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I don't know where you stand on your local high street, but no matter where you stand in Oldham's town centre you can not escape the view of a national or global retail outlet of some sort - I use that term deliberately because I simply cannot bring myself to call them shops. To me shops are warm friendly places with character rather than the sterile, vacuous places aimed at taking pounds from your pocket and putting them, with very little removed for the benefit of the employees, into the pockets of the, already, super rich.
There are only a handful of shops in Oldham: Mawson's herbalist, Mrs Zippy's Sewing and Joke Shop, Williamson's Ironmongers and Hardware emporium at Mumps. These are the places with character: where else can you buy a new zip for your jeans, a fake turd and a pair of false boobs in one trip; where else can you receive honest health advice from a qualified herbalist who doesn't want to also sell you the chain store magazine and where else can you buy anything whatsoever in the tool or hardware line. These places have struggled to survive and, in the case of Mawson's and Williamson's come through to produce a diverse business without losing their character. Their keepers - and again I deliberately choose that term; there is in my view, a world of difference between a shopkeeper and sales assistant - deserve our support. So if you happen to be passing through Oldham and need a fake nurse outfit or fake cigarette with a convincing puff of talcum for smoke, call in at Mrs Zippy's.
And so to Fathers Day; there are times when I am proud of my two sons. They are accustomed to my moralistic rants at the television - "Dad, stop shouting at them, they can't hear you and we're missing the next bit" - and they sigh, not always inaudibly, when I start to express my opinions. Just occasionally though they do something that demonstrates that they understand me rather better than I give them credit for. It would have been easy for them to nip along the real ale aisle of Tesco, choose a half dozen bottles such as Black Sheep or Old Peculiar; and I would have been happy. What in actual fact they did buy me was this:
A mini cask of Dobcross Bitter from the artisan brewers at Greenfield Brewery not three miles from here. Local craftsmen, not making a fortune but producing something that, in my view, is worth a fortune.
Well done boys; now all I have to do is convince them that it is far more worth drinking than the tasteless, seven or more, pints of lager that they effortlessly dispatch at weekend.
Today is Mrs C's turn for working Saturday; that means cleaning and tidying for me. With the bathroom clean, the stairs vacuumed and all clothes washed that ought to be washed - I think - I hope, it's time for some housekeeping on my blog. There are a number of things that I've been meaning to do and been putting off.
Firstly you will have noticed the new header that shows Oldham in it's current and historical glory. I have neglected to mention that my friend and colleague Lisa is responsible for the, not inconsiderable, picture trickery that went into it so thank you Lisa. My gran, whenever I showed her holiday photographs used to say, as the highest praise, "Eeeee that's good enough to be on a postcard", Lisa is reet good wi't camera (as my gran would have said) herself and I remember saying the self same thing to Lisa when she showed me some of her work recently. I'm sure she won't mind if I show you one too; if she does mind I'll been in for a bol****ing on Monday!
Secondly, you may remember my post about eating out in Amsterdam, in the post I enthused about Wagamama the noodle bar chain. Well, Wagamama were so pleased with what I'd written they sent me a copy of the Wagama Cookbook; so thank you to Wagamama - who must think I have many more readers than I actually do who will flock to their noodliferous establishments in droves: don't tell and I won't either.
Finally, I've been neglecting the pages of my blog that tell you what I'm reading. I've just updated it with everything I've read since November (I think), click here to follow my trail from the Great War through psychiatry to murder. And before I go I ought to add that my friend and colleague Michele is a voracious reader - why am I telling you that? - because if she wasn't I wouldn't be able to borrow and read half of the fantastic books I do - thanks Michele.
We had a bit of a clan gathering this weekend to celebrate Mrs C's special birthday. I'm not noted as the wildest party host but I have a couple of tricks up my sleeve, one of which I'll share with you now. Every man needs a couple of recipes to impress, here is one of mine.
Often it is the simple things that are most impressive; so forget Delia's deep fried Mongolian Shrimp fritters with spicy Tahitan dip (I made that up by the way) and try Crofty's Fruit Salad - perfect for a hot Summer weekend:
Simply take...oh, that's been done hasn't it (sorry Delia, again). Gather a couple of pounds of your favourite fruit; I used cherries, seedless grapes, strawberries, blueberries and chopped pears - I prefer to avoid mixing citrus and non citrus fruits - wash and chop them, then pile them all in your favourite trifle bowl.
Next make the syrup: in a small saucepan warm about a quarter of a pint of water and dissolve into it four ounces of caster sugar. When the sugar has dissolved, bring to the boil, cover the pan and simmer gently for two minutes; then let it cool.
Now here's the secret weapon: when it's cool add just one tablespoonful of Kirsch - don't be tempted to add more; and don't be tempted to drink it - it's about four quid for a tiny bottle; and what's more, whilst the Swiss might be good at watches, clocks and army knives, they are rubbish at making a decent spirituous liquor. Kirsch tastes disgusting.
Mix all the ingredients thoroughly and bung the trifle dish in the fridge for a couple of hours while you relax waiting for the alchemy to occur. Finally remove and serve with a dollop of fresh cream, yoghurt, ice cream or what ever and bask in the glory as people ask you what the magic ingredients in the juice are.
You see, it's not really magic but more like science: over those couple of hours in the fridge, due to osmosis, the juices in the fruit have leached out and mingled with your syrup to make a glorious concoction. But you don't want to tell too many people that; simply give an inscrutable smile saying that you couldn't possibly reveal the recipe handed down over four generations from your grandparents.
Listening to Saturday Live on Radio 4 this morning, I was impressed by the poet Elvis McGonagall's use of his art to purge a bad holiday experience from his system. It occurred to me that I might do the same with my blog. So if you are the large man, in his sixties, with a big white beard and a lovely head of pure white hair, who alighted from his vehicle to shout across the road that you considered me to be a thick, bald - headed, b***ard - or was it a thick headed...no, I'm sure it's the first one - then this is for you.
Had you allowed me to get a word in edgeways, before getting back into your M prefixed, Maroon Rover 216 with a National Trust sticker in the rear window, I would have explained that the reason I pulled my vehicle forward blocking the path from your junction preventing you from crossing the stream of traffic, was that you hadn't, no couldn't have seen, the ambulance that I had spotted in my mirror overtaking the stream of vehicles you were about to cross. You couldn't have seen the ambulance because your view was blocked by the big white van behind me. I can only presume that you didn't even notice the ambulance pass, because you were busy gesticulating at me and operating your audible warning instrument in an aggressive manner. Had you emerged across the stream of traffic you would have pulled into the path of the ambulance.
There now, deep breaths Crofty, that feels much better.
Oh, one more thing, I consider myself to have a mature attitude to my gradually receding hairline; but, I am most definitely not yet bald. I consider that insult to have been particularly barbed coming from one with such an obviously lush growth of hair.
Whit Friday evening is an annual, mammoth, brass band event that attracts around one hundred bands from across the UK and abroad every year. For the whole weekend Saddleworth's B & B's and campsites are packed; and licensees take in extra stock. Outsiders find the event hard to understand: locals refer to it as 'the band contest' but in reality there are around thirty individual contests in villages and districts across Saddleworth, North East Oldham and parts of Tameside. Generally spectators stay put at their favourite venue while the bands tour round the area competing at as many contests as they can between 4pm and midnight. When I tell you that each band has its own forty seater coach you will understand why it easier for spectators to stay put.
The contests consist of two parts: the march and the stand; the march is what it says on the tin and the stand is where the band, well, stand, and play a test piece to be judged by a hidden adjudicator, typically ensconced in caravan borrowed for the occasion.
Individual venues vary in their style and so attract different clientele: Uppermill and Delph are larger livelier events, where people who enjoy a rowdy beer soaked evening typically join the tougher looking type of Police Officer as the evening progresses. Dobcross is small and pretty, Greenfield and Scouthead are predominantly family events with
a variety of attendant attractions in addition to the bands.
We unpacked our folding chairs on the packed field at Greenfield among families enjoying a variety of picnics. The bands were terrific and included big names like Brighouse and Rastrick as well as some of the tongue in cheek 'scratch' bands assembled for the occasion from excellent musicians who are not currently registered to another band. These bands aim to entertain rather than win and dress in a manner to suit their name: Tartan Brass, Chav Brass and Boobs and Brass - a popular one - , were some of this year's selection.
The biggest cheer of the night was for Greenfield Band - our Tom's band - they lifted their game and managed to win the prizes for best 4th Section band and best Local Band.
If you are ever told you must go to Oldham, choose to come when it is Whit Friday; I guarantee you will forgive the town its faults and have a marvellous time.
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.
