Thursday, May 01, 2025

"What A May Day"

So, dear bloggerisationism fiends, welcome you all are, as ever, to the very latest From the North blog-page update and that. Coming to you, as it usually does, from the magnificent splendour and elegant palatial luxury of The Stately Telly Topping Manor blog-writing-and-creative-thinking room.
Arriving at your Interweb browser all the way from The Stately Telly Topping Manor. Which is, of course, in The North. Just for anyone that wasn't aware of this universal constant or the relevance of this blog's name for the last nineteen years. Well, you know, some people can be a bit slow on the uptake. 
We kick-off this bloggerisationism piece with a, necessary, opening weather report: To quote the extremely-late George Formby, it's turned out nice again.
The most recent From The North bloggerisationism update happened to coincide with the arrival on the actual BBC of the latest series of From The North favourite Doctor Who. The opening episode of which this blogger thought was great. Since which times, two further episodes have been also been shown; Lux - which this blogger thought was great ...
... and The Well. Which this blogger, also, thought was great.
Of course, this blogger - being 'up Russell's arse', according to one particular source - would say that. To provide a counterbalance to such a crass show of actually 'enjoying something' (Heaven forbid) as per usual, a few mouthy, punchable online naysayers, have been whinging about ... you know, stuff. It's what they do, dear blog fiends. They're very good at such kerfufflement. It is, therefore, always worth remembering when reading such glakish loose stool-water dribbling the following piece of necessary contextualisation.
As is his occasional want, dear blog fiends, this blogger recently decided that it just was about high-time for another change of appearance. In this particular case his, bi-annual, well-dodgy haircut. 'Change, my dear. And it seems not a moment too soon (before he starting looking like a hippy). 
Meanwhile, following the untimely death and (subsequent) funeral of the late Pope Frankie (it had to be subsequent, it would've been a bit harsh to bury the poor chap whilst he was still alive, would it not?), a surprise front-runner in the search for the next Pope has emerged. Keith telly Topping can, indeed, confirm that he is available ... at the right price. 
Should His Holiness Keith Telly Topping get the gig, of course, he shall not use the papal right-hook in the manner of 'Enery's 'Amma to smite-down, with great fury and righteous vengeance, those who offend against The One True Religion; on the contrary, this blogger's benign papal reign will be a time of peace and tolerance based, largely, on the teachings of Keith Telly Topping's role model, His Holiness Pope Ringo I from Lisztomania. His Holiness Keith Telly Topping will be no Pope John-Paul III, dear blog fiends. He will, rather, be His Holiness Pope George-Ringo I. And, when it comes to the tricky question of the church's attitudes of general gaiety ...
The Metro - so, not a real newspaper - ran the sad, sad story of one chap who has, seemingly, lost a useful secondary source of income. Or, at least he would have done if anyone has actually needed to hire a His Holiness Pope Frankie lookalike. Trees died to bring you this vital information, dear blog reader.
Perhaps a change of artistic direction might be in order for yon rent-a-pope chappie if he wants to make some money out of the job.
On a somewhat related-theme, let's hear it for Chris.
The following rather excellent image popped-up on this blogger's Facebook memories page last week. 'The Seven Bridges', taken by this blogger with his (then-new) Motorolo digicamera, in 2008, from out of the window of a Douglas Dakota DC-3 which was making its final flight from Newcastle Airport having been in service since the mid-1950s.
Whilst this blogger waits, patiently, to receive the page-proofs for his most recently completed book, already his thoughts are beginning to turn towards whatever it is that he intend to pitch next. Which potentially may (or may not) include a boxed-section on the role of the wise-cracking Jack-the-lad Detective Chief Inspector in the 1970s British horror movie. Most of whom are, seemingly, as thick-as-mince and funny as a dose of testicular cancer. With these two notable exceptions.
At the back end of last week, this blogger enjoyed one of his semi-irregular 'let's do the show right here' lunches with his close fiend, the legend that is Young Malcolm. There was a revised, buffet, menu on offer at the Little Asia and it was, all told, a rather civilised way to spend a leisurely lunchtime. Here was the very scene of the incident.
This was how, in the words of Elvis Costello, the whole thing started.
There then followed what can only be described as The Main Event.
And, before we paid the bill and buggered-off to HMV to do some Blu-ray shopping, there was also cake, dear blog reader. Actual cake. 
Meanwhile, back at The Stately Telly Topping Manor, 'he did, in fact, play The Invisible Man, but this is daft, isn't it ...?'
This blogger recently received his latest Covid-19 inoculation-type thingy at (one of) the local pharmacies. Keith Telly Topping's arm is, sad to report, still knacking over a week later which is the first time he's had any sort of (in this case, extremely mild) averse-reaction to one of these since the very first Covid jab he received back in early 2021. He can live with it, however, it just means he's been sleeping exclusively on his left-hand-side in plush and comfy The Stately Telly Topping Manor bed for the last week. Following those tricky hospitalisation events of February 2022 and November 2024 this blogger is, frankly, taking having a-bit-of-a-sore-arm for just over a week as something of a result compared to getting used to hospital food again. 
Nevertheless it was, in short, one of those sort of weeks.
Last Saturday was the twelfth anniversary of the death of this blogger's late-mother. The following day was the thirty fourth anniversary of the death of this blogger's late-father. Keith Telly Topping, of course, continue to miss them both every single day.
This blogger's fortune cookie on Sunday evening gave the following, no doubt sage, advice. This blogger could, he is forced to confess, hardly wait for the following day to arrive.
On Monday morning, this blogger was shocked - and stunned - to discover that the branch of Lloyds Bank on Shields Road had only been and gone and shut (without them bothering to actually tell anyone about this). Shields Road Post Office was, likewise, closed - temporarily in this particular case due to some hapless plank of a lass getting herself locked out of the counter-area and needing to call the manager to come and let her back again. One imagines her next Annual Report will be a document that's well-worth reading. McDonalds and Morrisons, bless 'em, we're happy to accept of this blogger's custom without questions. And, they shall have it again; amazing is it not, dear blog fiends, commercial premises never seem to have any of the fiascos that service industries do on a virtual daily basis?
Following that, dearest blog fiends, on Monday evening it was clearly time for a nice medicinal - and thoroughly deserved - King Prawn curry with egg-fried rice at The Stately Telly Topping Manor. Oh yes. As usual, this blogger is happy to report that it was geet lush.
Now, some people talk a good game, dearest blog fiends, but others actually do something which, quite literally, affects every single person on the planet on a daily basis. Take, for example, Joseph Wilson Swan (1828-1914), seen here in his laboratory in Mosley Street, Newcastle. An inventor, chemist, physicist and electrical engineer, Swan is most famous for inventing the incandescent lightbulb, as well as fairy lights, photographic paper, synthetic silk and a miner's flameless safety-lamp. Born 1828 in Pallion Hall, Sunderland. In 1846 Joseph joined his friend John Mawson in a chemist business. In 1867 Mawson was tragically killed in an explosion on Newcastle Town Moor whilst trying to dispose of some Nitro-glycerinein. That same year Swan's wife and his twin sons also died. The following year, Swan moved his remaining family to Underhill House in Kells Lane, Gateshead. In 1869 the company Mawson and Swan was extended to include stationary, under the management of Thomas Morgan. New premises were taken at the top of Grey Street which became Mawson, Swan & Morgan (later a branch of Waterstones and, now, Byron Burgers - this blogger's never eaten there personally, though he's told it's very nice). The original electric street-lamps can still be seen outside the building. In 1879 Swan demonstrated his incandescent lightbulb to seven hundred people at the Newcastle Lit & Phil Library on Westgate Road. In 1879 the Mawson, Swan & Morgan lab premises on Mosley Street and the street itself became the first in the world to be fully illuminated with electric light. In 1880 Swan supervised the installation of his electric light at Sir William Armstrong's mansion at Cragside utilising hydro-electric power. Thomas Edison was also working on an incandescent lamp at the same time. In 1880 he produced a lamp using a bamboo filament and received a US patent for what was, essentially, an exact copy of Swan’s design. The notoriously-litigious Edison attempted to sue Swan through the British courts for patent infringement. However, he quickly realised (or, was advised by his lawyers) that he was onto a loser and, eventually, the two men settled their differences and formed the Edison and Swan United Electric Light Company Limited. For the next fifty years pretty much every electric lightbulb sold in the world was an EdiSwan. Sir Joseph Swan was born into a world of candles and left the world a more illuminated place. He died in 1914 at the age of eighty six.
This is just what one needs if one wishes to grease up ones very own burglar, this blogger will venture. Get it in the shops for Christmas.
'Red sky at night, Gatesheed's alight ...'
Moving on, now, to the regular From The North Headline Of The Fortnight nominations. Beginning with all manner of trouble, strife and mayhem in that there Marske. Let us allow, therefore, the Northern Echo to describe the sort of scenario which Enid Blyton never thought it necessary to inform us about.
It would seem that Julian, Dick, Anne, George and Timmy have also been up to no-good in Devon. With lashings of Ginger's Beer, one trusts.
Presumably, Uncle Quentin was the dastardly mastermind behind these naughty criminal shenanigans.
From that nonsense to what is, without question, the most thigh-slappingly ironic story of the week. Or indeed any other week for that matter.
Oh, if you will dear blog fiends, the irony.
In this week's Whom, Exactly, Is The World's Biggest Numbskull? competition, the BBC exposes one, potential candidate to the full, harsh, glare of publicity.
It's a question which needs to be asked, dear blog fiends.
At least the same competition's runner-up had an excuse ready, according to the Manchester Evening News. Not a very good excuse, admittedly, but still ...
Things that are 'nothing whatsoever like [a] nuclear war ... not even a little bit', a loadish bridge siren in Glasgow. The pie-ruination business is, undeniably, a twenty-four carat tragedy though.
The BBC News website (which used to be run by adults) appears to have highlighted the only flatulent beaver in nature.
And, from the same website (which, again, used to be run by adults) in the 'this utter-horseshite constitutes "news", apparently' column, the following mountain of noxious diarrhoea.
Considerable and generous congratulations are, of course, due to the Henley Standard for managing to shoehorn a Monty Python's Life of Brian dialogue quotation into a headline. One presumes the sub-editor in this particular case 'did it for a bet'? If so, jolly well done, sir (or madam). next, see if you can get away with 'Biggus Dickus'.
Should someone inform the authorities about this possible copyright infringement, one wonders?
Here's a potential hot-topic for this time of the year.
'Nick Ross, law lecturer at ULaw [no, me neither], states: "It may be surprising to find out that topless sunbathing is perfectly legal for both men and women in the UK. Full public nudity is also not a crime but only if the person who strips off has no intention to cause alarm or distress.' If you do intend 'to cause alarm or distress' (to either yourself or others) with your naughty nakedness, dear blog reader, then this blogger is very much afraid it's straight-off-to-jail-with-you right good-and-proper. 'You ought to be bloody-well hung.' 'I am, Mister Judge, sir, what do you think got me here in the first place? Society is to blame.'
Next ... So many potential jokes about Rovers at this juncture. Obviously.
The Daily Torygraph's Madeleine Ross, meanwhile, wishes to illicit readers' collective sympathy for exceedingly rich people who whinge about what a hard time they and their hideously-entitled grubby offspring are currently having and how we should all feel sorry for them (and, vote Tory). 
And, still on the subject of 'shit that nobody in the world could, actually, give a soddin' cobbles about', there's this nugget of stinking, toxic phlegm from CNN.
The only sensible reply to these previous two pieces, of course, being ...
Thank you Richard. Next, when it comes to court appearances, honesty seems to be the best policy. At least, it is according to My London News (no, me neither).
Blimey, could this be the long-awaited 'Coming of The Lord'? They called. He, seemingly, answered. Possibly he misheard about what happens in Exodus 3 with the burning bush and though it said 'bus'. 
Jesus was, to be fair, probably more than a bit pissed-off at the point by this sort of malarkey. Every year around the same time. It's enough to make anyone cross, frankly.
'Waiter, there's a maggot in my burger.' 'Keep it to yourself, sir, or they'll all want one.'
'Waiter, there's a fly in my soup.' 'Yes, sir, it's the heat that kills them, they reckon.' 'But, what's it doing in there?' 'Looks like the breast-stroke to me.'
Not the Gruniad Morning Star's Bayeux tapestry penis tally mass-debate, surely?
Now, of course, what we all really need to know is just what, exactly, those dirty pigeons have done to Adrian Chiles downpipe. And, are there any pictures of them doing whatever it is that they do. Because, this blogger, personally, would pay good money to see that.
'Police say they have nothing to go on.' What? What?
Arthur Poo-Sheds Jackson's latest info-dump, from the Doncaster Free Press.
'The power is out and nothing is working. How am I supposed to get through the day? That was the question faced by millions of people on Monday across Spain and Portugal during the worst electricity blackout in their history.' Thus begins a piece of abject space-filling bollocks by one André Rhoden-Paul on the BBC News website (which, remember, used to be run by adults). In which the answers cash, a radio, tinned food, candles and torches and a powerbank; he fails, however, to also mention that cash won't be of much use to you if most places are closed because of the powercut; the radio will also need batteries; your tinned food will require a can-opener so you can get at it and, unless you have a gas stove, you'll also need something to cook it on; candles also need matches to light them and, finally, a powerbank isn't going to be much use unless it operates on solar power. André Rhoden-Paul, dear blog reader. Silly name, silly man. 
Why ever not? It's certain more celebrational than anything else that's ever happened in Stockport dare one suggest?
Yer actual Keith Telly Topping reckons this is more than a bit of a blow.
And, finally ...