A HAPPY new year to one and all. I trust that Santa was good to you and the seasonal merriments passed without too much drama … no black eyes, handcuffs or phone calls to divorce lawyers.
The Lockies came pretty close. Mrs L was singularly unimpressed with the gift-wrapped 10-metre extension cord she got, to go with the second-hand (but new to her) vacuum cleaner I bought her last year.
It seems the fact she can now vac upstairs without having to unplug the thing didn’t quite tick the right romantic boxes.
(And I notice that the ‘Lose five stones in five weeks’ book I bought her as an extra treat remains where she threw it under the Christmas tree as well). Some people, eh? Talk about ungrateful…
It was the usual confuzzling female conundrum when it came to my Christmas presents. Because my birthday is in mid-December, Mrs L is always exasperated by my standard reply to the annual question: “What do you want for your birthday/Christmas?”
Me: “There’s nothing I really want or need, darling, except peace on earth and goodwill to all men – plus an extension cord for my lawnmower.”
Mrs L: “You never give me any ideas … come on, there must be something you want.”
Me: “Okay, well, what I’d really really like is one of those electric-powered scooters you see people zipping round London on.”
Mrs L: “Why do you want one of those?”
Me: “Erm … so I can give the dog a run instead of a walk.”
Mrs L: “You mean so that you can zip over to the pub in the next village?”
Mrs L: “I’m not getting you one of those!”
You just can’t win, can you?
Christmas Day was happy and peaceful enough – until we went to church. Now, me and daughter are Catholic without being exactly regulars, while Mrs L defines loosely as Christian, in the manner of the majority of Brits.
But it was Christmas Day, we have a beautiful village church and we fancied going along to join in the worship, the carols and enjoy the communal goodwill.
Despite being a ‘left-footer’ of Irish descent I’ve been to lots of Church of England services, but this one was bizarre.
The vicar started by bantering with the organist, we all read a prayer, sang a couple of carols, then he spent half an hour reading out really bad Christmas cracker jokes and playing with one of the kiddies’ prezzies – a Star Wars light-sabre, which he seemed really taken by.
Then he walked up to our pew and asked me: “So grandad, what did Santa bring you?”
In the stunned silence that didn’t last anything like as long as it felt, I had a vision of my next visit to a Roman Catholic confessional box: “Bless me father for I have sinned … it is six weeks since I chinned a vicar.”
Grandad? Yes, it’s logistically possible years-wise given my ‘middle-aged’ status.
But ‘grandad’? That’s Clive Dunn from the 1970 chart topper, isn’t it? A character from Last of the Summer Wine, or maybe some fat old bloke playing Santa down at the White Rose grotto? And a ‘grandad’ insult from a bloke at least 10 or 15 years older than me, who I could still throw through the stained glass East Window if so minded?
I mean, it wasn’t even as if my 21-year-old daughter had a baby in her arms … unless he thought SHE was my granddaughter.
I managed a reply of sorts, to the “what did Santa bring you?” part of his remark: “Brexit” I hissed at him through gritted teeth.
But that was Christmas Day well and truly beggared. Even the wife felt sorry for me, and that hasn’t happened since I had a tragic reaction to my vasectomy.
Our neighbours in the pew adjacent couldn’t look me in the eye. They were probably afraid they’d burst out laughing and they didn’t want to see a grown man cry.
Bah humbug. And they wonder why church attendances are falling…?
MY CHRISTMAS Day woes notwithstanding, life goes on, another New Year’s Eve comes and goes. Have you made any resolutions? Do you think they’ll last through the weekend?
I did Dry(ish) January last year, so don’t feel the need to prove that point to myself again. Instead, I think I’m going to commit to continuing some old resolutions.
So, I resolve to keep asking very difficult questions of people in authority and, where appropriate, mocking and ridiculing them until they’re all stabbing effigies of Lockwood.
It’s a year since 55 men, almost all from Batley and Dewsbury, were arrested on suspicion of sexually abusing young girls between 2002-2009. Another 40-odd were picked up in June, relating to similar allegations from 1995-2002.
So my first resolution is to ask West Yorkshire Police – yet again – if charges are pending, if not why not, and how many suspects have absconded back to Pakistan (which has happened in the ongoing tranches of trials of Huddersfield rape gangs).
I could give you a pretty educated guess right now as to the waffle I’ll get in reply, but let’s give them a chance at least.
My second resolution is to make life as difficult as possible for individuals in Cafcass (Children and Family Court Advice and Support Service) and Social Services.
I understand that a judge was recently asked to bring charges against me for being in Contempt of Court.
My ‘crime’? I’d fought to keep safe a young child whose life these corrupt and/or incompetent people were endangering.
None of these details are public knowledge because Family Court cases hide behind a dangerous veil of privacy – dangerous to children mostly. I’m not so daft as to blatantly flaunt that draconian law, but I don’t mind pushing the boundaries as far as possible.
The judge apparently refused the sulky appeal by miffed Social Services managers to have me dragged before him – and you’d imagine I’d be greatly relieved at that. No, actually. I wish the judge had issued proceedings, because then we could have had a stage where the identities and the malevolent actions of those individuals – plus two corrupt lawyers – finally saw the light of day.
I don’t doubt those public officials will read this column and agonise as to whether it now constitutes a Contempt breach and is worth putting before a judge again.
My reply? Go ahead, I dare you.
THERE have been so many false dawns in the battle to save Britain, but I’m thoroughly looking forward to January 31st, when we can finally raise a glass of (non-French) fizz – or perhaps a pint of Tetley bitter – and toast the UK’s farewell to the EU.
I’ve not seen a long-range weather forecast, but no doubt there will be mass Snowflake meltdowns on the night. And that’s my final New Year’s resolution – to continue laughing my socks off at the pathetic whimperings of the soppy liberals and the hate-filled screeching of the increasingly pointless Far Left. Tee-hee-hee!