Mr Dale's Diary

EXTRACTS from a diary that have been sent to Northern Voices. 

This is the diary of a man of our times. 

Any resemblance to anyone living is, of course, purely coincidental.

Wednesday 27th January 2016

My man informs me of rumours about the little Red room near the bridge. They adore me there. I shall tell you how much…

One evening recently, whilst downing my sixth pint of 1976 Petrus Pomerol ( a legitimate expense of course), that wildlife chappie was having one of his TV programmes repeated. It went on about Cicada’s and how they stay in the ground for several years before emerging, all at once, to do their loving. The people in the little Red room do this to show their love for me. Every few years , they surface in an act of love to deliver leaflets of my pictures and words to the people of my fiefdom. A fine collective act of worship of me.

My man infers that some atheistic types in the little Red room , bizzarely, don’t like me and could refuse to take part in this gloryfying of me. It matters not – the big man is in my pocket and he’ll get them back on track. You may say “that must be a very large pocket”. Indeed it is – it needs to be to contain my considerable expens… erm… earnings.

Where’s all those receipts gone? I am owed much.
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