Fifth series, episode 1
All five series are available here on the HebWeb.
Hello! Season 5 starts with grey skies and indoor exercise, includes a mini break, a freezing gig about hot weather, a poem partly about deep snow, strangers on a train, and a kindly deed. It ends with a prophetic warning and a terrible betrayal.
Dry January
Did you stay dry in Dry January? Neither did I. It's the worst time of year for me to give up beer and the fruits of the vine. I did, however, boost my health with housework and indoor exercises. Here's a challenging game posted by someone calling herself, 'A Faithful Old Town Reader.'
How smart is your right foot?
- Whilst sitting in a chair, raise your right foot off the floor and make clockwise circles.
- Whilst doing this, draw the number 6 in the air with your right hand. Your foot will change direction.
- Do not attempt this task more than once.
Bet you can't. - Told you.
Warm January
January was cold and grey in Upper Calder, but globally it was the warmest January on record. Scientists had expected it to be cooler than record breaking Jan 2024, when the planet was heated by the cyclical weather feature in the Pacific known as El Nino. Boffins can't work out why La Nino, which usually cools surface temperatures, didn't dampen down the readings for Jan 2025.
Hole in the road (x 2)
Twice the main road between Hebden and Todmorden has been closed due to bursts in decrepit sewage pipes. Although last year the monopoly Yorkshire Water Company was fined £47 million as a result of sewage spills, its managers still decided their boss deserved a £371,000 bonus, to top up her £657,000 pay. She said she decided to accept the 40% increase, because "I thought I needed incentivising."
Folk Lore Centre gig
Perhaps I should have performed excerpts from my unfinished work, Hot Times in Upper Calder when the year had progressed a little, especially as on Saturday February 8th Arctic blasts made the weather feel ten degrees colder. Centre manager Holly had the radiators full on, but the high ceilinged ground floor is always hard to get warm and this wasn't helped by a workman who kept cheerily forgetting to shut the door, despite the whole company turning to look daggers at him.
In the café soft seating performance space, the caked and caffeinated audience kept their overcoats, gloves and woolly hats on, as I tried to terrify them with graphic tales of relentless, blazing heat beating down on Todmorden. Fortunately, although many in the company had wrapped scarves around their faces to just below their red noses and glistening nostrils, I was heartened to hear muffled titters during my tales whilst they clung to their steaming coffee mugs.
My old running mate, Dave came up from Shropshire to see the show, just a few days before having a replacement knee operation. He compared notes with our historian friend and former schoolboy runner, Alan Fowler, who was wearing in his own recently upgraded hip. Before his operation, Alan's nurse told him they found a blood clot which was slowly spreading up his leg. She asked, "If something goes wrong, do you want us to resuscitate?"
He said, "Yes please. We're already one down on the parish council."
I ended the gig with Le Grand Depart (or Mrs Pomfret's pomme frits), which recalls a day, "when skies were all cloudless and blue." And I'm glad to report that Alan, a man famed for walking out of Bob Dylan's Free Trade Hall gig in the 1960s, stayed till the end.
After the gig, new Tod resident Fernando, gave me some feedback as he bought a signed copy of Hippy Valley, saying, "Jorge, I liked the Cautionary Tales best, the ones where the kids get killed."
Mini Break
Hebden to York
The York train was full of standing passengers, but when I looked down the carriage I noticed a four seater table with two seats unoccupied. Outflanking the standing lot, I nipped back onto the platform and dashed along to the next set of sliding doors and re-embarked at the other end of the carriage.
As I approached the vacant seats with my case and backpack, the young woman on the far side of the table nodded to her small son. He immediately threw himself across the two seats opposite his mum.
Meanwhile, Kath was excusing herself through the standing passengers with her case. After I'd heaved our luggage onto the rack, I asked the little lad if he wanted to sit with me or with his mum. She said, "We're getting off at the next stop." I assured her that we didn't mind sharing. She reluctantly nodded to her lad, who left his seat and sidled round the table, staring up at our elderly, smiling, stranger-faces, then sat next to his phone scrolling mother.
After Halifax, the cheerful, colourfully attired woman across the way engaged two newly arrived passengers who had settled opposite her with a detailed account of her recent medical history, concluding with, "Of course, I always thought I had haemorrhoids."
The Bar Convent
In York, Geoff, Kath's friend from college days, who hasn't seen us in decades, had arranged to stay with us at the Bar Convent, which is close to the station. The Convent was established in 1687 and is the oldest surviving place of Catholic worship in the country. Apart from its striking interiors, decent sized guest rooms (although we couldn't get episodes of the American Traitors featuring Alan Cummins on the little telly) the Convent cum hotel houses a museum, in which you can pay to view the skeletal hand of Margaret Clitheroe, who was pressed to death under 7 or 8 hundredweight of stone for refusing to confess to the charge of harbouring Catholic priests. The Convent Bar is situated close to Micklegate Bar, where the severed heads of traitors and rebels were once displayed.
Unfortunately, Geoff wasn't able to join us, as he unexpectedly had to attend a family funeral. He rang the hotel a few days in advance, but despite his room being relet, the Convent management wouldn't return his £110 booking. There was more hard-nosed Christian money grasping at York Minster, where smartly clad, politely smiling believers asked visitors for £20 per adult before they could enter. So we went shopping instead.
Il Paradiso Del Cibo
Geoff had recommended this Italian restaurant, which was a daunting treck from the hotel, especially when getting pummelled by Siberian blasts whilst crossing Lendal Bridge. We hadn't booked, but the charming host found us a table. We soon realised the table was empty because it was situated next to the door. As diners wafted in and out at regular intervals the mini climate around our table plummeted. Unfortunately, PW sat right next to the door and I was quite comfortable as she partially shielded me from the icy blast. Reader, I offered to swap places, but she made the mistake of bravely declining my offer.
We were also close to the overhead speakers and everyone in the place was shouting over the racket in what is mistakenly thought to add to the vibe in eateries across the land. When the waitress asked, "DO YOU HAVE ANY ALLERGIES OR INTOLERANCES? PW said, "YES, CAN YOU TURN THE MUSIC DOWN?" Which she did. And after a time, the host changed the brash, frantic, house music to a tape of relaxing, honey voiced choices from the great American songbook. He also popped over at regular intervals to gently rub dearly beloved's shoulders in compensation for her being sat in the cold air blast. It was all done in a convivial manner and I reckoned that's why Geoff had recommended it. In summer the place must be a joy. PW chose pasta, I chose pizza and both were delicious – and warming.
After the restaurant, we cold footed it to the famous (to locals) Blue Bell pub on Fossgate, another of Geoff's recommendations. We couldn't get into the bar because drinkers were jammed up against the door. It's a tiny, late 18th century pub, which had a facelift in 1902 and has kept its Edwardian wood-panelled décor and, best of all, its blazing log fire, at least in the snug. The only problem with the snug was the space was half filled with a varied assortment of petted and biddable dogs, which PW found more entertaining than I did. The bar had a great selection of Blondes, Bitters and IPAs and the barman was chatty and welcoming as we got snuggly warmed through.
Next day PW shopped till she dropped - into the bookshop, where she found me and we used the Christmas book tokens Jude bought us at Waterstone's. She got Craig Brown's The Queen. I got A Short History of Myth, by former nun Kate Armstrong. Then we went to the Assembly Rooms for garlic prawns and rocket salad. If you haven't been: go!
I'd booked DelRio's, close to Micklegate Bar for our final night's evening meal. You go down to a candle-lit cellar, which was packed out, mainly with regulars. The waiters were attentive, the setting was atmospheric, the music didn't jar, the prices were modest and the nosh was first rate.
York to Hebden
A Scouse guy just made it onto the train and proceeded to act out quite a convincing Scouse stereotype during his brief journey. Also, he kept looking up at me as he talked into his phone, perhaps thinking I was a casting director.
He said, "I can definitely pay up when dat other money comes through."
He listened to the response, whilst still giving me the eyes.
"I've got dis other work lined up."
I averted my eyes but not my ears.
"Yeah, I can pay yuzz in a few days. Maybe a week, dat's all. Let's say fourteen days."
The conversation ended. He caught me glancing at him, then made another call.
"Hiya. I can definitely pay yuzz when dis other money comes through."
I held my paper up higher to block his view.
When the ticket inspector came along, Scouser showed him his phone, saying his wife had told him he could use somefink she'd sent him. The Inspector looked doubtful but said he'd come back, then went down the next three carriages.
Soon as the train pulled up at Church Fenton, Scouser legged it.
A large throng of females alighted and sat on both sides of the aisles, acting like a version of the Larkins minus Pop. They consisted of two mums, several pretty in pink bespectacled girls, and one tiny wide-eyed toddler, who was silently agog about a world with train travel in it. When the train started up little lad got lifted and bounced on several little knees before he arrived on his mum's.
Then two of the girls got up and took over the empty floor space near the doors and, singing their own accompaniment, danced their much practised routines. The smaller one almost managed synchronising with her big sister.
They all minded the gap and got off at Leeds, with the girls linking arms and the little lad staring back over his mum's shoulder at the big gleaming train.
Baby boomer
Before the NHS began in January 1948, it cost approximately one shilling and 5 pence to have a baby delivered. So my former Foster Clough next door neighbour Mike Haslam's parents will have forked out for his arrival.
16/2/47
Snow fell from heaven while Aneurin Bevan,
thought to spawn the NHS. Mother had drunk
her Guinness bottles on prescription, nonetheless.
Snow fell cold and soft on fold and croft.
Snow fell on Halliwell. Drifted into windrow
and an even swell. Snow overwhelmed the mill,
the mine, the railway line. The world was frozen
in an economic standstill. Snow fills
(Rare phrase this for Northern England) Shaly Dingle:
Curl and cringle, turquoise light in ice crevasse.
Each being singularly single and subject
to chimes and tingle, such epiphanies as this'll
once or twice happen have come to pass.
Snowfall ridges bridges ridge and gable. Snow drifts
up by Hollin Wood. Sub-zero air, a few lights twinkle but
the power cuts at night. The gate-stoup wind-side ice
withstood. Snow fell on Havercroft and Heaton: White.Blue, limply furled, cord-strangled, almost lifeless
as the nurses thump and batter, I was beaten
into breath: at last, some minutes old, I do protest
about my own ejection into this cold world. I'm told
it was a question, simply, of my life or death.
By Mike Haslam
From Ickerbrow Trig, Shearsman Press (2020)
Although born in Lancashire, Mike has lived at Foster Clough since 1970 and he reckons he has been writing Calder Valley poems since 1980.
Thank you!
To the kind man, a stranger to me, who, after I used the ATM across from the market, legged after me and called out, "You've forgotten something!"
When I looked round, he passed me the tenners I'd requested but neglected to collect from the cash machine. It almost restored my faith in human nature.
And finally
A prophecy
After Trump was inaugurated again, Roger Munday sent me a quote from a century ago:
"As democracy is perfected, the office of president represents, more and more, the inner soul of the people. On some great and glorious day in the future, the plain folk of the land will reach their heart's desire and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron."
HL Mencken, The Sage of Baltimore, Baltimore Sun. (1920)
Which is where I would have ended this piece, but having seen the disgraceful bullying of Ukraine's President in the oval office, it is clear that Trump and his team are even more dangerous than they are stupid.
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