It is an acceptable question for a man of my vintage should we attempt anything that deviates even slightly from the norm: "Are you having a mid-life crisis?" Inevitably I must concede that yes, quite possibly I am, and have been for nigh on a decade now.
‘An attempt at humour, thought to originate in 1582’, could lead you to believe this week’s topic is the latest tory party policy. Alas, however, it’s April fools.
Out of tragedy can come hope, however fleeting. Some use the loss of a love as a force for good: to make amends, to change the way they live their lives, or to set up a charitable foundation with which to raise much needed funds for a noble cause. Caroline Flack’s death, for but a brief period, brought the well meaning together to rally behind the hashtag of #bekind which, predictably, didn’t last long before human nature reverted to type and the bullying tendencies of the critical masses on
Ground control to Captain Tom: commencing countdown, fundraisers on. Oh yes, the old boy done good and managed to go ‘viral’. We Brits love an underdog, generally of a sporting persuasion - I refer you to Eddie of the Eagle and Frank of the Bruno before I rest my case. But now, in what can only be described as astounding, centenarion Captain Tom Moore, has inadvertently usurped all underdog human interest stories that came before him, and raised nigh on £33 million by walking around his gar
Judy Garland famously stated ‘there’s no place like home’ and she wasn’t far off the mark. Granted, her statement may have been clouded by the fact that she was accompanied by a scarecrow with dung for brains, a lion who had the backbone of a limp lettuce and a tin man who was in desperate need of a squirt of WD40.
A couple of days after ‘downloading’ the Paul Young back catalogue to my Amazon Music stable, I met the man himself, in the flesh, and a thoroughly nice chap he is an' all. Subsequently I have bumped into him a few times now and am on arm waving acknowledgement terms with ‘Paul’, whom I have admired since his 1980s heyday.
Like liver sausage, Gordon Ramsay is an acquired taste. I must confess, despite not being a fan of celebrity chefs, I have a bit of a soft spot for the old gruffer. I like his in-your-face aggression as he deems a well-cooked linguine to be not just a matter of life and death but more important than that. He is the one guy who I quite enjoy listening to swearing, despite having to mute the volume each time the kids walk in, as I protect their tender ears from his potty-mouthed eff and jeff fest.
In normal times, boredom is easily alleviated through the gamut of activity on our doorsteps. Coffee mornings, the cinema, body rubs, pubs and clubs all grab our attention, but when limitations are enforced, oh, what to do?
