Today sees another small step in my ongoing penmanship rehab. A further attempt to reinvigorate a passion for writing which has largely forsaken me since last December. A devotion waning in December 2025, after succumbed to a wave of self-doubt about my art; consequently becoming overwhelmed by lethargy and low-spirits.
A malaise I’ve now resolved to escape from to once again sharing my offbeat notions via blog… Whether you bloody want them or not! 😉
Thoughts which for months have aimlessly whirled around my mind, like the arbitrary directional changes my beagle Bella makes during her morning walk. The scent driven mutt frequently spending twenty minutes zig-zagging over a small area of parkland should a redolence dictate.
Footnote – A redolent aroma to her that is!!… I’m sure I’ll not be in the minority in concluding urine from squirrels, foxes and other dogs wouldn’t be my aftershave of choice… Bloody hell, Bella follows me around enough as it is! No, Eau de Secret Squirrel, or Calvin Kline’s Basil Brush just a duo of colognes you’d never catch me adorning as I wander Ossett’s avenue and alleyways.
Ossett my new residential domain since July 2025. A municipality boasting a 118 year old town hall bedecked with French renaissance architecture. It’s adjacent buildings surround a market square visited by King George V and Queen Mary, and during most market days in the 1990’s and noughties my mum and dad. The latter visiting Friday markets to procure a wealth of products including fresh fish, plants, veg and brandy snap biscuits.
At that time my dad managed a factory nearby in the town’s suburban area of Flushdyke. The area, which I’m assured is no relation to Mary Poppins actor Dick Van Dyke, an amalgam of factory units and mid 20th century housing.
Unlike Elton John in his song ‘I’m Still Standing’, the Fellmongers my father led is… ermmmm… well, no longer standing. Since moving here last July, my heart momentarily drops in melancholy every time I drive past the site where pater’s now demolished offices stand.
Close to my new home stands the impressive Ossett Trinity church, whose 226 foot (69 metres) spire is so imposing it sits at number 78 in the book ‘UK Sites You Can Witness From Bloody Miles Away’… It is also claimed the steeple is commanding enough it can be witnessed from The Moon. However, unless The Moon is a local pub, I’d take that boast with a pinch of salt!
Anyhow, as is my want, I digress… Back to the period where I ceased writing.
During the creative sabbatical I sold my campervan. A motorhome whose trips provided a wealth of both fictional and factual writing material for the past three years. I’ll not regurgitate those already journaled accounts, previously published on my blogging site strachan.blog . Other than say some incidents during these sojourns have presented me with some of the heartiest chuckles I’ve had for a while.
My brother drunkenly mistaking my chunky anorak for a sleeping bag in the poorly lit van cabin particular comedy gold. He eventually aborting the attempt in frustration after being unable to fit his legs through the quilted coat arms.
My partner-in-crime Sarah’s even drunker fall from a chair in the van awning causing her flowing dark locks to snag on the bivouacs velcro, requiring an inebriated rescue mission from yours truly providing similar huge belly laughs.
I know what you’re thinking. Well, guessing what you’re thinking; after all I can’t read minds… Apart from you Mrs Hauliflower, in Sedgefield, whose every thought seems to reach me at some juncture during the day. I’ll not sit in judgement on these thoughts, other than advocate if you do undertake this morning’s notion wash your hands before cooking tea!!
Anyhow, I’m guessing you’re thinking “Why did you sell your camper van, Gary?!… A vehicle which imparted such verve into a normally low key existence.”
And if I’ve guessed right, it would be a fair point. A query which I’d respond to with the following two reasons:- 1) the seeming increasing frequency of really breezy days, and 2) the tribulations of overnights in a van when you possess the prostate of a middle-aged man.
The former making spending long periods of time in an awning less than pleasurable, and the latter a figurative and literal ball ache. Trying to exit a sleeping bag (or padded anorak), get dressed, leave and return to the vehicle quietly was becoming a chore. Especially when you need the loo a minimum of twice a night; a maddening feature borne from my juncture in the ageing process.
Incidentally, when I refer to possessing the prostate of a middle-aged man I’m referring to my own body part. Not that I’m the proud owner of someone else’s prostate; a gland I keep in a pickling jar in my stairway cupboard!
I do collect sporting memorabilia but I draw the line at acquiring sportsmen 9or women’s) body parts. It’s fair to say that even if my boyhood hero Billy Bremner’s prostate was put up for silent auction, I’d not join the bidding war.
On that note, one of author/presenter Danny Baker’s excellent autobiographies contained an anecdote about actor Peter O’Toole recalling a meeting with an old Russian fella who was in possession of Rasputin’s penis.
Although Baker is a gloriously accomplished raconteur with a wealth of whimsical tales, he openly admitted in his tome he’d no chance of ever topping such an outrageous claim to fame.
Yeah, I’ve had a raft of random thoughts crossing my mind during literary barren times. One being would Cheesecake be a good name for a hamster; or indeed hamster be a good flavouring for a cheesecake?!
In the last seven months, these left field brain farts sowing the seeds of self-doubt. Manifesting thoughts perhaps my dad was right all along when occasionally labelling me a ‘village idiot’ during sillier childhood moments.
Me at the time taking his disapproval as him ‘not getting it’; his mainstream sense of humour not affording a place for the absurd. However, maybe, just maybe, it might be me who’s not in on the gag! On reflection, though, I’m being far too sensitive and my old man was a lovely fella who I was lucky to call dad, and if he’s right or not I can’t be weighed down with such thoughts.
Even if people don’t appreciate my humour, I can’t afford to worry what they think. Yeah, there’s times I need to read the room better, but I’ll ignore those claiming I’m not funny when everyone in the surrounding group laughs at a whimsical slight made at their expense.
Laughter in itself is an objective measurement; the very fact a quip manifests chortles from what Ken Dodd called people’s chuckle muscles proves, if not the person, the comment bears some comedic merit.
Take away my capacity and will to engage in and spread mirth and I have nothing. As Gloria Gaynor sang: “I am what I am. And what I am needs no excuses. I deal my own deck. Sometimes the ace, sometimes the deuces.“… Just read the f***ing room better, Gary!
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