Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft

Dearest and I are off this week so a trip to Manchester was on today's agenda. As is usual, the moment we arrived we split up. If there's one thing that familiarity has bred in us it's a healthy understanding that shopping together usually results in blood being spilled. (Mine more often than not).

I headed off to Waterstones to cash in my Xmas book tokens. 3 for 2 offers wherever you looked so I grabbed a copy of Dylan's Chronicles and a few others and sauntered outside to listen to a jazzy duo in the spring sunshine that dappled St Ann's Square.

After half an hour or so I ambled down St Ann's Street towards Deansgate and stopped to look at the sporting and cinema-related overpriced tat highly collectible memorabilia before the rendevous with Dearest. As I turned the corner of the shop to look at the window that butts onto the side street I almost bumped into a Time Lord. Doctor Who was there in front of me in all his Mancunian/Salfordian ordinariness throwing an empty sandwich wrapper into a rubbish skip. At least I think it was a rubbish skip and not some portal into a parallel universe. Come to think of it - was it really a sandwich wrapper? We may never know.

I stood staring at him - and him at me. I was thinking "I know this guy from somewhere". He was probably thinking "who's this fucking nutter and why's he staring at me as though he's about to say 'alright mate, how's it going, long time no see' or something". Then it hit me. It's Doctor fucking Who and here I am staring at him with a half smile playing about my lips. Luckily an old dear called him, although she didn't call him "Doctor" but "Chris". A bit over familiar when addressing a Time Lord I thought but then again he could have been lying low. He nodded at me as though acknowledging gratefully that I hadn't blown his cover and melted into the crowd arm in arm with his latest 'assistant'.

Must tell Youngest's Darlin' that I've met Christopher Ecclestone and his mam in the flesh. She'll be green with envy. She considers him to be serious eye-candy.

One Of Those Days In England

A pleasant change today as I took myself off to Boundary Park to watch Oldham Athletic take on the might of Hull City in a relegation/promotion dog fight. I've been starved of live football for the past few weeks due to a combination of City playing away and Internationals interfering with the domestic fixture list.

I love the atmosphere in these lower division clashes. The parochialness (is that a word?), the shabbiness of the grounds, the fervour of the supporters. Hull, for example, brought 3,000+ to the match today and they were in fine voice even when their team had fallen behind and they knew that their tenure at the top of the division was probably about to end. Oldham, by comparison are fighting for every point they can muster to keep themselves in their current division. You could sense the tension in the crowd, the baited breath, the explosions of fury at every disputed decision that went the way of the opposition.

I sat with Higher-Than-a-Ten John and his wife. The Easter Monday sky above was heavy and threatening and the flood lights were needed as kick off approached. British Summer Time my arse! In stark contrast to the City of Manchester stadium where my seat is on the back row of the third tier, my seat today was a mere 15 feet from the touchline. You can hear every curse, every crunching tackle, you can see the effort and determination etched in the faces of the players. The winces of pain. The sweat and the snot.

The spectators provided a running commentary peppered with the sort of witty dialogue that the likes of Bennett, Tinniswood and Nobbs would kill for. The players and officials can probably hear every word too which makes half the stuff even funnier.

Anyway, for Oldham a 1-0 win and another 3 points in the bag. For me? One of those days in England: full of nostalgia, full of inner happiness. Full.

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And then, after we had eaten we turn on the TV and there's a tsunami alert after another earthquake off the coast of Indonesia. It's pretty much in the same place as the last and there's panic in Indonesia - Aceh in particular.

It's a good job it's just a natural phenomenon though isn't it? I mean, I'd hate to believe it was somehow all the work of an omnipresent creator wouldn't you?

I expect the Happy Clappys are already practicising their "He moves in mysterious ways" speeches ready to churn them out ad infinitum as and when. It's probably got something to do with the fact that we are all self-indulgent twats with no time for the One True God. Well, either that or he's upset at the outcome of the Schiavo appeal. It seems odd that he seems to moving mysteriously just after the Christian religion's most important dates in the calender - Christmas and Easter. No doubt the Muslim Not-Happy-and-definitely-not-Clappys will be reading significance into that.

At least this time round the poor bugger's have had some warning. Warnings provided by the endeavours of the scientific community I might add - not a fucking Angel or 'owt like that.

As my old mate Couldn't-Give-a-Shit-Mick used to say:

"If - and it's a fuckin' big if - God exists, then he's a twat pure and simple."

Jesus might be wanting me for a Sunbeam

I'm back and I'm truly, deeply and indeed, madly dis-a-fucking-pointed. For the first time in my life I have witnessed a local church being extended FFS! Extended! Furthermore it's of the happy, clappy, born again, in-yer-face persuasion. This can only mean one thing: happy clappy types knocking on my front door - MY FRONT DOOR - to tell me how I too can become a smug bastard like they are. Happy in the deranged certainty that they are most definately going to Heaven after they are through with this veil of tears. Well, if any of you are reading this - YOU CAN FUCK RIGHT OFF. I've got a dog now and I won't hesitate to set it on you, you pious, patronising set of outright twats. Mind you, the dog'll probably lick 'em to death. Then again she might've just finished licking her arse - *grin*

The 21st century - the 21st friggin' century - and churches are expanding. whatever happened to the Enlightenment? Churches on one hand and mosques on the other. I can't get away from the medievil tossers...therefore I'm off out for a pint and the football.

That'll upset the fuckers.

All We Are Saying.........

....is give Pearce a chance. But first......*clears throat*...Happy Blogday to me, happy Blogday to me, happy Blogday OccupiedCountry, happy Blogday to me. Yes it's been two years to the very day that I decided to join the blogosphere. And what a two years it's been. Some good, some bad, mostly just middling. On the whole though, it's been fun. At the moment however I've hit a fallow patch so I think I'll just hang loose for a while.

See you soon.

Hellhound on my Trail

Good grief. I've just received this month's pulsating copy of The Word and who's in it but the bloody PM. Everywhere I go at the moment the bugger's following me about with a 'vote for me' glint in his beady little eye.

He's talking to Mark Ellen erstwhile member of Ugly Rumours and musical colleague of the aforementioned politician. And what's he talking about? The music he grew up with, the bands he used to go and see and his aspirations of being a rock star. He was lead singer in the group and - from what I've read - very much the product of the musical era he grew up in. Mark Ellen explains:-

"I think it only fair that WORD readers should get a precise mental image of their Prime Minister onstage in a rock band. And here it is - in possibly too much detail. The opening number was always 'Honky Tonk Women' - Jim on the cowbell, then the guitar, then the bassline, then we gave you the nod and in you came from the wings - dressed in and this may be stressful - a hoop-necked - T-shirt, massive flares and long hair with a fringe at the front. One hand on the hip, Jagger-style, and a wagging finger. I may be exaggerating - but only slightly - when I recall that your opening words on one occasion were "Well awright Corpus Christi Alternative College Ball, we are the Ugly Rumours!"

The first concert he ever saw was Ten Years After, he listened to King Crimson, The Doobie Brothers, The Incredible String Band, Tyrannosaurus Rex and went to see Atomic Rooster, The Who, Free and Wishbone Ash.

That's my Prime Minister proving to me just how OLD I am. My Prime Minister listening to all that stuff I - and many others of my ilk - listened to. Can't imagine the Harolds MacMillan or Wilson ever having their heads turned by anything but the prospect of high office. Although Wilson successfully pinned himself to the coat-tails of Beatlemania, I bet he hated everything they did - apart from, maybe, "When I'm Sixty Four".

And Tony still hankers. He sent Bono a photograph of him (Bono) addressing the Labour Party Conference with himself (Tony) in the background. And a note: "it should have been the other way round".

I bet Neil Kinnock's rigid with envy, Prime Minister AND able to use the phrase "Well Awlriiiiight" in its proper context.

Ahhhh. Jeeeez. Shucks. I might vote for him after all.

I've Got To Get A Message To You

Right, I've finally said "so long" to Haloscan as my comments provider as they tend to dump all comments after a few months. They probably want untold amounts of moolah, greenbacks, dough, bread, coin, drafts and notes to keep them a little longer so they can bugger off. I have enabled Blogger's own comments system for, as far as I can tell, reading the small print, those comments are permanent. So go on, get a message to me and leave something to be unearthed by digital archaeologists in 2105.

This telephone box on the left is about half a mile from my house. Somehow it survived the wholesale destruction of such boxes way back when. A few years ago there was a rumour it was to be replaced. The locals however, were up in arms against the idea. I'm glad they won. I don't even know if it works and I - and the locals too I shouldn't wonder - will probably never need to use it. It just looks good and reminds us older folk of the days when it was still bliss in that dawn to be alive. Of Two-Way Family Favourites, The Billy Cotton Bandshow and pimply National Servicemen wishing Mum, Dad and sister Carol all the best from some BFPO on the frontline of the Cold War. Who remembers the A and B buttons? I wonder what sort of dial-up connection we would've got all those years ago?

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Time to leave these warm premises in order to take our canine bundle of fun and happiness for its nightly lead-pulling, pavement-fouling, discarded-fast-food-grabbing, human (I think)-sick-eating, total-disregard-of-"Master" drag walk. Fortunately the iPod comes into its own at times like this. Match the clothing to the weather, stick those tell-tale earphones in, set it to 'shuffle' and off I go. Oblivious to man, beast - or mugger.

After that, back home for a last beer, some late night aural delight and then bed for a sound night's sleep with only good dreams.

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Dearest woke early this morning and pottered about the house like she normally does. No massive pain after the knee-op at all. Later she absconded with Eldest to choose some furniture for his new house. It looks like he'll be out of here in a few weeks. The last to fly the nest. Sheesh it only seems two-minutes ago I was telling him to act his age. Oh, hang about, that was a few minutes ago - just before he headed to Manchester to meet a frustrated Youngest as he arrived back from Man United's failure to beat ten-man Crystal Palace.

The two of them are in Rockworld at this very moment with a gaggle of mates, phoning me and texting me, letting me know what they are listening to in the deepness of their inebriation. Kids eh?

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Anyone else out there already bored shitless by the juvenile shenanigans of our two major political parties? 'Cos I am and I'll tell you this: If I - a political animal in many respects - am bored, then 75% of the bloody country must be. The argument has all the finesse of a playground fracas. "You started it", "no I didn't", "yes you did", "didn't", "did", "didn't", "did", "didn't", "did", "didn't", "did", "didn't", "did". Everything is spun, on all sides - and I include the Lib Dems in this. Every politician is so frightened to death of saying anything 'off message', controversial or thought-provoking that the whole process has atrophied.

And they wonder why nobody's paying attention?

Arf!

World On Fire

Credit where it's due, but....altruistic gesture or clever marketing ploy? After all, how often does Ms McClachlan need a 'big-time' video for her down-home, folky offerings? Still at least that's $149,985 to the world's poor although it strikes me that it wasn't just Sarah who worked cheap. Somebody videoed her lip-synch. Somebody else synched the lip. An artistic type produced the graphics. Somebody, somewhere lent his or her editing skills to the whole kit and kaboodle. Yet another prepared it for the web....the list goes on.

None of 'em mentioned in dispatches.

Unless, of course, Sarah is a Multimedia wizard who can turn her hand at anything?

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Well anther day with Dearest being rent asunder by blokes with knives. Her knee this time so not as traumatic as the great hysterectomy fright of 2003. She still had to undergo full anesthetic though. Which ALWAYS scary.

Because it was a simple operation, the NHS sub-contracted it out to a private place in Pendlebury. Private room with TV, shower, toilet, bath. Fully automated bed. A la carte menu (with wine at a reasonable tenner a bottle), plus a million operatives constantly traipsing in and out to verify that all the light bulbs were working, there was enough toilet paper, the bathroom was clean, there was enough shower gel or hair shampoo or shower caps or............

When all Dearest actually wanted was to get it over with.

Twelve-o-clock we got there - as instructed. The clock struck five before Dearest disappeared into theatre. I finally got her back home at half-past-eleven.

With a really fat knee.

How Come

Well, back to the training course today for a little more nonsense masquerading as “instruction”.

The course was held in a new, custom built office block erected on land that used to belong to Royal Ordnance. The much reduced Ordnance factory still manufactures what ordnance factories tend to manufacture about a quarter of a mile from where I sat frantically trying to think of things to do to keep me awake. It was hard but I think I managed it, although, at one point, I was very much aware of that “just woke up” feeling. Eyes suddenly wide open, brain thrutching like buggery to understand what had just happened and an obvious gap in logic between what the tutor had just said compared with what he was saying now.

Eventually the tutelage ended and us scholars packed up and headed home with a sigh of relief and a profound sense of two days of our precious lives wasted. Ho hum.

I got back to the office at about 5:00pm. I read my emails. I checked out the workload for tomorrow and, before I left, caught up with world events on the BBC website before pointing the Polo at North Manchester.

And that's when I read this. And I felt ashamed. Ashamed of moaning about naive training courses and all the rest of the work-related stuff I usually moan about. I thought of the car journey this morning. The jams on the M60 and M61. The jams getting off the M61. The endless queues as we approached the numerous roundabouts that are seemingly de rigueur in this part of the Red Rose County. I felt ashamed at my impotent raging against the machine that closes local offices and workshops; moves places of work a good 30, 40, 50 miles away; builds more motorways and “bypasses” to “ease” the traffic and forces the new proletariat to spend hundreds of pounds a month on cars and petrol in order to get to these new Jerusalems. I felt ashamed.

A woman at work died today. I bet she watched Eastenders last night, or bathed her kids (if she had any). She may have gone for a meal or drink with her boyfriend or husband. Perhaps she simply fell asleep on the sofa and woke, cursing at another lost evening, just after Newsnight. She got up this morning, showered and dressed – maybe thinking “I'm not keen on this top, I must go shopping at weekend”. She had probably traveled along the same roads as I did to get to the same place.

I made it back. She didn't.

Substitute

A pointless day today. An eighty mile round trip to partake of a Windows XP training course that wouldn't tax a three year old. I now know how to install it and add users. I'd love to say none of us knew that before we attended but I don't, with my hand on my heart, think I can. Y'see this is what happens when multinational corporations underbid for contracts in order to win them. They have to save a fuckin' lot of money, usually at the 'customer interface' end. Cue: redundancies, figure-fiddling and cutbacks, cutbacks, cutbacks. Seven of us dragged from all over Northern England to be patronised as a result of the client demanding some training be given to deal with the "new" operating system being deployed over the next few months.

Any self-respecting support person would have familiarised themselves with this ancient OS years ago surely? What we needed was an advanced, tailored to our particular network configuration, in-depth wallow. Not a friggin' Mickey-Mouse pile of crap that allows our Lords and Masters the right to say: "we invest in our people, look at all the courses we provide". Honestly, it wouldn't have taxed Noddy.

Back again tomorrow to learn how to switch the PC on. Probably.

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Last night Eldest and I trundled off to local number one to watch the Mighty Blues annihilate struggle against lowly opposition.

They didn't disappoint. 2-0 down after twenty minutes or so and we were both of the opinion that a profoundly embarrassing drubbing was on the cards. The ale flowed and was quaffed with all the urgency of the nerve-shredded City fan. So much so that by half-time we had drunk five pints each. Mind you, by half-time we had pulled it back to 2-2. More beer was required and acquired.

Then the most surreal thing I've ever seen occurred. Delia Smith of TV cook fame appeared on the pitch (she is a director of Norwich City FC BTW), and started to harangue the home fans for not getting behind the team. There she was - microphone in hand - shouting "WHERE ARE YOU? LET'S BE 'AVIN' YOU" at her own supporters. At first I thought "is this something to do with "Red Nose Day"? But then I remembered RND is strictly the Beeb. Mr Murdoch wouldn't get involved with that would he? Not enough profit.

Eldest got it right though: "Too much brandy in the pudding love". 'Nuff said.

Anyway, after Delia's inspirational girly, passionless, buttock-clenchingly awful, on-live-TV-seen-in-every-tap-room-in-the-land plea for atmosphere, the home crowd clammed up - more than likely bemused to fuck - and City went on to clinch the match with a Fowler scuff in the first minute of extra time. Quality.

Today the radio and newspapers have been full of Delia's faux pas. Still, we've all woken up the morning after regretting a few words spoken in haste and drink and had to deal with world's press haven't we?

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I'm back on a "jazz" kick at the moment. It's all Mr Metheny's fault. Bringing out intelligent albums with only one track on them, it shouldn't be allowed. But it has been allowed and I bought a copy and listened and loved and, as a result, I have dug out Miles and Louis and a few others. Retrospective bliss.

All those well-recorded brass instruments triggered a Pavlov-like 'let's look for more of the same' investigation of my extensive but haphazard CD, mini-disk and cassette collection. As usual serendipity* takes over and I rediscover gems from the past. Recently it has been Chicago. Often called the poor man's Blood, Sweat and Tears (who were actually shite), they were a force to be reckoned with between 1969 and 1971. Three double albums of hard rock, noodling jazz and catchy pop. Beautiful. If you ever want to hear some exquisite Jazz-rock with a pop sensibility (and some of the best horn arrangements in modern music) check out Chicago Transit Authority, Chicago II and Chicago III. Don't, and I mean DON'T, bother with anything else they ever did, for they embraced corporate America and disappeared up their own arses.

C'est la vie.

*What a gorgeous word to describe a gorgeous situation.