Hope I Die Before I Get Old......or should that be...... Meet The New Boss Same As As The Old Boss

Roger Daltry......you wanker!

Nothin' But The Same Old Story

Well back to the norm at Eastlands today. West Brom didn't have one shot on target and yet they manage to draw due to a Richard Dunne own goal. What can I say? We hammered 'em. Absolutely hammered 'em. Russell Hoult - The WBA keeper - had the game of his life and saved certain goals on at least 4 separate occasions. Once again though Mr Genius couldn't see that we weren't doing enough to kill the game and was oblivious to the concept of making some changes; perhaps bringing someone on who could hold the ball up and bring others into play. He is devoid of managerial nous. He was the same against Everton on Sunday. Wrong formation, wrong substitutions, wrong result.

Keegan has stated that he will not extend his contract after the end of next season. This essentially turns him into a lame duck. No board in its right mind would sanction any signings that could be sidelined by a new manager coming in in 18 months time. Mind you, given some of Kevin's purchases, no board in its right mind would give him any money anyway.

Southampton at home on Saturday - I can't remember when we last beat them on our own turf. After that Arsenal away. Ho hum.

---

Ah well Christmas over again than God. This year was OK really, my Mam and Dad eventually stayed quite late even though it was a bit of a chore for my Dad getting up the stairs to the toilet.

After the older ones had retired the kid's mates descended on us and caroused through the night. I ended up having a nasty-ish, drunken 'discussion' with a lad who is full of his own self-importance and believes he is a great frontman for his band - who no one has ever seen because they've never played a gig. His scorn for any other music but hip hop started me off and this was compounded by his denouncing of John Martyn (who was performing 'May You Never' on a DVD) as twee. To be honest my response was a bit over the top but I've never liked or trusted him ever since he stood outside our house at about 3am one Christmas Eve screaming abuse. The day after he denied it! He owned up a few days later. Prick! Anyway I rather uncharitably reminded him of this fact half way through our tête-à-tête. It just went downhill from there on. Then he left. Shame.

---

And then you wake up the day after and hear the terrible news from South East Asia and it puts petty little disagreements with disagreeable people into perspective. I still can't get my head round how the agencies that knew there had been a massive earthquake weren't able to warn the rest of global village though. That just beggars belief. "We didn't know who to phone" doesn't quite do it for me. How about you? I suspect that over the next few days, as the number of Western tourist deaths becomes known, the shit might hit the fan.

---

Hope you all had a good 'un and all the best for the New Year.

Us And Them

This is the furry alien now resident in our lives. We have a fortnight to decide whether we keep her or not. It was five years since our last dog shuffled and it's really hard getting used to the fact that there is a creature without standards once again living among us. So far she's eaten her bed, crapped and peed at inopportune moments and consistently ignored the most basic of commands.

Guide dog? My arse!

It's Just History Repeating....

What did I tell yer? Pissing down rain, newly acquired dog and me in close proximity as the ritual of the evening walkies reintroduces itself into our my busy schedule. I forgot the 'pooper scooper' as well so while she deposited a healthy half a pound in the gutter, I had to keep watch in case some over-zealous environmental defender should spot this misdemeanour and hail a Peeler. I know it was wrong - and I also know I could've been fined a hell of a lot of money - it's just that I forgot the scooper and I certainly wasn't about to pick it up and stick it in my pocket was I?

Sorry people of my home town. It won't happen again.

It did make me think though. What's worse for your health? Rogue dog shit or passive smoking?

---

My bloody car wouldn't start this morning. Flat battery just like Andy. This evening (before the faecal incident) I found a set of jump leads I thought I'd discarded years ago. Within minutes I had it ticking over. "I'll take it for a run down the motorway and get the battery charged up a bit" I thought to myself as I wiped the engine crap that ingrains every whorl in your fingers from my person. I then remembered that rather than fill the tank up last Friday (last time I used the car - just before the wedding) I figured I'd do it over the weekend sometime. I forgot. I put it down to this aging organ in my head.

So. It needs a run to charge the battery but I have barely enough fuel to reach the petrol station. It's also dark therefore lights are needed, and it's also raining. Doh!

What follows is one of those how-do-I-end-up-in-situations-like-this moments. Wonderin' whether the bloody car will start after you've filled it up. Visions of trying to push and steer it off the forecourt all on your own, 'cos you can guarantee none of the 4 x 4 owners will lift a finger to help.

It all worked out OK in the end though, it started first time and off we shot half way down the M60 and back. I guess I'll find out in the morning whether that was enough or whether a new battery is called for.

Motoring eh?

What a Difference a Day Makes......24 Little Hours...

Friday found the entire OccupiedCountry clan attending the wedding of one of the boy's bestest friends. A great day all round. I even enjoyed the church service and thought the vicar spoke a lot of sense until he mentioned some guy who lives in the sky and knows and sees everything there is to know and see.

Sadly what could have been a perfect day was frankly spoiled by the insistence of the Bride and Groom that the reception be held at Old Trafford - a football ground just outside Manchester.

In a break with tradition both Eldest and Youngest were 'joint best men'. Youngest was over the moon at the thoughts of quality time spent in the so-called 'Theatre of Dreams': Red to the core you see. But Eldest was distressed. As a season ticket holder at the City of Manchester Stadium where he sits next to his dad, he had to juggle with a profound paradox. How could he square his love for his best mate with putting hard earned money into the coffers of the 'World's Richest Football Club Corporate Brand'? As the Best Man's speech took shape the answer appeared.

Halfway through the speech, Eldest complained about being hot and sweaty. He let us all know that he needed to shed the heavy morning suit, waistcoat, tie and, indeed, shirt in order to cool off. I'll never forget the cheers that echoed round the Stretford Suite as he revealed the City shirt that he had been wearing under his wedding gear. An impromptu rendition of 'Blue Moon' raised the rafters as we realised that most of the Bride's family and friends were firmly of the blue persuasion.

Even the Reds had to agree - it was a perfect moment. Friendly banter - you can't beat it can you?

---

So that was Friday. Saturday saw most of Occupied Towers shuffling off to a party in deepest Prestwich. A and P are blessed with far too much disposable income and consequently every latest gadget can generally be tried out at theirs before it reaches the shops and stores of Manchester.

Most of these are shoved in a drawer or a cupboard after a few weeks but sometimes P digs one of them out for parties.

Saturday was Karaoke!

Eldest was still in post-speech mode and was knocking back the Kronenburg at a rate that would have the Labour Cabinet pointing and screaming "BINGE DRINKER". Eventually, for the first time in his life, the alcoholic levels reached that point where singing in front of total strangers seems perfectly reasonable.

At the wedding I had been heard to say "my boys..my God I'm proud of them. They look good, they've conducted themselves superbly and, between them they've helped the day be the unequivocal success that it is".

After hearing eldest on the Karaoke last night I was heard saying "I can't believe anyone with a voice a bad as that is a son of mine......"

We couldn't get the mike off him. He knew he was crap but, as he pointed out, that's what Karaoke is all about.

---

Well the new arrival appears tomorrow. We have to pick her up from Bolton Guide Dogs HQ. It's gonna be a culture shock having something with four legs in the abode again. It'll be a culture shock for me as well - I'll be another rung down the food chain as the dog's needs take precedence over mine. C'est la vie.

Big Wheels Turning......

A great evening at Manchester's big wheel on Friday, followed by the usual alcoholic shenanigans round the European markets in the squares of St Anne and Albert. Friday was Dearest's 50th birthday and we celebrated in style with selections of German, French, Spanish and even English food - all washed down with beers and wines from the Continent. The big wheel was in Birmingham last year I believe and was as much of a success there as it is here. It provides some great views of the city centre and - during daylight hours - the moors beyond. I might just nip down again and try it out during the day. £5 well spent I reckon.

Sadly the celebratory vibe did not transfer to Eastlands yesterday as, once again, Manchester City failed dismally to see off a very average Tottenham Hotspur. Quite simply we were crap. We go all through November losing only one match and then throw all the good work away with losses against average outfits like Middlesborough and Spurs. On top of that Anelka has indicated he wants away. Opinions such as that will always result in boos echoing round the stadium when the perpetrator takes the field and that's exactly what happened yesterday. Oddly a journalist from the Observer interpreted this as "By the time he finally came on, [he was] afforded a hero's welcome by the desperate City fans". God knows what match he was attending but from where I was sat boos emanated from every corner of the ground. It's time to piss off Nic.

Dearest had a phone call on Friday afternoon. It seems the Guide Dog people have finally found a perfect match in an 18 month old Retriever called...Zest. A bloody odd name for a dog I'm sure you'll agree so there has been some debate about whether we change it or not. Pest seems to me to be a reasonable alternative although Dearest is yet to be convinced. Jess might just be compromise but it also happens to be the name of Eldest's recently discarded Darlin's daughter. Anyway whatever it ends up being called it'll be arriving a week on Monday.

Christmas looks like being a bit flat this year, what with the aforementioned split between Eldest and his Darlin', Dad's various illnesses and other irritants I'm looking forward to it even less than usual. How did the entire thing suddenly become so IN YOUR FACE? One minute it still seemed to rooted in a ramshackle kind of 1950s approach to celebration, the next we've got houses burning enough electricity to power a small third-world country in order to outdo next door in the gaudiest, tackiest decoration competition. How did we allow ourselves to be so comprehensively hoodwinked into believing the hype?

Bah! And indeed, humbug!

The good news this week is that Youngest and his Darlin' have become engaged. It's about time really - after nine and a half years of coupledom and 3 years or so of living together. I just hope the act of tying up the legal loose ends doesn't create tensions that don't exist at present. I've seen it before, couples breeze along in cohabitation. The next thing they decide to legalise the situation and before long divorce is mentioned and it's all over.

I must try to stop looking on the downside of everything mustn't I?

Well must dash now and go and see my parents. My Dad will be sat there watching the History channel and rattling with the 30,000 separate pills he has to take each day to regulate his blood pressure, hemoglobin, diabetes and heaven knows what else. My Mam will be giving us all a running commentary on everything that enters her head and they'll both be bickering with each other. Thus the final years of a lifetime's marriage arrive.

I really must get round to reorganising all that stuff to the right. Blogroll, iPod latest and the rest. It's starting resemble one of those shop window displays that lie sun-faded and littered with dead flies untouched for years.

It'll just have to wait until I can be arsed though.

Oh Lonesome Me

Common sense injection anyone?

Jesus.......Debate my arse!

Sittin' On Top Of The World

"Ambition should never be constrained by a person's starting point in life," Charles Windsor 22/11/2004

He's right y'know. Just this very afternoon I sat my kids down and said: "kids, if you strive and strive and do the best that you can in every area of your life, then, one day, you too could become the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Edinburgh or even.....a King!"

At least I think they can.....it's just that I have a nagging feeling there's a flaw in my logic somewhere......

Ahhh that reminds me......somewhere. There's a place for us. Somewhere a place for us.........

Just how Charlie likes it.

Behind A Painted Smile

You know I love the BBC. I think it's one of the greatest things about this green and pleasant land of ours. Advert free (well apart from the ones advertising its own products), a broad range of programming from the cutting edge urban R&B of Radios 1 and 1 extra, through the Asian Network, 5Live, Radios 4,3 and 2 - as well as 6 and 7. TV-wise we now have BBC 3 and 4, along with CBBC and CBeebies. Quality, quality, quality! And all provided for an absolute weekly pittance.

All in all I love it. If I had to choose between the plethora of bombastic shite provided by the likes of Sky or the understated, thought-provoking magnificence of the Beeb there would be no contest.

What the BBC doesn't do well though is Children in Need. It is a God-awful marathon of second rate entertainment allied with blatant self-promotion of fading pop stars and advertising opportunities for businesses both big and small(ish).

This evening I had to watch Shane bloody Ritchie, Geri sodding Halliwell and Russell I'm-a-big-united-fan-who-used-to-go-to-every-game-but-can't-remember-where-I-used-to- sit-'cos-the-ground's-changed-that-much) Watson. I also noticed Bryan Adams on the list and a few others I've not heard of for at least ten years. In fact the only surprise for me was Jamie Cullum who I think has got a future and doesn't need his obligatory career resurrection just yet.

A middle-class, back-slapping 'aren't we great we're doing things for charity' embarras-o-rama. Gaby Rosslyn fer Christ's sake? And, of course, the old TogMeister himself: Terence Wogan.

Still at least it's over for another year along with Diwali and Eid which means we've only got Christmas left to interfere with our daily lives.

What multicultural times we live in.

Songs of Yesterday

I've seen the 'Band Aid 20' video/tune twice now. Prior to these viewings I had only heard a little snippet on a mono, crappy £20 radio in the kitchen. Bought to listen to 5Live and nowt else really. I had, however, read blogs that were castigating it right left and centre. 'There's no one with talent in it'. 'Is this the best we can do in the 21st century?'. 'It's shit'.

Well, no it's not shit. Different maybe, but not shit. A few listens now on decent equipment and my only gripe is that some of the vocals are so far back in the mix to render them almost inaudible to old buggers like me. Still, you can't stop progress. C'est la vie!

I hear condemnation of this latest rendition that complains of the lightweight artistes contributing. Hmmmmmm. I reckon that exactly the same condemnations were being hurled the way of Geldof's 'Band of Brothers and Sisters' of 1984. Paul Young anyone? Bananarama? Even Bono was a sallow youth with everything still to prove.

So, yeah, it's not MY cup of tea - but then again I was never that keen on the original. Furthermore it's not aimed at any of us old buggers who write Blogs wItHOut ChoPpy cHANgy tXt iN It. Leave the kids and their grandma's to buy it (or if you're feeling charitable buy a copy or two yourself), it's not for the likes of us so move along. There's nothing for you here - don't you know it's Christmas?

---

I'm up in my eyrie typing this on a Compaq Armada 7792DMT laptop - about 5 or 6 years old and still able to provide adequate graphics, sound and bloggage. I'm trying out Firefox on it to see how it interacts with Blogger. As I type I'm listening to the Byrds Greatest Hits...........I Think I'm Going Back.............

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Happy update. Lastminute.Com have finally - after much correspondence - agreed to allow 132 euros to wing their way back to Occupied Towers as a 'gesture of goodwill' for the crap hotel we endured during our trip to Barcelona.

Result!

Young, Gifted and Black

Can someone remind just what century this is? Because after watching England's embarrassing mauling by the Spaniards tonight I'm coming to the conclusion that I have been wafted back to a time of the Windrush, the colour bar and 'No Dogs, Irish or Blacks'. It was an absolute disgrace. Monkey noises every time a black English player got the ball: monkey noises? Can you believe it? 2004 and the poor buggers still have to put up with monkey noises.

I had a truly surreal moment when I realised that there was a kind of 'caste system' that dictated how much (or if any) booing they got. In short the blacker the louder. Rio Ferdinand, mixed parentage but erring more to the Caucasian = none. Ashley Cole, a sort of deep beige = quite a lot. Shaun Wright-Phillips, probably the blackest on the pitch = OOOH OOOH OOOH OOOH OOOH OOOH OOOH!!!!!!! Everytime he got anywhere near the ball.

Now I've heard reports of this going on in Eastern Europe when British teams play there, but I have never heard it picked up so clearly as it was this evening on the BBC. John Motson and Mark Lawrenson were lost for words half the time. There's only so much condemnation you can utter in situations like that. In the end all you can feel is contempt for the Spanish Chavs making the noises and an underlying suspicion that, once again, EUFA, FIFA and the rest of the junket-attending, be-suited, corpulent powers-that-be will do fuck all.

As the whole sorry mess unfolded before my eyes, I couldn't help but think how Ron Atkinson would have handled it if he had been commentating.

---

Dearest has assumed that 'it's almost Christmas therefore the house needs decorating, refurbishing, polishing and made-over'position. No matter what we discuss: Iraq, world peace, the life-cycle of the seventeen year locust or the suitability of Condoleesa Rice as a secretary of state, it all comes down to decor.

"I can't believe Bush believes he has 'electoral currency' and he's going to spend it!"

"The bedroom's old-fashioned, we'll have to spend money on it."

"How can a bedroom be old-fashioned? All we do is indulge in profoundly ecstatic sex sleep in the bloody place and occasionally read the papers, how can it be old-fashioned? Who the hell walks through it casting aspersions?"

"You really have no idea do you?"

"Errr yes. I have an idea that the money could be spent on something more useful - like electricity, gas or water. Food even. Or maybe drink!

"It's a mere two years since we last had the living room done. The bathroom's tiled from head to toe. Hall, stairs and landing - two years like the living room. The kitchen? A paltry three years. I will quite happily concede that this time next year the kitchen may (and I mean may) require redecorating. But, NOT NOW!!!!"

I really put my foot down.

The bedroom's being decorated this weekend. The new bed arrives the week after - along with the new carpet.

I suspect my sperm count took quite a knock over the past few days also.

The 21st century eh? It's a bitch ain't it? Time was you could arrive home from a hard day at the 'Office', read the paper and smoke your pipe while listening to the Home Service as 'the wife' rustled up a nutritious yet tasty evening meal. If you were asked permission to decorate, a thin-lipped reply would suffice, along the lines of: "I don't think so darling, that wallpaper was only hung the week after we married....`15 years I think. They said it would last a lifetime when we made our purchase. I expect to test that claim. Maybe after we're dead..........."

*sucks absent-mindedly on Meerschaum*

And that, would be that.

Relax....

It's OK everyone. Stop your worrying. Tony's just landed in the good ol' US of A to 'discuss' stuff with Dubya.

I just hope God's not busy dealing with some other crisis when they finally kneel together in the Oval Office.

It would look bad wouldn't it if George and Tone were praying like buggery for World Peace and God was tied up with a Brazilian footballer's on-pitch exhortations tp play well and win comprehensively.

---

So Long Yasser. The next few months will give us an indication of how the immediate future in the middle east is going to pan out.

Don't you just wish it was Kerry who was adjusting his short-term position to deal with the sensitive situations ahead.

I know I do. International incidents galore. That's all we've got to look forward to.

Freedom's Just Another Word....

Lest we forget some brave men and women - our grandparents - went through a hell of a lot to guarantee a future where dissidents and Dubya-lovers could voice their views without fear of a lack of Habeas Corpus, the thumbrack and/or electrodes to the genitalia. If it hadn't been for Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib I could've said we, in the West have come a long way. But there you go. You can't legislate for the Politics of Fear and Envy.

In the meantime let's not forget the sacrifice our forbears made, and let's not forget the sacrifices that are being made by young men and women right now. They are not to blame for the short-sighted, vainglorious, ego-driven posturing of here-today-gone-tomorrow politicians. And the sad thing is, when today's politicos are safely committing their memoirs to Micro$oft Word, The British Legion and its foreign counterparts will still be relying on charity to pick up the pieces of lives shattered by the lies and subterfuge of the odious, pontificating twats who grace public office these days.

My Grandad spent many terrifying hours on the beach of Dunkirk, the first couple of boats he managed to scramble onto didn't make it. He nearly drowned but was dragged into a third and spent the next couple of years convalescing from a chest crushed when some loose chandlery fell on him as they raced across the channel. The powers that be got him fit and ready for action again and, after a short while posted 'somewhere in England' he finally got to see active service again. June 1944 it was. A bit hairy an' all by all accounts.

We've always had an unlucky streak our family. But Dunkirk AND D-Day? That's just taking the piss. Luckily he survived and the British Legion - along with The Dunkirk Association - gave him a release from the mundane realities of the everyday and a probably much needed opportunity to talk to others who understood.

NB Use the Hyperlink in the text if you wish to donate, I can't get the animation to link through and I can't be arsed at the moment to figure out why. Lack of moral fibre you see - just like Dubya.

Nothin' To Lose

Derby day. We've not won at Trafford for thirty years. We have six first team players out and it looks like Keegan is going to play Robbie he-used-to-be-good-you-know Fowler. We're gonna get a wuppin'.

ADDENDUM 11:45pm.

0-0 After a full 90 minutes of Man United's hammering the City goal without luck. Shame but we now know why they are struggling. Quote:-

The Man Utd boss also hinted that his players are finding it difficult to motivate themselves for domestic football.

Ferguson said: "Maybe it's the big game factor, and the mundane challenge of the Premiership might not be the same."

Hey Sir Alex, you're nowhere near qualifying for next year's Chump's League yet. The number of chances your team created, only to be foiled by the kids of City's Academy, along with Sky's MOTM Richard Dunne and Silvain Distin, beggared belief. How much has Man United spent on that 'strike' force?

Yatesy - you have got to get rid of Alex. He's gone mad.

Madman Across The Water

Well, there you go. Even my predicted legal challenge hasn't stopped Dubya winning not only the electoral college but the popular vote as well. As long as my arse points south I'll never fathom the intellect of half of the American populace. A man who patently has difficulty grasping the idea that other points of view might - just might - have some validity. A man who by his own admission uses biblical tracts to form policy. A man who thinks (like Tony Blair) that the world was created in six days by some Big Guy who lives in the sky. A man who probably thinks he is the Big Guy's representative here on earth.

I'll never understand the over-reliance on God, the constant references to him during what should be rational debate on the relevant issues of the day. God wants you to vote for Bush. God hates gays. God hates pro-choicers. God loves The Rifle Association and the Gun Lobby. God ain't keen on pinko, pansy-loving, do-gooding East coast liberals. God ain't happy about parts of the Constitution. God's a Good Ol' Boy, a staunch Republican Redneck. God blesses America time and time and time again.

And the rest of us stare with a mixture of distaste, pity and fear. What will the next four years bring? What do you think George will want to do with his new mandate? Bring the nation together? Compromise with abortionists? Discuss the way forward with Gays and Lesbians? Tax the super-rich to provide welfare for the significant number who fall through the net? Accept that other people have views that are valid regardless of the fact that they don't fit in with viewpoint of the New American Century? Admit that, on occasions mistakes have been made? Give juicy Federal contracts to companies with the best Tender rather than Halliburton?

I don't think so. Do you?

---

The winds of 'more of the same' will have quite an effect over here as well. Tony will struggle more and more as 'our boys' come under increasing attack in Iraq. The place has become a magnet for Radical Islam. Any accounts you read of the place describe a lawless place with a few besieged cities dotted around. The Black Watch convoy traveling up the main road from Basra to Baghdad is testament to this. Attacked at least twice in a land where the mission has been accomplished.

Wouldn't have happened under Saddam.

And many observers believe Iran's next! I'd like to hear Tony justifying that little jaunt.

I think a combination of Bush-endorsement and deep unpopularity might just tip the scales in favour of Brown making his move. Whether he does this before or after the election I don't know. Perhaps Tony's heart problem will fortuitously raise its head again. Who knows?

It's a good job the Tories are in such a mess.

---

Looks a few more scapegoats have been crushed as they oiled the wheels of industry. Claims of false accounting involving a multinational company? Sounds familiar don't it? Hope the pension fund's OK.

I'm A Loser

Barcelona

So there I am watching Chelski v Abromovich's other team when I over hear Dearest on the phone to either Eldest or Youngest or one of their Darlin's:

"Yeah he was trying to replace the bulb in it and broke the bloody thing. You can have it if you want."

Dearest was referring to the cheapo, crap uplighters she bought about two years ago from some upmarket emporium like Argos. For some God-forsaken reason (and probably the reason they were so 'competitively priced') they had halogen bulbs in them. Recently one of the bulbs went and Dearest started 'hinting' that I get it replaced.

Now the corner shop doesn't sell halogen light bulbs - I mean why should it? So I said I'd pick one up at the weekend and sort it.

Come the weekend I start to take the old bulb out in order to purchase the correct replacement and it soon becomes evident just what a pile of risible crap I am dealing with. The ceramic bed in which the bulb sits crumbles to dust at my touch.

"It's a worthless piece of crap that should be binned right now" I expertly concluded. "That's why it had halogen bulbs in it - it had a lifetime of one bulb".

So we bought new (and that was a traumatic shopping-fest in its own right believe me). They were expensive but well made and we had to order the buggers - but at least they use normal bulbs that they sell in the corner shop.

So tonight they arrive and I assembled and installed them, thus triggering the aforementioned telephone call.

I was pissed off - to say the least - that the shoddiness of the bloody thing should suddenly become my fault. I was also mightily peeved that Dearest has listened to me telling her (and offering to show her) just how crap the thing was, whilst all the while thinking I had broken it and was just making excuses!

I can't help but think though that my reaction to this 'slur' is a little over-the-top. But it is really annoying me.

Reality doesn't matter y'know. It's perception that counts.

---

I see Arsenal nearly threw it all away again in the Chump's League. It seems to me that there is a massive mental block about Europe for the Gunners that Arsene is going to have some trouble overcoming. It's hard to believe that a team with so much talent and such strength in depth can become such shadows of their normal selves. For long periods tonight Panathinaikos looked like the home team. Arsenal sat deep and, as time went by, the Greeks looked more and more like nicking it. The very idea of Arsenal at Highbury should be making teams quake in their boots.

Perception doesn't matter y'know. It's reality that counts.

---

As for the election: well apparently it has now become too close to call. Occupiedcountry's not afraid of predictions though, and here it is:

There will be legal challenges before the sun sets on Wednesday.

God bless America.

Kid Charlemagne

Whew what a night. Dearest and I along with Eldest and his Darlin' and N and T took ourselves along to The Witchwood to see Steely Dan tribute band Nearly Dan. Sheer bloody magic it was. The place was packed with folk about my age listening to almost note perfect renditions from Steely's back catalogue. 'Do It Again', 'Reelin' In The Years', 'Aja', 'Peg', 'Babylon Sisters'. Heaven for an old timer like me and my ilk. In fact one bloke near me was so impressed he kept shouting "clever bastards" after every number. If they're ever in your area...etc...etc

This of course has resulted in a new iPod playlist featuring the real thing. What a fabulous way to spend a pre-drinkypoos Sunday afternoon especially now the nights are drawing in.

A great day yesterday. But then again it always is when United get beat. I guess last weeks defeat of Arsenal didn't kick-start their season after all.

---

I've often wondered just what the point of a remake is. Hollywood-wise that is. The recent offering with Jude Law as Alfie was friggin' pointless as far as I can tell and a good example. Rehashed and inevitably transferred to the good ol' US of A, it has become a sanitised pile of crap - just like most other remakes. You would think someone in Filmworld would have sussed this out and put a stop to vast amounts of money being wasted. But apparently not. From Psycho to The Italian Job the dollars keep getting spent.

And now we have the worst ever remakes as voted by the discerning British public. Sylvester Stallone's Get Carter tops the list but the usual suspects are also there. Planet Of The Apes, Ocean's 11, King Kong. "Time after time, remakes fail to sparkle like the originals," said Alex Chesterman, founder of ScreenSelect.co.uk. "This poll is an indication that remakes can't compare with films which were classics of their time." So why oh why do they keep making the buggers then?

---

Well it looks like George is going to be extending his stay at The White House for another four years. And now his old mate Mr Laden has reappeared to give his campaign a kick up the arse by reminding the waverers that politics is black and white and the bogeyman must be defeated. Four more years of pro-creationism. Four more years of treating the Bible like a manifesto for the 21st century. Four more years of lining Halliburton's pockets. Four more years of gung ho foreign policy. Four more years of fiscal incompetance. Four more years of disdain for the opinions of anyone else but America. Four more fuckin' years.

There's one policy I hope he will adopt. A policy that was all the rage back in the 30s I'm told. Isolationism.

I'm not holding my breath though.

World On A String

So 60,000 ballot papers have gone missing in Florida of all places. I can't quite believe that lightning is going to strike twice after the debacle of the 2000 election. I mean it's a friggin' disgrace isn't it? And sadly it's not the only instance of murky shenanigans surfacing as the day approaches. Perhaps the time has come to send independant observers over - French, Spanish, Irish for example. Y'know people with integrity and principles - to make sure that the election for President in the World's foremost democracy takes place in a free and fair manner.

When you swan round the world flexing your muscles in the name of introducing democracy here, there and everywhere, it makes sense to make sure your own version of it is waterproof.

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

Well. This is a turn up for the books isn't it? What a shame. Here's the Government intent on opening up the political process and blasting apart the incestuous underbelly of the corridors of power, only to find that most of the documents relevant to the recent history of the good ol' UK (ie the 1980s) are contaminated with asbestos.

I bet there's Sir Humphrey types all over Whitehall rushing to find asbestos they can sprinkle over the governmental documents of the past five years or so.

"Look, look at this: it's rife with asbestos - look at all the white asbestos powder on this file detailing discussions between PM and GWB from 2000 to present. It needs to quarantined for at least a century."

"I'm sorry Sir Humphrey but initial investigations indicate that the substance is actually baking powder......."

"Are you sure...there could be a Knighthood in this you know?"

I'm sure there are at least one or two historians or political scientists out there prepared to sacrifice their personal wellbeing in the search for the truth. I'm sure they would even sign wavers absolving the powers that be of any responsibility whatsoever. Anything to allow them to dig and delve into the primary evidence of the recent past.

And yet we all know that won't happen. Just like we all know that there's no asbestos been within 200 miles of the aforementioned documentation.

---

After listening to City go two down yesterday, I set off to the local to watch United and Arsenal. The local though was crowded so, Dearest and I set off for our Friday night pub and had a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon (apart from the result[s]).

How can my team score more goals in 45 minutes of one match WITHOUT Anelka than we have over the same period of time all season? A strike force of Fowler and Wright-Phillips and suddenly a Premiership top six side can't handle us. Strange.

Stranger still is the 'groin injury' to our only Muslim player as Ramadan begins. He's hardly ever injured is Anelka. In fact the last time he was injured and had to go off, we were 3-0 down to Spurs at half time in the Cup. Joey Barton got sent off for arguing and, just after the restart we lost Anelka to injury.

With 10 men we scored 4 goals in 45 minutes to confound the pundits who had us down and out.

Perhaps that groin needs a few kicks in training.......

---

Well I was right in my prediction about the 'game of the millennium' yesterday. I had a feeling United would nick it - and that was before I realised the ref was Mike (I'd better give Utd a Penalty I'm at Old Trafford) Riley.

Arsenal are a set of moaning main-chancers who try every dirty trick in the book to win. I should know, I watched 'em a couple of weeks ago as they struggled to beat the Mighty Blues. Lehmann in particular I detest. He's a mard tart who deserves every mistake he makes. Sorry Alan.

And as for United? Van Nistelrooy, you are one dirty, cheating bastard. I remember watching your histrionic diving at Maine Road during the last ever Derby there. That tackle on Cole was a disgrace. It'll be interesting to see what the Video Panel make of it over the next few days. Personally I think he should be banned for a few games. It was a nasty tackle that could've broke Cole's leg.

Still, at least you won didn't you? A fellow professional's leg must be worth that anyday. Sorry Andy.

Sunday Bloody Sunday

I must confess there's some hyperbole spouted about this affy's United v Arsenal match. 'Game of the season', 'Premiership decider' and even 'Game of the decade'. I bet Andy and Alan are on tenterhooks waiting for the kick off. Youngest the traitor has gone to Old Trafford with a realistic outlook on the outcome. As far as he's concerned win, lose or draw United are not the team they were and Ferguson is certainly not the manager he was.

When were we last allowed a glimpse of Fergie admitting he was wrong? But suddenly there he is trying to justify some of his weird signings (Bellion fer Christ's sake) by confessing he has been picking the wrong team. Hmmmmmm Djemba-Djemba? Kleberson? Miller? Ricardo? Howard? Etc etc. When he does buy quality (Rooney, Smith, Saha) e plays them all over the shop. Last week against Birmingham he played Saha and later Rooney on the left wing. By the latter stages of the match he was that desperate to score he had Van Nistelrooy, Rooney, Saha, Smith, Ronanldo and Scholes all on the pitch at the same time. An embarrassment of riches?

Wenger on the other hand - when he does dive into the transfer market - tends to snap up players with no previous reputation who then become integral parts of the Arsenal team. I can only point to his purchase of Francis Jeffers as a recent mistake.

Having said that I've got a feeling the 50 premier games unbeaten record won't be reached. I reckon United are going to defy the form books and pull something out of the pan. We'll see. I'm off to the pub to cheer on Arsenal and wind up the local armchair fans who've 'supported-the Reds-all-their-lives-and-have-the-replica-shirts-and-United-duvet-covers-to-prove-it'.

With a bit of luck City might get something from Newcastle as well.

---

Dearest has proclaimed a need for something to talk to and stroke during the long winter evenings.

"You could always stroke me" I replied with a salacious undercurrent.

No dice. It was a precursor to the periodic 'I want a dog' debate that, in the past I have been able to win via references to dog shit on the carpet, walkies in the pissing down rain, odd smells, stolen food and embarrassing crotch incidents.

But this time she'd done some research and all my well-rehearsed arguments dissipated like mist from the morning sun. It's a well-trained guide dog for the blind she wants. One of those that doesn't quite make the grade when it comes to stopping their charges from walking in front of juggernauts, but are well able to control their bladders and bowels to the extent that you can tell them when and where they go for crap.

"Great", I said, "I'll tell it to do it in next door's garden - result!"

So the bottom line is: Dearest applied for one of these outcasts and has passed the stringent home visit/interview. We are on the list and the new arrival could turn up next week, next year or the next decade. We have to be 'matched' with our perfect companion you see.

So that'll be me taking it walkies in the pissing down rain then. Ah well.

Nothin' But The Same Old Story

It's true what they say you know. History does repeat itself.

'Home by Xmas' eh Tony? Now where have I heard that before? I predict that even if you do get them home by then, they will have been replaced by others. Furthermore some of the poor bastards will not be coming home with breath in their bodies. No sirree, their bodies will be coming home in bags. Mark my words.

Sounds to me like someone wants George to win the election to me. Here's the scenario:

Kerry: "90 percent of the casualties and 90 percent of the cost". (Repeats charge ad infinitum)

Bush: "Oh shit. He's right. I know. I'll tell Tony his chicken-livered Limey army'll have to help out more. That'll help me win the election".

Blair: "Dubya's right. If Kerry gets in he'll disagree with practically every bit of foreign policy George and I worked hard to introduce over the past few years. I'll have to bend over backwards to help him out.

"Hoon.....mobilise the Black Watch".

*Thinks*..."They're being disbanded soon anyway and on top of that they're Scots so nobody will give a shit.....heh heh heh heh....Sorted"

How Do You Sleep?

Mater and Pater have finally been transferred to the latest innovation in dishing out the state pension. It takes the form of a 'credit' card type affair which, when presented with your pin number, allows you to draw your pension each week.

'Cept of course when you forget your pin. As you're apt to do when the brain cells start fading and the events of 1948 seem a lot clearer and closer than the events of last week.

Which me Dad did today. He's convinced that the pin he used was the same as part of his army number. (He left in the early 50s but he's adamant that's the pin he picked - and I'm inclined to believe him).

So he's advised of the 'procedure' for getting pin numbers unlocked and given a phone number to ring. The two of them toddle off home and my Mother rings the number, chooses the myriad options available and finally reached the queue for unlocking pins

The usual crap: "Thank you for calling the 'I've forgot me pin I'm that old' helpline. Currently all our operators are otherwise engaged and you, you poor bastard, are 130th in the queue."

Now, most of that last paragraph was exaggerated for effect (I guess you noticed), apart from one stone cold, nailed on, absolute FACT! Yup, that's right she was 130th. Don't worry though 'cos the call is charged at local rate?

IT SHOULDN'T BE CHARGED FOR AT ALL YOU THATCHERITE BASTARDS. I'ts a phone line PENSIONERS HAVE to use to sort their pin numbers out so they can DRAW THEIR PENSIONS! You know, the friggin' disgraceful pittance that this SOCIALIST government reckons is all it can afford. Well, y'know, with the war and everything????

I've said it before and I'll say it again: 'is this what I voted for?'

---

Over the past few weeks I have, via t'internet, watched the Bush-Kerry debates in their entirety. I have one thing to say:-

? I don't care what your political persuasion is, Kerry won all three. I base my judgement on his abilty to speak whereas George...well was unable to piece together a rational sentence nevermind a road map to peace in the Middle East or an exit strategy for Iraq.

I'm sorry but if your President can't think on his feet (and I do believe that even Ronnie was streets ahead of George Jnr on this point), then you most categorically should not be electing him the President of the most powerful country on the planet.

Or at least if you do - and it's looking increasingly likely - then at least let's hope the new Administration adopts an Isolationist policy.

I doubt it somehow.

Hearts and Bones

What a complete and utter shite day. From the moment I put my head on the pillow last night and spent the next 8 hours wide awake, to this morning's trip to Oldham Royal for 'tests', to coming home and receiving a phone call that my Dad had collapsed in the street, it's been - as days go - an absolute disappointment.

Dad's ok. Shook up but alive. This is what happens when my mother goes shopping and he forgets he's had next to nothing to eat and decides to keep fit by going for quite a long walk. The point is though that he forgets in the first place. He can tell you all about the war and the early years of Frank Sinatra no problem. That'll be me in a bit. I'll be waffling on about the Falklands and The Beatles circa 1964-1970. It comes to us all.

---

This morning's news regarding Christopher Reeve was sad, but I confess to being more affected by the reporting of the death of Pete McCarthy. In actual fact he 'slipped away' last Wednesday. A victim of the cancer he had suffered from for a mere eight months. I loved his Travelog programmes on Channel Four (I think it was). Erudite, eloquent and witty he provides a slightly skewed view of travel in the early 90s. His two books "McCarthy's Bar" and "The Road to McCarthy" made me feel as though I knew the guy - which I obviously didn't. But if any of you out there haven't read these thoughtful, irreverent and ultimately serious journals of trips here, there and everywhere, get yourselves here now!

He made me think. He made me laugh. I never even knew him. What a fabulous gift. Thank you Pete.

---

How fed up are you at having to sit 'correcting' those suggestions by Micro$oft's spell checkers that you've spelt 'centre' wrong? Itemised? Surely it has a Zee? Same with all those other words that end with 'ised'. I, and others of my age are probably the last generation that will be able to hold out against the overwhelming onslaught of all things American/Texted/Dumbed-Down-Chav-Crap.

Orwell's 'Newspeak' we hear every day from the Planet's only 'Emperor'. But Burgess's 'Nadsat' we hear in more convoluted forms around us as we shop and work and eat and drink.

Cabernet Merlot and 5,000+ tracks on iTunes. Yer can't beat it can you?

Especially after today.

G'Night everyone, everywhere.

Apparently Nothin'

"Hiya. It's your Mam."

"Hiya Mam, what's the news."

"Your Dad's blood pressure's too high for them to carry out the 'procedure' so they're going to keep him in until Friday and try and do it then."

"Keep him in?"

"Yes."

"What's the bloody point of that? he'll be wound up to high heaven with the calibre of dickhead they've got wandering around on the ward. Blokes with their 'personal' TV systems turned way up loud 'cos they're deaf and they 'don't like headphones'. Constantly being woken up by the groans, growls and God knows what else all night. His blood pressure will be sky high and the fact that he's stuck in there will probably send it even higher."

"Well the doctor wants him to stay in."

Doctors eh? The sun shines don't it? What they say is received like the ten commandments by my Mother's generation. I'd feel a lot better and I reckon he would as well, if he was sent home to try his new medication otherwise he could spend a week in hospital and, come Friday, his blood pressure could still be too high.

---

Six hours later: "Hiya, it's your Mam."

"Hiya Mam."

"Your Dad's coming home."

"But I thought???"

"Yes but the Doctor's just checked his schedule for Friday and he's already got too much on so your Dad can come home."

"And the Doctor couldn't have figured that out six hours ago? I reckon he's just had a shedload of private patients book in."

---

So another trip to the hospital and back to their flat. My Dad's pig sick. He was hoping that this latest trip would be his last for quite a while. It's bloody hard for my Mam as well. She's obviously worried to death about him.

It's a good job they've got me to ferry them about. He just wouldn't have been up to the constant bus journeys to and from Crumpsall Hospital. It's awkward to get to from where they live anyway and it costs money.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: old age, what an absolute bastard it is. Is this all we've got to look forward to?

I hope not as I've always harboured a vision of myself with a full head of distinguished grey hair supported by a snow-white beard, playing blues and jazz on my trusty Fylde and partaking of the odd glass of vin rouge here and there. Books, fillums, music, photography, art. Kids, grandkids, great-grandkids, baby-sitting, day-trips, holidays. Life!

And who knows? Perhaps I'll still be doing this.

Going gentle into that good night doesn't come into it. I am going to rage and rage and rage and rage against the dying of the light.

You Gotta Roll With It....

Ah well, Dad's back in dock for more probing and prodding. In fact they called him in the other week. So he spends a few days getting wound up about it, a couple of sleepless nights before I pick him and my Mam up and drive them down to the hospital. I had to get back to work so I left them with instructions to phone me as soon as they knew anything.

Six hours later the poor buggers phone me. Six hours sat waiting to be seen to. Six hours not knowing just what the hell was coming.

"It's OK, everything's all right"

"Why what?ve they done?"

"Nothing".

"????????? Nothing????"

"Yeah, when they finally got your Dad onto the ward, the nurse came and asked a few questions before saying 'right then, let's get that catheter out then you can go home'"

"I've not got a catheter fitted" said Dad truthfully.

"Are you sure?" said the nurse.

"Have you ever had a catheter fitted love? You would bloody well know if you had one up I can tell you".

So off nursey goes, coming back ten minutes later with some profuse apologies and an explanation that included staff turnover, the outsourced clerical function, some guy called Cobleigh. And all.

---

So they finally get their act together a few weeks later and call him in for a check up. He has to stay in overnight and look forward to a camera up his penis in the morning. Some time. Or maybe the afternoon. Possibly even the evening.

Pleasant.

---

I watched the Bush/Kerry debate online the other night. The full 90 minutes. How anyone who watched it can honestly believe that Dubya came out of it looking anything but an incompetent is beyond me. And this was the one about foreign policy and homeland security - George Junior's strong point!

I have to say that I really don't know that much about Kerry, but how that incoherent, God-bothering smug little prick Bush could even be thought of as presidential is beyond me.

The man is blessed with all the absolute certainty of the terminally stupid. He's as certain he's correct in his world/otherworld view as Bin Laden and the rest.

I'm beginning to look with a truly critical eye at the concept of Democracy. Especially in a world where opinions are formed via news media owned and controlled by a rich and powerful few. Is it any better than a dictatorship? Well. Is it?

---

Is Elton back on the Coke? Not content with the "rude, vile, pigs" outburst in Taiwan or wherever, now he's dissing Madonna at the Q awards.

"Madonna, best f***ing live act? F*** off."

"Since when has lip-synching been live?.

"That's me off her f***ing Christmas card list but do I give a toss? No."

Now either she mimes (suddenly known as lip-synching) or she doesn?t. I have to say this though, she must be extremely fit if she can throw herself round the stage in those arduous dance routines while singing in tune and without loss of breath for hours and hours. Hmmmmmm

Still, Elton. Grow up.

---

Dearest and I have become great friends with a couple of contemporaries who have never listened to Neil Young (apart from the ubiquitous 'Heart of Gold' etc.) They've been to ours a couple of times now and have uttered comments like: "who's this? It's great!". So I'm sorting out an 'Introduction to Neil Young' CD for them both. How the hell do you reach the grand old age of 50 without ever knowing what Neil Young sounds like?

Anyway, as I put it together this evening - to distract me from the shenanigans with my father - I have ended up enjoying a marvellous trawl through the bugger's back catalogue - along with a few Long Island Teas. And mighty fine it was too. Mighty fine

Our friends are in for a treat.

Ruby Tuesday

Fecund. What a great word that is. It’s one of those words that, to me, sound the opposite of what they actually mean. To me fecund sounds as though it’s describing a barren landscape, bereft of life and all shagged out.

“Christ almighty that prick Keegan’s fecund when it comes to original thought regarding the tactics we are employing on the pitch week in week out.”

However the Cambridge dictionary tells me it means:-

“able to produce a lot of crops, fruit, babies, young animals, etc”

Hmmm “Christ almighty that prick Keegan’s able to produce a lot of crops, fruit, babies, young animals, etc when it comes to original thought regarding the tactics we are employing on the pitch week in week out.” Doesn’t have the same ring does it?

Anybody else got any words that sound as though they should be describing the opposite of what they do?

---

So, Tony’s big speech. A few hecklers and no reference to ‘New Labour’. A warm thank you to Gordon and a big verbal slap on the back for Two Jags.

It really is odd when, in the middle of a war that is costing literally 1,000s of lives – British, American and Iraqi – the press and the Party are more interested in what we can discover regarding The Great Rift between Tone and Gord. The media manipulation of politics has finally ‘progressed’ to the American model circa 1976. Once again the medium is the message.

Today for example Conference voted to re-nationalise the railways. Unbelievably, given the vitriol that was heaped upon British Rail in the years before deregulation, one would have thought that the very idea would be unthinkable. Remember the promises of faster, streamlined, leaner and fitter train service providers galvanised by profit, falling over themselves to take us here, there and everywhere? Yeah. So do I.

Consequently, I reckon there is now a sizable majority out there who think that renationalisation would be a good thing. They may be right, they may be wrong. But I happen to think that the policy would be popular.

The media though have hardly reported it. When they have it’s usually been part of a ‘look how Conference’s power has been emascualted’ type of story. I suspect it’s partly due to Tone’s speech, the Pro-Hunt Protestors and a nod and a wink between editors and spin doctors. The fact is 10 or 15 years ago that would have been a massive story. But it would cost big money - so it’s quietly throttled.

We can’t afford to waste big money on stupid things like reinventing our public transport system. No, we need every spare penny to prop up Dubya’s piratical shenanigins in the Middle East.

So what do we end up with? Honest debate? Ideas freely exchanged? Do we bollocks. We end up with media coaches arranging who sits where on the top table. Where the flowers should placed to best effect, what’s said/not said and making sure everything stays sanitised till the whole kit and kaboodle rolls out of town at the end of the week.

---

Mind you, I reckon the Pro Hunt Protestors were praying for media manipulators on a par with the People’s Party.

Why oh why would anyone, anywhere think that dumping the carcasses of horses, calves and cows on the streets of Brighton would attract ordinary folk to their cause? Seriously I can’t even follow the logic that reasons that people who are fundamentally opposed to the idea of hunting with dogs would have their beliefs shaken by the introduction of dead (and in some cases profoundly rotted) animals in the street?

I can only conclude that the dipsticks the Police finally arrested for this crime were Burberry-capped and blinged beneath their waxed jackets and green wellies.

Country Chavs that’s what they are. I know now that the Countryside Alliance has actually come out and condemned the action. But when I was listening live on 5live at dinnertime all of those interviewed stopped short of condemnation.

I guess they hadn’t received their orders at the time.

If foxes are a menace then shoot the buggers. Or poison ‘em. Just like gamekeepers do with all sorts of other ‘vermin’ they feel needs controlling. Just stop pretending that the most humane way of doing it is via a pack of dogs and a pack of tossers on horseback. You ENJOY it: that’s why you do it. Just admit that one fact and I might, just might have more sympathy for your future.

Pricks.

Everything Put Together Sooner Or Later Falls Apart

Just listening to a bit of debate on 5Live lamenting the loss of the Album Cover. Already battered by the hegemony of CDs, the argument takes in the rise of download culture and concludes that the medium is finally dead. These days even the concept of an album itself is under threat given the pick'n'mix nature of downloading, so why do we need something to wrap a virtual product in?

I guess they're right. Certainly my own experience of trying to decipher some of the miniscule text presented on some CD covers has left me with a can't-be-arsed-lookin' attitude these days. Aimed at youngsters with 20-20 you see. Us older folk aren't considered when it comes to cutting edge design. I guess they think we should be content with Daniel O'Donnell, Mantovani and Max Bygraves.

This constant miniturisation has rid me of the urge to spend days on end browsing through rack after rack of good old-fashioned 12 inch Long Players gazing at the sophisticated artwork and the concepts contained therein. Certainly as the Sixties progressed and the gatefold sleeve made an entrance, some of the designs far outclassed the pretentious crap on the vinyl.

Peter Blake's Sgt Pepper, the Andy Warhol Sticky Fingers cover with its real zip, and hordes of lesser artists and designers commendable efforts. Many, many overblown progressive rock offerings. There was an explosion of artistic expression. Arguments between bands and record companies over the rising cost of these 'works of art' began to be reported. The Beatles' Abbey Road cover was apparently going to be a photograph of loads of monks and the band somewhere up a Himalayan mountain. In the end inertia on the part of the group left us with one of the most recognised zebra crossings in the world.

Even the Punk backlash was infused with artistic endeavor when it came to the sleeves. Stripped back for sure. Angry and angular definitely. But still interesting works in their own right. And produced in bedrooms utilising the original cut'n'paste concept. Cutting stuff up and pasting it (using actual paste no less) onto the artwork. Like their predecessors, they became objects that would be pored over for hours, looking for clues.

Sad. But the rot did set in with the rise of the CD. There's not many covers that have become as iconic as the Dark Side of the Moon or Led Zepellin II since the work area shrunk by over 50%. Nevermind by Nirvana is one of very few that come to mind and even that one offended the American Bible Belt so they had to erase the baby's penis! If you buy it over here though those innocent naughty bits are still there in all their potential glory.

The question is: does it matter? Surely it's the music we all revere? Certainly, these days when your entire music collection can reside on a 4" x 2" bit of plastic and technology, the days of lugging round a few albums to your mate's or a party or wherever seem profoundly neanderthal. But something deep inside of me suspects that when the acquisition of music becomes too easy and we end up with thousands of cheap or free mp3s, we don't quite revere it as much as we did.

So times change. Technology drives that change and the commercial/artistic community respond by adapting and adopting. The medium is the message. Sadly, if we do download some crap, we won't be able to console ourselves anymore by admiring the artwork on the cover, we'll just delete the bugger.

Easy come. Easy go.

The Bogus Man

The world is chock full of liars, main-chancers, cads, mountebanks, thieves, ne'er-do-wells and fundamentalist religious bigots.*

Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition eh Jimmy? You are the pits. Dripping with hypocrisy. You, of all people, dare threaten murder in the name of your 'forgiving' God while your congregation whoops and hollers its whole-hearted support.

Y'know if it was pointed out to the fundamentalist prick that he was no better than the likes of Abu Hamza or some other Islamic hate figure, he would react with horrified disbelief.

According to a transcript of the program, Swaggart said: "I'm trying to find the correct name for it ... this utter absolute, asinine, idiotic stupidity of men marrying men. ... I've never seen a man in my life I wanted to marry. And I'm gonna be blunt and plain; if one ever looks at me like that, I'm gonna kill him and tell God he died."

"I'm gonna kill him and tell God he died." ???????? Errrr.... Jimmy..... According to you and your mates God is all-seeing and all-knowing. Don't you think he'd know what you did? An inkling perhaps? He's supposed to be omnipresent and omniescient isn't he? I mean even if YOU hadn't remembered that, I thought that at least the pious and devout in your congregation may have.

After all the media focus on the other side of the religious divide, we need to be reminded that idiocy is not the sole preserve of the medievil nutters swaggering around the Middle East. Killing Homos, puffs, queers? It's one area where Swaggart and Abu Musab al-Zarqawi could shake hands and agree with each other.

I despair.

* Thanks to Christine for the link.

Farewell

So long Cloughie. You were definitely a one-off. In an age of spin infecting every aspect of football these days, to read Ol' Big 'Ead every month in 4-4-2 magazine or hear his rare interviews on 5Live, was a breath of fresh air. An honest opinion, given without recourse to the polish of a PR machine to buff his words into meaningless diamonds.

One of the great managers of the post war era up there with Shankly, Paisley, Busby, Mercer and, dare I say it, Ferguson.

A sad day.

Gee But It's Great To Be Home Again...

A weekend of sporting happiness has kept me from this here blog on account of the fact that, non-believer though I may be, when it comes to Manchester City's future and the Ryder Cup my rationality goes AWOL.

Consequently I was sort of praying to the Gods of Sporting Justice to a)let City win and b)allow Europe to completely shred the Yanks.

Cheers Gods of Sporting Justice.

---

OK. Barcelona. What a city. Up there on a par with Manchester and Prague. Holy shit it's even got a fabulous beach that goes on for miles and miles and miles and miles and............

The busking was classy (usually Hot Club du Paris 1930s jazz played by groups of four with two accordions one clarinet and a percussionist) although classical guitarists also held sway.

Sadly the 'hostel' we stayed in was an absolute shit hole. I mean, c'mon, have you EVER stayed in a place with no plug socket in your room?? I wouldn't mind if we'd known we were going to a hostel, but the place advertises itself as a friggin' HOTEL. Lying bastards. We booked this place in good faith via lastminute.com having no qualms whatsoever regarding internet transactions, I mean, we've done so many!

---

On this occasion though we got a dump - and a dump that we'd paid upfront for because 'that's lastminute.CON's policy'. A policy incidentally that does not fly in your face until you click the button marked 'confim?'

Totally and completely unimpressed.

It's a bloody good job Barca is sooooooooo cracking!

The beach and the architecture and the food and the Olympic Stadiums and Village. Gaudi and Picasso and Miro and cheap transport, great little bars here and there with multitudes of Tapas on display and ready to eat.

We tried really hard on Tuesday to book a different, quieter hotel, but they were ALL booked up. *weep*

In the end we had to stay where we were. But hey....life's like that.

---

Days spent in indolent architectural appreciation and evenings spent soaking up some great music, food and drink.

On Thursday evening we sauntered into local square and it was alive with music and audience. A free concert from a jazz band so tight you couldn't have got a credit card between the buttocks of any of 'em.

So much free live music and such a happy crowd from youngster to pensioner. It was a pleasure to watch and listen.

Travellin' Man

David James was colossal yesterday. He pulled off saves that shouldn't be possible and kept us in with a chance when we could've been so easily 3-0 down by half time.

So if England don't want him, that's OK. He's doing just fine at Eastlands.

Stick with Robinson, Green and Kirkland. I'm sure the press will be comparing them to donkeys as well in the not too distant future.

---

Off to Barcelona tomorrow for a few days staring at Gaudi's architecture and Piccaso's early stuff (Blue Period I believe). On top of that they've got Joan Miro. That new camera of mine is gonna get some serious use.

---

Hard to believe that the anniversary of September 11th has passed again. Sheesh, 31 years since the democratically elected Allende was toppled and murdered by the fascist, best friend of Thatcher - Pinochet. Backed, of course, by the land of the Brave and the Free.

Summer In The City Part Two

St Ann's Square

A trip to sunny Manchester was the order of the day for Sunday and a mighty fine day it was. I took my new camera along to capture the glorious sunshine. We were treated to more European markets - the panorama above shows a German stall in St Ann's Square surrounded by seated patrons.

The busking was top class also. From the Hootchie Cootchie Man belting out the blues to a James Taylor wannabe via a classical guitarist, a wide selection of musical taste was catered for.

It's not long ago that all the buskers would have been 'moved on' by over-zealous coppers suspicious of anything even slightly bohemian. From hippies with guitars to war veterans with harmonicas it was all the same to plod.

Manchester seethed with humanity. I can remember the days of Sundays being all about "THOU SHALT NOT", TV dominated by religious twaddle until 7.00pm, pubs shutting early and the repressed sexual hypocrisy of rags like the News of the World - ("I made my excuses and left...."). It almost seemed a punishment for the hedonism of Saturday night. And now I hear people talking about the 'good old days', days spent with the family in quiet contemplation. Bollocks, those that could afford it were on the golf course or enjoying a weekend at their country cottage. It was the rest of us poor buggers who had to experience boredom on a scale that sheer we positively welcomed the prospect of Monday morning. There's no contest in my book. I accept all the arguments about shopworkers and the like having to work at weekends but, to me that means extra jobs and money in the pockets of folk who would otherwise be cashing Giros on a regular basis. Sundays are positively wonderful these days. You young uns don't know you're born.

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I finally traded my Waterstone's vouchers for a few novels including Monica Ali's Brick Lane and the latest word-of-mouth blockbuster The Da Vinci Code.

Hey Judas!

So, the world's richest club has lured a chav with a talent from the backstreets of Liverpool (Croxteth if I'm not mistaken) to Manchester Utd Corps (European Division).

Quite a lot of money has changed hands as well. £27 million appears to be the consensus. £10 million up front, £10 million next year and the rest dependent on appearances etc.

Will Mr Rooney cut the mustard? Has Sir Alex lost the plot? Wouldn't a centre back and a world class midfielder have been dosh better spent? The next few months should be quite interesting. Certainly the brothels of Manchester must be stocking up on PVC boots from Harpurhey market at this very moment and I definitely predict a 'fracas' in a Mancunian nightclub involving Shrek and his sink-estate scally relatives and hangers-on friends before his contract expires.

Time will tell.

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Over the border from Old Trafford, the transfer deadline activity has been minimal. Well, non-existent actually. Deep down I'm relieved on two counts. First at least we have managed to keep hold of Shawn Wright-Phillips for at least another 6 months. Second I'm chuffed that the board has not capitulated to Keegan's heavy hints regarding the size of the squad and has kept the purse strings as tight as possible.

Prudence. It's the new extravagance you know.

Sweets For My Sweet

Just a quick link to a great Premiership highlights site. The commentary's in Hungarian, but you don't need commentary to watch the beautiful game.

Enjoy.

Just Gimme Some Truth

The best EVER description of late 20th - early 21st century Pop music I have heard. Courtesy of one of the Man City message boards and penned by a chap called OldBourney. I quote:

"just get 19 seconds of an old record and play it in a loop.

Then shout a lot"

Quality. Absolutely spot on quality. In fact he's that quality he should be writing for the Qualities. There's no justice.

Watching Reading The Detectives

As I lay in bed for most of the day, recovering the strength I need to continue the important role I play in a multinational IT company's attempts to take over the world, I read another Ian Rankin 'Rebus' novel.

Now I like Rankin and I like Rebus, but I've always considered 'crime writing' as essentially 'Airport' stuff. It's bought to fill in the time you spend sat on balconies, swanning round pools and beaches or stuck in forlorn B & Bs as the rain sweeps in - once again - from the Atlantic.

This one, though, was definitely different. All the rest have been written well enough. The characters have been well fleshed out and everything, but, once it's been read, it's forgotten.

'The Hanging Gardens' is different. Looking at the dates of publication it's the latest book of his I have read (1997), so that might explain a few things. If that's the case though, all I can say is roll on all the rest.

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Here we have a cracking example of 'Big Business' and the be-suited, business-degree automatons that they employ really excelling.

Apparently 'Mr Eddington said there was always criticism of BA over whether it was "doing enough to take costs out of our business".'

"It's a very difficult balance to get right - clearly we have to get it right." '

His admission comes a day after BA's director of operations Mike Street apologised to passengers.

So Mr Eddington, I have a question: who is critising BA over whether it is doing enough to take costs out of your business? 'Cos from I'm sat I don't hear it.

What I do hear is passengers pointing out that you are too friggin' expensive. But, as I know only too well, that does not equate to staff being paid good money - nor indeed the hiring of enough staff to 'man the gates' when needed.

Nah. To me, costs = overpaid 'management' making the wrong decisions time and time and time and time again.

Have the customers finished paying for your woeful tailplane designs yet? Your disgraceful attempts to put Branson out of business? Your complete and utter ineptitude?

It sickened me yesterday to see the same management lackey attempting to reassure the shareholders and media (NOT THE CUSTOMERS SAT IN THE TERMINAL) that 'everything was under control', 'management was volunteering to man check in desks' and ' everything would be back to normal in a few hours'. Anybody would think it was anybody but his fault in the first place. Who caused the problem? Adolf Hitler? Shakin' Stevens? D C Thompson? A typical management bollox-speak twat simply trying to impress the MD - nobody else. "I might get a rise out of this".

When, when, when are we going to realise that the shit these 80s throwbacks come out with have nothing to do with reality? It's about time the Government legislated so we could shoot the bastards as they held their press conferences. I can feel a mission statement coming on.

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So, speaking of 80s throwbacks, Mark Thatcher eh? What an odious bastard he ALWAYS was. Thick as pigshit but 'blessed' with a Daddy who owned a business brain and a Mummy who had power and contacts.

In my book he's on a par with Jeffrey Archer, Hannibal Lector and Pol Pot. Just a shifty, evil bastard who - like Hannibal could be fictional he's that much of a comic-book liability.

There's always been doubts about young Thatcher. 3 O levels after attending a private school. Failing his accountancy exams three times on the trot and, of course, getting lost during a famous rally - at a time when Mummy could've simply ordered out the Nimrods and Daddy could have paid the World to find him. Questions asked in the house about how he was able to earn a reputed £12m deal to sell planes to the Saudis while his Mam was still the PM?

Strange that not too long after Daddy shuffles off his coil, the protection seems to have stopped and Thatcher junior suddenly gets pulled in over allegations that have been flying around for quite a while now. Allegedly financing a coup, organised by one of his mates. A coup that - due to the shitload of oil reserves that the country involved controlled - could've landed him a fortune. Well, actually most of the reports don't mention that fact but, for me at least, it seem the most plausible explanation for the spawn of Satan's daughter.

Nice to see him being tried in post-apartheid South Africa though isn't' it ? Y'know, after all the support his Mam and Dad gave to the Anti-Apartheid movement. I guess they'll be falling over themselves to give him the benefit of the doubt.

I still can't believe he'll do time. Can you? Here's hoping though.

Too many of the 'great and good' from the eighties still believe they can get away with whatever they want. It's good to know that there are people out there still willing to track them down. Like latter-day Simon Wiesenthals they are tenacious. From Pinochet to Shirley Porter we shall hunt them and exact revenge.

Time It Was, It Was, And What A Time It Was...

Time was I thought Kevin Keegan had a clue. I now think it's time for Kevin to go.

Bye. And take the rest of the sorry bunch of expensive wastes of space with you. Because, if you stay, we WILL be relegated.

Another pointless performance (Heskey for pity's sake?) but the footballing genius had this to say:

"We were unlucky not to get something here tonight. David James made one save and we conceded a goal which I hopes* we would have dealt with," he said.

"We had chances, half-chances and possession, but it didn't run for us. We had pretty much all of the second half."

"I was quite pleased with the performance, though you're never happy to lose a game.

"There are things to work on, but it's early season. We'll probably play like that away from home several times and get results.

"Generally I've been quite pleased with the performances but we've got one point out of nine."

For God's sake GO!

*Hopes? Hopes? Ain't that the type of language Popeye uses?

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Another good weekend (apart from the football of course), but my molecules and stuff then conspired to infect me with something queasy, feverish and extremely loose stool-ish. Bodies eh? Who'd have 'em? And as for microbes.....

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Hey, it's a good job nobody with an ounce of authority knew - or indeed sanctioned - what was going on at Abu Ghraib, or else the USA would have appeared no better than Iraq, Argentina (during the good old days of the 'disappeared'), China, USSR and many other 'enemies of freedom'

Sheesh ! Now that would have been embarrassing.

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So, live music is flourishing in lowly pubs and clubs throughout the land. And yet, this, so-called government 'of the people, by the people, for the people' is still convinced that we need to restrict the number of performers at any one time to two.

Now I have to admit I have an issue with this. For a start off I've performed solo, duo, as part of a 5-piece blues band and sat in with ad hoc assortments of musicians all over the North West. I like to think live musicians perform a historical service in some ways. Showing kids who know no better that music is organic and not produced as a result of pressing play on a CD player, MP3 player or - heaven forbid - mobile phone.

So why are the Government insistent on bringing this legislation in? Apparently to regulate live music, attract more people to it and to restrict noisy purveyors of the stuff. How? How do you do the former by requiring an expensive license is purchased, and how do you stop noise nuisance by restricting an acoustic trio but allowing ONE DJ rapping along to 'beats' blasting out from his or her decks??

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A bit like Kevin Keegan and his 'management team', I reckon Tone and the sycophantic yes-men/women hanging on his every word have stopped thinking with any semblance of originality or self-awareness. "That next re-shuffle just might - just might - bring me a junior position." So, regardless of the intelligence of arguments against, the new legislation comes in next year, and businesses - from Pubs and Clubs to successful (yet relatively unknown) bands will go to the wall.

Jesus. Is this what I voted for??

A Love Supreme Part Two

Shaun Wright-Phillips I remember your City home debut way back when against Portsmouth. You were that small your name on the back of your shirt ran halfway down either arm. I turned to Dearest:

"He's got potential but really he's much too small to ever make it in a top class league like the Premiership."

There were tears in my eyes tonight when he scored on his England debut.

"Why are you crying, it's only a friendly?" asked Dearest.

"He's just signed a four year contract" I mananged to blurt out before the uncontrollable delirous tears of happiness overtook me completely.

I Could Be A Millionaire....If I Had The Money...

Ahhhhh.....just been perusing the Prague photo folder on my hard disk. Such a photogenic confection of a City. Youngest is there at the moment for four days with his best mate. Lucky bugger. Here's some snaps.

What I don't understand about this City in the heart of Europe though is how it manages to experience all the shenanigans that wars, revolutions, overthrowing of Prague Springs and communist 'town planning' can throw at a destination without losing any of its medieval architecture. I mean I'm not talking bog standard architectural delights here - I'm talking 'bugger me let's sit here for an hour and just gaze at this wonderfully perfect house' - that snuggles contentedly halfway down some nondescript side street. The place, for me, just seems to be the location where all my 'imaginings' of the places all those childhood fairy stories we were told were set.

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Dearest and I enjoyed the place enormously. The bars, the vibrancy, the history, the people. It's the first ex-communist country I've been to so, consequently, the embrace of raw capitalism is still in its early days. Even so, the McDonald's, the Starbucks and the rest are putting down roots and pushing up prices. I guess that in a relatively short period of time the rapacious greed of big business will have converted the place into a prettier replica of almost every other City from Chicago to London. Shame. But, who are we to tell Czechs not to try and earn more money from their fabulousness? If the men and women who are employed to oversee the next ten, fifteen or twenty years development have any sense though, they must realise that the future lies in culture-vultures and not the male half of Doreen and Kevin's pre-nuptual 'let's-wreck-an-entire-City-in-a-drunken-stupour-weekend' celebrations.

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One of the few things that Manchester lacks - and there's not many - is an obvious, in-yer-face river.

I've always felt it should be a pre-requisite to becoming a City: having a proper river like the one on the left mirroring Prague Castle. A bit like having a Cathedral, Blockbuster, Pizza Hut or whatever it is you need to acquire Civility these days. Manchester is lagging a bit here as ours - the Medlock, Irk, Irwell etc., have been culverted out of sight. Rivers, for me, are a geographical focal point. A way in and a way out. A place to sit, stare and ruminate. A commercial highway, a lifeline, a provider, an artery. The Tyne, the Weir, the Thames, the Mersey, the Isis, the Ouse. "River Man". "Watching the River Flow". "Many Rivers to Cross". "Down by the River". "River of Dreams". "Lazy River".

Rivers. Fabulous. Unless, of course, you live in Boscastle

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When I took this I was sitting, staring and ruminating - (see above). What we have here is a snap of the pints of draught Budvar on our dining table after we had enjoyed a lunch of goulash (Dearest) and a ham sandwich like a baby's arm (me - not finished 'cos it was full of unrequested thousand island dressing - Note to Self: ALWAYS ASK WHAT'S ON THE INNOCUOUS SOUNDING HAM SANDWICH BEFORE YOU ORDER THE BUGGER). We had stared at the rushing river for a good two hours before we left. I told you it was hypnotic didn't I?

The view behind is the Charles Bridge - epicentre of Prague. Rivers again. A 14 - 15th century edifice that is rammed full of sellers of slightly better tat than that you can acquire from Newton Heath Market, Manchester every Wednesday and Saturday. On either side we can experience Gothic statues of more saints than you ever thought existed. However - you get tat-sellers everywhere. One of Dearest's favourite relatives was disgusted to find blow-up Santas for sale in the heart of Bethlehem. Strangely I would never have expected anything less from the little town - apart from blow-up sheep, shepherds and 'wise' men. All with orifices ready for the next 'true believer' to do what a lot of 'true believers' secretly do.

Expectations eh?

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And finally here we have a snap of the Astronomical Clock at night - the only time (apart from just after the hour) when it's not looking down on hundreds of tourists waiting for the next 'extavaganza'. The 'extravaganza occurs when a sorry bunch of clockwork saints appear at the window. There are chimes from the clock tower then, a minute or so after it started. It ends. Everyone looks at each other and says: 'was that it?' A mate of mine told me that the best photograph would be of the pickpockets who thrive here on account of everyone looking up.

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Dearest and I would really like to go back in deep midwinter. As I said earlier, the entire place reminds us of Hans Christian Anderson and the Brothers Grimm. Don't get me wrong, the place is marvelous in Summer. Truly marvelous. But Winter.....dressed in the right clothing, must be wonderful. A Winter wonderland in fact.

The funny thing is, everybody else I've talked to who has been, has toured in Winter. They all want to experience the place in Summer. It's a funny old world isn't it?

A Love Supreme

Whew! What a weekend. After the abject fraughtness of the 'mislaid' season tickets - found a mere 4 hours before the first game of the campaign I should add - we decided to spend the evening in Manchester. Eldest and his Darlin' came with us.

We started off at 8.00pm in the The Fringe, a snug little place just over the road from the Band on the Wall. A great little pub with some fabulous foreign beers. Everything from Starpromen to Belgian fruit stuff. Some good old-fashioned bitters and milds as well. Good music also because the juke box was being fed by some proper old hippies. Beards that would put ZZ Top to shame. Clothing that would've embarrassed Wurzel Gummidge. It was fab. I fitted in.

Next up was The Wheatsheaf. A proper old-fashioned pub right in the heart of the Northern Quarter of Manchester. The oldest DJ the world has ever seen was keeping the beat - and mighty fine he was too. Abba, The Pogues, Beatles, Nat King Cole, The Clash. The first DJ I've ever met who recognised his audience's taste. And probably the last. Furthermore the only words he uttered all evening were to thank us for listening and to wish us goodnight. Are you hearing this Steve Wright you talentless twat?

The campest guy in the world ran this place and believe me, he's hit the nail right on the head. It's a triumph. It's like the queer eye for a straight guy decided to sort out a pub. Brilliant.

Later - 12 o clock or so - we walked about 200 yards down Tib Street to Bar Centro. £1 in and 5 minutes later we're enjoying pints of Budvar and listening to some wonderful jazz with a rock beat.

I went to the bar and who do I find myself stood next to but Badly Drawn Boy. I wanted to say hi and let him know how much I've enjoyed his albums, but I couldn't remember the bearded and bobby-hatted bugger's real name.

I could hardly say "alright Badly how you doing" could I.

"Good evening Mr Badly Drawn Boy" also seemed a little formal given the vibe.

Later, as our urine mingled in the downstairs toilets I ventured an "alright mate - did you go to the match today?", Badly being a massive City fan and everything.

I like Badly. Nice to seem him being normal in a bar downtown dressed exactly the same as he always is. Does he ever change?

Good songwriter as well.

Later we were that pissed off trying flag down legitimate taxis, that we resorted to an illegal. As it pulled up it was full of stickers proclaiming the fact that, if hailed in the street without ordering it from the taxi office meant that we were all uninsured.

We spent some time considering this info. All of ten seconds in fact.

"How much mate?"

"A tenner".

"Nice one. Sorted"

I woke up at Eldest and his Darlin's place watching Sky Sports News, listening to Badly and nursing a bottle of Sol. 4.00am it was. Bugger.

Apparently I'd been muttering and chunnering as I snored. Old age. It's a complete and utter bastard isn't it?

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This morning I rose at 12.30pm to be informed we were dining in Manchester and meeting Eldest and his Darlin' at 2.00pm.

Oh God yes, now I remember.

I ended up breakfasting on a Chinese banquet at the very reasonable PanAsia in Chinatown. Hot and sour soup though is not a patch on bacon and eggs believe me. £43 for four of us to stuff our faces for as long as we wanted. Wonderful.

Later, we wondered round Manchester and today she was dressed as though for Whit Week. She was glorious in her finery. Festooned with flowers, buskers and sunshine. Another fine time in one of the greatest cities in the northern hemisphere.

Vinyl Exchange then beckoned. A Fawlty Towers DVD. CDs by Joni Mitchell, some Cuban Guys (for Dearest) and numerous jazzy compilations for the rest of us. Finally back to the frozen north of Manchester and off to t'Willow to meet S, Av, Youngest and Mate. Youngest and Mate had been watching United attempting to beat Chelsea. They failed. Shame.

*Dances round room laughing his balls off*.

A good weekend. A really good weekend.