…but the sky is empty

Finally, we went to pretty, tiny, Hebden Bridge (lesbian capital of Britain) one day, climbed up to the village above - Heptonstall - to visit Sylvia Plath's grave (festooned with gifts from miserable acolytes and vandalised by those who wanted the 'Hughes' removed, given that their relationship - and his behaviour - is what led her to suicide (the same happened to Assia Wevill, for whom Hughes eventually left Plath, when she in turn killed herself).

Then the Map Twats went sledging.

Man hands on misery to man

Sylvia Plath's and Ted Hughes's son, Nicholas, has killed himself. We don't know the complexities of his life, but he couldn't have had the best of starts - mother killed herself when he was one year old. This seems to sum it up:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don't have any kids yourself.

Philip Larkin, 'This Be The Verse'.

Fun-packed weekends

Instead of going to watch Rochdale FC from an executive box (pitch frozen), we ate a lot of cheese, went to Manchester's finest Japanese restaurant and tried not to get annoyed by fashionable types, then went sledging above Heptonstall after paying our respects (!) at the grave of Sylvia Plath. I bought a lot of books and got heckled by lesbians in Hebden Bridge in the style of Drive-By Abuser. All in all, a great weekend.

Apologies to Jo's parents. Despite my best man's speech at their daughter's wedding opening with a Rohypnol joke, they tried to say hello to me at the Richard Thompson gig, but I didn't hear - I feel really bad.