So this week rather than it being a traditional day of rest, Wednesday saw us going to the National Mining Museum with two kids in tow. Our original plan to head to the Maize Maze was , sadly, in tatters following what could be described in correct meteorological terms as a fuck-ton of rain. So plan B was to spend an hour and a half underground in the company of a old miner from Barnsley who had a very distinctive use of the English language.

Basically, if you wanted to find a stereotype, then he was it. He was it with bells on. He was throwing expressions and Yorkshire-isms left, right and centre, but for me the best part was that by the end of the hour and a half of spelunking in a coal mine he’d managed to convince a child (precocious, know-it-all smart arse) that coal isn’t pronounced like coal but is, in fact, pronounced like coil.

So that was fun.

But, as with everything Carole and myself do that involves an elderly person – I refer you to the Greyfriar’s Graveyard incident of 2013 – things became somewhat repetitive.

There were 19 of us on the tour. That number never changed. Nineteen went in, nineteen came out. At no point were any of those 19 people from Barnsley. That was established right at the begin when Dobbin (our tour guide, so called because he used to work with the horses) asked if anyone was from Barnsley. And we all said no.

A little later on, he asked us if anyone was from Barnsley.

Now, unless some other people had joined us, maybe having been living in the mine for a while or something, it was unlikely anyone was from Barnsley. And again we said no.

And then a little bit later still… there was stlll no-one from Barnsley on the tour, but he had to check again.

Other than that it was a good tour and another underground place I can add to the caves in Kent that they filmed old episodes of Doctor Who in (the walls still sparkle) and a hydro-electric plant in Scotland as somewhere I have been. And, sort of, one of those places that I want to go back to when we’re not accompanied by children and have a proper look at some of the things on display and I know Carole wants to go back and have a hunt for a relative who was injured in a mining accident.

I say mining accident. A wall fell on him at a mine. It’s not quite up there with the great colliery disasters of all time, but still if there’s a record of it to be had it’s more than likely going to be there. And if we can find it without a child looking bored or looking around for something to eat, we’ll be on a winner.



I’ve left this blog til really late
Distracted by You Tube
I’ve been watching CosPlay vids
And seen a lot of boob.

I’ve watched for research purposes
To see what we could be
When we go to London Comic Com
For our anniversary.

Carole wants to wear something
That takes it to extremes
A massive flowing sweeping dress
Is one of her cosplay dreams.

Me, though, on the other hand
I really want a gun
A sword would do at a push
Either one would be quite fun.

A swashbuckling hero
Is what I fancy being
And Carole as a kick-ass bitch
Would certainly be worth seeing.

So many ideas have passed my eyes
Sometimes more than once
I’ve got some great ideas now
Just swimming round my bonce.

It’s Been A Slice

Today I learned that juggling
Is not a good idea
Particularly with a tin can
When no-one else is near.

I was going to the recycling
When the can fumble occured
And for anyone in earshot
A few choice words were heard.

“Shit the bed!” I think I said
All overcome with pain
As I’d sliced my finger open
Clumsy Jake again.

So arm held high above my head
And wrapped in kitchen paper
I began to search for plasters
To cover my latest injury caper.

You know in packs of plasters
You get all kinds of size
Well here’s something now that I have found
A lesson to the wise.

Those little ones are all that’s left
Designed for tiny cuts
Or those really, really massive ones
That you use if you are nuts.

I wanted just a normal size
I didn’t want to make a fuss
But with a really really small one
Who’s going to notice us?

I want to bask in sympathy
I want to be looked after
I want to sct like I’m in pain
And try to win a BAFTA.

But truth is, once the blood had stopped
Which really took a while
My finger is just fine you see
Now I don’t cry, just smile.

(Apart that is, for the cut
The slice into my finger.
I think the wound might hang about
I reckon it will linger.)

Yellow. You Can Eat It. (9)

A conversation overheard
Told in poetry form
It wasn’t something I’d heard before
Definitely not of the norm.

“I’ve been for a carvery,
It was really, really nice.”
“Oh, I like a carvery,
I’ve been once or twice”

“I had beef and turkey
And potatoes – roast and mash
And carrots, gravy, yorkshire puds
Great value for my cash.

And I had some yellow stuff
It’s a vegetable you can eat.
Oh man, I can’t remember it
It’s like corn, but kind of sweet.

While I can’t remember that
I had stuffing balls as well.
And that yellow vegetable.
Oh what’s it called? Oh hell…

How can I not remember it
It’s not like I’ve just been born
I had it at the carvery
But what was it, oh SWEETCORN!”

Six Thirty Wake Up Call

There’s something that I’m doing wrong
I’m missing all the tricks
Because I don’t have someone to phone
Every morn at half-past six.

I can barely function at that time
My brain’s stll coming round
The last thing that I want to do
Is make conversational sound.

But lots of people do it
A man does every day
He phones his wife at half past six
Just to tell her “hey!”

Sometimes he complains that she
Is not terribly receptive
The fact that he is wide awake
Is somewhat quite deceptive.

Or there’ll be other people
Who always have a chat.
I’m sorry but if I was in bed
I’m be like “screw that!”

Just because you’re wide awake
Doesn’t mean they are too
They’re probably snuggled fast asleep
Content not being you.

Because you’re up at the crack
As dawn breaks over the land
Phoning people at half past six
I just don’t understand…