Louise Penny has won the Agatha award for best novel at the Malice Domestic festival. Her book, The Cruellest Month, is a terrific read and Louise is such a nice person that it really couldn’t happen to anyone better. Louise came to the Bristol Crimefest (UK) last year (this year’s Crimefest happens in a couple of weeks) and we got on like a house on fire. Louise summons up a great sense of place in her books; they’re so Canadian that you feel transported there. As well as having good stories, they’re so well written that they’re a pleasure to spend time with – like Louise, really!
So Louise is the winner (der, der!).
The Loser is poor old Ricky Hatton. The news of Light-Welterweight World Champion Ricky Hatton’s defeat at the hands of the lighting-fisted Filipino, Manny Pacquiao, was rotten news for any proud Mancuinian to wake up to. Ricky is very well-loved locally for lots of very good reasons. He isn’t – this is the unforgivable sin for a Northerner – remotely up himself, but pleasant, approachable and will turn out to do unshowy charity work, such as a fund-raising day at the kids’ school.
I’ve danced with him in the local pub. Now, I must admit that this was probably a more memorable experience for me than him, but it was a great evening. The pub in question isn’t some timeless slice of Old England or some Sunday Times Gastro Bar but the Old Hunter’s Tavern, an ordinary town local with a public and a snug. I’ve been going in The Hunters most of my adult life. I worked behind the bar for a time. It was – then – most of the things a pub should be. It had an oak counter, brass rails and group of old codgers drinking Worthington White Shield (if you want an exercise in patience, try drinking Worthington White Shield:- it has to be poured like vintage port, otherwise the lees get into the glass). The old codgers all smoked pipes and played dominos and cribbage and there was a ginger cat curled up in front of the fire.
Since then, of course, time’s moved on. If any of the old codgers, or anyone else for that matter, wants a quiet smoke, they have to go and shiver outside in the smoking area. The cat has ceased to be and, instead of the click of dominos there’s a disco on a Sunday night. Now, I must say I prefer the old version but the new has a way of re-inventing itself.
The night I danced with Ricky Hatton, the incomparable Archie was manning the disco. Archie’s a big bloke, one of those characters that everyone knows roundabout, and likes a laugh. He likes to see people enjoying themselves and a group of regulars, lead by my old friend, Anne, were enjoying themselves to the hilt. Anne dresses up for a Sunday night; slinky black skirt and gold bracelets. She, to add to the fun, had bought in a collection of toy tambourines, jingle bells and little cymbals and we were entertaining ourselves by pretending to be Spanish dancers, amongst other things. Ricky, who was standing at the bar with a few mates, was laughing his head off at her/our gyrations and wanted to join in the fun. So there was the World Champion, totally relaxed, banging a child’s tambourine, while we all sang This year we’re off to sunny Spain. It was an interesting evening: no wonder he’s so well-loved.
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