Flash, Bang, wallop - What a Picture!

Well George 'doesn't like it one bit' apparently, which should comfort the Iraqis subjected to humiliation, indignity and mental torture during their incarceration. I expect that the Arab world will understand that it's just a few bad apples blackening the name of the coalition forces. Tony's upset as well.

Just when you think things couldn't get any worse. Y'know after a week when conservative estimates put the civilian dead in Fallujah at 800ish. It really is starting to resemble the Vietnam debacle. American body bags arriving daily at Dover Delaware, allegations of American brutality against civilians and now the mistreatment of prisoners. The one major difference between then and now though is the control of the press and TV.

When images sneak through the *firewall* that is the modern USA Military machine though, the similarities reverberate. I wonder how many more incidences have occurred that have not been photographed or recorded?

What's next? A My Lai equivalent?

---

On a lighter note: cheese soup? What the fuck's that about? What addled brain considers cheese soup edible? What addled brain thought it would be acceptable to heat up his cheese soup in our fucking office microwave? I don't think I've ever encountered a stench like it in my life and I don't think I ever will. The idea that someone - a human being for Christ's sake - would have smelt that and then put the curdled, steaming shite in his mouth makes me gip*. Three hours later we could still smell the odious, insidious miasma throughout the office.

No doubt, in a few days time, the decaying body of the twat with the soup will be as ripe as his lunch.

*Gip, gipping, gipped - A Northern word. To be on the verge of vomiting. Also known as gag, gagging, gagged.

Oh Well Part 2

Whoop whoop! Back on broadband. As Eldest is spending most of his days and nights at his Darlin's, we agreed that I would plug the ADSL modem direct into my PC. So I did. Next I downloaded the drivers via my dial-up connection. Four hours later and we're up and running.

Next thing I've got SVCHOST.EXE taking up all my resources and my box is running like a dog. So - download the latest dat file for my Anti-Virus software and check the PC. Clean.

Baffled. Any of you PC boffins out there got any ideas?

'Cos now I can't play BBC Radio, my MP3 playback is full of interference and I am getting well pissed off.

---

I can't believe that George Michael is the most played artist on British radio over the past 20 years. Now don't get me wrong, I think George has produced some fantastic music over the years (well after he split up Wham anyway), 'Listen Without Prejudice' being a particular favourite. I just can't believe that he's the one at number one.

The fact that George's career has spanned the past two decades has, I would've thought, helped him a great deal in his climb to the top of this meaningless chart. So I guess I shouldn't be that surprised.

I shouldn't be surprised at the dull, MOR blandness of the list either - but I can't help it. It depresses the life out of me. That top ten demonstrates just how homogenised popular radio has become.

Williams, Minogue, Adams, Madonna, Collins, Richard and Hucknall. What a fucking impressive bunch of blandness. Yet we have the Director of the Radio Academy (whatever that is) commenting:

"This chart is an interesting snapshot of which artists have most shaped popular culture as the number of radio stations both competing for our attention and playing their material has spiraled"

I'll tell you this, if that sorry shower of shit has 'shaped popular culture' then we're fucked. Simple as.

Oh Well Part 1

Well, I can only imagine that someone within Occupied Towers used my razor over the weekend in order to shave a hedgehog or something. Yesterday morning (Monday lest we forget), I stood staring in horror as half of my chin floated, bloodily, in the scummy water lapping my washbasin.

Nobody had used said razor over the weekend though. Honestly. What had obviously happened was a mysterious oxidisation resulting in the complete and utter collapse of the molecular structure of the edge of the blade.

Dearest is the proud owner of *very* smooth legs though. Remarkable.

---

Manchester City will probably be the death of me. This season is going to go to the wire. Last season was the first that ended with mid-table obscurity since the early 90s. Since 1996 we have been relegated from the Premiership, struggled in Division 1, got relegated to Div 2, managed to clamber back into the first Division via the cliff-hanger play-off final against Gillingham. A year later we were at Blackburn, last game of the season. We had to draw to win promotion. Eventually we won 4-1 and the promised land of the Premiership beckoned. By the end of the 2000-01 campaign a win was required at Ipswich to give us any chance of staying up. We failed and down we went: bye bye Joe Royle.

Along comes Kevin and we end the season beating all comers and winning the league. Back to the Premiership and our last season at Maine Road. 11th position in our first season back and with squad strengthening in the summer a top six finish was confidently predicted.

Alas, t'was not to be and here we are once again staring relegation in the face with the most expensive and - on paper - the most talented squad we've ever had.

Blood pressure up, heart rate erratic but here I am still dreaming of next season and what we might achieve.

---

There's a fabulous shop for men in Manchester called Slater's Menswear. It's a bloke's shop. It sells just about everything a man could require, from boxers to best-bib-and-tuckers, from cufflinks to cummerbunds. All alterations are included in the purchase price - and the prices are more than reasonable.

On Saturday determined not to be a hostage to fortune listening to the Leicester v City commentary on GMR, I went for a pair of Chinos and a pair of Levis. Fifteen minutes after going in I had been sorted and my newly acquired strides were -more than likely already being altered. Total outlay £60ish. Pick ‘em up on Tuesday. Sorted – as they say in these parts.

---

Catastrophe chez Occupied at the mo’. The server is playing silly buggers and the broadband connection has decided it’s being overworked. It’s looking like a rebuild of the server is in order and that it will probably be the weekend before we get round to it.

In the meantime I’ve dug out an old 56k modem and I am currently re-acquainting myself with the glory of dial-up.

To think I used to surf the net with a 14400 modem and, prior to that, bulletin boards with a 9600.

King of Pain

A strange and unwelcome state of affairs has occurred as a result of riding my bike. I had one of those days where boxer shorts and 'roomy' trousers resulted in little or no support for my nether regions. As my legs pumped up and down, my 'manhood' jigged from side to side. This resulted in a bad case of that little-known affliction: 'jogger's foreskin'.

Virtually unknown in the circumcised areas of the world, this condition can bring even the most macho to his knees.

Vaseline anybody?

---

So Ron Atkinson' true colours are nailed high for all to see today. I heard his sorry excuse that he didn't even realise he'd said what he had said until they played it back to him. As today's Guardian attests though, Big Ron has displayed a less than edifying approach to the issue in the recent past.

But despite praise from black players he has worked with throughout his career, including some of the first black stars of the game that emerged during his tenure at West Brom at a time when overt racism was rife on the terraces, Atkinson has displayed signs of casual racism in the past.

"It was a great time. I think there's more racial prejudice now than there was then, though we used to make them sit on the back of the bus going to away games. We all used to laugh and joke about it. Cyrille [Regis] would say, 'If you don't stop giving me stick I'm going to buy a house next door to you'," he said in a recent interview.

The Atkinson incident has highlighted - for me at least - the way that language evolves. Twenty or thirty years ago Big Ron would have been sacked for using the F word on air. The N word wouldn't have raised an eyebrow.

S'funny ol' world ain't it?

Sign in Stranger

We were deep into the afternoon’s drinking when the stranger at the next table asked if anyone would like tickets for the Norah Jones concert.

All discussion of Keegan’s lack of tactical nous stopped as Dearest nonchalantly suggested she might be interested.

“I’ll have ‘em.”

Then, an afterthought. “How much?”

“Well I paid £67 quid for two, but you can have them for £40. Just to cut my losses. We can’t make it you see.

Immediately my spidey sense kicks in and I start to envisage cons, rip offs and stings of the highest order. I mean he’s been sat there for ages, occasionally throwing a bored eye in the direction the Sunderland v West Brom top-of-the-table clash in the corner, occasionally sipping from a pint of Boddingtons. Like Strider he was. The Lone Stranger

Now he’s offering tickets to a sold out concert (we know because Dearest had already tried) at knock down prices? There’s just a touch of the ’little bit whooo, little bit waaayyyy' about this guy and I’m desperately trying to signal that a tactical withdrawal is in order.

Too late though, the deal is done. Bollocks!

Then it starts to get surreal.

“You’ll have to pick the tickets up from the Box Office on the night of the concert.”

My suspicions confirmed. The man’s a con. Dearest - too – becomes suspicious and points out, not unreasonably, that there’s no way that she is going to fork out £40 then turn up at Manchester Apollo only to be laughed out of the Box Office.

Not being the world’s greatest Norah fan I was quite happy that the deal had collapsed. We returned to Keegan.

The next Strider has, well…strode (stridden?) across to our table to explain that he wouldn’t dream of taking the money upfront, he understood our doubts and that the tickets can only be claimed with his credit card anyway.

We left the pub with his credit card and a letter authorising us to pick up the tickets.

“Just leave the money behind the bar – I’ll call in for it during the week.”

I’m a great judge of other people I am. I could see straight away that the shifty git was a wrong ‘un.

---

The seats were bloody superb as well. Row D, right in the middle. Perfect view and pretty near perfect sound. Ms Jones and the Handsome Band (surely a pisstake), were on form. Starting with an excellent version of Hank Williams’ ‘Cold, Cold Heart’, they played a selection from her first two albums plus a few tasty covers from artists as diverse as AC/DC, Tom Waits and ‘Dook’ Ellington.

An excellent group of musicians; including American jazz guitarist Adam Levy and English ‘sessioneer to the stars’ Robbie McIntosh on slide, mandolin and various electrics.

Trouble is it's all soooooo *nice*. I mean. don't get me wrong, the musicianship is of the highest standard. Some of the songwriting also. It's just too, well, *samey*. The Apollo – at least from where we were sat – was small enough to still retain the intimate atmosphere of a jazz, folk or blues club. A larger venue would probably overwhelm the band – and the music, which could do with a little more arrangement - a little more chiaroscuro.

Forty quid well spent though - on the whole. I might ‘ve baulked at £67 (including booking fee). Actually I would’ve baulked at £67 (including booking fee), I mean I can remember when you could experience the greatest Rock Stars the world has ever seen and still have change from a pound note.

Mind you, we had a great time abusing his credit card.

---

Back on the bike now the inclement weather has left the North West. No noticable improvement in waist size, lung capacity or muscle though.

Tell me it’s doing me good. Please.

Same as it ever was.......

After yesterday's spineless capitulation to a very average side, Kevin Keegan maintains that the situation is not desperate. We are 2 points above the bottom three and, looking at the remaining 4 games I can't see us winning any more. Back to the Nationwide league with a brand new stadium and £50 to £60 million in debt.

The thing that really got me yesterday was the inability to change tactics to deal with a scrapping, battling Southampton team who have nothing left to play for this season. City were last to every ball, couldn't pass to a blue shirt and cocked up every one of the few chances they created. £50 million spent on a bunch of overpaid, underperforming pile of crap.

All season the commentators have been spewing forth the same old cliches, 'too good to go down', 'a strong squad that is more than capable of winning silverware'. For most of the season the supporters have recognised relegation form. God knows we've seen enough of it over the years. Only the most over-optimistic predict Premiership football at Eastlands next season.

---

Well Tony has done himself no favours whatsoever this past week. Starting last Sunday with his article in The Observer regretting nothing and promising more of the same, he then nipped over the pond to help his mate Dubya with his election campaign.

More of the same: 'resolve', 'steadfast', 'war on terror', 'democracy', 'good', 'evil', 'right', 'wrong'.

Side by side in the Rose Garden, Dubya sank to the occassion. Oh he was fine with his scripted little speeches, it was the question and answer session that gave us a disturbing snapshot of a smug moron. Tony, on the other hand, showed quick thinking and was eloquent in his replies. Sadly the substantive part of his responses gave full support to Bush's mistakes in Iraq and also, now, in Palestine.

Just how anyone can believe that unilaterally declaring a policy without negotiation is a 'breakthrough' is beyond me. How we can sanction the illegal occupation of Palestine is also beyond me. Surely our esteemed leader recognises the election year imperative behind the 'policy'? The pro-Israel, Christian Right will be over the moon.

Meanwhile the suicide bombings and assasinations carry on.

A breakthrough? My arse.

---

I thought Scorseze's first film in the Blues series currently being serialised on BBC4 was patchy and a bit of a disappointment. The music itself was excellent for the most part but there was little by way of expanation going on. Most of the time we had Corey Harris playing and singing alone or with others. The rest of the time he was listening to others reminisce or play and the end result was confused.

Next Friday should hopefully be better. Entitled 'Red, White and Blues', it tells the story of the British Blues boom of the 1960s. Prior to that we are presented with John Mayall's 70th birthday concert and then a documentary on the Godfather of British blues.

Sadly Dearest has never been an afficionado and usually ends the evening snoozing, blissfully unaware of the heartache, pain and poverty howling from the TV in the corner.

The World Turned Upside Down

Listening to Radio 5live yesterday I happened upon a report that somebody, somewhere has suggested that 16 year olds should not only be allowed to vote, but also be allowed to become MPs. The logic underpinning this twaddle has its roots firmly embedded in the 'involve-'em-and-they'll-get-interested' camp, which is closely allied to the 'I-am-a-middle-class-airhead-with-no-true-experience-of-life-as-the-rest-of-us-understand-it' faction. Palpable crap

Even Pitt the Younger would have surely raised an eyebrow at some of this country's finest examples of responsible young aldultism? I mean can you imagine attending your local MPs surgery to be confronted by a 16 year old? (Assuming he turns up). Let's face it, that adolescent is either going to be a baseball-capped, sneering bundle of happiness who stood for election 'fer a laugh', or a modern version of the teenage William Hague - or worse still that ill-informed prick who spouts nonsense on Conservative Commentary.

Hansard. 15th November 2023.

Speaker: "The Honourable Member for Chavsville North...."

The Honourable Member for Chavsville North: "I'd errrr *like*, errr *y'know*, *like* err say Hey dudes it's my first speech in da house so don't 'dis wiv me man'. Errrrr....that's it man.

Later, in the members bar:-

"Three Snakebites please mate and three 'aftershocks' and three pints of Stella for me and my fucking wastrel mate constituent."

Question Time (Thursday nights not Wednesday afternoons) would plumb depths even greater than it's achieved since the demise of Robin Day.

Chair of QT: "But surely Mr Chav your argument is empirically n......"

Mr Chav "Fuck off yer poncy twat...heh heh heh."

Yes, quality idea. I can't wait.

---

Tonight I needed some cash and washing up liquid (Dearest insisting on the latter, mere existence in the modern world requesting the former). Being 8:30ish I drove about half a mile to a local ex-Co-op - now a 'Late Shop'. As an added bonus it also boasts an ATM that faces onto the main Manchester to Oldham road. In goes the little piece of plastic and round the corner comes a burberry of chavs.*

Just my luck that the 'transaction is being processed - please wait', so no chance of aborting and buggering off.

Next thing I'm in the midst of the shaven-headed bastards

"Rob the fucker Micky......ha ha ha ha!."

There must've been 5 or 6 of 'em and it's very, very worrying. So it was a joke (I think - perhaps I was too big for 6 of them to overcome), but it certainly makes your heartbeat step up a gear.

Perhaps they were on a fact-finding tour of a Northern conurbation's streets at night with a view to acquiring experience of the problems suffered by ordinary people before standing for election in some happy-clappy-everything-is-beautiful hustings of the near future.

But somehow I doubt it.

*C'mon all you wordsmiths - You know who you are. Let's hear your suggestions: a collective noun for chavs.

Life Gets Tedious Don't It?

Well Easter's come and gone and the over-paid prima donnas of Manchester City have thrown away the chance to grab three points each against Wolves and Spurs. Given the fact that both Leeds and Portsmouth look like they've re-found their form, things are looking bad at Eastlands.

On top of that we now hear rumours of Russian billionaires showing an interest in taking us over. That's the last thing we need. To become the plaything of shady politician-cum-'businessman' who would presumably throw money at our problems in a bid for glory could, quite possibly cause us many more troubles than we already have. Bring back David Bernstein.

---

Quite a nice Easter break and a good old fashioned Indian last night. Mmmmmmm. Reshmi kebab followed by chicken tikka and two pints of Bengal lager. A decent Indian restaurant 15 minutes from my front door. 30 years ago there wouldn't have been one 15 miles from my front door.

I Can't Stand Up for Falling Down

Oh dear, what's George up to now? Too many John Wayne films, hellfire, damnation and New American Century nonsense have surely fried the president's brain.

Yes there is, understandably, insurgency and pissed-off-ness on the rise in Iraq. But what did you expect you latter-day Crusader you?

Sorry? What was that George? Oh, you're not a Crusader. That's just the Left-Wing Commie bastards trying to make you look a twat?

Bit late for that I would've thought but, no matter. George, here's some advice from a dyed in the wool atheist.

DON'T ATTACK PLACES OF WORSHIP!

Regardless of who's in the thing. Leave it be. Withdraw. Starve the buggers out if you have to but, Mosque, Cathedral, Chapel or a Rasta 'Ganga-hut', leave the fucker well alone.

George, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you (I mean you must have hundreds of advisors), but now the Arab world has a lovely touchy-feely video of USA Helicopters firing rockets into a Mosque. A Mosque! A Video that will be replayed as much as the first Twin-Tower images were in the West. Are you *really* as stupid as 'Have I Got News For You' makes you out to be?

All I've heard since is 'kick-ass' speeches from the commanders and politicians that are doing absolutely nothing to ease the situation. You're digging a hole so deep you may never re-emerge. Wake up. Even Richard Nixon saw sense eventually and started the process that ended the Vietnam debacle.

But, then again, apart from being a lying, conniving, thoroughly unlikable main-chancer, at least Tricky had some intelligence. He recognised a dead end when he saw one. God knows he'd met enough before he swore allegiance in the thin January sunshine of 1968.

Mind you, by the same token, he probably only paid lip-service to the Big-Man.

I reckon Tone will be on his knees again next month when he visits the White House. George will get his election piccies and Tone will surely be praying that Kerry does the business come November.

---

Another great night for Euro-Champ upsets. Milan well and truly done over after leading 4-1 before the second leg. It's been a funny year football-wise. Millwall in the FA Cup Final, Chelsea whupping the Arse's arse last night and City, having won nowt, are now struggling to avoid the drop. Unbelievable.

In a Broken Dream

Well, within the space of a few days, Arsenal's 'treble' has been divided into three by some God of Football. What a game that was tonight. First half I thought Chelsea had no chance. They lost the midfield and Hasselbaink and Gudjohnsen were playing too forward to be able to link effectively. The goal just before half time was, I thought, a killer. Second half the 'Tinkerman' (ie Claudio Ranieri) brought on Gronkjaer who added something in the middle and the wing. Suddenly the game began to change. In the end it was Chelsea hammering away at Arsenal and, eventually the goal came.

Claudio Ranieri has been the epitome of dignity throughout this season (and, indeed the last). From the moment he took over at Stamford Bridge he's been looked upon as some joke figure. A joke because when he first arrived he couldn't speak English. So much of a joke that even his translator took the piss by making up post-match comments from Claudio's Italian. Less than two years later, he has enough mastery of the language to conduct pre and post-match interviews with intelligence and a fabulous gallows sense of humour. Never once have I seen him explode. Never once have I seen him lose his rag when asked for the 40,000th time whether he's definitely going to be sacked at the end of the season.

This dignity, this forbearance has endeared the man to many football fans who support teams other than Chelsea. I just hope he wins the Champion's League and the Premiership then turns round and tells Chelsea's board - in broken English - to go and find some other punch bag.

That football tonight lived up to hype that went before. It doesn't happen often, but when it does you remember what it was that first drew you inexorably to it.

After the game I switched to ITV 2 to watch Monaco dump the mighty Real Madrid out of the self same competition. It's been a shit week for Becks hasn't it? Although proper United fans dismiss the reports and conjecture as so much 'who gives a shit'. Youngest as well actually. He was chatting away tonight on Messenger after the Arse and Real bit the dust. So near for the Red Devils - and yet - so far. Shame.

Bring it on Home

Yee Haa! I've been waiting for Martin Scorsese's Blues series to appear on BBC4 for a good many months. Over the weekend I received my newsletter from the Beeb's flagship arts channel informing me that it's on its way.

Produced as seven films all directed by such diverse aficionados as Mike Figgis, Scorsese, Clint Eastwood and Wim Wenders, hopefully the concept will match Ken Burns' masterful 'Story of Jazz', although the reviews I've read so far do highlight the overall fragmented result of so many differing approaches. Nonetheless we'll wait and see and make our own minds up. Critics have rarely tuned into the same wavelength as I. Although, on many occasions, the critics were probably more au fait with what was class and what was not. I await the 15th April with delicious anticipation: Howling Wolf, Muddy, BB, the various Messrs Johnson - Robert, Blind Willie and the rest, Bessie, Fats, Jelly Roll, Skip, Lightnin' and company.

Now this IS what the BBC is all about.

---

Are City going to survive this season? I'm beginning to get extremely worried now. Listening to the radio commentary on Sunday, it was painfully obvious that too many members of the squad seem to think that they are 'too good to go down'. Well, there's many a team languishing in the lower divisions because of that attitude. Teams that once graced the top divisions (and even Europe) before falling. Nottingham Forest, Sheffield Wednesday, QPR, Derby County, West Ham and the rest. On Easter Saturday we play Wolves at home. Wolves have not won away this season. I've got a profoundly uneasy feeling about it.

---

Just over a year ago when I started this blog, George Dubya was starting his 'war on terror' in Iraq. At the time I made the point (like many others) that it would all end in tears for the Bush dynasty. Problems with the Shi'ites, possibly resulting civil disobedience on a massive scale and evolving into a full blown civil war were, in my opinion, a distinct possiblity. Can George turn it round? I doubt it. It's election year and good ol' Dubya has to play each card with both eyes on the domestic every time he makes a decision abroad. It's gonna be an interesting year.

It must be nice for George though. I mean, with his 'hotline to God', he'll already know who gonna win in November. Surely?

Welcome back my friends to the song that never ends........(er well obviously one day it will but....)

Back on line at last. The little beavers that constitute the 'coal-facers' of BT have finally burrowed deep enough under the subsoil of central Manchester to fix what was unfixed by that most elemental of elements - fire. Strangely my land line was fine. Big deal. Youngest suffered even more. He lives just over a mile away and both his land line and broadband were bolloxed. Someone else I know on BT who lives half a mile from me had no problem with either land line or broadband. Both provided by BT. The Byzantine shenanigans involved in network routing has always left me dazed and confused. I wouldn't dream of even attempting to understand it at my advanced age.

---

Speaking of advanced age, my colleague and I have established a monthly dinner-time trip to a local Gent's Barbers. Although the only 'barber' in the place is female, she is a man's female. Doesn't constantly waffle on about nothing in particular. Cuts your hair with the minimum amount of fuss, time and cost. 4 years or so we've been regulars.

So, come Wednesday, resembling an aged chorus line from a local Rep's over-50s presentation of 'Hair' (without the gratuitous nudity obviously), we presented ourselves and our £3.50s at the threshold of Maria's.

But, it wasn't Maria. A young lad was being attended to with the gusto of Edward Scissorhands as his twitching mother vacillated between distress for her offspring's scalp and the need to make small talk. The scalper was a jet-black haired, mascarared, push-up bra'd, too-tight-jeaned-for-her-age scarecrow.

Maria is finding her success hard to deal with as a one-man-show and she felt she needed to share the burden. Edward Scissorhands was the solution. All the while she snipped and snapped, she never stopped talking. Ex-boyfriends, husbands, places she'd worked, her PMT, how she was always being asked out by her clients. She never drew breath. Death, life, mucus and jizz. Bargains, rip-offs, holidays and divorces. It didn't bode well.

So, seven hours later, when she had finally finished with the 6 year old, I approached the chair. The first two minutes went well. I began to relax. Then:

"Is that your son?" My head a blur of snipping, snapping steel.

"Sorry?"

"Is that your son?" Gesturing at D my colleague. My colleague who is, incidentally, a mere 10 years younger than I.

"You what??????"

Cue much raucous laughter from 'my son', red-faces from the scalper and a supremely pissed-off occupiedcountry.

After some, frankly embarrassing, back-tracking, she blundered on:

"I have to dye my hair every couple of weeks because I'm not really this colour."

Fuck me you're kidding aren't you? I mean you can't be a day over 52 and here you are in your obsidian-headed splendour. She carried on...

"In fact, if I didn't dye it you'd see that I'd probably be almost as grey as you!!"

Is this 'You've been framed?'

Once again deep apologies. "Oh I'm sorry I didn't mean it to come out like that, I mean, err....at least you've got a full head of hair."

Caught off guard by this apparent compliment (I get so few), I confessed to a small bald spot round my crown.

She considered this for a moment. The scissors stopped. She stared.

"Yeah you're right" she said, "you have got a bit of a 'CHIMP'S ARSE' haven't you?"

What seemed like two hours later, when she'd stopped pissing around with my head (internally and externally), I paid up.

"Thank's love, you've really boosted my confidence."

---

It was D's turn next so I nipped along to the Butty (sandwich) shop next door. Within 2 minutes I was back with my tuna and cucumber creation.

"........so I bought myself a 'Rampant Rabbit'."

"A what......?"

"A 'Rampant Rabbit' love. It's a vibrator."

A brief pause ensued. I eyed my tuna and cucumber creation. How the hell had they got on to this subject after 2 minutes? D has led a sheltered life and has ,evidently, never had the need for a 'rampant rabbit'. I caught his eye in the mirror as his face turned the same colour as his neck. Predictably Edward Scissorhands observed:

"Fuck me, his face has turned the same colour as his neck."

Later we discussed the rota that was pinned to the wall. Obsidian-head has one day a week off. We'll be going on Thursdays in future.

We'll attend counselling sessions on Wednesdays.

---

Today, on the Jeremy Vine show, a radical explained why no muslim should ever let the police know that he or she suspected, or even knew, that a fellow muslim was guilty of terrorism.

"Allah says that no true believer can talk to 'the enemy' (ie. us secular, christian, jewish, jedi, branch-davidian, Blake's Seveners). "

He refused to condemn the Madrid bombings. He refused to accept the culpability of his own 'true believers'. He constantly referred to the past - and had a point. But when he was presented with a scenario of a muslim suicide-bomber killing 100s of people on a train in Spain - including his own brother - and asked would he tell the police who the bomber was if he knew, he said no.

He said no.

Once again a 'Big-Man-Who-Lives-In-The-Sky', a man who died centuries ago, was presented as justification for this. At the same time the tosser explained that he was a muslim and, naturally, didn't believe in democracy. He also felt that it was OK to live as though under Sharia Law in the UK, regardless of the actual laws of the country until these sceptered isles become a Muslim dependancy. Later he pontificated on the inability of the decadent to live purely.

I truly despair.

I thought that, by now, we would've become completely rational human beings. I mean, it IS the 21st century!

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.