After weeks of endless rain, we're having some proper winter weather (though thankfully no snow). This has provided some excellent photo opportunities... beginning with Saturday morning's sunrise...
(A little blurry because it was taken through the window and I'd just woken up.)
On Sunday, we had a proper frosty Sherlock Holmes style fog...
I love the way the mist flattens the landscape, making it seem like layers on layers...
Then yesterday, the sky was so clear I had to take a stroll up to the highest point around: West Nab...
Look at that blue...!
And that view...!
Sadly, I didn't meet Simon Armitage up there... but you can see why this is one of his favourite inspirational places. It even got me feeling poetic... but I'll spare you.
And finally... this is where we hold the sacrifices.
For those of you frightened that I'm about to unveil my staggering lack of knowledge / interest in dance culture... quiver ye not. No banging club anthems here. As Groucho Marx put it, "I don't care to belong to any club that would have me as a member". Chances are none of these would, but I'm filing my application as we speak...
I tried to ignore it, but I couldn't. Bored with the Beatles I may be, but there's no denying this record was important and contained some of their finest moments - notably She's Leaving Home and A Day In The Life. I always thought the title track was self-consciously kitsch though...
One of the earliest Monkeys songs, never officially released (I don't think) though they did give it away online, along with much of their early material, to help build their reputation. You know, back when tricks like that actually worked.
Little Man Tate sprung up in the wake of the Arctic Monkeys success, another Sheffield band who traded in witty observational lyrics and twanging guitars. Success never really came their way though and a lot of critics unjustly labelled them Monkeys wannabes. This song, released towards the end of their career, responded thus...
And I know that it must be great To have a friend in a higher place But suddenly someone forgets your name And we're another band that sound the same And everybody's searching for the next big thing Then they laugh and they point as they stare at them sing Nothing worse than to just criticise With a tongue in your cheek and a mouth full of lies
Their tongues are shaped like razorblades You're not welcome in this place Don't you ever show your face Oh now listen, son, remember You will never be a member of the... Self-Appreciation Club.
To show my appreciation, I purposely placed them higher than the Monkeys in this list. Let them win just once...
From Self-Appreciation to Self-Hate... two sides of the same coin?
Former member of both The Television Personalities and The Times, Edward Ball went solo in the late 80s and scored his biggest "hit" with this poppy little number sometime around the height of Britpop.
Step one, don’t kill yourself Step two, don’t do yourself in Step three, don’t play with knives Step four, don’t trust anyone
When you’re kicked around and knocked down And you’ve got nothing left to give And you can’t breathe, and you can’t hear yourself think Climb up on your box, take the rope down from the beam Baby wake up, it’s not a dream
Yes you’ve made it, you’re here At the failed suicide club Sitting in a circle, crying…
I can't help but be reminded of Queen's similarly helpful ditty Don't Try Suicide ( from The Game) with its equally didactic refrain...
Don't try suicide Nobody's worth it Don't try suicide Nobody cares Don't try suicide You're just gonna hate it Don't try suicide Nobody gives a damn
But enough of that. I'm saving them both for the inevitable Top Ten Suicide Songs... possibly the last Top Ten I ever write.
I wish that I was good at football, baseball and lacrosse Darts and basketball, and poker, golf and chess
I wish that confidence was all you could see in my eyes Like those interviews in locker rooms with talented sports guys
I wish I had no self-awareness like the guys I know Float right through their lives without a thought
And that I didn't give a shit what anybody thought of me That I was so relaxed you'd think that I was bored
I'm sorry that they didn't hand it to me On a silver platter, like they did to you I'm sorry that I wasn't able to become The man you think I should aspire to
And... because it's bound to come up in the comments... here are ten other clubs I'd have no objection to joining...
Renaissance man and (as I'm obliged to point out every time I write about him) bloke who lives just over the hill from me, Simon Armitage is a poet, novelist, radio star, lecturer, and songwriter of my favourite album of 2009. His latest collection bridges the gap between poetry and short story with aplomb.
(When I was a kid, I used to wonder what a plomb was. I even looked it up in the dictionary but got no joy. Was it a kind of plum? A bomb made by plumbers? A Mercedes driven by the Palestine Liberation Organisation? I never found out. But I've grown up to be the sort of cocky git who uses words without really knowing what they mean. Hence...)
Never more than three pages in length, these stoems or pories will appeal both to readers who enjoy short stories but never got into poetry and those who admire the wordplay and creativity in your average stanza but don't have the attention span for most tall tales. Which is a very longwinded way of saying: they're ace.
Sample opening line: "I hadn't meant to go grave-robbing with Richard Dawkins, but he can be very persuasive."
How could you not want to read on?
My favourite is 'The Cuckoo', which feeds into my recently-mentioned solipsist paranoia when a young man finds out that his parents and friends are all government employed actors - that their work is done now that he's turned 18, and that they're all moving on to other roles.
Special mention must also go to the wonderfully self-deprecating 'Bringing It All Back Home' in which the author finds himself being commemorated in his native village of Marsden with a "Simon Armitage Trail", a guided tour based on his spurious life story...
With Bob spouting his stuff at every lamppost, we walked to a dilapidated cowshed where I was gored by a bull when I was nine, supposedly, then to the escarpment where I'd seen my father bring down a fieldfare with a single stone. Then to Bunny Wood where I'd found Gossip John hanging by the neck, then to a meadow where I'd fallen asleep and woken up with a grass snake curled on my chest, then behind the undertaker's parlour, where, Bob confidently announced, I'd lost my virginity to a girl named Keith.
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out of the Top Five. 
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