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Tag Archives: Royston Vasey

Lines and Lines and Lines and Lines

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Gone are the days of half term days out with the offspring involving trips to Eureka or Blackpool Pleasure Beach.  Today we followed blue dot and I took youngest child to Hadfield, the home of Royston Vasey, for a right good treat ja? While the eldest child went to Pride in Bradford with her mates. Pride for the gays, lesbians, Bi’s, Tri’s, girls who like guys who like guys who like girls; Tails, no-tails, Cis, trans, pans, flans, mans, puns, bums, femmes, fams and wingdings symbols like when Prince changed his name presumably – because there’s fuck all else to be proud of about Bradford! There’s not a day goes by when I don’t mentally beat myself up about the fact that we live here and brought our children up here.  #sorrykids

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“The room is starting to spin cos of the gayness” – Talledega Nights

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stay safe out there kids

The Hadfield thing was purely because the youngest daughter shares my affinity for dark and twisted humour whilst the elder one ‘doesn’t get it’.
I’d promised her some time ago that I would take her to where League of Gentlemen was filmed.  Half-term seemed as good a time as ever. It would get us both out of the house for a start and she could earn maximum points for spending time with her mama.  I’m not sure what she expected, as there’s not a lot there, which I think was rather the point when it was chosen as the location.  No Babs Cabs merry-go-round or Dr Chinnery petting zoo. But there is a good pub and a very local shop with possibly not quite official merch for sale.
It has a very friendly local shopkeeper who doesn’t mind you touching the precious things or flicking through his fannymesto of photographs.  He also told us an amusing tale of the local old folk storming the barricades at the Post Office one time during filming.  How very rude dear. Restricting access to the Post Office on pension day. How very dare you!

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Literally me

We ate our lunch on a bench, had a drink in the pub, almost bought a side table in the shape of an elephant but thought the better of it, then headed back into Manchester without any sign of a nose bleed of being kidnapped by Papa Lazarou.

Trains on the way to and back from Manchester were awash with leopard print and prosecco. The Spice Girls were in town for their comeback (yet again) tour at the Etihad.  The women we saw were fairly lively already by 3pm and the gig didn’t start until 7:30pm.  My advice to any train guards working the late shift tonight would be: lock yourself in the back cab and turn off the lights.  It’s gonna be messy out there come 11pm. These birds won’t look quite as glamorous 7 hours and 3 bottles of fizz later when their spangled wedge heels are in their hand and their hair extensions hanging off as they piss in a drain behind a Greggs singing ‘Spice Up Your Life’ while their pals live stream that shit on Facebook.

😦

🙂

You know it girls!

In fairness, I somehow managed to get shit (my own no less) on my jeans this morning and I don’t even drink prosecco! Luckily oldest fruit of my loins spotted it before I left the house. Fooooooooks Saaaaaake! No idea how I managed that. Such a classy chick.

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 Ciao Ciao local MoFos.

Alles Klar?

XX

This is a local post for local people

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I appear to be having some kind of midlife crikey lately where, despite looking my age, I actually seem to be mentally regressing.  19 on the inside.  69 (dude!!) on the outside. And it’s panicking me a bit. I’ll be buying rollerboots next and trying to get off with 26 year olds.

Look at those crinkly eyes!  Those pores!
I think I might have peaked at 34.  Although am strangely happier with my body now at 47 than I ever have before. Pity no bugger wants to see it though.

😀

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WTF is happening here? Laughing too much & gozzy-eyed squinting have taken their toll

 

To distract myself from inevitable decrepitude and the fact that it’s only going to get worse if I turn into one of those botoxed. boob-lifted, peroxide Patsy Stone types, I chose today to check out a local meeting (for local people).

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I don’t want to get old. I’m still only mentally about 20

I follow our local area’s FB group page to see what’s what in the hood – who’s been robbed lately or had their knickers stolen off the line – that type of thing.  It’s recently gone a bit westside and has been more entertaining than the Brexit saga, all because someone has erected a chain across a snicket/ginnel/alley/twitchell/call it what you will, in order to deter rogue quad bike riders and teenage drug dealers.  This has caused outrage and much chuntering on FB. I have been following the saga on the community page with a mix of neighbourly interest, amusement, and frustration at some of the questionable spelling.

With nothing better to do with my Monday other than bemoan my encroaching slide into the domain of the desperate old woman, I decided to wander down to the local meeting for local people, which had been arranged by our local councillor and to be held, oddly, at the site of the disputed chain. I was there in a people-watching capacity only, as I couldn’t give a shit if someone has the right or not to try to stop people riding dirt bikes and quads down their back alley or dealing drugs next to their back yard.  I was more interested in who else rocked up and whether the people who had been so vocal online were there in person.

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What’s all this shouting? We’ll have no trouble here!

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I’d wanted to arrive on a quad, through the disputed public right of way, whilst smoking a massive spliff, just out of badness and because I’m a piss-taking, trouble causing cunt, but couldn’t obtain the necessaries at such short notice, so I just walked round instead.

There were no pitchforks or flaming torches but it was fairly depressing.  Despite the local councillor and the dude from the council who deals with public rights of way disputes and such, reminding the small crowd to listen and not argue over the top of one another, that is of course, what happened.  Everyone had an opinion. It was the usual Top Trumps local edition of who has lived around here the longest like that’s a badge of honour rather than a poor life choice or a rut you are now stuck in.
The poor woman who was responsible for the drama spoke up to explain herself and I couldn’t tell you half of what she said because guess what? people were talking over her to each other and not listening.  Too busy chuntering and grumbling about losing their short cut.

I was asked twice whether or not I even lived on the street. I said no I didn’t, I lived around the corner and was there purely in the interest of sociology and psychology and that thus far I had not been disappointed. I did speak up when a couple of people were a bit mean after the lady had gone back inside her house.  But of course they were – people are mean – it’s human nature, unfortunately.

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Several people had even arrived in vehicles, which led me to think about how local they actually were if it had warranted a drive but that…like the chain fence, is none of my business.

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Meanwhile, the Bman is back from his weekender in Manc (which was initially only an evening), so I no longer have the bed to myself.  If he snores I may have to adopt this approach. We’ve tried everything else.  Snore pillows, nasal strips, mouth guards, punching him in the ribs.

It could be a win-win situation for me.

🙂

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Just a regular Sunday being normal

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My friend wanted “a nice change to do something normal” so we drove to Manchester and paid £5 to sit in a shipping container in the pitch black whilst wearing headphones and listening to a stranger whispering at us. This was part of an immersive theatre experience called Seance .

We weren’t sure what to expect but did joke on the journey there that we might end up being shipped off to Madagascar by mistake with a giraffe, a lion, a hippo and a zebra.  This could have been an elaborate project by our respective husbands to get rid of us.  Lure them in with cheap tickets to get locked in a box in the middle of the street.

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It was quite entertaining but would have been more effective had there been more people present. There were only 3 people in the box at our ‘sitting’ and that took the edge off a bit for me.  Possibly because it was a Sunday or possibly because most normal people have no desire to sit in the dark with a bunch of strangers apropos of a having their minds fucked with.

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I think possibly we’ve spent too much time lurking about in dark basements and satanic mills by torchlight to get too affected by it, but I did enjoy it nonetheless.  Give it a whirl if you’re in Manchester St Anne’s Square.

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How tall are you?

We then had a pleasant lunch at the Cathedral Cafe before going on a mission to Hadfield on the way home. A local village for local people. And I swear I am not making this up, as we drove into the village I saw a woman crossing the road carrying a life-size fibreglass dog under her arm, like one of those ones you see outside the post office and you put money into its head for the spastics.  (Can you say spastic these days?  Probably not considering you can’t compliment anyone in this day and age in case you get YewTreed or Weinsteined 25 years down the line – fuck me you can’t even clap in case somebody somewhere is sensitive to noise. Jazz hands you have to do now to show appreciation – jazz hands FFS!).

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Not a supergeek fan or anything

 

Anybody got a bockle oran joooose?

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Last weekend of the holidays gone.

Mate and I attended a Seriously Strange conference in Manchester on Saturday. Essentially a series of lectures on everything from people who think they’re werewolves and vampires; a talk about haunted Chester, and alternative approaches to how people deal with bereavement. There was also a showing of the new Borley Rectory (boily rectum) film.
We met a man who claimed to have been a friend of Reece Shearsmith of the League of Gentlemen. He told a tale of rescuing him from a hotel room with a missing door handle.  He said if we tweeted Reece to say we were with him then we’d get backstage.  We did. But funnily enough got no reply.  Possibly because said guy may have been a Number One Fan. Annie Wilkes style or like that chap on Alan Partridge.

So that was weird.

Also, accidentally wearing matching Shirley Ghostman quote tee shirts to the convention and then realizing at lunch that you were strolling down Canal Street in them.

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Mate covered hers up while I brazened it out (but quickened my step) for fear that the locals might think we were some kind of ‘Pray the Gay Away’, religious zealots and push us into the canal.

FFS!

We ducked out of the conference early to get across Manc to our hotel so we could get changed and get a bite to eat before meeting my Fam at the arena for the ‘League of Gentlemen Live’.  Cue me flapping over pal’s salad not arriving in time as I worried we’d be late to meet my Pops and I’d be excluded from the circle of trust – like on ‘Meet the Fockers’.

As it goes we all arrived at the same time.   Been what seems a long time waiting for this show. I bought the tickets for the fam for Christmas and birthdays.  It didn’t disappoint.  My cheeks ached from laughing from start to finish. And we seemed to be sitting 2 seats away from Paul Young of ‘Wherever I lay my hat’ fame.  You decide from this google pic Vs our surreptitious snapshot, taken while pretending to take a pic of my sister.

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We were also inches away from a resurrected Pauline as she ran down the aisle high fiving people whilst shouting “MORNING JOBSEEKERS!”. We are also all now wives of Papa Lazarou because we raised our left hands in the air (this forms a legally binding nuptial contract apparently).

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I am your wife now Dave. I promise I won’t pee in your sink

Great night all round.

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Where’s Pops?

 

The next day we sought salvation in Manchester Cathedral following the bee trail and hoping to see the spectre of the supposed ‘fanny’ who haunts the knave. Because who doesn’t want a haunted fanny right?

We happened across a photo shoot and like the mature 40something-year-olds we are, kept trying to photobomb the pictures by lurking in the background and walking past.  I saw the photographer deleting quite a few snaps on his camera. I suspect that they may have looked a bit like this.

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Photoshop credits to Allie B

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Photoshop credits to Allie B

 

On the way home we went to look at Strangeways (as you do) and got a bit overexcited when we saw the visitor’s centre – shouting “GIFT SHOP!” and immediately seeking to park the car. But it quickly dawned on us that it was where the prison visitors have to check in and stuff their phones up their arse and hide ketamine in their hair etc and not somewhere we could stock up on HMP bookmarks and tea towels for Christmas gifts.

Pity.

😀

 

And now it’s time to return to work this week but not as we know it.

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No policy reading, break time duty, value chanting, behaviour pyramid building, time out chair negotiating for me.  (No decent wages, pension or sickness pay either – but hey ho!)

Alles Clar. It’ll be reet. Arbeit macht frei and all that.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Xx