Northern culture

There are the obvious quirks of northern life familiar to most because of representations on hilarious and much loved soaps and comedies on TV. Who can forget the aged yet cheeky antics of the chaps in Last of the summer wine? Large pinches of salt were needed up here when arrogant southerners accused all and sundry of being flat cap wearing pigeon and ferret lovers. Yesterday though we witnessed a phenomenon in Halifax that disturbed a lot more than it entertained and supplied serious ammunition to those all too ready to malign aspects of life in the north (i.e me). On a slight slope in the centre of town were a group of the most miserable looking marching troop. Bedecked in blue uniforms, topped off with feather dusters from the pound store, this bunch marched around to the the tune of plastic trumpets out of Christmas crackers and someone with some grease proof paper wrapped around a comb. It would have been OK if they'd looked like they were enjoying it but they all seemed utterly miserable. When they put their batons on the ground for a bit of really complex marching, the batons started rolling down the slope. The weirdest bit though was when they all did what can only be described as a fascist salute. What the heck was that all about? I was going to put a shilling in their pot until this point.

Mind you, if they are the new face of British Fascism then I don't think we have much to worry about.