Saved By The Bell

It's OK everyone. No need to worry. Deep down inside I just knew I would find the Season Tickets that Dearest had helpfully tidied away. I love the way she keeps our marriage alive with these little tests of our relationship.

Life Gets Tedious Don't It?

A Year ago today:-

Welcome Home

I am such a sucker for the football season. Every year I feel that familiar tingle, the ridiculous hopes (Europe, The Premiership, FA Cup etc) and, most years, the subsequent disappointments. Recent years have seen me organising a Fantasy Football league. Cajoling, collecting monies, checking application forms and sending the lot off to the Daily Telegraph. Not that any of us are fans of that bastion of the outraged right. It's just that it has the best Fantasy Football League going. Out of twenty teams in our league only one of us buys a copy of the rag each Wednesday and then emails the rest with the weekly transfer password.

Right now, as I type, I'm listening to 5Live over the net. It's the first round of the curling Cup (previously known as the Worthington Cup, Coca Cola Cup, Milk Cup and League Cup. Among others). I just love it. The "minnows" harbouring visions of "giant-killing". The promise of future ties against the big boys. The possibility of filling the club's coffers. Hardly daring to think of a Cup Final !

This season had Manchester City fans like me looking forward to the opening of the club's new stadium, and we weren't disappointed with a fabulous win against a strong Barcelona side. The game was played under sweltering, humid conditions. The sweat ran freely down our brows and backs (and important little places) as we enjoyed some quality football. Thursday night sees the the first foray into Europe for about 24 years as we take on the might of TNS from a little Welsh Town I have no intention of attempting to spell.

That's another thing I like about the season to come - the changing weather that the game is played in. From the blue skies of August, through the rain-swept Novembers and on to the ice and snow of mid-winter before emerging once again into the promise of Easter and the end of season run in. Cracking

I've acquired a brilliant new DVD player from WH Smiths of all places. A mere £49.99 and it plays DVD, MP3, MPEG, AVI and JPEGs. Absolutely superb value. Order one off the web site and have it delivered, free of charge, to your local Branch of WH Smiths. I've watched AVIs of the second series of Phoenix Nights and the quality is brilliant. Buy one (or two - one for the bedroom or wherever. Or even as presents for relatives, friends and significant others).

I've also had to bolster my DVD collection with some classics. "Lawrence of Arabia 2 disk edition" for Lean at his best, Leone's Masterful "Once Upon a Time in America" (with an achingly beautiful score from Ennio Morricone) and Scorsese's "The Last Waltz" to travel back in (musical) time with. The Band's last concert in 1976 supported by Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, Muddy Waters and many others. Treble cracking!!!

The start of the new season has me feeling EXACTLY the same. The cheapo DVD player gave up the ghost about 4 weeks ago. I have to send it back to the factory that produced it for a *free* sort out of the 'entirely fried' innards of the bloody thing - if I want to. Bollocks to that. Everyone I know who acquired one has had the same problem. Cheaper to buy a new one - which I don't have to, 'cos the lads@work bought me one for my 50th.

I am SO predictable! 12 months later and I'm STILL in thrall to the promise of the sky blue and white.

C'mon you Bllluueees!!!!!!!!

Rational?

Moi?

Non!

Summer In The City

Dearest and I went down to Manchester on Sunday. The sun was still shining and the City was doing itself proud. The Cow Parade (exactly the same as the one in Prague) was still attracting kids who had to be captured on Compactflash, Smartmedia and memory sticks. We also have a fountain in Piccadilly that you can run about in without fear of slipping and splitting your head open like what happens in that crap fountain that they made in that there London. It was full of kids in various states of undress. A very dodgy place to be caught taking photographs these days though. Sad.

A Cora player entertained me on Mosley Street - and he really was fab. On Market Street, walking down towards Cross Street, I encountered a Bagpipist, the ubiquitous Pan Pipe Southern Americans, a Jazz Trombonist, an exquisite Fiddler and a pedestrian guitarist.

As I ambled into St Anne's (the creme de la creme of Mancunian squares), I chanced upon an amazing young man playing an amplified nylon-strung guitar with an accomplishment you would pay good folding money to hear anywhere else.

I exchanged some of my birthday vouchers for some music that I'm not really that familiar with. A 2 CD sampler of Cuban stuff from the late 50s and early 60s, post-revolution. Bebel Gilberto (some relation of Astrud - Girl From Ipenema - Gilberto I believe) was only £4.99 (err......her CD not her body) and a mighty fine purchase it was an' all. I'm searching again for that certain something..... The Gypsy Kings I am familiar with so I bought one of their offerings also. Just need to rip 'em to my iPod now. I bet you can't believe I'm 50 can you?

Anyway......

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Darcus Howe is a poor iconoclast. Discuss.

Last night I watched part of a Channel 4 doc called "Who You Callin' Nigger" or somesuch, It was a kind of trendy 1980s 'Marxism Today' title anyway. It was supposedly investigating the schism between young Muslim Asians and young Christian blacks.

Incoherent twaddle most of it. I've no doubt that the rise of militant Islam among Asian youth is causing friction in many areas, I can't help but think that the Muslim/Christian emphasis was overplayed though. The trouble with Darcus is that, although he can be a perceptive and erudite observer of the social condition, these days he tends to fall back on lazy rhetoric and lazier analyses. He focusses in on the more extreme stereotypes that can back up the opinions he already has. Everything else can oxidise on the cutting room floor.

And it's a shame really because in days gone by he was an interesting, thought-provoking commentator. Still, it's too easy to get funding from the type of production company that supplies C4 with an 'edgy', camera-all-over-the-place, one minute colour, the next B & W, provocative piece of scripted invective that guarantees the healthy cheque and rerun heaven.

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Fay Wray has finally fallen to the bottom of the Empire State and been reunited with Kong - the only mammal that truly loved her. Still a fabulous film. And yes, it was beauty that killed the beast. Doesn't he/she always?

Probably.

I Want My..I Want My...I Want My MTV MP3

I must apologise here and now for this shameless plug. Apple iPods are the proverbial dog's bollox. 10+ Gbs-worth of music transferred from my hard disk to this stunningly beautiful amalgam of steel, plastic and electronics in less than 7 minutes! And I've still only filled half of it. Empty spaces always need filling.

One of the kid's mates set me up with £20 credit on iTunes, so I've even LEGALLY purchased music by the likes of the Gypsy Kings, Pat Metheny and a few others. I'm so 21st century I can't believe I'm half a century! Balls to it. I'll go to my grave 'wired'. iPods, Revos, PCs, graphics tablets. I'll be getting all Ben Hammersley or Tom Coates-ish if I'm not careful. Except that, while they're discussing deeply important things like 'New Music Functionality', I'm actually sat here listening to...well...music. Good Vibrations at the moment actually, but Mr Dylan's exquisite 'Tangled Up In Blue' is actually pictured *in situ* on the right AND it SHOULD have been the title of this website - but there you go, some quicker, more vibrant half-my-ager has probably already snapped it up about 5 years ago so he could hold Mr Zimmerman to ransom. Twat.

I know it's hard sometimes, and I know this post might suggest otherwise, but, seriously, the medium is NOT the message. This iPod looks superb AND sounds superb. What more can I say?

Peter Green is whispering the Blues in my ear now. Bliss.

Goodnight everyone.....everywhere....

I Live In a Suitcase

Back again and a whole decade older but, apart from that seismic shift in my personal space/time continuum, the world carries on much as it always has done. Shit just happens.

Pretty eventful week this last one. Four days in the most gorgeous city I've ever seen. Prague really is a feast for the eyes. Fabulous people as well (most of 'em anyway - a few were twats but wherever I may wander and wherever I may roam, I've come to expect my share of twats so I just adjust my sights slightly downwards and I am usually pleasantly surprised.

They were definitely twats who threw that grenade in a crowded street though. In fact not only twats but wankers and twats I should think.

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I actually had my fair share of twats before we arrived in Prague. First off I was what can only be described as sexually assaulted by a security guard at Manchester Airport. I ask you: who the hell smuggles lethal weaponry in their testicles?

Next up we have a nervous flyer who leaves it till we are flying to tell us she can't stand up once the plane is moving. And where was the twat rooted? Aisle seat of course. She hadn't the wit to a) inform us of her affliction while we could all do something about it and b) inform the fucking check in staff so they could superglue her to a friggin' window seat for the benefit of all concerned.

On the return flight she was once again blocking vital exit routes with her fairly substantial frame and 'I'm more frightened than the rest of you' expression.

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And so we returned to a muggy Manchester with my 50th party to enjoy.

I have to congratulate Dearest and Eldest's Darlin' for the amount of work they put into making it such a success. Gazebos were erected, food and drink on a scale not seen since Betty Windsor's last shindig and a generous supply of just making sure.........all made for a memorable evening.

Around fifty to sixty friends turned up and filled our little semi from top to bottom. Everyone from work colleagues to a dear mate who I first met aged five on my first day at infant school.

Half-past-eight the next morning I went to bed. Just after the last guests had left. Fifty being the new forty and everything I was able to last the course. Much meaty music was enjoyed by the hardcore who were able to stay awake long enough to say hi to the milkman.

I have acquired many fancy whiskies, impressive bottles of vin rouge, DVDs, a DVD player, a fabulous Italian meal at the Sul Lago, the aforementioned week in Prague and, an iPod off the offspring and their Darlin's.

Sometimes I just feel blessed.

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But then my hard disk went tits up. An iPod without a PC is as much use as a libido enhancer for Sven.

The Bogus Man

Jesus H ! Mandelson returns AGAIN. How many more times is this slimy, slithy-mouthed, spinner supreme going to be hauled back from the pit and thrust into our faces? How many more times have I got to listen to that self-satisfied reedy voice smirking and gloating over his latest resurrection?

I'll tell you this: once a devious, conniving bastard always a devious, conniving bastard. It'll end in tears again. Mark my words.

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Well Dearest and I are off to Prague on Monday as a precursor to my glorious 50th next Friday. We're having a big birthday bash at ours to which, of course, you are all invited except, of course, you don't know where I live and you wouldn't know anybody if you did. Still it's the thought that counts. 50 though. Scary.

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Well City returned to form and put in a lacklustre display against Bury (or 'lowly' Bury as the press refer to them). 0-0 - and that's with the likes of Fowler, Wanchope and McManaman playing. The 2nd half was much better when Keegan gave the kids a run out. We got to see Shawn Wright-Phillips play with his brother. Willo Flood, Lee Croft, Paul Collins as well as Bradley Wright-Phillips all played some excellent football that put the 'stars' to shame. I reckon Keegan could do worse than to give 'em an outing or two early in the season. That should put a rocket up the arses of the under achievers.

We're On A Road To Nowhere

In order to deal with the problems of increasingly congested roads, us sophisticated Mancunians re-introduced a tram system a few years ago that can only be described as an absolute resounding success. The only drawback has been the fact that, at present, it's still a little restricted when it comes to routes. But, no matter, hadn't the Government given the go ahead for the expansion of the tram network? Indeed, haven't houses already been demolished in the areas these routes are due to be built through? Hasn't work already started on massive public works in anticipation of the infrastructure requirements of such a huge and forward-thinking project? After all, according to every Governmental utterance, isn't PUBLIC TRANSPORT supposedly the way forward?

I mean, if that is the case, can somebody provide me with the evidence that proves that Manchester's expanded tram system is a bad idea? 'Cos I fuckin' can't.

But that's what's happened. They've pulled the plug. A Labour Government. A Labour Government has done this. A Labour Government has decided that my City's transport system should be sacrificed for the sake of 'good ol' London's' Olympic bid. It just beggar's belief.

Well I'm sorry all my local Labour colleagues, but I'm not voting for a Party that contains both Margaret Thatcher's Godson as well as Margaret Thatcher's policies.

It's time for that God-bothering, Bush-loving Tory Tony to go. Today's announcement, for me, was the last straw. The so-called provinces once-again sacrificed so that the 'prosperous', 'over-heated economy' of the South East can open its gaping maw while the taxes we pay in the rest of the country are poured in.

There's local economies up here that are relying on that tram system. People have invested in property with a view to creating some wealth on the back of vacuous promises from the Government of a man who seems to be rapidly acquiring the soubriquet 'lame duck' as each day passes.

Don't let me stop you considering fucking off Tony will you? 'Cos your Party won't get my vote until you do.

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And, as if I wasn't nadgy enough, I've had a friggin' nightmare trying to type this rant into the "new, improved Blogger interface. It is, quite frankly, shite. Something has been over-egged I do believe. Rethink required? Most certainly.

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Off to see City play a friendly with Bury FC tomorrow night. Here we go again - the pre-season begins.

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**WEIGHT UPDATE** Another 2 pounds disappeared.

It All Makes Work For The Working Man To Do

Quite a nondescript few days since I last blogged. We treated eight family members to a meal on Friday to celebrate the Brother-in-Law's birthday. Saturday, knowing I had to fix a new security light to the world's hardest house brick, I swanned off to the local B & Q and acquired a few masonry drills. Sunday I ascended the ladder and started drilling. It's a bastard trying to apply pressure as you drill with one hand whilst balanced at the top of a ladder. It should be a challenge on one of these ubiquitous SAS, survival, reality shows that are springing up everywhere as sad, sexually-tensioned imitations of the Krypton Factor. What seemed like a week later, with a withered limb, I was bathed in glorious light. Sadly it was broad daylight and the bloody thing should've remained unlit. A further bout of expert fiddling with the miniscule controls ensued. They were handily coloured black to make them stand out against the black material of the lamp itself. Then I had to wait until it got dark before I could check the settings. Dusk was hours away. The pub beckoned. I answered its call.

When we returned at 9:45pm we forgot all about the light. This evening I remembered and walked out to the patio whereupon I whirled like a Dervish to no avail. I could've demolished the shed and nicked each and every one of the 'valuables' therein and I wouldn't have raised a flutter. So, out come the ladders as a precursor to fiddling about again. After a while I succeed in getting the light to appear in the gloaming. A second or two later it goes off again. Bollocks. More fiddling. Now the light comes on again and stays on - for frigging ages. More bollocks. More fiddling. Eventually me and this inanimate object reach a compromise and now, should any scally, scrote or chav wish to break into my garden shed, they can do so bathed in light that neither stays on too long nor goes off too soon.

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I was listening to Radio 5Live's 'Any Sporting Questions' tonight and I heard a question that I never in my life thought I would ever hear:-

"Do you think Colonel Gaddafi will be bad for football?"

Quality.

Run for your Life

Well, what a difference a week makes. Or does it? I know this much, I am knackered with a Capital-Kicking-Kay. Four days exercise last week, coupled with - so far - Three days this, has left my ravaged frame devoid of any vestige of vigour or vim. Although at this point I feel I should state that any similarity between my definition of 'exercise' and, say, Paula Ratcliffe's, would show that the English language has, at times, an inadequacy we can barely comprehend. If the Inuit need eight million words - or so I'm led to believe - to describe different types of snow, then we need at least two to distinguish my version of becoming breathless and red-faced with Paula's.

For yes - my va-va-voom va-va-vanished soon after my initial, arrogant reintroduction to the treadmill. A couple of sessions later I was no better. Far from dreams of my once-svelte chassis returning, all the future appeared to hold was heart failure and shin splints.

A complete change of regime was called for.

"I know" I thought, "I'll pack it in".

But no. I knew I couldn't. Hadn't I already informed Blogworld? "Doh!!!!!!"

So, back to the drawing board. No more jogging. Too much strain involved. It was time to start looking at the other implements of modern torture gym equipment to see which could furnish me with a decent cardio-vascular work out, whilst allowing me to retain the use of my limbs once I'd left the place. Just little things y'know. Like having the strength to depress the clutch pedal as I drove home.

So, first up I spot a ski-like contraption with two plates for your feet coupled with two poles for your hands to hold. I'd spotted a lean, mean workout machine with immaculate gelled hair, nonchalantly Franz Hammer-ing his way through an entire Richard and Judy (there are personal TVs on every appliance) a few evenings before. He spent most of the time giggling at their every utterance. It was evidently a doddle. I strode purposefully towards it. I assumed the position described in the faded, laminated instructions blue-tacked to the just-too-far-away-if-you-haven't-got-yer-glasses 'control-panel'.

I became, seconds after pressing the button marked 'START', a flailing, screaming rag doll. Fearing for my head, which was thrashing wildly on my whiplashing neck, I frantically attempted to prod the button marked 'STOP FOR FUCK'S SAKE'. In my defence, given the wild perambulations of my napper, the fucking thing kept going in and out of focus. Old eyes - what a waste of space in situations like this. To no avail. I pressed and pressed and punched and banged and, finally, jumped.

All activity had stopped. Apart from the ski-machine, which was still thrutching away like the automaton it was; whirring and sniggering, malevolently in the alcove by the window. The other, sleeker, shinier, handsomer, healthier, full-of-breath dick-for-brains tore their sweat-free faces from MTV to watch the new kid make a pillock of himself. Most sniggered, some guffawed. One, with a physique like Michaelangelo's David, explained how the controls worked and how some devious bastards thought it fun to 'Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun' before they leave.

He was OK. The rest?

Twats.

Anyway, come Thursday I'd switched to the cycle-machine. It was just like riding me bike. I felt comfortable and I'm also constantly cycling (with no freewheeling) rather more than I did when I cycled to and from work each day. Suddenly I feel like I'm achieving something.

On top of that, I can watch Richard and Judy while I'm doing it.

So, by this morning - a week after this reckless decision, and a week that included many drinkypoos and even one barbecue, I've lost 3 pounds. Weight loss AND Richard and Judy - result.

Mind you, I'm off to Prague for four days in a couple of weeks and then I'm having a party for my 50th. Ah well.............

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Now, as for trivial news such as The Butler Report..........one word: whitewash. Hmmm. Or is it two words? White wash. Oh, who gives a shit. Blair lied. So did Bush. But, hey! Nobody was to blame! Yee Ha!

You know, at least the likes of Anthony Eden had the decency to stand down. Even Lyndon B Johnson could see the writing on the wall. Why don't politicians take responsibility for their actions anymore? The last honourable resignation I can remember was Lord Carrington's after the invasion of the Falklands. He was Foreign Secretary and felt he should have known what was going on in the south Atlantic even though his advisors (civil servants all) didn't. I didn't - and don't agree with the man's politics - but at least he had the dignity and conscientiousness to fall on his own sword.

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So I see City have acquired Danny Mills. Danny Mills. Ben Thatcher. Paul Bosvelt and Joey Barton. We won't be getting into Europe via the Fair Play League then?

Friday on my Mind

Quite a surprise this evening as we returned from a pleasant tincture or two with the redoubtable Dot - 86 and still full of vigour.

First off was David James on the Jonathon Ross show. After that, surfing the vast choice that Freeview allows, I came across an hours-worth of Richard Thompson on BBC2. Wonderful.

Have you noticed that, as time goes by, all these programs, radio broadcasts and magic lantern shows are the product of the BBC? An institution that still has one foot firmly planted in the public service tradition.

Can't see it lasting though. Can you?

Still....all you MM knockers, deal with this:-

"This movie is perhaps the most thoroughly researched and vetted documentary of our time. No fewer than a dozen people, including three teams of lawyers and the venerable one-time fact-checkers from The New Yorker went through this movie with a fine-tooth comb so that we can make this guarantee to you. Do not let anyone say this or that isn't true. If they say that, they are lying. Let them know that the OPINIONS in the film are mine, and anyone certainly has a right to disagree with them. And the questions I pose in the movie, based on these irrefutable facts, are also mine. And I have a right to ask them. And I will continue to ask them until they are answered."

And so say all of us. Well, over here at least.

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Eldest reckons that the weirdest thing that's ever been said to him at a Premiership match is:-

"Bloody hell. There's Rick Wakeman".

As, indeed, it was. The erstwhile Yes keyboardman had swapped his allegiance from Brentford to the only football club to come from Manchester.

Dressed from head to foot in black he was. Although it was merely a suit and not a cloak, heavy with baubles, bangles and beads.

He lives next door to Norman Wisdom these days. On the Isle of Man.

He did the half time draw.

I remembered "Tales From Topographic Oceans".

Don't Want to be a Fat Man.

Well, since Monday, I've decided that this too, too solid flesh needs to be reduced a little. (Mind you, so has Dearest). Consequently - given the fact that I now commute via my new car instead of the bike or Shank's Pony - OccupiedCountry has, once again, graced the Client's company gym. This time though, I have taken advantage of the Client's technical inaptitude re: access. In other words, I stopped paying the rich buggers £10+ every month, but I can still get in. ;-)

So, Monday evening. Almost 18 stone of disgraceful hedonism, I enter the arena. "I'll be ok" I assume, "I've been riding the bike to work up until quite recently". The treadmill beckons. "3 miles" I think to myself, "that'll ease me in. Tomorrow I'll build up to 3 and a half. Piece 'o' piss".

The evening sun blasts through the semi-frosted windows as I attempt to re-acquire a level of fitness I thought I still had up until a couple of years - or so - ago. My arse! Monday. 6-o-clock. I was completely and utterly, fucked. I coudn't breathe never mind 'jog'. The memory plays tricks you see. It must be 2 months since I last sat on a bike, never mind pumped the pedals to work and back. Even so I thought that well, at least.........

Y'see, the weight I've acquired sat in my room, sharing my thought(s) with my adoring public, has left me with a well-upholstered backside. Not too bad you may surmise. Unfortunately it is almost perfectly balanced by my worryingly massive stomach. The past couple of months I have become nothing more than a lard arse, and I need to address the problem. I can remember, not so long ago, playing squash once a week, badminton, swimming......all gone. All gone. It's funny how habits change in such a short time but, at the same time, that 'short time' seems like a lifetime.

Is this the right thing to do? Telling you lot? On t'inernet? About my ability - or not - to shed pounds? I don't know but please, please give me shit if I don't lose at least a couple of pounds a week.

Tonight I was 17stone 12 pounds. I WILL post again next Wednesday. HELP!!!

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I've spent this evening listening to Billy Connolly on BBC Radio 2 playing his favourite stuff and reminiscing about his days as a fledgling folkie in Glasgee all them years ago. Get yourself along to the BBC website. Click on the 'listen again' button on the radio 2 bit and then "The Mike Harding Show". Until next Wednesday it'll still be Billy. Give it a go. You'll either love it or hate it.

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Later this evening (9:30 ish) Eldest and Youngest phoned to tell us they were retiring to t'Willer for last orders. So, off we plodded. 4 Carlings ain't gonna rid me of the 'bit in the middle'.

Later, after the pub, I used the playback stuff myself to finish off Billy's night. You can't beat conviction and love of the product regardless of what the rest of the world says.

Cry Baby Cry

Hmmmmm. Looks like somebody thought they just had to turn up and everything would be fine.

A modicum of advice Christiano, tears in victory are a sign of humility. An indication that the weeper of those tears, at such a time in their life, recognises the significance of their achievement and the tears come as a result of that self-awareness. Roger Federer this very afternoon showed the world how - if at all - it should be done.

Tears when you've just been beaten by the underdogs simply make you look like a spoilt little prick who is, quite possibly, intent on scweaming until he is sick: just like Violet Elizabeth.

Tart! (As they say in these parts).

incidentally, I'm waiting for all you James-knockers to comment on Ricardo's goalkeeping display this evening.

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I watched the John Martyn doc that was originally broadcast on BBC 4 on Friday night. What a wasted opportunity to examine the man's artistic life, rather than film his grotesquely overweight body struggle with the loss of his leg and the seemingly constant supply of vino veritas.

Instead of a genius, we got a drunk. Instead of film of him playing his acoustic sets (y'know, the ones everyone wants to hear), we end up with too much overblown synth shit from the early eighties.

An opportunity wasted. You, who made it, should be ashamed.

Life in a Northern Town

A quick perusal of the BBCs website this afternoon and it was confirmed that some unseeded Croatian had ended Tim's Wimbledon for yet another year. Straight sets an' all.

"I'll let the rest of the office know" I thought.

"Henman lost in straight sets" I hollered.

You should've heard the laughter, the cries of "bottler", "wanker" and the like.

The women too. "Didn't think he'd do it, he never does. He always loses his bottle".

Later I listened to a phone-in on Five Live. With a few exceptions (that only serve to prove the rule), calls from the North were generally anti-Tim and those from the South pro. North South divide? I'll say.

Now, I've made my opinion of the loser known elsewhere, but when I hear people trying to say he's a success because he gets to quarter and semi finals, then I know why he'll never win. I don't hear anybody claiming the English Football team were successful losing to Portugal last week - and quite right too. They lost - just like Timothy did.

Hopefully England will learn from their defeat, Tim won't. I don't know if you can learn bottle.

Mind you, at least the TV, radio and press will give up their canonisation of him and I won't have to listen to the plummy voices, loose with too many Pimms, making him out to be the greatest living English sportsman.

Just the final few days to get over and then we can get this yearly middle-class jamboree over and done with.

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I had to nip into Oldham tonight. I was under orders from Dearest to pick up a copy of the car insurance documents that have been mislaid (or, more likely, thrown out in one of Dearest's cleaning frenzies). So, with a 'grin' and a air of 'bearing it' I sullied forth.

"Ay up" I thought - being Northern an' all, "I'll nip into the charity shops and peruse the bookshelves like I usually do when I'm up here".

The beauty of the bookshelves of Oldham's charity shops is that they are mainly stocked by the inhabitants of Saddleworth. TV producers, theatre directors, novelists, artists and the bored partners of captains of industry.

When you combine this with the obvious fact that the vast majority of charity shop customers - in Oldham at least - are not pre-disposed to the stock of books in particular and reading in general, it usually leaves juicy goodies for me.

Today there was a bumper crop of novels I had already read so the final booty was a little restricted. Nonethless, for less than a fiver I walked away with almost pristine copies of Jung Chang's 'Wild Swans', Damon Runyan's 'On Broadway', Dee Brown's wonderful history of the North American Indian 'Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee' and an anthology of short stories from Manchester by writers such as Val MacDiarmid, Jeff Noon and The Fall's Mark E Smith.

Now, if only the Saddleworthians would start donating some decent DVDs and CDs as well.....

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As a lapsed member of the Labour Party, I am not surprised that Party membership has fallen to its lowest level in 70 years.

But it's all ok because they've gone from having a deficit of nearly £1million in 2002 to an operating surplus of £2.6million.

I can only assume they're going to pay canvassers and leaflet posters at the next election, because, round here at least, the hard core members who were out on the street election after election, have gone.

Fortuntely, like Labour in the mid-eighties, the Tories seem to be dedicated to making themselves unelectable.

The Winner Takes It All

Yee Hah! I finally won an auction on ebay. £16 for a cheapo ukelele - a guitar-shaped, 4-stringed bundle of fun. My cheque's in the post. The seller's credentials are 100% so I'm expecting a speedy-ish delivery. All I need now is to win the bidding for a lampost at the corner of the street and a little stick of Blackpool rock and I'll be set for life. Only snag is it's red. Bah! Still I could always sand it back to the wood.

I love acoustic instruments I do. Don't get me wrong I adore a screaming electric guitar solo as much as the next 49 year old white male, but deep inside it's wood, steel or nylon and fingers that resonates. Over the years I've acquired a few including a fiddle, dulcimer, mandolin, nylon-strung classical guitar and my favourite - a hand-made Fylde steel-strung acoustic that plays like an angel and sings like a bird.

Also scattered about are a Fender Strat, Yamaha bass, Aria Pro 335 and various keyboards, percussion items, tin whistles and harmonicas.

Of course what I really need is a shed to put them all in so I could sit there of an evening playing the blues, supping Brasso and howling at the moon.

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I can't wait to shoot down to that there Londinium to gaze in awe at the Queen-Of-All-Our-Hearts'™ memorial fountain. £3.6 million well spent in my opinion. Anyone who disagrees is simply being churlish. Let's face it, if Weatherfield Council can find the wherewithal to build a similar magnificent erection in honour of the memory of Alf Roberts, then I think it's the least we could've done. I was filling up today when I heard it was finally ready after all these years - I really, really was.

Gawd bless yer Ma'am, you was one in a million you was. Us common folk just were'nt fit to kiss yer feet you was that grand an' all. Not like that bloody Camilla Horse-face. No you had the common touch you did and you was photogenic and an excellent media manipulator to boot.

£3.6 million. Just think, it could've built a hospital wing or helped bail out all them poor bastards whose pension funds have gone tits up. Maybe it could've purchased books for school libraries, bought back a few playing fields, built some Outward Bound centres, helped repair dilapadated school buildings.......well a thousand and one things really.

Still. A fountain. In London. That'll be nice.

Twats.

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If anyone remembers the horrific images that were broadcast on terrestial TV at the time of the Bradford City fire of 1985 when 56 supporters were burnt alive, they, like me will wonder what the hell was going through the minds of the cretins who thought the same images were just thing to sell sportswear.

As a health and safety representative, I had to watch the full film of that day and I can tell you it's something that still gives me the horrors even now. Less than four minutes it took to envelop the entire stand. Four minutes and no warning. Padlocked gates and fire escapes. 56 dead and over 300 injured.

They had a whip round for the victims and their families. The Bradford Disaster Appeal Fund. It raised £3.5 million.

Just not quite enough for a fountain.

Starry,Starry Night.....

I've acquired one of those cheapo tablet and pen things to try out. It's a Nisis one - the Wacoms are a bit expensive to just dip your toe in the water with. Initial impressions? It's bloody hard work. The pen, in particular, seems, at times, to have a life of its own. Still, it does add a little idiosyncrasy to anything I attempt.

Its impossible to draw a straight line - as you can see from this sketch of my mini-disc multitracker - but I like that. I think it adds a bit of vitality to the finished product.

I'll just have to keep practicing.

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Bloody hell! Tiiiiiiiiimmms just beaten Phillopousis in a tie break. This means I'm going to have to put up with even more "gollys", "goshes", "my words" and "oooh I says".

Twats.

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In a moment of blinding perception, Dubya let everyone know that in Iraq, "the security situation was 'tough'". He was speaking with reference to the premature handing over of 'sovereignty' to an unelected, disparate bunch of chancers who most sane Iraqis recognise for the cul-de-sac they will inevitably prove to be.

Still, it looks good back in the land of the brave and the free and, as long as everything stays reasonably stable until November, George Jnr will be hoping and praying that he's done enough to get the Republican vote off the sofa and down to the polling booths.

The question now is 'what does Kerry do now?', So far his reticence hasn't done him any favours but, by the same token, it's not done him any real harm either. How he handles a daily drip feed of body bags and hostages for the next four months could well decide who sits in the Oval office for the next four years.

Here's hoping.

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Oh England. Not even the bridesmaid again and certainly never the bride on this showing. Once again - after the event I might add - we are informed that Goldenballs wasn't fully fit. Once again we stick with a system that's not balanced because we have'nt got a natural left-sided midfielder. The substitutions were timid and, once Rooney was out of the picture, we were bereft of bite.

Roll on the World Cup qualifiers. I will fully expect a decent right winger to be plying his trade on a regular basis - someone who can take his man on - Shaun Wright-Phillips. Believe me this kid's got a big future and yes I do think he should supplant Mr Beckham. Then again when Mr Erikson maintains that he will always be his first automatic choice, I don't hold out much hope just yet. As for the troublesome left side, why the hell can't Sven give Ashley Cole a prolonged stab at it with Wayne Bridge slotting in to the left back spot? Or have I missed something?

At least it looks like Emile has passed his sell-by date and I do have faith in the rest of the forwards. Same with the defence.

Which brings me to David James. When he arrived at Manchester City I was deeply depressed. We had just had half a season of David Seaman who, quite frankly, was a disaster. He didn't command his area, his shot stopping was woeful and he hardly said a word to his, at times, crap defence. James confounded me. He was a breath of fresh air. All the skills Seaman had lost David had in abundance. His approach to crosses was superb. He bossed the defence. He saved penalty after penalty and kept us in the Premiership.

Suddenly he turns up with England and crosses look like they frighten him to death. Why? I can only surmise that the England defensive and goal keeping coaching leaves a lot to be desired.

Then again, I'm a City fan so what would expect? I expect that there's quite a few of you disagree with me. Aren't there?

I Got Those SW19 Blues Again....

Can I just reiterate - here and now - just how much I hate tennis in general and Wimbledon in particular. A cornucopia of "Queen's English". Smug, self-satisfied plummy voices waffling on about Tim. Strawberries and cream. Virginia "Ginny" Wade and the rest of the "oh I say" over-privileged wankers.

And now they've taken over my radio station of choice so I'll either have to retune to another or reacquaint myself with the more obscure parts of my music collection

I've said it before and I'll say it again, Tennis, as a competetive sport in this country will never thrive because it is almost the sole reserve of the "holiday home in the country" type. A talented kid from a sink estate has as much chance of landing on the moon as appearing at Wimbledon. Just like show-jumping.

Blazered and buffed-up old duffers rule and losing gallantly with dignity is revered over winning a bloody trophy.

My word.

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Poor old David's one-trick-ponyism has been discovered for the lacklustre affair it really is. For a long time I have said that he is essentially a dead ball specialist and superb crosser (as in "of the ball" not "dressing").

He's not a winger - he has no pace and he can't pass a man unless he indulges in a one-two. His left foot is non-existant and he lacks the vision to be a truly creative midfielder.

On top of all that he's finding life in Spain difficult because he can't go out of his front door. Back in Manchester he was happy because the Beckhams could stroll round the Trafford Centre unmolested.

Well, that's great Dave it really is. I have one question though: why the fuck would you want to? The Trafford Centre? It's a man's worst nightmare. Mile after mile of the same shops you get on every city centre high street. Mile after mile of ubiquitous fast "food" emporia. Bars you can't have a drink in because - well - because you had to drive fuckin' miles just to get to the sprawling nightmare of Prince Charles-friendly architectural bollox. Woeful cinemas showing the same dumbed down American blockbuster every other cinema in the country is showing. In short: I think I'd rather stay in and maybe read a book. Paint a picture. Watch a decent film (on Film Four perhaps). Anything but find myself in that 21st century nightmare.

Mind you I have to keep reminding myself you're only a Chav with plenty of money.

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"For the first time, an American president comes to Ireland greeted by silence and an almost complete absence of cheering crowds"

Good. Perhaps his "this'll play good back home" photo opportunties will suffer as a result. The man's a buffoon of the highest order. Via Christine, I watched the most powerful man on the planet stumble through an 11 minute interview with RTE's Carole Coleman. It was painful to listen to him thrutching with all the aplomb of a two year old. After the interview he complained about being interrupted.

George, you should've been grateful. Anything to eat up the time and stop you being exposed as the intellectual lightweight you most definately are.

Twat. Simple as.

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I've been trying to acquire a reasonably priced ukelele on ebay now for about 3 months. Everytime I think I've got one of the buggers someone - a bastard - beats me to it. I've just had my bid for a nice vintage Harmony model beat by some wastrel who'll probably never pluck a string in anger. So, now what? Up my bid to £40? Or admit defeat again?

£40? For a ukelele? Where's me white flag.

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I've just watched Jamie Cullum at Glastonbury. Absolutely brilliant. He got the audience singing 3 part harmony while he extemporised on top for God's sake. 3 part fuckin' harmony! While the rain pissed down from a great height and 9 out of 10 of the poor over-charged bastards must have felt like shit. "Singin' in the Rain" he sang. Nice one James - you have impressed a very hard to impress person tonight. I'll probably download your album without paying for it as a result.

More to the point though, next time you visit Manchester, I'll be sat near the front and I might hand over proper greenbacks for your second platter.

That's as good as it gets these days at occupied towers so just rejoice at that news.

Back to Life

Hello, I'm back. It's been a hard week, what with the miscarriage and my Father's ill health. The black dog has been hanging round my door, but it's time to try and think positive again, after all England are through to the quarter-finals and Tim nearly lost in the first round - so it's not all bad.

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This weekend I, like many other bloggers, read the top 100 BRITISH albums of all time in The Observer Music Magazine. Having perused the selections of many of my blogging peers, I began to apply my thought processes to my own top 10.

The thing about these things is that they are inextricably linked to the "good old days" of your own halcyon youth. It really is very rare that an old codger like me will find a recent album that can surpass Clifford T Ward never mind The Beatles. Certain discs of the early 70s are stuck like shit to a blanket to BIG events in my life. Free's "Fire And Water" is me holidaying with my mates for the first time. Zappa's "The Grand Wazoo" will always remind me of Dearest when we first met. Steely Dan's "Can't Buy a Thrill" thrilled me during Eldest's conception. *blush*

So I can understand The Stone Roses being number one for a lot of folk out there (media darlings or not). It was their youth and they were still immortal. I ain't gonna knock it.

So, right. Top 10. All British. Hmmmph that's the Dan and Francis Vincent Zappa out of the window right away. Anyway. Here goes:-

BTW This exercise has made me appreciate just how much American music I listen to.

1 The Beatles - The White Album.
2 The Beatles - Revolver
3 The Who - Who's Next
4 The Clash - London Calling
5 Traffic - John Barleycorn Must die
6 John Martyn - Solid Air
7 XTC - Wasp Star
8 Roy Harper - Bullinamingvase
9 Yes - Close to the Edge
10 Led Zeppelin - III

Bubbling Under:-

Free - Fire and Water
The Pogues - Rum, Sodomy and the Lash
David Bowie - Low
The Beatles - Rubber Soul
Elton John - Madman Across the Water
Led Zeppelin - II
Caravan - For Girls Who Grow Plump in the Night
10CC - How Dare You/Sheet Music

Jesus, I've not even mentioned John Mayall, Eric Clapton, The Stones, Richard Thompson, The Bonzo Dog Band, The Kinks, Cream, Individual Beatles or Cliff yet!

Is Rolf British? I mean, he is really isn't he? Because "Sun Arise" and "Johnny Day" were fuckin' brilliant when you were a 9 or 10 year old in the early 60s. Simple as.

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Well Dad's back in dock tomorrow for some more pissing about (literally) by disinterested consultants with an eye on the clock and more profitable patients. Dad's appointment is at 8:00am in the morning. That means he'll be up most of the night to make sure he gets there on time. The consultant will be there to make sure his NHS patients can be dispensed with early enough to make some real money nibbling at the genitalia of richer "clients".

Twats.

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Mind you, life's lookin' up. Italy have just had to book flights home from Euro 2004.

*Dances round the room laughin' his balls off*

In a Broken Dream

Deep sadness. Miscarriage.

Gutted.

Homeward Bound

Pater's coming home tomorrow with a catheter and a bag attached to his left knee. He's like a kid on Christmas Eve. My mother's looking forward to having a bit of a rest. Everyday since he went in she's spent from 3:00pm to 8:00pm sat by his bed like a faithful spaniel.

He's got to go back in a couple of weeks for a cystological scan so it's not quite all over yet but here's hoping.

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I was sat with a Gillingham fan in the local last night watching the match. He must be the only Gillingham fan north of...well, Gillingham. As a result he was au fait with the disappointment of being certain match winners with just injury time to play.

30th May 1999. Wembley. The 2nd Division Play Off Final. Gillingham v Manchester City. Pissing down - that fine rain that soaks you through. Dearest, Eldest and I had acquired tickets for the most important game in City's glorious history. We couldn't lose. Could we?

Our seats were on the front row - the roof didn't quite cover the front row. We were wet. I remember looking up at the famous scoreboard:

GILLINGHAM 2 MANCHESTER CITY 0 90mins

The ref announced injury time of 5 minutes I couldn't face it so we left. I've never left a game early in my life but this occasion was too much even for a City fan to take. As we entered the concourse under the stands I stood knee-deep in piss while Dearest went for a wee. There was a roar. City had scored a consolation via the left foot of Kevin Horlock.

So what. Miracles don't happen to Manchester City, that was the sole reserve of the red lot across town who, earlier that very week, had won the European Cup by scoring twice in the dying minutes to mortify Bayern Munich. Nah, a consolation that's all.

Then, just as Dearest reappeared, there was an earthquake. The entire ground shook above our heads and the roar that ensued defied description. I knew what had happened.

We'd equalised. WE'D ONLY GONE AN' EQUALISED!

Foolishly I picked Dearest up and ran a 100 yards in my excitement. I could have dropped dead of a heart attack there and then. I wouldn't have known the final score either.

The rest, as they say, is history. The scores stayed the same after extra time and City won on penalties thanks to the heroics of young Nicky Weaver, City's 20 year old goalkeeper.

Five minutes earlier 30,000 Gillingham 'fans' had been chanting take-the-piss songs at us. But now the air was full of 'you're not singing anymore' sung with exclusively Mancunian accents.

Oh what bliss.

Last night I found out what it was like to be a Gillingham or Bayern Munich supporter and I didn't like it one bit.

Incidentally Clive (Man United) Tyldseley is the most annoying commentator since Racist Ron (Man United) Atkinson.

I Scare Myself

When I finally become a Grandfather, I realise I will need a bogyman, a ghoul, a scare-the-shit-out-of-yer evil bastard to quieten the little one with. You know the type of thing: "if you don't eat your greens, go to sleep, stop putting your fingers in the plug, XXXXXXXX will come and suck your eyeballs out of their sockets!

When I was a toddler my mother used to scare me shitless with threats of the Teddy Boys coming to get me. Teddy Boys? I had this horrific image of fuckin' massive teddy bears with evil frowns chasing me all over the country with hate in their hearts, a taste for human flesh and profoundly empty bellies.

And it didn't do me any harm! *twitch*

For years I've actually made mental notes of potential candidates. From Hannibal Lecter to that bloke who 'allegedly' shot Jill Dando, I've filled notebooks with the inhabitants of Evil-ville. All worthy candidates.

But today, after watching Ronnie's funeral and seeing Margaret's pre-recorded eulogy, it's got to be The Iron Lady.

Eat your muesli or Thatcher's gonna get yer!

Oh yes. There's a certain ring to it. Isn't there?

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Thanks to all and sundry for the good wishes for my Dad. Tonight he is a 1000% better. Alert, eating and, most importantly, laughing. Blood Pressure down, blood sugar under control and appetite back. Ain't morphine great?

Some more *explorations* will take place come Monday and then, hopefully, we can look at getting him back home. He's dying for a light ale.

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Who watched The Ginger Geezer tonight on BBC4? I did. Followed by the first episode of The Prisoner