Who is the Bearded Whelk?

An abridged look at how I came to be:

Early one spring towards the end of the 1970's, just prior to the 'advent' of Thatcherism.  In the depths of a small hospital in a market town called Louth, I was born to the world to see my mother for the first time. I was later to learn my father was more preoccupied watching Terry Griffiths on his way to becoming the World Snooker Champion.

Born and raised in Lincolnshire, I pretty much blagged my way through the next 20 years, doing little, being ‘very sociable’ and keeping to a philosophy of ‘plan ahead, that way you don’t have to do anything right now.’

All this changed after an event involving beer, an open top bus, the Cleethorpes carnival, more beer and a helicopter trip to the orthopaedics ward at the Hull Royal Infirmary.  Nothing more need be told on the matter.

The change involved moving to Nottingham and reading Politics for all my sins.  It was here I met the future Mrs. Banks, who opened my eyes, and set me on not necessarily a straighter, but a better path.

Since then, I graduated, worked in many a call centre, saw the future Mrs. Banks move to London, took the plunge, sold my car, and followed her to the ‘big smoke’ where she later affirmed the title of Mrs. Banks, and became the mother to a beautiful Olive.

I work in IT for a leading cosmetic surgery company.

I’ve taken a liking to getting myself fit by running and cycling regularly.

I enjoy getting away from the city, and exploring all regions of the nations countryside.

I often find myself baking bread, and occasionally bake other curiosities at work (of all places).

I love whisky... I love to read with whisky... I love to eat with whisky... a small vice, so to speak.

Oh, yes…

I do have a beard, and consider myself to have the esteem of a whelk.