Lost in France

Back in the days when my Dad was still active, Dearest and I, along with Eldest and Youngest, accompanied him and my Mam on a fortnight’s holiday in a Gite near Coutance in Normandy. We took two cars, Mam and Dad following Dearest and myself on the long trip down to Portsmouth, onto the ferry and then the 100 or so miles to our destination. A good time was had by all with all the usual Frenchified shenanigans being experienced: good, cheap wines, excellent food and surly Frenchmen. My father didn’t help of course, his absolute refusal to use one word of French certainly did nothing to improve the already well-established Gallic hatred of “les Anglaise”.

There was one guy though – a near neighbour – who was helpful, friendly and courteous. He must’ve been in his late 70s and he probably thought he’d seen and heard all the world could throw at him until that fateful night when two crazy English women appeared at his farmhouse door, miles from anywhere, miming the unmistakeable routine of giving someone a blowjob.

It all started sometime during the second week of the holiday. All six of us had been to Caen and as we were getting in our cars my Dad said he would probably be needing petrol soon. There was a petrol station not far from the Gite, he said he’d fill up there.

I slowed down outside the petrol station – little more than a village shop really, with a few pumps. I watched as an old woman shuffled out to my father, before setting off home.

After half an hour or so Mam and Dad still haven’t appeared. It’s only a five minute drive to the petrol station. Something was wrong.

Sure enough five minutes later my Mother turns up on foot in tears.

“The car’s broke down, your Dad thinks the Frenchwoman’s filled it with diesel.”

Now I know there’s a certain leftover animosity between the English and French and a history of fisticuffs from Agincourt to Napoleon, but filling a hapless tourist’s automobile with the wrong fuel smacks of taking things a tad too far.

We all toddled off to push the dadmoblile home.

Further interrogation of my father (after he’d stopped cursing the entire French race), revealed that he’s pulled up at a pump clearly marked “Gazole” and said “fill her up”. Hmmmmmmmm.

Anyway, the recriminations would have to wait. The important thing was to get the offending crap out of the car. But how? After an hour or so of pissing about with various ideas and devices, we hit upon a solution.

We attached jump leads between the two cars, kept my engine ticking over and my Dad kept turning the ignition key in his. We had detached the fuel supply so every time the ignition was turned a small amount of diesel would be ejaculated. Trouble was we had nothing to put it in and nothing to transfer it from the fuel pump.

We realised we need a large receptacle and, crucially, a tube or hose or somesuch to siphon the gazole into it.

Cue my Mam and Dearest setting forth to other houses in the vicinity hoping against hope that someone had a smattering of English.

‘Twas not to be.

Most of the places they tried were empty – including the nearby owners of our holiday home. Eventually they stumble across the old farmer’s place. After a while he opens the door to find two women gabbling away in a foreign language. He probably guessed it was English but he certainly didn’t understand it.

My mother attempted to use the time-honoured English method of communicating with other races: talking slowly and loudly – as though to a simpleton.

No dice.

Becoming increasing desperate, and liberally sprinkling their speech with “le car est broke” and “le car est kaput”, they eventually donned white-face and began their infamous attempt to make him understand thay they needed a tube or something through which they could siphon. How to mime siphoning? It’s easy. You just position your hands as though holding a tube and start sucking.

Apparently his eyebrows shot a foot off the top of his head. It was few seconds before Dearest and my Mother realised the signals they were sending out and quickly stopped before bursting into laughter. Fortunately the old guy laughed as well (possibly in anticipation – who knows?).

Eventually, with the help of a pen and paper, he understood and accompanied them back to our Gite with a massive bucket and a long hose. Once he saw what we were doing he pissed himself and walked away laughing and muttering indecipherable French interspersed with frequent use of “gazole”.

It took eight hours to empty the tank. Eight fuckin’ hours.

Then I had the unenviable task of acquiring a few litres of “essence avec plomb” in order to get dad’s car back to the petrol place and filling it up correctly.

But that’s another story.

Us And Them

Certain occurencies have pissed me off these past few days.

First off Arsenal, Mike Riley and whoever was running the line and disallowed our goal. Why is it that "big clubs" always seem to get the benefit of the doubt when it comes to borderline decisions? We should've got something from that game - in fact we could've won it. Grrrr.****

Then I call in a traditional chippy - fish 'n' chips being required - and a girl of about fifteen years of age asks for "chips to go". To go? To-fuckin'-go? You're in Manchester dear, not fuckin' downtown Chicago. It's "a portion of chips to take out please" round here, not "chips to go". To go? I ask yer? It'll be "chips to go and hold the vinegar" next, followed by prom queens, sophomore years and trick or treat some other creeping Americanism that Chantelle saw at the "movies" or read about in "Chav Monthly." Double grrrrrrrr.

If that wasn't bad enough, the Iron Poodle announces plans for the "pivotal" and "irreversible" reforms of the school system, driven by the needs of the pupils Big Business/Faith organisations and other insidious, unelected, unnacountable sets of twats the length and breadth of the English bit of this Sceptered Isle.

Anyone familiar with this blog will know how much "faith" and its attendent medievilism pisses me off. When that medievilism creeps into the heart of the Cabinet it scares the pants off me. When that medievilism is rammed down the throats (probably in more ways than one - allegedly) in "Faith Schools", I despair.

What it is about so-called educated men and women who, when faced with something that mankind can't explain (yet), automatically jump to the conclusion that there's a fucking all-seeing, all-knowing alien who has set it all up to test the faithful? If you are that educated can you please explain exactly why this omniscient smartarse would bother with such an anal enterprise? I'm sick of asking the question, I really am.

As for the well-known altruistic leanings of Big Business, well, all I can say is, I've worked for two multinational companies in the last 30 years of my working life and when it comes altruism, there's a limit, and you would be surprised just how low the bar is on that limit.

In the past I've become involved - indeed in one case - helped introduce and instigate a "PCs/networks and expertise into local schools" - initiative. All's fine until the company decided the budget needs tightening and, believe me, they drop their "charitable work" (their description - not mine) immediately.

Same with a local Hospice we promised were ordered to help. We were very reluctant to get involved. It's a natural reaction after you expend so much energy and enthusiasm - only for the rug to be pulled from under your feet after months of effort. Nonetheless the Company promised much and insisted they wouldn't - indeed couldn't, on account of matters of conscience - raise people's hopes so high - only to dash them at the slightest hint of a downturn in trade.

Nonetheless they did., and it still shames me to my shoes whenever I bump into the fundraiser for that hospice. I've explained, he's listened and accepted that "that's life" because he's more of a human-being than any of faceless arseholes, desperate to make-it-to-the-top, will ever be. I still feel like a complete and utter twat though.

So, sorry Tone but, forgive me if I don't put quite as much "faith" in the greedy gits anxious to "raise the corporation's profile" and reap the reward via enhanced brand awareness and a steady stream of unquestioning, Orwellian cannon-fodder; available to replace the worn out automatons who left school and joined Big Business on temporary contracts with promises of future wonderfulness the year before.

One question. Did Margaret suggest all this to you last week at her 80th?

Grrrr. Grrrrrrrrr. GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

**** One thing I did enjoy about the Arsenal v City game was that City, for the last 15 minutes of the match had no less than six academy lads playing against Arsenal! Arsenal didn't have one Brit in the team or, crucially, on the bench.

I know which I'd like to watch and, I suspect, a lot more fans of the beautiful game probably feel the same.

Ey Tarquin... are yer trolleys on't right way round?

I'm right pissed off. Earlier, as I re-acquainted myself with Ale-Fan's re-invigorated blog I became all nostialgic after Mr Fan utilised the name "Boddingtons" as a bench mark for crap beer. I penned a blogsworth of reminiscence of the great beers of Manchester's recent past. From Boddies, through Wilsons, Oldham Brewery (OB), Chesters, Robinsons and a few others. In the interests of balance, I added a devastating critique of the wasteland we now call the "modern brewing industry."

The comment got chewed. Fuck

One of my earliest jobs was at a local engineering factory. Every Friday dinnertime the local pub would be overwhelmed by hairy-arsed fitters, turners, millers, labourers and *ahem* efette office-types. My first week, the bloke I worked with with got me in there at 11:55am. I walkede in this huge North Manchester pub and the bar was chock full of more pints of pale yellow Boddies (not unlike clear-as-crystal piss actually) than I'd ever seen in my life. Ten minutes later, the lot was gone and the second helpings were being ordered.

It was nectar Boddies. It was gorgeous petal. These days, It's just "Redibrew." It tastes just like effervescent piss actually - but there you go. Progress eh? Today we are served up "lifestyle" drink choices from the Pale-as-piss modern Boddies all the way through to WKD. End result? Ooooh, about three or four multinationals purchasing ingredients, brewing, wholesaling and retailing an alcoholic-lifestyle-choice. And, incidentally, screwing anybody smaller into the dirt, shutting 'em down or takin' them over.

One of the first go where I live was OB (Oldham Breweries). Ironically taken over by Boddingtons when the first batch of be-suited, asset-stripping, Thatcherite twats arrived on the Manchester/Salford border. Now OB was a good drink. Cheap as well. Sadly long gone though. "Oldham Bitter" - doesn't look good on a can in a supermarket does it?

And all the rest followed. Now all these chain-pubs are trying to make out they're different. How do they do this? Well first off they install a 29 year old couldn't-give-a-shit/ambitilous-as-buggery/female-but-usually-male clone who is "enthusiastic". Next up the quiz night is introduced and an android delivers questions from a "Happy-as-fuck", head-office produced, quiz sheet that's "not too taxing". Twenty questions will do - we don't want them thinking too hard, they'll stop drinking multi-coloured drinks.

Then the Karaoke arrives. More enforced "jollity". Fuck right off. Pubs are places where, sometimes, someone wants to stare into the bottom of a glass and hate the world. Next thing you've got Gavin, Lou or Becky thrusting a well-worn folder in your hand, chock full of banal shite that even Engelbert Humpledink - or, indeed, Paul McCartney - wouldn't dream of touching with a barge pole.

Then they shut down for a bit for refurbishing. This is, apparently, guaranteed to make the pub a total and utter success on re-opening - because it will be equipped with a fabulous, state of the art kitchen manned by straight out of the local comprehensive, nose-picking, "who's-Tony-Blair?", cutting-edge chefs whose wonderful "all-day-breakfasts" are on a par with Jamie Olivier's.

Eventually, the kitchen closes, the quizzes become even simpler and the karaoke is almost constant modern R&B/RAP. The happy "hours" start to stretch the concept of time and the slow drift into "'allo, is that the brewery? Is there any chance of you providing shutters for the windows?" Begins.

All that's left in Manchester these days are Lees and Holts. Neither "travel", believe me. And both are acquired tastes. I have to say if you get a good one you'll be hooked forever.

But you won't get it in a can.

Family Affair

Well. Monday night on More4 is become required viewing. Last week we were entertained on the Blunkett-go-round, and this week Capturing The Friedmans made an appearance.

Now this is a quality documentary. Intelligent use of modern interview and contemporary home movies/videos/audio made this a gripping two hours of TV. Furthermore, it's wonderful that this is shown - prime time as-it-were on a new commercial TV station dedicated to "adult entertainment".

For those who haven't seen it, the basics are: an upper middle-class jewish family, with a penchant for recording most of their lives on super 8, video and audio tape, implode under the weight of more allegations of the sexual abuse of minors than you could shake a stick at.

Three things struck me as I watched this evening.

First: the need for the father and the three sons to document their lives to the extent that they did. The father hammed it up whilst out on bail, the youngest son - who was also accused - felt the need to dance and mug to the camera on the steps of the court whilst waiting for the verdict that he had a pretty good idea would send him down for a long time. The entire family screaming at each other as lines were drawn and a no man's land formed between the genders. All of them (father excluded - he died, according to his death certificate, of an overdose of something-or-other, although his brother or one of his kids stated he died of an unexpected heart attack earlier in the film), felt the need to be interviewed throughout the judicial process and after.

Second: I couldn't shake off the feeling that each and every person interviewed had an agenda. The polarity between prosecution and defence was understandable but, on this occasion, they were miles apart. Charges from the police of 100s of incidents of actual forced buggery of kids who attended a computer class at the accused's home. No physical evidence was produced and, for all the time the classes were running, not one kid raised a complaint. Statements from a defence lawyer that one of Friedman's sons admitted his father abused him (denied by the abused later) also felt odd. I should've believed the lawyer, but too many *hmmmmmms* were playing about my lips.

Third: Why the need for exposure? The eldest son has become a clown (errm y'know; red nose, daft clothes, entertains kids - there's one of those *hmmmmmms* again.) He stated that if anyone - in his profession - got a whiff of the scandal surrounding his father, he'd be out of business. Yeah, right, so take part in a documentary about it, given the fact you live in New York, nobody you know will be aware of it I'm sure.

Ahhh, garbled crap most of that, and I haven't even touched on the fact that Daddy Friedman used to be the leader of a mambo band in the late 40s early 50s.

Seriously though that was quality televisin, and most welcome. God bless Freeview!

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Me Mam and Dad live in warden-controlled flats these days. A few months ago a temporary warden was installed while the regular holidayed. The temp got involved with all her charges and ascertaind that Mater and Pater were paying too much out each week in rent and council tax.

So she organises a clever bugger with a nose for benefits to come and interview them. The next thing you know their rent has gone from nearly £60 a week to £17. On top of that they have received a cheque for £1300 for overpaid rent, and £700 for overpayment of council tax. They've not got many Christmases left, but at least they won't be scrimping and scraping this year.

The fact remains though, that if they're entitled to all that now, they were entitled to it years ago. Why should the onus be on the poor bugger paying out week after week, year after year to get professional advice just to claim what they're entitled to?

Sort it Blair.

Hurt

My monthly copy of Word arrived a couple of days ago. A fabulous read that mixes the best of the new with a lot of the best of the past. On top of that, each copy drops through the letterbox with a CD full of delight, as well as shite, every month.

This month's CD reaquainted me with Jackie Leven, a Scottish Romany ex-leader of Doll By Doll - one of eighties rock music's many footnotes. He's also a big mate of Ian Rankin. I had heard some of his solo stuff on Cooking Vinyl's esoteric samplers, usually given away with mags such as Froots and the like. I must admit he intrigues me with individual tracks, but every time I have delved deeper, he disappoints.

Today, the free CD was no exception. Once again the magnificence of the free track:- - "Elegy For Johnny Cash" - embarrassed the rest of the stuff on the album. The free track actually convinced me to download (legally) the rest of his opus: and what a load of average bollox the rest of his opus was. Sad, but c'est la vie. In future I'll just thank my lucky stars that the man repeatedly gives away the best of his work via the monthly music glossies.

But listening to today's freebie, I was caught in that no-mans-land of absolute surrender. On the verge of tears I was - what a strange amalgam of styles. Blurred vision led me to Mr Leven's explanation of why the music sounded familiar but strangely odd. (Or should that be Strangely Strange But Oddly Normal?) It was recorded in Lebanon and mixed in Wales.

One of the guys he played with in Lebanon had never heard of Mr Cash - Jackie explains:-

ELEGY FOR JOHNNY CASH - Elegiac more than a true elegy, i wanted to write one last song for Johnny Cash to sing and for the song to speak of the whole of his life. This sprang from my complete respect for the last recordings he made with Rick Rubin. There was a beautiful moment in recording when Mixalis Kataxanis, the Greek 'Rembetiko' style viola player felt he could not play on the song as its genre was so far removed from his playing experience, and further, he did not understand who Johnny Cash was.

I showed him the towering video of Johnny Cash singing 'HURT'. At the end, he just nodded and returned to the studio to play...

That reference to the video for Hurt sent me scurrying round t'internet to find it again. I've not seen it for two years. I found it. Once again, the tears flowed. Watch it. Listen. A man laid bare.

And you can have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt

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Bollocks. 3:15am and I'm wide awake and full of Stella Artois. Prognosis = lazy day tomorrow. With a bit of luck the sum total of my effort will be taking the shit-machine for a crap late on saturday night. iPod on I reckon. Listen to some Jackie Leven, Dr Strangely Strange and The Archies. (One of them was a joke).

I Can See Clearly Now

Well, I settled down to watch A Very Social Secretary this evening. Bernard Hill as David Blunkett was uncanny. It was HIM. he had every nuance of the erstwhile home secretary's behaviour down to the last strangled giggle. Robert Lindsay, as Tony, also, I though, managed to convey the strange amalgam of forcefullness, timidity and cowardice that I have always believed God's right-hand man (after Dubya)was manufactured from.

A witty script should also be applauded. Clap.

But the "thick Northener" always out for a scrap was lazy writing in my opinion. "D'yer think yer can tek on a Sheffield lad"? Laughable. And the idea that a Northener had never experienced oral (or, in Blunkett's case, aural) sex before, was hard to believe. I can understand that shagging the night away in a little cottage provided by aristocracy just might have an edge on downing pints of best in a Sheffield Working Man's Club with overweight, intellectually challenged drunks, but, purlease, is everyone south of Watford as rich as Croesus and blessed with the social skills of Gore Vidal? I don't think so, otherwise they wouldn't be planning to rebuild that pointless pier at Saaarfend for the third time in twenty years or so.

So, c'mon, let's debunk this everything south = good; everything north = bad shall we. I know you're a scriptwriter/musician/playright/designer/politician/Richard and Judy but, FFS, catch a train/plane/camel/National Express and experience life - yes life, it DOES exist - elsewhere. Mind you, not too many of you, we don't want you artificially inflating house and beer prices by moving up here because it only takes 30 minutes to travel 20 miles - from the centre of a city!

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It's good to see a free digital channel opening on Freeview that offers some thought-provoking programmes. I guess the last was BBC4, and very good it is too - certainly better than the numerous "Price-Drop", "QTV" and various other bags of shopping crap that have proliferated since the service started and we were told that there would be very few shopping channels cluttering up the bandwidth.

Some decent films and documentaries coming up as well. So check out the schedule in the link above.

Nighty Night. (Still crap).

Bits And Pieces

A few observations.

Little Britain is actually shite. Canned laughter so we can recognise the repetitive and profoundly unfunny jokes. Yeah but, no but yeah - honest.

Nighty Night - latest flagbearer of BBC Three's "comedy" blockbuster - is purely and simply adolescent. Unbelievingly unfunny and unbelievingly crude. Please, somebody out there explain what I'm missing. Or am I just old?

Personally, my money's on the "Nighty Night is shit" ticket.

But please - feel free to argue.......

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George Bush and Tony praying. Y'know when I vote for a Party to govern my life for the next few years, I don't expect the leader of that Party to believe in fairy stories, voodoo, alien abductions or any other nonsense. When that leader teams up with a man who believes God talks to him and gets down on his knees to talk to God as well I conclude that he is as mad as a fish. Retire soon please Tony I've had enough.

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Question Time's Greatest Hits. Quality.

These Boots Were Made For Walking

Dearest has always had a problem acquiring footwear that fits. She reckons she has a broad foot. I reckon she's just scared of a little pain or, as Dearest calls it "searing pain". "Wear 'em in", I say "they'll be right as rain in a couple of days and you'll be able to walk round places like Venice photographing washing. Just like in the photograph on the left."

But no, it's not good enough. The shoes/boots/sandals/flip-flops have to be returned and Dearest, once again has to schlepp around in old shoes until she chances upon the next magical pair that she a)likes and b)receives no pain from.

This week she's surpassed herself. She bought a pair of high heels from some shop or other but after wearing them for while she realised the left one was bit tight. "They'll have to go back" she said. However a day or two later she sees the same pair in another shop and tries them on. The right is too tight but the left is perfect. So she buys them, brings them home and marries the right shoe from pair one with left shoe from pair two. Result. All she has to do now is take left shoe/pair one and right shoe/pair two back for a refund at shop one - or two. She's not made her mind up yet.

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Bloody hell Ken Russell's still reasonably alive and well and still desperately attempting to get financial backing for his celluloid ambitions. Failing that he's got a novel that's been rejected by publishers far and wide. 78 and still at it. Nice one Ken.

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Looks like an autumnal night in tonight. Copious amounts of vin rouge and a DVD or two. The question is what to watch? Lined up and ready to go are Death in Venice, Ladies in Lavender or The Madness of King George (free in today's Guardian). Mind you our time is our own, we could watch all three if we start early enough and take the shit machine out during the intervals. Couldn't we?