Foul play at Whitewell

Detective Chief Inspector Peregrine Pomfret of The Yard made an unexpected discovery at The Inn at Whitewell a few days before Christmas while he was there as a grouse shooting guest of old Squiffy 'Benjy' Casey . A murder no less, and fowl play was suspected. The perpetrator of this heinous crime? Only one of Engelbert Humperdinck's old birds. It'll be a while before they 'release' her...

Strictly clog dancing

I am now a fully fledged stick-wielding, bell-clad, clog-wearing, velvet waistcoated morris dancer after months of practising. I must thank the patience of my teachers at the scout hut for that. Huzzah and pip-pip.

The King of the cleaver

In order to enjoy and live life to its very boundaries, one must surround oneself with masters in their field. A gentleman's arm must be adorned by the finest example of female pulchritude, his frame bedecked by the most talented clothier and his feet shod by cobblers of exemplary panache. Mr Roy Porter, my Master Butcher, is one such gifted artisan who lends his craft to my humble existence. His cutlets are a phenomenon to behold and his sweetmeats are the talk of Chatburn and beyond. I salute you Mr Porter, long may your bacon slicer rotate.

Blackpool, I never loved you

Hmmm, Blackpool. Once home of kiss-me-kwik adorned headgear and drunken ginger gangs. Incredibly, this place has managed to slide, like a discarded '99', even further into the gutter.

Peaky blinders

With only 4 practice sessions under me sash, I was tentatively released into the public arena. And thankfully emerged safely and with most of me limbs still attached. The lads were great.

By Jingo sir, it's The Dandy Pickle

They seek him here, they seek him there. He is unlikely to be located in Leicester Square. But mark my words, fellow followers of the epicurean arts, he has arrived. My latest adventure will be revealed to the world soon. Hang on to your pantaloons.

I'm a clogger not a blogger

Just been lent my first clogs for my Morris dancing debut in October. Don't worry, if I take to it, I will be having a pair hand made, hand tooled and festooned with an abundance of bell. You've got to start somewhere though and these modest fellas will do the trick while I learn the ropes/steps.

A load of bullocks

I'm reminded every morning when I look out of my window about how much I hate living in the city, and in particular, the suburbs. As soon as I could, I moved to the hills. I know I'm very lucky. Bullocks courtesy of  Farmer Dave Lowcock.

I scream, you scream — we all scream for ice cream

Coming second in an ice cream eating competition is a bit like that card in Monopoly — 'you have won second prize in a beauty contest'. I am not down in the dumps, however. There is no disgrace in being pipped at the post by a ponytailed human Dyson. And anyway, I was given this car as a prize.

Tally-ho and pip-pip

I attended my own private, imaginary regatta at the weekend — no boats involved at all. The lovely Bev, our milk lady, picked Lady Norkington and me up in her bright pink Land Rover with the words 'girls just wanna have fun' emblazoned on the side. Quelle hoot.

A friend of Morris

Last night was a first and a life enhancing experience for me as I made my first faltering skips towards fully fledged Morrisdom in a scout hut in Whittle le Woods. And I have to thank my new found chums of the Royal Preston Morris Dancers for introducing me to the English 'martial art'. Look out for me in traditional clogs and natty velvet cap hopefully in the not too distant future merrily frolicking and waving a stick outside a pub near you. And wish me luck as I embark upon a pastime which apparently, according to some sources, along with bum sex, is listed among activities that a man should never ever try. I'm just going to concentrate on the dancing for the time being.

Now you see me, now you see me

When the beautiful Lady Norkington agreed to marry me, a phone call to Guy Hills of Dashing Tweeds in London ensured that I was going to be one of the snazziest grooms in town. The tweed also features an invisible strand that lights up in the dark. I am not joking.

Son of stuff

Thought I'd showcase the work of little-known watercolourist Master Wilfred Herron. Herron has retreated to the woods to paint compositions of brilliant naivety. A superb feeling for light and colour, redolent of a young Millais. Me, I just love them.

Nutters

I'm often ask who my favourite Morris Dancers are. 
Without hesitation, I always plump for the Britannia Coconut Dancers of Bacup who will be thrilling crowds with their charismatic cloggy kerfuffles this Easter Saturday in Bacup of all places. A bit less well behaved than their white-flannelled hanky-waving cousins, this merry band of pom-pom toting troubadours will tickle your funny bone without a doubt.
I will, of course, be in attendance once again.
http://www.coconutters.co.uk/

Knitted yellow shorts

Don't ask me why, but a lot of the things I do in my 
life are because they amuse me, and sometimes as a very 
valuable by-product along the way, someone else is amused 
as well. I'm writing my friend Brian's life story at 
the moment. Well, my interpretation of it anyway. 
Only chapter 1 so far...
http://knittedyellowshorts.blogspot.co.uk/

Dear Sir Paul

Sometimes you've just got to let people know that 
you are not happy.

Food glorious food

My mate Tom Parker Bowles said that my Game Pie was the best that he had ever tasted. Now that's an endorsement, coming from a man who probably dines on game pie more often than your average pie-scoffer, him being practically royal and all that.

I was lucky enough to be selected to take part in ITV's Food Glorious Food which will begin screening at the end of February. Hosted by Carol Vorderman and judged by Parker Bowles and Lloyd Grossman among others, filming took place at the Harrogate Flower Show at the end of last summer. It promises to be a cross between Antiques Roadshow and The Great British Bake Off and is backed by Simon Cowell. Luckily the high-waistbanded one failed to make an appearance during proceedings. They've also produced a top quality cookbook to accompany the series and they've managed to shoehorn a few pictures of me in there as well as my recipe.

The most amazing milk-lady in the west

Our glamorous milk-lady, Bev is an amazing woman. Up to and including delivering your daily pint within hours, yes, hours of delivering her own baby daughter a few years back. She’s a really inspiring and energetic character and I love the stories she comes out with.

She recounted an amusing tale to me the other day.

She was snuggled up in front of a roaring fire one night during the recent bad weather of foot-deep snow, in her beautiful farmhouse nestled below Pendle Hill. But poor Bev was faced with a dilemma. Should she pour herself a large glass of medicinal whisky before she ventured out into the elements to feed her hungry flock of sheep? Or would it be foolhardy to risk such a warming luxury before undertaking such a rugged task? In the dark? In deep snow?

Of course, our sensible Bev took the only course of action that was the logical solution to this conundrum and poured herself a titanic tot of the amber nectar before embarking on her hazardous
mission.

‘but they know y’know, them sheep...’ Bev continued, ‘...they know when you’ve ‘ad a few — and they take advantage like...’

‘What do you mean?’ I said.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I had the sack of food on me shoulder and I walked through the field towards the flock. As I approached them, they spotted me and started running towards me. The first couple that arrived started jumpin’up before I could get the sack off me shoulders and another couple were wrigglin’ around me legs. Honestly, they could sense I was a bit squiffy. Anyway, they managed to knock me over and started tramplin’ on me legs and chest to get at the sack. By this time there were about 25 sheep in a frenzy around and on top of me and there was food and straw and sheep-poo everywhere, and I were covered from head to toe in it.’

Happily Bev managed to escape the woolly-backed bandits and high-tailed it safely back to the comfort of the roaring log fire. She deserved another drink after her ordeal in the field.

The next morning, very early and while on her milkround Bev heard on the radio, her favourite
insomniac DJ ask for listeners to ring in if they had experienced the consequences of a bad decision made while faced with a difficult dilemma.

And so on air, to her fellow early-hour risers, Bev began
‘...last night I made the wrong decision about whether I should ‘ave a drink of whisky before I fed the sheep, or after, well...’ she continued...