Tales from the Lonely Tavern - Edition One By King Rat - Professional Yorkshireman

Introduction

Recently in the hallowed pages of thisisull.com a new columnist has sprung up, filling our heads with home-grown opinions. This master of the pen is none other than the Silverfox, a man I have many a doings with in CrackTown. Now much as I respect the genius and wordsmithery of this harp playing long-shanks, I think it's due time for a more grounded point of view, albeit a Yorkshire one. This is my blinkered retaliation on a world gone mad, without any of them big Southern words that there Mr. Fox be famous for using.

Ye olde pub chat

As the ale flowed and the night grew tired, me and the lads found ourselves in that weird limbo of leisurely drinkin', them awkward moments between sobriety and yeast induced intoxication, a time of surreal contemplation where man forgets about breasts and fightin' and becomes a self-acclaimed philosopher of nothing less than everything.

We began thinking about our own mortality, and knowing that, as we being men of little understandin' would most likely not make a name for ourselves in life, we'd have to make a bloody good go of it in death. And with forth we began thinkin' up strange and interestin' ways to die. After several ludicrous ideas, which were followed by even more ludicrous ideas we came up with this.

End at the North Pole

When you reach a certain age, when death seems more inviting than strugglin' on (a bit like the fat kid in last ten yards of egg n spoon race), why not follow these instructions to a glorious rendezvous with the big man. -Just leave town one day (don't tell anyone where your going) and head to John o'Groats.

-Pack some warm clothing, provisions (booze, fish n chips… a Cuban cigar), a compass, a map, life savings, a pair of colourful Bermuda shorts and a felt tip pen. -On reaching John o'Groats spend your life savings chartering a small motor boat with enough fuel to get to the Arctic. -When you get to the Arctic, set off for the North Pole, don't worry about how you get there, you won't be headin' back. At the North Pole (that red/white striped stick shaped thingamabob) 'ave a sit down.

-Crack open the booze, warm up the fish n chips on a fire, have a cigar, laugh heartedly, remember the fulfilling life you should have lead and curse the reapers name in sick defiance. -Once the celebrations have finished, strip naked, put on your colourful Bermuda shorts and use your felt tip pen to write Oates was ere on your own arse (it can be done, believe me).

-Finally kneel down and assume the position with your shorts around your ankles. As you slowly freeze to death in nowt but the skin ya mother gave ya, be at peace in the fact that the next two Norwegian explorers to pass this way are gonna have a bloody nasty shock!

Crap Jest of t'week

What was the name of the first Israelite cheese company? Cheeses of Nazareth

Common-sense from the common man

Has anyone noticed apart from thee of the creepin' rise of imitation poshness, even here in our working class stronghold of Wyke? For examples sake, whenever you inquire these days of someone's vocation, you'll be returned with retail advancement advisor or hygiene enforcement officer. Gone are days past when sons became either priest or soldier, now everyone's inventin' self important titles so pompous they're enough to make our Lizzie blush. Even me and accompaniment are guilty of said crimes, though in shaky defence we were many San Miguels south of sober in sunny Salou. In our unholy quest to entice two lovely ladies into high rise foreign shenanigans we turned on the dishonesty too woo them into favour.

In one foul swoop we'd gone from shippin' clerk, student and a guy who mixes bleach for a livin' to European imports assistant, pre-graduate and chemical engineer. Needless to say our web of untruths was our undoing and rightly so. As a common man of common sense I say halt thou lies in haste of exalting thou and have rest in what ye be.

Ale of ye week

Old speckled Hen (5.2%) - Greene King Brewery It says on the can a most gratifying ale, and by all accounts I was gratified. A rich, thick taste that lends itself to traditions of English Brewin' and leaves a sense of fulfilment within. Many ales in this age pride themselves on being light, but when push comes to shove give me somethin' that adds another layer to the paunch. Not least of its better characteristics is its leanings to keep true to its taste even when warmed up in Albionic sunshine, somethin' that those lily-livered lager drinkers can only 'ave faint hope for. Old Speckled hen goes in my top half-score of champion Mead, drink it or be your taste buds in peril.

Coming up in Edition two - Give thou respite, ave not thought that far ahead yet.

Columns - Steve Regan: the King of Hull
	There is panic throughout most of the state and voluntary-aided schools in Hull because so many pupils are simply out of control. A new report and survey chronicles the terrible situation in classrooms across this city. I'm sorry to say it is a picture which does not hold out a great deal of Read more...

Columns - Rupert, Ted and the Phantom Stink of Catpiss By Silver Fox
	According to a recent survey, Britain's international prestige has taken something of a knock of late. Foreign nationals either living in or visiting dear old Blighty have been asked what they think of www.mcunitedkingdom.com and many - and not all that varied - have been Read more...

Columns - The Buck Went Thataway By Silver Fox
	Firstly, I'd like to thank anyone who's pointed-and-clicked their way to my little information superhighway lay-by for a second time. It shows an entirely laudable spirit of forgiveness and optimism on your part; a spirit that you should be proud of and one that makes you very special indeed. To be honest, Read more...

Columns - Steve Regan: The Return of The King
	MY visit to Hull last weekend was a blast. I came, I hugged, I drank and I lost my mobile phone in The Piper. The phone's since been returned to me. A reporter from the Hull Daily Mail had picked it up accidentally and taken it home, thinking it was hers. Friday evening began with me slurping Read more...

Columns - Democracy - Not Everyone's Bag - The Silver Fox
	First things first: I ought to clarify what I'm doing here, taking up valuable space on your monitor - a space that I realise that so many of you consider an inviolate sanctuary for pictures of amusing deformity or make your own Semtex recipes. The fact is, it's all something of a mistake. Read more...

Articles - Made In Hull - Part Two - Our Terrace By Maurice Fairfield

	Ours was the typical terrace. Some had houses with small front gardens and a path down the middle to each front door. Not so Alex Avenue; a short dead-end courtyard with seven houses on each side. Foot traffic only, in fact the head of the terrace was enclosed by a hoop topped iron fence with a gate Read more...

Articles - My Mate Walters an Asylum seeker, From Cameroon By Rich Mills

	Walters is a black man asylum seeker in Hull, from Cameroon, the English speaking part, south of the country under persistent threat from the independent French speaking north population. Although the North has its independence, the south English speaking section is under constant threat of terror. He has lived here in Hull for four years, having Read more...