If I fell through a hole in time and travelled back 45 years. If I then looked out of my bedroom window across the field behind the lane with no name and beyond the field behind the field behind the lane with no name, not only would I have upset Mrs Edson’s daughter, but I would have seen the winch wheel of a pit stack.
On my road in Brierley is a lovely Georgian hall with a horrid 1960s extension that, until recently, was used by the council as offices.
In Barnsley Council’s unfettered intelligence, towards the end of last year, the offices and hall were vacated and put on the market. It was very sad as the hall is lovely (apart from the horrid extension) and rumours abound that developers were rubbing their hands together at the prospect of more land to build houses on.
However the hall, being a historic one, is listed and demolishing it would prove to be expensive and controversial. When I saw the boards going over the windows I said “Well it won’t be long until that burns to the ground will it?”
True enough, this morning on my way into uni I espied 2 fire appliances in attendance and policemen busily closing off the road. Yep. Some horrid bastard scally has set fire to it. Gone is the historic flooring; gone will be the lovely panelling and gone is any chance of the council meeting the reserve placed on it when it goes to auction next week. Call me cynical but I wouldn’t be surprised if now the whole thing gets razed to the ground and a lovely featureless warren of cloned houses get built on the land.
Thank fuck I’m not going to be here when the village gets ruined.
It’s kicking off in the Lane with no name (Lwnn). For those who don’t remember the Lane with no name is the lane that runs along the back of Gnomepants manor and connects the other 4 houses to the outside world without having to use the front steps which nobody uses which are steep. In times past it was also used as access for brewery vehicles to the Village Club but they don’t use it any more as they have better vehicles these days.
What was that?
Fireworks dear go back to sleep
Are you sure?
So I got out of bed, put on my jeans and slippers and went into the lane-with-no-name. Flames, at least 10 foot high were licking the trees on the boundary of the Brierley Social Club and Mr Pritchards garden. Behind which 3 or 4 cars were parked! All of which were on fire and going POP with frightening regularity.
“What can you see?”
“Call the fire brigade!”
4am in the morning. The fire brigade are there now, the lane blocked at the top by a car, their access not thwarted because of the nature of hoses.
This is the fourth fire in as many weeks. Looks like Brierley has an arsonist.
Sometimes going outside of Gnomepants Manor is like running the gauntlet. A simple task, like mowing the lawn, popping the milk bottles out for the milkman, taking refuse out or a crafty smoke in the lane with no name can be fraught with obstacles.
I interrupt my LJ abstinence to bring you some slightly smouldering news:-
At 15:30BST on Friday 25th July 2008 a van containing cylinders of acetylene “mysteriously caught fire” in the Hill Top area of Brierley (which is about 1km from Chez Gnomepants). Of course this being the middle of hicksville doesn’t account for spontaneous hydrocarbon combustion, as you shall see.
Upon the wife and my return from an evening out with the in-laws we were shocked to find a “large” area of Brierley cordoned off by old plod and the FyA boyz kReW. Indeed our diversion back through South Hiendley through to Shafton took us a fair way back on ourselves. (See here for cordon greenery). On investigation of the BBC News website we learned of the goings on.
Saturday the area was still buzzing with Old Plod and da FyA Boyz Kr3w. Rumours were abound and curtains twitched with alarming regularity. People were still evacuated from their homes and even after our return from a day out to Goole (of all places) people were STILL out of their homes and da FyA BoyZ Kr3w were still round in their big red engines. Oh! What a sight to behold!
This morning local chins wagged further as news broke that Old Plod had arrested a 28year old woman on suspicion of having her arse on. Oh the scandal! Nothing this exciting has happened in Brierley since the church had it’s roof lead pinched.
We now return you to the abstinence and the delights of Guestwriter.
So last night I donned my tartan pyjamas, picked up teddy and hopped into bed at a respectable hour as opposed to “ungodly o clock because Warcraft is addictive”. The reason behind the early night will become clear after the weekend (because I like to add a dash of mystery to my entries these days). Anyway, I had but just nodded off, the opening credits for the nights dreamingses were starting and went something like this:-
A Stegzy Gnomepants Dream
Dreamed in GlorioustechnicolourAvril Lavigne
and The Tight fitting cat suited lesbian vampiresses with comedy inflatable breasts
Steamy Sex Orgies on Underground Trains Vs the Binbaggers and that woman with the green poison VIII
In soft focus
Avril Lavigne – Ooh Thelma Blair, Liv Tyler and Hayden Panettiere come and help me rub this olive oil into my pert nipples while I do rude things to Kirsten Dunst with this cucumber. You fuckin bastard I fuckin hate you you fucking cunty bastard sweary sweary bum bum
Shouty Man on street out side – You fucking bitch I fucking hate you I’m going to smack you yadda yadda yadda shouty shouty shouty
Back to real life with a start
At this point I woke up. Very annoyed. I mean just what rude things did she mean? What a point to start and end a dream! Vexxed and annoyance levels heightened by the fact that my bedside alarm clock revealed I had but been asleep for 20 minutes, I looked toward the window in response to the shouty man on the street outside who was still shouting, wtf was going on?
Shouty Man on street out side – I’m fucking gonna slap you just fuck off fucking fuck fuck fuck slap hurt bitch arrgh toilet roll fucking pot noodle
Shouty Woman – Just fuck off you fucker
By the window Mrs Gnomepants was peeping out down onto the street with all the subtlety of a flamboyance of flamingoes in a blizzard. I shuffled grumpily toward the window listening intently. There on the street was a car, the doors wide open and a rather shouty shouty man shouting at some woman, getting rather rough and slapping her about a bit. Obviously drunk (the police in South Yorkshire don’t give two flying fucks about rural drink driving so it is rife) the man was seriously and scarily shouting at everyone in the street that he had roused from their slumber, who had obviously also started to peep out of their bedroom windows, instructing them to “FOKIN MIND YO’ ORN FOKIN BIZNIS”. At which point I shrugged and thought well fuck it then, and climbed back into bed.
Mrs Gnomepants called the police. Not to inform them of my disinterest in local drunks fighting it out on the street, but because she was concerned that a woman had been assaulted (Believe me the woman was giving that bloke a better slapping than he was giving) and that there was a drunk driver on the street and could the police come. Shouty man and Shouty woman went separate ways, shouty woman headed towards Grimethorpe still shouting at shouty man even though shouty man had driven off noisily (and dangerously) toward Pontefract Road.
As I desperately tried to get back to the sticky girl on girl action in Dream Theatre, I could hear Mr Shouty Man squeeling about further up the road and Mrs Shouty Woman screeching like a banshee in the other direction.
Honestly, it’s people like that that give booze a bad name.
Eventually I nodded off:-
Avril Lavigne – (Licking buttercream off her fingers while zipping up the all in one tight fitting pvc catsuit over her rather curiously large voluminous comedy inflatable breasts) Right then Drew, Lets get him
Drew Barrymore – (Brandishing a rather large hypodermic syringe filled with green liquid) Ok but don’t forget to bring those bin bags
Bastards. I always seem to miss the best bits.
It’s funny how we take things for granted. Today I have learnt about 3 granted things.
The first and second being the gear stick and clutch of a manual transmission car. G, of the human dog persuasion, wanted me to take him down to Thurnscoe (a very sinister part of south Yorkshire with weird, out of place council housing estates in the middle of nowhere) so that he could retrieve his dilapidated motorhome from a storage place. This involved me having to drive his beast of a people carrier (a Chrysler) which is automatic. I have never driven an automatic before. I’ll be jiggered if I could find the clutch or the gear stick (yeah yeah I knew there’s no clutch and the gear stick was in the steering column). Cue much swearing and cries of “ARRRRGH HOW DO YOU DRIVE THIS THING?!”
The third thing I took for granted is water. The house is devoid of water ever since it was attacked by water stealing aliens and transported to a distant arid planet since the plumber discovered that the bathroom his the focal point of a labyrinth of mysterious old lead pipes. So here I am, devoid of water (well not me personally; the house. If it was me I’d be like one of them creatures from Night of the Big Heat), with naught to make my tea and wash up with but a pan and a kettle of cold water. Toilet time is fun too. We have to use Mrs Owen’s outside jig (thats an outside loo to you Merrycans. Yes it is outside, in the middle of the lane with no name so that all the people from the club can see me pooing and weeing. No srsly it’s in Mrs Owen’s shed so it’s kind of an outside inside loo only it’s outside not inside, but then it is inside but outside of the house. If you get my meaning. You do? Good. I’d confusing to be hate) which is a nice outside jig but it has no light in it meaning we have to have the door ajar.
So with the plumber here, Gnomepants Manor resembles a building site.
So yesterday. Making 6 pints last 8 hours is really good going though I suppose having a KFC Variety meal for lunch AND a bowl of nachos for tea helped. Smoked far too much though.
What delights await this weekend? Well apart from work today and Monday, an emergency lecture on Monday and, more than likely the wife going off to the sister-in-laws for a few hours, I have the joys of a 3 year old’s birthday party and all the “fun” that brings.
I have also discovered a nice way of enjoying my home. I do this by sitting in the garden with a cup of tea looking at the horsies in the field behind the “lane with no name which might of had a name once which could possibly be mentioned on some ancient deeds or something but access road doesn’t have the ease of typing as the lane with no name” of course the horsies in the field behind the field behind the “lane with no name which might of had a name once which could possibly be mentioned on some ancient deeds or something but access road doesn’t have the ease of typing as the lane with no name”, not having been around as much lately, kind of make the field behind the field behind the “lane with no name which might of had a name once which could possibly be mentioned on some ancient deeds or something but access road doesn’t have the ease of typing as the lane with no name” kind of empty. I must get round to taking pictures of the view from the cliffs behind the houses behind the field behind the field behind “the lane with no name which might of had a name once which could possibly be mentioned on some ancient deeds or something but access road doesn’t have the ease of typing as the lane with no name” . However I fear for my life when I wander up that part of Brierley. The banjo music is definitely stronger there.
I also suppose I also should do a bit about the field behind the bus stop across the road from the housing estate that backs onto the field behind the “lane with no name which might of had a name once which could possibly be mentioned on some ancient deeds or something but access road doesn’t have the ease of typing as the lane with no name”.
Because Brierley is made of cheese and the electricity is generated by bees in a sock. We frequently have powercuts. They are frequently badly timed.
I’m afraid I have still far too much work to do so postings will be kept to a bare minimum. Of course you know how to get hold of me should you need to.
Now sod off, some of us have got to write about Public Service Broadcasting.