’. Am more of a boot cut girl myself. (which does NOT make me retard thank you very much Bman!)
 Needed a new pair, as my other two don’t need the zip undoing to pull ’em down because I lost 7kg! (Unlike you Mr B!)

**High Five Yourself MoFo**

Obvs I will still wear my favourite raggatus pair with the shredded bottoms from trailing along the floor because I also shrunk 2inches in the last 10 years.  I do like a raggy jean, but thought I ought to at least have a smarter pair.

Sadford was its usual sad self.  I trailed up to the market.  It smelled like all indoor markets the UK over – of raw meat, giros and desperation.  I was using it as a shortcut to Morries but then discovered that Morries is long gone.  The irony of a busker playing Pink Floyd’s, ‘Wish You Were Here’ from  the piss-stinking doorway of yet another empty store, was almost too much to bear.

Could be anywhere. Any mall. Any town. Any Matrix.


I almost lost the will to live in the queue in Wilkinsons.  I watched a woman loudly berate her husband in Primark for paying too much attention to the underwear section even though he was just following her around.  “What are you looking at?”  Why are you staring?” Peck Peck Peck as she smacked him on the arm.

After trailing to Tesco Express, Sainsbury Metro, B&M, Poundland & M&S, I began to wonder who I had to fuck to get a packet of burger baps.  Turned out to be Gregg.  Good old Gregg.

Managed to even make it home without hearing the magic words “Hya Miss Brewer!”

So a mostly successful mission but am not in any hurry to repeat the experience.

Right now am on 3rd episode of ‘Lost’ on a catch up revisit with my old friends Jack & Sawyer with a G&T for company.

Whatever you fuckers are up to this Saturday night. Enjoy!

Ciao Tutti Xx

My mangey pussy & 20 seconds to comply

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Had to take the eldest cat to the vets after work on Friday. because she is suffering from a bad case of scabby skin.
I was all of a sweat lather as I had to get home sharpish after Mexican Mayhem Harvest afternoon at work. (I hadn’t even cooked, I just turned up with my class, chatted up the natives and took photos for the website – but I was still hot & bothered). I had to walk with the cat in the pet carrier because Bman was at the garage picking up the car after its MOT.  I felt like Clark Griswold in Christmas Vacation when his aunt gives him a cat wrapped up in a box. She was jiggling about a lot and it was cumbersome to carry.  It got worse when I realized half-way down Wild Grove that she’d done a shit and was trying to get out of the box to escape it.  It bloody stank!



Slightly embarrassing taking her into the surgery and apologizing for the stench.  The nurse was fine of course, probably quite used to being elbow deep in animal shite for a living.  Seemingly she is ok.  Just an allergy to a flea bite so needed a bit of a flea treatment. (The cat not the nurse).  I don’t really understand though how last time we took Alan Lickman to the vet he had 2 sprays of flea treatment and we got stiffed £13.  This time, we got 2 vials of treatment – one for each cat and it cost £6.94!  Bloody Herr Klopek, who dealt with us last time must’ve seen us coming!

Yesterday I decided to go into Bradford and make a start on some ‘C-word’ shopping with my eldest offspring. I was hoping she’d photograph me against a background of comedy characters and Royston Vasey types to help me illustrate this blog.  To be honest though, it seemed fairly normal. No drunken old folk falling over after a fight outside the pub and losing their false teeth in the gutter (this actually did happen once). We did see this guy in the Broadway Centre. though.

We watched for a couple of minutes but then I got the fear as I remembered how this shit went down in ‘Robocop’.  I feared for a “You have 20 seconds to comply” moment and steered my daughter out of harms way into Paperchase, where we could “coo” &  “aww” at overpriced novelty useless shiz and ludicrously priced paperclips and rubbers.


Have these people never seen this movie?


 Made it home without hearing a “Hya Miss” from anyone and settled down for an evening listening to thousands of pounds going up in smoke outside for Bonfire Night. We opted to stay in and watch the classic 80’s movie, ‘Heathers’ (my girls needed educating that shows like ‘Pretty Little Liars’ and ‘Mean Girls’ didn’t just invent themselves!)  The alternative would have been to attend the pikey bonfire party at the local pub.  The last time we went to that, my girl was almost hit by a rogue banger and a trip to the loo inside the pub was like being an extra in ‘Shameless’.  I vowed then that I would never go again.  Needless to say it sounded like New Years Eve in Beirut until well after midnight.

Today I have mostly done fuck all except a bit of ironing and made tea.  Right now I am squirming at the brilliant new David Attenborough programme, ‘Planet Earth 2’.  I defy you not to squeal or cringe a little at the marine lizard dudes trying to escape the racing snakes. Get it watched on iplayer if you missed it.  That’s a thing y’all – lizards that swim and fucking racing snakes!  Holy shit!

Mother nature is terrifying and beautiful – a cruel mistress indeed.

Ciao Xx

Venturing into the threshold of the damned. (AKA shopping in town.)

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Yesterday I ventured into the wretched hive of scum and villainy that is, not, in fact Mos Eisley, but Bradford. 


Here is a photo I took at the Bus Interchange.


OK, I lied, but it was close.

It was wolf fleece central and I overheard the toilet cleaning dude telling someone it was his last shift before he relocated to work in Keighley, “which is much nicer”.

Fighting talk indeed.

I people-watched as I made my purchases in an array of pound shops.  The phrase ‘Welcome to Royston Vasey’ sprang to mind.


Brush your teeth kids & pay attention in school. Otherwise you too will end up toothless and gaunt, sucking on a roll-up. Tits deep in weird looking offspring and shopping at the type of frozen food store that sells mushy peas in batter, while your equally unfortunate looking spouse/life-partner/lover of the week, lurches along beside you looking like he is fit for his next fix of Methadone.*

Painting a pleasant enough picture for you?

*Am describing what I saw, not myself….just thought I best clarify that.

Forget expensive moisturisers, spa treatments and aspiring to be one of the Real Housewives of wherever. Just go into Bradford on any given Saturday and look around.  You will feel like a million dollars.

I found a store I’d not seen before which sold handmade soaps and bath bombs and, randomly, Ouija boards!  What could go wrong with the youth of Bradford tinkering with the afterlife? Although I imagine it could be difficult to tell the undead from the living.  It’s a thin line round here my friend.


In my trancelike state listening to my MP3 I accidentally wandered into the Model’s Own make-up stall in the new Broadway Shopping Centre.  Before I knew what was happening, I appeared to have agreed to buy an anti-redness primer (which is lovely to be fair). The foetus in hair extensions serving me seemed completely mortified when I said I didn’t usually wear foundation – just a tinted moisturizer. I thought she was going to have me arrested by the cosmetic police.
I’d like to think she was so convinced that my flawless complexion must’ve been the result of hours of careful blending, but more likely she was thinking,
“If I were you love, I’d put a bit more effort into that old mush”.


The primer was the only thing she got out of me though.  I stopped her in her tracks when she started waffling about contouring.  Fuck that!  I’d end up looking like a 1980’s Athena poster or Skeletor or something.  I’ll leave all that business to the teens.  Frankly these days I’m happy if I haven’t got a muzzy or any hair growing out of my mole.  After all those early years of having a spotty clock or a horrifically dry chin, I’m amazed I actually have any face left.


Is this too subtle?


How you doin?



I survived anyway and made it home in time for tea (which was not mushy peas in batter, before you ask.)

Got a training day at work tomorrow. Think I’ll give my new Dia de los Meurtos dress an airing.  Skeletons are for life, not just for Halloween you know.

Vaya con dios amigos Xx

YEAH! So there!

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This wasn’t the Bman – but it could easily have been and is probably one of his colleagues. train-conductor-attacked-by-passenger-travel-rail-attack

Be nice to the ticket dude please, buy a ticket, sit the fuck down and stop being an asshole!  This is the kind of fuckwittage they have to deal with on a daily basis!

Also, this could easily be your child.  schools-plans-to-build-prison-block

Sort ’em out at home and they might not have to build places like this. 

People like me certainly don’t get paid enough to deal with the kind of shit that warrants this kind of thing having to be implemented but we sure as hell are expected to put up with it.  Why?  Why the hell should we?

 If you don’t feel it’s right to treat kids like crims, scuffers and scumbags then they shouldn’t behave like crims, scuffers and scumbags. 

End of!

Right!  Rant over, time for a cuppa and maybe a bit of stress relief.  (Now how on earth could I do that I wonder?)  🙂

Who said romance was dead?

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I had a date night with the Bman on Monday on our trip to the cinema to watch ‘Prometheus’.

These are all genuine photos taken on my phone on our romantic walk home from the Cineworld in Bradford.

Sadly I hadn’t thought to begin documenting my salubrious surroundings until I had already passed through the subway bearing the enticing marker pen legend “Nice Brown Cock – 07430 662589”  *

*I made up the number here as I forgot to make a note of it as I was too busy holding my nose inside my jacket to disguise the pungent smell of stale manpiss.

These are blurry as I was jogging slightly because Bman made me hurry-up as he feared the crackheads within may  have been disturbed by the flash.

I expected Eminem to appear at any time singing the theme to ‘8 Mile’.



Wonder where I could get a new mattress? 

Oh fab, here’s one!






All the while we discussed the burning questions that ‘Prometheus’ had presented to us:-  Who engineered the Engineers?  Why did that red haired chick suddenly become French when she hadn’t been as a child?  Why did that AI dude spike that fit dude with that black stuff?  etc etc.

I also tried in vain for the umpteenth time (it is a word, check the dictionary)  to explain to Bman why it’s different for a girl/woman to walk home alone down seedy snickets and dodgy alleys.  No amount of mischief could occur to an unchaperoned female in such a place (as many can testify!)

 I can report that I made it home unmolested. So what with that, and the gargantuan fart that he did when there was only 6 people in the cinema resulting in a somewhat resounding echo; I’m not sure that he would have got a second date!

Derelict places and not even so much as a tit feel or a snog!  I wish I’d written down that number from the subway now, maybe I’d have had more joy! :-p




Pride of Britain

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What lovely children on BBC news this morning live from Lands End and the start of the Olympic Torch relay.  Polite, well-groomed and well spoken, waxing lyrical on how much they were looking forward to the Olympics.  It gave me hope for future generations.

However…. I await the Torch’s visit to Bradford with a certain amount of trepidation as I suspect the calibre of interviewees may have deteriorated somewhat by the time it gets this far North.  I have visions of it being borne aloft from the heady heights of a pony & trap pulled by a mangy Shetland pony by an illiterate 12-year-old with a rat’s tail & his trou stuffed into his socks. Never to be seen again as he has cashed in the torch at the local scrappers yard.

Or maybe that’s only if the torch comes anywhere near my neck of the woods…..