Why didn’t I listen to my Luddite compadre Mr Hull twelve months ago when he questioned our need for a blog? My response sought to bewilder with big ideas like ‘involvement in the creative process ’, ‘an insight into our inner workings’ and ‘writing ‘n’ shit’.

A year later and sadly I’ve seen more of his inner workings then you’ve seen of ours, e.g. none (thankfully, as I suspect his to be very unkempt).

So, left wondering what to do, I’m inclined to consider what advice our local champion of blogging, the unashamed daily ‘blogger not a quitter’ and sometime playwright Dave Windass – @DaveW on Twitter – would offer.

This is not without risk. Firstly, I’ve sporadically conversed with Mr D. Windass and he seems fairly formidable. I still wince to remember the mention of seeing him on Whitefriargate – his tweeted response was along the lines of  ‘You better not be fucking stalking me.” I’m not of course. I have a perfectly valid reason for acting suspiciously on his street of residence, Officer.

Secondly, there was the foolish offer I made to donate bacon (in response to his times being so hard as to need to sell a guitar for rashers). Not a lifetime’s supply – I’m not made of money (or bacon) – just a friendly offer of some streaky or back, whichever he preferred. Surprisingly, my meaty offering remains unclaimed.

So, minor skirmishes and unclaimed pork aside, and caution to the wind, what might @DaveW advise? Judging by his recent postings I think he’d tell me to forget past failings, make some challenging comments about pulling myself together and suggest I start blogging afresh.

That, and to leave him the eff alone.

Thanks for the imagined guidance Dave, that’s exactly what I’ll do. 

P.S. Did I mention about the bacon?

Big news this month as Hull City Council puts in a bid to host the Apocalypse, promising a fantastic light show, four horsemen gymkhana, and a fat angry dragon rising up from the ancient salty depths of the Humber.

A spokesman added: “And of course, ample parking.”

Erudite wordsmith turned self-proclaimed clitologist Stephen Fry recently proved himself a National Treasure more contentious than Marmite by asserting that the female of the species find sexual intercourse all rather ghastly, an opinion immediately refuted by sixteen year-old Hull mother of four Amy Pollock, who wasted no time tweeting: “#fryfauxpas. orifices @ maximum capacity & loving it. eat your words corduroy shirt-lifter”

Popular countryside soap Emmerdale made the news recently following complaints that the Specials Board in the Woolpack pub included “jam rags”. Broadcasting chiefs immediately claimed it the work of a mischievous extra, but of course rural parlance denotes a “jam rag” to be a type of biscuit, shaped like a small white-chocolate submarine smeared in homemade preserve.

For proof, one need only visit The Simpleton’s Arms in Gowthorpe, where on a Sunday afternoon local farmers can be heard discussing crop rotation over a pint of Hairy Witch and a plate of the landlady’s delicious tampons.

Not so clever now, eh, Mr. “Disgusted” of Kettering …

The UK Government today pledged more emergency aid to flood-torn Pakistan by dispatching the finest talent the UK construction industry has to offer. A convoy of untaxed white vans left Downing St for the badly-hit region of Sindh, where later this afternoon hundreds of shivering, terrified pensioners will be quoted fifteen grand to retile a roof last seen floating down the Indus River amongst a herd of dead oxen.

Ok, twelve grand, cash in hand. Can’t say fairer than that.

Who will protect our children from this tide of filth?

Huge demand this week for Disney’s animated adventure Up, not it seems due to recent award success but by word spreading amongst certain types that the story revolves around a desperate and lonely old man inspired by the death of his wife to fulfil a lifelong ambition involving a Boy Scout and an enormous collection of balloons …

Innocent misunderstanding? Or will the deleted scenes on the Blu Ray Special Edition tell a very different story?

Just a few to liven things up. The cute type. The type you’d let live in the garden shed and invite out for the occasional game of Swingball. The type that answers to Cyril, Graham or Reg*

I used to hold high office in Local Government

They’d really improve the flagship retail emporium, not to mention the quality of overheard conversations:

“I just can’t wear mauve these days, not with my eviscerated torso.”
“How many Tesco points for a shelf stacker’s forearm?”
“Hang on, my liver is hanging out of my arse, a confused chaffinch has nested in the remains of my tattered and decomposed ribcage, and if you peer inside my left eye socket you’ll see through my brain and out the back of my skull where, if I have my bearings correct, you’ll catch the late morning sunlight glinting off the upper west stand of the KC Stadium … and you’re telling me I’m not entitled to park in a Disabled Bay?!”

But where will they recruit these empty, shambling and confused husks? Well, apparently the Council might be making a few redundancies soon …

As Dawn of the Dead director George Romero said: “When Hull City Council is full, the dead shall walk the earth …”

*These types of zombie also make excellent companions for elderly widows seeking friendship, days out, and no strings attached fun.

Proof that romance isn’t dead comes with Pauline Prescott’s latest book, in which she describes how husband John proposed in a train toilet but went on to break her heart by confessing a seedy affair with a former secretary, a revelation which must have come as a real shock following such a Mills and Boon beginning to married life.

So for Valentine’s Day how better to show you care than by locking your sweetheart in a 3 x 2 cubicle beside an unflushable chicken nugget, a crushed can of McEwan’s Export and a pair of tits from Club International stuck to the mirror … before whispering softly those few simple words that will symbolise the moment forever: “Any chance of a hand job before Newcastle?”

Like a night out at New Year in Hull, the Hull the Other One website staggers into 2010 with a blatant disregard for the rules and even less concern for its own safety.

So what’s new in our sexy little corner of the world?

Well … recent news of a proposed Council Tax freeze in Hull means that local pensioners will be able to prevent hyperthermia this winter by burning piles of excess cash, or else donating it to the KC Stadium in case FIFA overturns its decision and the powers that be need to fund a few extra deck chairs.

Meanwhile, Guardian readers may prefer to stitch their spare pound notes into a huge tapestry depicting the eclectic and pioneering history of local art, in an attempt to bring to life Hull’s dream to be the 2013 City of Culture.

As 2010 gathers pace, Hull the Other One’s website will feature more new and amusing stories, so spread the word.

Tell your friends. Tell your enemies. Tell your alternate personalities.

… said bloke A to bloke B.

‘You said that about the KC Stadium,’ said bloke B, ‘but you were soon spitting Pukka pie all over the woman in front while hollering at the ref.
‘And you said it about St Stephen’s, but it wasn’t long before you found yourself drawn mysteriously to the suave yet affordable underpants in H&M.
‘And you even said it about The Deep, but how quickly you marvelled at the nose-shaped building and the oceanic miracles therein (though I do know you faked an NUS card to get a bit off admission…)’

‘So I was right,’ said bloke A to bloke B, ‘Hull doesn’t need a comedy website.’
‘No,’ said bloke B. ‘Not yet.’