The problem with life insurance is that it’s generally not something you’re in a rush to make a claim on.

I have a life insurance policy with the Halifax Bank, which was founded in the town of Halifax, West Yorkshire. Before I cash in my policy I thought I’d bore you with some Hali-facts:

• Halifax is famed for the ‘Halifax Gibbet’, an early form of the guillotine. Rumour has it, after leaning over to inspect the internal workings of a Halifax Gibbet, the head of John the Baptist was subsequently buried nearby. His last words were “Are you sure it’s sa…”

 

 

A replica of the Halifax Gibbet, on its original site in Gibbet Street.

 

• The town gained its name from Haliflax, meaning ‘holy flax’, and has been the centre of woollen manufacture in Britain since the fifteenth century.

Piece Hall, first opened in 1779 as a public market and place for trading woollen cloth.

• Famous X-factors include:

Wrestler ‘Big Daddy’.

10 Rillington Place mass-murderer John Christie.

Percy Shaw, inventor of reflective ‘cat’s-eyes’.

William Herschel, discoverer of Uranus.

Are men really better at shopping?

According to a new report by the Department for Stating the Bleeding Obvious men are better shoppers than women. Men on average spend five hours a week shopping; they know what they want, go in the shop, buy it and leave; whereas women spend on average eight hours, often forgetting what they went in the shop for and coming out with something completely different.

"Oh, yes, I remember now - a pair of gloves."

I may be a man but I’m not that stupid. The female art of pretending to forget is merely an endearing ploy in order that they get exactly what they want, albeit they may have to sneak it back home and tuck it away in the wardrobe, to then reveal with the immortal line “What –this old thing – I’ve had it ages! Don’t you remember I wore it to Rodney’s twenty-first…”

"What - this old thing..."

Must be off; today is International Buy Nothing Day and I want to catch the shops before they close.

Oh, say! can you see by the dawn’s early light…

Happy Thanksgiving.

Elephants, a Spanish princess and the first shopping centre in Britain.

Continuing with Things You Don’t Need to Know About London, and Elephant and Castle, a run-down area south of London Bridge, gained its name from the Spanish princess La Infanta de Castille, who was once engaged to King Charles I.

Elephant and Castle when London was still in black and white.

Elephant's shopping centre - the first in Britain - is set for demolition.

Eton rivals.

Once described as “the most famous public school in the world”, Eton College’s long list of former pupils include eighteen former British Prime Ministers. Quite a tally, but alas, not quite enough for the two teams of ten players required for the Eton Wall Game.

Dating back to at least 1766, the Eton Wall Game is played annually between a team of Collegers and Oppidants. Also described as “one of the oldest, hardest and weirdest ball games in the world”, to all intents it’s also one of the dullest. So dull in fact that this year’s game was played last Saturday and it’s taken me three days to summon up the enthusiasm to write a blog about it.

Played alongside a slightly curved brick wall, the pitch may be a mere five metres wide, but what it lacks in width it makes up for in its one hundred and ten-metre length, and with rules akin to a cross between rugby and football, to cut a long story short the last goal to be scored was 100 years ago, in 1909.

The teams argue over who has which end.

The red team are caught trying to sneak in an extra player.

The game is so dull spectators entertain themselves by wearing scarves that match the bricks in the wall.

A particularly thrilling match in 1921:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RSdlWtk1grI

Thierry Henry, Watergate and a naked dwarf with a penis extension.

Those of you that come from a land far away that plays, not football, but soccer, may not be up to speed with this, but last week top French International player Thierry Henry caused a storm when his deliberate handball lead to the goal that put Ireland out of next year’s Football World Cup Finals. Ireland’s subsequent calls for the game to be replayed fell on deaf ears.  

In a bid that could be considered somewhat desperate and misguided, news reaches me that Ireland’s faithful fans are boycotting the use of the Henry vacuum cleaner. This could be considered somewhat along the lines of refusing to go swimming after the Watergate scandal.

Thierry Henry's 'infamous' handball.

A naked dwarf for some reason using a Henry vacuum cleaner as a penis extension.

Fiftysomething male seeks hobby. Suggestions welcome.

Continuing with my possible future hobbies and pastimes:

Model steam train enthusiast.

English Civil War battle re-enactment.

Morris dancing.

Naturism.

Ham radio enthusiast.

Plane spotting.

Fellatio has nothing to do with stamp collecting.

Following on from my blog regarding my recent attendance of an evening class in pottery for beginners, I was thinking it might be time to take up a hobby.

I’ve drawn up a list, so if anyone could give me any advice and guidance as to what might be suitable for a fiftysomething male I’d appreciate your thoughts.

Birdwatching.

Fishing.

Trainspotting.

Pigeon fancying.

Crown green bowling.

Country and Western dancing.

Making models out of used matchsticks.

Should women have sex after the menopause?

The role of the Agony Uncle was the subject under discussion yesterday on the Robert Elms Show on Radio London.

Apparently, in ye olden days before women were educated to read and write, before the evolution of the personal-advice-giving newspaper Agony Aunt came the Agony Uncle, and women not having sex after the menopause was one piece of Agony Uncle advice.

Obviously, once a woman’s days of producing children were over, there was no point in continuing with the rather unpleasant and messy business of sex.

That's enough. I don't care if the one on the right's on crutches - no more sex!"

Bell end.

At long last, it’s over; I come clean and admit it. I am… that is to say, I was, Belle de Pour, the infamous blogger that regularly prostituted my talents for £300 a week in order to finance myself through an evening class in pottery for beginners.

OK, I've come clean about the pottery, now do I get a book deal?