Excursion

A curious little group were parked in the snug at the _Paul_And_Land_Arms_ II, Bar and Grill. From many flung place and places flung afar: The South, The East, The North and the Near Here; cars and buses (with laminate floors and leather seats and nice drivers warning of tripping hazards) and the ever-popular trains. Trains to stations awarded plaques, potentially, for their lack of soul. However, our little group of expeditionists cared not for soul lacking stations for they chatted and laughed and shared stories like old friends. Some had only met an hour previous, Twitter had brought them together. This is Social Media at it’s best and Real Life in even bester.

Natural nervousness at meeting new folks evaporated in seconds. Parcels were handed around. And light bulbs changed by a lithe chap stood on a chair supported by _Paul_And_ in a flat rented by Trace (today has already been designated Blessed Sweet St. Trace of the Mucky Beer), whilst a young chappie bedecked of scarlet sits chatting with a Blonde betopped with now refound red hat. If this is not perfection then I challenge you, yes all of you (sweeping point of the outstretched finger, hand, wrist, lower arm. elbow and upper arm accompanied by words such as “you can take away my liberty but you’ll never silence me” or something usually in a Joan Crawford way) to show me what is.

So more beer, Diet Cokes, Lager and Gin and Tonics, slice no ice, visits to Chazzers for sound and vision stuff, and then more beers and wines and Gin and Tonics (ice no slice) and Diet Pepsi and Grubbins served by a pre-pubescent youngster and a young lady (not of the happy wanderers, we hasten to add) in tears quickly followed by “Lee, Lee, leave it Lee” in heavy drink. Lee was certainly well cooked which is more than can be said for our lithe fella’s Sirloin. It almost mooed in pain as the knife went in for the first time. And then hotel, the group will remeet over a New York Italian breakfast no doubt seranaded by strains of Dino the Wine Drinker. “How do you like your eggs in a morning, I like mine with a kiss……”.

Enjoy your Blessed Sweet St. Trace of the Mucky Beer Day. Both it and the Eve of Blessed Sweet St. Trace of the Mucky Beer Day are now special days which at least one citizen of _Paul_And_Land_ will treasure forever. x

Wilkinsons. A Young Persons Favourite Shop.

The Elders of _Paul_And_Land_ went on a road trip of sorts because it was on a train. Well, two trains or more. It should have been less but that’s the nature of trains; sometimes more, sometimes less, sometimes not at all, hey-ho. Enough, by crikey, because there’s more and then extra and additional, such as hotels. Indeed hotels.

The Elders stayed in a hotel with a wobbly floor and big, thick, darkened beams. Stairs that are uneven, more history than history has: the same seat as Arthur Lowe or John Le Mesurier or John Lawrie or Private Walker. And outside the window Tom Paine plays darts with the fresh air. Pretty flippin’ corkin’ and more fish and chips than would be needed to feed the population of Norrich. Or Bury Saintly Edmund, not physically obliviously cos’ he been brown bread a day or twelve but he’s got a nifty little town named after him. Maybe he scoffed a few too many chips and popped, we doubt it not many folk get beatified for chip consumption. Shame.

So, yes, burying Saintly Edmund’s town: Books, yes books, proper books, where you make your dinner with four ingrediments for only one round shiny thing and shops with nice clobbers, properly made, not by tiny children who sleep under sweaty sewing machines, for next to nothingness. Gordon Bennett, all lumly stuff, jaw dragging on the deck. We aw loved, the Elders of our fine place and a scarf, softer than a baby wabbits furry fur. Phwoar!!

And then a big ol’ building, ol’ and big and a garden beyond, all looking flippin’ lovely. Ol’ Eddie boy, you got a nice place ‘ere. Well done you. And then you got Wilko’s, yes Wilko’s, my goodness. Wilkinson’s is a fine shoppe, selling washing up liquids and curtains and fabric softener and Lynx Africa for men who want to smell of a continent. Better than smelling of incontinent, just. Like men who want to smell like David Beckham or Vinnie Diesel or some Pony Club with Ralph Loren, Sophia’s Dad, from a hill in Beverley near Hull.

Let’s get back to Wilkinson’s, yes let’s, it’s someone of a junior persuasions favourite outlet. A curious choice for a person of junior persuasion when the One Direction Pop Up Shop exists in Leeds. But in we go, expectant of piles of Kitchen Rolls and Scuffed Floors. Err, err, err, err, no Scuffed Floor, no Pile of Kitchen Rolls. Blimey, an eye-opener and no mistaking. One now understands the attraction, the pull: real squared paper, proper smells, fluffy towels, a new unexpected experience: this is not Wilkinson’s, this is pure unadulterated ace shoppery.

Burying Saintly Ade Edmundson, you are a beautiful place. Thank you, our Elders will be looking at recreating you in our little part of the world. With our Private Godfrey-a-likes sitting in the bar at the _Paul_And_Land_Arms_ and Clive Dunn. Brilliant.

Down Home Blues. And Reds

Everyone in this ‘ere place was excited, even excitement was getting slightly over-excited.  “It will all end in tears”, each of us thought and how right we were.  Whilst showing off to the local ladies, excitement tried to execute a Triple Salko and knocked his elbow on the bannister.  No serious damage, fortunately.  A nasty bruise and a quick rub-down with some light sand-paper, touch of undercoat and a final flourish with a bit of gloss will sort it.  No-one will ever know.

So, we hear you muse, why all the excitement, what’s going on in _Paul_And_Land_ that’s got hearts pumping.  And we reply, yes we do.  Y’see, over the past few weeks, posters have been posted all over place by Bill Posters.  Yes that fellow who, allegedly, will be prosecuted.  It does appear a tad harsh, no-one likes receiving a bill but they are an unfortunate part of life and to threaten poor ol’ Bill just because he posts them, seems to be lacking in compassion somewhat.  Sorry that was a tangent.  Yes, posters have been posted exclaiming the imminent arrival of some MP chap name of Ed Hair-Band MP and of his entourage including another MP called Mrs MP Raquel Reeves MP.  At the Big School.

So the big day dawned, in much the same way as any other day, the sun’s alarm clock clanging like the empty metal barrels at the _Paul_And_Land_Arms followed by usual grunts, snorts and curses as the sun turned the light on.  Sometimes, sun forgets to put pants on before turning the light on and that’s why the light is a little bit red.  Sun gets a bit embarassed.  Not today though, fortunately, because Mr Hair-Band and Raquel were in town.

But then the looks of disappointment, there was no Big Top on the Big School playing field, no waft of hot, tepid, warm or even cold dogs, no Flossie or her oppo Candy and no caravans, old lorries, or men in neckerchiefs.  Tears were welling up across the district, no bumper cars, no ghost train, no goldfish, no posters of Elvis Pugsley, no speedway and certainly no potential for gastro-enteritis.

Then we saw it, we pointed in glee, a cart pulled by a broken down ol’ nag coming down the track at the side of the Post Office.  Dusty and squeaky but that’s the way we like our Post Office, staffed by real humans and not by clones from the “Have a Nice Day” School.  Back to aforementioned cart and broken down ol’ nag as it pulled onto the playing field and drew to a halt.  The driver, leapt onto the seat and proclaimed “People of _Paul_And_Land_ we bring you all the answers”.  This was indeed good news especially for the pub quiz team who quickly whipped out notepads and began scribbling furiously.  “These are our plans, one, nobody under 25 Stone in weight will be allowed money.  Two, people who are foreign will be called foreigners and will live in places where others can point and Three, Teachers will have licences”.

A huge silence descended on the amassed crowd.  One lady dressed in a lost red-hat exclaimed “bugger off!”, a brave move as Raquel was wandering about the crowd brandishing a Baseball Bat.  Let’s be frank, Frank, there are no foreigners in _Paul_And_Land_, we’re all just people.  Some of us saw a tear in Mr Singh’s eye, we all offered hankies.  There would be no pointing at our favourite small Convenience Store and Off-Licence purveyor.  And certainly none of the Teachers were considering Off-Licencery so quite what the need for additional Licences (either off or on) was, no-one understood.  We gave up on dog licences back in the day after the terrible Road Traffic Accident which killed an entire family of Jack Russells.  The only TV in _Paul_And_Land_ is in the back-room of the _Paul_And_Land_Arms and the only licence a Teacher needs is a mini-bus licence to take the young ‘uns to the Swimmimmimmimming Pool in Richard “Sodding” Branson Land.

And so the mood turned ugly.  The men who enjoy fisticuffs disarmed Raquel and she quickly retreated behind Mr Hair-Band on the cart.  Mr Hair-Band took up the reigns to take flight but some of _Paul_And_Land_’s children had taken pity on the poor ol’ nag, had uncoupled it from the cart and had taken it to eat buttercups in the corner of the field.  Seeing the look of terror in the eyes of Mr Hair-Band and Raquel, The Men who enjoy Fisticuffs helped push the cart out of the playing field and set them on their way down the long hill where they’ll meet all their friends at the bottom because it happens every time they turn up and get turned down.

During the ruckus, Mr Singh had disappeared but now he returned with his barbecue, a sack of sausages, a selection of bakery requisites, onions and tommy sauce.  The lady in the lost red-hat whipped out a cassette recorder and started playing tunes.  The Teacher with a Licence, drove the mini-bus onto the field and offered trips to all around the perimeter.  Even the broken down ol’ nag entered the spirit offering straw hat beclad rides for _Paul_And_Land_ Residents.  Hurrah, for the  _Paul_And_Land_ Circus.

Hello Sweet Peas.

Well, what a to-do. All that singing and dancing for the Festival of Joy and Happiness. And then, hot on it’s heels (well moderately warm, actually) the Feast Day of Saint Corduroy. It’s all a go-go with more go than the happy citizens of this ‘ere place could have ever contemplated. Blimey, yes. Even Haus, played by Uma Thurman, has been well-behaved. Such casting, there must be an Oscar on the way. Perhaps _Paul_And_Land_ should consider a Film Awards Ceremony? Maybe, who knows? Dust off your best trousers. And buy a smart new pair of socks. And buy a nice new, newish frock. Excited now. Will Claude Van Diesel be here?

Talking of Transit Van Diesel, thoughts drift back to Brussels and it’s finest export, Sprouts. Lovely little things, all sprouty and Brusselsish and baby cabbagey. Some say they’re the Devils work but not ‘ere. If ever a vegetable was more loved (apart from the heralded pickled variety) then we’d like to know about it because Brussels Sprouts and _Paul_And_Land_ go together like a song title: I’m in Pittsburgh and it’s raining.

Quite what that has to do with anything, we’re quite not sure. Back to Brussels, you bunch of international jet-setters and the delights of Coconut Cream available from all good purveyors of Coconut Cream. Which should also be able to flog you Spudikins, Garlicky stuff and spicy things of a Nindian type: Coriander, Turmeric, Chilli, Mustard Seeds et al, whatever grabs your fancy. Oh those lovely little sprouts, chop ’em in half and those spudikins, cube them. If we’re being frank, Frank, a half inch would be just the job. Then let them have a little bath in hot water for a few minutes, not too long, they just fall apart and there’s no registered psychologists to help them in these parts.

Now, take all your Nindian spicey niceness and your chopped up Garlicky stuff and chuck it in with Vegetable Oil, who should be hot, in a wok. A wok? Yes, a wok, so don’t monkey about and oik in the Love of Brussels and the Spudikins pretty sharpish, like, and let them all get to know each other. They all like a bit of Cumin too, gives the Spudikins a lovely tan.

So, when they’re all lovely and tanned give them a lovely drink of Coconut Cream. Let them bathe in it for a few minutes before introducing them to your tummy with some fresh coriander on the atop of. That’s it, now for some more singing and dancing, with windows wide open.

Burp, ‘scuse me.