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I noticed in last night's Chron that our local theatre, the Oldham Coliseum is searching for the most dedicated Daniel O'Donnell fan in the area. Their latest production, Women on the Verge, is about two O'Donnell fans and their arduous journey to see their idol perform.
If the O'Donnell phenomena has passed you by, you would do well to speak to my friend Sarah. She told me, a while ago, of the queue that develops outside the Manchester Apollo Theatre in the days before O'Donnell tickets go on sale. Whilst the forming of a queue for tickets is not unusual in itself, the fact that majority of these queuing fans are over fifty, female and sit on deckchairs, with flasks of hot tea knitting gives it a different complexion. Add to the mix that the theatre is situated in the heart of Ardwick, one of Manchester's toughest areas, and you can see that the phenomenon is a little more out of the ordinary. What is additionally interesting, says Sarah, is that although the local, hard pressed, constabulary do their best to keep an eye on these seemingly vulnerable souls, their attentions seem to be unnecessary. The local street robbers are apparently often in evidence, hooded-up on mountain bikes, but they leave the queue of ardent O'Donnellites unmolested - to attack these grandmas would seemingly breach some robbers' code.
Whit Friday is a significant day around here. It is a festival day, with its roots in the Industrial Revolution when philanthropic mill owners gave church going workers a day off to celebrate Pentecost: the birthday of Church (unlike the miserable Manchester mill owners whose employees celebrated Whit Sunday instead). The tradition is that brass bands escort the assembled churches as they process through their respective parishes to assemble and join in a mass act of worship. Over the years a unique aspect of the tradition developed in Saddleworth: the bands stayed around for the rest of the day, playing whilst the children enjoyed sports in the afternoon, then as evening approached, each
village held a competition for the bands to compete against each other. One hundred or so years on the tradition is thriving; the morning celebration a happy event as church goers don their best outfits to parade into Uppermill square. Even modern day policing gives way to tradition with the officers marshalling the processions marching smartly in their ceremonial tunics rather than their more usual quasi-militaristic - but necessary - body armour and utility belt; these smart young men and women brought a tear to 
many a grannies' eye as they stirred memories of the old fashioned bobby on the beat; my friend Sarah will be pleased when I tell her that Manchester's finest did her proud.
The assembled masses were treated, this year, to the presence of two bishops stood with the assembled clergy on the back of one of J. Barratt's articulated trailers, given a day off from hauling goods for the occasion. Bishop Michael - the Bishop of Rochdale, not the boss bish Nigel, I was surprised to see - delivered an address to the thronged thousand or so church goers that was, for him, direct and relevant: talking of the need for people of all faiths to be agents of change in society. You will gather by the inclusion of the words 'for him' in that last sentence, that he is not always a direct and straight forward speaker. The trouble is he is very clever and if he preaches at your morning service you can bank on it taking until Gardener's Question Time comes on Radio 4 to work out what he was on about (Gardeners Question time has been extolling gardening advice on Radio 4 at 2pm every Sunday for years).
The worship complete, the ten Saddleworth church congregations, with their respective bands blasting away to pysche each other out in anticipation of the later comptetiton, made a fabulous site and sound as they paraded off the field and along Uppermill main street. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as my favourite march tunes punched through the air - Death and Glory, True and Trusty, The Army of the Nile - I wonder how many of the processing Christians were aware of the irony of their peaceful, life-affirming event being carried out to these war like, martial tunes.
Our appetite whetted for the evening's events we grabbed an excellent sandwich from Buckley's baker's shop (just
round the corner from the new kitchen shop if you are passing) and spent a couple of hours in the garden before heading for Mrs C's aunt's house, conveniently situated in Greenfield with legitimate access to parking at the heart of the village where we can enjoy the contest. More of that soon.
Incidentally, I noticed in tonight's Oldham Evening Chronicle (or the 'Chron as it's known) that the reason that the boss bish Nigel wasn't there was that he was saving himself for the opening of the prestigious Saddleworth Festival on Saturday: an altogether more urbane event of the coming weeks.
I was flattered and delighted when Thomas Hamburger Jnr nominated me for a Thinking Blogger Award. The time spent in the Hotel de Filosoof must have paid off. My only regret is that I cannot put the award on our mantlepiece for all to see; still if it was on the mantlepiece it would need dusting, so it's not all bad. This evening I think we shall have our little award ceremony, the sort where I get drunk and everyone else fawns after me.
As part of the acceptance process it is my solemn duty to select five people that I think also deserve the nomination. It is quite timely for me to think about other bloggers I like, having just tidied up my blogroll. Let's see...Nurse Myra? She certainly gets me thinking, I'm just not sure it's about the right sort of thing though; and I can't usually think too deeply for laughing in any case. I'm sort of reluctant to go straight for the obvious bloggers that spring to mind because they are so good, in my view, that they don't need the extra readership that might come their way if I choose them. Yet others I might have chosen have already been nominated. Hmmm, I think I might just have to be straightforward and go for the obvious anyway.
First, I choose David B Dale and his Very Short Novels. David is a fabulous writer who, in each post, creates a perfectly formed miniature novel from 299 words. Each one has the essence of a much larger piece of literature distilled with finesse and skill into this tiny word count. He makes me think about word economy and each one has a theme that is often deep and frequently disturbing.
Next I choose Ruby Soho; Aaryan, who writes this blog in San Diego USA, is another stunning writer; she should be, she actually gets money for writing too - can you imaging that? I love her posts about being a mum to her adopted daughter together with a refreshingly anti - republican political stance. She makes me think that, just maybe, there is a future for politics in the US and its adopted island state, the UK.
Third is Bill Blunt, I'm sure someone must have done him already but I haven't seen it. Bill is a journalistic legend with a scything wit and an astute eye for a story. He is a blogger who deals with issues in an almost frivolous manner whilst ensuring you are tapped in to the more serious underlying story, a true professional.
The trick of writing engagingly, in my view, is to do what the great artists do: simply apply paint to canvas using the palette of superficial colours and washes then produce something that, when you stand back, is much more than the sum of the contents. My fourth choice is someone who does just that. Urban Cowgirl moved to New Zealand from the UK some time ago and writes about the joys of discovering her new country whilst regretting the loss of the old. Her posts regularly raise thoughts about what home means and make me question values in the UK that I take for granted.
Finally, I choose Life and Times written by Jonathan. This was one of the first blogs I read and Jonathan's wide ranging posts cover everything from IT and computer games to adoption and society's ills. The beauty of his writing is in constantly being fresh, thus keeping interest and generating thought.
It's funny how things come along; I've just posted a piece about eating out in Amsterdam and, what do you know, Bill Blunt tags me to write about five places to eat near home. Then, as if that isn't spookily enough, we learn that Pieter, the son of our friends Mark and Caroline, has finished his year at catering college (more food), won an award and is off to Holland to work in a hotel for the summer. So, if you happen to be in the hotel Tatenhove in Texel this summer say hello and well done to Pieter from us.
Where do we like to eat then, here are our five selections:
1. For an excellent Sunday pub meal you can't beat The Swan at Dobcross. It's position at the heart of Saddleworth's prettiest village gives it a head start even before you sit down in one of the flag floored rooms with a roaring fire. It's perhaps best to add that this pub is at its cosy best in winter with a howling North wind whipping through the village square outside as you tuck into the excellent, hearty choice of freshly cooked pub food and sip on your pint of one of Jennings Cumberland Ales (yes, I know Jennings is a Lakeland brewery - they are just jealous because the Lake District don't have the monopoly on pretty villages and glacial valleys).
2. When you want something that is a bit more special - like my birthday - we recommend two favourites. The first is not really an Oldham or Saddleworth restaurant but is just over the border in Marsden, West Yorkshire. The Olive Branch is primarily a fish restaurant in the former pub of the same name. There are two parts to the restaurant: the pub side which is cosy, a bit like The Swan, or the new part where you can sit in booths. Although this sounds odd it actually makes for quite an intimate evening, if that is what you are after. The excellent fish has no local comparison to my mind and the menu is ever changing; in fact, there generally isn't a menu: rather you choose your meal from one of the array of cards stuck to the walls around the bar bearing the day's dishes.
3. Our other little more expensive option is a place dear to our hearts. The Rams Head was, twenty plus years ago, a simple country pub on the moorland road out of Denshaw towards Halifax. It is significant because it is where I first experienced draught Theakston's Old Peculiar and Timothy Taylor's Landlord (if your idea of intoxicating liquor is WKD Blue I had better perhaps explain that those two products are real ales, made by people, not by a machine in a chemical factory). It is also one of the places where Mrs C and I did our courting. Now though, much as I hate to see real pubs dissapear, it is a restaurant and organic food shop. Before you recoil in horror, the menu of wild game, fish and organic food is really excellent. If you are ever passing Junction 21 of the M62, don't. Pass it that is, pull off in the direction of Oldham, drive for about 2 miles and sample the delights of the Ram's Head.
4. One of Oldham's institutions is The Old Bill Wine Bar and Bistro (yes, we have a bistro in Oldham - though most Oldhamers think that it is something to do with gravy); it is situated directly at the back of Oldham Nick - hence the name - and is very popular. The continental type menu isn't haute cuisine but is well priced and the excellent atmosphere makes it a great venue for a long evening with a group of friends.
5. Our final choice is in nearby Middleton: Fallen Angels Italian restaurant. This is in the basement of the Royal Toby Hotel and comes with a health warning: don't go here for a romantic dinner. Yes, the tables are candlelit; yes, it is dark and atmospheric inside; and yes, the owners and staff are really Italian; but this place is where you go with about twenty or so other people for a great Italian meal and a raucous night out. It's not unruly but is just great fun - the evening regularly interspersed with crackles from the PA as the dodgy Italian music is replaced with one of a dozen versions of Happy Birthday To You, or Cliff Richard's Congratulations; and the staff parade in a cake or ice cream desert topped with so many sparklers that the procession is followed by an anxious waiter with a fire extinguisher. All that said the traditional Italian food can't be beaten and the cheesy Italianate decor is unique.
Come to Oldham, eat well and make sure you tell them Crofty sent you - I'm always open to a freebie!
Blogging requires commitment and time, something I have come to realise after my return to work following three months off. My friend Sarah Didsbury has been a popular newcomer to blogging and partly because of that, the popularity, she has asked me to announce her retirement from blogging rather than have to explain it herself.
Sarah's blog - The Slim Blue Line has provided an insight into the world of modern policing, particularly from the point of view of a female officer. I for one am grateful to her for her posts and I may yet persuade her to allow me to post some features for her; we'll see. For now though she is adamant that she is simply too busy living life to write about it. Sarah is not one for poetry and airy fairy stuff like that but I'm sure she won't mind me quoting this poem by Edna St Vincent Millay that nicely sums up her position:
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah! my foes, and oh, my friends -
It give a lovely light!
Click here to see what you've been missing.
This is my last word on Amsterdam, like all travel writers (snort!), I can't leave without saying something about what and where to eat. The starting point on the subject is easy; start from the here: DON'T EAT DUTCH FOOD; that is unless you like herring, and potato, and sometimes cabbage, and pea soup. Our Rough Guide to Amsterdam had pointed out the paucity of Dutch cuisine so were a little anxious about what we might eat; and true to form the guide was right. There were about three reasonably priced Dutch restaurants in Amsterdam and, temptingly emblazoned on their blackboards outside was: herring, potato, cabbage and pea soup - no lie.
But be not downhearted. I have already mentioned that the Dutch are a practical nation and their pragmatism extends to their attitude to eating. Faced with a native menu that is about as exciting as day time television, they do what any pragmatic nation would do: have restaurants from every other culture under the sun. In the area of the city that extends from the top of Vondelpark to the Prinsengracht, there are dozens of excellent, reasonably priced restaurants ranging from Italian to Indian and Indonesian to French - no English funnily enough.
My advice on where to eat is to ignore whatever it says in the Rough Guide. Simply take a stroll and check out which places look popular - menus and staff change too quickly, in my view, to be able to rely on a guide written twelve months ago. Before I tell you where we did eat though, I need to qualify something I said in an earlier post when I railed against the generic nature of Amsterdam's shopping centre: full of shops you might see in any other main city - McDonalds, H & M, Next etc. I am not entirely against global chains; at least not now at any rate. Whilst I would love every shopping centre and city to be full of unique shops and
local traders I cannot discount entirely our discovery of Wagamama, the casual worldwide noodle eating experience: it is fabulous. An eclectic clientèle sat on benches with long tables and just the right distance between you to be matey, if you like and absorbed in each other if you don't - there is probably a scientific formula for that distance. The menu is an imaginative mix of noodle dishes and other very reasonably priced oriental fare; and the service is friendly and refreshingly efficient. In the spirit of adventurous journalism, I was tempted to investigate a desert that consisted of a kebab of lychees and pineapple, dusted with grated coconut and - wait for it- fresh chilli; sounds so wrong but was oh so right, as the poet said. I can't wait for an excuse to investigate our Manchester Wagamama .
So that is Amsterdam done with; and not before time: yesterday was Pentecost Sunday, or Whit Sunday, as it is known around here. Why do I tell you this? Because that means Friday is Whit Friday one of the most important days of the year around here; but before I spoil it by telling you the plot, I'll sign off - you'll have to wait and see.
I'm beginning to wonder at the power of my blog; the post before last I mentioned the fabulous singer songwriter Loudon Wainwright III and next minute he pops up as a guest on the Radio 2 Acoustic and Traditional Music Show (I hesitate to call it folk music because of the stereotypical images of beardy wholefood Fair isle types). But that is the power of our art: in Amsterdam I was already musing on war and its effects thanks to the weaving of Spanish Civil War themes into the Case of the Missing Family by the excellent Thomas Hamburger, so it was only a short trip in my mental landscape to the Second World War and walk across the real landscape of Amsterdam to the house of Ann Frank, the daughter of the Jewish family forced into hiding when Holland was occupied by the German Army.
The tale of their hiding is told in the Diary of Anne Frank but is set in context in the preserved house in which the family hid; the fact that you know the end of the story makes the journey to the inevitable end even more poignant. The house is a big tourist draw and was full of people of all ages who started the morning chatting and pointing out things of interest to each other; by the end of the trip the crowded rooms were eerily silent as people mulled over the implications of what they had witnessed.
That's war then, but what about art and philosophy, I hear you cry. The Van Gough Museum was a disappointment to me, too full of people to fully appreciate the magnificent collection of his and his contemparies' paintings; however the exhibition of Max Beckman's war time paintings in the gallery annex was not full of people - if you've seen his paintings you will know why, you wouldn't want them on your bedroom wall unless you were ready for some pretty disturbed dreams. His war years in Amsterdam as a German were very different to that of the Frank family, but it was worth the mental and emotional effort to compare them.
Philosphy? Our hotel, De Hotel De Filosoof, is the home of the society of practical philosophers. This group attempt to apply philosophy to modern day ills in a similar way to a therapist might do - I guess it's a bit like cognitive therapy: learning to think about problems in a different way. And this philosophising brings me full circle back to Radio 2 and the (oh go on then, call a spade a spade) folk music show. It is hosted by Mike Harding a Lancashire comedy singer, made famous for his rendition on Top of the Pops of the single Rochdale Cowboy, sat upon a stuffed Alsation dog. But I bet you didn't know he was a philosopher too. I once heard him sharing an account of how he awoke in the middle of the night, threw back the curtains and stared up at the vast starry expanse above him asking the eternal question of himself:
"What is it all about?"
His responded in blunt Northern tones:
"It's got bugger all to do with me."
And went back to bed.
