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Now this is going to be one of those boring useful information blogs that doesn't contain the normal rib tickling, gut wrenching effortless voyages into whimsy and humour, and as such isn't really proper fair for a Friday morning. Obviously normal service will be resumed next week and there will be another mis-rendering of some much loved pop song to get you whistling along. But for the moment there's a little nugget of information that is worthy of note.

I went to a Parish Council meeting last night. These are fascinating little events, covering as they do the minutiae of local life. Your guaranteed long insightful debate on pot holes and you can be sure than someone will be fly tipping somewhere, the traffics going to fast and someone is trying to build an eyesore. All very wonderful, and for this you will find a small item on your council tax form marked Parish Council Stipend or some such similar and it's a small amount that covers the minimal costs of such organisations. Most of it goes in payments to the clerk, 3rd party insurance and the erection of the odd notice board or seat, and the budgets are carefully policed by people that know the value of a second class stamp.

This is all well and good, and is as it has been for sometime now. But there is something rather special about the stipend. It's not capped. All the other bits of your council tax are specified and feature in those terminally long arguments about how much more tax you do or don't pay to your council or the police.

This means that if the Council can shunt costs off to the Parish councils and only provide those organisations with funding for a part of the services like pot hole filling, hedge cutting and other bits and pieces then the parish councils will have to put up the stipend, and that's the nice bit for the Council there is no limit to how much.

In some ways it is relevant because people generally would like to see local money spent on local costs but one would hope that there would be a similar reduction in the main council tax loading as a result. But if you have any cynicism about local government the odds of them reducing the amount for you particular band is pretty low.

So do have a look, and see how much you pay now for those little meetings in drafty church halls it might be increasing soon and forewarned is forearmed.

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Yesterday was not a good day.

It started with a shoulder that objected strongly to the way I slept and in the early morning contemplation of my fine physical form I looked as thou I was turning to the left and banking heavily. It hurt as well. My left ear had in an act of solidarity decided to keep up it's fairly constant level of infection and as such it made the leaning to the left all the more complicated because I can't hear on that side. 

When you are the possessor of a finely tuned body that screaming hordes of teeny-boppers will cross counties to observe, you can't have one side hogging all the limelight. So in what can only be described as a breathtaking act of expansion, the ear, having set up permanent residence, instituted a basic federal tax system and half decent drains has diversified and decided to institute a session of conjunctivitis in the right eye.

So aching and feeling particularly sorry for myself, the lecture from a policewoman on the relative safety risks of scooting a bike down an empty railway platform, merely added to the sense of injustice and the good solid bang on the head from trying to look out of the kitchen window merely confirmed that this was the sort of day when a confluence of lay lines and biorhythms just plain had it in for me. 

Racing home to meet my sons teacher for parents evening, only to discover that althou' he has some good points, the issues on which he's weak seem to be only addressed by nothing more than an occasional word, finally lit the fuse and it wasn't long before I was explaining my views on the inadequacies of the teacher to the headmistress. 

So all in all a day to forget. Luckily nothing else happened to interupt my sense of self pity, apart from my mother ringing me up to tell me my father has prostate cancer *. They do pick there moments don't they?

* Actually the prognosis is pretty good and he treats it almost as a relief to know what's wrong rather than anything too serious, so this is not as bad as it may seem. He's a tough old bird and the excellent medical help is as confident as they can be for man borne just before the second world war.

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We packed our eldest daughter of on a coach at 7:15 yesterday morning.

So her long awaited French exchange trip is in motion. She seemed to be a little bit nervous most of the weekend and this, as usual, emerged as petulance, and a stronger than usual argumentative streak. 

As with all these things there were many lists to complete and full and frank disussions of what could and couldn't go but all in all it all came together reasonably well and she was whisked off to Luton airport to travel to Bordeaux. 

The exassperating role of parent of a twelve year old daughter is a journey full of constant missed opportunities. Of course the adoring parents where keen to get out the biggest atlas we have ( and we have a few) and try to look up all the places she was visiting, the villages she'd be travelling throu' and one or two obvious 'interesting' local places for her to visit in her no doubt copious free time. She was prepared to know she was going to France and leave it at that, so given this session of geographical exploration was going to take five minutes out of the far more important task of farmville maintenance, a certain amount of discussion ensued.

But these are minor gripes. The basic fact is the twelve years have flown by and it's odd to consider that she is porbably already over half way to leaving us, and this is just the first proper testing of the wings.

I'm missing her already.

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My children have learnt to fear me. I have killed and nothing will ever be the same again.

It all started as I was beating the bounds of the estate late on Saturday night. The cattle lay easy in their stall, the distant sounds of giraffes hunting in the undergrowth and polar bears slept silently in their nests. All was well as I settled the shutters and locked the gates. I took one last look around the kitchen only to be suddenly drawn by movement by the settee. I glanced down and my eyes were met by the hideous cruel black pupils of a mouse. It must have been 80 millimetres long if it where an inch and we stood rooted to the spot staring at each other. In that one moment we knew, as if thorough some primeval sense, that only one of us was going to see the dawn.

The mouse moved first it leapt towards me and I went to parry, but it had only be a fake. It shot off towards it's lair in the hideous dark recesses between the dishwasher and the cupboard. 

I knew there was nothing for it. I went to attic and whilst muttering a prayer of ritual cleansing, retrieved my implements of death. One trap, left by my mentor in death, the local council rodent operative. I reverently carried it down stairs, and offered up the traditional sacrifice of Edam cheese with a blob of peanut butter.

I edged down into the dank, dark entrance to the hideous cavern, and with great fortitude, set the trap in the entrance. I withdrew carefully, brushing off my tracks with a bunch of twigs and left an appropriate warning for passers by on a Cheshire police constabulary post it note.

' WARNING LIVE MOUSE TRAP! '

 and as is the way of the warrior in such situations, I withdrew to my hut for my lonely vigil,and  abstained from sex ( Mrs Wyleu  was so terrified of the mouse it was out of the question anyway ).

I awoke on Mothering Sunday to the sound of the younger village residents excitedly jabbering.

'It's horrible', 'How could you be so cruel Daddy?'. I just looked into the distance and realised I had crossed to that land only known to one who has slayed to protect his family.

Mrs Wyleu, as the matriarchal head of the family pronounced, after due consideration. 

"You re going to clear it up aren't you?", but I could tell their was adoration in her voice. I said nothing. Ihave gathered and now I have hunted. The ancestors will be proud of me today.

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It was foggy this morning. At least it was round the tidy hamlet of Malkin's Bank which shivered in a grey blanket, limiting the visibility to a few metres. The canal wasn't iced but the air was cold and everything was frosted and breathing induced tears for the first couple of minutes. The sound under such conditions are muffled and only the occasional duck flying off the  canal was distinct. Quite how they know not to fly into the bridges upon take off I 'll never know but they seem to manage it.

The cars on the bypass all had their lights on and seemed to be driving faster than normal, and I took it more carefully at the roundabout than normal. Once onto the the main run I put my head down and breathed great clouds of steam, and my recently acquired beard was quickly saturated.

Then I looked down at the arms of my jacket. On each was a gilt of frost from the action of cycling through the fog. Quite intriguing in it's way and a rather nice illustration of condensation.

Getting into Crewe the air warmed noticably and the forst had all but dissappeared by the time I cycled into the station.

The fog continued once more as we left the station in the train and Beeston Castle poked through the top but at round about that time the sun which was getting higher in the sky was beginning to win the battle and the grey blankets subsided into a light haze.

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Now one of the things about a blog is that you are very unlikely to paint yourself in a bad light. Obviously the many failings of the human race I observe are truly accurate appraisals and as such it is only a matter of time before I am elevated to a role similar to that aspired to by Mr Tony Blair. So it will come as no surprise to you to discover that I have once more behaved like a saint amongst Wolves.

It's all really down to the extra light there is around in the evening. Normally the run round the Crewe roundabout is an exercise in trying to ensure I'm ahead of the cars to ensure I'm not side swiped by a slightly over enthused commuter and indeed Monday night was no different. I got a good start and was accelerating to the eye watering speed of thirty kilometres an hour on the bypass when I saw something in the gutter. IT was a wallet. Now I can stop pretty quickly so I came to a juddering halt, and performed that most difficult of cycling manoeuvres, going backwards.

And it was indeed a wallet. I opened it, because without knowing who it belongs to it's rather difficult to return it. Firstly it was a lot tidier than my wallet. Obviously international celebrity blog writer have much on their plate and maintaining a tidy wallet is the kind of thing that one's people tend to do and since I wouldn't let the only member of my staff, Mrs Wyleu, anywhere near my wallet, it keeps it's crumpled but non the less interesting collection of old train ticket receipts pretty much as they are stuffed.

This wallet just seemed neat and the perscription also included the name and address of the owner who only lived a couple of kilometres out of my way.

So I got back on the bike and carried on. Now one of the wonderful things about cycling is you get plenty of time to think. IN my case most of this is put aside to deciding if it would be cheesy to receive the second Nobel peace prize for contributions to humanity, but on this occasion I did some genuinely selfless thinking about quite how a wallet with money in it comes to be 200 odd metres down a bypass. It can't have been thrown out of a window by thieves cos everything valuable was still there and I began to wonder if I was going to walk (or indeed cycle) into some kind of domestic.

So I pulled up outside the house and there was a car in the drive and I could see a baby in a high chair through the window. That was good because the wallet had containd PAmpers vouchers.

The door was answered by what I presumed was the husband.

"Does, and for the sake of modern sensibilities I leave out the name, live here?". 

He was already suspicious,

"Yes",

"I think I have something that belongs to her" and offered up the wallet..

The look on his face was both conspiratorial and amused,

He called her name, and the look on her face was just pure joy at the sight of the wallet.

I absorbed the gushing thanks with all the well practised expertise of Superman after he's just re-sited a collapsing bridge.

"Just one thing", I asked,"How did it come to be there".

Her husband gave her a look and cleared up the whole issue whilst she looked sheepish.

"She reckons she left it on the roof of the car after going to the gym"

As I said I'm just this far from Sainthood.

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Well the Sun is out the weekend was clear and crisp and it's back to work. As ever the weekend feels too short and the week feels too long. This is also met with the disastrous news that a large sector of the civil service are going on strike.

Now obviously this will result in a catestrofic collapse of all we hold dear in the Western world, and I set out in desperate fear that hordes of itinerant un-councilled yobs will descend on the good, law abiding citizens of the Cheshire plains and our Wives will be pillaged and our houses raped.

But surprisingly the world still span on it's axis and the ability to speak still seemed to be possessed by everyone I still needed to speak to. This is very disconcerting because having spent a certain amount of time in the shadow of the council I know how much it does for us.

Perhaps it's just an other example of how well oiled the machine actually is, and the incredible momentum built up by our hard working civil servants will manage to carry us over this hideous severance of all we hold dear. Obviously based on such a premise the Government will see the error of their ways and given their considerable understanding of how much better elected officials work when suitably insentivised, admit the error of their ways and reward our hard working civil service all the bountiful rewards that the private sector worker roll around in.

Or perhaps no one will notice. 

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And now we come to one of the most tragic moments in England's world cup career, with ABC's searing analysis of the sad and ultimately doomed attempt of 1970.

Why make the past your sacred cow? 

The opening line is a wail against the already prevalent air of nostalgia that had already gripped the country after their home triumph not four years before.

I guess you've changed, you've changed and how

We examine her from the small cog of the England kitman, a Mr Authur Spelt, who's simple effort to contribute and ensure that all the players were addressing the complex issue of putting on their kit and lay to rest any uncertainty that they were playing in white shirts this time given Norman Hunter's famous unsettled nature at playing in red.

Yeah, yeah, yeah

An accurate rendition of one of the more cerebral chants of the Barmy Army that year.

Fruit's grown rotten on the bough

The realisation that England were not actually in England came as a surprise to many in the party that year and the subsequent lack of attention to the debilitating effect of the local cuisine on stomach's used to Two halfpeth of Cod & chips and a bottle of Tizer before kick-off can only be imagined.

Reap what you sow, with a counterfeit plough

A subtle illusion to the pendants hanging from the Bracelet that Bobby Moore was in the process of knocking off on the traditional team warm up game of Rob or Drink that Roger Hunt led the team in before games to settle their nerves. Few people realise how close to getting caught Paul Madeley had been as he slipped out of a Mexican gift shop with Two Poncho's, a Sombrero and a fluffy model donkey.

Yeah, yeah, yeah

The supporter chorus them is restated.


That was then but this is now

That was then but this is now

The plaintive underchant reminding us all how much things have changed since those heady days.

More sacrifices than an aztec priest

The rather unfortunate misunderstanding at the open ceremony are probably best left behind a descrete veil. Certainly the Mexican team midfield could be said to have been... gutted.

Standing here straining at that leash

Notice the irony of standing and straining, that inner tension, the certainty that once more, Alan Ball's pace would be of great importance during the early stages of the games

All fall down

Yet such careful planning had ignored the sapping energies of the equatorial sun and such was the sad result.

Can't complain, musn't grumble

But the chirpy blitz spirit could still be relied on in the face of eaven this adversity,

Help yourself to another peace of apple crumble

That trusting nature, when finally the locally sourced produce of the traditional Half Time fair when English players were playing away from home, took it's terrible toll. Jeff Astle spent the later half of the Brazil game conducting a detailed survey of the Mexican stadium's plumbing.

Hearts of oak are charged and blistered

Just a rather weak metaphor.

Russians should be baby-sitted

An early example of the difficulties of the particularly young Russian team who, in what was seen as a important relaxation of the Cold war tensions of the time, were accompanied by the Soviet Wags many of whom had particular trouble with the time management of shopping and child care.

Americans enlisted

A slight leg pull at the inability of the Americans to get a team through to what effectively was a game being played in the street next door.



That was then but this is now

That was then but this is now

That was then but this is now 

And fade....

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