And There Goes September. Grumpy's Alternative News.

Another daft month. So what's new! Where do we start.
Animals are always interesting.
I read that you are more likely to see a fox in an urban garden than in the country.(Almost 40 per cent as against 23.)I'm not really surprised, we have no guns in the town.Well, not many!
I see the villagers in Carhampton, Somerset are fed up because pigs keep digging up the graveyard.Lucky pigs, certainly luckier than Ben, a labrador from Beaumaris who weighed seventy kilos. Rescued by the RSPCA, he has already lost four and a half kilos. Equally fortunate Clyde the cat that travelled 2000 miles from his home in Tasmania to Cloncurry in the Outback.(Including 185 miles across the Bass Strait.)
I often think animals are preferable to humans. Certainly not as stupid. I can forgive the lady in Wythenshawe who took a hand grenade she found in her loft to the police station, causing it to be evacuated. For the ladies are often not as cowardly as we men. But the fugitive in Kansas who took two hostages was not the brightest. He dozed off after they gave him a pillow and blankets. And did the man growing cannabis on the central reservation of the Athens-Salonika motorway really expect to get away with it? They were nearly six feet tall prior to harvesting. Plus Abdul Baset Ali al-Megrahi, the freed Lockerbie bomber had his first visitors in hospital. a delegation of 150 African MP's. It is said he looked very ill. No wonder, I know how I felt when three came at once to see me in The Derby Royal Infirmary.
I see The Prince of Wale's organic biscuits are to be marketed by Waitrose as 'Duchy Originals from Waitrose'. (General opinion, expensive and rather naff.) The Right Reverend Stephen Cottrell announced to the nation that if Jesus were alive today he would shop at Asda or Aldi. Though Neil Stanfield, the boss of Onefood-the One, also called Swaddles Organic, suppliers of so called organic food to the likes of Fortnum and Mason might not agree. He bought his produce, non organic from Waitrose and Tesco and repackaged it. Simple when you know how!
I have, like many of you no doubt a complete mistrust of those in power at all levels. Not surprising when a government decides that people who walk other people's children to school need police checks.(The government will no doubt drop such nannying interference in the light of public disbelief and mirth.)
Is it any wonder when the Scout Association in its infinite wisdom decrees that Boy Scouts must no longer take a penknife to their scout camp. Give people power, put them on a committee and sense seems to vanish.
McDonalds spend millions fighting a Malayan restaurant because they dared to call their establishment McCurry. Despite their size and mighty lawyers, McDonald's lost.Power seems for some to suggest importance and immunity from good sense.
The Forest of Dean Council falsifies photographs as evidence in a parking dispute. They are caught out but no one loses their job. Rochdale Council in its wisdom allows five minutes 'lift time' as a 'perk', amounting to twenty hours a year for some in high rise offices.
Now to confess a personal interest in the 'power and authority' stakes. In the summer we, my wife and I received a parking ticket on a car park in Wales. My appeals have been, in my opinion, dealt with in an arrogant, dismissive manner. (More later, I am now in the hands of the Welsh Ombudsman.)
One final comment on stupid misuse of power, funny but pathetic. A certain authority, concerned that children's reaction in their canteens to that evergreen favourite 'Spotted Dick' was not acceptable (they're children for goodness sake) has solemnly declared that hence forth the dish will now be known as, wait for it, 'Spotted Richard'. You couldn't make it up! It was, of course a Welsh authority. (Lest anyone think I have it in for the Welsh, the people not in authority were kindness personified.)
One last titbit from the month of September that I couldn't resist. Please excuse the bad taste.
A Turkish woman accused of cutting off her lover's penis must wait eighteen months for verdict and sentence until a court determines whether the reattached organ still functions.
The mind boggles. They're lucky not to be at the mercy of petty British officials.

Comments welcome, please keep them clean!

Quirks of Fate

The Prime Minister, Gordon Brown visited Derby on Wednesday, as did Nigel Clough. And whose visit will be remembered longest, Nigel's of course. For Nigel has become manager of the local football team..

We are rather a small time town, and county for that matter. (We are actually a city but you would hardly know.) The local airport, East Midlands, four miles from Derby incorporated the name Notts in its title for a spell, arguing that no one knew where Derby or Derbyshire was. (I travel fairly extensively in the British Isles and find this is often the case.) Rather naff but perhaps the airport authority had a point.

We have little interest in informing the world of our greatness, our superiority over other beings. (Lest it be said we lack pride, our football ground is called Pride Park, not too often with just cause, except for last Wednesday of course.

If some Yorkshiremen are exiled, they often have to tell you, ad nauseum where they are from; if you work with some Yorkshiremen they too also remind you frequently. Not imagined, alas, I have worked with many. And quite frankly, if I was expected to shout 'Derbyshire, Derbyshire' at a football match I'd be embarrassed. I have many Yorkshire friends, including bloggers, visit the county often and much of the place is beautiful; so please, no more unwanted bellicose rants in my direction.

Which all makes me wonder how others see us and our home areas.

Derby; Bonnie Prince Charlie, marched from Scotland, got as far as Derby and went home; I wonder why. Derby, home of Derby Crown China, Rolls Royce aero engines. Derbyshire, Bakewell Puddings, (they are puddings, not tarts,) a crooked spire and underrated scenery.

It is interesting how places become famous, and occasionally infamous. I have never been to Hastings but I know there was a battle there. Lockerbie, for ever remembered for an horrific air crash. (It is twenty years this week since the Kegworth Air Disaster not far from here. I wonder how many will think of this when the name of Kegworth is mentioned.) I think of Hungerford and only think of a terrible gunman running amok. Bamburgh will forever be remembered as the birthplace of the brave Grace Darling. Nottingham and Robin Hood, the White Cliffs of Dover, Dick Turpin and York, we often form a picture of many places without having ever visited.

(Concerning infamy, see blog dated 4th October. I would be mortified if Derby were to be remembered for such detestable, thoughtless insensitive behaviour. It seems to have already been forgotten. Sad in a way though I would not like it to be thought of as being typical of the place.)

We seek an identity, some more than others. Which brings me back to good old Nigel; just a football manager. A forty two year old, modest, unassuming, likeable typical Derbyshire born individual. Whose arrival in Derby on Wednesday resembled that of the Messiah. And to many he is just that. Almost thirty thousand people go to the football at Derby. That's a lot of people for a the size of the place. (population around 230,000.) Football is in a way a tribal thing, intangible but an identity for many, and in cases like Derby somewhat traditional. Many children from an early age will 'adopt' a team. Usually a famous successful team, for instance Manchester United. Right or wrong, people travel miles to go to their home matches just for the privilege of watching what they consider the best and inevitably claim 'bragging rights' over lesser mortals. None of us have any control over where we were born. I was born in Derby and saw my first Derby County match in 1948. I have followed them since through thick and thin, and boy, have there been some thin times! Without wishing to labour the point, only a football fan can realise how a successful football team can lift a town. Many years ago Nigel Clough's father, Brian became the manager of Derby County and was extremely successful and popular. History repeats itself and the whole town is agog with excitement. Incidentally life can be very quirky. Nigel Clough was born here and lives here with his family. His father came from Middlesborough but we didn't mind and he is in fact buried here.

I look at the addresses of the friends I have made amongst the visitors to my humble blog; two things spring to mind. How do you see your town/city/area. What would you expect it to mean to me? And secondly, off the top of your head, what do you know of Derby and Derbyshire?