Return of the Mc...Crea

Ok,
So I was purely having a giraffe (a laugh) with the whole resurrection of the old Basil McCrea joke. I honestly thought that like Jennifer Lopez's acting career, that this was over. I thought that like Bill Clinton and Monica Legwinsikissiieiki, that this had been put to bed. I really thought that like Tupac, this was dead and buried. I sincerely thought that like Jennifer Lopez's singing career, this had reached a dead end. I genuinely thought that like Jennifer Lopez's marriages, that this had finished long-ago. I had thought that like Jennifer Lopez's...ok, I'll stop with the J-Lo jokes.
I did think this was over though. No more Basil jokes. No more Basil...maybe...

That was until my mum rang me a couple of weeks ago...

It was an ordinary afternoon, just before the elections in Northern Ireland and I was sat in my room in Manchester. The birds were singing, trees were swaying in the wind, the sun was shining and Jennifer Lopez's...ok, so really, I'll drop it...

Then my mobile rang..."Mother" appears on the screen...

In a friendly Northern Irish accent I said, "Hello" (I seem to say that a lot when I answer the phone)
"You'll never guess who has just been to our door!" comes the female tones of my excited Mother.
Now this is where the fun really began. Who could have been to our door in Dromore, Co. Down, Northern Ireland? My first guess was the ghost of Freddie Mercury. My second guess rivalled that with Michael Jackson's former best friend/monkey Bubbles. It was neither of those two though.
Who could it have been? I guessed again with Seal, while singing the song from Batman, "Kiss from a rose". At this point, I thought I was close but the words coming from my mother's mouth weren't ones of excitement or congratulations but rather frustration mixed with a hint of, 'yes-you-are-my-son-but-you're-not-as-funny-as-your-blog-make-you-think-you-are'.

I gave up. Who could have called at our door in Dromore, Co. Down, Northern Ireland? Who could have appeared at our door that would warrant my own mother ringing me to disturb the birds, trees and sunshine that I was gazing off into from my house in Manchester?

Then came the magic words...those words that I never thought I would hear again from another human being...those words that I thought only existed in my dreams and political ambitions...those words that inspire, gladden and enthuse any young man who hears them...those words that rival any cries of, "Long live the true King, Aslan", "For Frodo" or "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind"...

"Basil McCrea"

Tears of pure joy, excitement and inspiration formed in the corners of my eyes and soon started falling down my wee Northern Irish cheeks. The man, the myth, the legend, Basil McCrea, had graced our house in Dromore, Co. Down, Northern Ireland with his very presence.

I now proudly own a signed copy of his political manifesto,
"To Jonathan, from Basil" as he inscribed for me with his own political hand. My own sister took a picture of him through the window after my dad had ran down the road after him, grappled with him, took him to the ground and helped him write those life-changing words, "To Jonathan, from Basil".

Maybe someday you too, like me, will get the chance to glance at those words, written beside his shining face on the front of his own beliefs and principals that come printed in a handy and not-too-cumbersome leaflet.
That might happen if I ever get the scanner to work.