No, 65-year-old trainspotter will not be identifying as 'neurospicy'

A RETIRED computer technician with an extensive self-shot collection of locomotive videos is not about to describe himself as ‘neurospicy’. 

Roy Hobbs, aged 65, had long battled to have his unusual personality and obsessive interests understood by others even before the additional challenge of Gen Z telling him his autism is actually a superpower.

He explained: “We didn’t have all this social media when I was younger, nor would I have been interested. I was happy with my trains.

“But now my niece, who is trying her best, informs me that I am a ‘neurospicy icon’ because I spend all my time at rural train stations or on internet forums arguing about model numbers. I’m not sure I agree.

“‘Spicy’ is factually incorrect, because when we attend Indian Heaven I always have the same korma and plain naan, and the neologism of ‘neurospicy’ is uncertified by the Oxford English Dictionary so has no fixed meaning. When I told her that she said ‘see?’

“It’s great that people are more understanding of autism nowadays, but as one of the symptoms is struggling with change perhaps they could stop renaming everything all the bloody time.”

Niece Sophie said: “I thought Roy was boring because he only talked about British Rail Class 390s, but he’s actually super cool and autistic like this 17-year-old goth girl I follow in Australia.

“Maybe I should put them in touch?”

Why I need a £68,000 a year personal photographer to document my life, by your working-class auntie

By Auntie Sylvia

WHEN you’re achieving as much in life as me and Angela Rayner – for her being deputy Labour leader, for me rearranging bird ornaments – it needs to be documented. 

So until the money comes through, I’ve hired Steve who did Rachel’s wedding photos. You know him, bald chap, bit ugly. This isn’t a bonkers ego trip; Steve’s job is simply to make people aware of what I do.

From visiting the doctor to complaining at the swimming baths, Steve’s there snapping away. And he’s not just for me but for the whole family. Big occasions, chance encounters, and paparazzi-style invasive shots when I suspect something’s going on.

As of yet I’ve not been able to dispatch him to anyone else – there was a recipe for lemon drizzle cake on Lorraine this morning I needed a record of – but that’s just coincidence. He’ll be available to Auntie Pam even though we fell out at Christmas because she drinks.

I’m aware certain relatives have questioned whether employing Steve is wise with everything being so expensive these days. But there are tough choices to be made and I will not flinch from making them, which is why Uncle Geoff’s sold his car.

Yes, £68,000 a year for Steve’s services is a lot of money on two state pensions, but how else can I photograph myself in Aldi? I can’t rely on Geoff’s steady hand. He’s never got the hang of digital. We lost a beautiful set of photos of the Edinburgh Tattoo.

My daughter Siobhan, little madam that she is, says ‘For God’s sake, mum, just take a bloody selfie!’ but they’re not sophisticated, are they? Rayner wouldn’t settle for that. These images need to be front-page ready.

So let’s stop the silly carping, settle down with a cup of tea, relax and let Steve take photos of us watching Antiques Road Trip. He’ll pop them on the PA wire last thing for worldwide use. Don’t worry, I retain international usage rights.