This Wheel's On Fire

Dearest never quite *got* Mr Zimmerman. Sure she appreciated stuff like "Just Like A Woman", "Knockin' On Heaven's Door" etc., etc., but the rest of it? "Crap. He can't sing."

Come Monday as we settled down to a couple of hours of Bobdom, Dearest was giving off the unmistakable aura of someone who would rather be watching Holby City, Flog It or even The News. A couple of hours later and she has re-appraised the miserable ol' git. "Actually he's quite good isn't he? And didn't he have a lot of crap to put up with?"

Later (or it might have been Tuesday - old age, it's a bastard), we watched a BBC4 programme that showcased other folk singin' Bob's stuff. Dearest was amazed. Certainly Julie Felix doing "Masters of War" she adored. As for the rest: all I heard was "I didn't know he wrote this?"

"The Mighty Quinn", "This Wheel's on Fire": throw away songs that he couldn't be arsed recording. Dearest was well impressed.

The next day in work D, my colleague who is surprisingly well-versed in all aspects of my era of music, for a forty year old, said: "I didn't know Dylan wrote all them songs like "The Mighty Quinn", "This Wheel's on Fire" etc., etc. He's well impressed with his later stuff as well. Y'see, he hasn't got the inbuilt understanding that later=crap, earlier=better that those of us who grew up with the music have adopted. We live and we learn.

Maybe I need to start samplin' the stuff he has done since "Blood on the Tracks"? After all, if his early music touched the blood and skin and bone of the young buck, maybe his later stuff can nourish me as I creak, cough and crap myself into the twilight years?

---

Just found out that the ridiculous 11:15am Sunday morning ko for City v Everton this weekend has been arranged due to the financial gain to be made, by both clubs, in China. Sun Jihai and whatever the Evertonian is called - Lee Tie or something, are such a draw that Manchester City are quite prepared to offset the gate receipts for the TV rights.

Short-sighted twats. I predict a very low - 34,000-ish - crowd.

Hey There Robert Zimmerman, I Wrote This Blog For You

So, who watched the first part of the Bobfest tonight? How was it for you? Personally I thought that Mr Zimmerman's involvement humanised him to an extent that shocks - after three decades of wilfull obscurantism, I suddenly feel warm feelings. He's dropped all the daft shite and started telling the truth. I was torn. After all, I've not spoken to him for thirty years. We fell out just after "Blood On The Tracks". Things were said. Looks were cast. To make things worse, he seemed to parody himself wherever he went. It was over.

It would have been '64 or '65 when I first registered him. I'd heard "Blowin' In The Wind" but it never really resonated. Mind you I mostly heard it by Peter, Paul and Mary on Two-Way Family Favourites. The acceptable face of political protest. I'd just - at the age of nine - discovered the Beatles and the Stones. Twee shite, championed by the likes of Pete Seeger (ostentatious bearded prick I would've thought at the time - if I had possessed the vocabulary), I could do without. After all, hadn't I and my schoolmates spent an excrutiating three terms listening to a newly qualified teacher who fancied himself as the next Dave Van Ronk? But, the times they were-a-changin'. Newly created - and, indeed, experienced, testerone was cursing through the barely formed nooks and crannies of my pubescent body. Lookin' back - I was more than ready for something totally new.

It was a trip to Scarborough from Manchester. '64 or '65. Quite a trip in those days. Four hours plus. It was a Morris minor. Hand-painted green with yellow wheels as I remember, but I couldn't give a fuck. It was a car and it was a holiday.

The A64. Early summer. One of those days that just shone and shone and shone. Glorious. Petrol stations providing "Premium" and "Regular".

"A shot of Redex Sir"?

I can't remember what radio station was on in the car, but Mr Tambourine Man came on........and I was gone. What a strange song. Dylan, tonight, mentioned a 78 of an old folk song, one that pulled at something deep within him at a really early age. It resonated. I remembered. Within minutes - in my mind's eye - my Mam and Dad were disecting "Mr Tambourine Man" and pronouncing it the biggest pile of shite they had ever heard. I can hear my Dad to this day saying "How the bloody hell can you play a song on a tambourine"? I was disappointed in my parents - but especially my Dad. Wan't he supposed to be the musician of the family?

However, I thought it was the most marvellous thing I had ever heard in my life (after "She Loves You"). One man. One acoustic guitar (forget the shite "vibe" playing), this is essentially one man's voice, guitar and, sadly, harmonica. The day after it was there again, in all its 8 minutes of glory, spurting out of the crappest tranny on the beach. I was sold.

Can't wait for tomorrow now. My head's full of Bob.

One Too Many Mornings

We kept happening upon sculptures like the one on the left as we trolled through the alleys, backstreets, squares and innards of Venice. Severed heads lay in the middle of main thoroughfares. Strange obelisks appeared where you least expected to find them. Huge balls of wool, amorphous blobs scattered like playdough and all surrounded by architecture to die for.

We ambled down to the waterfront near San Marco and took a left away from the madness. After a while I decided to sit and admire the view across the lagoon. Dearest set off for a solo snoop round the shops walk. After fifteen minutes or so I was aware of something huge floating across the waterscape. It was a massive - and I mean fuckin' massive - pristine, "yacht"; although the word "yacht" did not do it justice. It was a mini city. Five stories above the water line and God knows how many below.

We later found out it was Abramovich's. I guess only someone with the dizzy fortune he has could afford to run a city-on-the-sea like that.

As I sat there pondering the colossal wealth of this shady individual, I began to consider the effect of his billions on English footie. Soon I had moved on from Abramovich and onto the real destroyer of the game I love. Murdoch. Actually that should be Fuckin'Murdoch. An odious, loathsome, amoral twat who would disembowel his own relatives if he thought it would make him even richer and more powerful.

This prick - I continued my train of thought - is responsible for all those stupid kick off times and day of match changes. This prick is responsible for idiotic fixtures such as Portsmouth v Newcastle on a Wednesday night with a 7:45pm start. This prick bought and sold the FA way back when. Sky and the Premiership almost seem like the same entity. Watch Sky Sports News and you would never know a viable and successful football league ever existed in this country before Fuckin'Murdock spotted his cash cow and milked it for all it was worth. We hear of "the most prolific goalscorer in the Premiership", "most clean sheets in the Premiership". Suddenly all previous statistics and data seems to have been airbrushed out of history. Stalin would be proud.

Anyway I arrive home and - shock of shocks - the FA are worried about falling attendencies and claims that the Premiership is a boring load of shite because nobody can, without Abramovich-like investment, compete with the top three, and the rest are that shit scared of the financial implications of relegation that their first priority is not to lose. Factor in the exorbitant prices paid for tickets and it's not hard to see where the problems are.

Next thing, I log onto City's website to discover that our game against Everton in a few weeks has been moved and we now can enjoy the experience of an 11:15AM kick off ON A SUNDAY MORNING!. WTF?

---

Oh no - what is going on with the world? Am I destined to spend the rest of my life watching the Great Religious War of the 21st century played out on my TV every night like I used to watch the Great Ideological War of the late 20th century in my youth. Everywhere I look it's fuckin' Sharia this and Holy that. Everywhere I look I see more and more belief in fuckin' fairy stories. I was shocked rigid a few weeks ago after spotting a local church having an extension built. It can now probably house 60 devout bigots smug in their heaven-here-I-come certanties, but a church that can hold 2,000??? In Britain??? In 2005???

Perhaps it's time for the rational among us to start becoming religious leaders of our own? I mean, you don't have to believe or owt like that, and it could be a nice little earner given the growth of the permanently bewildered over the past years.

Then again, perhaps not.

Ars Long Vita Brevis

I've been all cultural this past week.

From Bellini to Braque, from Canaletto to Chagall I've stood and pondered the nature of Art and Artists. I've wrestled with concepts as far removed as action painting and the Venetian school. I've contemplated the effect the coming of photography had on the essentially hitherto pictorial nature of painting and drawing. In short, I've been cerebral.

Dearest went shopping. An artistic statement in itself.

What I did discover as I perused the collections in Venice's Guggenheim and Gallerie dell'Accademia is that I much prefer modern art to the overblown canvasses of Tintoretto and co.

Matisse, Picasso, Klee, Ernst and the rest, I think you're great. Who'd a thunk it?

Venice though. What a place - and to think I wasn't really looking forward to going. Yeah it's expensive but not that expensive given the fact that everything has to be transported via barge from the mainland.

The glory of not encountering a car or any of them irritating scooters/mopeds that continentals take great delight in whizzin' about the place on was an added bonus.

You could walk everywhere but we often opted for the Vaporetto up and down the Grand Canal. Cheap and quick-ish, if a little noisy. The only thing I would berate the place for is the speed with which most restaraunts and bars close up of an evening. Pretty much dead after 10:00pm. Sort it Venice!

---

In other news there is no other news because I haven't seen a newspaper or heard a radio or TV all week. Until today that is.

I should be at Eastlands today watching the Blues and Bolton scrap it out but I'm full of a cold so Dearest has taken my place. So I log on to BBC's website for online comms and peruse photographs taken at the day's Premiership matches and who do I spot in the glorious sky blue shirt but Freddy Flintoff. Now I admired the man before but I can assure you he has just acquired God like status in my eyes. Shame about the smoking though - not much of a role model is it?

---

Incidentally I don't believe this for a moment. "Let me go to the house of my Father" indeed. I reckon he said something along the lines of ahh, shit, I'm finally kicking the bucket and deep down I know that it's all been a load of twaddle, but that twaddle kept me in house and home most of my adult life.

---

Saturday night. September and they're selling Christmas cards in the supermarkets.

September.

Your Move

Not content with his less-than-adequate reponse to the disaster unfolding in the Deep South, President Monkey Smirk now decides to lead his own investigation into his own federal agencies failures. You've got to admire a man with that much brass neck.

It's shame he didn't read this copy of The National Geographic from October 2004. It predicts and explains why the horror that has occured along the gulf coast happened. Surprisingly it doesn't blame a wrathful God intent on retribution as a result of Gay Festivals, Abortion and general hedonism, but 100% science. The study of the natural world and mankinds' effect upon it.

I've got a feeling there'll be more references to "Acts of God" than "Acts of the petro-chemical Industry" or "Inactivity of Congress".

We'll see.

I keep hearing this old Randy Newman song in my head.

What has happened down here is the wind have changed
Clouds roll in from the north and it started to rain
Rained real hard and rained for a real long time
Six feet of water in the streets of Evangeline

The river rose all day
The river rose all night
Some people got lost in the flood
Some people got away alright
The river have busted through cleard down to Plaquemines
Six feet of water in the streets of Evangelne

CHORUS

Louisiana, Louisiana
They're tryin' to wash us away
They're tryin' to wash us away
Louisiana, Louisiana
They're tryin' to wash us away
They're tryin' to wash us away

President Coolidge came down in a railroad train
With a little fat man with a note-pad in his hand
The President say, "Little fat man isn't it a shame what the river has
done
To this poor crackers land."

CHORUS

---

Dearest and I are off to Venice on Monday. Can't say spending five days in a sinking (and, I am led to believe, stinking) city is as attractive a proposition as it originally sounded given the events of the past week. It's going to cost an arm and leg too by all accounts. Everybody is giving us advice:

"For fuck's sake don't get a gondola, you won't be able to afford your plane fare home."

"Jesus. Venice? You better take your own food and one of those camping stoves to cook it on. Either that or don't eat for five days"

But the one that really broke my heart:-

"A complete week of sobriety will do you good, 'cos you won't be able to afford any drink."

Say it ain't so.

When The Levee Breaks

How long do you think it will be before the inquiry into the shambles that masqueraded as "relief" publishes its findings? How many of the culpable will still be in public office? How many will still be president?

I can understand the inabilty to grasp the seriousness of the situation. I can understand Bush making speeches about getting the oil pipeline back online, I find it a trait of all governments to keep the markets calm. I can understand the attempts to placate a voracious media baying for copy.

What I can't understand is how local as well as federal government allowed people to carry on losing their lives in the days follwing Katrina when they could, with very little effort, have done something about it.

That, for me, is sinister.

And that's all I'm going to say on the subject.

For now.

---

I've had to arse about with my template and republish everything in order to get everything looking like it used to do. I haven't got a clue what happened. One minute everything's OK, the next......

---

Whilst we were quaffing in the pub a couple of weeks ago, we started waxing nostalgic about our favourite "bog standard" British meals. In the end, after some truly inspiring speeches in favour of this dish or that, a consensus emerged.

Fried egg and chips with bread and butter and a steaming mug of tea was undoubtedly top of the pops. They had to be proper chips mind. Not chippy chips. Not frozen chips and certainly not fuckin' oven chips. No, they had to be proper chips made from freshly peeled spuds and chipped so they are chunky and ready for the waiting fat.

When a chip butty is made, the best butter should be dripping from the bread, greasing up fingers and thumbs.

The face should be wreathed in smiles.

The next thing I know, Dearest has extended an invitation for all and sundry to come round "for a British" on Saturday night.

I was secretly ecstatic. Dearest, in a fit of "healthy living" had retired our chip pan about 5 years ago. Many's the night I've forlornly dreamt of egg with proper chips as I was presented with yet another emaciated conconction devoid of character.

So, Saturday night out came the chip pan, round came the mates and we all tucked into one of the best meals we've had in years. We all agreed that familiarity breeds contempt and anywhere else in the world such a dish would revered for the truly representative indigenous cuisine that it is.

Certain diners finished off with tinned fruit salad topped with tinned Carnation cream for that authentic 1950s/1960s dining experience.

I've convinced Dearest that thick cut, deep fried chips are, on the whole, less full of fat than the thin bits of crap we are usually fed. So it looks like the chip pan stays for the time being.

Yay!

---

I love this latest advertisement for 3G.

I love this as well.

This Must Be the Place

That's me and the shit machine having a slight disagreement about whether she should carry on sniffing the tree trunk, or whether it was time to move on.

I won.

It's one of the few areas of my life where I do. Take the past few weeks for example. It's been one long series of defeats in the war of the sexes. When it comes to the killer punch, Dearest's is Tyson-esque whereas mine is, well, more on a par with Mr Muscle.

As I have previously mentioned, the house has been chock full of joiners, plasterers and decorators recently. Naturally each one of these merry artisans has asked us questions relating to choice of decor. On all of these occasions Dearest has insisted on my opinion - although "insisted" doesn't quite describe the near death experiences I went through each time my view was canvassed.

To emasculate my insipid ego further, each of my suggestions was laughingly dismissed with a heavily emphasised rolling of the eyes along with the smirk of contempt.

This total disregard of the man of the house was perfectly demonstrated last Friday afternoon when I returned home early to watch the cricket. No sooner had messrs Flintoff et al started cheering my weary soul than I heard banging and knocking from the rear of Occupied Towers. "What the f....." I naturally thought as I raced into the kitchen to see two blokes climbing a ladder onto the kitchen roof. "Oi!" I said.

Turns out the two blokes had been engaged by Dearest to repair our kitchen roof. She'd "forgotten" to tell me. Yeah. Right.

The very next morning (Saturday I might add) we had a carpet-fitter coming at 8:00am - the bastard. Dearest was up at 7:15ish and pottering about downstairs. At 7:35 I figured that if I wanted a crap, now was the time to do it.

We always sleep au naturel so I slip out of bed and into the toilet. Starkers.

So, there I am, doing what a man's gotta do, when I hear the unmistakeable sounds of Dearest letting the carpet fitter in. He's early. "Yes, up the stairs" I hear her say. Next thing I know I'm stuck in the bog - devoid of clothing - with a hairy-arsed son of toil right outside the door.

What do I do? My dressing gown is in our bedroom, but I have to cross the landing past the bedroom we're having carpeted to get there. Do I risk it? I sneak a look as I open the door slightly and see that he's put his huge toolbox right in front of the bog door. I'll not be risking that then. I open the door an inch and bellow "Dearest!". No reply. "DEAREST!". No reply. "DEAREST!!!!" "Yes?." "Could you come here a minute?"

---

A nice glass of red tonight as we watched the final episode of Messiah: The Harrowing. 20 minutes or so to go and the phone rings. It's Youngest's Darlin'. Youngest has gone to see the Pixies and she's at home, alone with her two greyhounds and a spider.

So - as I had had a glass more than Dearest, Dearest drove me down armed with my trusty pint pot and slim brochure to catch the offending article. 15 minutes later the job's done, Youngest's Darlin's shaking and sweating has subsided and we watch the final minutes of the three-parter.

Well, we found out who it was and why but not why the catalyst (the murderer's daughter committed suicide) occurred.

Baffled we drove home. Dearest parked the car and we got out. "What's that hissin' noise?" The rear nearside tyre. That's what.

Doh!

---

We lost a friend and relative this weekend. Unexpected but not a surprise - if you catch my drift. Ahh well. Peace at last. Peace at last.

Karine Polwart. Via the BBC. Enjoy.

---

Totally unrelated - Interview with Jimmy Webb.

The Very Best Of.......

Bugger me! That was hairy. I thought we were about to contrive the greatest defeat from the jaws of the greatest victory.

But, in the end, all was well. 2-1 up with one test to go. All we need is a draw and the Ashes are ours once more.

All that worries me is the return of Glen McGrath who - along with Shane Warne - could tear us apart.

*Rubs temples between thumb and forefinger and attempts to remember an Ashes series so close*

---

Am I the only poor sod in the UK having to turn up at work tomorrow?

Sure feels like it.

Call Any Vegetable.....

OK. Mea culpa. I booked time at work this afternoon but spent my time watching Messrs Flintoff, Pietersen and Jones (et al) stuffing the Aussies. Cleaning up the virus outbreak it says on my timesheet. However, after Wednesday's little outbreak of honesty from the management, sitting at home watching first England's magnificent batting and then, joy of joys, England's bowling annihalation (sp?) of the Australian top Bruces, felt like heaven.

As usual the pricks who've been sorting out the outsourcing of part of our operation, haven't been speaking to the "leverage" aspect of the organisation. Consequentlty, far from the simple compartments they expected everyone to be in, they have actually found that most all of us poor, deluded, twats who still work there have been leveraged that far and wide that the logistics of providing support for these "lesser" accounts has all the hallmarks of a cock-up of the highest order.

Ah well, fuck 'em, they are that bright they HAVE to wear shades - apparently. It's a tought life ain't it?

Hillbilly Highway

I've just imported Steve Earle's latest album into iTunes and it has automatically designated it "Progressive Country".

Progressive Country?

An oxymoron surely?

The pumps don't work 'cos the vandals took the handles

Hello everyone and a "special" hello to all you virus-writers out there. Twats.

The past five days have been spent patching God knows how many desktops and laptops after they became infected with Zotob, the latest in a long, long line of viruses created by pricks of the highest order intent on hurting Microsoft any way they can.

They should be skinned alive and covered in salt. That'll learn 'em.

---

When the proactive, challenge-hungry management team of ours realised that a major incident was unfolding, they ganged together and organised a conference call. You could feel the testosterone oozing from the phone as middle-manager attempted to outdo middle-manager with talk of a pre-co-ordinated, triage-led, client interface solution. I think it meant that we had to assess which areas of the business needed attending to first and then going out armed with patches, updated service packs and the rest to begin the tedious task of cleaning up.

"OK guys, it's 10:15, let's get on with the task in hand and we'll update via conference call at 12:00."

One and threequarter hours to downlad patches, burn CDs and drive to wherever we were directed. What would we be able to update on? In my case, at 12:00pm I was still circumnavigating the city of Manchester in a desperate attempt to dodge as many traffic jams as I could.

Then a voice of sanity cut through the bullshit:

"Why don't we just get on with the friggin' job instead of wasting time on conference calls?"

Silence.

"I said......."

"Yeah, OK, good point....good point. OK I'll take that on board and let you guys at the coalface get on with the task in hand. If you just make sure we have your mobile numbers we can co-ordinate this on the fly."

My mobile number eh? My PERSONAL mobile, for PERSONAL use. Bought by myself - and many others in my firm because the company has deemed it unnecessary for its engineers in the field to be given company mobiles. And this twat thinks I'm going to hand my number over to him? A guy who will think nothing of phoning me or anyone else at three in the morning to 'sort out a problem': and I pay for the privelege of listening to the socially challenged prick? It's not rocket science is it?

Fuck off.

---

Within seconds the email system is heaving and creaking under the weight of management directives being fired off right, left and centre. Emails full of sentences awash with business bollox-speak and kick-ass rampant nonsense. All geared to show just what a guy-worthy-of-promotion the sender is.

Meanwhile those of us actually doing the job quietly got on with it. Long hours spent doing a boring, repetitive job and being constantly interrupted by messages to phone this twat or that twat every hour or so.

So now the dust has settled and the back of the problem is broken. Our clients, once they realised the infection was not something unique to them, were, on the whole, understanding and accommodating. It was only when a proactive, challenge-centred, business-focussed dickhead got involved that there were hiccups. When will they ever learn?

Pretty much back to normal today. Just the usual shit - until we get told there is another conference call at 10:00am. Probably some lickspittle doing a roundup of the virus outbreak, we thought.

We were wrong. The call was to let us know that talks have been ongoing for "quite some time" with a hardware and software support company and at least 30% of us are to be outsourced before Christmas.

It's a fuckin' good job they didn't announce this last Wednesday, otherwise the proactive twats would've had the challenge of a lifetime getting us to put in the hours and the effort required to make them look good at their next appraisals.

---

In other news this week. I'm just SO relieved that Dubya has reiterated his stance on the War on Terror. Way to go George. Apparently the good ol' US of A are going to "stay, fight and win the war on terror". "Ich bich ein Baghdadi!" Try that George. It worked for JFK it might work for you. Mind you, I can't remember anyone attempting a "Ich bich ein Saigoner," and I've got a feeling that your current situation reminds me more of the latter than the former.

Still, good luck you lovable pretend hick you.

Via The Fat Buddha; Steve Earle.

---

We're having the hall, stairs and landing, along with a bedroom, completely redecorated at the moment - all due to a sneaky leak that did a lot of damage over a long period of time without Dearest and I realising. So this week we have experienced the slowest decorator in the World. He turns up early enough - the inconsiderate bastard - early enough for me to have to get up early and bog off to work to facilitate his on-the-job indolence. The man has more 'comfort breaks' than the terminally ill. Fags, brews, "fresh air"? Is there is no end to his needs? He never stays later than 4:00pm.

Today though, he turns up with a posse and an air of "I'm in charge". He was full of attitude. "You'll need a ladder for that Gary and be careful." "Tommy I think you'll find it easier to start at the top with a plough, hoe and trowel - or something." I was in a state of quiet awe until:

"Carry on lads I'm just going for a fag."

I came home at around 5:30. How four men can have progressed so little in an entire working day is beyond me. It must be harder to think of different ways to do fuck all than it is to do the job. I'm impressed.

---

Just been informed they need someone to drive to York to sort ut an infected laptop. Well, as the laughing policeman said:

"ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!"

You reap what you sow.

The Story of O

Well, here it is, the absence of O. The hole in my keyboard that is causing me pain, grief and more pain and grief. You have to bloody hammer it you see. Hammer it, just to ensure that it registers. In the normal course of a paragraph yu would probably hammer it a couple of hundred times.

Why couldn't it have been X or Q or Z?

---

And so to memes. Here's one based on birthdays. As if it could possibly be accurate. Ha ha ha ha.......

Your Birthdate: July 30

Your birthday on the 30th day of the month shows individual self-expression is necessary for your happiness. You tend to have a good way of expressing yourself with words, certainly in a manner that is clear and understandable. You have a good chance of success in fields requiring skill with words. You can be very dramatic in your presentation and you may be a good actor or a natural mimic. You have a vivid imagination that can assist you in becoming a good writer or story-teller. Strong in your opinions, you always tend to think you are on the right side of an issue. There may be a tendency to scatter your energies and have a lot of loose ends in your work. You may have significant artistic talent and be very creative.

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

Bugger me - it's spot on. I better rearrange all my strong opinions about astrology and the like, renounce my wife and family and become a mystical prick with a leery eye and a libido to match.

Not that I distrust the occult, religion and the used car trade and all the inadequates who choose a 'career' in these most base of professions.

Honest.

Bessie and I went to Bournemouth on Saturday, no one was drownded, so we went for a swim. We spent an hour cleaning oil off the seagulls.......I don't think we'll be going again

Well, another week has flown by in a flurry of this, that and the other. These posts are becoming tardy aren't they? Do you know why? Well I'll tell you: THAT MISSIN' 'O' KEY!!!

It's driving me mad - believe me. The joy I feel writing a sentence, like the last one, with no 'o's in it, is palpable. Deeply frabjous and joyful.

So I've been spending time with Doris, my Yamaha Classical, Nylon-Strung Guitar. Caressing and nuzzling up to it. Trying to play the bugger like Earl Klugh, Pat Metheny and Mark Knopfler play theirs. But not quite making it. Ah well.

---

This evening, after a particularly traumatic day - healthwise - for Dearest (again), we went for a meal pub lunch at a local country inn corporate load of bollocks crap masquerading as a pub/'restaurant' 'country inn experience'. Early doors we went - 6:30pm roughly; to discuss the events of the day and to bask in each other's company and support. In a pub.

And what did we experience? Skriking, yarling, snotty kids in conjunction with everybody's perfect match, the feckless, "fat-as-fuck-but-I've-not-had-a-double-burger-and-chips-etc-with-a-large-diet-coke -in-case-I-get-really-fat-for -a-day-at-least" parents. Sat at the next table, the table behind us, a couple of tables to the left - and generally dotted about the entire entirity of the entire friggin' place. Like Pot plants, but noisier. Running around like feral wildcats the kids were. Knocking over tables, drinks and pensioners wherever you looked. Wonderful.

So, after we had eaten the indolent fare presented, we buggered off and walked up to the next pub in the local, twee village of - well - let's call it Legohouses. Empty it was: the pub that is - bliss. A pint and whatever Dearest's latest drink-du-jour is and all is well. Nice chairs, decent-ish beer and peace. Bliss. After ten minutes though, a couple come and sit next to us. He lights up, which I don't have a problem with - it's a pub after all - but, like ALL smokers do, he holds his cigarette well away from his face when he's not actually smoking, and where does his smoke end up? Yeah, that's right, my face.

Now I'm one of those ex-smokers who is quite understanding of smoking etiquette in public places. I don't really mind. I had to put up with Dearest smoking in our house for 6 months AFTER I gave up. So I'm quite used to putting up with other people's smoke. However, regardless of the fact that I gave up a long time ago, and have got used to the fact that, in the past, most people in a pub smoked, I have found that that is no longer the case. Certainly where I live, in pubs, smokers are definitely in the minority. So why the fuck are breweries and all the rest still frightened of taking them on? Why do we still get the old 'freedom to do what the fuck you want and, apparently, bollocks to everyone else' argument still being trundled out?

For two years now I have been attending Manchester City's new ground which, while watching the match, is completely non-smoking. A football ground. A FOOTBALL GROUND. FFS! But not a pub? Tonight I was subjected to that much inconsiderate second hand smoke, we left the pub. It was intimidating. Why should the VAST MAJORITY of people who inhabit pubs on a regular basis be held to ransom by inconsiderate arseholes who couldn't give a fuck about anyone but themselves? And I do mean vast majority. I don't know what it's like in the pubs you go in, but the ones I do - even the 'rough ones in Manchester' - always seem to have more non-smokers.

Or is it just me? I don't think so.

Smoke by all means. Smoke in pubs if you want. But hold the fuckin' cigarette in your own (or a close relative's) face when it's not actually between your lips.

I made the hard decision to go through the cold turkey and I know how hard it is, but, FFS, I've done it once and I don't want to do it again.

---

To rub my smoke-riddled face in it when I got home, I watched a truly uninspired Manchester United knock a less-than-expected-no-matter-what-the-tossers-on-the-tv-tell-you,-3-against-the- lowly-opposition's-0. I felt as sad as a sad thing on St Sad's day - the year it fell on a Monday.

Still, there's always the next round.

Time is Tight

Look what I got for my birthday. Fat Buddha was raving about this amazing iPod accessory a few weeks ago. If I remember rightly his was the victim of a red wine, dog calamity that ended in a wine soaked iStation.

The sound, for such a small item is absolutely brill. The design is classic. The whole thing folds to the size of a paperback (albeit a hefty Picador, unabridged biography of someone who lived for fuckin' ages), for packing in your bag when you jet off here, there and everywhere. All in all, a bloody masterpiece. It's all set up and blasting out in my Eyrie as I write. Sadly my Audioscrobbler won't update off it so that might look a bit static. I'll leave it there as snapshot of my musical journey in the early 21st century.

---

A few weeks ago I had a small accident which resulted in the loss of the 'o' key on my acquired laptop. This is becoming increasingly annoying. I can live with it but it's still annoying. I can't take it in work to get it fixed though because everyone will suddenly remember that I 'borrowed' it to arse about on the internet work from home about 6 months ago.

So, if you read the odd post without 'o's in it, just bear with me. I try to catch as many as possible, but some will always slip thrugh the net - like that one just did.

Show Me The Way To Amarillo B and Q

The phone rings.

"Hiya", it's Dearest, "I've had a small bump at B and Q, I'm alright but the passenger door is all crumpled in".

"Are you sure you're OK?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It was two Asian lads they've offered to pay for the damage".

My heart sank. Offering to pay for the damage up front? I'd say they were uninsured without a shadow of a doubt. More was to come.

"They say they only bought the car this morning and when I asked them to exchange details they said they didn't have their insurance details and, wait for it, they can't remember where they live. I've phoned the police".

"Are they still there?" I asked, fearing the worst.

"Yeah, that's the odd thing, they're sat here calmly waiting for the police to arrive".

Now that's strange. It's obvious that something's wrong here yet they're happy to wait for the police. These are strange times we live in and strange behaviour like this sets the imagination running wild. Had dearest just had a minor accident with an Al Qaeda cell? Were they wired? Had they decided that a member of the police force, when he arrived, would make a fitting victim - along with Dearest and a few DIYers as they embraced eternity and their promised virgins?

I shot off up to the store and when I arrived another acquaintance of theirs had arrived. Older and agitated he was constantly chunnering in his native tongue to the other two. It had been an hour and a half and still no police. I phoned them back.

Turns out they had attended a completely different B & Q and assumed everyone had fucked off home out of sheer boredom. No doubt another successful crime "solved" for the statistics. The control desk re-opened the call and an hour later a copper appears and immediately gives us the "Customer Care Course"-inspired apology for the mix up with such precision we all got the distinct impression it was a speech he had given many times before.

Eventually the copper gets the driver of the other car into the back of his police car and questions him vigourously. After 20 minutes he emerges to tell us that he is now under arrest on account of giving false names and false addresses.

While the questioning had been going on, Dearest tells me that just before I arrived one of the guilty party went into B&Q returning with a woman who swore blind she saw it all and Dearest was at fault. She claimed she didn't know the lads but she had asked them directions to B&Q earlier and they had been kind enough to show her the way and that's why they were there.

So, they can't remember where they live but they do know the way to B&Q? Also, they meet a woman for the first time ever and then an hour later are able to walk into a crowded store and recognise her within minutes?

Bizarre.

I kept coming back to the "why didn't they drive off" scenario. They stopped when the accident occurred, they gave explanations (however implausible) as to why they couldn't provide details. The car wasn't stolen (we found out later) so the bloke who owned it could've said he'd been driving. If he was insured the police wouldn't have bothered setting up a identity parade for such a minor misdemeanour surely.

Bizarre.

Later, the copper phoned us. The lad had never been in trouble before and had lied simply because he wasn't insured. He's up before the beak on Wednesday morning.

Meanwhile I have to fork out excess and lose my no claims.

Bollocks.

"Could've been worse though," said a bloke in the pub later.

"How?", I replied, "How could it have been worse?"

"Well, any one of them could've exploded at any minute".

---

And then it did get worse. City are signing Darius Vassell.

Hmmmmm...Sweet Nothings....

Overheard taking Tess the shit machine for her late evening crap walk. A young couple 5 yards apart as they staggered home, him mumbling, her answering back like this:-

"....Because you've asked me the same fuckin' question four fuckin' times for fuck's sake. You're a boring fucker you fuckin'.....fuckin'......fuckin' arsin' fuckin' WHELK!"

Whelk?

Laugh? I nearly died.

She probably wants to be "famous" as a continuity announcer on TV one day. Mind you, who knows, one day she probably will.

---

Bombs, panic, death, alerts, all-clears, controlled explosions, traffic chaos, closed tube stations, news crews on every street corner intent on that definitive vox-pop, that "tear-in-the-eye", that "catch-in-the-throat": "that could've-been-me" moment.

Long weekend in London anyone? Paris maybe? Madrid? Anywhere? I don't think so do you?

I mean, I'm all for "business as usual", "stiff upper lip" etc., but a nice break in the Yorkshire Dales just might be the ticket for me.

---

Remind me to tell you what complete and utter pricks Parceline are.

Money Talks....

Well, so long Shaun Wright-Philips. Friday evening he apparently wanted to stay at the club that nurtured and believed in him when other clubs didn't. Within 24 hours he had acquired a Rio Ferdinand-esque "stomach bug" which meant he couldn't play in Saturday's friendly. On the way home from the ground he phones the Chairman and asks for permission to speak to Chelsea and, presumably, lets the media know at the same time, and loads the negotiation in Chelsea's favour.

Immediately the press are on to it and we treated to tired copy all along the lines of 'debt-ridden Man City', 'financially crippled Man City' and 'cash strapped Man City' We have £60m managed debt (y'know like a mortgage) and, because of this we have no option but to sell according to the nation's sporting press. well if that's the case, where the fuck does that leave Man United? Nearly £500m debt and not making enough annual profit to service the interest payments on Malcolm's dodgy loans. They'd have to sell their team twice over.

And now we are being told that Shaun couldn't resist because Chelsea are such a big club! Are they bollocks. They're a fuckin' rich club no doubt about it but big? I don't think so. It'll be interesting to see what happens to Chelsea when Abromovich gets bored, imprisoned or 'taken out' by some shady Russian mafia type.

So, off goes SWP as expected and it looks like a certain Mr A Cole (Andrew not Ashley) will soon be arriving. Fowler and Cole. The best strike force in the Premiership. 10 years ago.

I need hard liquor, TLC and a copious amount of anti-depressants.

Walls and Bridges

This is significant news. British. Born here, Raised here, Schooled here, and then, warped here. How can you hate that much? How can you spray murder so randomly? So indiscriminately? How can you sit next to your intended prey trying to guess who would survive?

Furthermore, Why can you hate that much? Why can you spray murder so randomly? So indiscriminately? Why can you sit next to your intended prey trying to guess who would survive?

Why, why, why? You were born here FFS! What medievil twat filled you with that much hatred? Was it moral outrage? Bare female arms at the height of summer? Rowdy young men quaffing ale outside the pubs of England? Was it the very notion of democracy that offended you? A deep yearning for the proud civilsations of the Tigris, Euphrates, Ganges and the rest to return to some kind of perverted ascendancy? What was it? What made you think that setting that timer, triggering the carnage with a mobile phone or whatever; what made you think it was THE RIGHT THING TO DO?

'Cos, for the life of me I don't get it. I really don't.

You know, there are many, many things we all have to endure in this veil of tears. Twats with bombs for example, we've been doing it in the UK for quite a few years now you know. Perhaps you never noticed back in the 70s, 80s and 90s because you were too busy watching Blue Peter, Swapshop and Bagpuss? But then of course puberty probably kicked in and all those confused messages that the rest of the world's youth has to deal coursed through your brain and you took solace in an old bloke with a beard who spoke of constant absolutes, infidels and, crucially, nirvana.

Them there "legitimate" virgins waiting for "true martyrs" must sound pretty impressive when you're reduced to beating your genitalia with sledgehammers in order to dispel impure thoughts and - horror of horrors - impure deeds.

I mean, although I've never read his book, I can only imagine Allah must be pretty straightforward about such things.

Have a wank and go to hell. Plant a bomb on a crowded bus and "enjoy" your virgins for eternity.

It's a funny old world.

**The picture is of Phillip Russell, 29. Phillip died in Tavistock Square on the back of a London bus.

---

I acquired an external USB 2.0 Hard Disk from Amazon today. A great bargain at £99 for 250 Gbs (yes 250Gbs). So now my iPod, photographs and God knows what else are backed up and iTunes is able to play direct from the new disk as well.

The first PC I used at work way back when was an IBM PS2/50 (I think). It had 1Mb of RAM (massive), and.....wait for it.....an incredibly huge 10Mb hard disk.

"You'll never fill that" said some knowledgable IT type.

Think I'll Pack it in and Buy a Pick Up...

It's 10:45pm, Sunday 10th July and I'm currently sat on my patio listening to Neil Young on th'iPod, sucking on a can of Oranjeboom, and becoming increasingly aware of a local barby getting more boisterous by the second whilst breathing in the evening summer fragrancies. Oh to be in England.....

It turns out that a lad from our part of the world is missing after travelling down to that there London and catching the wrong tube train at the wrong time on the wrong day. I guess there is a slight chance that he is comatose in some hospital somewhere, but something tells me he's part of the profoundly diverse human soup underneath the streets of London.

Looks like 70 went the way of all flesh on Thursday: Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Jew Agnostic and Atheist - all blasted to Kingdom come - which, I guess, is precisely where the warped twats who perpetrated this atrocity are hoping to end up once they reach terrorist retirement age.

White folk in the pubs round here are once again claiming that "mates of mates" heard Pakistanis and Bangladeshis cheering in North Manchester as news of this latest disgrace fitered through. Exactly the same rumours were expoused by the same people after 9/11. I don't think so. Do you? Why would any human being cheer this type of action?

Let's not fall for the "they're all as bad as each other" argument for pity's sake, because "they" ain't. Full stop.

---

Yesterday was a barbecue at Eldest's as we watched the local cricket team win their third game on the trot to drag themselves off the bottom of the table. A lovely day - although I did drink a teensy-weensy bit too much. Hard to believe I know but there you go.

It was "flag day". Eldest and a few of his mates have clubbed together to but a massive St George's flag with "MACEDONIA ULTRAS" on it. Macedonia being the name of the cricket team and ulatras being the fanatical (Fascist) supporters of Italian teams like Lazio.

Except the flag maker spelt it wrong and Macedonia ended up as Macidonia. We argued it was the Mancunian pronunciation and before the next match we'll finish off properly and rewrite it as: "MACIDONIOH!".

Sorted. Nice one.

My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama

In the name of God, the merciful, the compassionate, may peace be upon the cheerful one and undaunted fighter, Prophet Muhammad, God's peace be upon him.

Nation of Islam and Arab nation: Rejoice for it is time to take revenge against the British Zionist Crusader government in retaliation for the massacres Britain is committing in Iraq and Afghanistan. The heroic mujahideen have carried out a blessed raid in London. Britain is now burning with fear, terror and panic in its northern, southern, eastern, and western quarters.

We have repeatedly warned the British Government and people. We have fulfilled our promise and carried out our blessed military raid in Britain after our mujahideen exerted strenuous efforts over a long period of time to ensure the success of the raid.

We continue to warn the governments of Denmark and Italy and all the Crusader governments that they will be punished in the same way if they do not withdraw their troops from Iraq and Afghanistan. He who warns is excused.

God says: "You who believe: If ye will aid (the cause of) Allah, He will aid you, and plant your feet firmly."



Twats.

And, incidentally, we are NOT "burning with fear, terror and panic" anywhere you cowardly bastards.