There was a moon and a streetlight, I didn't know I drank such a lot, Till I pissed a tequilla anaconda the full length of the parking lot...***

Wardle. Verb. To Wardle: To give the impression that you are aware of what is expected of you in the near future and to be prepared for whatever it is you are expected to do. [Negative]To be humiliatingly exposed as not being prepared whatsover and being a 100% sham. Wardling: The act of giving the impression you are fully prepared for what is to come. [Negative] The act of fucking up when it comes to the "ay lads ay".

Ahhh yes. Wardling. Named after Norman (Norrie) Wardle (circa 1954-) , 5th former at my school 1969-70. Norrie always reckoned he had the GCE exams sewn up. Well-prepared he reckoned he was. Never tired of telling all the rest of us that we should've started work on revision and the rest earlier.

Sadly Norman knew damn well he'd done fuck all.

First exam - Physics. 1:00pm exam starts. 1:10pm Wardle announces: "Sir, I've finished".

Geography. 10am exam starts. 10:15am Wardle announces: "Sir, I've finished".

English, well.......you get the picture.

He passed fuck all.

And that's how I feel with my Dad. I think I'm Wardling and soon these Emperor's clothes are just going to fall away.

It's hard enough seeing a loved one slowly and inexorably fade into the twilight without having to deal with all the crap that comes with it. I'm sick to death of being the stalwart for my mother, my brother and anybody else who feels the need for information, comfort or just confirmation that we're all mortal.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

---

You know, when you're faced with mortality and other matters of great import, what really puts things into perspective is the sight of grown men - millionaires many times over some of them - crying their sorry little hearts out because they got beat in a football competition. It's one of those pivotal moments in my love of Association Football. One of those distasteful images that will stick with me a long time. Along with some of the horrific stuff I experienced in the 70s that kept me away from football grounds for a long, long time. The likes of the entire England squad are nothing but mollycoddled, removed from reality tarts.

Football should be all about Saturday afternoons (City have already had 10 fixtures changed BEFORE XMAS to accomodate the voracious appetites of the Murdoch Empire). It should be about pride in acquiring the skill to play for a local club or - in your wildest dreams - your country. It should be about sportsmanship, fair play and honour. It should be about the ordinary fan being able to acquire tickets at a price reasonable enough to take his/her family to the match. It should be an expression of mankind's ability to play games that bring nations together. Jeux sans frontier. War without tears. It should a fucking joy from kick off to final whistle.

But it's been hijacked by the greed merchants, Murdoch, agents and the rest. It's frequently viewed as a cash cow (believe me all these protests of being skint in the Premiership don't wash - even towards the bottom end of the table) and the bog standard lover of the game/club/country is milked like a factory-farmed Ermintrude until, dessicated and shrivelled, a love of the game is kicked out of them just as efficiently as a "bovver boy" of the late 60s - early 70s.

Time to put football on the back burner for a while.

Having said that, I think Germany have really shone under that ex-cheat Klinsmann so, who knows, there may be hope for us all.

PS What I will share with you though is the utter hatred of all things Ronaldo here in Manchester. And I'm not talking City fans, but dyed in the wool Reds of long standing - 3 - 4 generations in some cases. Blokes boasting great grandads who stood on the terraces at Newton Heath. If he doesn't fuck off to Madrid, he's going to have a torrid season. I can't wait until he tips up at Eastlands. Heh heh heh heh heh............

---

So, after tea (dinner as it's called elsewhere in the world), I sat on the patio with a decent bottle of red and finished off "What a Carve Up" by Jonathon Coe. Superb book and a lovely, quiet, relaxing evening.

Later, as I took the shit-machine for her nightly..well..shit, I happened across 2 cars parked about 30 yards from the local Old Folks Home with their doors open and foul-mouthed hip hop blasting forth.

As they would probably say in France: "Wankeurs".

---

Muslim this, Christian that. Whenever do us Atheists get a look in?

---

*** Brownie points for whoever recognises the origin of the lyric.

Crossroads Blues

Here's small video I took of a busker in Amsterdam. I stayed and listened to three or four of his renditions. He was really good. He certainly knew his Robert Johnson and gave me carte blance to request whatever I wanted.

He got a generous donation in return.

---

I was out and about in the garden this morning photographing lilies in the early morning sun.



I haven't a clue what type of lily these are other than they look gorgeous.



A splash of colour can really lift the mood.



Later I finished concocting a nice bolognese sauce and it's now simmering away in the kitchen.



Mmmmmmmmmmmm.

---

I took the opportunity to avail myself of a free One months trial of Ancestry. It's an online service that allows you to access census returns, birth, marriage and death indexes etc. As a result, in less than one week, I've been able to trace my mother's side of the family back to an Ann Richardson born around 1812 in Bristol. In 1838 she gave birth to a son John in Liverpool - another port. Later she turns up in Stockport living with John and a "lodger" John Billingsly, a Porter from Worcestershire. Later still, she turns up living in Hulme, Manchester with a daughter Mary and a "visitor" William Green who was a plasterer from Yorkshire. After the 1871 census she disappears - presumably having shuffled off her mortal coil between '71 and '81. I'm trying to discover if she ever married as I can't, as yet, find any reference to a Mr Richardson.

The hunt continues......

---

And so to the probable Sven Svansong this afternoon.

I honestly can't see him outwitting Scolari. We'll be 1 - 0 up at half time (Crouch - off the back of his head unaware he had even touched it) and then Portugal will make a tactical switch and Sven and his acolyte McClaren will be caught like rabbits in a headlight. 2 - 1 to Portugal.

But, then again, I've been hopelessly wrong before and no doubt I will again. So here's hoping.

It still baffles me how a flourish of talent like the present England team has can have the joie-de-vivre eliminated from their game so efficiently. Sadly I think McClaren will offer more of the same. Conservative (with a small c) team selection (Walcott apart), route one football and a lack of tactical awareness that borders on the comical.

I'll be watching in the local where I intend to forget all about the shit that's going on in my life at the moment (Dad's back inside BTW) and wake up tomorrow wondering how the hell I got to bed.

I'll let you know how I get on.

Now...where's me rattle?

C'MON ENGLAND!!!!

Vindaloo

Well Sven I hope you're satisfied, 'cos your choice of an embryo as fourth striker looks like a biiiig mistake now doesn't it?

Speaking of the embryo, why didn't the Master Tactician give him a run out last night? Let the lad get a feel for the atmosphere, give him the chance to get rid of those "debut nerves". Last night was the night to do it. The chances are that the poor bugger will be thrust into the limelight during a match where England are chasing the game and all our available strikeforce has been decimated by injury and/or exhaustion.

God help us if Rooney suffers an injury. We'll probably end up with David James up front at this rate. (Don't laugh - Stuart Pierce tried it once).

If we progress in this competition it will be in spite of Eriksonn not because of him. If we don't progress in this competition, the BBC will be tempted to start showing Wimbledon and slowly ditching the games they think nobody will want to watch. Arrrggghh! Wimbledon! Aaarrrrrrrggggggghhhhhh!

---

In other news, my Dad's home again and slowly disappearing whilst sat in his favourite chair watching UKTV History (or "the War" as my Mother calls it.) He has three visits a day from some healthcare agency in order to get him up, clean him up and put him back to bed again.

Yes life's just one long social whirl.

And it'll come to us all eventually.

---

In other, other news I have a crappy little non-entity of a cough that makes me sound like Richard Attenborough in his portrayal of John Christie in 10, Rillington Place. Luckily for him, it only manifested itself during moments of heightened sexual activity. Sadly, for me, heightened sexual activity is possibly the only time the symptoms desist.

"Dearest? Oh Dearest......................."

Back Home....They'll be Thinking About Us.....

It was great you know. The atmosphere was electric. The train ride from Amsterdam to Gelsenkirchen absolutely spot on. The colours. The chants. The camararaderie between the different fans and nationalities. (and how often would you experience that at an England game)? The glorious stadium. The cheap beer (2 euros)! The sheer bloody magic of being at a World Cup match. An ambition achieved. With my kids and assorted acquaintences.

And we got VIP tickets. (God bless you Eldest and Youngest's Best Man). And we got to see a decent match with some great goals, a beer in hand and comfy seats!.

The sun shone and it's a fabulous memory I shall cherish forever. And I just love starting a sentence with "and".

Ronnie van der Meuren is one of the World's greatest barmen. He made Amsterdam special. Cheers Ronnie.

That's his bar on the left. The day we arrived - just in time for the second half of Holland's first World Cup game. A home from home.

---

However, for those of you who wouldn't know Rooney's metatarsal from the 63rd Psalm, here's a video and tune filmed in a pub within 20 minutes of Occupied Towers.

---

And I got a Steely Dan DVD for 6.99 Euros in Schipol Airport!

And then we came back home home and the "same old shit" hadn't actually fucked off forever, like I'd hoped it would.

But, hey. There you go. Why should travelling to Europe and back change the World?

Every Picture Tells a Story....

Well, I don't know what's happened here, but I can assure you that the other night I posted some pics and text here but, it's gone. I even had a comment on it as proof of its existance. However it's gone now and I can't remember what it was I was pontificating about or what pics I posted. I'll try again.



Here we go. Venice last September. The glorious Salute from across the Grand Canal through a bobbing forest of gondoliers.



You know I really do want England to win the World Cup but a part of me baulks at the thought of Beckham being the first man to lift it for England since the great Bobby Moore. Similarly Svenn.



My reading and iPod table on the balcony at the Nikiforos apartments, Cassiopi, Corfu last June. Some good reads there. Some not so good. Loads of music on that iPod. Ry Cooder's "Chavez Ravine" being the soundtrack of the fortnight. Jeez - a year ago. who knows where the time goes.



And if I hear another word about Rooney's foot I'll take off and become a recluse occasionally releasing critically acclaimed albums of delicate thunder.......



....with evocative titles and strange messages for those "in the know".



The coolest nightspots in the Western World would pound to the sound.



But I'd never forget where I came from and I would always remember my roots and routes.



Right, I'm off to Amsterdam and Gelsenkirchen hopefully to take in USA v Czech Rep and wallow in the general World Cup ambience. See ya in a week.

I Vow to Thee my Country...........

So: here we go, here we go, here we go - an' all that. Flags everywhere you look. On cars, on newly acquired flagpoles from B and Q or wherever and hanging from upstairs windows the length and breadth of this verdant home of ours. Although not on the "more exclusive" estates.

Why? Seriously. Why? I mean I know all about the World Cup blah, blah, blah - in fact I'm off to Germany next week to try and get a ticket to see a game - any game that Macdonalds, Budweiser and whoever haven't already snapped up all the tickets for. I guess I'll eventually end up staring at a big screen somewhere near the Dutch border. But, at least I can say I tried.

However, apart from my inabilty to acquire a ticket, I'm still intrigued by this new found (well, yeah, it happened four years ago - but not quite the same) prediliction for "flying the flag".

There's a book - or, at the very least, a thesis here. Honest.

For many years I would pontificate on the state of the indigenous musics and folklore of states, countries, counties, archipeligos and islands.

"Wherever you look" I said, "countries that have suffered under the heel of the oppressor - from Ireland to South Africa - have embraced their own "folk" music, their own "literature", their own "art" as a protest, as a declaration of their right to exist in the face of occupation by a foreign power. As a right to protest and, hopefully, undermine."

In fact, on many occasions indigenous folk music (or even dance - just ask Michael Flatley) - was banned outright.

And that, I feel, is why the World Cup is, once again, stirring, not only the Chav, but also the Fairport Convention afficianado, the Kate Rusby lover and the Steeleye Span/Jethro tull completist.

The "English" culture is a culture under attack and, these days, anything that can be utilised in the fight for the reclamation of the Flag, will win massive favour - among those, like me, who feel that "my flag" has been usurped.

Good? Bad? Hmmmmm! I don't yet know. As a hairy guy in the late 60s, constantly finding myself alone but surrounded by many "shaven-headed" opponents of my "beliefs" - ie "skinheads" draped, tattoed and be-booted with "my flag", I still have difficulties 30 years later. They even ran me over once. With a fuckin' Ford Anglia.

Thanks. You wankers.

Picture Book.....

At night on the boat. Very deChirico. In fact, all it needs is a mysterious shadow.......



Graffitti in Toulon. The poor lad in the picture had actually just walked 'round the corner straight into the frame. He didn't (as far as I am aware) spray the paint.



Lennon, wine and wallpaper......bliss! Well, apart from the wallpaper.



Sometime last winter. The meta data supplied from the camera says last November. A lifetime ago.

More cogent posts a little later.

It's Been a Long, Long Time....Hasn't it?

Ah well. Here I am again. Weeks of silence. Weeks.

Weeks spent hospital-visiting and such but not all of my time has been taken up with depressing fayre. I had a cruise round the Med for a week with Dearest, Eldest, Youngest and Youngest's Darlin'. (Soon to become Mrs Youngest - in Austria no less. August 17th). The cruise was courtesy of Dearest's redundancy payment. She treated the kids and myself. We booked early enough to qualify for free all-inclusive which meant that the entire week we gorged on fabulous food and too much drink. Sadly I was boat-bound for three days with a recurrence of my achilles problem but I only missed a few places.

So back home to the usual round of hospital visits, work, drink, dog-walking and sleep with precious little time for anything else, although playing the blues deep into the night is a must. I can't even get annoyed about this most Tory of Labour Governments. Suffice to say if it wasn't for the inefectual opposition, the longest period of Labour power would be over. I wouldn't shed a tear. At least you know what a Tory Government would do. Furthermore, any cabinet with a practising (cilice-wearing?) Opus Dei member doesn't deserve support from the likes of me.

Speaking of Opus Dei, there I was this morning listening to 5Live when Nicky Campbell interviewed the head of Opus Dei (UK). Eventually they got onto the subject of wearing a cilice and the whole area of corporeal mortification.

As I downed my cuppa I fully expected to hear that the wearing of such a medievil, barbaric device as a cilice was a thing of the past. Imagine my surprise when he told us that to wear a celice was a little like working out and that celice-wearing is quite common.

"No wonder Ruth Kelly's got a face like a slapped arse" I thought...........

How long before it becomes the latest celebrity, detox, weight-loss aid, though:

Posh Spice has told the 3am girls that she will be taking her new diamond encrusted cilice to the World Cup. "Those German sausages are so fattening, and if I am in mortal agony, I don't eat", she reports.

We will be buying our own high street versions of Posh's cilice this weekend. Get your's while you can.

Incidentally, this powerful man believes that The Life of Brian was a bigger threat to the Church than the Da Vinci Code.

Rainbow Chaser

Round our way, spelling mistakes are are punished severely. Take this example: stuck on a board outside one of our recently refurbished taverns in order to encourage public ridicule.

That'll learn 'em.

The landlord's a decent bloke. Suffice to say he hasn't got a clue that this error is there for all to see. Twice.

God bless Camera-Phones.

---

Don't know if any of you have been watching The Street lately. That's the Jimmy McGovern written BBC affair not Corrie.

You would never guess Mr McGovern was a scouser would you?

God I hate your fucking team!

Jim Broadbent doing his best to commit suicide. I have a feeling a few of my City supporting bloggers will quite enjoy the clip too. Bluetealeaf and The Obscurer in particular.

---

I got myself one of those new-fangled DVD recorders for the TV yesterday. Recorded that new prog about the Impressionists. Played it back today and the quality is superb. I chose the third best qualty - sacrificing in order to stretch the amount of recording time on the disk to 4 hours. I probably won't be able to see the difference in the higher qualities on account of a)inadequate TV technology and b)failing eyesight.

---

Pater's back in dock, but I'm getting quite used to it it now. I see the patterns. I also recognise the bad back acquired while trying to manoeuvre him into his bed the night before he was readmitted. They think he's had another stroke. I KNOW he has. A week last Saturday he was opening the door to me and shuffling off back to his throne and settling d0own to watch UKTV History 'till it finishes. Thursday night, when I became bruised and bad-backed, he couldn't walk, talk properly or defecate.

He's "getting better" in a local Hospital at the mo'.

Honest.

---

Bedroom/study/shed/bathroom/random room recording reaches new highs with this feller. Belive me.

"Joni Mitchell melodies, Beach Boys harmonies....." "....like a chapter from the XTC manual"

Give him a listen and, if you like, BUY!

I Keep Singing That Same Old Song

Today I bought this - to feed my inner child. A child that was/is musically rampant 1964-present.

It's a herding together of three or four "Sampler Albums" that Island Records pioneered in the late 60s and early 70s. Albums that are indelibly printed deep within my very DNA. This grey matter will still be hummin' tunes, solos (guitar, organ, crumhorn, drums, cittern, etc) and vocal pyrotechnics from these albums as my cadever either rots or burns.

Bliss.

I also snapped up a remastered "Bless The Weather" by John Martyn.

I spent the night in my eyrie, with a decent bottle of red and these 'blasts from my past'. Double bliss.

---

Mind you, I needed to, to try and rid my mind's eye of images of "Two Shags" breaking his wife's heart.

The twat.

---

If this sorry bunch of shiny, bland, balls of steel wool, smart suits, shields and shite, deserve anything then it should be the indifference of history. I can see it now, a classroom a hundred years hence: "Oh yes the Blair Governments? Well, they were essentially Thatcherite in all but name. Certainly many of the founders and stalwarts of the Labour Party wouldn't have recognised the sleazy, profit-fixated, ego-centric non-entities of the Blair/Brown years as socialists or, moreover, nice people to live next door to. I mean.....Margaret Hodge for fuck's sake? Charles Clarke? Hewitt? Phil Woolas!!!!!

And, when we vote them out of office, the fuckers'll pick up comfortable "jobs" here, there and everywhere.

---

Mind you, it looks like some of us attending Youngest's Stag Do in June may have just acquired tickets for a World Cup Game. Not an England one obviously, 'cos that would be chock full of the usual suspects and, after the England v Licheinstein game at Old Trafford, I'll never bother with attending a live England game again.

This attempt to acquire tickets (Czech Rep v USA) has taken weeks of 10 of our merry band constantly hitting the ticket websites day-after-day-after-day. And each ticket has cost 105 euros!!!!!!!!!!!

Here's hoping we actually get them.

Love and Marriage

A really good change at Easter - off to the wedding of one of Eldest and Youngest's best friends. A particularly crappy drive down to Newmarket on Good Friday was more than made up for by the rather nice hotel we stayed in.

A refreshing ceremony as well. Not one reference to fairy stories as the happy couple were spliced at a CIVIL ceremony. Y'know what I didn't know about these affairs is that there can be no reference to religion at all. Consequently "God Only Knows" by the Beach Boys was a no-no but "I've Got You Under My Skin" by Frank Sinatra was OK. (And all the better for it I thought). Poems were read, music was played, vows were exchanged and then we all retired to the dining room for food and speeches.

Eldest was a joint best man with the groom's brother. They had written the speech in tandem and it bore all the hallmarks of their twisted sense of humour. Apparently the groom had "more skeletons in his closet than Fred West", but they had managed to whittle the list of misdemeanours down so that it wasn't too tedious: "longer than Abu Hamza's arm but shorter than Ken Bigley's neck" (Ouch!).

After food and, crucially, drink, the younger folk went kicking a ball about in the gardens whilst I busied myself photographing the fornicating ladybirds you see above. Rampant sex on OccupiedCountry's blog? Who'd a thunk it?

After a while watching the kids footballing, it occured to me that here was an opportunity to kick a ball again. Something I haven't done for more years than I care to remember. The next think the ball is walloped into the air and I see my chancee to volley it as hard as possible. I leapt like a salmon and hit it good and proper - the kids were impressed at first, then amazed as I continued my trajectory - "arse over tit" I think the phrase is. Seconds later I hit the hard gravel floor and my head smacks the ground like a hammer. After the initial shock and pain I was OK. My wedding trousers and shirt however were full of crap - all down the back. The kids (kids? They're all 30-ish!) rallied round trying to get as much muck off me as possibe, perhaps sensing that they too would be in the women's bad books.

In the end we knew we couldn't get all the crap off my clothes and so I had to sheepishly go back to the wedding with everyone noticing. I put my head down, wrung my hands and said:

"I fell".

Like a five-year-old.

It worked. Dearest and the others looked at each other with that look that women have mastered that let's us men know just how inadequate we are, without them having to bother thinking of words that can express the same sentiment.

Well it was either that or the wine that Dearest and the rest had been drinking.

---

My Dad's slightly better and, more or less, keeping on an even keel. Hopefully he's learnt his lesson and will make more of an effort to eat and drink.

Here's hoping.

I'm Going To Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter....

I've just been reading my own blog and, bugger me, I need to smile a bit more.

I Get Knocked Down.......But I Get Up Again....

OK. after many weeks of hospitalisation, my Dad is back home. He's still convinced he's not ill though. Still convinced he's gonna get better. Still convinced the nurses and doctors want to keep him in hospital for their own amusement.

So, the first day he arrives home, we get a phone call just after we returned from Frank's Dad's funeral. "Yer Dad can't get into bed and I can't help him - can you come round?" So, off I go, little suspecting that he would be half-on-half-off the bed with no underpants on. I manouvered him into a position that would allow my Mam to get his nappy on and then I took over. A banana and some milk and sugar later, we were able to leave him to sleep like Rumplestilkskin - which he did 'till the morning after. Then, the day after I phone up from work, and he's fine. Getting up and shuffling to the toilet, eating properly and drinking plenty of water.

Two weeks later and the food intake is reducing - along with the fluids. I can't take this in. I've impressed upon him time and time again that, at the very least he needs fluids. Without them his mind goes. Without them he ends up back where he doesn't want to go. Hospital.

Yesterday, once again, he apparently ended up indisposed and passing blood whilst defecating. He does not want a doctor or paramedic though because he believes he's going to end up back in dock. So what do we do?

What the hell do we do?

---

Friday we returned to The Cotton Tree - all the usual suspects were still there, propping up the bar, collapsing against the one-armed-bandit or vomiting copiously in the toilet. We patronise some really classy hostelries. We can't help it - like moths to a flame. There was "No AIDS Bob", "Cricket Man", "Low Lie", "Bad Teeth Pete", "Mr Effin Drunken' Bum" and his wife "Mrs Effin Drunken' Bum" and a hst of others.

"Cricket Man" should need no explanation. Cricket. he plays it, watches it, talks about it, is completely and utterly anally retentive about it. Do not demonstrate more knowledge than him about past Test matches, the minutiae of local cricket rivalries or the finer points of reverse swing. He doesn't like it. In fact he gets quite Jack-Nicholson-in-The-Shining-y about it and you begin to wonder if he hasn't got cellars full of cadevers who disagreed with him about Farouk Engineer's career or David Gower's twattishness.

"No AIDS Bob" I've known for years. We used to visit the early 70s nightclubs of Manchester together in a swirl of tie-die, satin and, on occasion, denim. He's at least 5 or 6 years older than me though and soon we drifted apart.

When he hit his mid-fifties, folk began to comment on just how stick-thin he was. This eventually evolved into the nickname "AIDS Bob" in his local. "How you doing "AIDS Bob", fancy a pint?"

Everyone just took it as a joke. Not "AIDS Bob" though. It played on his mind. He was fed up of being linked with a disease that essentially associated him with being Gay, something that he most definitely was not.

So he decided to slope off and have an AIDS test. Once and for all he would be able to rid himself of the association with an illness that, quite frankly, didn't do much to ingratiate himself with the opposite sex.

Then, one day he walks in the pub with a little piece of paper in his hand testifying to the fact that he did not have AIDS. It was official!

"That'll fix it" he thought. "Nobody will be able to call me "AIDS Bob" again after this."

"How you doing "No-AIDS Bob", fancy a pint?"

And that's what it's been ever since.

---

I'll tell you about the other buggers some other time. I'm not used to all this writing - it has been almost a month you know.

Man of Constant Sorrow

I spent last weekend in Wrocklaw in Poland's Silesia. Minus fifteen they reckoned it was. Didn't feel it though as the sun shone on the frozen streets and Polish beer and vodka swished around our innards.

It was stag weekend for one of Eldest and Youngest's oldest mates and it did me good to be away from responsibilty of hospital visits, cheering my mother up and all the other thankless tasks associated with long term hospitalisation.

Yes my Dad's still in. he's making miniscule progress though so I guess it's not all bad news. He'll need care morning and evening if he ever makes it home. No doubt about that. No doubt at all.

Consequently I am fucking depressed and, third year anniversary or not, disinclined to stick inadequate bits of verbal bollocks up here for the Blogosphere to snigger at.

Maybe in a Month or two. Sayonara!

Turbulent Indigo

Long time, no talk. Nowt to say really - that's why: I just feel as if I should. It's been a traumatic few weeks to be honest. Stroke victims in close proximity everynight. Conflicting prognosis from inadequate NHS personnel, combined with an obvious need to clear the bed of a poor old sod who will never, as long as my arse points South, be able to perambulate around the neighbourhood like he once did. He comes home tomorrow and he's not ready.

It's a clinical business health. Believe me. God help us when the Hypocratic oath is emasculated to the point where it can't defend itself against the financial imperitive that deems old folk an expensive drain on limited resource. It'll come, that's why Euthanasia is top of the pops in certain Health Care arenas.

"I will adhere to the Hypocratic Oath but I demand the right to practice Shipmanism when I feel the "time is right" or when the cost of keeping the old buggers alive outweighs the money coming in from taxes" It's a mad, mad, mad, mad world.

---

In other news, I have a painful, lumpy "growth" on the heel of my right foot.

"It's an inflamed Achilles" spake the Doc.

"How do I cure it Doc" I said, "I'm off to Poland for a stag night with my kids and their mates next week. I'll look a right old prick if I can't even walk.........I would imagine that Wrocklaw from a hotel bed ain't got the same immediacy as the real thing".

"Rest, anti-inflammataries and a dose of good luck, failing that you'll be in a cast for 6 to 8 weeks!"

Fuck.

---

Dearest's wardrobe rail has just collapsed under the weight of a lifetime's unworn "bargains". Somehow this is my fault. After half an hour of transferring clothing I have never seen before in my life to door jambs here, there and everywhere, I mentioned to Dearest that she should feel ashamed of the amount of clothing she has that still has the price tag on it.

A not unreasonable statement I would have thought.

I have a lot to learn.

Oooops I did it again........

http://media.putfile.com/bin

Enjoy yet another cartoon.

Sorry but my metalink facility seems to have fucked off. You'll have to cut and paste the URL into your browser. Well worth it though.

If a picture paints a thousand words then why can't I paint you......

http://www.jesusandmo.net/

For some reason I can't seem to leave a direct link to this website. You'll just have to cut and paste if you want to see. Please leave your Fatwas in the comments. Ta.

God is Love

Freedom of speech my arse. We now have a Government Minister apologising to masked men with guns for a cartoon. A cartoon!!!! We also have the spectacle of Muslims marching through London holding up placards that call for the massacre of blasphemers and the murder of non-believers. Incitement? I should think so. No police or political intervention whatsover however.

Hold up a flag of St George in the Chaddy end at Oldham and the full majesty of the law is galvanised into action.

If I, as a commited, rational atheist were to parade through the metropolis with a banner that proclaimed all religions as crap and that anyone who followed one should be decapitated, disembowelled or (heaven* forfend) gassed, I would be inside a local constabulary within minutes. I would also imagine that the whole of the so-called left-wing would be screaming for my blood - from Toneh Blair to Gorgeous Galloway.

Something doesn't add up.

The lawmakers have to restart the process of being able to discuss serious issues without the liberal (taxpayer funded) protectors of frankly, obnoxius, illiberal minorities, sticking their oar in and deeming anyone who disagrees with stoning women to death for adultery as essentially intolerant.

It's a cartoon FFS! Offended by it are you? I don't think so. It just allows the dickhead minority of bearded fascists to point the finger, once again, at the Western Democracies where most of 'em who spout off live - because the "freedom of speech" these medievil purveyors of hate and death enjoy, allows them to.

Why, oh why, in the 21st century are we still surrounded by intellectual incompetants who believe in Big Men (always men), who live in the sky?

I truly despair. I just might move to France. There's no Bishops with an automatic seat in the legislature there and obviously the wine's cheap and good.

*not really heaven obviously - just a figure of speech :-)

Can't leave without a link to Yorkshire Pudding's take on the same issue. A great Larson cartoon as well BTW.

Mad World

First off, an update. My dad is recovering at a fantastic rate. Each day that passes, a little bit more of his mind comes back. So much so that he pretty much hates everyone else in the ward and realises that Sunderland's win at weekend was only their second of the season. (He was born in Sunderland BTW). The physical effects won't be so easily remedied, but the physio should help in that department.

Secondly, can I just thank all of you who commented or blogged and sent your best wishes. I "know" none of you from Adam really, but this virtual world full of virtual friends has certainly warmed my heart and helped me get through some difficult days. Once again - thanks.

Finally, thank God for the carthartic presence of the web in general and the blog in particular.

The Closest Thing to Crazy

So, less than a month after the violation, my Dad has a stroke.

Please forgive me if I don't feel very charitable at the moment, but I've just broke my heart crying for the man that was always there and now isn't.

Love Will Tear Us Apart

I'm not dead or anything and I'm not banged up as a result of catching the scum referred to in my last post. Ooops, did I say "catching" then? No chance. Not with the archaic, fumbling, creaking insurance assessors police force we are blessed with.

I am, however, severely pissed off and at odds with the world. Even a weekend in Riga didn't put me back together again. Ho hum.

In the meantime there's a few additions from Riga in my photoblog on the right. Pictures, not words at the moment I'm afraid.

Here's some night photography that makes mine look positively pedestrian.

Not even cheering City's stuffing of the Reds in a pub full of United supporters in Riga helped. Must be bad.

Money (That's What I Want)

So, I guess you just watch and wait. After working out where the vulnerable live that is. Sheltered Housing must always be a draw I reckon. A bit like a herd of Wilderbeest providing food for the lions and cheetahs of this world.

At some point you see someone leave one of the flats or houses. You pay attention. Did he/she actually lock that door before shuffling off to the shop for an evening paper? No, I don’t think she did. Does that mean she’s just forgetful or is there someone still inside? Do you give a fuck? No, not really, she looks mid seventies so whoever’s inside (unless it’s a son or grandson) must be slightly older and, let’s face it, a pushover. So, over the road you nip and try the door. It opens.

You stand in the hallway listening and casing. A bedroom door on your immediate right – worth a punt. Another door on the right with a TV blaring from the other side of it – unless things get desperate you’ll give that a miss. So, into the bedroom and bingo. A handbag containing a lot of money, a mobile phone and debit cards. On the bedside cabinet: jewellery of both sentimental and monetary value. Result.

Out of the bedroom and into a room on the left – fuck! A bathroom. There’ll be sod all in here and just as you turn to exit, the woman who left earlier returns and you’re trapped. As she walks past the slightly open bathroom door, she spots the tips of your fingers trying to keep it as closed as possible. You’re rumbled – but no matter, you’ve done this many times before because you’re addicted to hard drugs or just a complete and absolute amoral twat – or both.

“Sorry to startle you missus, I did knock – there’s been a burst water pipe and I was just looking for the stop tap”

“Oh, OK luv – I’ll just get me husband – he’ll know where it is”

So the old guy whose been sat watching UKTV History while you – you fuckin’ wastrel - have been rifling his possessions slowly raises himself from his chair and shuffles into the bathroom.

“Oh I’m sorry mate”, you say full of mock-sincerity, “I didn’t know you were a bit doddery on your legs, I tell yer what, I’ll just nip down the road and get me van”.

And my Mother and Father say “Oh Ok thank you”.

And then you’re off, like the wind, until you’re out of sight and able to check the handbag. Oh yes! £500 in one pocket and a purse with over £100 in another.

Then what? What actually happens in your head after the rush of the ‘chase’ has gone and the realisation of what you have just done takes over (if it ever does)?

‘Cos I know what happens to the poor defenceless, decent salt of the Earth folk you leave behind. The despair, the anxiety; the guilt, believe it or not. But I shouldn’t think that anything other than the excitement of spending your ill-gotten gains even enters your head does it?

But if I – or my children - ever find out who you are, you will wish you had never lived. That is my promise. Let’s see how you take to being fed through a straw for the rest of your worthless life.

Hope you had a good Christmas everyone and all the best for the New Year.

Said I've been workin'...to 11 every night...kinda makes my life a drag.....

Ah well, back to work tomorrow. Just had a long weekend and spent it mostly thrutching around the house with a very bad back. Bugger! The only thing that helps is a combination of alcohol and Ibrufen.

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Saturday evening saw us all celebrating Dearest's semi-retirement with a black tie do at ours. As the evening progressed and the drink disappeared at a rate of knots, the instruments were extracted from my eyrie and an impromptu blues jam started up in the kitchen. Bliss.

6:00am I got to bed before pitching up for the usual Sunday club shenanigans at t'Willer.

So, apart from my Dad ending up in hospital again, as great a weekend as I could possibly hope for these days.



Just thought I would finish off with a snap from back when the sun shone and the the trees were green and luscious. Enjoy.

It's The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

United BOTTOM of their group and out of Europe. Weepin' Southerners phoning Radio 5. Keane, Vodafone and now Europe - all gone. Could it get any better?

Well, yes. Yes it can. Carol's Mum's in hospital, I can hardly breathe with the excitement an' everything. Suddenly the World looks brighter and the thoughts of digging out my grave-dancing shoes for that amoral ice-queen fills me with joy. I'll be jigging and jiving in memory of a lot of late compatriots come the day. Sadly, I think the heartless bitch may just carry on a little longer.

And for anyone who may take offence at that - well all I can say is you didn't see entire communities sacrificed on the alter of rampant capitalism (at least when it suited. Government intervention was certainly the order of the day if there was a chance of some fuckin' corporation losing a penny or two). Add to that the juxtaposition of the ostentatious display of wealth and the Tory-Boy sneering at anyone less fortunate than themselves, (believe me, Loadsamoney DID exist: greed is good and all that shite), and you have all the ingredients of unconditional hatred for the coiffeured cow who made it all possible.

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Incidentally, thanks for the - mostly - kind words regarding my musical efforts. Who knows, after that I just maight post some more.

I Can Hear Music

When I bust my left foot way back in March, I found myself sat in my eyrie fiddling with my instruments (oooh matron). I started arsing around with a "bagpipe" type of melody I concocted whist walking around in the Scottish rain a few years back.

I called it "In Scottish Rain" because I'm literal like that and here it is for your delectation.

In Scottish Rain.

Recorded via a Yamaha MD4S Minidisk Recorder (used as a mixer) direct to N-Track on my laptop. Sonic Foundry's Acid Music was used to add drums and to facilitate some of the key changes. Finally Soundforge was used for the final mix.

I tried to be a bit Mike Oldfieldy with this. That's why there's harmonised bagpipe-type guitars. Personally I think it needs a bit of bass boost or - a proper bassline adding. I tried to rely on the synth samples to provide the bottom end but, on reflection perhaps more oomph is needed.

All opinions, good, bad or indifferent welcome.

Cinema Show

I've just come across a free website where you can store video a bit like Flickr. Youtube it's called for some reason. It's handy for those of you with digital cameras that also have a video facilty although it does compress the file somewhat. Online storage - it's the way forward.

Anyway, here's a video of a typical Saturday at Eastlands featuring such gems as the walk from the car, the walk up the spirals of the stadium, one of the most boring matches ever, followed by the walk back in the dark. Rivetting stuff that I predict will be up for a Palme D'Or at Cannes next year.

Honest.

In my Liverpool Home

Football clubs across Britain staged their tributes on Saturday to the late George Best, who passed away aged 59.

Manchester United and Northern Ireland legend Best died in a London hospital on Friday after weeks of ill health.

The Premier League asked referees to conduct a minute's silence before all games this weekend, including United's trip to West Ham on Sunday.

But a minority of Liverpool and Leeds fans failed to observe the silence and the tribute had to be cut short.

At the City of Manchester Stadium in the game between Liverpool and Manchester City both sets of fans applauded as Best's name was read out.

But some fans of United's bitter rivals Liverpool disturbed the minute's silence, which did not last the full 60 seconds.

Referee Alan Wiley followed Premier League instruction in cutting the silence down to barely 20 seconds once it became obvious a minority of the visiting supporters were not going to respect it.

The conduct of some of their fans earned jeers from the City fans and their manager Rafael Benitez admitted it was disappointing.

"It is a pity," said Benitez. "It was only a few people and most of them did applaud but it is a pity, you can't say anything else."

City boss Stuart Pearce added: "I have no idea which group of supporters it was but the vast majority paid tribute to a legend of the game who gave a lot of pleasure to a lot of people and that is the important thing.

George Best's imprint on our national game will never fade Football Association chief executive Brian Barwick:

"You have to look at the positives rather than dwell of the actions of a handful of people in a crowd of 47,000."

It was a similar scene at Millwall's New Den where a section of the Leeds fans also led to the tribute being cut short.

I was there and I heard and I saw. A man has died for Christ's sake. Regardless of his allegience and/or the club he played for, are football fans not able to see through the nonsense of club loyalty? Players play here and then play elsewhere. It's bigger than football. Manchester CITY fans applauded the man and tried to observe a minute's silence for a superb footballer and, I have to admit, I thought it would be the City fans that would cause the problems today (only a few nutters though).

Unfortunately some probably (or hopefully) pissed up brain-deads thought it was the perfect opportunity to make their voices heard. I used to quite like Liverpool, but after today I am very, very disappointed.

Great support for your team today but, seriously, no class whatsoever. No class at all.

I watched George Best many times in the late 60s early 70s and, although it breaks my heart to say it, he was a complete footballer. It's a man's life and it's been reduced to the pathetic tribalism of football supporting.

Most of those arseholes booing George Best today have never seen him play - and that's what annoys me more than anything. Wankers. Brain dead.

That "minute's silence" lasted 20 seconds.

A shame.

I Wanna Be Adored

I have been subjected to more than my fair share of fucking whooping and hollering on TV shows recently. Whenever a Z list celeb appears, somebody does something for charidee or a Z list celeb leaves the stage, we hear this cacophony of screaming that makes you fear for the audience's sanity.

When the cameras pan across the same audience though, you NEVER see any of 'em whooping, screaming, hollering or even vomiting. General applause I think it can be classed as. Nothing more, nothing less. Not quite a very British applause, but not far off. The Americanisation of popular entertainment response has put an end to the days of a very British applause. RIP.

So, where does it come from? The whooping etc? Well it's obviously piped isn't it? But why? Who needs it? I'd like to think the artistes would be pissed off if they heard artificial enhancements to the audience response after their efforts. But what do I know?

Not the at home audience surely - they don't need whipping into a frenzy because Will Young has just finished miming to his latest hit single, Ian Hislop has just walked down Parkie's staircase or Beryl and her friend Janine from Hitchen have won an all-inclusive break in the Maldives courtesy of some perma-tanned day-time chat show host - surely?

So that just leaves the studio audience. Y'know that section of society that sends off for tickets to see such events as The Eammon Holmes Half Hour, Brucie's Big Night Out or The Les Dennis Show. They are not being enthusiastic enough and that's why squeaky-bummed producers are resorting to canned whooping.

Well, here's a message you wankers. Sort it and sort it now. The next time you're surrounded by similarly dressed and coiffered 'borgs with inane grins, let's have a little more effort when it comes to slapping the palms of your hands together. Perhaps a cry of "Bravo" or "Encore" wouldn't go amiss. Anything to let the object of your obvious attentions know that they have touched something deep in the very core of your soul.

'Cos if you don't start doing it now, then sooner or later all those trainee pricks who watch shows on the TV like The Eammon Holmes Half Hour, Brucie's Big Night Out or The Les Dennis Show, will start acquiring tickets to watch the recording of shows like The Eammon Holmes Half Hour, Brucie's Big Night Out or The Les Dennis Show and think whooping and hollering is the norm.

So let's put a stop to it now before, like binge-drinking, suduko and Avian Flu, it overwhelms us.

Don't you dare whoop though.

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Roy Keane. Ha ha ha ha ha ha!

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Dearest took the dog out the other evening. A lovely crisp winter's night. Clear sky overflowing with stars and the moon as full as a harvest fruitbasket hanging low over the chimneys and trees. It had that ring that swathes it on nights like these. Glowing away like a halo.

The dog spotted it and shit herself (probably literally). She is officially scared of the moon. The past few nights have been a fucking nightmare I can assure you. Tess doesn't grasp the metaphysical you see. It's a fuckin' mystery to her as much as it was to Stone Age man just what that big, bright orb in the sky is.

A few thousand years later though and Stone Age man's descendants have played golf on the moon.

Tess's species were shittin' 'em then and are shittin' 'em still.

I guess that's just the way God wanted it to be.

Caught a bit of I'm a Celebrity.... before. David Dickinson's got bigger tits that Jilly Goulden. Fact.

When you Wish upon a Star

Wahey. That didn't take long did it? Subtle hint dropped to Dearest ("I want a lava lamp"), followed by Dearest calling me infantile. Later, in the pub, she attempts to ridicule my lava-ish longings in front of her girly mates. This results in one of the mates saying they have a lamp they have no further need for - having grown up presumably. Well, in my book growing old is mandatory but growing up is optional. I snapped her hand off.

The colour's faded in the liquid but I'm sure I can sort that in the near future, although it looks ok as it is. In the meantime it's warming me cockles up in my refuge from the road. Dearest's just saved herself £50 an' all. I mean, I didn't want a cheapo.

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My initial love affair with the Arrow digital radio station is beginning to fade. Why? Well, I'll tell yer.

Repeats that's what. Repeats.

I've been listening fairly regulrly for a week and I'm starting to tire of Brown Eyed Girl by Van I'm-a-fucking-intellectual-therefore-constantly-fucking-grumpy Morrison, Eric the-victim Clapton and CS friggin' N. Now don't get me wrong, I am not condemning this triumvirate's entire ouvre as shite - far from it. What is so depressing though is that Rock stations, like any other I guess, fall back on predictable playlisting in order to give the greatest happiness to the greatest number. So with Van - it's always ol' Brown Eyes, with Clappo: Layla and CSN: Ohio or Suite:Judy Blue Eyes. C'mon for fuck's sake, their respective catalogues hold so many many more treasures. Be brave. The audience you're attracting must be well capable of handling a little something off the beaten track.

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Every month a copy of Word falls through my letterbox and a mighty fine read it is too. On their website they have a feature where readers set their iPods, iRivers, or whatever MP3 devices they have to hand, and set them to shuffle. They then have to post the first five tracks that are played.

Obviously it doesn't have to be portable devices, it can be whatever turns up on iTunes, Musicmatch, Winamp or owt else that can be set to random, shuffle or whatever. So, here's mine. How about you?

Road to Hell - Chris Rea. Unfashionable I know but, there you go, we all have guilty pleasures.

Eye to Eye - Audience. Obscure band from the early seventies. Probably the weakest track from their excellent album "The House on the Hill".

Lakes of Ponchartrain - Paul Brady. A favourite from my folk club days. I have been known to perform it, but I have to hold my hands up and confess others did it better.

Va Va Voom - Va Va Voom. This is off a jazzy compilation album. Didn't know I had it and have made a mental note to delete it as it's taking up valuable space.

Woman - John Lennon. You know, of all the Lennon tracks on my iPod, tracks with street cred and artistry, I have to end up with this maudlin affair. C'est la vie.

Over to you and no cheating.

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Is anybody having problems with pop-ups when accessing this blog?

I was looking at the Big Sky

Kate Bush. What a gorgeous new album. Especially the second disk. Idiosyncratic as ever (birdsong imitations anyone?), but a real grower.

There's a Sharp factory near us. Attached to it is a factory shop where they sell discontinued stuff and stuff with dodgy packaging at very cheap prices. About 18 months ago Eldest bought himself a DAB radio for £120. We all agreed it was a good price as up to that point they were usually about two hundred quid. Then last Christmas Dearest and I spot the same model in the Sharp shop for £70. Bargain - we snapped it up. A few weeks ago, my mother and father required a new stereo so the Sharp shop was the place to go. What do I see when I get there? The same radio for £35. I got one for the parents and now they sit there marvelling at the way it says "hello" and "goodbye" when they turn it on and off and lapping up the Saga station.

It did occur to me at the time to buy another one for my room but I figured I had enough distractions in there as it was. However every now and then the idea kept leaping, unbidden, into my mind. So, yesterday, I decide to go and get one and it's a good job I did because I got the last one in the place - result.

It's a good job they stopped sponsoring United or I wouldn't have been able to buy any of it. So now I'm sat typing this and listening to the great rock sounds of The Arrow as recommended by the Fat Buddha

I still need one more distraction for my room however and I've decided on a lava lamp. I'll start dropping hints seeing as it's nearly Jesus' birthday. You know, when we were kids in the mid-sixties we would walk for a couple of miles to see lava lamps in a shop window they were that bizarre for the time.

And when the corner shop got a new bacon-slicer the queue stretched for miles.

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Nowt much happening around here at the mo' as you can tell. Nice to see God's second best friend get defeated over the 90 day detention stuff. The beginning of the end I feel and about time. I must admit I can't get that worked up about politics anymore, I couldn't give a shit who leads the Tory party or what type of underwear they favour. The shenanigans in the Labour party leave me cold whereas at one point in my life I would have been transfixed.

The best thing this week was watching Wallace and Gromit and the Curse of the Were-Rabbit. It's frighteningly good with some laugh out loud scenes as well as all the usual tit-bits in the background for the observant.

I can't see it playing well in America though.

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I just nipped out to acquire some ale for this evening's probable Sven-inspired bore-a-thon against Argentina. I nearly didn't come back on account of a chav, mobile stuck to ear, rounding a bend on the opposite side of the road.

Skin 'em alive and dip 'em in brine. That'll learn 'em.

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For all of you who attempted to kill music via home taping back in the 70s, 80s and 90s, see if you can find your favourite brand here.

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Dearest has just arrived home from an all-dayer at Cheshire Oaks - it's 3:45pm. She went there at 9:00am to buy a dress. She didn't get one. The place is massive and chock-full of every dress shop you could possibly imagine. Six hours and she couldn't find a dress. Six hours and all she has bought are two pairs of pyjamas (Xmas presents for some apparently pyjama-less acquaintencies or family members).

Christ I'm glad I'm a bloke.

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**UPDATE** Well that was not a bore-a-thon but a cracking game of football played in the right spirit and ending with the right result.

Crying

There they were in their finery. Old suits and blazers bedecked with campaign medals from here, there and everywhere. Berets. Badges. Grey hair, grey skin, wrinkles, aches, pains, pins and poppies.

They called me "young sir" like some surreal, aged Fast Show protagonists. One of them - tall as a tree - bent and personally attached the poppy to my lapel. They thanked me profusely for my meagre offering. They thanked everyone, no matter how small the donation.

I couldn't help think of my Grandad who, in his later years, was helped by the British Legion and the Dunkirk Veteran's Association. The next thing I've got big bobbers brimming and I fear I'm going to urst into tears. I walk off into the horror that is a shopping centre awaiting the arrival of Father fuckin' Christmas and contemplate what I may have been walking into, but for an accident of birth, all those years ago.

Thank you for your sacrifices on our behalf.

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It's funny y'know, but on my side of the family I can't remember anybody living past eighty. In a lot of cases the poor buggers never made it to seventy and in some cases sixty was a far off dream. Take my dad for example. Seventy six and practically housebound. Bladder problems. Mini strokes and prostate problems. Would he want to live untill eighty in his present condition? No of course he wouldn't. Trouble is he dreams of "getting right again". He thinks he'll be tripping the light fantastic again sometime soon. He just needs a little "tweak" to the old waterworks and all will be fine.

Today at the poppy stall, octogenarians ruled the roost. Straight-backed and healthy in their own way, they accomplished tasks my Dad has been incapable of for two or three years now. It's a lottery health. Sure I know there are lifestyle choices you can adopt that prolong vitality but, by the same token, you can drink 'n' smoke 'n' romp 'n' cuss and live to a ripe old age.

It's a lottery I tell yer - a lottery.

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Thursday night saw myself, Eldest and Youngest down at my Mam and Dad's moving furniture out of their bedroom in readiness for the decorator who was arriving "first thing Friday morning". The temprature must've been 110 and lifting heavy weights was a damp experience, believe me.

Two TVs they've got in their bedroom: two.

"Why have you got two teles in your bedroom?" We enquired. We were told that one had a good picture and the other had a good sound. My Mam was quite happy to ditch one, but not my Dad.

I reckon he can't bear to part with anything from his past.

It's not a recent phenomonon though. Shifting stuff from one room to another revealed much useless detrius. From ancient reel-to-reel tape recorders (with no tapes) to stacks of LPs with no record player.

We emptied drawers in an effort to make the job easier. In the bottom of one set we discovered newspaper lining - it's one of those things that folk used to do, line drawers with newspaper.

"They look old", I thought.

Further investigation revealed broadsheet copies of the Manchester Evening News from 1967! Nineteen! Sixty! Seven! I was thirteen the last time they changed the lining in those drawers. They've moved twice since then. However, as my Mother said: "well, they didn't need changing".

There was a story about Manchester's proposed "Skyway" in one of the papers. That Skyway became the Mancunian Way, a monstrous, concrete, ribbon of crap that scars the Mancunian landscape on a par with the Luftwaffe's attempts a couple of decades earlier.

Manchester City had just embarked on a season that would eventually yeild the First Division Championship (for all post-Murdoch football fans, that's the same as the Premiership), so you can tell it was a long, long time ago.

Anyway, after a few hours, we had the bedroom emptied and ready.

Did the decorator turn up though?

Did he bollocks.

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Sat here now, typing this with what sound like bombs going off right, left and centre. The dog's going wild and City lost today.

Time to shorten my life with an alcoholic lifestyle choice I feel.

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?