Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft

Dearest and I are off this week so a trip to Manchester was on today's agenda. As is usual, the moment we arrived we split up. If there's one thing that familiarity has bred in us it's a healthy understanding that shopping together usually results in blood being spilled. (Mine more often than not).

I headed off to Waterstones to cash in my Xmas book tokens. 3 for 2 offers wherever you looked so I grabbed a copy of Dylan's Chronicles and a few others and sauntered outside to listen to a jazzy duo in the spring sunshine that dappled St Ann's Square.

After half an hour or so I ambled down St Ann's Street towards Deansgate and stopped to look at the sporting and cinema-related overpriced tat highly collectible memorabilia before the rendevous with Dearest. As I turned the corner of the shop to look at the window that butts onto the side street I almost bumped into a Time Lord. Doctor Who was there in front of me in all his Mancunian/Salfordian ordinariness throwing an empty sandwich wrapper into a rubbish skip. At least I think it was a rubbish skip and not some portal into a parallel universe. Come to think of it - was it really a sandwich wrapper? We may never know.

I stood staring at him - and him at me. I was thinking "I know this guy from somewhere". He was probably thinking "who's this fucking nutter and why's he staring at me as though he's about to say 'alright mate, how's it going, long time no see' or something". Then it hit me. It's Doctor fucking Who and here I am staring at him with a half smile playing about my lips. Luckily an old dear called him, although she didn't call him "Doctor" but "Chris". A bit over familiar when addressing a Time Lord I thought but then again he could have been lying low. He nodded at me as though acknowledging gratefully that I hadn't blown his cover and melted into the crowd arm in arm with his latest 'assistant'.

Must tell Youngest's Darlin' that I've met Christopher Ecclestone and his mam in the flesh. She'll be green with envy. She considers him to be serious eye-candy.

One Of Those Days In England

A pleasant change today as I took myself off to Boundary Park to watch Oldham Athletic take on the might of Hull City in a relegation/promotion dog fight. I've been starved of live football for the past few weeks due to a combination of City playing away and Internationals interfering with the domestic fixture list.

I love the atmosphere in these lower division clashes. The parochialness (is that a word?), the shabbiness of the grounds, the fervour of the supporters. Hull, for example, brought 3,000+ to the match today and they were in fine voice even when their team had fallen behind and they knew that their tenure at the top of the division was probably about to end. Oldham, by comparison are fighting for every point they can muster to keep themselves in their current division. You could sense the tension in the crowd, the baited breath, the explosions of fury at every disputed decision that went the way of the opposition.

I sat with Higher-Than-a-Ten John and his wife. The Easter Monday sky above was heavy and threatening and the flood lights were needed as kick off approached. British Summer Time my arse! In stark contrast to the City of Manchester stadium where my seat is on the back row of the third tier, my seat today was a mere 15 feet from the touchline. You can hear every curse, every crunching tackle, you can see the effort and determination etched in the faces of the players. The winces of pain. The sweat and the snot.

The spectators provided a running commentary peppered with the sort of witty dialogue that the likes of Bennett, Tinniswood and Nobbs would kill for. The players and officials can probably hear every word too which makes half the stuff even funnier.

Anyway, for Oldham a 1-0 win and another 3 points in the bag. For me? One of those days in England: full of nostalgia, full of inner happiness. Full.

---

And then, after we had eaten we turn on the TV and there's a tsunami alert after another earthquake off the coast of Indonesia. It's pretty much in the same place as the last and there's panic in Indonesia - Aceh in particular.

It's a good job it's just a natural phenomenon though isn't it? I mean, I'd hate to believe it was somehow all the work of an omnipresent creator wouldn't you?

I expect the Happy Clappys are already practicising their "He moves in mysterious ways" speeches ready to churn them out ad infinitum as and when. It's probably got something to do with the fact that we are all self-indulgent twats with no time for the One True God. Well, either that or he's upset at the outcome of the Schiavo appeal. It seems odd that he seems to moving mysteriously just after the Christian religion's most important dates in the calender - Christmas and Easter. No doubt the Muslim Not-Happy-and-definitely-not-Clappys will be reading significance into that.

At least this time round the poor bugger's have had some warning. Warnings provided by the endeavours of the scientific community I might add - not a fucking Angel or 'owt like that.

As my old mate Couldn't-Give-a-Shit-Mick used to say:

"If - and it's a fuckin' big if - God exists, then he's a twat pure and simple."

Jesus might be wanting me for a Sunbeam

I'm back and I'm truly, deeply and indeed, madly dis-a-fucking-pointed. For the first time in my life I have witnessed a local church being extended FFS! Extended! Furthermore it's of the happy, clappy, born again, in-yer-face persuasion. This can only mean one thing: happy clappy types knocking on my front door - MY FRONT DOOR - to tell me how I too can become a smug bastard like they are. Happy in the deranged certainty that they are most definately going to Heaven after they are through with this veil of tears. Well, if any of you are reading this - YOU CAN FUCK RIGHT OFF. I've got a dog now and I won't hesitate to set it on you, you pious, patronising set of outright twats. Mind you, the dog'll probably lick 'em to death. Then again she might've just finished licking her arse - *grin*

The 21st century - the 21st friggin' century - and churches are expanding. whatever happened to the Enlightenment? Churches on one hand and mosques on the other. I can't get away from the medievil tossers...therefore I'm off out for a pint and the football.

That'll upset the fuckers.

All We Are Saying.........

....is give Pearce a chance. But first......*clears throat*...Happy Blogday to me, happy Blogday to me, happy Blogday OccupiedCountry, happy Blogday to me. Yes it's been two years to the very day that I decided to join the blogosphere. And what a two years it's been. Some good, some bad, mostly just middling. On the whole though, it's been fun. At the moment however I've hit a fallow patch so I think I'll just hang loose for a while.

See you soon.

Hellhound on my Trail

Good grief. I've just received this month's pulsating copy of The Word and who's in it but the bloody PM. Everywhere I go at the moment the bugger's following me about with a 'vote for me' glint in his beady little eye.

He's talking to Mark Ellen erstwhile member of Ugly Rumours and musical colleague of the aforementioned politician. And what's he talking about? The music he grew up with, the bands he used to go and see and his aspirations of being a rock star. He was lead singer in the group and - from what I've read - very much the product of the musical era he grew up in. Mark Ellen explains:-

"I think it only fair that WORD readers should get a precise mental image of their Prime Minister onstage in a rock band. And here it is - in possibly too much detail. The opening number was always 'Honky Tonk Women' - Jim on the cowbell, then the guitar, then the bassline, then we gave you the nod and in you came from the wings - dressed in and this may be stressful - a hoop-necked - T-shirt, massive flares and long hair with a fringe at the front. One hand on the hip, Jagger-style, and a wagging finger. I may be exaggerating - but only slightly - when I recall that your opening words on one occasion were "Well awright Corpus Christi Alternative College Ball, we are the Ugly Rumours!"

The first concert he ever saw was Ten Years After, he listened to King Crimson, The Doobie Brothers, The Incredible String Band, Tyrannosaurus Rex and went to see Atomic Rooster, The Who, Free and Wishbone Ash.

That's my Prime Minister proving to me just how OLD I am. My Prime Minister listening to all that stuff I - and many others of my ilk - listened to. Can't imagine the Harolds MacMillan or Wilson ever having their heads turned by anything but the prospect of high office. Although Wilson successfully pinned himself to the coat-tails of Beatlemania, I bet he hated everything they did - apart from, maybe, "When I'm Sixty Four".

And Tony still hankers. He sent Bono a photograph of him (Bono) addressing the Labour Party Conference with himself (Tony) in the background. And a note: "it should have been the other way round".

I bet Neil Kinnock's rigid with envy, Prime Minister AND able to use the phrase "Well Awlriiiiight" in its proper context.

Ahhhh. Jeeeez. Shucks. I might vote for him after all.

I've Got To Get A Message To You

Right, I've finally said "so long" to Haloscan as my comments provider as they tend to dump all comments after a few months. They probably want untold amounts of moolah, greenbacks, dough, bread, coin, drafts and notes to keep them a little longer so they can bugger off. I have enabled Blogger's own comments system for, as far as I can tell, reading the small print, those comments are permanent. So go on, get a message to me and leave something to be unearthed by digital archaeologists in 2105.

This telephone box on the left is about half a mile from my house. Somehow it survived the wholesale destruction of such boxes way back when. A few years ago there was a rumour it was to be replaced. The locals however, were up in arms against the idea. I'm glad they won. I don't even know if it works and I - and the locals too I shouldn't wonder - will probably never need to use it. It just looks good and reminds us older folk of the days when it was still bliss in that dawn to be alive. Of Two-Way Family Favourites, The Billy Cotton Bandshow and pimply National Servicemen wishing Mum, Dad and sister Carol all the best from some BFPO on the frontline of the Cold War. Who remembers the A and B buttons? I wonder what sort of dial-up connection we would've got all those years ago?

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Time to leave these warm premises in order to take our canine bundle of fun and happiness for its nightly lead-pulling, pavement-fouling, discarded-fast-food-grabbing, human (I think)-sick-eating, total-disregard-of-"Master" drag walk. Fortunately the iPod comes into its own at times like this. Match the clothing to the weather, stick those tell-tale earphones in, set it to 'shuffle' and off I go. Oblivious to man, beast - or mugger.

After that, back home for a last beer, some late night aural delight and then bed for a sound night's sleep with only good dreams.

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Dearest woke early this morning and pottered about the house like she normally does. No massive pain after the knee-op at all. Later she absconded with Eldest to choose some furniture for his new house. It looks like he'll be out of here in a few weeks. The last to fly the nest. Sheesh it only seems two-minutes ago I was telling him to act his age. Oh, hang about, that was a few minutes ago - just before he headed to Manchester to meet a frustrated Youngest as he arrived back from Man United's failure to beat ten-man Crystal Palace.

The two of them are in Rockworld at this very moment with a gaggle of mates, phoning me and texting me, letting me know what they are listening to in the deepness of their inebriation. Kids eh?

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Anyone else out there already bored shitless by the juvenile shenanigans of our two major political parties? 'Cos I am and I'll tell you this: If I - a political animal in many respects - am bored, then 75% of the bloody country must be. The argument has all the finesse of a playground fracas. "You started it", "no I didn't", "yes you did", "didn't", "did", "didn't", "did", "didn't", "did", "didn't", "did", "didn't", "did". Everything is spun, on all sides - and I include the Lib Dems in this. Every politician is so frightened to death of saying anything 'off message', controversial or thought-provoking that the whole process has atrophied.

And they wonder why nobody's paying attention?

Arf!

World On Fire

Credit where it's due, but....altruistic gesture or clever marketing ploy? After all, how often does Ms McClachlan need a 'big-time' video for her down-home, folky offerings? Still at least that's $149,985 to the world's poor although it strikes me that it wasn't just Sarah who worked cheap. Somebody videoed her lip-synch. Somebody else synched the lip. An artistic type produced the graphics. Somebody, somewhere lent his or her editing skills to the whole kit and kaboodle. Yet another prepared it for the web....the list goes on.

None of 'em mentioned in dispatches.

Unless, of course, Sarah is a Multimedia wizard who can turn her hand at anything?

---

Well anther day with Dearest being rent asunder by blokes with knives. Her knee this time so not as traumatic as the great hysterectomy fright of 2003. She still had to undergo full anesthetic though. Which ALWAYS scary.

Because it was a simple operation, the NHS sub-contracted it out to a private place in Pendlebury. Private room with TV, shower, toilet, bath. Fully automated bed. A la carte menu (with wine at a reasonable tenner a bottle), plus a million operatives constantly traipsing in and out to verify that all the light bulbs were working, there was enough toilet paper, the bathroom was clean, there was enough shower gel or hair shampoo or shower caps or............

When all Dearest actually wanted was to get it over with.

Twelve-o-clock we got there - as instructed. The clock struck five before Dearest disappeared into theatre. I finally got her back home at half-past-eleven.

With a really fat knee.

How Come

Well, back to the training course today for a little more nonsense masquerading as “instruction”.

The course was held in a new, custom built office block erected on land that used to belong to Royal Ordnance. The much reduced Ordnance factory still manufactures what ordnance factories tend to manufacture about a quarter of a mile from where I sat frantically trying to think of things to do to keep me awake. It was hard but I think I managed it, although, at one point, I was very much aware of that “just woke up” feeling. Eyes suddenly wide open, brain thrutching like buggery to understand what had just happened and an obvious gap in logic between what the tutor had just said compared with what he was saying now.

Eventually the tutelage ended and us scholars packed up and headed home with a sigh of relief and a profound sense of two days of our precious lives wasted. Ho hum.

I got back to the office at about 5:00pm. I read my emails. I checked out the workload for tomorrow and, before I left, caught up with world events on the BBC website before pointing the Polo at North Manchester.

And that's when I read this. And I felt ashamed. Ashamed of moaning about naive training courses and all the rest of the work-related stuff I usually moan about. I thought of the car journey this morning. The jams on the M60 and M61. The jams getting off the M61. The endless queues as we approached the numerous roundabouts that are seemingly de rigueur in this part of the Red Rose County. I felt ashamed at my impotent raging against the machine that closes local offices and workshops; moves places of work a good 30, 40, 50 miles away; builds more motorways and “bypasses” to “ease” the traffic and forces the new proletariat to spend hundreds of pounds a month on cars and petrol in order to get to these new Jerusalems. I felt ashamed.

A woman at work died today. I bet she watched Eastenders last night, or bathed her kids (if she had any). She may have gone for a meal or drink with her boyfriend or husband. Perhaps she simply fell asleep on the sofa and woke, cursing at another lost evening, just after Newsnight. She got up this morning, showered and dressed – maybe thinking “I'm not keen on this top, I must go shopping at weekend”. She had probably traveled along the same roads as I did to get to the same place.

I made it back. She didn't.

Substitute

A pointless day today. An eighty mile round trip to partake of a Windows XP training course that wouldn't tax a three year old. I now know how to install it and add users. I'd love to say none of us knew that before we attended but I don't, with my hand on my heart, think I can. Y'see this is what happens when multinational corporations underbid for contracts in order to win them. They have to save a fuckin' lot of money, usually at the 'customer interface' end. Cue: redundancies, figure-fiddling and cutbacks, cutbacks, cutbacks. Seven of us dragged from all over Northern England to be patronised as a result of the client demanding some training be given to deal with the "new" operating system being deployed over the next few months.

Any self-respecting support person would have familiarised themselves with this ancient OS years ago surely? What we needed was an advanced, tailored to our particular network configuration, in-depth wallow. Not a friggin' Mickey-Mouse pile of crap that allows our Lords and Masters the right to say: "we invest in our people, look at all the courses we provide". Honestly, it wouldn't have taxed Noddy.

Back again tomorrow to learn how to switch the PC on. Probably.

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Last night Eldest and I trundled off to local number one to watch the Mighty Blues annihilate struggle against lowly opposition.

They didn't disappoint. 2-0 down after twenty minutes or so and we were both of the opinion that a profoundly embarrassing drubbing was on the cards. The ale flowed and was quaffed with all the urgency of the nerve-shredded City fan. So much so that by half-time we had drunk five pints each. Mind you, by half-time we had pulled it back to 2-2. More beer was required and acquired.

Then the most surreal thing I've ever seen occurred. Delia Smith of TV cook fame appeared on the pitch (she is a director of Norwich City FC BTW), and started to harangue the home fans for not getting behind the team. There she was - microphone in hand - shouting "WHERE ARE YOU? LET'S BE 'AVIN' YOU" at her own supporters. At first I thought "is this something to do with "Red Nose Day"? But then I remembered RND is strictly the Beeb. Mr Murdoch wouldn't get involved with that would he? Not enough profit.

Eldest got it right though: "Too much brandy in the pudding love". 'Nuff said.

Anyway, after Delia's inspirational girly, passionless, buttock-clenchingly awful, on-live-TV-seen-in-every-tap-room-in-the-land plea for atmosphere, the home crowd clammed up - more than likely bemused to fuck - and City went on to clinch the match with a Fowler scuff in the first minute of extra time. Quality.

Today the radio and newspapers have been full of Delia's faux pas. Still, we've all woken up the morning after regretting a few words spoken in haste and drink and had to deal with world's press haven't we?

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I'm back on a "jazz" kick at the moment. It's all Mr Metheny's fault. Bringing out intelligent albums with only one track on them, it shouldn't be allowed. But it has been allowed and I bought a copy and listened and loved and, as a result, I have dug out Miles and Louis and a few others. Retrospective bliss.

All those well-recorded brass instruments triggered a Pavlov-like 'let's look for more of the same' investigation of my extensive but haphazard CD, mini-disk and cassette collection. As usual serendipity* takes over and I rediscover gems from the past. Recently it has been Chicago. Often called the poor man's Blood, Sweat and Tears (who were actually shite), they were a force to be reckoned with between 1969 and 1971. Three double albums of hard rock, noodling jazz and catchy pop. Beautiful. If you ever want to hear some exquisite Jazz-rock with a pop sensibility (and some of the best horn arrangements in modern music) check out Chicago Transit Authority, Chicago II and Chicago III. Don't, and I mean DON'T, bother with anything else they ever did, for they embraced corporate America and disappeared up their own arses.

C'est la vie.

*What a gorgeous word to describe a gorgeous situation.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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!

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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.