The Northwest: A Love Story (with a Lot of Rain and Seasonal Affective Disorder)
The Search for Vitamin D Continues: My Northwest Saga
Well, it’s not exactly ‘Whitesnake’s -
“I don't know where I'm going
But I sure know where I've been
Hanging on the promises in songs of yesterday
And I've made up my mind
I ain't wasting no more time
Here I go again, here I go again.
But, my return to the Northwest is now only hours away, as, once again I free myself from the lunatic asylum of Bristol, where people seem to have more issues than the Sunday Times magazine, first published on February 4th 1962.
Yes, back to the land of decent meat pies, renowned rain, and ‘salt of the earth’ people, which, in a roundabout way, segues me into the current hysteria over Labour MP for Denton and Gorton, Andrew Gwynne.
Right, so you got your Northerners, yeah? They're all 'straight to the point', like a rusty nail through your foot. No messing about, just blunt, brutal honesty. Self-deprecating? More like self-flagellating. Sarcasm? Their love language. Jokes? About how grim life is up North. Weather's shite, jobs are shite, the footy team's shite. Classic.
Then you got your Southerners, all 'ooh la la' and 'bless their cotton socks'. Rambling on about their 'grandma's jam' and 'the time they met a badger'. Stories longer than a wet weekend. Wordplay? More like word-torture. Honestly, you could fall asleep listening to them at times. It appears that the delicate sensibilities of our esteemed Southern brethren are simply incapable of processing the nuanced wit endemic to the Northern regions. This, of course, is entirely understandable. After all, how can one expect individuals raised in a culture where every utterance is imbued with the profound weight of personal offense to grasp the subtle art of comedic detachment?
The 'Gen' and, perish the thought, 'Alpha' cohorts seem particularly susceptible to this affliction. Their thin skins, presumably the result of excessive participation in 'self-esteem' workshops and a diet consisting primarily of participation trophies, render them incapable of distinguishing between a playful jab and an existential threat.
One can only hope that future generations will develop a thicker epidermis and a more robust sense of humour. Until then, perhaps a mandatory course in 'Northern Humour for the Easily Offended' might be of some assistance.
Apparently, my decade of weathering the verbal barbs of the Pacific Northwest, where a well-aimed insult was considered a badge of honour, now qualifies me as a hardened misanthrope. Who knew? I, who've always considered a healthy dose of sarcasm a vital life skill, am now deemed a purveyor of 'hate speech' by some. Yet, with hand on heart, I cannot think of one person I hate. So, the sheer fragility of modern sensibilities to me, is truly astounding. I suppose I should be commended for my newfound emotional resilience – no longer reduced to a quivering puddle by a stray barb. That’s progress, I guess. Or is it?
You see, apparently, we've allowed ourselves to stumble into the era of the perpetually aggrieved. Where everyone seems to have a personal offense hotline these days. Newsflash: taking offense is a choice, not a mandatory subscription service. So, it's baffling how this thin-skinned, mass hypersensitivity epidemic took hold. I mean, I understand genuine threats of violence – that's objectively hateful. But labelling every mildly disagreeable opinion, or bit of banter as 'hate speech'? That's just… precious. Someone hand me a fainting couch, I can't handle the emotional turmoil of differing viewpoints any more!
Now for a bit of the 'New Age' wisdom I picked up during my (surprising, I know!) counsellor training. Yes, it's true, I actually did that!
Whenever someone feels hurt by another's words, instead of dwelling on the offense, they should turn inward. What internal struggle is being triggered by this external event? What about themselves are they resisting, refusing to acknowledge, or struggling to accept? And, therein folks lies the answer to pretty much everything, and all you need to know to save the proverbial knickers from ever getting in a twist again. Let's be honest, it's all about the ego. I've learned the hard way that letting every insult and threat get to me would have turned me into a complete basket case by now. Seriously, I'd probably be locked up for my own safety.
Trust me, developing a 'water off a duck's back' mentality will save you a fortune in therapy bills. Fifty quid an hour? Please! Send that money to me instead. I'm of much better value, and it will go some way to continuing this, ‘ahem’ - fag and tea-induced writing frenzy. No, NOT that type of ‘fag’ - this is NOT the USA!
Meanwhile, to get back on point, as for the Labour Party whingers and whiners bemoaning Andrew Gwynne, I would highly recommend this blog site for up to date advice on dealing with those from the northwest, because it’s far cheaper than a humour transplant. Now, there’s an idea for Wes Streeting to invest money in!
Finally, I’m now a few hours closer to returning ‘up North’ where sanity and humour will top me up once again, and all the bleeding hearts down South can all go screw themselves til later in the week when I’ll be even more fired up with my usual dose of daily wit and wisdom, and more than ever on my return.
Ps. Having said that, tune in again tomorrow, and possibly the day after if you dare, for my report from up there. Lancs, here I come!
