The Cow and Coffee Morning

......Hang on a second...... Just bare with me....... Be with you in a mo. I'm just filling in my entry form.

I mean, let's face it, this is a chance not to be missed. After all, here is Pither, in desperate need of a costly dental revamp, crying out for expensive hair implants, longing for a gastric clamp to reduce his rotundity, with a house which needs thousands spending on it so it will at last be distinguishable from No. 73, Baghdad High Street, Iraq, but he would obviously tear up that wish list if he could just have................a year's supply of ketchup!

What a wank-wankety-wank-wank offer!! Who in the Holy name of Christ would want a fucking year's supply of ketchup? Besides anything else, in my case it would constitute ONE bottle. For the lardarses out there, where the fuck would you put it all?

Why are you banging on about ketchup, Reg, I don't hear anyone ask? Well, it's by way of explaining where I've been for the last few months. Confused? Bare with me again and let me explain.

In short, I have been working my mammary glands off at a new job - I think I mentioned I had finally swapped self-employment for PAYE again? Anyway, the job is with a daily paper. So far so good. They are a jolly nice bunch. Hurrah! The only drawback is the paper covers an area of the country which makes Siberia look heavily industrialised. It is what you might call........rural. Pither is used to the smoke and grime of the conurbations. He's used to murder, rape, explosions, death and darts. Where there's muck there's much to write about for a journo. My latest posting is, however, forcing me to lower my sights somewhat. I shall, henceforth, refer to the paper as The Cow and Coffee Morning.

Surprisingly, covering fuck all involves an awful lot of time and effort. I mean, those "bird found in tree" and "Women's Institute tea cup drama" stories don't write themselves. Consequently, I found myself working yet again yesterday and picking up the evening edition I realised just how silly my life has become.

The once in a lifetime, fabulous ketchup offer was trumpeted in a hamper on last night's front page, alongside the masthead. I was so tired and disillusioned I decided to actually read the bloody thing for once - (in reply to a previous editor who once asked "Pither, don't you ever read your own paper?" I replied "Of course I bloody don't! Do you?") - and so I present a few snippets to let you know just how near the cutting edge of journalism I am these days.

How about this? This, would you believe, is an entry on the letters page. It is my particular favourite. Does this give you any idea just how much there is to do on the patch and the calibre of reader?

This little item was a review. I think it not only says a lot about what a night in reading the paper is all about, it also says a bit about the standards of journalism around. If you read a review you want to get an overall impression, yeah? How are you supposed to come down one way or the other with this? Fence-sitting seems to be the order of the day.

Then there's this. I think it illustrates quite well that things are not done on a grand scale "round these 'ere paaarts". Hyperstore it ain't!

I include this merely to give you an idea about what the average reader looks like. I believe one of these two has won a dog show - sadly, the caption does not make clear which.
And finally, this was the strap along the bottom of yesterday's front page. Doesn't it just make the ketchup offer pale into insignificance? I can't wait.

So, there you have it. I shall keep you posted - literally - from now on. In the meantime, many thanks to all those kind types out there who have asked after me during my absence - notably BW, Ginni and Brad. Thanks again.
Nothing is more deserving of a trip to Grantham than this newspaper but, then again, if I send it I will be out of a job. It will have to stay out but......well, you know.

On The Saving Of Bacon

I've finally got a job! I've finally got a full-time, permanent job and my house is safe!! Hurrah!!!

With just two weeks to go before the building society said it would repossess Pither Towers, I have at last found someone who is prepared to employ a "47-YEAR-OLD", who is "A MAN", "WHITE", "ABLE-BODIED" (sort of) and "NOT EASILY BULLIED"! Double hurrah!

Who, I don't hear you ask, has taken this leap of faith and decided that there is life in the old dog yet? Well, it's no-one in the sexist, vacuous, ageist, immoral, talentless, back-stabbing, chip-on-the-shoulder world of PR, that's for sure. I have battled valiantly for two years to make ends meet in that stupid, corporate world and, try as I might, I realised the time had come when I just couldn't overcome the obstacles to employment (glass security doors, I think they are called) - hence my last two months of inactivity.

That's when it dawned on me. Over this last fortnight I redoubled my efforts to find ANY kind of work, ANYWHERE and a wise old owl said to me:

"What is it you actually do, Pither?"

"Well, I was a journalist," said I. "Now I don't really know what I am."

"I don't think you can really stop being a journalist," said he. "It's like stopping being a serial killer. It's kinda in your blood."

"Nice analogy, but I take your point."


So, realising that I should carry on doing what it is that I always used to do, I put in a few phone calls and - da, daaa! - the second daily paper I made contact with said "Come on in Piths, we'd be glad to have you aboard."

I start a week on Monday and will be a newsdesk assistant and head office senior responsible for taking the baby Biro brandishers under my wing. Hurrah! The money isn't brill - that's journalism for you - but I'm back on the pension trail again, working in a lovely part of the country, for a non-Nazi organisation and........well.......doing what I do.

The feeling is good. The feeling is very good. It's almost as good as that feeling you get inside when you see the stony face of some grasping, geriatric, Home Counties type when they are told the chest of drawers they have taken along to the Antiques Roadshow is just tat and only worth about £10.

Grantham shall not have journalism. The people will just have to make do with BBC Breakfast, The Sun and the Daily Mail.

P.S. I am so heartened by this news I shall post a gratuitous, sexist photo, just to cheer me up (and because I can, and because I'm old, and because I still have dreams) - and to remind me about my ultimate career goal and the publication at which I think all of my talents will finally be fully utilised.