The Sound of Silence

Can't stop. Sneaking this update at work. Occupied Towers has fallen victim to the great Mancunian phone fire. Broadband access? No.

All I Hear is Radio Ga-Ga

It's an incredible beast music. Classical, Rock, Blues, Jazz, Zydeco, Folk, Pop. Light Opera, Dark Opera, Uptempo, errr, Downtempo, Hot, Cold, Hip, Square, Refined, Amateurish, Raw, Smooth and, best of all, amalgamated. Like Folk-Pop, Zydeco-Light-Opera and Amateurish Blues.

I do, of course, draw the line at most (not all) Rap and modern R&B. Sorry - just don't *get* it. Never did and I'm probably too old now to start. Ah well. What I've never had I'll never miss. C'est la vie.

'Old Fart' I can hear you cry and, yes, well maybe. But, frankly I couldn't give a shit. There's more than enough ear nectar from the past to keep me occupied until my dying day without having to make the effort to listen to misguided youth bragging about its ability to fuck and kill with impunity.

To be fair there's also much modern music that deserves respect. Sadly there is really no place to hear it on today's popular radio.

Radio One should be the flagship for today's youth. More of 'em should be listening to this 'shadow-of-its-former-self'. Why don't they? It can't be the DJs (or whatever they call 'em these days). I know they're crap, but they were crap in my day too. Tony Blackburn? Noel Edmonds? Ed Stewart? Jimmy Young for Christ's sake??? Need I elaborate?

Listening to it the other day and all I heard was constant, inane references to *it*. It's like having that kid who knew all there was to know about doing *it* when you were at school having free reign to turn everything into innuendo. I can't remember Ollie and Fred even obliquely, tangentially or otherwise, dropping sexual references into their jolly banter during 12-0-clock club (or whatever it was called) way back in the 'permissive' 60s.

Radio 2 is the most successful station in the UK today. But, even so, it's no place for young bucks or buckettes. The station these days, is for non-threatening fare such as Coldplay and Travis. Occasionally they still pay lip service to the Rat Pack and Sing Something Simple-type stuff, but it's usually tucked away at the arse-end of the schedule. It's certainly NOT the place you're gonna hear a 21st century Nirvana, Hendrix or Van Der Graaf Generator.

Which leaves what? Radio 3? Well yes it does give time over to some pretty esoteric, in-your-face stuff these days but, well, who the hell listens to the station? Stop pissing about with it and give it back in its entirety to Gluch, Beethoven, Holst, Mozart and the rest.

And that's it. All three NATIONAL music stations given over to what? The highbrow, the bland and the murderous.

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Talking of music - good, bad or otherwise. A mate of mine has had an LP (remember them? Ask yer Dad; they're at least two formats down the line these days) transferred to CD-r by some guy he knows at work. Audience - The House on the Hill. He was of the opinion that nobody anywhere would have ever heard of this album and he has gone to great lengths to get the transfer done. Impossible to find the disk anywhere, in the World. Ever.

He came round today to ask if I could do some copies of the CD-r for me and anyone else who wanted it. I stuck it in the CD player and all the jumps and pops crackling out of the speakers reminded me of what we used to put up with when listening in days gone by. All this talk of vinyl sounding 'warmer' is surely bollocks when compared with the once unheard of pleasure of listening with no aural distractions whatsoever.

Let's raise a glass to new technology. For a start off it found remastered copies of the 'no-chance-of-finding' CD within seconds on Amazon's UK website. Secondly it's allowed me to rediscover Audience and, in particular, Howard Werth's voice, songs and nylon-strung guitar. Keith Gemmell's woodwinds and the extraneous noise that used to accompany every piece of music we ever used to beg, borrow or steal.

Incidentally, I should have begged, borrowed or stolen this Long Player many years ago. A classic.

What We Did On Our Holidays

20 Mars 2004

Nice. Le Trocadera, 7 la rue de Belgique. Arrived at 2:45pm local time. €25 dans le taxi. The hotel is basic but adequate and right in the thick of things. First off we sauntered down Rue Jean Medicins to the Place Messina. Then down the Rue de Verdun to the Promenade des Anglais. After a brief perambulation we found ourselves eating Croque Monsieurs with salad and dressing outside a small bistro in one of the sidestreets.

Later - after a kip, we sauntered into the old town and had 2.5 litres of draught Kronenburg outside a bar which cost us €30. Both of us got locked in the toilet because the lock was faulty. Not – I emphasise because we are stupid. I got rescued with the help of a screwdriver, a pair of pliers and the extremely short-tempered bar-owner. I wonder how many times he had performed this operation. He had put a sign up saying "don't shut the door", but, did he really expect folk to be sat there, thrutching away, as people nonchalantly chewed their crudités and knocked back the 1664? What was actually needed was a new frigging lock.

We were both a bit pissed off with the waiter and owner who made great play of attempting to prove that the bill was actually €30 not - as I pointed out - vingt-quatre. My first ever argument in CSE French ensued and....I lost.

Twat.

Back to Le Trocadera for Jambon et fromage baguette et vin rouge a Bordeaux. Watched A 'jeunesse' program sur la TV which had Dr Boutros Boutros-Ghali as one of the many guests. The liver-spotted bugger was obviously punching below his weight and, in my yeux at least, shot way up the food chain. Tomorrow never knows.

21st Mars 2004

Dearest was up at 9:30 and went hunting for cafe au lait et eau. After a shower we took a tour on a motorised train for €6 each, just like tourists. Later we walked around the old town admiring the beautiful architecture.

A walk in the sun down the Promenade des Anglais, dodging the roller bladers, skateboarders and cyclists left me sunburnt. We got into a conversation with a Parisian lawyer - now based in Nice - about the Islamic problem dans la Français. Plus ça change, plus çest la méme chose.

A kip then a walk to the old town for a meal and then back to the hotel where we were greeted by a gang of hip hoppers blasting their abysmal 'music' out of their car stereos as they (drivers also) threw bierre down their necks. This went on well into night. Question: whenever you come across those-who-like-to-play-their-music-loud-so-everyone-else-can-hear-it, why is it ALWAYS the same type of fucking music they listen to? Always aggressive, loud and uncompromising.

22nd Mars 2004

The day began with a walk round the old town, then round the headland into the Port of Nice. A litre d'eau and a jambon sandwich later we walked back. Very hot - I am even more sunburnt.

We sauntered round ancien objets d'arte in the old town before we spotted an Irish bar that was showing the City v Leeds game in the evening. A half carafe du vin rouge in Rossetti Square as a trio (double bass, two guitars and three part harmony) made the afternoon special.

Later we realised that we should have paid more attention to the geography of the pub where the match was.

After a kip and a very, very nice shower, we set off for the main town to eat and then watch the match. We ended up finding no 'snack' places, they were all proper restaurants. I forewent the promises of a lifetime and tried a McDonalds. Dear me. I mean I don’t want to act all thick but, seriously, what’s the attraction? Or did I just happen to get a bad one? Woeful soggy bun with a desultory, insipid burger smeared with relish with a sliver of tomato embedded in it. Awful.

By this time it was 8:35. 25 minutes to KO. We legged it to the old town and spent the next 24 minutes trying to find O'Neill's - the only pub in Nice showing the game.

Well what can I say about the evening? €5.40 for a pint of lager!!!! We lost a most one-sided game (again). However we met a load of lads and lasses from Ashton-U-Lyne who were in for the match. Some French kid (18? 19?) thought it would be a good idea to shout 'Manchester City are Shite', before, discretion being the better part of valour, he realised he was being an antagonistic prick and left.

We met another 8 City fans in that bar who had all been there longer than us. They had done their homework. This was the only pub showing the match. Not Utd, Arsenal or Chelski you see. Global brands only, get blanket coverage. On to the match and, well, what do say? We dominated and got beat. This time by an extremely dodgy penalty and a red card.

23rd Mars 2004

Last day. Rain and thunder throughout the early morning. A walk down to the seafront to say à bientot to Nice. A jambon et beurre sandwich pour moi et un croque monsieur pour Dearest refreshed us before Joe le Taxi whisked us back to the airport and back to Liverpool John Lennon.

All in all a great break and a welcome dose of le soleil. I managed to keep the worst manifestations of the previous week’s cold at bay and was able to admire the fin de siècle-ness of the place. The architecture, the boulevards, the back streets, café culture, the Alps and the people (with the obvious exceptions).

'God' bless Easyjet.

Happy Birthday To You

Jesus wept! Just realised - this blog started a year ago today and here I am with nothing to say.

OK, on my first blogday I was mostly ill in bed reading The Complete Pratt. I boiled a couple of eggs at around 1:30pm and, out the corner of my eye, spotted a pair of baseball-capped, hoods-up scrotes attempting to break in the house at the back - in broad daylight! They just couldn't give a shit could they? I mean this isn't a fuckin' sink estate or anything, oh no, this is, literally, Semi-Detached-Suburbia, and Semi-Detached-Suburban-Mr-Jones' ticky-tacky houses are chock-full of fabulous consumer durables. Essentially they must've done a risk assessment and figured "let's go for it - hell the police will never get hold of us anyway, and, if they do, well our Mam's and Dad's will support us when we accuse the victims of using excessive force." Meanwhle there was I wearing nothing but a rancid blue towelling dressing gown and a pair of slippers with a football motiff. Ready for action? You bet I wasn't.

Twats.

A few neighbours spotted the wankers as well and gave chase, but they were well away.

This evening Dearest went to the quiz without me as I sniffled and snotted and croaked and grunted at home listening to the BBC's radio playback facility. Oh yes, I *do* believe in the BBC.

First off was Stuart Maconie's Critical List. Tonight it was The Blue Nile. Later I revisited George Melly's "Memories of the Blues" (twice actually).

So that was it, my first blogday. Hot Damn! I feel like the Queen - I've now got TWO birthdays. Yee Haa!

11:30am flight to Nice on Saturday so I need to be fully fit. Dearest is a powerfully fit woman when it comes to exploring foreign cities - especially the shopping areas. Here's hoping.

School's Out

The past two days have seen me acting the 'typical male' and staying in my bed for most of the day with only my 'severe bout of *flu*' for company. Apart of course from the medical concoctions, radio and books. Yesterday I finally finished the 'His Dark Materials' trilogy. A remarkable achievement to produce a popular children's book that is so anti-church in all its forms. How he gets away with it I'll never know. Good job it was Christianity he picked or he might be holed up with Salman Rushdie right now.

After that tour-de-force I set off with David Nobbs on the story of his life so far. A superb, easy read that is one moment hilarious and the next......a bit like his novels really. I was quite amazed to discover that he'd been raped while still a young man. The humour shines through though. It's a great gift to have to be able to make people laugh. Boy did he succeed with me. On describing his fascination with the Doris Day/Rock Hudson comedies of the late 50s/early 60s he says:

The two stars weren't bad either. Doris Day playing a virgin and Rock Hudson playing a macho heterosexual - that was acting.

After, it was more Nobbs so to speak as I began to reread 'Second From Last in the Sack Race', Pratt of the Argus' and 'The Cucumber Man' in an omnibus edition.

I hope this life-threatening illness deserts me before the weekend as Dearest and I are off for four days to Nice. I can't imagine promenading down the Promenade Des Anglais would be much fun with gallons of snot pouring out of me.

Everything Put Together Falls Apart

Is the sun finally setting on Ol' Red Face's all-conquering cup-winning machine? Well you would sure think so given the rabid United fans on BBC's FiveLive football phone in last night. Also much of today's press has run "Fergie's Mistakes" copy to supplement their (one-sided) match reports. Well I for one bloody hope so. As a City fan I have had to endure some powerful piss-taking over the past 10 years or so. Up to last season's 3-1 defeat of the Red Devils (the last Derby to be played at Maine Road) we hadn't beaten them since 1989 when we stuffed 'em 5-1. If I remember rightly that was Ferguson's first Derby and the fans were calling for his head then as well.

So, maybe this is his last season? It would be perfect symmetry - he starts off with a Derby defeat and finishes with one. Who knows? Football's a funny game though and in month's time United could be on Arsenal's tail again. However - believe me - I have experience of what Board Room shenanigans can do to a team trying to focus on the job in hand. All this Coolmore share dealing and lawsuits flying thick and fast can only have a negative effect. Uncertainty abounds. Speculation is rife and the football suffers. A slow decline and a drop down the table soon follows. Management teams are chopped and changed, players bought, players sold, wage bills soar, leaks to the press, back-stabbing. Obscurity. In City's case we went from finishing in the top six of the Prem to the modern equivalent of the old Division Three in 5 years. It really is that quick and that easy to achieve once the rot sets in.

So, here's hoping !

It made a change yesterday to see all 5 goals in the match scored by British (indeed English) players. Three of them were scored by Mancunians (Macken, Scholes and Sinclair), one by a product of City's youth sytem (Wright-Phillips) and a Scouser (Fowler).

Who's Next

We spent a fabulous weekend in Madrid in November 2002. We stayed in a hotel not far from Atocha station. We have friends who live there who are, thankfully, OK. It's one of those cities you want to go back to, as Eldest and Youngest have frequently. In fact they'll be going back there in September for a friend's wedding.

All of which means that yesterday's atrocity touches me in a way it wouldn't have done prior to our visit. Travel does broaden the mind. I now know that Madrid is a cultured, friendly and beautiful city. I now know the Tapas bars around the area in question. The stalls selling everything from flowers to Real Madrid memorabilia. The teeming Peurto del Sol where Madrilenos queued in their 1,000s to donate blood. The grandiloquent Parque del Retiro full of promenading couples, singles and entire families. I know now that people walking beside me that weekend ended their lives on those trains on Thursday morning and I wonder if we'll ever know who carried out these unfathomable acts?

The current government is convinced that ETA is the culprit but I just don't get it. God knows I'm no expert on the mangled logic of terrorists, but just what would ETA gain? Marginalised and moribund by all accounts, what could they possibly hope to achieve with actions like this? Yesterday's outrage outstrips all ETA's previous horrors. Furthermore the lack of a warning also points the finger elsewhere. Add to that rumours of ETA denying their involvement (although, given the revulsion, they would wouldn't they?) and I think I've got to assume that someone else is responsible.

I think the truth may lie buried in the rubble until Sunday's elections are over. Simply put, if ETA are responsible the current ruling Party Populare looks good. They have successfully campaigned against ETA, reducing it to a fragment of its former self. If it's Al-Quada however (and they have claimed responsibility), the Party's support for the Iraq debacle leaves it looking very vulnerable.

So, OccupiedCountry is predicting an Al-Quada link. If I'm wrong I'll admit it and be suitably ashamed.

Whoever it is I've got a feeling there'll be a massive turnout for the elections this weekend.

No Pasaran!

****UPDATE****

I was extremely moved this evening watching the millions of *ORDINARY* people thronging the streets of Madrid. ETA or Al Quada, who cares. Fuck 'em, the cowardly arseholes.

And now we are told that yesterday was eactly 911 days after September 11th 2001,. and 11/03 is exactly 6 months between the last anniversary of 9/11 and the next. True? I can't be bothered checking. Innocent people went the way of all flesh yesterday because of the twisted logic of a group of dickheads who's political ideals are not persuasive enough to convince the electorate to give them power. That's the final analysis. Roll on Sunday. I'm so looking forward to seeing the results.

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Youngest and his Darlin' came round this evening. We had a few drinks at ours then walked to a local pub (The Street Bridge), before ending up in The Saffron for a superb Indian. We still can't make our minds up what we do on Sunday for the 130th Manchester Derby.

In Every Dream Home a Heartache

So, dental records have confirmed that actor and monologist Spalding Gray had, as feared, thrown himself off the Staten Island Ferry back in January. That man needed a blog. A conduit to his audience. A link that would have allowed a little two-way communication. Communication that could have maybe kept him buoyed up enough to still be with us. (Pun intended btw - I think he would've liked that.)

I still remember the effect Swimming to Cambodia had on me the first time round. One man, a desk, some notebooks and a story to tell of the time he was an actor with a small part to play in Roland Joffe's Killing Fields. Absolutely riveting. One camera for 90% of the performance. A few scenes from the movie thrown in. Genius. No doubt he'll start getting the accolades he deserved in life now. Stilll, as long as his work finds a new audience.

Perhaps that was his intention as he gazed into those murky waters. Artistic temperaments can be strange bedfellows.

Not swimming but drowning. (With apologies to Stevie Smith)

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As I write I'm listening to a few of those MP3 CDs that are readily available from any market stall, car-boot sale or *dodgy* mate at work. Artwork as well as music included so true Chavs cheapskates can print a couple and hand 'em out as prezzies come Xmas, Mother's Day or birthdays.

One in particular has just transported me back 30-odd years. The Best Prog Rock Album in the World Ever. From a waist-thickened, almost 50 year-old semi-detached suburban Mr Jones, I'm spinning - Quantam Leap-like against a Bridget Riley background - to the early 70s. Radical. On the verge of changing the World. Fighting oppression and injustice wherever I chance upon it....and bedding the grateful and adoring females I emancipate along the way. Jam sessions are organised with the recently free musicians and profound, ground-breaking albums are recorded with the more talented and original.

In my *spare* time I express myself visually; creating massive canvasses of stunning, yet controversial beauty. My autobiography - though short - is a bestseller. I stand, a modern colossus: my flares flapping wildly as the winds of change caress my perfectly chiselled jaw. All over the Western World proud parents are christening their offspring OccupiedCountry.

On occasion - despite the pain from my freedom fighter wounds, I'm able to turn out for Manchester City (left side of midfield - a creative and cultured genius). This doesn't happen often as in the early 70s the team win trophy after trophy without my help. They also take the piss out of the Red half of Manchester on a regular basis. Soon we will be helping to relegate them with the fortuitous help of an ex-Old Trafford favourite. Life is anything but nasty, brutish and short.

Ah yes! A Leviathan. That was me.

Actually, 30 years ago today (11th March 1974) I started a proper, married man's job. Just for a few weeks you know. To pay the rent, buy a carpet, some food, curtains, nappies for the new nipper, something to sit on in our newly-acquired flat (£6.25p per week. Almost fully-furnished), and keep us going until I was recognised as the clever and talented git I really was.

After that I figured the World was my oyster.

The Doughnut in Granny's Greenhouse

Once again Amazon has entwined and enticed me into buying stuff I really don't need. A David Nobbs Omnibus, a David Nobbs autobiography and a three-in-one Herge's Adventures of TinTin (so I can be 10 years old again).

But I also chanced upon this, which has made me very happy indeed. One of the reviewers has plagiarised Stanshall's prose to praise this little masterwork.

"English as tuppence, changing yet changeless as canal water, Rawlinson End sat armoured and effete." This is true, electric soup poetry. It parodies, and laments the end of an England that never really existed.

A very, very English musical Gormenghast is the only way I can even begin to attempt to describe it.

The Ginger Geezer, a creative genius who is sadly overlooked - probably due to the medium he chose and the times he lived in. Combined with chronic alcoholism you end up with a recipe for oblivion. Which is precisely where he ended up. Well here's to you Viv, one day....one day.......

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

My erstwhile comments system - Squawkbox - has just decided to attempt to extort money from me. Instead of doing this in a nice, touchy-feely way, y'know like giving me some prior warning perhaps, it opted to deny access to my comments until I'd paid up front.

Well, tough shit squawkbox, you can fuck right off. Hello Haloscan.

So, who's going to be the first to make their mark?

The Hand Don't Fit the Glove

These nutters are thrashing themselves senseless in order to assuage the guilt they feel for their forbears not helping to stop the killings of Mohammed's remaining family hundreds of years ago. 'Latmiya' it's called and for years it was banned in Iraq. These days though this Shia-only ritual is back with a vengeance.

For me, images such as this bring home just what an uncertain future Iraq has. I feel for the many 1,000s of secular Iraqis who have to tolerate medieval behavior such as this because you can be damn sure that the toleration wouldn't be reciprocated. Shia v Sunni v Kurd that's what's going to happen. The first flexing of the Shia muscle came yesterday when Ayatollah Sistani instructed his followers not to sign the country's interim constitution. Apparently he's not happy with the concessions being given to the minority factions in Iraqi society. He's fully aware that he is the representative of the largest group - Shia Muslims and he's not going to let anyone legislate without his agreement.

Ayatollah Sistani. I've got a feeling I'm going to be hearing that name a lot over the next year or so. Unless somebody assassinates him of course. He's obviously the guy with a hot-line direct to the deity. A perusal of his website reveals a man with the answers to all those tricky questions that leap, unbidden, into your mind as you go about your business.

Question:I want to know which sea animals are halal and which ones are not?
Answer:Of all sea animals only those are halal that have scales, the rest are haram except for the shrimp which is halal too.

Question:Can a Shia man or woman marry a Sunni?
Answer:If he/she does not fear being misled, it is permissible.

Question:Can we have an oral sex before or after the sexual intercourse or can we have oral sex at all? Is it haram?
Answer:Oral sex act is permissible with the consent of both husband and wife provided that no liquid gets into the mouth.

Question:What does Islam say about masturbation? If a man is doing this what type of punishment will he deserve and how can he do\ get Tawba?
Answer:He has committed a forbidden act. Repentance would be sufficient for Tawbah.

Question: Is anal intercourse permissible?
Answer:Anal intercourse is permissible if wife is consenting but it is strongly undesirable (makrooh).

Good old Sistani - that's sorted out my worries and confusion about seafood, inter-faith marriage and anal sex. I still don't see why shrimp should be exempt from the banned list though - the scale-less bastards, and I presume it's OK for women to masturbate as you don't mention them in your answer, but, apart from that I can see that you're the guy with the 'knowledge'.

I just hope you've got the good sense to keep the lid on fools like those in the image above. So far so good. I expected a backlash from the Karbala atrocity earlier this week but you - according to reports - swiftly snuffed out talk of retaliation. Riverbend has also written about the outbreak of sanity that occurred after the tragedy between Sunni and Shia in her area. (Scroll down to the entry 'Ashoura Tragedy'.) Here's hoping.

Welcome to the 21st century folks.

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I see the Red Cross has delivered a letter from Saddam to his daughter Raghad Hussein. I wonder what it says?

"When are you coming to visit? I've been here for weeks now and not one word have I received from you. Is it too much to ask that you at least write? Incidentally I'm sorry I had your husband and Brother-in-law murdered. I was just having a bad day.

Your loving father Saddam."

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A nice, relaxing Saturday afternoon without having to worry about City's fall from grace. Disappointed to see the Reds finally get the better of Fulham but you can't have everything. I've got a funny feeling their name's on the cup this year.

Right I'm off to cook a couple of steaks with baked spud, salad and pepper sauce. I think we'll wash it down with something red and alcoholic before a night in the local and a party at one of Eldest and Youngest's mates later on. It's hard work enjoying oneself, it really is.

Idiot Wind

Has Reverend Blair been taking courses in stupidity? Or are we once again witnessing Dubya's spinners advising Number 10 to keep talking about the 'War on Terror' ® in the same breath as the War on Iraq?

War on Terror/Iraq, War on Terror/Iraq, War on Terror/Iraq. Terror/Iraq, Terror/Iraq, Terror/Iraq. Keep saying it and eventually (just like the USA) most people will equate Iraq with terror and link Saddam with Al Qaeda.

Terrorism, we are told, represents a "new type of war", one that we can presumably wage without recourse to niceties such as International law. This "new type of war" will also require an overhaul of the United Nations, so that its "security council represents 21st century reality". It must be able to "act effectively as well as debate". Hmmmm that sounds more like "me and George want you to do what we say in future". Yeah Tone we don't want any of that Democracy interfering when we scour the world looking for places we can impose democracy now do we?

BBC Report.
Guardian Report
Full text of the speech.

Once again 'our Tone' is attempting the 'right or wrong this is what I truly believe' line of defence. Well that's as may be Tone but, right or wrong I don't believe you - and that's what I truly believe. This cod sincerity just doesn't wash any longer. Your actions over your two terms have defined you. I know what you promised and I know what you delivered, you can spin it as much as you want but you delivered less than you promised. From the NHS to crime to pensions to reform of the Lords to education, education, education you let me down on every issue. On top of that you've squandered billions on gung ho wars against third world countries all in the name of a 'special relationship' with the most right-wing, intolerant, fundamentalist government since Ayatollah Khomeni's.

Step down man you blew it.

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Turns out that there was a very real fire scare at one of our southern bases yesterday. There was smoke and heat but no flames. Still it was enough to set off the sprinkler system at our national data centre dragging down the network on a scale that makes you realise just what damage a strategic terrorist attack could achieve. All our systems were down from 4:00pm to 7:00am costing the company quite a few quid in repair bills never mind loss of service compensation for our clients.

WeCouldn'tGiveAShit Ltd MUST have sub-contracted that job to We'reStillEagerCosWe'reNew Ltd or else they would still be waiting for the southern equivalent of Gaz and Mick to turn up.

Tell It Like It Is

You know, for an occupation that acquires more than its fair share of opprobrium, there are a surprising number of journalists who could be described as honest, rigorous and independent - regardless of which paymaster they've served. I'm thinking James Cameron, Michael Herr, John Simpson and even Boris Johnson - and that is just a few. There are many more. Tonight BBC4 had the fabulous idea of screening a documentary detailing the remarkable doggedness of Charles Wheeler's incisive brand of journalism.

Never one to shy away from the difficult question, Mr Wheeler is now in his 81st year and his mind is still razor sharp. Tonight's documentary was yet another coup (well in my opinion at least) for BBC4. No doubt it will be on BBC2 in a few weeks.

BBC4 comes good again tomorrow with a documentary or two about Gram Parsons. As a teenager (and as a thirty-something) I could never understand why anyone would think that Gram was 'cutting edge'. His stuff sounded just like all the other C&W I'd ever heard. I later realised I hadn't grasped just how conservative the Country scene was and that the simple fact of putting a rock drummer on these tracks made them futuristic in the extreme. He influenced so many others as well. Most notably Keith Richards and, to a lesser extent Mick Jagger. Let It Bleed and Exile on Main Street especially have some heavy Gram input.

Why Don't You Try Me Tonight

Today's soundtrack is provided by Ryland Cooder. Master guitarist, mandolinist, bottleneckist and all-round clever bastard. I needed some more of the master as I returned to work after the 'fire scare' earlier in the week. Needless to say, we arrived the morning after to the alluring sounds of the fire alarm still in full cry. How the hell do you do your security-guard type 'rounds' and fail to recognise an alarm in full voice? God help us if we ever experience a *proper* terrorist incident.

"Sorry? Reset the alarm? Sorry mate.....not our job any longer. You need.........."

"Don't tell me: "WeCouldn'tGiveAShit Ltd?"

"Yeah, give 'em a bell on extension XXXX."

"Incidentally......there's no alarm going off according to our equipment."

"What was WeCouldn'tGiveAShit Ltd's number again......"

Fire in the Hole

So I enter the secure area at work today and discover the overwhelming smell of electrical over-heating. It was so bad it triggered the fire/smoke alarm. There on the panel on the wall all the warning lights were flashing in rythm with the warning whine.

"In the event of the alarm sounding immediately phone the Fire and Security Department on ext XXXX".

"Hello is that Fire and Security?"

"Errr....yeah."

"I'm in such-and-such room. There is a strong smell of something possibly burning and the alarm's going off."

"Well it's not going off according to our equipment."

"What?"

"According to our equipment there's no alarm going off."

"Can you hear that?" *Holds phone up to the alarm*

"Yeah...yeah I can."

"Well that's the frigging alarm and, as you can hear, it's going off regardless of what your 'equipment' says."

"Have you reported it?"

"Err I'm reporting it now aren't I?"

"No mate, you need to phone ext XXXX and log it with WeCouldn'tGiveAShit Ltd. They look after the fire side of things now as the function's been outsourced."

"Outsourced?"

"Yeah to WeCouldn'tGiveAShit Ltd. On ext XXXX. You need to log it with them and then someone will come out."

"So what do we do if the place bursts into flame in the meantime?"

"Give us a bell and we'll get the fire brigade in."

So, an hour later two 'pillars of the community' turn up. One of them is wearing a Burberry baseball cap as well as other evidence of Chav-ness and his mate has got a shaved head and an arse the size of Jordan's ego.

"I can't fuckin' smell anyfin' - can you Mick?"

"Fuckin' 'ell Gaz. It stinks like fuck."

"Does it? Mind you I've always 'ad a fuckin' shit sense o' smell I 'ave. Me Mam always said I smelled fuckin' awful - ha ha ha."

This continues for another 15 minutes or so before they finally discover one of the air conditioning units is overheating and proceed to contact somebody else who deals with air conditioning units. Another hour passes before another two turn up.

"Fuckin' 'ell that's 'ot as fuck that is. Didn't they turn it off?"

"Well...obviously not......look are you gonna sort it or what?"

"Yeah no problem mate. They should've isolated it though. Fuckin' thing could go up at any minute."

"Errrr....right I'll err leave you to it then." *Exits at speed whilst attempting to appear outwardly calm*

Half an hour later the air conditioning man comes to see me to tell me that everything's now OK. I thank him and get on with a few things before going back into the secure area. The smells gone, everything looks fine - apart from the fact that alarm's still wailing away. So I phone Fire and Security to explain that the emergency is now over and the alarm needs resetting or whatever it is they do.

"Alarm?"

"Yeah, it needs restting as the problem's been sorted by two lads from WeCouldn'tGiveAShit Ltd."

"Well it's not going off according to our equipment."

"What?"

"According to our equipment there's no alarm going off.........."

I felt in dire need of a Lyle-like explosion of well-honed and well-directed abuse of the highest order. In the end I settled for a diplomatic "ok fine" and replaced the receiver. I figure that when (or should that be if?) they do their 'rounds' tonight, checking for terrorists and the like, they might - just might - hear the alarm a-howling and do whatever they need to do to stop it.

Mind you perhaps that's not their job either. No doubt WeCouldn'tGiveAShit Ltd have sub-contracted 'turning off alarms' to We'reStillReallyEagerAndSon Ltd because they've just started up and WeCouldn'tGiveAShit Ltd couldn't give a shit decided that it would benefit their client to offload this particular task.

Jesus on the Mainline

When I was younger I used to struggle with a musical/intellectual paradox. How could I - a card-carrying atheist; heathen through and through - enjoy gospel music so much? I used to joke that if the local Sunday school my brother and I were packed off to each week had hymns as full of soul as the churches of the deep south, I'd be praising the Lord with the best of them. Alas 'twas not to be. I was subjected to a dreary, frock-coated "thou shalt not" Northern non-conformism that stifled the spirit. I knew the Devil had all the best tunes - hadn't I just seen and heard the Rolling Stones on Top of the Pops?

As the sixties rolled by and I finally became a teenager, I started hearing all these old black guys who the Stones and many other blues-based groups of the day namechecked as influences. Muddy Waters, Big Bill Broonzy, John Lee Hooker and Sonny Boy Williamson soon led me onto investigating further. Blind Blake, Lightnin' Hopkins, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee followed and then Blind Willie McTell, Blind Willie Johnson and the creme de la creme: Robert Johnson. I'd buy compilation albums full of people with alien names like Kokomo Arnold, Cripple Clarence Lofton and Sleepy John Estes. I couldn't get enough. It was a guilty secret that hid behind the facade of the usual late sixties fare of Zeppelin, Tull and Cream. On these compilation albums there always seemed to be some gospel music thrown in. Either as a solo voice and guitar/piano performance, or as a full choir rendition. I loved it. Those *blue* notes sent shivers etc etc.

But I couldn't throw myself fully into it. It was the lyrics. Twaddle. 'Woke up this morning and my woman had gone' I could relate to. Hell it was always happening to me even at that tender age. 'What a friend I have in Jesus' just made me laugh though. As a result I slowly stopped listening and buying and turned my attention to heavy(ish) rock.

Years later I 'discover' Ry Cooder and I'm back there again. His arrangements of old blues and gospels are sublime. 'Happy Meeting in Glory', Jesus on the Mainline and many more make me realise what I've been missing. I still can't handle the lyrics though but I think I've established a compromise that can withstand a little intellectual rigour. So here I have to raise my hat to the faith (misguided though I think it is) that inspired some of the greatest music of the 20th century. In the final analysis it's a profoundly human creation and I don't have to agree with lyrics to enjoy the song do I? I mean I adore 'Hey Joe' but give a big thumbs down to the practise of carrying a gun in your hand to shoot your woman down.

So. Well done God and well done mankind for inventing him in the first place.

This post was written to a soundtrack of Ry Cooder's 'Jazz' and 'Paradise and Lunch' albums. Two of his best and a perfect way to start a weekend.

Now I'm off to see City and Chelsea. Let's hope the perfect start to the weekend continues.

Everything You Did

This is most enjoyable. Roy Keane. How old is he? Stamping on an opponent in the 88th minute or so. Bet the 'Youngsters' will be paying attention next time you slag 'em off for letting the team down won't they Roy?

Schadenfreude. Especially when we find a coach who seems as good at mind games as Ol' Red Face.

"Mourinho poured scorn on Ferguson's reaction to United's defeat. "I understand why he is a bit emotional. "You would be sad if your team gets as clearly dominated by an opponent who has been built on 10% of the budget." "

I expect Alex is incandescent - literally. I love the way he tries to appear calm and reasoned in interviews though - the way he attempts to paper over the cracks. Listen to this from tonight's post match chat:-

"There was no malice in the incident, it is not Roy's style to do anything like that.

"The goalkeeper made more of it than he should have done. Certainly he stood on the lad but I don't know whether he could have got out of the way.

"I can understand why the linesman flagged but the keeper made a meal of it."

It's "not Roy's style"? Ha ha ha. My arse. Poor old Roy. Looks like he won't be playing in a European Cup Final again. Shame.

---

"I thought the movie did an EXCELLENT job in vividly displaying the gospels. In my view it is the rebirth-rite of every human to experience the scourging and crucifixion of Christ. It prompted my family to read the book of John for the first time in 20 years and Bible reading during this time of turmoil is not a bad thing."

St Mel's portrayal of the last 12 hours of the Bolshie Chippy from Nazareth's life (allegedly) has been released today. Ash Wednesday as well. I *wonder* if that's just a coincidence? I pulled the quote above from the reader reviews off the New York Times website. "Rebirth-rite?" "Scourging?" I must be missing something here. I've never witnessed a 'scourging' of anybody in my life, and as for a 'rebirth-rite'? Well.....

"For God so loved the world that He gave His only son...how can you minimize the sacrifice? I already have my tickets for this film and can't wait to see it. Just think...the whole world is talking about Jesus. Thank you, Mel Gibson for accomplishing what we've been trying to do for decades."

Just for the record, the 'whole world' ISN'T talking about Jesus - if they're talking about anyone it's probably Mohammed, what's for dinner and whether they'll still be alive in the morning. Furthermore, most of the third world doesn't have, y'know, access or the wherewithal to attend the gala opening of St Mel's Anti-Semetic jamboree "Masterpiece."

I'll leave you with this review from the same site (New York Times)

"This movie would've been much better in the hands of Quentin Tarantino. The dialogue would have been wittier, the Christ would've been more hip, and the violence would be more tasteful."

I just hope that that IS a piss-take.

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Just started to re-acquaint myself with Steely Dan's ouvre. Class. Sheer bloody class.

The Eton Boat Song

Wahey! The BBC has finally decided to dump that pointless piece of class-ridden bollocks - the boat race. Sadly, ITV have, apparently picked up the mantle and are running with it. The BBC has stated that the boat race organisers had decided to pursue a 'highly commercial agenda'. I think we can construe from this that they were asking an arm and a leg for the TV rights. Just what 'old money' makes of these parvenus selling to the highest bidder hasn't been recorded, but I expect the jowls are shaking and dark mutterings are echoing round the corridors of power.

Personally I'm just glad that my licence money isn't being used to line the pockets of the chinless undeserving any longer. A more pointless activity I can't think of. It smacks of pre-war clipped accents, comfortable privelege and the class system. Good riddance.

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When I first dived recklessly into the wonderful world of t'internet, I did so via Demon. I still keep the account going and let my Dad use it. It saves him having to faff about setting up his own and saves him the monthly fee.

I still clear out the mailbox every now and then. As a result of allowing my demon email address to circulate (now I know better) 99% of the content is just spam. I was doing this earlier and noticed some of the ludicrous names that these viagra sellers, loan offerers and pornographers adopt. I say adopt because names like Arnoldo Fico, Nathaniel Stranger, Trenton Woody, Zack McCain, Octavio Spinks and the wonderful Lino McHendry surely can't be real? These are names out of Airport novels and 'Danielle Steele Presents....' afternoon movies.

"It's a boy Mrs McHendry"

"A boy? We'll call him.....Lino"

---

Well the Ukranian evening eventually turned into a great success. In retrospect this was due to the discovery of a powerful Ukranian beer called Obolon. The version I was quaffing was a 5.2% and it was very well received. Add to this the ludicrously low prices in the club and a good night is almost guaranteed. As an example 2 half litre bottles of Obolon, a Bells whisky, a Malibu (don't ask) and a vodka came to the dizzy sum of £6.20 !! It almost made wearing the monkey suit worth it.

Highlight of the evening was a display of Ukrainian dancing. Supported by an old guy on a huge piano accordian with a folorn looking gentleman (think Clement Freud - see above left) providing a beat by hitting a bass drum, young women with sparkling eyes and dazzling smiles were flung around in colourful costumes by muscular young men in baggy trousers and knee-high boots. As the wee small hours approached, Ukranian 'pop' music was played by a local band as the floor filled with bog-standard dancers twitching and shuffling a much more prosaic pastiche of the glory that had gone before.

All in all it was a good day Saturday. City finally won a league game after three months and United were held to a draw by Leeds.

As I Walked Out One Bright May Morning....

Let's talk about Folk Music.

I've got to confess, I'm not one of the 'finger-in-t'ear' brigade, but I do like a bit of fal-de-ra and fol-de-rol - periodically. I especially adore it when it doesn't attempt to pretend it's not about sex, death, war and entrails which, as we all should be aware, is *exactly* what it IS about. I also adore it when it's performed with sensitivity and musicianship. (Note to self: Make damn sure your auto-biography, when it's written is called 'Sensitivity and Musicianship')

After returning from the recently re-installed-in-our-social-calendar Friday night 'Early Doors', we tuned into BBC4 as we shared a Chinese takeaway. Friday night on the Beeb's flagship Arts channel generally focuses on 'roots' music of some description - African, Eastern and Western European and North and South American. Ry Cooder, Salif Keita, Martin Carthy, Emmylou Harris, John Martyn have all appeared recently. A muso's paradise.

Tonight we were offered the 'saccharine-ised' Irish-folk-twaddle of Brian Kennedy and Cara Dillon with a full orchestra. Result? Well it sounds like something you may buy your Gran for her birthday before wising up and getting something much more racy like a.....Barbara Cartland 'novel'.

God-awful it was, absolutely God-awful. Everything folk music shouldn't be.

Later we had Kate Rusby and her band. Exquisite playing and singing. Harmonies that enhanced, light and shade and playing you would sell your soul to emulate. I like her - in relatively small doses though. I want some earth and grit in my music. Blood, snot and shagging. (Note to self: Make damn sure your auto-biography, when it's written is called 'Blood, Snot and Shagging'). Kate hits the spot in a gentle, snuggly, secreting bodily fluids kind of way but sometimes, just sometimes you require a Pogues or a Clash ex-member to come along and 'punk it up' a bit.

Tomorrow night Dearest and I are having to don Dinner Suits and Posh Frocks to watch Traditional Ukrainian music and dancing! WTF? I hope it sounds more like The Pogues than Peter, Paul and Mary. I've got a feeling those Balalaikas will be reverbed to easy-listening heaven though.

I can understand why the Ukrainians, Poles, Irish and the rest cling to their indigenous musics. It's an expression of your cultural heritage in the face of Imperial occupation - be it Great Britain, Russia, the Soviet Union (Imperial in all but name), Napoleon's French version or America's Coca-Cola-nisation. The same argument, for me, explains the emasculation of English folk music. We have had no need to utilise our heritage in the face of foreign invasion.

I would love to find out if there was a boom in English Folk and dance during the dark days of WW2 though.

Where am I going with this? Fuck knows but it's been grand discussing it as I listen to:-

The Band - Acadian Driftwood
R L Burnside - Got Messed Up
Steve Earle - Amerika v6.00
Nick Drake - River Man
Dan Ar Bras - Spike Island Lasses
Old Blind Dogs - Johnny O'Braidislee
etc., etc., etc.,

---

Dearest was recounting a day when she used to work in Manchester City Centre - as opposed to Altrincham where she now has to travel miles to get to. She fell asleep on the bus as she journeyed. At the time she had a coat that sported anorak-like cords with toggles on the end. Given the ridiculous design of this, her favourite coat, these toggles probably amounted to six or eight.

Anyway, to cut a long story.......etc........etc.

As she woke - still in the fug of deep sleep - she looked down, saw the toggles and screamed. This frightened the Bejasus out of everyone else on the top of deck of the number 76.

Later, when she had calmed down, she explained that she had woken up, looked down and convinced herself that she had:-

"A Kneeful of Bees"

Her eyes have never been 20-20.

(Note to self: Make damn sure your auto-biography, when it's written is called '"A Kneeful of Bees"')

Boots of Spanish Leather

If this story about Henry XIII is true, dig him up and give him a game at Eastlands. There's more life in the rotund regal rascal than there is in any of Keegan's back four.

Blogger's spell-checker wants me to replace Keegan with Cezanne. Well....any port in a storm. There's also the added bonus of him speaking french - he'll be able to communicate effectively with half the squad immediately.

Have we any other suggestions for Artists managing Football Club? Personally I'd go with Van Gogh for City. Wildly optimistic one minute, deep in despair the next and quite likely to blow his brains out at a moment's notice. Or Toulouse Lautrec? A pygmy attempting to control and order a massive talent?

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Apparently Beyonce "gasped in mock horror when a male dancer flashed his Union Jack boxer shorts" during her routine at this evening's Brits. This was, we were told, " - a send-up of the furore in the US caused by Janet Jackson flashing her nipple at the Super Bowl" Radical eh? We've come a long way since the days of Chumbawumba drenching Two Jags and Jarvis Cocker committing outright blasphemy in front of Saint Michael of Neverland.

*Yawn*

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Second week of biking to and from work. Tonight was bloody freezing. Tomorrow looks like it's going to be freezing WITH a wind chill. I'll guarantee that wind will be in my face all the way to work and all the way back.

Bugger!