A blatant attempt....

The Northerner has stated publicly that she will convert me into being a Northerner such as herself.

Tricky, as you know you can take the Chap out of the Colonies, but not the Colonies out of the Chap.
My moral aversion to whippets runs deeper than a Cornish tin-mine and no matter what she may wish to persuade me is the done thing north of the 53rd parallel - the bathroom is no place for Amyl Nitrate.

Watch this space, reader. If 'Eckie-thump' becomes currency, let me know, what?

Going Native

Ahhh....the fresh fragrant air of the moors.....

Like Macavity - I have been nowhere to be seen….

Some of my detractors assume that this chap has been languishing in a police cell following an incident with a statue and some KY jelly.

No, I have been getting ever terser notes from my tailor about my bill there and notes from my flying club regarding overdue landing fees.

Not, as it happens. Because of poverty - but because a young lady of not inconsiderable pulchritude has been distracting me in the frozen wastes of T'North.

I am concerned that because of her fragrant charms and fine dining I fear I may be going native.
Once I would have shunned the Northern Breakfast for devilled kidneys, a dozen oysters, a bottle of champagne and a gramme of Bolivian - a fine breakfast that would set any Christian up for the day.

Now - I have been eyeing up Black Pudding and boiled ham with Piccalilli with glad rapture.
The final grim confirmation was when I saw a man with a terrier and holding a ferret I commented that it was 'reet grand'.


After our Anglo French dinner I commented on afterwards that it ' were proper belting'.

However, I draw the line at pretending York races are anything like Ascot. I fear that despite the fact we may going to one of the local race meets, she may be tempted to wear a hat more suitable for some of the gummier sloanes one finds in Surrey. I shall do my utmost, reader, to ensure she is restrained.

In the meantime I shall be perfecting the poise of a Northern gentleman - hunting tweeds, hearty breakfasts and rounding up the glowering small holders to have them flogged for the pettiest of misdemeanours.

Not for me the grubby commercialistic mill-owning with the inexorable slide into a gruesome paternalistic socialism!