ROLL on Saturday (he said with fingers crossed) and a Ryanair flight out of Leeds-Bradford to Alicante for a week ‘en famille’ as the French would say.
I don’t know how the Spaniards say ‘with family’. “Dos cervezas por favor” to the first bartender I see is the limit of my vocabulario Espanolo – “and whatever this lot want to drink”.
It will be the first time the four of us have been away together for more than three years and with daughter starting uni when we get back, plus no.1 son having just finished, this could very well be the last traditional family holiday.
Some people pray for good weather when they venture overseas. I’m cautiously hopeful of that – you just know the sun will be cracking the flags here while I’m away – but I’m praying that the current ceasefire endures for one more week. It’s not a given when the Lockies are in enforced close proximity for any length of time.
Ah, happy families!
It will be the end of an era anyway, what with baby girl leaving, despite the fact I swear she was still in nappies only a matter of months ago.
I won’t be sad to see her go however. These youngsters’ habit of hitting the town as the clock strikes midnight and coming home on the back of the milkman’s float (no, not really, but you get the point) is getting right on my wick.
The same goes for The Beast. He’s had his post-uni hibernation and September marks the hands ticking round to Job o’clock. If he’s not sure of his life’s vocation then Sainsbury’s or shovelling sh … shomething for shomeone … is going to have to do until he finds his muse.
I’ve warmly suggested the army, merchant navy or running away to join the circus but haven’t been able to tell if it was a positive or negative grunt I got by way of reply. The latter, methinks.
My repeated rosaries, praying that it will be just me, Mrs L and Arthur dog by Christmas, hasn’t precluded news that we’re having an extension and new kitchen when we get back.
(I can only think she’s found all my hiding places and wants to expand our games of hide and seek once we’re finally rattling around the place on our own).
That’s why I wasted my only non-working half day of last weekend, while a Wren Kitchens chappie designed said kitchen on some impressive software. The clock was ticking down to the end of Wren’s ‘Half Price Kitchens – With An Extra 25% Off’ deal. Not to be missed, said Mrs L.
This wasn’t a refurb of Blenheim Palace by the way – just a run and a half of units, hob, oven, fridge and counter, plus a small island.
Despite having more discounts than Dewsbury town centre, the Wren computer eventually said £15,500 – which would have put the ‘full’ price kitchen at about £35k. Did I say small island? You could buy half the flaming Shetlands for that.
“Of course, we might be able to tweak that price a little bit if you put a deposit down before the deal runs out on Wednesday,” added Mr Shifty. Tweak? I refrained from telling him where he could shove his quote – and a full kitchen too – before tweaking it, saying we might just have to revisit our plans.
“Everything alright sir?”
“Yes, fine thanks. I just need a holiday…”
PS: Having written Ryanair and Leeds/Bradford in the same sentence – the worst combination of airline/airport outside Somalia – I’ll relax once I get that cerveza down my neck.
THE world is going mad. You do realise that, don’t you? Stark, staring bonkers.
I don’t know which Clarks shoe chain exec signed off a range of girls’ shoes called ‘Dolly Babe’ but he/she deserves the old heave-ho anyway for such a crap grasp of marketing.
But for wild-eyed, hairy-armpitted feminists to then demand the nuking of Clarks’ HQ (at least that’s how strident and vitriolic it felt) for adopting a crass name for a shoe range, shows just how far down the road to madness we have already travelled.
One thing’s for sure – judging by that name choice, the Clarks culprit really wasn’t a ‘he/she’ which, judging by the volume of the rising transgender banshee wailing, stands to be a bigger travesty of human rights than 18th century slavery and Pol Pot’s Killing Fields combined.
I must go in the wrong pubs because I never but ever bump into transwotsits.
I spotted a couple in York city centre earlier this summer, all deep purple eye make-up, jet black nylon wigs and size 11 high heels, a couple of six-foot blokes with seven o’clock shadows, linking arms and having a grand old day out, and all I could think was “good for them”. Whatever floats your boat, lads/lasses.
But do we really have to rewrite the Oxford English Dictionary to accommodate imagined prejudices against a tiny proportion of the population.
Whatever happened to simple ‘live and let live’?
I’ll tell you what – a three-line whip is going out to The Press staff right now. Strictly forbidden are the nouns ‘chair’ (something you sit on) or ‘chairperson’. It’s chairman or woman.
As and when someone takes issue claiming to be a confused.com, they can make a case for a brand new monicker.
I couldn’t bring myself to watch the TV feature this week with a ‘couple’ who are raising a four-year-old boy as ‘gender neutral’ with a view to self-determining his sex when he/she/it is older.
In this perverted version of a family, the tot calls his biological, transitioning father ‘mummy’, and the other parent who was born a woman but can’t currently make its mind up, as ‘daddy’.
Unbelievable and this gender fascism elicited one immediate response from me – where are Social Services when you really need them?
But the answer to that is self-evident – they are all busy trying to place other vulnerable kids with warped so-called families just like this one, in order to tick more equality boxes.
I despair and not just for that little lad, who having been named ‘Star-Cloud’ hasn’t much of a chance anyway.
I despair for mankind.
CONDOLENCES to the family of Bernard Kenny, who passed away this week.
Although Bernard’s death was not related directly to the injuries he received trying to save Jo Cox, those wounds took a huge toll on his health during his final months. He was every bit a real victim of Thomas Mair.
Having made a huge song and dance of how their own ‘heroes’ caught the hapless Mair within minutes of that brutal murder, complete with dramatic TV documentary, you’ll notice a big fat silence emanating from West Yorkshire Police ever since.
As simple in so many ways as Mair was, the only real job the police had – finding out how and where he got the gun he used – has remained completely beyond them.
Ergo, I was surprised at a Sunday Times report that Batley and Dewsbury are hotbeds of neo-Nazi nutters, planning reprisals on unsuspecting Muslim communities. They must be flying well under the radar because even the BNP have deserted this patch in recent years.
I don’t doubt the ST journalism, but I’d happily call bullsh*t on the police who reckon Thomas Mair + epic failure to solve gun mystery = local neo Nazi underground.
Apparently these madmen’s threat to national security “is no different from Islamist terrorists” according to Plod. Really? And the respective body count is what exactly? Sorry, this sounds like a cheesy attempt to balance the ‘counter-terrorism’ race ledger.
It isn’t just our local plods though.
Did you see the CCTV footage of the London jogger pushing a woman in front of a bus? How lucky was she? You’d think people would have remembered something like that – and they might have, if the police had issued that footage when it happened which was on May 5, all of three-and-a-half-months ago.
Only when it was beyond their limited abilities did they think to ask for help from witnesses – too little, months too late.