"Curse Of The Scarlet & Beige Stately Telly Topping Manor Of Ghastly Horror, Terribleness & Naughty Malarkey"

Thus, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, From The North is, once again, upon y'all with a further update of quasi-majestic shat-in-yer-own-keks proportions. And all that. Firstly, a necessary weather report. It's been hot. Very hot. It's going to remain hot. Very hot. Except when it rains, obviously. That was the end of the, necessary, From The North weather report. Carry on as you were. 

Let us begin this latest From The North blog update-type-affair with a jolly important word (or several) from our sponsors.

Next up, in acknowledgement of this blogger's extremely beloved (and now, thankfully, sold) Bonny Magpies' recent achievements in the silverware department (see previous updates here and here), Lancelot The Stately Telly Topping Manor laptop has, of late, acquired a celebratory homepage makeover. It's extremely Toontastic in the area, so it is.`

This blogger really fancied a Cornetto®™ one morning this very week for some obscure reason. Can't think of the reason why. 'Is there anything else I can help you with?' the shop assistant asked. 'No, this is something Keith Telly Topping has to do myself,' this blogger replied.

Here, meanwhile, is the second-funniest Interweb moment of the week. Looks like Mad Larry's been on the mad-juice again. 

Followed, inevitably, by the funniest Interweb moment of the week. it's funny cos it's true. 

Next, we present a visual joke for fans of American televisual comedy 'of a certain age.' Which, this blogger hopes dear bloggerisationism fiends will all find, ahem, 'velly intellesting.'

Wednesday of this very week saw the latest periodic monthly(ish) meeting-of-minds between yer actual Keith Telly Topping his very self and his close and excellent fiend, Young Malcolm. This time, this windswept and interesting pair went somewhere different - to the top-floor Sky Chinese Cuisine Restaurant on Stowell Street; it was the first time this blogger has been in the gaff for about five years or so. And, he is happy to report to you all that the food was as every bit as good as this blogger remembered it to be from his last visit.

Here's an idea of the various scran on offer to all of those clammin' for their bait. 

The opening course was accompanied a lengthy (and, one hopes, worthwhile) discussion on problems of the importation of horror movie videos from the US in the 1980s encountered by both this blogger and Young Malcolm's fiends. 

The second course was eaten whilst debating whether Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads? (Keith Telly Topping's choice) or Dad's Army (young Malcolm's choice) would be a better 'you're getting sent to a desert island for reasons we'll get into later and you can only take the home-media-of-your-choice for one complete TV series - so, what's it gonna be, then?' choice. This blogger was, of course, correct on this particular score. As he usually is. 

The main course - King Prawn curry with friend rice - was very tasty if a wee-bit more spicy than either Keith Telly Topping or Young Malcolm had expected. All whilst the dynamic duo discussed further matters of great import before finishing their meal, paying the bill (and leaving a decent-sized tip) and adjourning to HMV for a good, hard shop. 

Only but one question remains at this juncture, dearest blog fiend; which absolute twenty-four-carat idiot let this miserable sod on the bus in the first place?

Although, that said, one potential alternative is far more genuinely horrifying, disturbing and nasty. 

Following that comes yer actual Keith Telly Topping's annoying confession of the week. To paraphrase the late David Bowie, dear blog fiends, this blogger is very much 'afraid' of Americans. Not all of them, of course. From The North has at least forty three regular dear blog readers in the good old US of A and they're all entirely excepted from this blogger's general mistrust, occasional confusion and frequent ire. He's also sure there's probably at least seven or twelve others out there who are, similarly, reasonably sensible. But, as for the rest of you ... what the actual? Exactly what prompted this long-overdue realisation was that for a couple of days last week this blogger wasn't feeling overly clever in the general health-and-well-being department (see below) and was, basically, forced to spend the majority of a couple of full days in Bettina, The Stately Telly Topping Manor bed. Where, whilst there, just about all that his brain would accept as any form of stimulation, was this blogger spending a few hours on You Tube watching nothing but 'reaction' videos (almost exclusively originating from the Western side of the Atlantic); reactions to things which yer actual Keith Telly Topping by-and-large enjoys (hence his reason for watching); the Premier League; The Be-Atles (a popular beat-combo of the 1960s, you might've heard of them); Map Men; social, military and pop-culture history videos (especially those that take the piss out of revisionist stupidity); British television and movies like Monty Python's Holy Grail, Hot Fuzz and Dracula AD 1972. Almost all of these reaction videos were, of course, made by young Americans (sorry, that's another, in this case unintentional, late-Mister Bowie reference), the overwhelming majority of whom - whether they liked the things they were reacting to or otherwise - appeared to be a bit confused as to how the world actually works. So, this blogger has but five small pieces of advice for any (non-regular-From The North-reading) Stateside brethren for whenever you're intending to do reaction videos. A) please don't shout, we're not deaf (and, if we are, we can used the subtitle feature). B) please do a bit of funking research before you say anything about anything. C) please learn how to pronounce non-US names, locations and other assorted ephemera properly. D) please realise that it's a jolly big world out there and that it doesn't begin at The Stature of Liberty and end at The Golden Gate Bridge (or, visa versa). And, e) please, please, please vote for someone sane next time a general erection comes around. This blogger believes he speaks for the rest of the planet when noting that we'd all appreciate a bit of effort in these regards. Thank you for allowing this blogger into your homes.

'Careful, love, you could have someone's eyes out with that thing!'

This blogger was absolutely delighted to see that From The North's favourite channel, Talking Pictures TV, were having a rare TV-showing of Horrors of the Black Museum one Friday night recently on The Cellar Club (introduced, as usual, by the divine Goddess that is From The North favourite Caroline Munro).

It is, if you've never seen it, a film in which Michael Gough goes so far over-the-top he's down-the-other-side. As noted in this blogger's Return to a Vault of Horror (exceedingly available from all good bookshops, some bad ones and from the publisher's website), legend has it that, when Tim Burton was shown Gough's picture for the role of Alfred in Batman he exclaimed: 'I know that man. He's been in some terrible movies!'

Keith Telly Topping loves the DVD commentary on Horrors of the Black Museum by the very excellent Kim Newman and Steve Jones in which they make the persuasive argument about the film's origins; that it quite possibly came about when someone (in this case, producer and co-writer Herman Cohen) read all of those horrified, appalled, morally-offended, 'furious of Tunbridge Wells' broadsheet reviews of The Curse of Frankenstein and Dracula - contemporary Hammer films which are now, rightly, not only regarded as masterpieces of British post-war cinema but are also the sort of cosy nostalgia artefacts which regularly crop up on a Saturday afternoons on BBC2 - and thought 'what if someone (for example me) made something that actually was as morally bankrupt, corrupt and sick as those reviews suggested?'

The other great thing about that commentary is a bit where Kim and Steve are discussing early-1950s British cinema in general to place this (and other horrors movies of the era) into their social and artistic context and Kim notes that many of the second-features being made at the time in Britain were films 'where Sid James robs a racetrack.' Then, they go on to cast this (fictitious) crime drama. 'Guy Rolfe would've been the man behind the heist. And William Hartnell is the police inspector investigating. And Ferdy Mayne is the owner of the dodgy Soho nightclub where much of the action takes place.' Sadly, they stopped at that point. This blogger wanted them to go on a cast the whole bloody film - which would've been called something like Appointment with Murder or Fear on the Streets. Sam Kydd as Hartnell's dogged sergeant; Harry Fowler as the spiv; Sydney Tafler as his boss (because Sydney was always one rung further up the metaphorical spiv-ladder than Harry was); Peter Reynolds as the weaselly, untrustworthy snitch who, nevertheless, provides a piece of vital evidence; Gordon Jackson as the nice shop owner who gets shot during the raid; Sandra Dorne as the woman whom the hero fancies but is, really, working for either Guy Rolfe or Sydney Tafler (or both): Michael Balfour as the member of the criminal gang with a conscience who comes clean to the rozzers in exchange for them putting in a good word for him with the judge; Michael Ripper in an uncredited role as someone who says 'don't get many strangers round 'ere' and, of course, Hazel Court (or Barbara Shelley, or Honor Blackman) as 'the woman they (all) loved.' Plus, Marianne Stone in a smallish role as she's in everything. And, so is Vera Godsell so we'd better have her in it too (as a barmaid). This would, of course, have been made by Anglo-Amalgamated Production (probably at Merton Park Studios) and possibly distributed by Eros. Or, perhaps, by Hammer at Down Place and distributed by Exclusive. And, if it was one of the latter's co-productions with Robert Lippert, then it would have featured some Hollywood b-lister, a bit down on his luck, parachuted in to play the American-in-London-for-no-adequately-explained-reason 'hero' who is suspected of doing the dastardly deed but, ultimately, goes on the run to prove his innocence, clear him name and expose the real villain(s).

This blogger doesn't know about any of you lot, but he want to see that picture, now. The best film Terence Fisher never made. AI, Keith telly Topping has a job for you. 

Here, incidentally, is the latest Stately Telly Topping home-media incoming stash. This little lot should see this blogger through most of the coming weekend.

Watching one of those Classic Album-type thingies on Sky Arts the other day covering Songs From The Big Chair got this blogger to thinking has any band ever has a better first three LPs than The Tearies their very selves? The Smiths probably equal them, to be fair, but those apart ... The Clash, maybe, although this blogger is aware that Give 'em Enough Rope divides opinion, somewhat. Joy Division only made two and if you count New Order together with them, then Movement remains a patchy affair. Oasis had a great first two, but Be Here Now broke a lot of people's hearts, this blogger included (if b-sides-and-oddities compilations count and you include The Masterplan, then they're certainly in the conversation). Led Zeppelin? Well, the second one's better than the first and third one's better than the second. The Who had an 'okay-but-another-special' second LP. Likewise, The Jam remain this blogger's favourite band of all-ever, bar none, but even Keith Telly Topping struggles a bit with the 'difficult second album' syndrome on This Is The Modern World. Even the debut of The Be-Atles' (a popular beat-combo of the 1960s, you might've heard of them) suffers from the fact that it was recorded on a day when alcoholic, wife-beating Scouse-junkie Lennon has a nasty cold counting against it. So, ultimately, this blogger reckons Roland and Curt might have got the gold medal sewn up with those spectacular three.

Morrisons appeared to be trying to, not-so-subtly, tell their customers something during this blogger's last visit to the joint to buy The Stately Telly Topping Manor weekly shopping. Gilbert O'Sullivan's trite, puke-inducing 'Alone Again, Naturally' - the single most wretchedly mawkish and miserable song ever written by anyone, ever - followed, immediately, by 'Vincent' by Don McLean - the second most wretchedly mawkish and miserable song ever written by anyone, ever - back-to-back on the in-store sound system. Two songs about suicide, that's just what one needs to hear when one is busy buying pasta on aisle six.

Monday 2 June was a dashed queer one for this blogger, right good and proper and no mistake, full of massive discombobulation and shenanigans aplenty. Having, as usual, popped out to purchase The Stately Telly Topping Manor weekly shopping (and, beforehand, enjoyed a jolly tasty breakfast at McDonalds - including, thankfully, BBQ sauce this time - bless you, Prime Minister), this blogger returned to his gaff. And, in accordance with his regular schedule on the first Monday of every month, decided to pay various Stately Telly Topping Manor bills online. First up was the rent and council tax which was completed swiftly. However, it quickly became apparent when the confirmation e-mail(s) arrived that, for some unknown reason (and this blogger was keen to check and relieved to discover that this wasn't his fault it's 'a known issue with the system', apparently), the local housing association's computer had decided to take the first - rent - payment as separate but, also, add it to the second - tax - payment. Meaning this blogger had his rent debited from his bank account twice. 'Oh no,' though yer actual Keith Telly Topping. 'Gosh-and-bother-it, that is a right pickle and no mistake' (only not in quite so many words). 'Never mind' he, additionally, thought, 'I'll just ring up the people responsible and get them to cancel one of these two duplicate payments.' And that, dear blog fiends, was where the fun really started.

Finding the association's telephone number was easy enough, although getting to the correct department that deals with payments proved to be a bit more tricky than expected. Nevertheless, this blogger got there eventually and spoke to a nice chap who, unfortunately, was unable to help at that time as the payment, apparently, takes approximately twenty four hours (or thereabouts) to go through their computer system. He advised this blogger to ring back the next day or, better still, to give Keith Telly Topping's bank a ring and see if they would put a hold on one of the payments. The automated e-mail this blogger had received when the payment was taken had provided him with all of the necessary information he would need like the payee's details and the, specific, individual 'authorisation code' which the bank would require to do the necessary. Keith Telly Topping was doing all of this ringing, he should add, on The Stately Telly Topping mobile phone since, for reasons which will be explained later, The Stately Telly Topping Manor landline wasn't working.

So, this blogger's bank received a call and, having negotiated the - extremely irritating - Cyberwoman-style automated 'please use your keypad to tell us which one of these twenty seven random issues your call relates to'-type malarkey, this blogger was connected to an actual, living, person. Or, so he thought because, as things turned out, this blogger had serious doubts whether this wasn't another case of AI taking over the world. This chap - whom this blogger won't name (though, he could) - was, frankly, about as much use as diarrhoea in a spacesuit. Worse than bloody useless, so he was. Having explained what had occurred this blogger was, firstly, fobbed-off with 'you'll have to ring the payee back to get the authorisation code.' This blogger, calmly (and, apologising if, at any stage during this phone call he came over as a little terse), reported that he had acquired all of those details before he'd rung the bank in the first place because, you know, he's not funking stupid. And, therefore, would this chap mind, awfully, just sorting the damned thing out since that's his job. The next twenty minutes were spent in a rather fruitless search through the bank bloke's 'system' to find the necessary form whilst he, very irritatingly, kept prattling on that he hadn't done one of these for a couple of years but, Mister Telly-Topping, worry-ye-not me auld sunny-Jim-fellah-me-lad, once yon chappie could find the correct form, it'd be relatively straightforward (because he has done one of these before, remember). So, this blogger was kept hanging on (just like Diana Ross and The Supremes) whilst this bloke searches and searches and gets nowhere fast and keeps repeating that he's working from home today and, therefore, can't ask for anyone's help. And then, suddenly, he can ask for someone's help because he's got his manager 'on the other line' and 'we're getting there' and all he had to do is fill in this, here, boxed-section giving the details of the duplicate payment and Bob's yer Auntie's love-in-lover.

Then, having been placed on hold for a worryingly long period of time, this blogger hears the following: 'I'm really sorry Mister Telly-Topping, but we can't do this. You'll have to go back to the payee and get them to cancel it at source.' Why, therefore, have we just spent the last half-an-hour faffing around finding forms which you are now saying don't exist, this blogger asked (not unreasonably, he feels)? To which he received no answer that satisfied him. 'If understand you correctly, what you are saying is that a bank, my bank in this case, which holds my money, is unable to put a stop on any payment which hasn't gone through the system yet is showing on my online banking page as a "pending payment" even though both you and I know that banks can and frequently do exactly that,' this blogger clarified. 'I know because I've had it done for me previously and you know because you've just spent the last thirty minutes telling me about the several times you've done it previously,' this blogger added, quite proud of himself that he hadn't completely lost-his-silt by this point. Yes, the hapless bank-man says that is, exactly, what I'm telling you Mister Telly-Topping. 'Okay then, I'll speak to your manager since he's on the other line' this blogger requests, through what we, by now, extremely-gritted teeth. Another hold and on comes the manager. Again, this blogger could name him (and, probably should), but he won't. Could the manager confirm what this blogger had just been told by his underling, this blogger asked? Given that both he, this blogger and, indeed, his underling all knew that this is something which could be done, it was just a bit of a faff and neither of them could, seemingly, be bothered to see it through. The manager was non-committal on this point. This blogger asked for his full name, he flatly refused to give it (but provided instead a 'file number'). He was, also, spectacularly unhelpful stating that once a payment had been made nothing could be done about it by the bank. This blogger challenged him on the point (knowing that this was, simply, untrue) and asked to speak to someone higher up the food chain to see if this story he was giving out held any water whatsoever; unsurprisingly, the manager refused that request as well. This blogger asked him, in that case, could he kindly send yer actual Keith Telly Topping an e-mail confirming his claim that nothing further could be done from the bank's end so that this blogger would have this claim in writing when taking the case further (as he subsequently intended to do). Again, the manager refused, this time claiming - utterly unconvincingly - that he 'did not have access' to e-mail. This took place on 2 June 2025, dear blog fiends, at exactly 1.21pm at the conclusion of a phone call which had lasted forty one minutes and forty eight seconds to that point. The deliberate unhelpfulness and passing-the-buck to someone else this blogger found staggering having been customer of this particular bank for over forty years and never having encountered such deliberate obfuscation and 'not-my-problem-mate'-ism previously.

Having concluded the call with 'thank you for all of your lack-of-help, you've been about as useful as a chocolate fireguard,' this blogger quickly found the online complaints page for the bank-in-question and made a full report - as ver batum as he could remember - of the conversation which had just taken place. The final question on the page from the complaints department before this blogger submitted the report was, barely believably, 'what would you like to see us do about this issue?' 'Ideally, I'd like to see this pair of jokers sacked for general incompetence and lying - in that order - but I know you're not going to do that,' this blogger replied. 'Therefore, I would like an acknowledgement of my complaint and a clarification of exactly what rights a bank's customer has in the event that a payment he or she makes has been duplicated by the person to whom he has paid the money as this may have a significant bearing on whether I wish to remain a customer of your bank or otherwise,' this blogger concluded. And, then he went for a nice long lie down because he had a stotting headache.

An hour later, this blogger decided to try the housing association again. He was required to go through the same ringing the number, getting through to one section, explaining himself and then having to be put through to somewhere else shenanigans all-over-again. However, it was at around this point that Keith Telly Topping's luck began to change. He reached a lovely, helpful lady called Helen. This blogger explained (for a third time) what malarkey had gone down in the area. Keith Telly Topping said that he realised, from his first call, the payment probably hadn't gone through their system yet but could he, possibly, at least leave all of his details so they could check the following morning and once the payment had entered their system, cancel it or do whatever they could do to put it right? Helen said that yes, this sounded like an entirely sensible idea and was surprised no one has suggested it earlier (she was, particularly sympathetic about the way the bank had, effectively, washed their hands of the situation). She confirmed that it usually takes a full day for a payment to get onto the system and noted that, once it had made it that far, it had - effectively - been 'paid.' But, the good news, a refund could be issued as it was clearly a case of a duplicate payment; the only drawback here being that this would obviously take a few working days for the money to return into this blogger's account. Yer actual Keith Telly Topping said that he wasn't particularly bothered about this so long as the issue could be dealt with. So, with that, this blogger gave Helen his landline telephone number, mobile number just in case the landline didn't work (as noted, this blogger had been having some annoying issues with it all day) and, also, his e-mail address just in case he missed the call on his mobile.

On Tuesday morning, the delightful Helen confirmed that the payment had, now, reached their system and that a refund could, indeed, be paid and rang this blogger to tell him the good news. She tried the landline. Nothing. She tried the mobile. This blogger was eating his cornflakes and missed it. She then sent this blogger an e-mail containing her direct telephone line so this blogger could ring her back immediately and get the good news in-person. All sorted with a minimum of fuss and bother simply by someone going that extra couple of yards and deciding that yes, they were going to help someone in a bit of need without passing the buck or going down the 'not my problem, pal' route. This blogger thanked her profusely and, again, re-iterated that waiting five-or-six working days to get the payment back into his account was absolutely fine and he hoped Helen would have a pleasant day as this blogger now intended to try and do himself.

Next, your - by now, much more chilled - blogger decided to try and get to the bottom of the landline issues and so rang up Sky. Once again, he navigated his way past the Cyberwoman guard-dog (this one, with a hateful singy-songy Scottish accent which, within seconds, got right on this blogger's tripe) and spoke to a delightful young chap called Vash. Keith Telly Topping explained that he was having issues with his landline, although the broadband was working fine and that he had tried various fixes like unplugging the phone before plugging it back in again and checking all of the connections and sockets. Vash patiently went through everything, noticing during the call that The Stately Telly Topping Manor had recently been upgraded on both the broadband and the TV (see here for the full details of that fiasco). After a few checks and the attachment of one extra socket-plug from the back of the phone into this blogger's broadband router and, hey Preston North End, the landline was working again and Vash even went to the trouble of ringing off and then ringing this blogger back on the landline number just to make sure that it could both receive incoming and make outgoing calls. Again, helpful above-and-beyond-the-call.

So there you have it, dearest bloggerisationism fiends; two examples of 'customer service' just like it's supposed to be but, in practice, seldom is. And, this blogger says that as someone who spent the best part of twenty five years of his working life in various customer service roles and usually ended each day going home and stewing about all of the people he'd spoken to that day, either on the phone or in person over-the-counter, who were, clearly, as thick-as-mince and who would be doing the world a great favour if they tripped, head-first and fell from a great height into a massive bone-crushing machine.

The next - and hopefully final - instalment in this whole sorry saga of bollocks and sour and rotten doings came on Wednesday of that very week when, far quicker than this blogger expected, he was contacted by a member of the bank's complaints department replying to his report on the total shit-show that was his phone call with the bank's 'helpline' two days earlier. Having proved that this blogger was whom he said he was (more difficult than expected, as it turned out), this lady (again, no names, but to confirm, she was far more sympathetic and helpful than her two colleagues that she was investigating) stated that she had listened to a recording of the call in question (thus proving this blogger's version of events) and asked for yer actual Keith Telly Topping's observations on the matter. This blogger reiterated what he said in the complaint report; that what he was seeking was, firstly, an apology (which was forthcoming), secondly clarity on the issues he'd raised (which was forthcoming) and thirdly, clarity on what, exactly, bank customers - not just this blogger - should do in similar circumstances. Which, again, was forthcoming. Obviously, this lady does this sort of thing for a living but, she listened to this blogger's crass whinging, apologised for the unprofessional way in which he had been dealt with and, especially, for the length of time that it had taken for the call - which could have been dealt with in a matter of moments - to be concluded. The complaint was, she declared, found fully in favour of this blogger and, as an additional sweetener, she offered to refund the cost of the phone call (approximately five quid) and, offered a one-off payment of twenty knicker compensation in lieu of the trouble which this blogger had been put to. This was something yer actual never expected but, was happy to accept since it would've been rude to refuse it, or to ask for more. (It felt, to quote Eddie Izzard at his finest, like receiving 'a small pools win.' Eddie, of course, was referring to his being awarded a hundred knicker victim's compensation against the disgraceful transphobic cretins who beat him up one night in Cambridge just for being different.)

The complaints lady also made a note of the fact that the housing association had agreed (not that they had much choice, but they did it nicely) to refund the duplicate payment, that this would take place within, approximately, a fortnight. And that if, for any reason, this did not happen then this blogger was given a reference number to quote when contacting the bank's debit card dispute team who would, in such circumstances, raise this as a case with the housing association and consider refunding this blogger themselves. Something which, hopefully, won't be necessary but it was nice to have that as a 'Plan B' just in case. And, on that bombshell, the call was concluded with this blogger having, for once, fought The System and The System didn't win.

To sum up, then. This blogger's view of his bank has gone from this -

... to this in a matter of but three days. Nice work complaints department.

And then ...

Who, dear blog fiends, doesn't enjoy a nice happy ending?

A recent posting on one of the 'local interest' Facebook groups this blogger occasionally glances at made yer actual Keith Telly Topping sad as Sad Jack McSad. It was photo of the much-lamented late Mayfair Ballroom, the site of a couple-of-dozen of the best gigs this blogger ever attended: Blondie, The Jam, Buzzcocks (supported by Joy Division), The Clash, The Specials (supported by The GoGos), The Smiths (supported by The Red Guitars), New Order, The Cure, The Housemartins (supported by The Proclaimers before they even had a record deal), Oasis, but The Police. And now, dear blog fiends, it's a cinema. Quite a nice cinema, let it be noted but, nevertheless, this is progress, apparently.

All of which brings us, dearest blog fiends, to that extra-special (increasingly lengthy) part of From The North dedicated to this blogger's horribly on-going medical malarkey. Or, strictly speaking, malarkeys as there have been - and continue to be - several of them. For those dear blog fiends who haven't been following this epic adventure, over three years in the making, it goes like this: Keith Telly Topping spent some weeks around Christmas 2021 and into the New Year of 2022 feeling pure dead rotten; he experienced an alarming five day in the RVI; was discharged; received some B12 injections; then more of them; somewhat recovered his missing appetite; got an initial diagnosis; had a consultant's meeting; continued to suffer from fatigue and insomnia; endured a (second) endoscopy; had another consultation; got (unrelated) toothache; had an extraction; which then took ages to heal; had another consultation; spent a week where nothing remotely health-related occurred; received further B-12 injections; had an echocardiogram; was subject to more blood extractions; made another hospital visit; saw the unwelcome insomnia and torpor continue; received yet more blood tests; had a rearranged appointment; suffered his worst period yet with fatigue. Until the following week. And then, the week after that. Oh, the fatigue, dear blog reader. The depressing, ceaseless fatigue. He then had a go on the Blood-Letting Machine; got another sick note; had an assessment; was given his fourth COVID jab; got some surprising-but-welcome news about his assessment; had the results of his annual diabetes check-up; had another really bad week with the fatigue; followed by one with the sciatica; then one with the chronic insomnia; and, one with a plethora of general cold-related grottiness. Which continued over the 2022 Christmas period and into 2023. There was that whole 'slipping in The Stately Telly Topping Manor Plague House bath and putting his knee through the side' thing; a period of painful night-time leg and foot cramps; getting some new spectacles; returning to the East End pool; only to discover that he remained as weak of a kitten in the water. Or, indeed, out of it; felt genuinely wretched; experienced a nasty bout of gastroenteritis; had a visit from an occupational therapist; did the 'accidentally going out of the gaff in his slippers' malarkey; saw the return of the dreaded insomnia and the dreaded return of the fatigue. Had the latest tri-monthly prickage; plus, yet more sleep disturbances; a further bout of day-time retinology; a bout of extreme exhaustion; picked up a cold virus in the week that he got his latest Covid and influenza inoculations; got through the entire Department Of Baths malarkey (and then, its sequel) whilst suffering from significant, on-going, back spasms; received the welcome news that his latest test for cancer of the colon had come back negative; got scheduled for yet more blood tests and, during one of those, suffered 'a nasty turn', ended up spending two days and a night back in the RVI; followed, inevitably a week later, by a further - even longer and more serious - hospitalisation whilst feeling as shite as shite-can-be. He concluded 2024 with the confession to all dear blog fiends that his health situation had been up-and-down more often that a tart's knickers doon Th' Quayside. Something which has continued into this year, especially when the rain was stotting it doon in March.

And so to the latest update of this astounding adventure. First Friday in June, yer actual Keith telly Topping had not one but two medical appointments - his six-monthly diabetes check-up and his three-monthly B12 injection - arranged for but ten minutes apart at the local surgery (9.10 and 9.20). This could, of course, have gone either very well or very badly depending on how long the first one took. As it happened, it was definitely a case of the former since the delightful Nurse Ami administered the (still horribly stingy) injection having, previously, given this blogger a 'whatever it is you're doing, keep doing it' report (blood pressure - fine; blood test - fine; wee-wee test - fine; blood sugar level - fine).

All of which malarkey and shenanigans brings us to the latest From The North Headline(s) Of The Fortnight awards. Kicking-off with this frightfully important-looking piece of quality journalism from Kent Online. This blogger would like to console Haydn. Keith Telly Topping, too, is 'loved' on social media (allegedly). And by loved, he means, 'tolerated by a handful of his fiends and ignored by everyone else.' Tough crowd.

Next, a question posed by an anonymous someone of no importance at Somerset Live. To which the obvious answer is, no, sir and/or madam you are probably not a 'bougie' (although it would help if we knew what the Hell a 'bougie' was/is other than what The Jacksons wanted to blame 'it' on). On the other hand, for paying seven quid for an aubergine parmigana [sic] and rocket sandwich, you are, clearly, a slappable, pretentious Middle-Class wanker and have more money than sense and need a good, hard, eye-watering kick in the Jacob's Cream Crackers. Hope this helps. Next ...

An oldie-but-goodie classic, now, from the vaults of the Daily Record. 'She recalled: "The entertainment in the hotel was all focused and catered for the Spanish - why can't the Spanish go somewhere else for their holidays?"' is what makes it art. This blogger would suggest voting 'leave' if he were you, sweetheart. It's the only way these Spanish people will learn not to take holidays in their own country and spoil it for British people.

Oh, the inherent tragedy of just how far Bobby Davro's fame has fallen.

This blogger wonders if this story helps to explain reports about Callum Wilson getting a new contract at Keith Telly Topping's beloved (and now, thankfully, sold) Magpies, despite the fact that there are people using zimmer-frames who seem to get around faster than he does these days?

'Police say they have nothing to go on.' Okay, okay, this blogger promises he will stop using that particular joke just as soon as people stop shitting in the street, fair?

This blogger wasn't aware spiders were on the menu. He usually goes to McDonald's instead. If you get BBQ sauce with the spiders, count this blogger in.

Psst, so dear blog fiends, want to read a really funny story about the Daily Torygraph publishing one of their regular-as-clockwork stories about very rich people who are whinging about the hardships of life under a Labour government and then it being exposed as a load of old cobblers? You do? This blogger thought you might. Here you are, don't say this blogger never gives you nothing.

'No luck catching them ducks and geese, then?'

A delightful evening consisting of alcohol and 'axe-throwing' for entertainment? What could possibly go wrong?

What were the chances? Seriously - there's a Fawlty Towers script in this; 'may I ask what you were expecting to see out of a Torquay hotel bedroom window? Sydney Opera House, perhaps? The Hanging Gardens of Babylon? Herds of wildebeasts swinging majestically ...'

'Demands discipline'? You usually have to pay extra for that sort of thing. Mind you, this blogger wasn't aware of previous examples of use of mangoes in the BDSM community. A definite first for the Daily Echo. And, please, don't call me Shirley.

Somebody really needs to inform the Manchester Evening News that a man must have a hobby. For this blogger, it's irking the purists. 

Thieves, apparently, 'keep stealing' this particular street-sign. One wonders why.

'And what, exactly, are the commercial possibilities of ovine aviation?' 'Ici, on se trouve le petit capitaine Anglais, Monsieur Trubshawe.' 'Vive Brian, wherever you are.'

So, to the winner - 'why don't the government do something?'

And finally ...