It reminded me of when I was seven years old and on a train with my mother and my gran. Our carriage was crammed to the brim with drunken Scottish blokes, clutching dozens of cans of McEwans lager, on their way to the Scotland vs England match at Wembley. One bloke yelled at me “Oo’s ginnae win today, lassie?” and I yelled back “Scoootland!”. He threw 50p piece towards me. This repeated itself many times over the course of the next two hours and I made a very tidy profit.

When we got off at the Stalybridge train station and my dad collected us, my gran told him that I’d been “exploiting drunken football fans, along with being disloyal to England.”

Anyway, I don’t understand why people who have special interests feel that they have to yell about it on public transport. When I catch the 323 bus to Huddersfield, do I inflict songs about the Industrial Revolution, Coffee, Victorian Islam and Hen-Rearing on the innocent public? No, I jolly well do not.

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I couldn’t find what I wanted, so I asked them for help:

ME: Please can you tell me where the kitchen roll is?

HER: I only do the freezers.

HIM: I know where they are! C’mon (adopts Irish accent) Let’s tackle this ‘Dirty Old Town! together’

As I follow him down the aisle, he continues with his song and I tell him:

ME: It’s ‘Jesse James’ next.

HIM: What?

ME: You’re working through the entire album of ‘Rum, Sodomy and the Lash’ aren’t you?

HIM: Yeah! Wow! That’s so cool that you know that!

ME: Yeah. It’s ‘Navigator’ after ‘Jesse James’.

HIM: Yeah! Brilliant! Well, they won’t pay for a public music licence here. So, I like to provide it myself.

ME: You do it very well. The Pogues are a great choice.

HIM: Thank you. Not enough people know the chronological order of albums these days.

ME: I know. It’s a dying art.

HIM: Here’s the kitchen roll.

ME: And I wish more employees would entertain people by singing classic 80s albums in chronological order.

HIM: Well, I wish more customers were like you. I’d let you have the kitchen roll for free, but as you can see, I work with a bunch of miserable sods and musical philistines.

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I dropped my son off for school this morning and suddenly realised I needed to check something with him. So, I kerb crawled him and yelled through the open window: “By the way – have you got extra GCSE Science after school today?”

He called back; “No, I’ve decided I’m going to extra History instead,” so I shouted; “Well, why aren’t you going to Science?” He goes “Because it’s boring and History isn’t!”

So, I carried shouting “Well, I’d rather you go to Science! It’s a bit more important than History!!”

At this point, a man standing outside the library decided to join in and yelled over to us;

“WELL, I THINK YOU’RE TOTALLY WRONG THERE, LOVE!”

And me being a historian as well.

But this is what the Science sorts do to you. They mess with your head.

——–

UPDATE: He just walked through the door. I said; “Did you go to History?”

He goes “No, Science.” I automatically replied; “Good lad!”

I really loathe myself today.

(NB – enjoy this link to our family’s favourite Horrible Histories clip – very pertinent to our local area and utterly wonderful…. THE LUDDITES)

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I got a phone call from the headteacher of his Infants School during the morning break; “Hello, Mrs Longden, I’ve got 6 unhappy little boys in my office here – after being very badly behaved. And I’m ringing you first, out of all the parents, because I know you’ll understand exactly what I’m saying here...”

As a result of the Am-Dram levels in her voice, I immediately realised what she was up to – hamming it up a bit – for effect. She carried on with; “And I’m sorry to have to tell you that all 6 of them were fighting with each other. They wouldn’t stop – and in the end, the playtime supervisors had to pull them off each other. So, I do hope you’ll support me in my actions, Mrs Longden. I’m confiscating their red noses and locking them in my drawer here.“

I could tell that she was semi-stifling a laugh and so I agreed yeah, yeah we’ll support you in your actions etcetera.

And then I put the phone down and thought …’Well, thank God it was just that. When I heard her voice, I thought he’d gone and bitten another teacher.’

And my second thought was ‘Anyway. What the hell does a school expect from a bunch of 5 year old infant boys – being allowed to attend school, dressed up as superheroes, whilst very probably still high on Coco Pops?’

My son’s take on being reminded of all of this was; “Urgh – yeah. We were only trying to kill each other with our superpowers. Plus, she never gave us our red noses back. How are you ever supposed to trust a teacher after that?”

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The wee one was very well behaved. She didn’t rip off the mayoral chains in an act of political insurrection or anything – and at the end of the talk, we all reflected on some really important views about overlooked working-class history, about community cohesion and collective trauma. Then, when were chatting about how charmingly Baby behaved, my dad (who had come along to glare intimidatingly at me and to fact-check my narrative about our ancestor) piped up with;

“She’s just like you were y’know – a bum shuffler. You shuffled on yer bum everywhere. You couldn’t be bothered to crawl and yer went like the clappers on yer bum. No-one could catch up with you.”

Now, I’ve carried out this particular talk in 42 different locations across the country and during the chats with audience members afterwards, I can honestly say that I learn something new every time …

Although to be honest, it’s usually something more about newly discovered archival material or the latest academic publication – as opposed to how I used to propel myself across the floor in my nappy.

*** UPDATE: I rang my mum today, to check this information with her. She said; “Oh yes – you were a bum-shuffler. But you did it really weirdly, with your left leg tucked under you and with your right one stuck straight out. But even then, no-one could catch you, you were so fast. And you’ve always insisted sitting on your leg like that, ever since.”

My response to this was; “AND YOU WONDER WHY I AM HAVING SUCH BAD PROBLEMS WITH MY BACK AND MY LEFT LEG – DID YOU NOT THINK TO TIE ME CORRECTLY TO A CHAIR UNTIL I LEARNED TO SIT AND WALK PROPERLY – LIKE MY VICTORIAN ANCESTOR WOULD HAVE DONE?!”

But tragically, my parents were far too free and easy with my upbringing. It is a wonder how I have ever been allowed out into polite society, with all of that bum-shuffling going on.

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ME: Hi, my name’s Christina. I had an MRI yesterday. I was using a wheelchair. You might remember me … and my husband.

RECEPTIONIST: Ah yes. He parked you in a corner – facing the wall.

ME: He couldn’t steer that hospital wheelchair. It was rubbish.

RECEPTIONIST: And he told everyone in the waiting room that it was ‘the only time he ever had a bit of control over you’.

ME: Yes. Hilarious. Anyway – for the MRI, I really did do everything properly. I made sure I had no zips or earrings, I wore a crop top bra instead of one with metal clasps. But I’m worried now … that I might have damaged myself, or… maybe your equipment.

RECEPTIONIST: Why?

ME: Because when I got home and took my bra off, a pound coin fell out.

RECEPTIONIST: What?

ME: It’s just that no-one in our house puts things in the right place and when I’m moving stuff around, I don’t always have pockets and…

RECEPTIONIST: (Laughing) You shove things down your bra.

ME: Only small things. And now I’m worried that it might have reacted with the equipment.

RECEPTIONIST: (Trying not to laugh). Well, it’s not something I’ve been asked before. Let me check with the radiographer.

(She puts me on hold for a few minutes)

RECEPTIONIST: (Still laughing) She says not to worry. The machine would have stopped if there was a problem.

ME: Oh, that’s a relief.

RECEPTIONIST: And you’ve cheered the whole team up today, with that. We’re thinking of adding it to the guidance letter for patients; “Check for things that you might have stuffed into your underwear. “

ME: Well, it’s nice to know that I’m doing my bit for the NHS.

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My husband does this thing when I’m in the kitchen with the kids. He sits in the living room upstairs and comments away about what we’re saying. When we tell him that he’s being nosey and listening-in on our conversation, he objects and says that he’s merely correcting our inaccuracies, as hey … someone has to do it.

This is what occurred this evening with me, my daughter and Him Upstairs:

DAUGHTER: So, anyway, yeah – I said to her, I said ‘D’ya know – he’s not worth it …. and anyway, who wants a boyfriend who’s always been a total and utter, self-obsessed …”

ME: (interrupting her) Argh! He’s doing it again!

HUSBAND: (Chunner chunner – from upstairs)

DAUGHTER: It drives me mad! You can’t have a private conversation in this house without Dad, like, stalking us! And everything we say!

ME: Urgh. I know.

HUSBAND: (Chunner chunner)

ME: Just listen to him.

DAUGHTER: WE’RE IN ANOTHER ROOM!

ME: YEAH! IF YOU’VE GOT SOMETHING TO SAY – WE’RE DOWN HERE!

HUSBAND: (Chunner chunner)

DAUGHTER: I hate this! DAD – WE ARE ON ANOTHER FLOOR! IF YOU WANT TO SAY SOMETHING…!

ME: Yeah! How would he feel if we earwigged on all of his conversations!

HUSBAND: (Chunner chunner)

ME: I’m going to really lose it in a minute!

DAUGHTER: I don’t blame you.

HUSBAND: (Chunner chunner)

ME: That’s it…. I’m going to tell him….! FOR GOD’S SAKE! YOU’RE JUST TALKING TO YOURSELF! YOU TOTAL AND UTTER LUNATIC!

HUSBAND: I’M NOT TALKING TO YOU! I’M ON THE BLOODY PHONE TO ERIC!!

DAUGHTER: Good job Uncle Eric has heard your ‘fishwife voice’ many times, eh, Mum?

The post A Kitchen Sink Drama appeared first on Funnylass.

MAN: Sweet’art, can you tell me where the [indecipherable] is?

ME: The what?

MAN: Where the CASTLE is.

ME: Oh, I thought you said ‘the Cashew Nut is’.

MAN: Haa! No, we’re from London. Must be the accent difference. Walked all up and down this street lookin’ for it.

WIFE: I wouldn’t mind a bag of cashews, come to think of it.

ME: Well – you can’t miss it – it’s up the top end there. See the flag sticking up?

MAN: Ah, right. Your signage is awful round ‘ere. Awful. Wonder why it’s so bad?

ME: It’s probably a strategic thing. We don’t want you Southerners finding our castles too easily.

MAN: Ooooh, cheeky – and you lot are meant to be more friendly up North.

WIFE: Is there a Holland and Barrett’s on the way?

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On the 1st April 2021, I rang my husband at work. I affected a bizarre mid-Atlantic accent and said that I was a journalist calling from the Yorkshire Post, wanting to interview him about his company, the ‘Award Winning Dark Woods Cafe’. I instantly heard the edge in his voice, when he replied ‘Great, but we’re a roastery, not really a cafe’. But I breezed on with, yes, I believe it’s a really child-friendly cafe where kids are welcome to run around and – and that even dogs are very welcome indeed (they always get his goat, these issues). By the time I had the gall to pronounce ‘Slaithwaite’ as ‘Slaythewayte’ I could tell that he was about to blow a gasket.*

He vowed not to fall for April Fool’s ever again…

But hey, a year later… Today my son and I were at a medical appointment in the centre of Huddersfield. I rang my husband from the car park. When he answered the phone at his workplace, I was sounding pretty hysterical, I told him that he had to come and get me immediately as my car had apparently been parked in the wrong place and had been towed away. I said that he needed to bring two hundred pounds with him to get it out of the impound and, worst of all, they’d actually mistakenly towed our 14 year old son away as he’d been asleep in the back, waiting for me to leave the health centre.

I told him that our lad had just called me from a vehicle impound on the other side of Huddersfield, not really understanding what was going on, and in considerable distress.

At that point he twigged that something wasn’t quite right (as we both know our son well enough to realise that he would have very much enjoyed the experience).

I think I might stop doing this year in and year out as it’s a bit like shooting fish in a barrel.

Happy April Fools!

• Slaithwaite is pronounced either ‘Slawit’ or ‘Slathwayte’ (the latter if you’re really posh).

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