I discovered a rather pleasant cocktail at the weekend.

2 measures of extra dry vermouth
1 measure of Amaretto
1 measure of Cherry juice
A dash of lime
A splash of lemonade

Shake well, pour over crushed ice. Serve with cherry & slice of lime.

Bloody good too.

Yesterday we went to Farmer Copley’s and spent £60 on food which, in the grand scheme of things, is a bit much. Though we did get £10 worth of oven gloves (matching black for the new kitchen) and a fair bit of meat, but still….for a weeks shop thats more than we usually spend. [In fact it was probably more like £80 cos we went to the Co-Op]

We suspect that Copley’s business has been rather healthy of late especially as he has new lines of food in (beers and yummy looking cakes) and has even been able to buy himself a nice sparkly pick up truck emblazoned with “Shop at Farmer Copley’s its great and I like it” or words to that effect. So obviously he’s doing a Tesco and milking his customers for everything he can get our evidence being that our shopping bill has gone up. Thing is it’s damn good food and ironically people stopped shopping at independent suppliers because they tried to take the piss, price wise and migrated to the evil Chitty Chitty Bang Bangchild catcher that is the major supermarket behemoths.

So we will just have to go to Marr Grange Farm, Brick Yard Farm, Cannon Hall Farm or Barnsley Market from now on. This means that unless we go shopping on Saturday there won’t be any proper food and we’ll end up eating take aways and shite from Co-Op.

We also did the recycling. Our nearest recycling point is in Ackworth (though I suspect there is one in Hemsworth somewhere) which is administered by Wakefield Council (I live in Brierley which comes under Barnsley Council). Wakefield Council must still be on Christmas holiday because the recycling bins were over flowing.

I’m also in the process of writing for an explanation to Barnsley council into why my request for a fish eye mirror and a “Concealed Entrance” sign has not been actioned. The end of our drive way is very dangerous with the traffic. It is only a matter of time before a Grimethorpe idiot comes bombing up Brierley Road and smacks into someone exiting our driveway. They wrote back last year saying they would look into it. But since then I’ve learnt that Mr Pritchard has written to the council on numerous occasions about the same thing. I think the words “Duty of Care” and “prosecution” need to be seeded through out my next letter to them.

I also learnt that Brierley Town Council (TOWN council! Its a fucking VILLAGE!) consists of a bloke who lives in Pontefract, an old woman that does some typing when her arthritis isn’t playing up, a spotty youth from Willow Garth Young Offenders Comprehensive School and a rabid flea bitten mange ridden Staffordshire Bull Terrier dog called Fluffykins.

Think thats going to have to change…thing is, my Googlefoo is a bit crap and I can’t seem to find any contact details about Brierley Town Council other than a foot note on some PDF document on Barnsley Council’s webshite. Which of course screams “Something dodgy is going on here” in 180pt Arial Bold. Otherwise I’d put meself forward as “Town” councillor and kick some bottoms with size nine generic work boots (with concealed steel toe cap).

Author: stegzy

Once, long ago, I wrote frequently on Livejournal. I then moved to Blogspot, where I discovered that blogging requires an audience. So I moved back to LJ. Then over to Dreamwidth, back to LJ, up the road of self hosting with Muckybadger before giving up entirely and moving over to Wordpress. It was at that moment I decided I would spread my compostual nonsense simultaneously across the blogosphere like some rancid margarine. And so here I am. I am a badger. But then I'm not really a badger. I am a human. With badger like tendencies. I am a writer, a film producer and a social commentator. I am available for Breakfast TV shows, documentaries and chats in the pub with journalists where I am more than qualified enough to talk confidently about absolute shite and bollocks.

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