I’m expecting to be done by the Health and Safety brigade any moment. I’ve created a risk in the back garden, but it had to be done.

Now, I can fall in my own pond.

The previous owners of our house had put a decent size pond in the garden but covered it in a metal grill work. They had a reason – several small children – and while I don’t think falling in a pond is necessarily a bad thing you need to be there to haul them out. We do not have the problem and now most of our friends have kids that even if they did fall in – or push their siblings in, a more likely scenario – they should be able to get themselves out and subsequently spread foul smelling mud around the rest of the garden and the house before we could get them in a bath. So the grill work came off (after something of a struggle) and the pond is revealed finally after ten years of the doldrums.

You see, the bane of my life (other than my war against the fat ball stealer, the slugs, squirrels and particularly the new black cat threatening my wildlife friendly garden) is the duckweed.

I wish it had a different name as I like ducks, and maybe with enough ducks we could manage it, but for the last decade it has ruined the pond for me and indeed for everything else.

I’m not sure most of the garden wildlife even knew there was a pond there. It was just an expanse of green among other expanses of green. As soon as I netted some of the tuff off to reveal the murky darkness below however it has suddenly become a magnet for the local wildlife, with the birds drinking and bathing and we have had frogs and pond skaters, among others suddenly move back in. It is all rather marvelous and to me shows the importance of diversity in the garden; there are not many ponds in this area of town and now that this one has suddenly been, well, renovated it forms a stepping stone for some species between the parks and old watercress beds down closer to the river Ver. Ponds are also naturally summery at this time of year. As I sit on the opposite, watching the ants scurry around the paving stones of our mid garden patio, while several species of damselfly buzz around the pond in search of a mate it is hard not to feel in the middle of your own (admittedly very low budget) nature documentary.

I can even cope with the squirrels, including the one that came and sat right next to me, so obsessed it was with the handful of early raspberries I had just picked and put down next to me when I was on the phone. The poor furry tailed rat was so obsessed by berry goodness that it did not really want to move even when I waved it away from the fruit and instead retreated a short distance to sit and berate me with chattering cries for my lack of generosity in not allowing it to consume the first of the fruit of the season.

I’ll consider the close encounter a warning – I need to get to the fruit before this fruit loving slightly suicidal mammal if there is going to any jam this year; I’ll have to keep checking after the continual clearance of the dreaded duckweed as the garden reveals itself as that bottomless pit of needed activity as a puny pair of humans try valiantly to hold back nature (a war we will always eventually lose, but for a while, you can win some battles).

I am currently engaged in a bitter war with an unseen opponent. It is in my back garden and as they say in rather poor war movies, failure is not an option.

Generally it has been a good year for me in the garden. The fruit trees and bushes are setting with plenty of fruit, so the huge piles of jam jars are already anticipating jam, jelly and chutney of various types. At least one of the Clematis I have planted is flowering (creating a good twin scenario with its evil twin that steadfastly refuses to do anything flower wise despite fair and equal treatment). And finally tackling the duckweed on the pond has resulted in almost immediate re-colonization by some of my favourite pond species with a host of baby pond skaters. I’m looking forward to the return of the water boatman. Actually I am pleased I finally got around to this as now you can see water rather than an expanse of green suddenly all the birds have noticed what a rare water source in the local area is so over the next few years I have high hopes to get some interesting new garden residents.

But the current challenge is the bird feeder and whatever beastie is capable of pecking (see, already drawing conclusions) through a mass of blue tack to flick the fat ball feeder off the hook and scoff the lot.

So, who are the likely culprits, assuming it is not the Lovely Wife executing a long term practical joke? Well, these are the usual suspects.

Squirrels: I can eliminate the furred tailed vermin I think. They cannot climb up the pole die to one of those clever plastic concave covers. One of the bolder (more insane?) ones did try – successfully – hurling itself onto the feed from the branches of nearby trees a couple of years ago, but after a period of experimentation the position of the bird feeder is now far enough away from any potential launch platforms to be outside the parameters of squirrel hurling for now at least. I suspect my bird feeder is not a strong enough selective pressure to drive the local population to become sugar gliders so I think, for once, I cannot blame the furry ones.

Magpies: Probably most likely. We have a resident pair, they do like the fat balls and they are very bright. That said, to be able to dislodge that amount of blue tack takes a lot of physical strength as well as intelligence. So while they have to be primary suspects I do think a cousin may be the real culprit.

Crow: There is at least one pair of Carrion Crows in the local area. They are magnificent birds, glossy black, healthy and not scared of anything. I’m a huge fan of the family more so because they are so maligned, when all of the crows are beautiful, intelligent birds when you look at them carefully (OK, I’m not convinced regarding rooks, but hey) One of the crows dive bombed the pigeons in our garden yesterday as far we can tell for fun – it just felt ‘I’m bored let’s scare some stupid birds’. Scarily human I think.

They have the intelligence, and they have the physical strength. Yes. I blame the crows. I know my enemy, and battle is joined.

Of course I love this. It is fun trying to out think a bird (it’s winning at the moment) and I will find a solution at some point. It is at times like these, with (for us) much watch Springwatch starting next week on the BBC that I desperately want to set up a camera to catch the thief in the act – it is so tempting – but I’m not sure night vision movement sensitive cameras fall within the current budget.

And anyway, isn’t it fun speculating?

The Lovely Wife had a plan this morning. We will be putting operation wire fastener into action soon.

See what you think about that, my Corvid friend.

(PS: This week’s learning: single gentlemen – apparently carrying around an unusual fruit tree in a shop invites ladies to start conversation with you – well, one was very interested in my Kiwi fruit bush.)

This week I have been thinking about relationships – of any kind – and how they develop, are maintained and sometimes fail. I think it is an interesting area, especially now, as technology has changed and is changing so much that things we took for granted when I was a child seem like a different universe away.

Social networking in something which we will only really see the impact a generation or two down the line. The ability to stay in a touch with so many school and university friends, albeit in a shallow, often passive way, is something that did just not exist in my adolescence. If you wanted to stay in touch with people because they really mattered to you wrote to them, called them or made them top of the list to meet up with in the holidays. Then there were perhaps an extended group that you would meet up with once or twice a year, maybe at Christmas and the summer. But the rest, they would gradually fade until they became a part of your past and no longer part of the present, let alone the future.

Now the likes of Facebook seem to be there to keep that group from fading away by largely doing the work for you. In theory at least you do not need to have that odd contact to catch up, because you already know what they are up to – you read it in their news feed. Perhaps you ‘liked’ it when they got engaged. And of course if they have filled in the field you can wish them a jolly happy birthday on their wall every year.

I’m not mocking this. On the contrary I think it is fascinating and I enjoy and appreciate it as I do feel sorry that I am not in touch still with people I knew when I was younger and would be fascinated to know what they are up to now.

But they are not my best friends, the people I would trust most and who would be there for me in adversity. Social networking is not good enough to sustain these relationships. They need more work than that.

This is what was going through my head on this topic. Relationships that are important to you need to be worked at. They do not maintain their intimacy by exchanging the odd public comment on a wall, or timeline or whatever they decide to call it tomorrow. It needs regular communication and sharing, sharing that is not public but between a few individuals; and you need to meet up every so often, if only to laugh at each other’s increasing waistline and reducing hair. Just as quality time spent as a couple will put a strain on a marriage, the same goes to friendships, and perhaps even more so. Because, if you have so many ‘friends’ how do you know who are the ones who really love you from the other 500+? You need to see them in person, to share beer and/or cake and also share the confidences that you would never share publicly. I just hope that the current generation release this and put the effort in because the alternative is not a nice image for me; a host of people with hundreds of shallow acquaintances and a lack of what I have – a small number of intimate friends I can always have fun with and will be there when it all goes wrong. We are meant to be in relationships I think; and networking can facilitate that but it cannot and will not be a suitable replacement for engaging in the old fashioned meeting up, at least once in a while.

I have a confession to make. I sometimes play role playing games.
Now in my forties, I still sometimes get out my pencil, odd shaped dice and paper, and with some old like minded friends I pretend I am someone or something I am not.
A good friend of mine introduced me to role playing when I was at school in my early teens. As a self conscious teenager it was a big help to me in passing away the boring hours and when I went to University it provided the ‘in’ that allowed me to meet people and make friendships that I still treasure today. This is because, when you are attracted to the same activities you find some people who are on your wavelength.
I got so into it I ended up president of the society and had a first look at leadership, and this – and I am not joking – almost certainly got me the good job I still have now twenty odd years later. It was not the degree I had. That was, as we say in the business sometimes, the required ‘price of entry’ to the game. It was being involved with people in a constructive way that got me through the interviews (oh, and having a good knowledge of Star Trek. Come to think of it I am glad she never asked whether I thought Doctor Who or Star Trek was better, as in that case I would probably have not gotten the job).
So what is role playing? This is my personal view.
1. It is collective storytelling. When it works it is a handful of people making a story that never existed happen; a story that will never exist in quite the same way again. This is because although someone does run the game, and knows what is going on, and what is going to happen – if the players don’t interfere, see below – the fact that most of the major characters in the story are under the control of different individuals means that those people stamp their interpretation upon those characters. So they do things that the games master (the poor sucker who has to do all the preparation and work) didn’t expect, so even if someone tries the same game twice it is never the same.
2. Because each game is so different, it is special. It is a shared experience between that specific group of players, and like any real shared experience provides constant amusement after the fact. In really good games, years after the fact. We still joke about games played twenty years ago – how many games of Monopoly can you say that about? (By the way I am not knocking board games, a beautiful but different genre).
3. It makes you think. How does a forty year old man pretend – in virtual terms – to be a twenty year old woman who can talk to animals? There are so many numbers and ideas to crunch in the more complicated games that my maths – never my strong point – is often stretched. It makes me be creative and exercise my brain, and as a leisure activity that is a bonus to me.
Back in the 80s there was a lot of rubbish about role playing games being dangerous. Now let’s be clear – if you cannot differentiate fantasy and reality – whether that is related to a game, a book or the TV – you have a problem that is nothing to do with that media and all to do with something in you that needs help. In fact I think that the people who run the games I have played in would probably feel that I should take the game more seriously, because they have done so much work preparing. But then there would have been less silliness and laughter.
At the moment I am planning a game where my players will be young heroes in a fantastical version of Ancient Greece (think the 1981 version of Clash of the Titans, the interesting one, rather than the recent rubbish CGI ridden remake). If they fail, I will destroy their world and all they hold dear. If they succeed they may go down in history. There will be monsters, fighting and intrigue and not of all of them will survive (probably). But it will be heroic and if I do my job properly there will be fun and laughter and maybe the true sign you had a good game when in years time that group reminisces just how they were able to take out Medusa with a flask of olive oil and a small glowing rock.
But it’s only a game.

I was always a little disappointed that I did not have my own lost bank note story. This is the kind of happy tale that people have to relate when, perhaps as winter approaches, they reach inside the pocket of that coat that has slept the summer in the wardrobe. Instead of finding a sticky sweet or a tissue, they close their hands on a crisp, long forgotten ten pound note. A moment of pure delight goes through them; it is a gift from the universe to be cherished and quickly squandered on beer to celebrate. Or go towards that top in H&M you had your eye on.

I have never found a forgotten note in my clothing.

I have washed, twice, my iPod nano however, most recently last month. It came out of the cargo pocket of my trousers clean and fragrant as I reluctantly looked for it too late, its cold metal shape falling into my hands with dread inevitability. But do not despair. Although it takes more than the precedent three days, the iPod has managed resurrection twice now. It takes about four days to dry out enough that the computer will recognise it exists and another week before it decides that it is no longer corrupt – well, understandable, consorting with water must be one of the worst self destructive crimes among electronic device society (apart from declaring that silicone heaven does not exist, ah, had to get the Red Dwarf reference in there, sorry). But after that week and half, the thing seems largely unscathed. Maybe it has some cat related component. Although I am really not sure I would risk it a third time. So I will just have to check the contents of my trousers better.

But the washing of devices and the finding of long lost treasure in clothes did combine for me this weekend quite delightfully.

Back in November my laptop hard disk died a death suddenly and, no, my total system backup was not at all up to date. That did not seem too bad initially – I had backed up most of what I considered important onto a decent sized USB.

But could I find it? No. It was nowhere to be found. After a few weeks of tearing everywhere I could think of apart I had to admit defeat and begin the painful task of coming to terms with loss of some things forever, and worse, the reconstruction of the rest.

Months later, the pain had receded and I had forgotten all about it. You can probably see where this is going. We went walking in Dorset at the weekend with our usual group of friends and, the weather being suitable, out came my favourite walking shorts.

These shorts have lots of pockets, many of which are rarely visited.

I found a nice pheasant feather out n the walk and decided to put it in an empty pocket, for safe keeping.

The pocket was not empty. It contained an USB stick. That USB stick I spent so much time looking for.

I have absolutely no idea why it was there, and was well aware that it must have gone through a wash cycle at least once – possibly more times. But I was just happy, I’ll be honest, to have the mystery solved of where it had strayed to.

Emboldened with my miraculous and seemingly indestructible iPod experiences I had high hopes that the files may have survived, and glory be, they have. Nothing vital of course; I’ve lived without them for six months or so. But some useful stuff, some nostalgic stuff and like the ten pound note, not really all that important in the greater scheme of things; but all the nicer because it was something I’d forgotten about and accepted as lost forever.

Now, I’m just going to check the pockets of everything the wardrobe. Just in case.

I have not had a shower today.

Apologies for this confession, but at the moment I do not really fancy a freezing cold torrent of water, which is what a shower looks like at the moment in our house and has for a week or so following a tap related saga.

That is not important really for us as we have the advantage of relatives nearby with working bathrooms and I have showers at work if need be. I recall spending two years of college with the same situation, using the facilities – oddly that I remember them being deep underground, although I am sure that was not the case – to avoid chipping the ice off the bath in the house I shared. The house was owned and minimally maintained by a generic Eastern European chap in a camel hair coat who almost certainly had been separated from Arthur Daley at birth.

Of course I did not mind then. It was cheap, I had no money and at least it had running water and usually had a power supply. So channelling the moment I just keeping checking to see if the Lovely Wife looks faint from any smells that might be resulting and so far things look OK. Although she does have a bit of cold, it is true.

Now many years later on, I have however realised my tolerance is now minimal for anything not being perfect. Whether it is working plumbing, power or internet/phone signal, if I am deprived for more than a few hours I can feel the twitching start. Last week, out in the wilds of Herefordshire, the butcher two doors down declared to me – while selling me some of the best rump I’ve had in ages – which he was proud to live in a county devoid of any motorways (and therefore an island of peace trapped between the M5 and Offa’s Dyke). It is also a county where power cuts are still common place – largely treated with laughter and cheers in the local pub (although those hoping to eat food cooked on electric perhaps had a slightly muted reaction) and the freak storm that took out a Vodafone phone mast (as mentioned last week) and eliminated signal for about 48 hours was still the talk of the town when we left (already shifting details in terms of day it happened, length and the size of possible fantasy hailstones in the process depending on who you talked to).

But I have felt a bit ashamed at how much I react to such a pathetic and temporary removal of a minor comfort when – and you know what is coming here – so many people don’t have it. I do not feel guilty about the fact I am well off and living such a wonderful life; I prefer to be grateful rather than guilty. But it is a good time for me to remind myself that the situation is very fragile and needs to be appreciated, and that problems when they arrive should be tolerated with good humour rather than treated with panic. Meanwhile to also see what I can do to give back a bit even it is spending less time in the (eventually warm again) shower – that is incredibly power intensive and an easy way to reduce your personal environmental impact.

While thinking about the plumbing in trying to stem the flow from our taps to avoid waste it took me back to one of the most shocking books I’ve read for a long time – The Big Necessity by Rose George – which really brings home the importance of decent sanitation and the issue that it is not just finding a water supply but having the right set up in the right place to avoid contamination of supplies that do exist because that is just as, if not more important. Unfortunately it is easier to get money for schemes that dig new wells than those that build toilets… We’re too squeamish, even the supposed rational among us; we’re still people after all and we cannot stop how we react, although we can try and be aware of our natural repulsions and tackle the subject head on. Good sanitation is not something we view as a luxury so if we can help improve someone else’s situation and save lives, we should. And in the meantime, even if we cannot afford to help or have other causes (as we all do) that are close to our hearts then we can still be respectful of water and power use, where I know I have a long way to go in delivering on my words and intentions and actions.

It is our tenth wedding anniversary this week and in keeping with tradition we have arranged it so that the Lovely Wife books where we go and celebrate – we take turns on doing it which is always fun, although for me it means that I cannot decide which of the huge pile of guidebooks and gazetteers to take with me.

This year because our anniversary falls mid week that means a week’s holiday (how terrible, I obviously despair from being away from work for a whole week) and this terrible ordeal is taking place in the Herefordshire village of Weobley.

That’s pronounced Webley, rather than Wibley which is probably historically more accurate (apparently) or Weebly, which to my inner child, who played with a people who wobbled but did not fall down, would be far funnier.

In the end it is a lovely, friendly village with good shops, a great pub and a magnificent medieval church. Everyone here is terribly friendly. That said, it is a retirement centre, clearly; apart from the handful of teenagers mainlining the local Tyrell’s crisps on the small central green (surmounted by a giant metal magpie, in honour of the black and white medieval houses that populate the area but making us feel ever so slightly nervous the thunder and lightning we have had this week in the evening – though the only actual casualty of that seems to have been a Vodafone mobile phone mast based on the sudden loss of signal) the predominant hair colour is certainly gray. The poor curate of the local ministry looks about twelve in comparison to his congregation, bless him.

This is cider country. Or at least apple tree country, not filled with square Hereford beef cattle as perhaps we should expect (though there are a few), but instead field after field of trees just coming into blossom. Sadly, most of these apples are going into Bulmers brands including the ubiquitous Strongbow, and it seems locally there is a bit of a backlash with most places stocking pretty much any other brand you can mention and shoving the bottles of Bulmers into a corner in embarrassment. I was personally amused to see that woodpecker cider still exists (as a Victim Of Advertising I recall it as being sold as ‘Hereford Lightning’ and then later advertised by a giant laughing hedgehog crushing cars, which gives you some inkling of what lodges in my brain, possibly under the influence of the alcoholic pop that is over sweet cider). Bulmers even had the cheek to slap a wooden woodpecker on the restored organ in Hereford cathedral; well I guess they paid for and it is better than having several arrows sticking out between the organ pipes that were probably the alternative.

Incidentally, if you happen to be in Hereford (unlikely, this is country that is bypassed by pretty much every major route, and most of the locals seem to like it that way, thank you very much) do pop into the cathedral for the Mappa Mundi – there is a charge to see it  but it is worth it to see this medieval map of the world painted on calf skin; it’s fascinating, covered in allegory and humorous beasts and one of those things that the more you look at it the more fun it becomes. Personal best bit is where the artist has pictured the flight of the Israelites from Egypt and their wanderings in the desert in Exodus by a thick line that loops and curls around like a child might scrawl on a piece of paper or a Monty Python skit with the animated line accompanied by a dry Michael Palin narration.

The world is a much funnier place in my head.

But I am not making up the thing about the hedgehog. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N4WKjy76uhI

A friend of mine challenged me to blog on Easter so here goes. Although I am now a Christian I grew up in an agnostic household. My parents sent me to church for reasons they have never let on about and I’m not interested to ask, but that did not lead me very far in terms of faith, although it probably taught me some good manners (well, certain Miss Wears, the fearsome and no nonsense head of Sunday school certainly did). It was later when I met the Lovely Wife that God and I renewed our relationship in a more meaningful way (and not just because we wanted to get married in church, we’re still going and it is ten years next week…)

Asked recently to think about what Easter means, I found myself looking at a blank screen (I wasn’t to say piece of paper as that’s far more dramatic, but let us start from a position of honesty here. Plus, if I were be honest, if I really was writing on a piece of paper I would not be able to read it anyway. God may have gifted me with many things but good – OK, at all legible – handwriting is not one of them). I was not getting very far. So I thought I would resolve the question with a list of things that just popped into my head in relation to the festival.

1. Fish on Good Friday… For some reason my parents always insisted on this. Never really sure why, considering their positioning on the faith thing mentioned above, but fish it was too be. Possibly why this my least favourite day of the year, as my mother’s ability to cook fish did not match her other culinary skills, and it tended to be bland and dry. Of course the other problem with Good Friday is that in faith terms people treat it as being depressing. For me, that’s missing the point. If you are a believer, then it should be a day of contemplation of what is the ultimate sacrifice for our benefit. So serious thought and reflection, but that doesn’t mean doom and gloom.

And if you don’t believe, well it is still Friday. Everyone likes Fridays.

2. Flowers… One of the joys of spring and Easter in particular are the flowers; and if you don’t like going into churches for any other reason the flowers are a good one at this time of the year. I particularly remember one year when we were staying on Guernsey where as far as I could tell all the churches were in a full scale competition to adorn every scrap of space with gorgeous Freesias and Daffodils. Each building seemed full on Easter Saturday with the local ladies of a certain age armed with their gardening gloves and flower stands. Nothing really says new life than the vibrant flowers of spring. I think even the richness of summer does not warm you quite as much as this explosion of colour.
3. Soft Rock. When I was drifting around in agnosticism at uni my main exposure to Easter was Aylesbury rock band Marillion (in their post Fish days for those that care). There is a track on the 1989 album Seasons End called ‘Easter’ which is about the troubles in Northern Ireland. It calls for reconciliation at that particular time of year, a time when both Protestant and Catholic communities should be remembering that they should be loving each other not killing each other. Maybe the song itself is a bit corny (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3E2r_lUWlmo ), but it has stuck with me so I am settling on this for my prayer this year, as we are as divided as ever and sometimes it feels like the cracks are getting wider. And that is even from each other as in arrogance and fear we seek to browbeat others into our way of thinking rather than engaging in a decent discussion and realising that there are other opinions. In a lot of cases it doesn’t matter. In some cases it is vitally important. But we have to make that judgement as individuals.

I think that Easter, like Christmas or any other time of the year that people might just get over their own personal prejudices – come on, we all have them – and talk to each other. Probably over too much chocolate and/or alcoholic beverages but I’m not expecting much disagreement there. I would like it to be a time when we remember we do need each other. We do not have to agree with each other but that’s no excuse for violence or disrespect.

So that is my Easter this year. I do not care whether it is through faith, chocolate or a love of Doctor Who or just those lovely flowers, but let us be nice to each other for once this year and we might even like it.

Ah, the glory of the Golden Mile.

Well, it is not very golden any more in any sense of the word, and many of the hotel fronts are boarded up or look as though they should be (perhaps to stop them falling down), but there is still something special about Blackpool.

We were up in the first working class seaside resort (a serious and important claim to fame, and the reason it is a historically important place) for the half marathon. Thankfully for me, there was nothing of the debacle that apparently happened in Sheffield that day, and the race went off without any major hiccups, despite perhaps the usually inane mutterings of the local amateur commentator how seemed to be more interested in sending up the rival local road running teams then giving anyone useful information. Oh, and it was the first time I’ve heard the announcement ‘To anyone in the emergency services… Get the ambulance off the start line!’ hollered thirty seconds before the actual start.

I remember going to Blackpool as a small child and lying in the back of a car looking up at the illuminations, and I went there to a Babylon 5 Convention in a hot long weekend in 1997, but otherwise I had not fully explored the place, but, three day tram passes in hand, we fixed that this weekend, and came up with four reasons to come back again sometime.

1. Nostalgic rides: OK, the Pleasure Beach has some impressive looking rides, and the massive indoor splash park opposite the hotel we were in looked fun (swimming costumes going next time) but I loved the old rides on the piers. There is something special about dodgems, Ferris wheels and the Waltzers for me that say teenage years (or possibly makes me think ‘sleep all day, party all night’ and it was cool to be a vampire before Twilight, thank you very much). The lovely Wife and I have not the greatest love of rides, but a few of them had to be done, and best of all, there are no queues. And the bloke still walks on the boards as you go round to give them an extra spin to do further damage to your neck muscles.
2. The Comedy Carpet. Right up near the tower there is the five years in the making expanse of words on the promenade comprising pretty much any comedy catchphrase – or indeed comedy sketch – you can think of. It’s a wonderful way of wasting some time wandering around looking down and laughing hysterically. Especially if you are too early for your dinner reservation and did not fancy the pubs (incidentally we had a very good and friendly Chinese at Mandarin, recommended (www.michaelwansmandarin.co.uk )) The carpet is truly a classic piece of art (like the wonderful Eric Morecambe statue further up the coast) and deserves to be a reason to pop in its own right.
3. From one of the newest attractions to one of the oldest – the Tower Ballroom. Forget about the rest of the tat and do what we did and have afternoon tea in a glorious setting. The architecture is stunning, but add the live Wurlitzer and the reasonably large number of people dancing (including poor teenage girls dancing their steps with an imaginary partner, teenage boys, take note, learn to dance) there is a unique surreal feel to the place that is quite endearing. Or maybe I was just low on sugar after 13.1 miles. Either way, a very special place. And worth staying for the Last Waltz at 4pm, of course.
4. Most importantly, the kids love it. In the hotel we were staying, for Friday and Saturday it was Hen night city (and as far as we could tell, the same was true of the rest of town). On Sunday evening, it had turned into a Kindergarten as we tried to avoid the numerous over excited pre-teens in their PJs and pink onesies. Clearly for this lot, the fact that things are a bit dog-eared holds no problems; there are still plenty of things to do and they will no doubt finish up having been thrown around in every conceivable direction, fed candy floss, ice cream and fish and chips until they feel sick and will go home with Blackpool rock and clutching the dodgy rip off ‘Despicable Me’ minion that seems to be the ‘in’ amusement arcade prize this year (that Daddy probably spent a fortune in goes to win one for them) and thinking it was the best holiday. Ever.

And why on earth not… Now, where is my Bingo card?

I have to say I am terribly hypocritical about April Fools’ Day (I am not sure where the apostrophe is supposed to be exactly but I assuming that there are a lot of fools in the world). I think like a lot of people it is quite fun to have a laugh at someone’s expense who is not you; if it is you who is the victim then there is a good chance of a sense of humour failure, unless the wheeze is spectacularly funny (a rare occasion).

There are a number of problems with playing jokes on people and I never bother. First, I make a fool out of myself enough times in the week that I do not need help. In fact my mother always used to describe me a magician and a fool. The former because if I try hard enough I can make anything happen but the former because I’m like the fool that walks along the edge of the cliff, never looking quite carefully enough where he is putting his feet, because he is too busy fixed on his destination (or chatting to his companions). Personally I also feel that the old saying that ‘a fool and his money are quickly parted’ also could well apply in my case.

So personally I find that the one on one jokes are usually a bit cruel and not at all funny, especially as the people most at risk are the people least likely to get any amusement out of it, and that strikes me a lot like abuse. You would feel uncomfortable making fun of someone who had learning difficulties, so why is it OK to make fun of people who have trouble ‘having a laugh’ in the same way as yow do.

That said; I am a sucker for a well worked spoof, especially when it comes from a major broadcaster or usually impeccable sort (see, I told you there was hypocrisy this week). Famously there was the BBC report on the Spaghetti harvest (which is still hilarious) but it is still getting harder to fool people in the internet age… Or rather to fool people in that special way that they are taken in for a few minutes and then get the joke. Unfortunately people have gotten so used to believing everything they believe online these days – when so much of it is wrong, out of date or just plain lies – that I am not sure you can really pull off anything quite as classy these days, as it is either going to have to patently absurd from the outset or you might have fears too many people will take it seriously.

The only one I have seen this year that made me laugh so far was in the April issue of BBC Countryfile magazine where in an article on 15 historical sites that turned out to be different than first though there is one interloper, the shocking new finding of remains at Stonehenge -including a stone inscribed ‘Salutator Centrum’ – suggesting it was in fact not as old as first thought but a tourist orientated Roman reconstruction of a prehistoric site.

But I was thinking about what fooled me as a kid and I think my favourite was the arrival at London zoo of that rare Himalayan beast, the Lirpa Loof. As covered on ‘That’s Life’ in 1984 it is still very funny today, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QwDwRsfUj6Y but what I like about this one – and what clearly fooled my 13 year old self for a few minutes – was that it was relatively understated, there are clearly some people fooled by it (the teenage girls are priceless) and most important of all, they got someone authoritative to add gravitas to the spoof. David Bellamy is classic here – not only was he a hero of mine at the time and well known to the audience, but he even talks about the ‘red book’ and sounds pretty convincing. How he kept his face straight I’ll never know.

So be warned – watch for Prof. Brian Cox today – don’t trust anything he says for twenty four hours, or you’ll be his patsy as I was Bellamy’s back in the 80s.