Earthquack

Lincolnshire is at the epicentre of something for the first time since Magna Carta, with a 5.2richter scale blast at about 1.15am this morning. It dislodged something in my blog psyche, cos I've been prompted to post for the first time in ages. Here, 13.5 miles from the epicentre, there's talk about landslides and people thinking it 'were Cossards sugar factory gern up'. Spare a thought for the Market Rasen Mail. Biggest story in ages but they go to press on a Tuesday evening. So while the BBC camps on its doorstep, it runs with a story about a scout pack that faces closure. Them's the local newspapee breaks.

Lost in translation

I'm a glutton for punishment, me. Only days after getting to grip with the Hull accent, all terbleureurnes and rerds (toblerones and roads) after some four years of trying, I take a job in Grimbo. Totally different accent proposition. Over the last few days, I've overhead at least two people say "it's wam, ennit?" - translation: the temperature is unseasonably high for this time of year, don't you feel my good gentleman? But this phone conversation I had today is my favourite yet. It was a call to our children's services team to talk about Thomas Turgoose, the 15-year-old star of This Is England. Young Tommy is a pupil at Winteringham school in town.

Me: Have you put out a press release about Tommy Turgoose at the Baftas?

Grimbonian: Is that a tournament?

Me: No, it's the British Academy Film And Television Awards, held in London.

Grimbonian: I know what it is, but is it a tournament?

Me: A tournament?

Grimbonian: A tournament, that film with James McAvoy in it. That were filmed in Grimsby.

Loz has been watching: The execrebable Lily Allen And Friends (BBC3) - like a worse Girlie Show, bad interviewing, intolerable crowd (freaks talking about wet dreams and shagging while Lily eggs them on. It's hardly LDN now is it?), and a clearly petrified David Mitchell in the ghastly headlights. It was like 18 Stone Of Idiot, with some Rada lass instead of Vegas.

Loz az Laz: Part 328b

Another Larry David moment over the weekend (btw, has anyone noticed that Curb Six isn't quite as on the money? Have I changed or has Larry?) I went out the side door and saw the cat, greeting her with my typical "alright weirdo?" question. Turns out my next door neighbour's mum was taking the trash out at the same time. And heard me. Cue many minutes stood there making small talk, cos there's an obligatory five-minute small talk exchange to be done just to convince them that they aren't the subject of your weirdo retort. At least I think there is. It may have been a compliment.

In law unto themselves

Had the first meeting of my mum and Dee's mum over the weekend. Had worked myself up into a semi-funk wondering what the hell they'd have in common. But, within minutes, they were talking about non-stick frying pans and the best way to make a cheese sauce. Mums, eh?

From the pen of the Leven

Ain't it great to go to a gig by someone hithero unknown, to be expecting nowt, and to be rewarded with a dextrous evening of wine-soaked raconteuring and beautiful Celtic balladry and punk-inspired dissonace? That's what happened with us and Jackie Leven, our first gig at Ropery Hall in Barton. Great little venue, tucked at the end of the quarter-mile long Ropery. The portents were not good for Jackie. He shuffled in with a bottle of wine and a placcy bag, looking like he'd been on the wrong side of too many Ginsters. The side-boarded compere announced him while he was trying to squeeze himself through the audience. And then he plugged his guitar in the wrong way. Dee gave me one of her "this is going to be like that awful theremin woman you dragged me to. Again, Laurie, again!" type-looks. But then he transpired to be brilliant. All late-night tales and candid observations about Bethesda, Larry Olivier, Colombo and Johnny Cash. Check him out, I say.

Pictures of my cat on my blog

I don't want to turn this blog into "funny pictures what my cat done today" - but there ain't much else going on. We've built some new shelves. The cat thought it was a series of elaborate cat parking bays. It wasn't. So we filled them with everything we possess.

He Shouts, He Scores

Off to the big bad city of Hull last night in chaotic gales for Windass's gusty, nautical drama On A Shout at Truck. It's a splendid tale as well, backed by some ominous lighting, menacing sound effects and the fabulously chiseled cheekbones of Edward Peel. The tinny nature of the Truck building as well meant that the atmospheric sound effects were mingling with the gales outside, to add to the drama. It also helped to empathise just how bleak The Point is. I've been up there numerous times (yes, Fee, it's where your missus gashed her knee and is now probably scarred for life by the memory of falling in the horizontal rain) and Dave's play really captures the desolation and camaraderie that exists on the impossible coast. Hull-based bloggers, if you are still logging on (although by my lowly status on Hull Bloggers, I think not) get yourself along to Truck.

Also today: Loz has finally interviewed Graham Fellows, and experienced a repeat of the Al Murray Complex, namely an actor refusing to get into character, although its probably quite difficult to scat in Sheffield speak over the phone. That said, the former Jilted John was a pleasure who wanted to pick my brains about Goole for his Dave Tordoff character. He was fascinated that the locals know the main drinking street as Blood Alley and will weave it into his show, apparently.