More than Wads

At the weekend I visited 'The North'. I had never been before and was therefore a little wary of the possibility of it being 'grim'.


The weather was indeed so. I have yet to be convinced that it doesn't snow all year round. Dave tells tales of times when he has been 'sweltering', but if this is so I suspect it applies only to one freak afternoon of his childhood. Or perhaps 'sweltering' means something else up there. Like the innuit have a heap of words for snow, perhaps Dronfieldians employ a hundred unusual phrases for 'a bit bloody nippy'.

Fortunately, apart from the temperature, Dronfield is not grim. It is quite pretty, full of pubs and apparently populated by Dave's mates, cool looking old men and sexy young mums. Having enjoyed a little of all the above it was with a substantial hangover that we set off for the (un?)enviable task of nettle picking for a beersperiment. We were thwarted by the nettles, who stubbornly refuse to grow until spring. I don't blame them. So we headed to Castlesomething and drove around some peaks and then collapsed in front of the television.

It was a weekend of 'worst ever's on music television, the most objectionable of which was the 40 Worst Ever Number Ones in which American F-list nobodies slagged off the lyrical content of their least favourite chart toppers.

"You want me to blame it on the rain? Uhm heLLO! Take some responsibility"
"Is it me you're looking for? Ew, creepy"

We spent an enjoyable hour or two shouting abuse at them all, mostly because about half the songs weren't that rubbish. I find it very sad that anyone in this day and age can still hold anything against Mmbop. And Extreme did good harmonies. And I'm Too Sexy was ironic. Ok, I'm really sad.

Sunday night saw us haul our curry stained selves down to the local for live music and diplomatic negotiations. Chris Waddle's absence had driven Tetley to an alchohol-fuelled frenzy of dancing and heckling, leaving me, Dave and Wayne to build bridges between North and South, lad and lass, LH1 and PL11.

The ambassador for Crafthole donates a highly decorated traditional firemaking instrument to the people of LH1. Chris Waddle is not present.

On the bus home nobody speaks English and I fall asleep to the babble of a world of dialects mumbling into their mobiles. I arrive in London and it's bitterly cold. It's grim up everywhere.