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I always think that the best Christmas presents are those that have required most effort on the part of the purchaser; and so it is this year for me. It might not seem too difficult for Mrs C to have popped into HMV and selected a CD but I know how it hurt to buy me this one. We have a debate in our house that has almost ended in sulks as I have staunchly defended Amy Winehouse. On one side of the dining table we have my sons and wife who consider her to be a spoilt, drug addled wreck fit only for stepping over in the street; on the other side we have me.
I don't know what it is, but I do seem drawn to the work of damaged people like her: Dylan Thomas and John Martyn are two more of my favourites, both alcohol and drug victims I keep having to defend to people. What is it about addiction that makes us rail against one type but accept another (nicotine vs alcohol for example). Perhaps we don't like the idea that we could all find ourselves at the mercy of something beyond our control - now there's a subject for a future blog post.
Back to Black is a stunningly good album especially if you have the two CD version with the stripped down versions of Valerie, Monkey Man and others. My neighbours will soon be sick of me walking the dog singing unrestrainedly with my MP3 player (a present from my sons that they are now regretting!); you should hear me doing Valerie (no pun intended for those who know Mrs C!).
Talking of alcohol abuse it's nearly New Year and although I don't like it - I think it's a completely nonsensical, arbitrary celebration - I wish you all a very happy one.
We have had reason of late, to think of heritage and the things passed down from generation to generation. Our consideration of heritage is thanks to the occasional visitor, that comes slinking like a sly cat around every family door from time to time: mortality.
Our families, Mrs C's and mine, have little in the way of family silver; there is little to show for our combined heritage. So it was interesting today to see my mother-in-law's family bible dusted off. The faded leather tome is inscribed on the fly leaf in beautiful copperplate handwriting with the year 1899 and the name of her great grandfather. Equally interesting was another book that belonged to her aunt: May Byron's Pot Luck a collection of recipes from around the country dated 1923.
I pointed out to Mrs C, how timely this book was: with all this talk of heritage and tradition, we were just in time to take its advice for a traditional Christmas. Amongst the many recipes, including Rook Pie that starts with the instruction 'skin and draw six young rooks', there is much advice for the aspiring cook. But from the outset one thing is clear, right from the first paragraph of the first page though: there is no place for men in the kitchen.
I pointed this out to Mrs C and, along with a reminder of her twenty-year-old promise before God and the late Rev A.T.P. Harrison to obey me, I indicated my intention to retire to the lounge on Tuesday while she prepared the Christmas dinner, which this year must consist of our own vegetarian option and a turkey-type option for an elderly relative who cannot under any circumstances be convinced that nut roast is a reasonable equivalent to the more traditional fare.
I have to say that Mrs C put up a number of excellent philosophical arguments about how literally we were meant to take the words from the traditional marriage service. She included a number of tautologies with well reasoned examples of how, had she followed this promise to the letter, things might have gone very much awry at chez Croft over the years - and she managed it in so few sentences, a quite prodigious talent for getting the point across in a small word count, something some of us bloggers could learn by!
So, I will be doing my share in the kitchen as I have every year; a scene that will no doubt be mirrored across the world. I wish you all a very happy Christmas. No doubt we will all be far too busy to blog over the coming days so I say bye for now and to close I offer you the seasonal work of a blogging musical genius who writes of his quest for good musical things for his favourite instrument: Uke Hunt; click here to hear, so to speak.
Thanks to Tracey for tagging me with this meme. It is the sort of theme that runs the risk of revealing too much or of being completely inconsequential - I will do my best to strike a happy medium (I shuddered then as I recalled a Ken Dodd joke involving Doris Stokes).
Here are the seven things you didn't know about me:
1. It has at times been convenient to attribute the slightly broken appearance of the bridge of my nose, to a life of toughness and masculine pursuits. The truth is that it attained its slightly wobbly look during a mid-playground collision with Andrew McLung at Stansfield Rd. County Primary School, Failsworth around 1968.
2. Whilst at sixth form of Chadderton Grammar School I shaved a chunk out of my hairline to emulate my then hero Peter Gabriel. It did not have the effect I desired and considering that I had shoulder length hair at the time, the appearance of a tuft sprouting from my forehead, as it grew back, was definitely not a look I desired.
3. I once almost circumcised myself - accidentally. On a trip to the pantomime at Oldham Coliseum I found myself caught midst pee, when the warning bell sounded for the end of the interval. Being far from confident in my ability to relocate my seat in the dark I rushed the proceedings and caught my little foreskin in the zip of my trousers. Further panicked at the zip's refusal to budge either up or down I forced it - I draw a veil over the remainder of the proceedings for the sake of all men reading this post.
4. Having been invited to a Tarts and Vicars party at short notice and having already drunk a couple or so cans of Breaker, I searched for a suitable dress in my mum's wardrobe. Only many years later have I realised that there were two reasons for her displeasure, not simply the fact of my having stretched the waistband beyond its usable limit (she was a size 10 -12; I am more of a 16). It was also, I now realise, the fact of my having considered her best lacy black dress as being suitable for wearing by a tart that upset her.
5. I once allowed a man to shit in the palm of my hand. This is worth a blog post in itself. I say no more, for now.
6. When I was a student nurse we resented the prestige given to even the most junior house officer compared to the nurses who by and large were treated as skivvies despite the high level of skill and expertise they possessed; and, I must add, the amount of time they spent getting junior doctors out of the poop by telling them what they ought to do in certain circumstances. This prejudicial approach extended outside of hospital too; for example when we dined regularly in a long since gone Indian restaurant on King St in Oldham - I forget the name - the staff found it inconceivable that I was a nurse and not a doctor. Clearly a young man surrounded by a bevy of young attractive nurses must be a doctor. I am ashamed to say that we hammed it up to the extent that Doctor Steve and his harem were treated like royalty and afforded many privileges well beyond the odd free pappadum or two.
7. I am fond of saying to people, whilst adopting a tough, manly expression and glowering from beneath my life furrowed brow, "The last bloke that assaulted me is dead." Combined with the wonky nose I mentioned earlier you can imagine the intended effect. What I habitually fail to mention is that although the expression is in all ways true, the poor sod who hit me died of a heroin overdose 2 years after his encounter with me.
That's your lot; all that remains is for me to tag five more people. I am going to cheat a little as you shall see -
1. Mr Woppit: if you haven't read his excellent blog, you should.
2. Bill Blunt: we haven't heard from him for a while and I would like to hear things we didn't know about the ageing hack.
3. Mystic Veg: It would be good to hear seven unknown vegetable vignettes from the allotment plot doc.
4. (here starts the cheating) The Fuel My Blog Blog writers - I want to know seven things about the excellent FMB website that we didn't know
5. (and here is the other cheaty bit) Lisa - who doesn't write a blog. I challenge Lisa to add seven pictures to her excellent Flickr site that tell us things about her we didn't know.
P.S. the hits I get based on the labels I've added to this post should be interesting - I'll let you know.
Most of us are doing similar things in the weeks that run up to Christmas: shopping, work's nights out and such; so I thought it might be useful to add my own brief sage guidance on what is hot and what is not in the Manchester Advent experience.
We had our work night out yesterday afternoon and evening and when I told people we were going to the Radisson Hotel in Manchester there were two distinct reactions: either 'bloomin' 'eck that must be costing you a bit' or 'Yeuch, hotel food is rubbish at Christmas, it will just school dinners'. That is why The Radisson Edwardian Hotel on Peter St gets my first Advent award.
I was one of the many Mancunians who were aghast at losing the Free Trade Hall; that Manchester icon of the working man's struggle, home of the Halle Orchestra and gorgeous gig venue; but time marches on relentlessly and gone it is. Or rather not gone, but transformed into a beautifully modern interpretation of Edwardian Elegance: modern clean lines, glass and space but an equal amount of warm sandstone to make it a sort of cosy-posh. What made it so special though, for our team of about 25 revellers, was the way they just got it all so right. My experience of large hotel events really does amount to school dinners, thrown at you by spotty disinterested waiting staff who looked like they could barely tear themselves away from texting. The Radisson though was far from that - we were served by real grown-up waiters and waitresses who affably shared our revelleries (even laughing at some of the jokes during the Secret Santa presentations - which was more than we did!) and they had a quaint insistence on the quality of their service: bless them, they were aghast when, to rectify the usual meal confusion, we passed plates across the table rather than let them carry them around it. Well done The Radisson I recommend you to my blogging friends and readers.
My award for the most overrated Manchester Advent pastime goes to the Gluwein bars inside the Christmas market (more of the markets shortly). I will not labour the point but must thank 70s Teen for a descriptive phrase that really and truly fits the bill. It took 20 minutes to be served a single warming mug of mulled wine and in that time I had more physical contact with strangers than is good for a man of my age. Teen describes her morning commute as 'a rugby scrum with frotting' - a perfect description of the post-office crowd in the wooden shack that rocked in the wind like an Anglesey caravan holiday.
Out in the fresh air of the excellent, in all other respects, European market, a group of colleagues and I perused the varied wares; which gives rise to my final award, for the most subtle and 
discrete flattery. The award goes to the lovely French lady on the Pashmina stall (at the back of the market towards the left if you are facing the Town Hall - just so you know). Whilst I was buying one of her lovely cashmere and silk Pashminas she mistakenly assumed that my young (half my age) blonde, vivacious, attractive colleague was, you know, with me. I think L was very flattered (ahem).
If you get chance, take a break from the frenetic frotting of shopping and enjoy some of Manchester's Advent attractions: the markets, the big wheel or the ice rink (which, incidentally, doesn't have make the morning walk across Piccadilly chilly round your legs). Manchester's a great place to spend your Christmas preparation.
I have had a rather meloncholy period of late; but while browsing this weekend I came across this that cheered me up no end. Remember me telling you about our jolly boys outing to see Spiers and Boden at Hebden Bridge Trades Club? Chris, one of the jolly boys from the outing, told me about this fun Flash animation. I'm glad he did; click the link if you dare but be warned: it is English traditional music at its best so don't be disturbed if you find yourself wanting to wave your hankie as your dance jauntily round your bedroom.
Prickle Eye Bush
Flicking through the pages of my notebook I came across this observation from a few weeks ago. From the tram window I saw a man walking across Piccadilly Gardens. What caught my eye were the two angry weals running diagonally across his face from chin to ear, as though he'd been whipped with a cane or stick. His face itself was pockmarked and ruddy, his eyes bleary; and his stumbling gait made me think he was probably one of Manchester's homeless winos. His crumpled clothing, that he had probably slept in and/or fallen over in, bore out the overall appearance; but in each hand he was carrying a pristine white carrier bag, each bearing the smart emblem of the Royal Marines. The contrast could not have been starker and I suddenly felt very sad staring at this shambolic figure. Had he picked up his bags and contents in HM Forces' career office; perhaps determined, in his disordered state, to make a fresh start? I wondered whether the recruitment officers had been kind to him or whether they had scoffed and took the piss after encouraging him to get fit and join up before sending him on his way.
I was filled with a sense of this man's vulnerability: who had whipped him across the face? As he shambled across the square I could see swaggering chavs pointing him out and I was reminded of a wounded antelope being circled by lions waiting for the moment when one of them went in for the kill.
The tram soon passed and the scene went, as they all do. I wondered what my response should be to what I had seen and how it had made me feel. Should I shrug, tell myself to get over it, with a comment that life is tough? Perhaps it might prompt me to make a donation to a homelessness charity this Christmas. Or perhaps I'll forget, as I get carried away with the seasonal preparations, only to come back to my notes, or this post in the new year and feel a moment's guilt - which, like the tram, will soon pass.
