Right. Here we go, now. As if by popular prior request ...
Today's From The North message to posterity from the actual Stately Telly Topping Manor is thusly -
Oi! Yer actual Keith Telly Topping, get yer actual blog signal oot fer aal the lads and lasses there, aal wi' smilin' faces.
Good. And so we shall have bloggerisationism. Firstly, dear blog fiends, a - necessary - confirmation from the most recent From The North update. This blogger his very self can, indeed, confirm that no, it definitely wasn't a dream and it was time to wake up and go to school, this blogger's beloved (and now, thankfully, sold) Magpies did, in fact, win The Carabao Cup at Wembley a fortnight ago. As this here handy graphic ably demonstrates.
We've even had a street parade through Th' Toon and a party on The Town Moor and everything! It was totally pure dead geet-cush, plus well-emotional. And very, very loud.
That Mackem-filth-whingebag at the Gruniad Morning Star had a scowl aal ower her ugly and disgusting face like someone sucking a slice of lemon dipped in really sour milk. So, that made the entire day totally worthwhile. There, there my dear. Dry your bitter, salty tears; a nice piece of vegan quiche will make it all better ... you worthless Middle Class hippy Communist shower-of-shite.
This blogger did, in fact, make it into town on Saturday. He wasn't going to but he had a bit of shopping to do; then he had a nice steaming-hot cup of Joe before limping up to the corner of Newgate Street and Gallowgate opposite Magnet House and arrived shortly before the bus went slowly past. As this photo illustrates. You can always spot yer actual Keith Telly Topping in a crowd, dearest blog fiends; there's normally a big white arrow sticking out the top of his heed. Bruno and Jacob Murphy even waved at this blogger. Admittedly, they waved at the many thousands of people standing close to him as well, but this blogger is fairly certain that he heard United's Godlike Brazilian midfield maestro and captain say to our much-improved goalscoring right-winger 'Hey, Jacob, is that yer actual Keith Telly Topping over there? Let's give him a wave.' And they did. Then, they were gone. By the time the bus finally reached The Town Moor about forty five minutes later, this blogger had gotten the bus back home and was able to watch it all on the telly. Good grief, but Wor Geet Canny Ant and Wor Geet Canny Dec's shiny-foreheads are more shiny than ever they previously were these days, are they not? Rhetorical question, dear blog fiends.
Meanwhile, Anthony Gordon was, of course, on the bus. But, in his head, he was seemingly on the deck of Duran Duran's yacht in one of their videos!
One also has to love the fact that the Percy Street multistorey car park next to Marks & Spankers was almost weighed down by more people than cars.
So, from that to the latest bloggerisationism news. The occasional 'taking both the big and small vacuum cleaners over The Stately Telly Topping Manor front-room' thing on a recent Saturday morning produced the following, somewhat diverse, results. Positives: The gaff is, admittedly, now clean, free of dust and looks vaguely presentable for once.
However. Negatives: This blogger's back was knackin' afterwards, so it was.
Meanwhile, the latest well-naughty stash of groovy home-media product arrived, hotfoot, at The Stately Telly Topping Manor letter‐box. And, lo, it was jolly marvellous in yer actual Keith Telly Topping's sight. That little lot should keep this blogger entertained, informed, educated and occupied for the next few days.
Yes, love, that's how most people react when watching Horrors of the Black Museum. Trust this blogger - he's a highly-respected best-selling author, journalist and broadcaster - you are not alone.
Now, a quick return to a story from a couple of weeks ago which was mentioned during the last From The North bloggerisationism update but may have got somewhat lost in all the 'Eee-Aye-Adio, We Won The Cup' malarkey (of which there was lots). Check out, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, this supremely marvellously and jolly nice review of this blogger's publications A Vault of Horror and the more recent Return to the Vault of Horror from the very excellent Alan Toner on his You Tube channel here. This blogger wishes (once again) to thank Alan, muchly, for his kind and positive words.
Especially if you're desperately trying to avoid attending any hypothetical 'jazz festivals in the West Country' any time soon.
From that, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, to this. Which is, if you can believe it, the Italian poster for Sweeney 2. So, which one do you reckon is supposed to be John Thaw, much less Denholm Elliott? Tell Bill the Driver to get his and/or her trousers on ...
So, anyway dearest bloggerisationism fiends, here is a visual representation of that feeling one gets when one is doing ones weekly shopping, one has a voucher for three thousand five hundred points on ones store loyalty card if one spends forty five knicker or more on ones next set of purchases and ones bill comes in at £45.44. That, dear blog fiends, was a good day.
That said, the following occasion that this blogger had occasion to visit his local supermarcheté was not quite so tickerty-boo or anything even remotely like it. Yer actual Keith Telly Topping, therefore, has some well-sage advice to offer y'all. Advice of pure-and-learned wisdom gained from experience in a life (mostly) well-lived. Allegedly. If, in the event that one does a damned-fool prattish thing like yer actual Keith Telly Topping does on average once-per-year and walks out of the bank having left ones debit card in the cash-machine and one gets as far as two bus rides away and only realises what a damned-foolish fool one has been and what a foolish damned-fool thing one has only been and gone and done when one gets to the front of the queue to pay for ones shopping at Morrisons one should always do the following; a) have another bank card in ones wallet so that one can, at least, pay for ones purchases (this blogger, thankfully did just that); b) never - not never - under any circumstances whatsoever try to ring-in to report the loss of ones card to the Halifax 'lost card (alleged) helpline' (and, one uses the latter word quite wrongly) whilst one is travelling home on the number twelve bus through Byker and one can barely hear a damned thing being said. Firstly, one will be speaking to a Cyberwoman (and, not the sexy, comic-strip kind, more the totally rubbish sort as featured on that titular episode of Torchwood) and one will rapidly lose ones patience with the stupid bloody questions the Cyberwoman asks; then one will (eventually) be put through to the actual call centre where ones call will be answered by a spotty youth who mumbles nd, when one explains that one is on a bus, can barely make out a word the spotty youth is saying and could he, please (nicely) speak a little louder, the spotty youth will take this as an excuse to mumble even more softly and indistinctly than he was previously; c) wait until one gets home and can hear what one is doing and always (and, by always, this blogger means always) speak to the delightful Marcia at the Halifax helpline who doesn't mumble, can confirm what one most needed to know above everything else (that no fraudulent activity had been done on ones misplaced card), that the mumbling spotty youth had, at least, put a stop on that particular card and that one can still make online purchases if one doesn't mind a phone-call each time to confirm that it was, indeed, one that was doing it until the new card arrives. Which would be in five working days time (in the event, four working days). And, she'll do all that reasonably quickly despite the fact that she was 'having computer problems, this morning'. Well done, Marcia. Also, d) probably most importantly. Don't be a foolish-fool like yer actual Keith Telly Topping and leave ones sodding bank card in the sodding cash-machine like a sodding prat in the first sodding place. Then, e) repeat d. Ideally, for the rest of ones life. That is all.
That particularly day's particular general mood, dearest bloggerisationism fiends, was - consequently - thus.
A particular general mood that particular day which was not particularly helped by this blogger's visit to McDonald's for his breakfast only to find that they had no sodding barbecue dip, again. This blogger has a good mind to complain to the government about this right-shite state-of-affairs. Come on, Sir Keir, this needs sorting long before potholes and the benefit system and the economy and the inadequacies of VAR. Priority one. Get it sorted.
Of course, being a (pretend) anarchist this blogger can't really write to the government, about anything and be taken remotely seriously. So, instead, he'll write to the lead singer of The Jam and his (very nice, looking) pussycat. Whilst they were in the middle of recording All Mog Cons, no doubt. Cat's entertainment, dearest fiends ...
Moving on now, to sport. 'Fancy a few frames? You can be Ray Reardon, I'll be Hurricane Higgins!'
A bit of regular in-house From The North housekeeping, self-aggrandisement and, frankly, showing off now, dearest fiends as this blogs regular daily 'page hits' traffic post this blogger's unfortunate hospitalisation last November continues to hover around the five to seven thousand range with occasional spikes of extra interest. Mostly on Saturdays for some unknown reason.
The major individual From The North page updates most benefitting from this significant increase in traffic being, in no particular order other the the purely chronological, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one and this one. All of which have passed twenty thousand individual page vists, several over thirty thousand and three more than forty thousand. Hello to all From The North's visitors, long-standing and more recent. You're all extremely welcome.
Especially, those unfortunate enough to live in hideous, sickening, human-rights-abusing dictatorships with utterly disgraceful cockwombles in charge of things for braving to venture where your governments would really rather you didn't. You're especially welcome.
The From The North Headline Of The Week award nominees kick-off with this beauty from KWTX in Texas. One which is crying out for a 'police state they have nothing to go on.'
Secondly, Rochester Woman Left Shocked After Discovering 'Massive' Seven-Inch McCain Crinkle Chip After Buying Bag From ASDA In Chatham. Hmmm .... Slow news-day at Kent Online, one guesses?
Next, this is by no means the first time that the Daily Record has been accused of 'talking shite'.
The Express & Star appear to have discovered that nothing - but nothing - sells local newspapers better than having the words 'angry', 'posh' and 'royal' in the same headline. Well done, them.
There are nowhere near enough uses of the word 'willy' in local newspaper headlines these days, is there dear blog fiends? The Basingstoke Gazette want to put that sad state-of-affairs to right.
This Waterford-News & Star story about a bird falling from the sky includes a handy photo of the sky for any of their readers who don't know what it looks like. This blogger would suggest to the journalist who penned this, clearly important, story (one Shannon Sweeney, apparently), that the word 'sky' is a bit redundant in that headline. Where the Hell else is a bird going to fall from, a tenth storey window?
Then there's this. How long do we reckon it'll be before the Daily Scum Mail runs an article somewhat like this one, claiming that Cocaine Sandwiches are 'woke'.
Fowl play in York, seemingly.
Does anyone else remember when the BBC newsroom used to be run by adults, dear blog reader? No, this blogger neither, he's only sixty one.
The Liverpool Echo, meanwhile, appear to be writing a massive cheque with this headline that the accompanying articles hasn't got a hope in Hell of actually cashing.
This story, from the Cardiff News (who appear to have copied the Liverpool Echo's homework rather than claim the dog ate it) is, quite possibly, the worst written piece of utter trivial bollocks journalism this blogger has encounters in the twenty three minutes he's been looking. It's the 'despite being a forty one-year-old adult, Ashton's parents echoed his concerns about future air travel' bit that makes it art.
The Glasgow Times, meanwhile, really has its finger on the pulse of the stories that matter to their readers. The petition mentioned in the article, incidentally, appears to have disappeared in the wake of the publication of its existence. 'At the time of writing, the petition is no longer visible on Change.org but it received less than ten signatures in its first four days,' the Times note, gleefully, which means they could get a follow-up piece out of this nothing 'story'.
We also should pay tribute to Fox Footy for their invaluable exposé on what Aussie Rules teams get up to in their down-time.
And, you can always depend on the good old reliable Metro (not a real newspaper) to reach for the stories that other newspapers, perhaps, wouldn't touch with a bargepole.
Though, an extra merit-mark goes to OK magazine for their online coverage of the same story and the less-than-helpful use of the phrase 'forced to pull out of Lorraine.' Judging by where the injury occurred, that seems to be a sensible precaution for all concerned.
Do you know the whereabouts of Sip Hu Smack, dear blog fiends? If so, the Rotherham Advertiser would like to hear from you.
This story is especially shocking and, frankly, disgraceful although this blogger would like to draw dear blog readers' attention to the rather pathetic attempt by one of the - subsequently convicted individuals concerned with this terrible, morally offensive crime to hide his identity. Using a pair of shades, a flat cap and ... his hand. It's not a bit of wonder you got caught, plank. Everyone knows a balaclava would've worked better. (BBC News also has the story and used the same photo - and they've got national coverage which Newbury Today doesn't.)
Reluctant as this blogger is to give any oxygen of publicity to either the vile and odious rascal subject(s) of this particular article or, indeed, the Middle Class hippy Communist Morning Star that wrote about it, this piece can't really be ignored without, at the very least, an acknowledgement of its existence.
Things one can do in Cornwall. Number one: Drive one of those extra special type of cars that can almost, but not quite, scale walls, seemingly.
This next one deserves inclusion for two reasons; firstly because it's the most trivial piece of utter, punchable, z-list celebrity-spotting arse this blogger has come across since that story about 'a Coleen Rooney looalike' being seen at a holiday camp. But, secondly - and far more importantly - if you were a journalist, would you really want to work for an organ of the media called the Cumbria Crack?
So, in the event of any potential forthcoming nuclear Armageddon, apparently, this chap is going to survive on toilet rolls, Ambrosia cream custard and Bisto gravy. Yeah, that sound's like a workable plan. There is, of course, an Eddie Izzard routine about 'hairnets and dog-food' which sprang to mind at this juncture. Why, old lady? Why the hairnets? 'Oh, the hair thieves. Come in the night and steal yer hair, so they do ...'
You know, dear fiends, how sometimes you read something and you slightly misread one word and it completely changes the whole context of the piece? This blogger did that when first spotting this. This blogger thought that said Penrith Times and followed that with the immediate notion, 'Penrith's landlocked, isn't it? How the funking funk did that happen?' But, it didn't, so just ignore Keith Telly Topping. He's got a nice mug of steaming-hot cocoa and is feeling much better, thank you all for asking.
From The North hasn't featured anything from the Northern Echo recently but, this is clearly important enough to warrant a place in our pantheon of classy journalistic masterpieces. If anyone in the Darlo area wants to do a remake of Bill Forsyth's 1984 classic Comfort & Joy, there's almost certainly money in it. Hundred and thousands. This blogger will get his coat.
Things one can do in Cornwall. Number two: Drive one of those new, flashy, submarine cars. According to the delightfully-named Falmouth Packet.
Most of the stories featured in From The North's Headline Of The Week award nominees list are 'a load of old bull' but this one, seemingly, takes that quite literally.
Now, dearest fiends, the winner of this week's 'oh dear, how sad, never mind' award.
If only someone had the wherewithal to invent some form of artificial lighting-type malarkey, perhaps powered by a type of electrical power which could provide a solution to their reading-in-bed problems ... Oh, wait, apparently someone has. 'But lawyers for the developer said the best way to resolve the issue is for the couple to turn a light on.' Congratulations go to Jasper King of the Metro (so, not a real newspaper) for discovering this little-known technological development. 'Ultimately, both Mister Cooper and the Powells are using these proceedings to seek to extract a ransom payment.' No shit?
According to the Somerset Leveller (no, me neither), 'Dickson's GoFundMe page does not detail the need for the funding, but does say "things are now catching up with me. I'm now in a real mess with everything going on and councils are shutting me down very, very quickly and courts are now starting to take action against me for all the unlicensed music events that I brought to the country and I have caused mayhem all over the UK. It won't be long until I get shut down permanently and I'll lose my home and my dream and my little boy's dream.' The newspaper, helpfully, adds 'the fundraiser has so far reached £410 of the £10,000 target.'
Only in ... (checks article) Bulgaria.
Finally, dear blog fiends, the Eastern Daily Press report that, seemingly, wildlife want Ed Sheeran's ginger scalp for their dinner. Personally, this blogger finds his oeuvre tough and tasteless.
And, on that bombshell ...
From The North will return.
