Fifth series, episode 17
All five series are available here on the HebWeb.
In the latest episode, George Murphy reviews Riot Women! celebrates the town council decision on the flood resilience programme, makes an out of season trip to Blackpool, shares two cautionary tales - and a double rainbow.
Riot Women!
Sally Wainwright and her brilliant cast have lavishly praised Hebden Bridge and its surrounding hills. She thought of setting the programme in Oxford, but realised that it wasn't edgy enough. She took a southern member of the cast to Heptonstall to admire the journey above the the wooded valleys and the gritty beauty of the ancient village. All of which the actress admired, but she was particularly struck by the vibrant hair colour of a pub landlady.
We watched the six episodes on iPlayer. There was the usual Wainwright mix of the dark and the comic. One viewer wrote on social media that she almost spat out her denture in response to a brilliant one liner. Perhaps it involved the date night between the Policewoman and The Yorkshire Rimmer.
The storyline about post-menopausal women forming a punk rock band, sped along like a Ramone riff. Rosalie Lee adapted her stage voice from a singer in musicals, but some of the cast prepared for the series by learning to play instruments for the first time. Wainwright told them that miming music never really works on screen, and imperfection was suitable for a new band in a local talent contest.
Newspaper reviewers mainly awarded the series four stars. Too much banging on about hopeless and heartless men was the main criticism, even from female reviewers. But middle aged mums supporting elderly, demented relatives, and grown up kids who have left home, but still demand money and mothering is true to life - and long has been.
With the news dominated by grooming gangs, right up to royal level, the backstory of a paedophile assault on Kitty didn't seem exaggerated. Mind you, her boyfriend beats her up – well, that's not true to life, is it?
Plugging flood controls
Four representatives from the Environment Agency supported our flood wardens at a Town Council Meeting. They emphasised how the massive injection of money into the town would protect floodplain houses and businesses when a flood on the scale of the 2015 flood returns. The scheme will limit the impact of flooding and "buy extra time for homes, emergency services and businesses."
As for blighting the town with the retractable barricades around the wavy steps (themselves a recent feature) our MP posted a reminder that until a few years ago vehicles drove down Bridgegate past the medieval bridge and The Swan pub. Fortunately, the Town Council vote was seven to two in favour of the scheme.
Blackpool Mecca
Before we set off to Blackpool, the sky had created its own light show - see right.
During half term, I got the 10.42 to Blackpool with our grown up kids, a granddaughter and her friend. The train passes through the Lancashire football towns to the coast. Journeys always seem longer on the outward leg, especially when one of our party has psychosis and paranoia. In our carriage, a patient young mum had to cope with dozens of I Spy games with her loud lunged, exuberant toddler, whilst her tinier tot, who had tried wandering around, wailed all the way when she was held on her seat. When they got off at Poulton le Fylde, the remaining passengers relaxed and breathed in the silence before hitting Blackpool.
The weather, was bright and breezy, so I enjoyed sitting near the pier, watching white horses as the young members of the clan made for the Pleasure Beach.
Blackpool is a monologist's Mecca because of Albert Ramsbottom, who had the stick with the horse's head handle, being eaten by a lion. My own Blackpool tale, was inspired by a Geordie nephew who shaved his head and replaced his hair with a tattoo.
A Cautionary Tale
The tale of Fred, who had two faces on his head, but now he's dead
Folks round here remember Fred,
He had two faces on his head.
T' front face wor set up in t' usual way,
But t' face round t' back wor a bird of prey.
He had his head shaved as wor t' fashion,
For young men in pursuit of passion,
But his FaceBook friend, Beverley, said,
"You look like Mr Potato Head."
He had some birthday money, and he blew it,
Took his head to t' Ink Parlour and said, "Tattoo it."
And Beverley wor all agog,
When she saw his bird phizzog.
They met in Blackpool on a weekender,
A tattooed couple on a bender.
"It's Freddie the eagle!" She said wit' grin.
His front face said, "It's a peregrine."
They sat on t' fence at end o't pier,
With fish suppers and cans of beer.
When a flock of seagulls swooped on Fred,
Attacking t' bird on t' back o't head!
But even though her Fred wor mobbed,
Bev made sure his fish worn't robbed.
Fred fought back and gave no quarter.
Until he toppled into t' water!
Then onlookers rushed to end o' t pier,
To see Fred's bird face disappear.
Then gulls flew off, quite satiated,
Bev looked at Fred's fish – they say she ate it.
So, don't put a raptor on your head,
Why not a budgerigar instead?
Tory Deportation Policy
Shadow Home Office Minister, Katie Lam, believes Britain should expel people who are legal immigrants if they come from a different culture. She wants to achieve 'a measure of cultural homogeneity'. The Conservatives wanted to strip legal immigrants of the right to stay.
Condition 3 in their proposed bill targeted anyone who has ever received state support; for example, women who had career breaks during pregnancy, or those receiving child support. Carers who had a break in their careers to care for elderly relatives, would have to go – and take with them their elderly relatives. There were no exemptions for people married to British partners, or their children. An opinion poll of Tory members placed her above Robert Jenrick as their choice to take over from their present leader.
But a few days later, after complaints from moderate Tories, Kemi Badenoch announced that legal immigrants would not be forced to leave because they held different religious beliefs or had someone in their family who had the wrong skin colour.
Halloween
In this condensed little town the word had got out amongst teen and preteen girls to dress scantily and ghoulishly, whilst gauche groups of male teens hung about in their usual sombre sports gear and trainers.
Here's a Hallowe'en tale I based om a lost pulp fiction story, which gripped the Bloomsbury group one sunny summer's day a hundred years ago. I thought it was more appropriate to place it at this time of year on our local moors. Perhaps it could be a cautionary tale about a youth who fails to don the right gear on a ramble …
Frank's ramble
When Frank went rambling up on t' moors,
This venture seemed romantic,
But then a heavy mist came down,
Now Frank wor feeling frantic.
He'd got no signal on his phone,
And day had turned to night,
And moon and stars had disappeared,
But then Frank saw a light!
A coach lamp hung above a door,
But t' house wor dark and shuttered.
"IS ANYBODY HOME?" he shouts.
"To ring for t' taxi?" mutters.
Three times he raps upon that door,
Three echoes each retort,
But as he turns to walk away,
Sharp footsteps resound in t' hall.
And t' door opens to dazzling light,
Frank thinks himself inspected.
"Who is it my dear?" a voice enquires.
"It's he whom we expected."
Frank follows her as if in thrall,
Mumbling apologies,
But as he turns into t' front room,
He's shocked by what he sees.
He looks at one face, then at t' other,
Then, "Lord have mercy!" he begs.
No eyes, no nose, no mouths at all,
Their faces are smooth as eggs!
He stands transfixed before them both,
Then he hears an inner yell.
He concentrates and hears more clear,
And t' words are, "Run like hell!"
He staggers off down t' dazzling hall,
And sprints down a gravel track,
And plunges into mist and moor,
And never once looks back!
But on some lonely moorland path,
Dipped headlights, at last, he spots.
And Frank strides out on t' tarmac road,
And t' car slows down … and stops.
T' car's engine purrs as they set off,
Frank states his destination,
In time, his hooded driver asks,
"What caused your perturbation?"
Relaxing then, Frank tells his tale.
And t' driver listens intently.
Then, smoothly slowing t' car to stop,
"No features at all?" asks gently.
When Frank turns to his rescuer,
His courage leaks its last dreg.
No eyes, no nose, no mouth at all,
His face as smooth … as an egg!
And finally
Just as we thought we were being more grown up and open about death, we are being told that people have passed away. This causes my Present Wife to shout "Died!" a the telly. Even worse for Kath is the comment that someone has 'passed'.
Died is the correct, killer word.
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