Jun 24th

a cultural hub

By mike

      Mat mentioned that Wren building!


      If you come to north London and wish to visit ‘The Tate Modern’ on the southbank of the Thames, it is best to head for St Paul’s Cathedral.   The cathedral and the southbank are linked by a footbridge.  This footbridge is called the Millennium Bridge but it is still known as the Wobbly Bridge.

       If a Londoner proposes ‘Let’s meet at the Southbank,” he might mean ‘The Southbank Centre’ rather than the southbank of the river. This centre originated in the ‘Festival of Britain of 1951 and ‘The Festival Hall’ is still there. 

     The southbank, as a cultural hub, now stretches from Westminster Bridge to Tower Bridge and slightly further.  You can walk to Rotherhithe along the ‘Thames Path’ but the buildings soon become residential.

    The stretch of the southbank from London Bridge to the Tate Modern is known as Bankside and this is where the reconstructed Globe is situated.  I can remember a time when the site of the Globe was a carpark for the local council; Sam Wanamaker was denied permission to build there.   The Globe was reconstructed about twenty years ago.

    My interest arose when I photographed what was called ‘The Pool of London’ and is now called ‘London Bridge City.’ I had been standing midpoint on London Bridge and, using a wide angle lens, recorded the scene with Tower Bridge at the midpoint of the photograph.

   It had been a foggy, misty morning and I showed the photograph to some work colleagues. The comments were one the lines of ‘How Dickensian!   i could see the point, but in the foreground was a jetty built recently for the ferry service.  I did some research and,if Dickens now stood on London Bridge and looked downriver, there are only two or three buildings he would recognise but the view is still Dickensian.


   I am reading a biography of E.S.Nesbit.  This was written in the 1930’s and revised in 1960.  I notice a new biography will be published this year.  Episodes of Nesbit’s life are often included in biographies and histories of the period as she was one of the first members of ‘The Fabian Society’ 

    Nesbit returned to Halstead all her life to revisit the countryside of  her childhood.  

    Yesterday,  I met a walker on a local footpath and she told me some sad news.  Land around Knockholt  Station  -band Halstead - has been designated for housing projects.

    The biographer also notes of Nesbit: ‘ ...she must, I suppose, be regarded as one of the pioneers of public smoking for women..’  I wonder if the new biography will mention this.


      A breath of fresh air.


      i have often walked along the footpaths in Kent and the views are quite different from those seen from a car or train window.

      ‘Leaves Green’ is little more than a village sign.  It is also a bus stop on the A233 out of London.  A few days ago I alighted at this bus stop and crossed the village green where I parted the leaves in search of a footpath.  My brain froze.

        In the distance, a small white aeroplane lay half submerged in what seemed to be a field of rape.  The small portholes were at an angle and it seemed as though the plane was sinking in a sea of green. Such are the effects of perspective!   

    Sanity returned.  A few bus stops along the A233 is Biggin Hill which is now a civilian airport.  


Jun 19th

A green and pleasant land

By mike

  Knockholt and Chelsfield are two stations on the commuter line linking London to Sevenoaks in Kent.  Knockholt Station should have been called Halstead but the name Knockholt was chosen to avoid confusion with another Halstead in Essex.

     Knockholt parish is centered on Knockholt Pound.  Knockholt Pound is few miles from Knockholt Station and both are a few miles from Knockholt village.   This is confusing!

     Is there any reason for anyone - apart from weary commuters - to alight at these stations?   Is there any reason to walk across the railway bridge at Chelsfield? Is there any reason to look down the railway cut towards Knockholt?   Is there any reason to wave at passing trains? 

   This is the railway cut that inspired ‘The Railway Children‘ 

    E.S.Nesbit spent the happiest years of her childhood in Halstead and it is recalled that she walked across the fields or paths to Knockholt or Chelmsfield and the newly built railway line.   The area had its own painter, Samuel Palmer, who lived at Shoreham. He might well have walked the few miles to Chelsfield.

    I have been exploring this area by foot and the local buses.  I live near a station on the same commuter line - though further towards London.   

    Chelsfield Village is separated from Chelsfield Station by the Orpington bypass and they seem separate entities.   The village is surrounded by farmland. 

   Chelsfield Village had been a childhood home of  the author, Miss Read.  Does anybody remember Miss Read?

   In the 1970 film of ‘The Railway Children’, the location had been the Yorkshire moors of the Brontes.  The  Keighley and Worth Valley Railway was chosen for its vintage stations and railway stock.

    Sadly, there might have been a suitable Kent line which could have been used as a  location for the film. This line was axed by Beeching  

    Most of the ‘Westerham Flyer’ was demolished by 1967.  This line ran from Westerham to Dunton Green where it joined the main line to London.  The two intermediate stations were Chevening and Brasted.  There were five miles of track.

      Brasted is one of the villages on the A25 from Westerham to Sevenoaks..  A path at the rear of the church leads to a noisy road where the path ceases to be.     

   Brasted Station is under the concrete of the M2 motorway!


Jun 9th

Writing Blind for Those Who Can See

By TheWeyMan

As a colour-blind person, the nature of colour has never been something of particular importance to me, unless it serves a challenge – unfortunately, as with other conditions, the challenges are imperceptible to those around you. I’m not saying that I am comparable to a paraplegic or those completely without sight, but there are certain things that are ever so slightly tainted as a direct result.

My nan and her sister (and parents) were all talented artists in their own way. Granny, as she prefers to be known, would tell me how she and her sister would argue over the name of a shade of purple for example. ‘No, it’s mauve.’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous, it’s lilac.’ This baffled me as a child who had never - and still hasn’t - witnessed the colour purple in it’s true form.

I have ‘deuteranopia’ or by it’s common name ‘red-green colour-blindness’. I’ve never been completely sure whether colour-blindness is a spectrum or a ‘you have it or you don’t’ kind of condition. I suppose this is hard to tell when you have unreliable participants for studies. How can you compare perception? Either way, mine is significant enough that when I show people what I can see, there is an immediate sympathetic response. It’s not what I’m after, I’m just helping them to understand. (See picture – if I’m allowed to post it).

The first real challenge this (disability?) gave me was drawing. One particular event has stuck with me since it happened. I was probably five or six. We were learning about the Victorians at school and part of our lesson consisted of us drawing what we thought the Victorians looked like. I wasn’t bad at the sketching part, though I doubt it would have made it onto the fridge! It was the colouring that tested me, so I sought help. I asked my best friend, Dan, to pass me the pencils I needed. Blue for the sky – I drew the strip of blue for the sky, leaving the middle white, of course. Why would there be sky behind people? Then I asked for brown for their clothes. I coloured in their rags, complete with holes to show their hard, poverty-stricken lives. A bit of green for the grass.

Then he started laughing.

‘What?’ I asked, but he didn’t tell me.

More laughs from a few others. What was it? Their hands weren’t particularly well formed, but they definitely weren’t the worst effort in the class.

‘Why do you think they all wore green?’ asked my teacher. ‘And why is the sky purple?’

I just shrugged.

Red and green are not the only colours affected, though they do play an important part. I can’t tell the difference between blue and purple due to the red element, brown and green are the same depending on tone, orange and yellow, red and brown, pink and grey (which can be odd sometimes – I once thought I saw a pink poodle but was swiftly corrected).

People ask me how I know when to stop for traffic lights and I joke that I know the red light’s at the top and the green’s at the bottom. This isn’t the case. Bright tones such as these I can tell the difference between. Murky tones are the hardest to distinguish and this becomes easier as they get brighter, traffic lights are no problem at all.

And this brings me to writing – sorry it took so long…

I’ve not been writing for a long time, less than two years, but one of the things that challenges me the most is description of colour. I can have a vivid picture in my mind of what I would see, but not what the majority of my readers would see. How do I know if I’m describing the colours, the tones correctly? I find myself searching my memory for words used in other books or on TV or by Granny. If they’ve said it, it must be right. But I want to make it my own, so I twist and change the colours to fit in with my imagination, and of what I think colours should look like if it weren’t for my useless retinal cones. I hope others see what I want them to see, not a poor translation of my dulled version of reality.

I’ve come to realise, recently, that it doesn’t matter too much. Perhaps, in fact, I should think of it as a novelty for my readers and, in my second WIP, I’ve even woven it into my main character, who happens to be colour-blind. I’ve described it as a different way of seeing the world (which it is) and one that assists in the story (via some embellishment).

I’m sure most people wouldn’t even realise they were reading the work of a colour-blind writer. No matter how descriptive one’s work, the reader will always have their own perception of how it looks, feels and even smells (maybe tastes if they’re extra creative).

Colour is just another aspect that can be filled in by imagination and I’ve decided not to let it concern me.

I can always seek council, though probably not from Dan! (we are still in touch, and I’ll never let him forget).


Picture 1 - Matt vision = deuteranopia

Image result for colour blind photo


Picture 2 - All of these look exactly the same to me other than darkening tone from left to right.

Image result for colour blind photo balloon

Jun 3rd

What Squidge-style drafting looks like

By Squidge

I'm in the middle of a new project, and caught myself editing as I go along, rather thn doing completely separate edit versions. I thought it would be a helpful reminder to myself to 'capture' some of the naff quality stuff in the drafting phase to remind myself of just how bad I can write before it gets polished up into something worthy of publication.

So I blogged about what drafting a novel REALLY looks like, and you can read it HERE on the Scribbles, if you're interested. 

Course - even version 3 isn't the finished thing. There'll be at least another edit or two before it goes off to the publisher, and there'll be at least two edits again...but they're more fine-tuning than hacket jobs! 



May 31st


By Mat

Well, masterpiece did not attract single reader on the web - save for my stalker pensioner buddy.  I'll try beloved Wordcloud.


by brightonsauce

silly dr1/possible tense conf issew

Brighton Winter

Photograph from personal portfolio available @12.99 per signed copy from Mat Scarborough, YO11

Drigby Foreshore

Inside the beach management office, the office I manage on a weekend basis as the beach management weekend superintendent there is a collage of photographs and snaps on the wall.  The great storm of ’79 shows the beach chalets smashed against the headland – like matchsticks [out the box].  The residents of the said chalets are spread and tagged at the ear.  A suprintentendent of yesteryear wears his fisherman’s smock and attempts in his futility to match kettle to corpse, teabags to twisted remains.

Thankfully, with the internet there is no such chance of big waves destroying my beach management complex office-hut affixed sturdily to the café next door, and where their jacket potatoes are a masterpiece of cuisine, and I get a discount.  If I wanted to – I might eat potatoes every day, and we don’t have internet connection actually, only a wind-up telephone and a clutch of beautiful lifeboys [RNLI].

Now, I’m getting ahead of myself.  Collages are on the wall, indeed.  Staring into the crowd of faces from ’33, I sense the tea dance is over[,] and there[,] amidst the folk a most beautiful handsome blonde man stares into camera.  My god it is me.  Yes, I have returned to the foreshore.

‘Look, it’s me!’ I say to Derick the maintenance chief.

‘Aye, and there’s me,’ he says, and actually it is him.  ‘Demobbed after Paschendale,’ he says, ‘I needed a job…’

‘But that would make you 122 years old,’ I say.

‘121,’ he says, ‘but don’t tell gaffer.’

‘Of course not, buddy,’ I say.

‘Reckon no, kiddo,’ he confirms.  He calls me Kiddo, I like that familiarity.

The only problem to date with the new posting has been the fog.  The fog has bleached my vista.  I stand on the slipway.  I might as well stand on a cloud.  I believe the sea is there somewhere, and also the beach, and possibly people on the beach, and possibly dogs – illegal and criminal dogs.  But I cannot chase the dogs if I cannot see the dogs.

I said to Derick ‘I can’t see any dogs…’

‘You are doing a brilliant job, Kiddo,’ he says.

On Drigby foreshore there is the one [other] disconcerting aspect to the posting.  That would be the toilet.

‘You will show me, Derick?’ I say.  ‘Last Saturday I lacked moral fibre and tossed rolls like hand grenades through the door.  The ladies, they were standing everywhere.

‘A great terror, the Ladies,’ says Derick.

‘Are you sure that’s my job?’ I say. ‘Head office wouldn’t just give me a baseball cap for nothing, eh?’

‘I’ll run you through [cubicles] when we have a quiet moment,’ he says, and I ruminate the possibility of sneaking a widdle – solo in the ladies’ lavatory.  Fight the power.

Mainly I must chronicle two achievements:

  1. Lifebelts – What kind of council official dictates that the beach manager Drigby Central beach seasonal must also inspect the lifebelts over at Coalsteeth Harbour – which is 4 miles away?

Thankfully, Derick has a BMX for me and so I pedalled and discovered this most beautiful attractive village that markets toward sophisticated book-reading artist people like me/us.  For whilst Drigby is renowned for its whelk and mussel harvest, Coalsteeth is rather more lobster restaurant.  AND all the lifebelts above the waterline are in [good] working order.

  1. The tree

It may not be ambergris or jet but I retrieved a tree from the North Sea.  I gave the tree to Derick.  I feel there is love between us – blossoming as I have established credentials of great strength, and for his part Derick said ‘come September we’ll have a mushroom each to sit upon.’

If I find more trees I shall blog details, possibly market my sea trees, God knows where Neptune plants them all?



May 31st

Unknown, Alternative Historical Facts

By Dolly



During his first time in exile, and just before his return to France, and his subsequent defeat at the hands of Wellington, Napoleon became increasingly paranoid about his height. He would often walk around the island, closely followed by a servant, who would be carrying sheets of paper, a quill, and some ink.

During these walks, he would frequently stop some of the local males and ask them for their shoe size. The logic behind this was to do with height. The smaller the foot, the smaller the person, and vice-versa. Unfortunately for Napoleon, this wasn’t always the case, as he found someone with small feet who was almost six foot!

Realising that this gave results that weren’t always accurate, he resorted to asking their inside leg measurement as well as their shoe size, thereby hoping to find someone with shorter legs than him. Logic decreed that if they had shorter legs, they would be shorter in height. To his delight, he found the system worked perfectly. When he did find someone, he would ask their name, which would be recorded by the servant, along with their address, marital status, religion, where they were born, shoe size, and inside leg measurement.

Finding someone with shorter legs than him, gave Napoleon a great amount of pleasure, as it meant that person was shorter than he was. It also meant that he could have a good old gloat, and call the person ‘short arse! Or, due to the peculiarities of the French language, ‘the arse that is short!’ Unfortunately for Napoleon, the locals began to rebel, by pretending not be in, and even going to the lengths of hiding or building the equivalent of


priest holes and secret places in cellars and attics. However, Napoleon soon got wise to this, was having none of it, and started carrying a tape measure around with him along with two or three hefty armed guards, who would drag the unfortunate screaming islander out from his hiding place, where his inside leg measurements and shoe size were forcibly taken. Napoleon even tried to introduce a law which made it compulsory for every male to go to designated points on the island and have their inside leg measurement and shoe size recorded yearly.

Shortly after the episodes of shoe sizes and inside leg measurements, and when Napoleon had more or less gone through the entire male population of the island and knew all the short arses, he started using the word ‘wack-ado’ in various forms. Sometimes he would use it as a reply to a greeting.

'How’s it going Bony?' someone would say.

Napoleon would often reply with a wink, a wave of the hand and “Wack-ado!' Or even, 'Wack-ado, wack-ado!'

There were times when he used it almost as a question, and would frown and say, 'Wack-ado?'

Then, one day, he found he could sing it, and spent the next few days singing nothing but, 'Wack-ado, Wack-ado, Wack-ado!'

No one knows where he got all this stuff from, perhaps it was some form of mental aberration caused by his fall from being the most powerful man in Europe, to someone taking inside leg measurements and shoe sizes on Elba. Whatever it was, the locals took quite a shine to it, and is still used to this



day on the island. On Napoleon’s birthday, all the males on the island go to designated ’polling booths’ where they have their inside leg measurement and their shoe size recorded. Later, in the evening, everyone gets kitted out in traditional dress, gather round large bonfires, and sing Wack-ado, Wack-ado, Wack-do! All night long.

Rumour has it, that in the early nineteen fifties, an American songwriter visiting the island, heard it and said, 'I can use that for backing singers in a song!'



May 30th

Be afraid...

By RichardB

Newspapers are dying. And the internet is suddenly there... It's all to do with this phenomenon of people not trusting what they are told by their governments and newspapers. They seek around to find some remedy to this. And they find me. I am part of the remedy.


Good news, eh? Well, we all know that politicians lie, that newspapers distort and selectively report facts to suit their political agendas. So if people are ceasing to believe them and casting around for alternative sources of information, that's got to be good, right? Shouldn't we be giving the man who said this a round of applause?


Oh, but wait a minute. The speaker of these pearls of wisdom is David Irving, whose 'history' books have been proven in a court of law to be full of distortions and lies, and to have been written not to present the truth but to further his own (rather unpleasant) political agenda. David Irving, who maintains that Adolf Hitler was a pretty decent fellow really, and that the genocide of six million Jews is propaganda, a myth. And as for the internet, let me tell you a story.


Four years ago, my curiosity piqued by something I'd read about D Day, I googled a particular detail in Dwight D Eisenhower's life. I was surprised to find that one of the links on the first page of results directed me to a vitriolic character assassination on a neo-Nazi website, claiming that Eisenhower was 'a Jew-lover.' That this result should have had such high priority in a search concerning a man who had so many other claims to fame – such apparently minor matters as having been the supreme commander of the Allied invasion of Europe and twice President of the United States – I found deeply disturbing. I didn't even understand what had provoked that rant. The man was a conservative, a military man, the sort of person that right-wingers usually like.


I went looking for an answer and  learned that, after Allied troops had discovered the death camps, Eisenhower insisted on going to see them for himself, and that photographs be taken. He didn't want to: he knew he'd be sickened, that the photographs would be the stuff of nightmares, but he felt that it was essential. With rather awe-inspiring prescience, he'd already anticipated that people would try to deny the truth about those camps. He wanted hard evidence, and to be sure he knew what he was talking about. 


This seems to have been what was behind the hate. Because oh no, none of this is true, is it? Those enlightened souls who shun establishment lies to seek the real truth know that Eisenhower, in the pay of the international Jewish conspiracy that pulls secret strings all over the world, betrayed his race by telling lies and faking photographs to back them up, to assist the big Jewish lie about the Holocaust. From which it follows that every one of the death camp survivors who told his or her story was a liar.


This is the sort of bilge you can find any day on the internet without even looking very hard. It certainly wasn't what I was looking for. And this was four years ago. It hasn't got any better since. It's got quite a lot worse.


A YouTube posting of the trailer for 'Denial', the film dramatising the famous trial in which the judge concluded that Irving was a racist and a liar, has attracted over four thousand comments, and there is hardly a dissenting voice in the strident chorus of support for Irving. The film is apparently nothing but pure pro-Jewish propaganda, despite the inconvenient fact that much of the dialogue in the courtroom scenes was taken verbatim from the trial transcripts. The judge had been got at by the international Jewish conspiracy, and the verdict was a mockery. Irving is a hero, a martyr persecuted for bravely telling the truth. This, in wilful ignorance of the fact that Irving wasn't actually being prosecuted at all: it was a private prosecution for libel brought by Irving himself, and (like Oscar Wilde) he lost the case and brought himself down in the process.


That isn't even the worst of it. Such comparatively sober comments are far outnumbered on the page by offensive outpourings of unfocussed anti-Semitic hate. There are gloating, sick jokes about the death camps. I soon gave up, too revolted (and depressed) to read further.


But Irving is right about one thing. The internet is indeed taking over from the established media. God knows I am no fan of politicians or the press, but it seems to me that we are exchanging one evil for another that is worse, much worse. Because, unlike the media, there are no restraints on the net. Anyone with internet access, no matter how deluded or misinformed, can put up anything they like. There are no guidelines, no checks. Facts are irrelevant to such people: anything that doesn't square with the agenda being promoted is dismissed as fake, the product of an elitist / liberal / Jewish / Islamic / multicultural / whatever conspiracy to keep the truth from the people. And this stuff is being swallowed wholesale, it would appear, from the ever-increasing flood of bigotry and ignorance out there. People disenchanted with their traditional sources of news and opinion are turning to the internet, and they are finding drivel and hate. And some of them are believing it.


And there is no answer to it, no balance. As far as I can see the left's presence on the net is negligible in comparison. It's a one-way traffic. What does this say about the way our society is heading?


Well, I suppose it depends a bit on your political persuasion, but to my way of thinking David Irving, far from being 'part of the remedy,' is part of the problem. Not that he cares. Although the court costs of that trial bankrupted him he has since received enough in the way of donations from supporters to live in a mansion and drive a Rolls-Royce. Despite his academic standing having been destroyed he is unrepentant. He calls his website 'Real History.' (It has been my experience that any website using words like 'real' or 'truth' in its title is more than likely to contain anything but.)  The home page displays pictures of Adolf Hitler, Heinrich Himmler, Josef Goebbels and Reinhard Heydrich (aka the Butcher of Prague), the driving force behind both the Holocaust and the Gestapo, a man of such cold-blooded ruthlessness and remorseless brutality that Hitler himself called him 'the man with the iron heart.' 


Irving boasts that his internet presence (there, on YouTube and elsewhere) prompts lots of correspondence from kids of thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, just the age at which adult opinions are starting to form. He makes a point of answering every communication, in the cause of truth and enlightenment.

May 20th

Gerry' blog

By mike

Dear Gerry,

     I had attended a sermon of sorts during which the vicar discussed how Mozart’s Mass in C related to the service he conducted on the Sunday.   This  was some months ago, but I recall the service is very much as you describe.

     Last Monday I saw a stage production of Paradise Lost.  This was in a theatre and drew comparisons between the theatre and a church.  It was a work in progress.          During April I attended a Catholic Mass.  It was staged in a concert hall and had been composed by Bernstein.  I think the Mass could be described as a melting pot of cultures.


May 17th

Coffee Table Book

By Mat


by brightonsauce


Another early start with my beach photography of pets.

Nothing says springtime on the sand to me more than a Springer and his owner springing, and frolicking in the early morning light.  Something about the light that captures my art egg, if you catch my drift?

Driftwood is another thing.  Driftwood gives me wood in a photographic sense.

But then people are not always as friendly as their animals.

She was maybe thirty years old on the beach.  I was chasing after her on the beach but then she started jogging so the game was over, and her Snauzer was sitting on nobody’s coffee table, or maybe under hers?

Another unsuccessful portrait was with the Labrador.

‘Can I take a discreet photograph of your puppy, sir?  I said.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m calling the police.’

So, I’m home now and this ‘darkroom’ I have all set up and ready is kind of useless.  Unless I can think of a different activity for a dark room?  Maybe take off these shorts, just quickly and twirl.

But then that coffee cup, I don’t know how it hooked on the handle?  It’s a gift that means I am communicating on this fuckin kindle in the dark.  Suppose I could open the curtains?

That would ruin everything.  No coffee, no clothes on, it started as such a good day.  Worse of all in less than four hours I have to get my own photopass photograph down the council office for my Poopascooter ID.  I should wear a tie, people will be looking at that photo all summer, but my wife cut my hair and she didn’t leave my flap at the front.

‘I need the fucking flap,’ I told her.

‘But you look like a monk,’ she said.

‘Now look at me!’ I kind of screamed, ‘I look like an ass, or arse.’  – it all depends on which lobe I’m utilising for my communicating.  But definitely a shiny lobe with a tie.

My God, they’ve given me a chance with the employment; did it have to be this, the Regional Seasonal Dog Mess Enforcement officer?  They lured me with the free motorbike.  I thought I’d wear leathers on Route 66.

Fight the Power,

after work.

May 15th

Giving up football

By Colin

Five years ago I wrote my very first, and ashamedly my only blog to date. The title was giving up football and that was what I intended to do. To stop following the team I had supported since my father had taken me to watch as a five year old. One comment on the blog proffered that I could do no such thing and how good it would be to see my team rise again.  We had just been relegated from the Premiere League at the time.

      Well after six seasons in the second tier we are back.  Not only are we back, but we are playing the best football I have ever witnessed at the Molineux.  We have the backing of a mega wealthy Chinese company and it seems that this time we go up to compete and not just mearly survive.  I get so excited at the prospect of Wolves being one of the top clubs in the country again (the Chinese company's ten year plan) that I fear I shall soon have to invest in some of those incontinent pants so often advertised in the loo's of motorway service stations, I think they cost under a TENA.

     I moved from my birth place to Cornwall thirty years ago, but never stopped following my beloved Wolves.  I remember my then wife saying 'Why dont you support one of the local teams now'  I almost had a Rene from Allo Allo moment.... You stupid woman!!!  For a start you canot just change your team as you change your address (with the exception of glory hunters). Plus there are no football league teams in Cornwall. The 'local' team where I live in Bude is in fact Plymouth Argyle a mere 45 miles away. Most locals seem to follow one premiereship team or another, usually the ones at the top of the league.

       I have a Barbershop in Bude and as such we have some banter about football especially on a Saturday morning.  Over the years I have come in for a fair bit of stick from the glory hunters, fair enough, I can take it.  My children, especially my son were ridiculed at school for wearing the old gold and black but stuck with it.  They are now both proud Wolves supporters and that makes my chest swell with pride.

      Back on February 3rd (my birthday) myself, my son and dauaghter, my partner( a Welsh woman of rugby background) and a mate (Man Utd fan) and his girlfriend travelled up to see Wolves take on Sheffield Utd. It was an evening KO and a few drinks were imbibed in before heading to the stadium.  I was slightly aprehensive as I had been 'bigging up the Wolves' for months to my Man Utd mate, and I was praying for a good performance at the very least.  Well what a night, not just a good performance but a 3.0 thrashing of the blades.  My mate was impressed by the team and the stadium, it was my partners first ever football match and she loved it, and my son and daughter want to go again as soon as possible. The night was rounded off with a superb indian meal in Bridgenorth and fabtastic accomadation at my cousins B&B.  

     So as far as giving football up?  Not a chance.  We are just entering an exciting new era and I want to be part of it.



Getting Published


Visitor counter



Blog Roll Centre


Blog Hints

Blog Directory