Regular readers to these missives will probably realise I’ve a penchant for occasionally poking fun at my younger brother Ian’s ingrained clumsiness. Observations mischievously portraying our kid as a Closeauesque figure with an honours degree in Mr Beanery from Chuckle Brothers University, Rotherham.
I published such a blog last week titled Hurricane Ian – The Sequel). My playful literary jibe highlighting concerns I bore for the ‘health’ of my apartment contents during an upcoming visit from my sibling. In particular, worries his deep-seated cloddishness would end in damage; consequently robbing me of the bond I posted at commencement of tenancy..
Anyhow, as that visit has subsequently been (not Bean) and gone, I thought I’d provide an update on events during the three days IC Strachan resided at his elder bro’s gaff. A warts and all tale proving that an indiscrete GJ Strachan doesn’t subscribe to the mantra ‘What happens in Wakefield, stays in Wakefield’,
Unless, of course, the only individuals reading this are from Wakefield; in which case, if they stay stum, technically it does stay within the confines of the city walls…. Blimey, I’m overthinking content minutia again…. Best move on!
Sadly for those more prurient readers, I’ve led you down a garden path when writing ‘What happens in Wakefield, stays in Wakefield’. Alas, there’s absolutely nothing to report about any episode from my brothers visit which’d interest even the most desperate of gossip columnists. irrespective of how tepid the news day playing out in front of them.
Even the most vigilant observer of human behaviour (yes my brother is human) would struggle to unearth ponderous tales in which our kid had played even the smallest of cameo appearances.
Consequently, in a rare attempt to provide some semblance of balance, this narrative is an essay in which I offer Ian an apology. A heartfelt (partial) retraction of my frequent claims that everything our kid touches turns to horse manure.
Even though I joked in Hurricane Ian – The Sequel that he’d clumsily broken a bathroom trinket, in reality my bruv’s tarry to West Yorkshire from his hometown in Gateshead went off completely without incident.
When he left at midday on Sunday an apartment content parade showed all ornaments, crockery and any other breakable knickknacks to be all present and correct. Even Ian’s ungainly slamming of the front door on his departure failed to shatter ornaments on a nearby unit.
One sideboard trimming did appear to rattle briefly at that juncture. However, it righted itself and, if they could’ve managed it, I’m sure I’d have heard a huge collective sigh of relief from these frills at remaining unscathed upon Ian’s departure.
Anyhow, credit where credit’s due, our kid…. There were no tea towels set on fire during the cooking of your superb meals, no cause to utilise precautionary 1kg bottle of Gorilla Glue I’d purchased, or recourse to google removal of spilt red wine hacks.
The fact carnage didn’t ensue augmenting an already brio filled few days with Malcolm and Margaret Strachan’s middle offspring….. Who knows, keep this up Ian and maybe one day you’ll get that Morano Glassworks factory ban lifted; ticking off another bucket list aspiration.
Incidentally, does anyone want to buy a 1kg bottle of Gorilla Glue?!
