My first Howling Blog post...

It’s always the beginning that’s most difficult. The first sentence or the first line are always the bits that give me most grief, but the first sentence is done now, so from here everything should be a breeze. Well, that’s the theory anyway! And it seems to work for Jeffrey Archer, so why not for me?

So….. welcome to the very first dollop of Howling Blog. I suspect ‘dollop’ is the right word to use, because it’s never going to be delivered as if it were a dish prepared by a celebrity chef. It won’t have fancy ingredients, it won’t have a garnish of green bits and a drizzle of truffle oil. No, it’ll be thrown on your plate in much the same way as my mother used to serve up her beef stew and dumplings: with little finesse, but with tons of love and enthusiasm. And there’ll always be a bottle of sauce on the table for you to splash around as you will.

How HB began…

I’m in the pub one Monday evening with friend and fellow scribbler Bernard Wrigley. Our pub visits aren’t made because we like to drink beer and chat and play grumpy old buggers and ogle the blonde lass behind the bar. No! No! We are carrying out valuable research that will be of use to future generations of ogleing, grumpy boozers. It’s something we seldom get thanked for, but more of that when our research is published in 2012.

So we get the beers and sit down at a quiet corner table where we can swear without causing too much offence and we comment on the pub décor and the fact that it could bring on a migraine the size of Elton John’s ego. Then Bernard asks

“Have you thought about doin’ a blog? On yer website, like.”

“I’ve thought about it” says I “but I’ve never got farther than that. Anyway, I wouldn’t know how to fill it. And I’d be more concerned about the barmy buggers who might stay in of a Saturday night and actually read it. And besides, my creativity’s dried up. I’m writing nowt at the moment. I had trouble with a shopping list the other day.”

“Well I’m thinking of doing one” says Bernard.

“If you’re having one then I’m having one” I reply. And we move to another pub where the décor is a little less traumatic and we swap the blonde lass behind the bar for an eighteen-year-old goth with a learner beard and soft, clammy hands and we press on with our research.

For some strange reason, the conversation turns to Barbara Windsor's acting talents and we continue to drink beer till Bernard gets called in for his tea.

What will HB contain?

Stuff. Simple as that. Mindless ramblings, poems, the odd monologue, photos, and owt else I can cram into a blog.

But that’s all for now!