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.

Vive t'difference

In Halifax on Saturday I felt a bit peckish as I sauntered around the market looking for a lamp. My eyes hurt when I read these days unless I have a bright light and am not trying to read some stupid mini font that papers and books (and students) sometimes use. I didn't find a lamp but I found a stall that sold pies. They didn't have many left but the ones in the glass fronted cabinet didn't look too forlorn so I thought I might give one a go. Yorkshire pies, by and large, tend to be an altogether less life threatening prospect than their southern counterparts. Dog food, for example, isn't the principle ingredient. Neither for that matter is dog. I approached the stall and asked a woman (who, judging by her clothes, must have just rushed from an audition for the regional 'Last of the Summer Wine' extras recruitment drive) whether the pies were hot. I thought: "simple question, simple answer." But no.
" Theyrared."
"I'm sorry?" I said with a slightly puzzled look whilst surreptitiously trying to clean whatever it was in my ears that obviously blocked my hearing.
"Theyeeared."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand."
" THEY ARE AIRED." she bellowed looking at me like I was two ferrets and a pigeon short of a party.
"What does that mean?" I asked. As far as I'm concerned, airing is what you do to sheets and washing, not pies. The woman's clone intervened at this point and, fingering and prodding each of the pies in turn, she said, " They're a bit warm love." No doubt she'd come across this dialect difficulty before and even spoke to me in something less than mocking exasperation. I walked away muttering something about wanting something hot and diseaseless and ended up with a bag of chips. Very well aired.

Play oop Shaymen

Took the boy to see Halifax Town yesterday. We did actually go out to see Bradford City but somehow we misread the fixtures and it turned out they were playing away. They lost to Hereford (4-2) so maybe it's just a s well. Anyway, we went to the Shay to see a team that evoked a lot of memories: When I was at school I had a certain affection for Halifax because it was either them or Crewe that sought re-election at the end of each season. When we played football after school, I usually said I was Halifax because I knew I was likely to lose and didn't want that associated with Spurs. We stood on the terraces at the Shay with 1,362 other people and paid 15 quid for the pleasure. This seems (relatively) pricey when compared to White Hart Lane (where I can see a third rate opposition play Spurs' fourth rate team for 29 quid). The main thing, of course, is that I enjoyed it and so did the boy. Rushden and Diamonds sent a loyal away following of about 30 (you can just see them in this picture). The best thing though (apart from their goalie who made some fine saves despite being about 65) was the way all the players clumped in areas of the pitch. This shot shows how they all massed in one quarter of the pitch when the Halifax Town keeper hoofed the ball up the pitch. The game ended 1-1. Town had led from a well struck free kick in the first half but were pulled back from the penalty spot in the last minute. this was a very dodgy decision to say the least and the manager let the ref know in no uncertain terms at the end of the game. This was also amusing.