I was compelled to email Rochester the other day. You know, Rochester is the most quintessentially Northen cove I have ever met. He has a geordie accent so thick you could insulate a loft with it. To be honest, I think the accent was rather affected, he was a public school boy after all. But, overall, Rochester was a northern as pease pudding, as flat caps, as whippets and stottie cakes. He also oozed a treacle-thick, black, northern taciturnity and pessimism. So, it seemed odd that the desperado of dour would choose to live down south, in Bristol.
My email was inspired by an irritatingly gushing article in The Sunday Times about the city.
‘There’s a buzz about Bristol, with its ethical start-ups, offbeat artists and green living . . . Britain’s hippest city.’
I felt compelled to point out to the sardonic fanny rat how VOMITROCIOUS that all sounded! The article made the city seem as smug and in love with itself as 'trendy' Brighton. I asked Rochester whether he craved coming home to the land of corned beef pie. A land where roller and pinny bedecked matriarchs gleefully sever the toes of sooty faced bairns with their tartan shopping trolleys. Where he could call a woman ‘pet’ without fear of being sent on a feathery-stroker gender-awareness workshop, where he'd be force-fed green tea and lesbian folk songs about menstruation.
Southerners!! The article gives the impression that every Bristol resident smugly tootles around on a bicycle whilst sipping organic apple juice. They spend evenings in their eco-friendly homes filtering their own sewage and listening to whale music. Cheesecloth wearing chick-pea botherers.
And as for 'Green-living!' - don't get me started! Emissions-obsessed, solar-powered boffins really get my dander up! I noticed on her Twitter page Sarah Brown posted a picture of the presents under the Number 10 Christmas tree wrapped in The Times NEWSPAPER. She sounded so smug about her canny, green credentials. Although, it did occur to me that her carbon kitten-heel-print would have been smaller had she simply read the paper online. Actually, I love Sarah Brown. So elegant, down-to-earth and understated. I think she could do SO much better, romantically speaking, don't you? I can't tell you how annoyed I would be if my present from Number 10 arrived wrapped like cod and chips. Dear God. It makes my blood boil to just think of it (and even that is not allowed these days, blood should be simmered at a cool 30 degrees).
I kindly suggested that Rochester come home to his roots before it’s too late. Before he finds himself wearing hemp trousers and marching to raise awareness for the plight of the bi-polar, transgender lesser spotted dormouse, before he grows a beard and turns vegan.
I remember when I visited Rochester in his Somerset shag-pad. I noticed a poster for the local paper. The leading story that day was 'pensioner rescued after spending 2 days trapped under sofa.' I recall sniggering at that. People in the south are so lily-livered. My Aunty Margaret would have gnawed through her leg with her false teeth rather than waste the time of the emergency services on such a trifling matter.
I did have a dream about Rochester recently. We were on the Clifton Suspension Bridge together. I decided to consult an online dream dictionary for an interpretation. I ended up on some Freudian site. Apparently the bridge represents:
'the male sexual organ, which "bridges the gap" between male and female sexual partners.'
Ah, I see. . . . I was intrigued, I looked up a few other random dream subjects on the site: raccoons, steak and kidney puddings, garden sheds, umbrellas, Bono. And, wouldn't you know it? They ALL represented the male sexual organ! Bloody Freudians. (Although, Bono I can understand. He IS a complete cock, after all!)