Gary Strachan – "Write" Said Fred
Whimsical observations from deep within an erratic mind
This morning, I'm afflicted by an ordinarily infrequent case of writers block. A rare creative imposter which I'm currently unable to vanquish, despite sitting in a White Rose Centre coffee house indulging in a spot of people watching. A pastime which ordinarily manifests ideas aplenty, but thus far hasn't provided GJ Strachan with any noteworthy... Continue Reading →
No network connection at my local Costa has deprived me of access to the editing facility on my website writesaidfred.org . A frustrating event, although one of minimal inconvenience when taking into account the existential detritus I ordinarily contend with. That being said, irritatingly it's yet another recent example of electronic device issues hindering my... Continue Reading →
Tomorrow is green bin day in Leeds 15. I'm aware that detail is of (a) no use if you don't live in the LS15 postcode area, and (b) not that interesting even if you do; however I really am struggling for a blog topic today. Inclusion of refuse collection information undertaken after concluding transcription of... Continue Reading →
"I could tell my parents hated me. My bath toys were a toaster and a radio." A trademark self-deprecating one-liner from late wall-eyed US comedian Rodney Dangerfield. Just one of a barrage of quips in his quick-fire standup act, interspersed with the woe-is-me catchphrase "I don't get no respect!" Although he was only joking onstage... Continue Reading →
I'm writing this piece wearing a pair of earphones in what's turned into a futile attempt to negate the sound from a daytime TV show my wife is currently viewing. Although the gogglebox's volume is diminished slightly by the over the head speakers, I'm still able to hear Charlie Dimmock and the Rich brothers yapping... Continue Reading →
Easter Monday - As I write, I'm plagued by jaw bone discomfort - A self inflicted facial injury, the consequence of my long-term grinding habit. As the act of grating the jaw makes me gurn, it's a tick I thankfully only carry out in the privacy of my own home. Gratifyingly, I don't undertake this... Continue Reading →
I wrote recently of my scepticism surrounding old wives tales. A mini diatribe not backed on any scientific fact, moreover sneering conclusions born from my ingrained middle-age cynicism. During that narrative, I carelessly omitted to touch on the comedic value of these superstitious folk tales, especially when misquoted. I'm alluding to mixed metaphors and idioms, which are inherently funny when delivered incorrectly. I have... Continue Reading →
On the 23rd December Panic Saturday will be upon us. A recent inclusion in the festive calendar, I have it on good authority it's the moniker bestowed upon the last Saturday before Christmas Day. A godforsaken few hours in retail purgatory, that would be worthy of entry in a contemporary re-write of Dante's Inferno. An inclusion in... Continue Reading →
As a part of cricket playing recollections in my teens/early twenties at Gateshead Fell, today I'm moved to pen vague memories from club cricket tearooms. A domain that for generations has been predominantly the domicile of cricketer's wives, mums and girlfriends. Warm-hearted volunteers giving up their summer Saturday afternoons, ensuring the teams/crowd are provided with sustenance, a warm smile and the occasional rollocking for the unhygienic... Continue Reading →