The "Northern Monkey" Survival Guide

This book, a slim humourous compendium of trivia on and tributes to the North of England by Tim Collins, was bestowed upon me as a Secret Santa present by my good friend, future housemate and (most importantly) fellow-Yorkshireman Andrew Robertson.

   My current leisure-reading life is largely non-existent, as I have realised with a panic simply how much research for my philosophy essay I haven't done yet and so have been scrutinising lengthy tomes on christian meta-ethics; therefore I can firmly say that to have a book thrust into my life that was deliberately light-heartedly entertaining was a relief, especially with it being one that could quite easily be read in an afternoon of stoic Northern amusement.

   It's not a hugely thought-provoking book, as you'd expect, nor did I have many gripes with it: in the 140ish A5 pages we are toured through the customs, complaints, accents, foods, places, histories, characters, prides and follies that comprise the caricatured cultural landscape of England's top half. To a Northern reader it cannot fail to be pleasantly familiar as it raises a chortle of recognition here and there (there is one part in particular I found extremely funny - a "currency conversion" chart, whereby 35p in the North would get one, say, "crisps" whereas the southern equivalent would be £1.25 for "hand-cut vegetable shavings").

   However, rules is rules, sorry Andrew - having read the book I must react to it somewhat moreso than descriptively, and so here are a few constructive critical responses:

• Having been originally published in 2009, recent events have somewhat skewed the pleasantness of certain folks presented as otherwise grand heroes of the uplands. Leeds doesn't want any cigar-toting paedophile to go down as legend there, thanks.
• On the topic of what celebrities to include - a whole book celebrating the North with literally no mention of Patrick Stewart, Brain Blessed, or Sean Bean? Come on man.
• Though I can (and half-do) forgive this somewhat given the very evident caricatured nature of the book's humour, much of the jokery is a tad classist, sexist, racist, and homophobic, in various parts and degrees, which isn't really okay.

   These aside, this book was expected to provide a diverting afternoon of chuckling and feeling proud about my not-southern roots (psh nobody cares about the Midlands anyway), and that's exactly what it did. It's not a book I ever would have bought myself, but it's the kind of book one can't help but enjoy if one identifies with it; if you're struggling to find a cracking Secret Santa gift for a fellow-Northerner, take a tip from Andrew Robertson and go for this.

   Although most of us wouldn't say no to a chip butty drenched in gravy either.