Just thought I'd try this new picture sending malarky that Blogger have introduced. I wish it was possible to dictate the alignment as you post but, on the whole, it's pretty good way of sticking snaps up.

I took this as the sun went down outside while I sat outside an Irish Bar in Porta Pollenza. The Guinness was just kicking in, the stress levels had all but disappeared and all was well with the world.

Just heard that the inevitable has happened and Claudio and Chelsea have finally parted company. A sad day. Abramovich is making the mistake of believing that money makes teams. I can't help but think that he'll find that out next season.

Kind of Blue

Ah well, back off my hols and back at work. I've missed out on a lot of news over the past two weeks due to the bloody boat having no internet access and no TV/Radio. I did find out I was wrong about the 'doctored' photographs though so I guess I'll just have to accept I was wrong.

I jotted down a half-arsed diary/blog into my Revo so I'll stick it here for your perusal and as a memory jogger.

May 15

Arrived 5:00ish. Signed up for the 'drinks unlimited' package. £119 each for the week and all you your drinks - beer, wine, shorts, soft drinks etc are paid for. We 'broke even' by Wednesday - *grin*. Quick shower. Drinks on Deck. Later we retired to the piano bar and enjoyed a fabulous blues pianist-vocalist called Michael Monroe. The talented git started off with a 15 minute bluesy jazz noodle of profound accomplishment before breaking into a smoky vocalisation of Stormy Monday Blues. Bliss.

May 16

All day at sea. Late afternoon a small school of dolphins swim with the boat. Only a small species and we only saw 3 or 4 of 'em but, by God just the mere sight of them is incredible.

May 17

Cadiz

Not overly impressed with Cadiz.

This evening we met our dining table occupants. 2 Canadian women. Early 30s? The fates then conspired to send me an Everton season ticket holder so I could take the piss as a result of City's 5-1 hammering of them on Saturday. He was a good sport and a good laugh. He's possibly the only shaven headed, 40+, Saxon-lovin' (the heavy metal band not the the Anglo tribe) white wine drinker I've ever met. There was also a Welsh father and son - mostly pissed and constantly dropping references to how much they earn, have and spend. There was something shifty and deeply unlikeable about them both.

May 18

Casablanca

Rick's cafe and the souk. Fabulous mosque. Not as hassled as in other African countries. Although Dearest forgot her cardigan and was subjected to some disgusted looks from some of the men folk. Well, I think it was disgust - either that or her naked shoulders whipped them into a state of sexual frenzy.

May 19

Gibralter

Took a taxi tour with Derek Diaz the driver and an American couple (early to mid 30s) and their 4 children. Apes, caves and tunnels. Excellent value at 28euros including entrance to the national park.

May 19

Almeria

Fairly nondescript place. A few days later and nothing really sticks in my mind. Pleasant old town with a castle overlooking the port.

May 20

Ibiza Town

Delightful surprise. The old town is a jumble of tumble down the hill backstreets with typical Mallorcan dwellings. The fortifications at the top of the town were a struggle to reach but well worth the climb.

May 22 Porta Pollenza after delay at Palma. Arrived 2:30ish.

Watched Man U predictably beat Millwall in the cup final before a kip then a trip down the seafront for a selection of Tapas and a bottle of house red.

Behind us a table of obnoxiously loud late 30 something tarts women bragging about their careers, husband's jobs and children.

One of them discussing how she could get selected for some role within her child's school was advised to give the chair of governors a blowjob.

"Oh I would" she replied, "but I wouldn't swallow".

May 23

Late night last night as we shared a bottle of red and watched the final part of "Test the Nation". Later, after Dearest had fallen asleep, I ended up awake till 4:00am watching first a typical Charles Ronson vehicle entitled Mr Majestyk, and second, a repeat of Friday's Jonathon Ross show with Gareth Gates (surprisingly likeable), Carol Voordamon (surprisingly likeable)and Eddie Izard (surprisingly reticent).

May 25

Later - 8:30ish, the outdoor bingo started. A dozen or so hardliners dobbing away to some Majorcan guy who had as much idea of bingo as Ian Paisley must have of the Mass. The place was cryingng out for Peter. Sat in our apartment we could hear every number called, every woeful attempt at humour from the caller and every 'shout' from the hardy twelve.

The minute the bingo finished - in case we got bored and were unable to entertain ourselves - the disco began. The mindless, shallow pap that passes for pop these days rent the air asunder for the benefit of the miniscule group of dancers. The vast majority of punters were sat in their apartments reading or watching tv. Still, it's nice to have a soundtrack to Armageddon little background music to relax to.

Later, we were aurally bombarded entertained by a trio of r & b fixated wannabes warblin' along to a selection of soul classic backing tracks.

Cacophony.

I sat in my apartment with my headphones on full trying to listen to the White Stripes and I could still hear the 'whoops', 'alrights' and 'clap your hands y'alls'. Half past friggin' eleven they finally finished their second encore - even though nobody had requested a first.

This morning I have started go notice the tell tale signs: the chunky nine carat stuff, tattoos all over the place and, the piece de resistance: a pair of Burberry swimming trunks.

We could be in for a long week.

Tonight was cold and overcast, so the 'entertainment' didn't appear - bliss. So, we stayed in and shared a meal of baked beans with sausage, fried onions, cheese and crusty bread. We were knackered and that was all we had in the larder. All this was washed down with an eighty five cents bottle of red that was as good as any you would buy for 4 times the price back home.

Dearest faded just after the Royle Family. A Hollywood 'hey we are geat after all' version of the Medgar Evers assasination was a decent enough way to finish off the night but, fuck me America (well actually don't - I'm sick of it), what a white-folk-back-slappin' affair that was. I'm surprised Charlton Heston wasn't in it. Actually it reminded me a lot of the film they haven't made yet about Abu Ghraib prison (sp?). "Hell we done wrong, but don't you worry boy, in about 30 years we'll bring the perpertrators to justice". Hot damn.

Porta Pollenza I'm not quite sure about - yet. Typical mediterranean type of quiet town on the coast. You get them everywhere.

May 26

Overcast so spent all day indoors reading and watching tv. Live from Chelsea flower show we could see the lucky bastards who stayed at home enjoying the searing sun.

It was too cold for 'Kylie' to strut her funky stuff at the apartment complex tonight so it was relatively peaceful.

Later I watched a made for tv all-american disaster movie called Inferno. Jesus H ! Laughable. What the fuck is the BBC doing screening shit like this? Stereotypical bollocks from beginning to end. The premis is that a particularly energetic bout of sun spot activity sends a radio active ball of flame hurtling towards America Earth. Within 72 hours the temprature will reach 150 degrees. Cokin filters set to maximum? Time to start shooting.

At one point someone points out how hot it is and how it's a good job it's night or else they would all be dying. Woah America! Not in freaking Australia it ain't. Them poor Bruce's and Sheila's are being boiled alive as you speak.

The steroetypes persist: A decent doctor who's been struck off, a shit-hot, ideallist teacher who is decent enough to teach in a ghetto school. A token good black army reservist, a token black wild kid who was fundamentally salt of the earth. An evil seargant who harbours visions of Vietnam and sees the catastrophe as an opportunity to kill blacks. etc etc

150 degrees and the top brass were still wearing collars and ties but it was that hot that all the women were, how shall we say? Well they were wearing a lot less than the men that's for certain. Fuckin-A man.

If the good folk of the USA are being spoon fed crap like this night after night then the West is doomed to hell. I'll say it again though: what the hell is the BBC doing with this?

Roderick Taylor and Bruce A Taylor as producers of this I have to salute you for producing this wonderfully fascinatin peice of tat. The final scenes as the heat boils the sea, thus producing massive clouds, and those clouds cause heavy rainfall were masterful. The rainbow above LA - class. And finally the 'let us pray and give thanks' scene was just what I've come to expect.

The final two days the sun came out and transformed the place. We found a restaurant (El Mojito) that cooked exquisite mussels in various sauces, lamb that melted in the mouth and a decent bottle of house red at a very reasonable price. A guy with a classical guitar played beautifully and, later in the week, a trio of musicians made the evenings special with Cuban and Spanish music.

And then, back home to reality.

Oh, nearly forgot - matching Burberry luggage on the carousel at Manchester Airport.

I'll Follow the Sun

Confirmation from a person dressed medically. A Grandad I am bound to be. January 8th or thereabouts. Absolutely fabulous. I can hardly breathe I'm that proud.

Good news to go on holiday with. I believe the sun is somewhere down south, so I'm off to follow it in a beautiful pea green boat.

See you all in a fortnight.

White Black Stripes

Hmmmmm. What's goin' on 'ere then? On the left is a screenshot of what Andy is presented with when he points his browser here. As far as I can gather this has only occurred since the new-look Blogger arrived. The only thing I tried was the comments system - but I soon got rid of the code 'cos it's crap. It seems fine to me when I access it from home and work. Is it the fact that I use IE and Andy uses Mozilla? Anyone else having the same problem? Stupid question really 'cos if you were you wouldn't be able to read what I'd just typed would you?

Silly Occupied Country.

Still - I take it all you Micro$oft users can see?

Everybody Loves the Sound of a Train in the Distance

Time to start thinking positive again: it just gets pretty hard to do sometimes. What with the sadness of the World and everything, it takes all a chap can do to breathe let alone be happy. So, away with you negativity. No more seeing the grim reaper grinning behind my loved ones. No more constantly fearing the worst. It might be a good idea to stop supporting Manchester City as well.... but......

Actually my involvement with the rest of the season has finished as I won't be here for the last match against Everton - a match that could so easily have been a relegation scrap for both teams. Hard to believe the season's over and May is here again. Hard to believe that I'm off on another cruise on Saturday, followed by a week in the Mallorcan sun. Much needed I can tell ya.

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I'm still not convinced that these photographs are fake. I've lost count of the number of times those supposedly 'in the know' are 'almost 100% certain' that, 'in their view' they *believe* the images to have been staged. Now they're telling us that they 'don't believe' the truck pictured has ever been to Iraq. In fact they are convinced it's in England.

OK. If it's in England show us the bloody thing. I presume it's still in the employ of the Army? I mean it's not on *special offer* at an Army Surplus Store is it? Just do it - it can't be that hard.

Similarly with soldiers A, B, C and D. I find it hard to believe that nobody in the chain of command - from Corporal to General - has an idea who's spilling the beans.

Am I led to believe that the British Army hasn't got a single Military Policemen with the ability to root out the perpetrators? I bet Tamsin Outhwaite would've got to the bottom of it.

Meanwhile the spin goes on. Now, if I'm proved wrong I'll hold my hands up - but how long has it been now? Two weeks? Hmmmmm. Mind you, given the latest revelations, whether the pics were staged or not will probably be irrelevant.

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About a year ago I commented on this blog that I thought the White Stripes were unworthy of attention. Well here I am admitting I was wrong. Having had the album relentlessly played listened to it with a critically tuned ear, I now think it's bloody marvelous. I guess you've just got to be in the right mood for receptiveness. Full marks and additional Brownie points to Simon for letting me know they were well worth a listen.

While we're on the subject of recommendations, thanks are due to TimesNewRoman who advised me to read The Rotter's Club by Jonathon Coe. So I did. What a great read. It took me back to the 70s: Berni Inns, strikes, IRA bombs, flares, albums......... eeeeeee the *good ol' days* when the pubs were shut most of the day and you could only get three TV channels. Anyway, cheers fellow bloggers. All recommendations gratefully received.

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Not keen on this new Blogger interface.

That's Life

An odd few days. Good and bad. Weird and wonderful. Joyous and sad.

First off we discover my father has been peeing blood for a number of weeks, but neglected doing anything about it because he figured he knew what the problem was. Well, of course you did Dad; you being a Urologist and everything. Anyway he finally decides that the professionals should get involved and catches the 52 to the crap, decaying inner-city hospital that *serves* his needs.

It's a growth in the bladder - and he also needs his kidneys looking at. Somehow I don't think it was the diagnosis he'd arrived at. So, brave faces all round but with him being at the age of 76 there's a strange, unspoken fear that bubbles beneath the "you'll be fines" and "they'll soon have that cleared ups". Either that or this generation that oversaw and funded the creation of the Welfare State still believe. He's waiting for a date to go in and have *it* removed. Of course that's when the real fun begins. Waiting for the biopsy.

I called round to see him and my Mam last week. I rebuilt his PC a couple of weeks ago (his motherboard went tits up) and upgraded his operating system to XP. Youngest furnished him with his old Digital Camera (Olympus C-100) and he started to get stuck into getting his 'snaps' from the camera to the PC.

I like giving him the opportunity to exercise his mind like that. He loves computers but, as the years have started to take their toll, he's finding harder to grasp the constant changes. He was the first in our family to actually buy a computer. Back in the early 80s, out of the blue he comes homes with a Sinclair Spectrum 48. Later he progressed to an Atari 520 FM before leaping into the wonderful world of PCs.

That's when he started to struggle. With a Spectrum or an Atari if he buggered up he simply rebooted and all was well again. With a PC it's slightly different and within a week or two he would have turned the PC off - mid application - that often, that a software rebuild would be the only solution.

So last week I went round to download the patch for the latest virus and to update his anti virus software. I turn his PC on and, what seemed like a year later, after five or six programs fired themselves up for no other reason than they were all in my Dad's start up directory, we were presented with his desktop. God Almighty does it really only take a couple of weeks to completely screw everything up so completely?

Still, only an hour and everything's up, sorted and running. So now he can bugger up safe from the latest infections.

I love him so.

---

So back home and listening to Chelsea kiss goodbye to EuroSilverware, there's a knock at the front door. Dearest answers it and it turns out to be Youngest and his Darlin'.

They had been 'drivin' past' and had decided to call in. We chatted for a while and then, out of the blue, Youngest says something along the lines of:-

"Anyway, the reason we called is to let you know that you're probably about to become Grandparents".

Tests have proved positive but the final 'yes you're pregnant' hasn't been uttered by a man or woman in a white coat yet, so I guess there's still a possibility that it's a false alarm.

I started to cry. Tears of happiness for these two wonderful people and their future, mingled with tears for my father.

So, two little things growing inside. Both waiting for the judgment of the Medical profession and both with the potential to change our futures forever.

Hang Down Your Head

Oh shit. I think I may have been responsible for someone's final moments. Someone's death. I'm absolutely gutted. I can't stop thinking about what I should've done. I can't stop thinking about the error I made and the possible consequences. How could I have been so stupid? Why didn't I pay more attention? I might - just might - have made a difference.

To be honest I hadn't given the incident a moment's thought since it first happened last Friday evening. Dearest and I had been for our traditional early evening trip to local number two. Miserable Chris the barman had been at his depressing best so we decided to go home and cheer ourselves up watching holocaust documentaries. Just then Old Dot arrived with her son. Now Dot is one of those eternally cheerful eighty-odd year olds still chock full of fun and faculties. So we stayed for a few extra and a chinwag.

We probably left the pub around 10:00pm and sauntered the half mile back home. After a while I spot someone lay face down on the pavement with his feet in the gutter. I immediately thought "oh no - he must be dead". We both approached him. He looked like he had a shaved head and was wearing a bomber jacket of some description. When I got to within 4 or 5 yards of him, he let out a loud snore.

"He's pissed" I expertly concluded. We passed him by.

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Last night we went to the weekly quiz in local number one. Our next door neighbour joins us most weeks.

"Hey we saw you last Friday night near the chippy, had you passed an old bloke face down on the floor?"

An 'old bloke'? What does he mean 'old bloke'?

"We passed a bloke yeah, but he wasn't old, he had a shaved head and a bomber jacket. He was pissed as a fart".

"No he wasn't. We passed you in the car and then passed the bloke. C made me stop the car and investigate. We think he'd had a heart-attack. C gave him mouth-to-mouth till the ambulance arrived. They took him off but I think he was dead". He was ninety.

"Ninety? He couldn't be..... He had a shaved head and........."

"He was bald - not shaved".

"But he was dressed.. well.... young".

"He was wearing carpet slippers".

Carpet slippers? How the hell had I missed them? He just looked.... YOUNG. I can only repeat it. He just appeared young.

"But he was snoring - we heard him".

"Snoring?"

"Well yeah... well he snored once anyway".

Oh bollocks. Had I mistaken a death-rattle for a snore? Would he have lived if we had intervened? I don't know. The next door neighbour probably got to him about one minute after we passed so there wouldn't have been that much of a time lag. Dearest and I wouldn't have been able to give him mouth-to-mouth either so perhaps it was for the best that it wasn't us who tried to help him.

But I can't help thinking I'm somehow responsible. Why did I automatically assume he was pissed? Why didn't I stop and think and make sure he was ok? It's because I stereotyped him. I thought it was just someone acting Chav-ish on a Friday night and drinking too much and I thought "I'm not getting involved 'cos your an arsehole".

But it wasn't a smashed Chav, it was a ninety year old (but he DID look young from the back) looking for the lid off his new re-cycling bin.

But Chav or Old 'un I should have stopped to help.

Some fucking Good Samaritan I'd have made.

Elephant

Not a lot to add really.

Not a lot to add here either.

Is this really a shock?

Al Jazeera was the place to be George. Couldn't stomach it eh?

Down Where the Drunkards Roll

I went to the dogs last night. Y'know greyhounds legging it after a pretend hare in the name of good, clean fun. By the time we got to race eight, I had come to the sensible conclusion that I would no longer indulge in picking two random numbers and putting my hard-earned on the dogs attached to said numbers. I guess I saved myself £30.

I took myself off for a tour of the grandstand and track. It really does attract a strange amalgam of folk from all walks of life. Rich, poor, educated, uneducated, couth, uncouth, young, old... everything. Most of 'em had one thing in common though: alcohol. They were full of the stuff. Plastic glasses housing mainly lager but some bitter and various alcopops for the women and children. Some high spirits from the rare racegoers and nervous swigging from the hardened gamblers eyeing the screens (not the track - never the track). All told there must've been a few thousand punters throwing money at the bookies like it had gone out of fashion.

The first race was at 7:20pm - we arrived at about 7:15pm and the place was packed. The drinking had obviously started much earlier as most were already glassy-eyed. Shaved heads wherever you looked. Tattoos. Baseball caps not allowed so I guess their best Burberry was left at home. A sense of menace.

I went for a pee. There were two blokes having a 'quiet discussion'. In their late thirties early forties they were, Ben Sherman shirts not tucked in. Levis and highly polished shoes. Earrings and facial jewellry. They differed from most of the crowd as they had hair. Gelled and spikey - too young a style that highlighted the onset of age betrayed by their faces and necks.

"I'll tell yer who causes all the fuckin' trouble....."

"Who?"

"Fuckin' Doreen....that cow's an evil bitch. Fuckin' bitch."

"Fuck off yer twat my Doreen's all right, it's your fuckin' missus who's the fuckin' evil bitch. She's a fuckin' witch."

I stood, dick in hand, willing every nerve in my body to finish urinating before it kicked off big time. But they seemed content with just badmouthing each other's women. Either that or they were just too pissed to fight. It was with relief though that I finished shaking, zipped up, washed and fled.

Bored with giving boomakers our money and less than impressed with the waitress 'service', we buggered off around ten and went back the the local for a few. Match of the day was a pleasure to watch this week as City did the unthinkable by winning at home and United lost to Blackburn. All we need now is a Bolton win against Leeds today and its Premiership football next year for the boys in blue.***

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There's a lot of people queuing up to cast doubt on the veracity of these images of British squaddies abusing their Iraqi captive. Too many in my opinion. All falling over themselves to cast doubt. Nobody has actually stated that they believe the images are fake, they just report that some ex-servicemen seem to think that the lorry they were photographed in isn't standard issue and from that we have an unspoken assumption that they aren't authentic. I've not seen the names of these faceless ex-soldiers printed anywhere, just references to them. Others have expressed the opinion that the images look staged. I must admit that yes they do but I still wouldn't like to bet that they were set up.

It sounds to me like a classic bit of spin is going on here. Apart from the Mirror group who first published the pictures, all other news reports are now centered on the authenticity of them. Suddenly that's the story. Not the mistreatment of the poor bastard or the fact that photographs were taken.

***UPDATE*** Bolton hammer Leeds and City are now safe. Bye bye Leeds. The party starts now. Yee Haa!

Now we're safe I just hope Keegan gives some of our young reserves a run out. There's something about Academy kids coming through the ranks and playing in the first team. Shaun Wright-Phillips and Joey Barton have both added plenty of skill and determination to the team this season and last so here's hoping the likes of Stephen Jordan, Stephen Elliot, Willo Flood, Lee Croft and Mikkel Bischoff all get a chance.