Some Things Hurt More, Much More Than Cars And Girls....

"Evolution is a dirty lie invented by socialist/communists to destroy the moral fabric of america. By teaching children that they came from apes, there is no need for them to have moral values. Thank God for the evangelicals who prevented this moral corruption. There aint no monkey down my family line. Jesus saves, Jesus heals. He is the king of kings and the lord or lords."

Get yourself over to Tim the Atheist's website (on my blogroll) and have a look at the truly marvelous attempts of the pro-creationists to justify the nonsense of evolution and the rationality of the Big-Guy-Who-Lives-In-The-Sky. Foul mouthed mostly. Pseudo intellectual occasionally. Beyond belief (geddit????) mainly.

Enjoy.

You Say Tomato and I say Tomaarto.....

Well. There's no accounting for taste is there? I mean there just isn't. Take this evening for example. There I was constantly switching between Arsenal and Liverpool whilst Dearest washed and ironed, when I suggested we relax with the first series of The Beiderbecke Affair. I've just joined Amazon's 6 DVDs a month for £9.99 rental service. It sounds great. No late fees. Delivered to my door within 2 days, and a prepaid pack to post them back. With Amazon's fantastic "strength-in-depth" selection you can't go wrong.

So, first off, what do I order but The Beiderbecke Affair. 1985 it was. I watched it religiously. I thought (and still think) it was a superb, understated example of a very British sense of gentle humour. Alan Plater at his best. James Bolam, Barbara Flynn, Colin Whately and a host of character actors that anyone over the age of 25 would recognise immediately, all mouthing exquisite dialog. Dead-pan. Glorious.

Well. That's what I thought anyway.

"This isn't funny" says Dearest after 10 minutes or so.

It's only been on 10 minutes and already the dialog between D.S. Hobson and Chief Supt Forrest has cheered me immensely. The next thing Dearest is playing with the bloody dog, which is getting more frisky as each minute passes. She combines this with 'watching' quality television that requires close concentration to pick up all the nuances.

Mind you, Dearest condemned Father Ted and Phoenix Nights to unfunniness as well, until she started to pay attention, put a little effort in and start to reap the dividends.

I realise that trying to watch all three DVDs with my Darlin' will be a pointless exercise punctuated with the usual "who's that"? "Why's he/she doing that"? "What's going on here"? All questions that needn't be asked if you had paid attention.

So I turned the DVD off and put the TV back on. Cherished was on. The story of Angela Canning's three cot deaths. Dearest was rapt.

I guess I'll never make a TV scheduler. And, to think, I have ordered a load of Cracker DVDs next. Dearest loves Cracker.

I think I'll talk and play with the dog all the way through.

---

Speaking of TV series, it's amazing how much my approach to them has changed as years go by. I still look forward to the ones that catch my eye and resolve to watch them in their entirety. The Rotter's Club for example. Needless to say my busy, busy lifestyle makes a mockery of these rash decisions and I invariably miss an episode and, as a result, the entire raison d'être for carrying on with the rest is lost. Consequently I stopped making the effort.

But now we have video and DVD editions of some of the greatest TV ever broadcast, we can watch safe in the knowledge that we won't miss ONE minute.

All thirteen episodes of Brass for example. £11.97 from Amazon

Raise you're hat to: Art and Technology.

---

Regarding Red Ken and his refusal to apologise to a right-wing Daily Mail/London Evening Standard journalist for comparing him to a Nazi, how can that be Anti-Semitic? Surely when you call someone a Nazi you are being Anti-Nazi? Still, at least those particular newspapers (and Saint Tony) have had a field day. But, surprisingly, look at the BBC's 'Have Your Say' pages. The vast majority are supporting Kenneth. In fact the last time Ken got so much support, Saint Tony was giving him as much shit as he is now.

Remind me. Who had the last laugh?

The Way You Make Me Feel

Sheesh! I see Wackos's ended up in hospital with......flu-like symptoms. Over here we call that a common cold. Mind you, over here the brightest stars of Hollywood - such as Liz Taylor, Oprah Winfrey, Diana Ross and Yuri Geller? - wouldn't be queuing up to support the accused as the US media is reporting. Mind you, they haven't appeared yet so we'll see. I guess their agents, lawyers and advisors are monitoring the situation before deciding whether it will 'play good' to have their precious cash cows ruin their futures for the sake of a severely dysfunctional white black boy. OJ's little passion play's got nothin' on this.

Incidentally, I've been off work the past two days with 'flu-like symptoms'. They should just be grateful I wasn't rushed to the nearest intensive care.

---

Dearest is going back in hospital again soon but this time with cartilage problems. She's going via the NHS but they have farmed her out to a private hospital in order to make the waiting list look better. It's a bit different with my Dad of course. 76 y'see, so he's basically treated as though he should be grateful that he's being seen to at all. In fact, after his last little experience of modern medicine he's quite adamant that he's not going back inside. Essentially, he'd rather die with a little dignity and control than put up with the shambolic, doctor-worship that he experienced earlier this year. In 20 years Dearest will be treated exactly the same way.

A Labour Government. A Labour Government moreover enjoying a second term and pretty certain it will win a third, is recreating Margaret's policies 20 years after she tried so hard to implement them.

What's that noise?

That, my dear boy, is Keir Hardie, Clem Attlee, Nye Bevan and Barbara Castle spinning in their graves.

---

I'm a bit confused about the Artist Formerly Known As Cat Stevens and his relationship with terrorism. Did he or did he not refuse to condemn Ayatollah Khomeni's Fatwah on Salman Rushdie or not? Can somebody out there put this to bed for me or not? Because I quite liked him back in the early 70s and just the other night I was playing The Foreigner Suite and drifting back once again. I've surfed and surfed and the answers to that question are contradictory to say the least.

So let the heartache begin.....

A disappointing Derby on Sunday. It was bloody freezing as well. As I was full of a cold and shouldn't have really have been there given my condition, it made for a thoroughly miserable afternoon. After the match I unwisely retired to the local (doors locked, curtains drawn but full of trusted clientele) for a few post-match pints. Predictably we heard via the landlady that it was kicking off in pubs up and down the Manchester - Oldham road as the area's Chavs slugged it out in their under-nourished, cheap drink-fuelled attempt to articulate their convoluted inner turmoil. Pricks. I bet not one of them had been to the game.

As we were walking back to the car, every passenger window we passed had been smashed. As we neared ours we feared the worst. We were lucky though, the trail of destruction stopped a couple of vehicles before ours. It's fairly obvious that this was not done for reasons of theft. Only a fool would leave valuables on display in the place we park. The thought that all those cars were parked up by such fools beggars belief.

Twats.

---

So the Iraqi election has finally been called for Sistani. Luckily the Kurds have got quite a showing as well so the Ayatollah won't get it all his own way. For all the talk of bringing the Sunnis on board, it's obvious that there are deep schisms still. I still predict a civil war. Whether it will be a full on, in your face war or continued terrorist insurgence only time will tell.

The Kurds are also a body who I believe will soon become disillusioned with the democratic ideal. The trouble with Sistani you see is that at the moment he believes in democracy - although how he'd feel if he were ever defeated in a popular vote we don't yet know. Furthermore he may currently believe in the democratic process but he certainly doesn't believe in freedom. Not that freedom has ever been the bedfellow of democracy - but we all knew that anyway. Well apart from Dubya.

For Sistani wants to ban a few things. Women shaking hands with men for example. Women walking around in anything less than total and utter body covering. Women not being able to inherit wealth like their brothers. Adultery should be punished by stoning and homosexuality is an abomination punishable by death. Music should be listened to as long as it's not for pleasure. He even wants to ban chess for fuck's sake. And now he's just come out top trumps in an election that most of the country didn't vote in. And he - or his representatives will be a powerful influence in the modern Iraqi legislature.

I hope you're proud of yourself George. I really am.

---

Mr Lupin has been commenting on the superb scripts in Coronation Street being the rock on which the ongoing success of Britain's oldest soap. Tonight was no exception.

Les sneaks out of the back door of the two-up-two-down he shares with Cilla and happens across Chesney (Cilla's son from another relationship) cleaning his dog Schmeicel's teeth.

"Is that my toothbrush you're using" says Les.

"No is it 'eck" replies Ches with a scowl.

"Thank God for that."

"It's me mam's."

"Bloody hell Chesney, I hope you're gonna clean it"

"'Course I am."

Chesney carries on brushing and then, with perfect timing says:-

"I always have before."

Quality.

I Think I'm Going Back.........

I'm sat here in my eyrie with Jade Warrior oozing out of my speakers and taking me back thirty-odd years again. You know I had forgotten just how intricate, musical and challenging a lot of the stuff I used to listen to as a bum-fluffed teenager actually was. Jade Warrior especially was a band that embraced a lot of alien music - African, Chinese, Middle Eastern - and certainly didn't entertain commercialism in any shape nor form. Hence the financial struggle the various surviving members have experienced post band.

Prog Rock. For years I was too embarrassed to actually own up to half my album collection. The sneers of Punks and New Romantics. The inexorable rise of the synthesizer ("we won't need drummers or guitars in the future - computers will take over") and the buttock-clenchingly 'far-out' hippy-drippy space speak of most of the protagonists made it difficult to defend in the face of - The Clash for example.

But as time goes by, the past gets re-evaluated and what was once risible suddenly acquires, well, if not street-cred then a certain grudging respect again. Radiohead anyone? The recent adaptation of Jonathan Coe's 'Rotter's Club' on BBC2 is a case in point. Although the punk movement takes centre stage in the novel, it's the Prog Rock background music and the Prog Rock posturings of two-thirds of the 'heroes' that people are talking about. The school magazine review of 'Tales From Topographic Oceans' and the Brummie father's inability to grasp Jon Anderson's concept of 'Velvet Sailors' was quality. Played for laughs by Mr Coe no doubt but - in my opinion - it hit the spot and nailed a moment in time perfectly.

---

A good result for City on Sunday and masterful displays from Messrs James, Distin and especially Dunne. That's four points we've taken off Chelsea this season. We're the ONLY team to have beaten them so far. This led to City fans chanting 'Can We Play You Every Week' towards the end of last weekend's encounter. Ho ho. Another big match coming up though - the derby. Can we reproduce the performances of last season and the one before? Well I hope so. After the 3-1 win in November 2003 and the 4-1 of February 2004, a 5-1 in 2005 would be just dandy. Here's hoping.

---

Me Dad's been back in the butchers hospital for an exploratory camera to ascertain whether he's on the mend or not. No doubt we'll find out one way or the other some time when the arcane infrastructure that is still extant in Crumpsall hospital lumbers and creaks into life. Gormenghast the place reminds me of. A typical inner-city Victorian nightmare of a place that promises at worst death and, at best, some form of contagion or, at the very least, chronic depression.

My Dad went in last Thursday evening. It should have been Monday morning but they 'couldn't find his records'. Hello! Computers! Databases! Modern world! Surely not dog-eared files still? Well yes. Apparently.

So Thursday at 2:00pm he gets the call and I drive him and Mam down. At this point my Dad is chirpy and mobile-ish. He needs his walking stick but he is fine. After the probing on Friday morning they tell him he will be able to come home Friday night after God the Doctor's been. The fact that he's constantly urinating and doesn't know it seems to be of no concern to anyone in a uniform. The doctor came. The doctor said "you're going nowhere".

The next thing a harridan, a hard-faced, thin-lipped, probable potential patient-killer-for-kicks auxiliary starts her shift and fuck me what a miserable cow she was. Here's a hint love: "get a job you fuckin' like!". However, I had to think of my Dad at her 'mercy' after we had left so I had to keep schtum. We asked if his bed could be made so he could go to sleep (he was bolloxed). "I'll do it when I have time" replied thin lips with a couldn't-give-a-fuck smirk, "I'm just winding down for a bit". Winding down? She'd been on her shift all of forty minutes!

Anyway, come Saturday morning my Mam phones the hospital to be told Doctor hasn't been yet and they don't know if he's coming home and they'll phone her when they know one way or the other. At half-eleven they phone back. Doctor's been, he can go home, they're shutting the ward for the weekend can we have him out by 12:00! Caring profession my arse!

He was a shell of the man that walked in that place on Thursday. Skin like parchment, grey as a Mancunian skyscape and most definitely unable to walk more than 10 feet or so without assistance. Did anyone offer a hand? A wheelchair to the car perhaps? An ambulance home? No. Did they fuck. Gone and most probably already forgotten.

What is it about our society that treats the old with such disdain, such disrespect? Why is it that other societies - European ones - seem to embrace and take succour from the experiences and company of their old-folk? Why can't we?

I know this much. If that had been a Paediatric ward instead of a ward for blokes with urinary problems, there would have been a lot more care provided and, in the case of thin-lips, a lot less downright random nastiness. I just hope she's holy 'cos as she gets older she will be shitting herself for all her sins. But more realistically I hope she ends up in a ward with a thin-lipped, job-hating evil nurse (male or female) giving her enemas and bed baths. Now that I would pay to see.

Right, back to Jade Warrior before the nightly crap-a-thon walkies. Are there no high-tech implements out there yet that can vaporise dog-shit? If not then my advice is get working on it now 'cos I, for one, would pay good folding money for one, and if I would then I can guarantee so would a hell of a lot more.

---

Ellen MacArthur's boyfriend? Quiet type is he? A loner perhaps? He'd better had be.

We're on a Road to Nowhere

SCARED TO DEATH

by SAMANTHA MYERS

A FORMER GP’s fear of confronting one of her attackers in court caused her death before the case was heard, her grieving daughter has claimed.

Dr Joice Imlay’s nightmare started in May, 2002, when a man and woman broke into her Werneth home while she was in bed.

The terrified grandmother was almost smothered with a duvet by the male attacker, who then tied her up with a scarf and threatened her with a knife.

And her daughter, Fiona Imlay, believes it was the fear of having to face one of her attackers again that caused the 84-year-old’s death last November.

Speaking after Beverley Shaw (36) received a 12-month jail sentence at Minshull Street Crown Court, Manchester, for her part in the burglary, Fiona said: “I honestly believe that mother was so terrified of coming face to face with this woman that it caused her death.

“When we were originally told that the court case would be in December, my mother’s health stared to deteriorate. She wouldn’t eat and didn’t want to leave the house.”

Once an active woman who spent many years working with her late husband, Witold, as GPs in Failsworth Health Centre, Lord Lane and Limeside, Mrs Imlay was very badly affected by the break-in.

Afterwards she was left petrified in her own home and would tremble and shake if she heard a noise.

Money and jewellery were stolen during the burglary but it was First and Second World War medals belonging to Mrs Imlay’s father, who was one of Australia’s most decorated soldiers, that held the greatest sentimental value.

They had the name Major AP Imlay or Lt Col AP Imlay on them, and one was a Distinguished Service Order (DSO) which is very rare.

Fiona said: “My mother was most distressed when the medals were taken. I hope that they fall into the right hands and someone hands them into the police because they really meant a lot to all of us.”

Det Con Jason Ruff said: “I am pleased that Shaw has been jailed for her part in the burglary but it is a shame that Mrs Imlay didn’t get closure before she died.

“She was left shaken and distressed by what happened to her and I am glad that Shaw is now behind bars.”

A man was also charged with burglary but the case did not get to court because the Crown Prosecution Service said there was not enough evidence.

However, the police said that if any new evidence is brought to their attention, a prosecution could follow.

Anyone with information about the second offender, or about the medals, should contact thepolice on 0161-856 8940 or Crimestoppers on 0800-555 111.

---

Doctor Imlay delivered my wife and my eldest son. Dr Imlay was an old-fashioned GP who knew everything about your medical history - as well as all your immediate relatives and forbears. And now she's dead. A victim of some slimeball's desire for drug money.

This story greeted us from the front page of one of the local rags this evening. What can I say but....12 months? You're 'avin' a laaarf aren't ya? And as for the man who was also arrested....."not enough evidence"? I take it his partner in crime took the fifth then did she?

Twat.

Oh Flower of Scotland

A great weekend up in a little town in the Trossachs called Callendar. We were there for a wedding, the Cap'n was finally making an honest woman of McJanet and, as a result , there was a mass exodus from the Manchester area as various friends of the happy couple decamped north of the border.

And I have to say 'north of the border' but her best clothes on in a successful attempt to impress. For impressed we were. The hotel Dearest, myself and the four-legged friend inhabited was great value: warm, welcoming and reasonable. What more could you ask for? The location of the wedding - The Roman Camp Hotel - was stunning. Built around 1630 next to the remains of a Roman Camp, the place was enchanting.

I've always felt an affinity to the land of my forbears (my paternal grandad arrived in Manchester from Dumbarton via Sunderland just before the war). This weekend's wedding was an excuse to visit again for the first time since the 80s and it did my soul good. Youngest was an usher and was kilted up to the nines. A bonny figure of a man he made too.

Appetite wetted now. I'll have to talk Dearest into an Autumn break in the land of my fathers this year. Mind you, she fancies Venice. However, you can't take a dog to Venice can you?

Heh heh!

---

Bye bye Anelka you moody prick. Fenerbahce......? Yeah. Whatever.

Hello Kiki Dee - 'cos that's what you will be called. Still - I couldn't give a shit what you're called - you've got a left foot and that's all that matters.

Free

3 years in Guantanamo Bay and less then 24 hours after returning to the UK, the British powers-that-be release the 4 repatriated detainees. Released without charge no less.

If that had been one of my sons, taken from me for three long years I don't think I could be held responsible for my actions. And yet, on the radio phone-ins and the BBC's website, the usual shite is being peddled:- "they were in a war zone therefore they're guilty", "no smoke without fire....", etc., etc., etc.

My mate Abdul - the smoking, drinking, darts fanatic pub-landlord was over in Pakistan just before 9/11. That's where his older extended family live. Also his aged mother. It's not rocket science. You want to be there for them. If Ab had delayed his trip (as he was considering doing due to business reasons) he may have become a 'Guantanamo Bay-er' - denied 'due process' on account of the colour of his skin.

I wonder if they're reporting the almost instantaneous release back in the States?

Ah well. Back to Pat Metheny.

The Way Up

"...everything is getting shorter, smaller, less ambitious, less detailed and less nuanced, and how the world is crumbling in its aesthetic ambitions.

"His answer: a CD that comprises one piece of music that lasts 68 minutes and 25 seconds. It's one of those noble, futile gestures that makes you want to ring and thank him personally."

Thus writes Stuart Nicholson in yesterday's Observer Music Monthly in his review of jazzman Pat Metheny's new album. I was excited as I had it on pre-order from you-know-who.

It arrived fresh from Amazon.co.uk this morning - the day of its European release - and, guess what? Yup I really do want to ring and thank him personally. Thanks Pat for reminding me that the American stereotypes we have become so used to seeing and hearing on our British TV screens are just that: stereotypes. One-dimensional purveyors of soundbites and mediocrity. God-bothering twats who have evidentially never read Gibbon's The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Or, if they did then they didn't make the connection'.

But today listening to this complex, uplifting, not-everyone's-cup-of-tea music as I surfed the net worked my balls off delighting customers, I was reminded by Mr Metheny that Dubya may have got the highest vote of any US President, but John Kerry got the second highest. I was reminded that for every Rumsfeld and Rice there's a Steve Earle, a Paul Simon, a Bruce Springsteen. I was reminded of the diversity, the multiplicity and the dynamism of the World's only remaining superpower and it cheered me. Dumbing up!

I'm on my fourth listen now and it's beginning to grab my very innards. That vital cavity that knaws deep within waiting to be filled and tamped by the creative endeavors of whoever fits the bill. It's going to be one of those that will be with me for a long time to come. Sure it'll be pushed to the back of the CD pile on occasion - weeks, months, maybe even years - but it'll be back. Serendipitously re-discovered some miserable November afternoon as the light fades and the annual pyrotechnics begin. Bliss.

Jazz is THE American art form. They gave it to the world. This wonderful, thought-provoking expressionistic, impressionistic, bombastic, eloquent, intelligent music comes from the same small towns, ranches and big cities as the uptight, screwed-down, holy-rolling 'thou-shalt-nots' who seem to represent America wherever you look - from the White House to radio phone in. This country may have given us J Edgar Hoover, but it also gave us Louis Armstrong, Artie Shaw and Duke Eliington. I like to think it's because of the 'uptight, screwed-down, holy-rolling 'thou-shalt-nots'' that Louis, Artie and the Duke were necessary. Necessary for the normal millions who mistrusted God and all his works in the first place.

Hallelullah!

---

Today Eldest hit 31 years of age and I'm beginning to feel not far from my pension. Scary!

There goes the Equestrian Statue

Photo courtesy of Eastlands Blue

"most of the North is awful…” - Brian Sewell, Art Critic for the London Evening Standard

Public works of art? What do you reckon? A throwback to the days of local subscription honouring the so-called great and the good with a sturdy statue in the town square or city centre, or an opportunity in these modern times to invest a little culture into these otherwise drab urban landscapes? An opportunity moreover to question the ordinary Joe's perception of 'what is art?'

For or against? A sound investment nurturing and enriching an artistic sensibility in the general populace or a load of modernist crap?

Pictured above we have the latest addition to this time-honoured debate: Manchester's B of the Bang. A modern 'sculpture' commemorating the Commonwealth Games of 2002. Apparently it is now the tallest in the UK, pipping the Angel of the North by a few metres. The Angel just looks taller on account of the hill it's on and an absence of city in its vicinity. The B utilises the same 'it'll save money in the long run' welded and rusted metal as the Angel and both look infinitely better at night when they are lit up.

Personally I think it's great. A welcome attempt to mark our times with something lasting and thought-provoking. Over the past year as I've trudged (usually downhearted) from the City of Manchester stadium, I've been able to cast my eyes towards this slowly emerging explosion backdropped against the gun-metal grey of the Mancunian sky and it did something good deep within my very being.

It evinced a 'Fanfare For The Common Man', a 'look what we can do if we put our minds, hearts and wallets to it' warm feeling. For me at least and, to be fair, quite a few others also. Not everyone feels the same though.

Eldest, for example, rails against what he sees as a waste of public money that could've been spent on essential services. He has a point but I happen to believe that public works that gladden the heart can nurture and heal as much as any prozac. Still, what do I know.

I think it's the fact that it serves no obvious money-making purpose - indeed it cost a friggin' fortune - is part of what draws me to it. If someone had lacked the courage to stick it there, the area it occupies would be, at this very moment, being turned into one-bedroomed apartments 'in the heart of the City' starting at £750,000.

So? The B of the Bang? Pile of shite or a soaring - if relatively modest - piece of artistic magnificence?

He Ain't Heavy...He's My Brother....

Nice.

Cry-y-y-y-ing...Over You....

As I walked the shit-machine this evening, I was deep in the fug of gloom. Dark and deep were my thoughts: "why have I paid good folding money for a dog that, frankly, stinks like a rhino house, seems to misunderstand the most basic of commands and thinks that the best way to greet its 'master' of an evening is via a snout in the genitals?" (Mine, not hers).

You must remember that this beast almost qualified as a guide dog for the blind for Christ's sake. Unbelievably she only failed at the last hurdle and, if she had acted differently a few times she could've been leading some poor bugger under the wheels of a train at this very moment. If I was blind I would have been atomised by a passing juggernaut on day one. Her propensity for attempting to dive into the path of oncoming vehicles wasn't mentioned when we 'took delivery'. We were merely told that she was "slightly excitable".

But, hope does spring eternal, and, as the clouds parted during our late night crap-a-thon, I looked up to see Orion hanging in the night sky with Betelgeuse flashing red on his shoulder. Even the reflected glow of the lights of Manchester couldn't quench its flame. My gloom lifted for a precious few stolen moments of reverie before the unmistakable perfume of a squatting dog once again assailed my senses and my thoughts turned to another of life's disappointments.........

Mark Thatcher WON'T be going to prison in South Africa or back to Equatorial Guinea to be hung because he's done a plea bargain and will merely be fined a few hundred thousand (which he or his mummy or the estate of his late father can surely afford), before he fucks off to America, where he'll be regaled by the WASPS as a hero of free enterprise. That's his future. A fucking wastrel who hung on the coat tails of his mater and pater and somehow (nudge nudge wink wink) became a multi-millionaire. The rest of us will just carry on lifting that barge, toting that bail, getting a little drunk and landing in gaol...........and, eventually 'rolling on by'.

Bugger.

And, if that wasn't all, the turd in line to the Throne has been demonstrating his feminine side again:- Coward.

Witnesses said Harry pushed the photographer...

And finally.......The Final Solution. I despair.

Tomorrow Never Knows

Not long ago two of the Britons held in Guantanamo Bay were earmarked as cast-iron guilty and soon to be brought to Military trial. Now it seems it's OK to pass them back to 'Old Europe' to either try or free them.

At the moment I am listening to an American apologist for the unlawful incarceration of many hundreds of people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It turns out he's a Military Lawyer. His line of argument is that whoever disagrees with him is - and I quote - "an ignorant slob". It doesn't help when we get self-styled pricks like this explaining that everything America does is OK whereas any argument to the contrary is dismissed as "siding with the terrorists". Arguments like that are no better than the maniacal ravings of the likes of Abu-Musab al-Zarqawi.

---

Guess there must be an election approaching. Guess either Tony or Dubya must think the repatriation of the previously forgotten will somehow 'play good' with the British electorate. The added bonus for neo-conservatives New Labour is that it could knock the Blair-Brown shenanigans off the front page as the hustings begin. I doubt it though. That paraphrase attributed to Gordon regarding never trusting a word Tony says must be destined to become a central part of the Tories' platform. I can see it now paraded Saatchi-like on every billboard that Labour haven't already snapped up with their combination of Ecclestone et al's millions and their knowledge of when the election will actually be. Should be more interesting this year. What with UKIP and the Lib-Dems looking like at least eroding other Parties' votes as well as picking up a few more themselves.

---

Another day of walkies, howling gales and dog shit. As someone, somewhere once sang.....'Things Can Only Get Better.................'

Well one can hope can't one?

Nightswimming

Dogs eh? One minute they're licking their arse, the next they're trying to lick my face. Well no dice pooch - your arse, my face? No match. It's bad enough taking you out every night for a refreshing drag walk in the howling wind and rain without contracting strange 'crossover' diseases from other species.

Combined with the ultimate pleasure of grasping piles of still steaming shit with only the condom-like thickness of a Tesco plastic bag between my fingers and the offending dollops, it seems I drew the short straw in this whole 'let's get another dog' scenario.

Cheers Dearest. Good idea a dog. Good idea.

---

Just over a week back at work and the faceless twunts who occupy the upper echelon: the back-stabbing, career-obsessed, no-life pricks we are taught to look up to as 'go-getters', 'vibrant', 'proactive' and *snort* 'the drivers of British Industry', have started dipping their collective oars in the already choppy waters of outsourced IT support in a leading multinational defence contractor.

We now need - apparently - a software tool that allows us to record what we do with our time when we're not 'delighting customers' with our expertise, ready wit and ability to interact with a cleaner or CEO without fear or favour. This, we were told by some chap from overseas who kept calling us 'you guys', was to enable adoption of 'best practice' and 'cross-pollinisation' with the added bonus of finally letting the powers that be realise just how hard we work.

Well, as the laughing policemen once commented.......HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA....etc.

---

And if life wasn't crap enough, the enigma that is Manchester City somehow contrive to lose against Oldham Athletic in t'Cup.

To quote Mr Stanshall, sometimes you just can't win.

You Can't Always Get What You Want....

You can't always get what you want....but if you try sometimes...well even the ref and the linesman may just feel in the mood for taking the piss. And that's what happened this evening. As the mighty Blues upset Arsenal's plans for the end of season 'do', so a blind linesman, ref and manager allowed Yooonited's woeful attempt at 'hanging in there' to still....well......hang in there.

Mr Yates: should you win this fuckin' league by anything less than two points, then your manager - and the rest of the 'brand' that is Manchester United (note they dropped the 'football club' bit), should be banned.

Why? Why?? I'll tell you why.....that ref tonight (along with his henchman linesman) was a cheating bastard.

Or did he just miss what a million other people spotted?

Or is it just moi being biased???

Answers on a postcard or in my comments section........

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"The tsunami must be dealt with. It is an act of God, an act of nature,"

"Africa is an act of man. Millions die every year completely unnecessarily.

Do you think he rehearsed that? Or did it just trip off his tongue? Clever, clever Bob.

Hope I Die Before I Get Old......or should that be...... Meet The New Boss Same As As The Old Boss

Roger Daltry......you wanker!

Nothin' But The Same Old Story

Well back to the norm at Eastlands today. West Brom didn't have one shot on target and yet they manage to draw due to a Richard Dunne own goal. What can I say? We hammered 'em. Absolutely hammered 'em. Russell Hoult - The WBA keeper - had the game of his life and saved certain goals on at least 4 separate occasions. Once again though Mr Genius couldn't see that we weren't doing enough to kill the game and was oblivious to the concept of making some changes; perhaps bringing someone on who could hold the ball up and bring others into play. He is devoid of managerial nous. He was the same against Everton on Sunday. Wrong formation, wrong substitutions, wrong result.

Keegan has stated that he will not extend his contract after the end of next season. This essentially turns him into a lame duck. No board in its right mind would sanction any signings that could be sidelined by a new manager coming in in 18 months time. Mind you, given some of Kevin's purchases, no board in its right mind would give him any money anyway.

Southampton at home on Saturday - I can't remember when we last beat them on our own turf. After that Arsenal away. Ho hum.

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Ah well Christmas over again than God. This year was OK really, my Mam and Dad eventually stayed quite late even though it was a bit of a chore for my Dad getting up the stairs to the toilet.

After the older ones had retired the kid's mates descended on us and caroused through the night. I ended up having a nasty-ish, drunken 'discussion' with a lad who is full of his own self-importance and believes he is a great frontman for his band - who no one has ever seen because they've never played a gig. His scorn for any other music but hip hop started me off and this was compounded by his denouncing of John Martyn (who was performing 'May You Never' on a DVD) as twee. To be honest my response was a bit over the top but I've never liked or trusted him ever since he stood outside our house at about 3am one Christmas Eve screaming abuse. The day after he denied it! He owned up a few days later. Prick! Anyway I rather uncharitably reminded him of this fact half way through our tête-à-tête. It just went downhill from there on. Then he left. Shame.

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And then you wake up the day after and hear the terrible news from South East Asia and it puts petty little disagreements with disagreeable people into perspective. I still can't get my head round how the agencies that knew there had been a massive earthquake weren't able to warn the rest of global village though. That just beggars belief. "We didn't know who to phone" doesn't quite do it for me. How about you? I suspect that over the next few days, as the number of Western tourist deaths becomes known, the shit might hit the fan.

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Hope you all had a good 'un and all the best for the New Year.

Us And Them

This is the furry alien now resident in our lives. We have a fortnight to decide whether we keep her or not. It was five years since our last dog shuffled and it's really hard getting used to the fact that there is a creature without standards once again living among us. So far she's eaten her bed, crapped and peed at inopportune moments and consistently ignored the most basic of commands.

Guide dog? My arse!

It's Just History Repeating....

What did I tell yer? Pissing down rain, newly acquired dog and me in close proximity as the ritual of the evening walkies reintroduces itself into our my busy schedule. I forgot the 'pooper scooper' as well so while she deposited a healthy half a pound in the gutter, I had to keep watch in case some over-zealous environmental defender should spot this misdemeanour and hail a Peeler. I know it was wrong - and I also know I could've been fined a hell of a lot of money - it's just that I forgot the scooper and I certainly wasn't about to pick it up and stick it in my pocket was I?

Sorry people of my home town. It won't happen again.

It did make me think though. What's worse for your health? Rogue dog shit or passive smoking?

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My bloody car wouldn't start this morning. Flat battery just like Andy. This evening (before the faecal incident) I found a set of jump leads I thought I'd discarded years ago. Within minutes I had it ticking over. "I'll take it for a run down the motorway and get the battery charged up a bit" I thought to myself as I wiped the engine crap that ingrains every whorl in your fingers from my person. I then remembered that rather than fill the tank up last Friday (last time I used the car - just before the wedding) I figured I'd do it over the weekend sometime. I forgot. I put it down to this aging organ in my head.

So. It needs a run to charge the battery but I have barely enough fuel to reach the petrol station. It's also dark therefore lights are needed, and it's also raining. Doh!

What follows is one of those how-do-I-end-up-in-situations-like-this moments. Wonderin' whether the bloody car will start after you've filled it up. Visions of trying to push and steer it off the forecourt all on your own, 'cos you can guarantee none of the 4 x 4 owners will lift a finger to help.

It all worked out OK in the end though, it started first time and off we shot half way down the M60 and back. I guess I'll find out in the morning whether that was enough or whether a new battery is called for.

Motoring eh?

What a Difference a Day Makes......24 Little Hours...

Friday found the entire OccupiedCountry clan attending the wedding of one of the boy's bestest friends. A great day all round. I even enjoyed the church service and thought the vicar spoke a lot of sense until he mentioned some guy who lives in the sky and knows and sees everything there is to know and see.

Sadly what could have been a perfect day was frankly spoiled by the insistence of the Bride and Groom that the reception be held at Old Trafford - a football ground just outside Manchester.

In a break with tradition both Eldest and Youngest were 'joint best men'. Youngest was over the moon at the thoughts of quality time spent in the so-called 'Theatre of Dreams': Red to the core you see. But Eldest was distressed. As a season ticket holder at the City of Manchester Stadium where he sits next to his dad, he had to juggle with a profound paradox. How could he square his love for his best mate with putting hard earned money into the coffers of the 'World's Richest Football Club Corporate Brand'? As the Best Man's speech took shape the answer appeared.

Halfway through the speech, Eldest complained about being hot and sweaty. He let us all know that he needed to shed the heavy morning suit, waistcoat, tie and, indeed, shirt in order to cool off. I'll never forget the cheers that echoed round the Stretford Suite as he revealed the City shirt that he had been wearing under his wedding gear. An impromptu rendition of 'Blue Moon' raised the rafters as we realised that most of the Bride's family and friends were firmly of the blue persuasion.

Even the Reds had to agree - it was a perfect moment. Friendly banter - you can't beat it can you?

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So that was Friday. Saturday saw most of Occupied Towers shuffling off to a party in deepest Prestwich. A and P are blessed with far too much disposable income and consequently every latest gadget can generally be tried out at theirs before it reaches the shops and stores of Manchester.

Most of these are shoved in a drawer or a cupboard after a few weeks but sometimes P digs one of them out for parties.

Saturday was Karaoke!

Eldest was still in post-speech mode and was knocking back the Kronenburg at a rate that would have the Labour Cabinet pointing and screaming "BINGE DRINKER". Eventually, for the first time in his life, the alcoholic levels reached that point where singing in front of total strangers seems perfectly reasonable.

At the wedding I had been heard to say "my boys..my God I'm proud of them. They look good, they've conducted themselves superbly and, between them they've helped the day be the unequivocal success that it is".

After hearing eldest on the Karaoke last night I was heard saying "I can't believe anyone with a voice a bad as that is a son of mine......"

We couldn't get the mike off him. He knew he was crap but, as he pointed out, that's what Karaoke is all about.

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Well the new arrival appears tomorrow. We have to pick her up from Bolton Guide Dogs HQ. It's gonna be a culture shock having something with four legs in the abode again. It'll be a culture shock for me as well - I'll be another rung down the food chain as the dog's needs take precedence over mine. C'est la vie.