Overcharge...

I question the price when woman behind the counter demands £3.60 from me for the bacon sandwich (admittedly I'd made it a large one) and single chocolate cup cake that currently sit on top of the counter, crying out to be placed in my carrier bag. I get her to do the sums. Not once. But twice. Another member of staff enters the fray, taking control of the cash register and reminding me that the tomato atop the bacon is 15 pence. Nothing adds up. Then they go through it again. "And two cup cakes is..." I didn't want two cup cakes. "That's what you asked for." "No. I asked for a cup cake in the singular." "You what? Anyway. I heard you ask for two." "If she says you asked for two, well, you did ask for two..." mutters the other one. I consider leaving the stuff on the counter and exiting with an eccentric flurry to bring proceedings to a close. Then I think again. "Have you introduced a new policy," I ask. "One where the customer is always wrong?" "No," says counter staff #1, "it's just that I thought you said..." "Please. Just take the cup cake I didn't want and still don't want out of the bag and charge me accordingly." "You did say..." "Take the cup cake out of the bag..." A pause. They stare at me. They clearly think I am a trouble causer. "Please." Oh, my, the fun I have.

Such bargains to be had...

It doesn't hurt to stroll in to B&M Bargains once in a while. I've blogged before about the miracles of this place - a veritable Aladdin's cave of, well, rather odd things at the kind of prices that make you think that it wouldn't hurt to buy just one, or two, or three...

So we bought some shit. Including a big tin of meatballs in gravy to satisfy my meaty desires when vegetarians M and Finn aren't looking, and a rather limp looking but huge slab of flapjack. Mesmerised by other goodies, and figuring that, whoever you are, you're as keen to bag a grim and slightly out-of-date looking bargain as I am, I've selected four items currently stocked by B&M to highlight. Here goes. For those that enjoy Spam but don't like paying fancy prices, I think that Midland's no-nonsense Pork Loaf might be up your street. I especially like the fancy serving suggestion on the white-space a-go-go tin. Regard:


Still on food, if, like me, you've got through your festive pickles, Big Al is about to become your best friend. Look at the size of this baby (at just £1.79) and its crunchy contents:


It's not just food down at B&M. Oh no. There are some items that wouldn't look out of place on QVC. One such is the Ultimate Lint Roller which, amazingly, requires no refills!

And if that doesn't tickle your fancy, why not go for the awesome Table Mate II, the second generation of the Ultimate Portable Table (surely a laptop-friendly must for those bloggers and tweeters who can't tear themselves away from the comfort of the sofa?)!

Security has left the building...

Nipped in to Hull's city centre behemoth of a supermarket. As I walked through the security sensors the alarm was triggered as someone exited with a jumper full of booty. Directly ahead of me, centre stage, was a blue-shirted security guard familiar to anyone that's seen a game at the KC Stadium. His real name is Rob Jenkins but most of us know him round these parts simply as Elvis. Our Elvis is under 5ft and packs a few more pounds than his namesake did in his prime (more a Vegas-era paunch) but does have the most smashing set of sideburns. When he's not doing security he is, as the look would suggest, a pocket-sized singer of the Presley canon (he was once in a friend's play - I'm not saying he's typecast but, yes, he played an Elvis impersonator) that goes by the great stage name of Bobby Diamond. Elvis stood looking at the space where the shoplifter had, briefly, passed through. He started grinning and shrugged his shoulders. "Let another one slip through your hands, have you?" I said. "When it's this busy it's not easy. By the time I'm through the crowds they're out of the door." I suggested he moved closer to the exit and adopted a stance that suggested he was ready to pounce on any offenders. He nodded approvingly and went into this 'pounce position' and I left him to it. As I walked off I heard the voice of a young lad shout, rather merrily, "See you, Elvis!" Then the alarm sounded again. I glanced back and Elvis was, once more, just shrugging his shoulders.

In the toilet...

Rich Lusmore, who writes two fine blogs - A Game in Four Quarters and Let's Go Round Again - and used to contribute weekly sports reports to a newspaper I reputedly sub-edited, paid me (which I don't think we ever did him) a lovely compliment the other day. He reckons I inspired him. Which does make me question his sanity somewhat but, well, what a lovely thing to say. Rich, having read here of my plans to fill in the blanks in my reading, is re-visiting his entire music collection. Which is what Let's Go Round Again is all about. It's a great idea and I wish I'd thought of it. One to watch, I think - good luck in your kerazey mission Mr L!

In other news, we went in Hull's city centre Tesco today (the store where our neighbour Mary claims that prices are artificially high in comparison to other Tesco outlets, despite never having been in the place and, from what we can gather, doing all of her shopping at Waitrose).

Following the Christmas reshuffle, one aisle is now home to the entire Value line. Which is all well and good and very sensible, I suppose, but makes said range of el cheapo and ultra-affordable products and their white space-laden packaging look even more anemic and unappealing than when surrounded by more expensive brand-name counterparts. At least I know where to go for my favourite 14p can of beans.

Luv me do...

I'm increasingly finding myself calling female customer service staff 'luv'. It's a terrible suffix that, generally, follows, "can I have a double cheeseburger please," or similar and not one that I ever intended to use. My old mum used to be a shopkeeper and, as a little lad, I was always baffled that people would apparently be so keen to express their admiration for dear mater in such a public manner. Using 'luv' confidently was always the preserve of the older customer too. There'd be something odd, perhaps even perverse, if a 15-year-old started addressing my mother with that word. No, it was for a certain generation to use. Which is alarming. Because I suppose it means that I am older than I'd care to admit, luv.

And while on the subject of conversational suffixes... Back in the eighties, at the height of the miners' strike, I was involved in some building work over in Edlington, Doncaster. Strangely, despite flying up and down the M62 and the M18 in a white van every day for what felt like the duration of the strike (although probably only amounted to three months) we were never stopped by the police en route in case we had a load of flying pickets in the boot (we must have just looked like innocent, hairy-arsed and slightly drunk builders incapable of taking part in an ideological battle). Anyway, to the point (if there is one). At the time I was charged with the heady duty of sorting the bacon sandwich order every day and noticed, to my shock and horror, that shopkeepers in Donny would pre-empt any suffix from the customer by calling us all - men, women and children - 'me duck'. It seemed at least a little over-familiar to me and, at most, a bit of a come-on from a man with hairy hands and far too dirty fingernails to be making my breakfast. For a while I convinced myself that the sarnie shop proprietor was getting far to amorous with my hand when he passed me the change. But, one lunch, as we supped beer and played pool with some striking miners taking their break from the picket line, it was pointed out that "that's just how we talk round here, me duck". When the Edlington miners took their victory march back to the pit I stood and watched and was very tempted to accompany the applause for their efforts with a shout of "go on me ducks!" Much to my shame I bottled it.

Shock at the checkouts...

Christmas shopping. The streets were busy-ish but the checkouts were hardly the scrum I've experienced in the past at this time of year. Just as well, as I had a stinking hangover and was barely a functioning human today. I gathered my thoughts mid-way through the exercise over a Cornish Pasty from Greggs and a listen to Hull City's 1-4 defeat to Sunderland. Then, covered in flaky pastry, I was back to it. In Boots, the woman on the till gave me a free gift bag that went with my purchases. "I like that bag, I'll try and take one home to put some presents in. I may have to wink at the boss to get one," she said, then demonstrated the winking approach that she would use, a really terrible look that involved both eyes being scrunched up and a contorted face. "You might want to work on that wink," I pointed out. "Yes," she said, "I realise that I look a bit like a spastic when I do that." Blimey.

Sale away with me honey...

We went to town where almost every shop displayed prominent Sale signs. It was, perhaps unsurprisingly, quiet - let's face it, we're all skint, the cards are maxed out and there's a lot of post-flood associated dismay round these parts. If only it were a conscious spurning of the shopping mall of consumerism in favour of a simple life uncluttered by material wealth rather than an inability to lay our hands on a bit more credit, eh? HMV was a tad hectic but otherwise, it was almost a pleasure to wander around with the boy Finn attached to me via his swanky baby carrier. There were other men who, like me, were attempting to display the modern face of masculinity, with their offspring attached to their chests via complex sling arrangements. "Look at me," we scream to the public, who are complicit in this game with their saccharine smiles of acknowledgment, "I've made this tiny living breathing thing and I'm going to carry it around, even if it means being a bit edgy when I'm getting on and off escalators". I made eye contact with another male sling wearer. What went unsaid went along the lines of "ain't we just the best fathers? Can you believe there are people that don't carry their babies around like this? Is your lumber support working, cos my back's f**king killing me?".

I swapped the chore of dibbing in and out of Ronnie Wood's shoddily composed autobiography Ronnie for the wonders of Russell Brand's My Booky Wook, which is like a very rude, saucy version of James Frey's lambasted (but still brilliant, in my opinion) A Million Little Pieces. I do feel as if I know too much about Brand and his trouser parts now, having just turned the final page on the debauched cross-addicted life he led, but I'd certainly recommend My Booky Wook if you're looking for an excuse to wallow in a nice mix of filth, comedy and pathos. I used to note what I was reading and listening to on this very blog at the foot of the posts but I got out of that habit. Perhaps I shall resolve to do it again in 2008. Or maybe I won't. Is anyone interested? Maybe I'll just do it to satisfy my own selfish ends.

Reading: Will Self and Ralf Steadman - Psychogeography Listening: Josh Rouse & Kurt Wagner - Chester.

I wanna know have you ever seen the rain...

Ah, what a wonderful Christmas. Presents and good times galore. Hope yours went well too.


But back to the business of moaning and groaning...

When I first perused Hull's new shopping experience St Stephen's, I thought I'd started to lose the plot. Here was a retail development that reckoned it brought the High Street, well, indoors, under the cover of a zillion sheets of curvy glass. Which lends one to believe that the weather won't be joining you as you nip in and out of H&M, Game and the mighty Tesco. Yet, as well as being underwhelmed by the amount of retail units that had been let back in September, I could have sworn, as I mingled with the madding crowds, that rain was hitting my body. The shopping continued and I marked the odd rain drop down to my ever-muddled brain playing tricks on me.
Just three months on, though, and it would appear that the rain was indeed entering this steel and glass structure. Today, a small army of chaps in flourescent jackets were mopping the slippery shiny floor like crazy demons. They don't build these things like they used to, eh? I do hope it came with a guarantee.

Tangfastic...

Made the brave move of mixing with some crowds Christmas shopping. We didn't mingle for long. My, they're a miserable bunch, these 21st century shoppers, and they don't appear capable of seeing that the baby carrier you're lugging around actually contains a baby. Here's a tip: if you really hate shopping so much that you must push your way past everything even when it's not strictly necessary, and you must do it all with a downturned mouth, why not tell your friends and family that, actually, present buying isn't for you and that they'll have to go without? And what is it with these men that disassociate themselves from their partners during the shopping excursion, walking several feet ahead and then just stopping, sighing and breathing heavily, waiting for 'er that should be kept indoors and cookin' tea to catch up, before doing it all again? We were happy to get back to base, and I'm now unwinding by sitting in front of Sky News and eating Tangfastic, sweets every bit as sour as those shopping in Hull today.

Well done Biggins, the new King of the Jungle, who semed genuinely touched that viewers cared enough about him to pick up their phones and vote. Nice bit on the Reuters wire about Biggins' route to victory:

Biggins was given the "bushtucker bonanza" in which he ate a witchetty grub, crocodile's foot, three cockroaches, a kangaroo penis and a kangaroo testicle.

"I'm really a breast man," he joked while eating the penis.

I never had any Evel Knievel toys. But the spoilt kid that lived next door but one had the entire collection and I was allowed to play with them occasionally. The toys were pretty realistic - the stunts never quite went to plan, the little plastic Evel always fell off mid-air and the whole lot usually came crashing down to the floor with a few bits scattering in different directions. The real thing always struck me as a bit of a bumbling fool, mainly due to one of the most enduring memories of my childhood, which was sitting in front of the old Redifusion telly in 1975 watching EK jump 13 double-decker buses at the old Wembley and landing pretty miserably, breaking his pelvis in the process befored telling the crowd that he would be retiring (he would be, but six years and a few more broken bones later). So he's now riding on the big motorcyle in the sky and I'm expecting him to land awkwardly any second. RIP you crazy loon.

Tags: Biggins, reality tv, Evel Knievel, shopping

Stalk me...

If you'd been following us this morning, you'd have found yourself in Luciano's...


...a rather nice Italian cafe-restaurant which, despite the garish bright orange exterior, has a rather soothing ambience inside and serves up great food and a natty line in desserts (coffee and cake 9-noon and 3-5pm just £3.50). Also, telly trivia fans will be keen to know, the waiter from South Shields who may or may not serve you used to be in Byker Grove. Maybe I should be on commission? Check out those hefty light bulbs, though, they definitely ain't burning energy efficient there.

Later, with the rain belting down, I passed some time here...


...Hepworth's Arcade, where stands the legendary Dinsdale's carnival novelty store, the place to go for your fake doggy doos and itching powder. My mother was telling me the other day that my grandfather used to work upstairs in Hepworth's Arcade, when it used to house Hull's telephone exchange. They used to stand somewhere close to where I took this snap and he'd wave at them from the balcony. Who were the Hepworth's? Well, this old ad that is still on the wall really doesn't explain it all..


Yes, they were the Great XL tailors and clothiers. But does the XL mean they made clothes for the larger gentleman or are they roman numerals? Which would mean there were 40 of them, which would indeed be great. Back then it wasn't the Hepworth's Arcade - it was plain old Silver Street Arcade then. I like to think that Hepworth's 40 tailors and clothiers mobhandedly forced all the other shops in the arcade to agree to the name change. I wonder if they also bullied my grandad?

When I got home I had a nice chat with Aileen Jones, a medal winning lifeboat helmsman from Porthcawl, and some of what she told me will add a bit of flavour to the play, I should think.