Money (That's What I Want)

So, I guess you just watch and wait. After working out where the vulnerable live that is. Sheltered Housing must always be a draw I reckon. A bit like a herd of Wilderbeest providing food for the lions and cheetahs of this world.

At some point you see someone leave one of the flats or houses. You pay attention. Did he/she actually lock that door before shuffling off to the shop for an evening paper? No, I don’t think she did. Does that mean she’s just forgetful or is there someone still inside? Do you give a fuck? No, not really, she looks mid seventies so whoever’s inside (unless it’s a son or grandson) must be slightly older and, let’s face it, a pushover. So, over the road you nip and try the door. It opens.

You stand in the hallway listening and casing. A bedroom door on your immediate right – worth a punt. Another door on the right with a TV blaring from the other side of it – unless things get desperate you’ll give that a miss. So, into the bedroom and bingo. A handbag containing a lot of money, a mobile phone and debit cards. On the bedside cabinet: jewellery of both sentimental and monetary value. Result.

Out of the bedroom and into a room on the left – fuck! A bathroom. There’ll be sod all in here and just as you turn to exit, the woman who left earlier returns and you’re trapped. As she walks past the slightly open bathroom door, she spots the tips of your fingers trying to keep it as closed as possible. You’re rumbled – but no matter, you’ve done this many times before because you’re addicted to hard drugs or just a complete and absolute amoral twat – or both.

“Sorry to startle you missus, I did knock – there’s been a burst water pipe and I was just looking for the stop tap”

“Oh, OK luv – I’ll just get me husband – he’ll know where it is”

So the old guy whose been sat watching UKTV History while you – you fuckin’ wastrel - have been rifling his possessions slowly raises himself from his chair and shuffles into the bathroom.

“Oh I’m sorry mate”, you say full of mock-sincerity, “I didn’t know you were a bit doddery on your legs, I tell yer what, I’ll just nip down the road and get me van”.

And my Mother and Father say “Oh Ok thank you”.

And then you’re off, like the wind, until you’re out of sight and able to check the handbag. Oh yes! £500 in one pocket and a purse with over £100 in another.

Then what? What actually happens in your head after the rush of the ‘chase’ has gone and the realisation of what you have just done takes over (if it ever does)?

‘Cos I know what happens to the poor defenceless, decent salt of the Earth folk you leave behind. The despair, the anxiety; the guilt, believe it or not. But I shouldn’t think that anything other than the excitement of spending your ill-gotten gains even enters your head does it?

But if I – or my children - ever find out who you are, you will wish you had never lived. That is my promise. Let’s see how you take to being fed through a straw for the rest of your worthless life.

Hope you had a good Christmas everyone and all the best for the New Year.

Said I've been workin'...to 11 every night...kinda makes my life a drag.....

Ah well, back to work tomorrow. Just had a long weekend and spent it mostly thrutching around the house with a very bad back. Bugger! The only thing that helps is a combination of alcohol and Ibrufen.

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Saturday evening saw us all celebrating Dearest's semi-retirement with a black tie do at ours. As the evening progressed and the drink disappeared at a rate of knots, the instruments were extracted from my eyrie and an impromptu blues jam started up in the kitchen. Bliss.

6:00am I got to bed before pitching up for the usual Sunday club shenanigans at t'Willer.

So, apart from my Dad ending up in hospital again, as great a weekend as I could possibly hope for these days.



Just thought I would finish off with a snap from back when the sun shone and the the trees were green and luscious. Enjoy.

It's The End Of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

United BOTTOM of their group and out of Europe. Weepin' Southerners phoning Radio 5. Keane, Vodafone and now Europe - all gone. Could it get any better?

Well, yes. Yes it can. Carol's Mum's in hospital, I can hardly breathe with the excitement an' everything. Suddenly the World looks brighter and the thoughts of digging out my grave-dancing shoes for that amoral ice-queen fills me with joy. I'll be jigging and jiving in memory of a lot of late compatriots come the day. Sadly, I think the heartless bitch may just carry on a little longer.

And for anyone who may take offence at that - well all I can say is you didn't see entire communities sacrificed on the alter of rampant capitalism (at least when it suited. Government intervention was certainly the order of the day if there was a chance of some fuckin' corporation losing a penny or two). Add to that the juxtaposition of the ostentatious display of wealth and the Tory-Boy sneering at anyone less fortunate than themselves, (believe me, Loadsamoney DID exist: greed is good and all that shite), and you have all the ingredients of unconditional hatred for the coiffeured cow who made it all possible.

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Incidentally, thanks for the - mostly - kind words regarding my musical efforts. Who knows, after that I just maight post some more.

I Can Hear Music

When I bust my left foot way back in March, I found myself sat in my eyrie fiddling with my instruments (oooh matron). I started arsing around with a "bagpipe" type of melody I concocted whist walking around in the Scottish rain a few years back.

I called it "In Scottish Rain" because I'm literal like that and here it is for your delectation.

In Scottish Rain.

Recorded via a Yamaha MD4S Minidisk Recorder (used as a mixer) direct to N-Track on my laptop. Sonic Foundry's Acid Music was used to add drums and to facilitate some of the key changes. Finally Soundforge was used for the final mix.

I tried to be a bit Mike Oldfieldy with this. That's why there's harmonised bagpipe-type guitars. Personally I think it needs a bit of bass boost or - a proper bassline adding. I tried to rely on the synth samples to provide the bottom end but, on reflection perhaps more oomph is needed.

All opinions, good, bad or indifferent welcome.

Cinema Show

I've just come across a free website where you can store video a bit like Flickr. Youtube it's called for some reason. It's handy for those of you with digital cameras that also have a video facilty although it does compress the file somewhat. Online storage - it's the way forward.

Anyway, here's a video of a typical Saturday at Eastlands featuring such gems as the walk from the car, the walk up the spirals of the stadium, one of the most boring matches ever, followed by the walk back in the dark. Rivetting stuff that I predict will be up for a Palme D'Or at Cannes next year.

Honest.

In my Liverpool Home

Football clubs across Britain staged their tributes on Saturday to the late George Best, who passed away aged 59.

Manchester United and Northern Ireland legend Best died in a London hospital on Friday after weeks of ill health.

The Premier League asked referees to conduct a minute's silence before all games this weekend, including United's trip to West Ham on Sunday.

But a minority of Liverpool and Leeds fans failed to observe the silence and the tribute had to be cut short.

At the City of Manchester Stadium in the game between Liverpool and Manchester City both sets of fans applauded as Best's name was read out.

But some fans of United's bitter rivals Liverpool disturbed the minute's silence, which did not last the full 60 seconds.

Referee Alan Wiley followed Premier League instruction in cutting the silence down to barely 20 seconds once it became obvious a minority of the visiting supporters were not going to respect it.

The conduct of some of their fans earned jeers from the City fans and their manager Rafael Benitez admitted it was disappointing.

"It is a pity," said Benitez. "It was only a few people and most of them did applaud but it is a pity, you can't say anything else."

City boss Stuart Pearce added: "I have no idea which group of supporters it was but the vast majority paid tribute to a legend of the game who gave a lot of pleasure to a lot of people and that is the important thing.

George Best's imprint on our national game will never fade Football Association chief executive Brian Barwick:

"You have to look at the positives rather than dwell of the actions of a handful of people in a crowd of 47,000."

It was a similar scene at Millwall's New Den where a section of the Leeds fans also led to the tribute being cut short.

I was there and I heard and I saw. A man has died for Christ's sake. Regardless of his allegience and/or the club he played for, are football fans not able to see through the nonsense of club loyalty? Players play here and then play elsewhere. It's bigger than football. Manchester CITY fans applauded the man and tried to observe a minute's silence for a superb footballer and, I have to admit, I thought it would be the City fans that would cause the problems today (only a few nutters though).

Unfortunately some probably (or hopefully) pissed up brain-deads thought it was the perfect opportunity to make their voices heard. I used to quite like Liverpool, but after today I am very, very disappointed.

Great support for your team today but, seriously, no class whatsoever. No class at all.

I watched George Best many times in the late 60s early 70s and, although it breaks my heart to say it, he was a complete footballer. It's a man's life and it's been reduced to the pathetic tribalism of football supporting.

Most of those arseholes booing George Best today have never seen him play - and that's what annoys me more than anything. Wankers. Brain dead.

That "minute's silence" lasted 20 seconds.

A shame.

I Wanna Be Adored

I have been subjected to more than my fair share of fucking whooping and hollering on TV shows recently. Whenever a Z list celeb appears, somebody does something for charidee or a Z list celeb leaves the stage, we hear this cacophony of screaming that makes you fear for the audience's sanity.

When the cameras pan across the same audience though, you NEVER see any of 'em whooping, screaming, hollering or even vomiting. General applause I think it can be classed as. Nothing more, nothing less. Not quite a very British applause, but not far off. The Americanisation of popular entertainment response has put an end to the days of a very British applause. RIP.

So, where does it come from? The whooping etc? Well it's obviously piped isn't it? But why? Who needs it? I'd like to think the artistes would be pissed off if they heard artificial enhancements to the audience response after their efforts. But what do I know?

Not the at home audience surely - they don't need whipping into a frenzy because Will Young has just finished miming to his latest hit single, Ian Hislop has just walked down Parkie's staircase or Beryl and her friend Janine from Hitchen have won an all-inclusive break in the Maldives courtesy of some perma-tanned day-time chat show host - surely?

So that just leaves the studio audience. Y'know that section of society that sends off for tickets to see such events as The Eammon Holmes Half Hour, Brucie's Big Night Out or The Les Dennis Show. They are not being enthusiastic enough and that's why squeaky-bummed producers are resorting to canned whooping.

Well, here's a message you wankers. Sort it and sort it now. The next time you're surrounded by similarly dressed and coiffered 'borgs with inane grins, let's have a little more effort when it comes to slapping the palms of your hands together. Perhaps a cry of "Bravo" or "Encore" wouldn't go amiss. Anything to let the object of your obvious attentions know that they have touched something deep in the very core of your soul.

'Cos if you don't start doing it now, then sooner or later all those trainee pricks who watch shows on the TV like The Eammon Holmes Half Hour, Brucie's Big Night Out or The Les Dennis Show, will start acquiring tickets to watch the recording of shows like The Eammon Holmes Half Hour, Brucie's Big Night Out or The Les Dennis Show and think whooping and hollering is the norm.

So let's put a stop to it now before, like binge-drinking, suduko and Avian Flu, it overwhelms us.

Don't you dare whoop though.

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Roy Keane. Ha ha ha ha ha ha!

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Dearest took the dog out the other evening. A lovely crisp winter's night. Clear sky overflowing with stars and the moon as full as a harvest fruitbasket hanging low over the chimneys and trees. It had that ring that swathes it on nights like these. Glowing away like a halo.

The dog spotted it and shit herself (probably literally). She is officially scared of the moon. The past few nights have been a fucking nightmare I can assure you. Tess doesn't grasp the metaphysical you see. It's a fuckin' mystery to her as much as it was to Stone Age man just what that big, bright orb in the sky is.

A few thousand years later though and Stone Age man's descendants have played golf on the moon.

Tess's species were shittin' 'em then and are shittin' 'em still.

I guess that's just the way God wanted it to be.

Caught a bit of I'm a Celebrity.... before. David Dickinson's got bigger tits that Jilly Goulden. Fact.

When you Wish upon a Star

Wahey. That didn't take long did it? Subtle hint dropped to Dearest ("I want a lava lamp"), followed by Dearest calling me infantile. Later, in the pub, she attempts to ridicule my lava-ish longings in front of her girly mates. This results in one of the mates saying they have a lamp they have no further need for - having grown up presumably. Well, in my book growing old is mandatory but growing up is optional. I snapped her hand off.

The colour's faded in the liquid but I'm sure I can sort that in the near future, although it looks ok as it is. In the meantime it's warming me cockles up in my refuge from the road. Dearest's just saved herself £50 an' all. I mean, I didn't want a cheapo.

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My initial love affair with the Arrow digital radio station is beginning to fade. Why? Well, I'll tell yer.

Repeats that's what. Repeats.

I've been listening fairly regulrly for a week and I'm starting to tire of Brown Eyed Girl by Van I'm-a-fucking-intellectual-therefore-constantly-fucking-grumpy Morrison, Eric the-victim Clapton and CS friggin' N. Now don't get me wrong, I am not condemning this triumvirate's entire ouvre as shite - far from it. What is so depressing though is that Rock stations, like any other I guess, fall back on predictable playlisting in order to give the greatest happiness to the greatest number. So with Van - it's always ol' Brown Eyes, with Clappo: Layla and CSN: Ohio or Suite:Judy Blue Eyes. C'mon for fuck's sake, their respective catalogues hold so many many more treasures. Be brave. The audience you're attracting must be well capable of handling a little something off the beaten track.

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Every month a copy of Word falls through my letterbox and a mighty fine read it is too. On their website they have a feature where readers set their iPods, iRivers, or whatever MP3 devices they have to hand, and set them to shuffle. They then have to post the first five tracks that are played.

Obviously it doesn't have to be portable devices, it can be whatever turns up on iTunes, Musicmatch, Winamp or owt else that can be set to random, shuffle or whatever. So, here's mine. How about you?

Road to Hell - Chris Rea. Unfashionable I know but, there you go, we all have guilty pleasures.

Eye to Eye - Audience. Obscure band from the early seventies. Probably the weakest track from their excellent album "The House on the Hill".

Lakes of Ponchartrain - Paul Brady. A favourite from my folk club days. I have been known to perform it, but I have to hold my hands up and confess others did it better.

Va Va Voom - Va Va Voom. This is off a jazzy compilation album. Didn't know I had it and have made a mental note to delete it as it's taking up valuable space.

Woman - John Lennon. You know, of all the Lennon tracks on my iPod, tracks with street cred and artistry, I have to end up with this maudlin affair. C'est la vie.

Over to you and no cheating.

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Is anybody having problems with pop-ups when accessing this blog?

I was looking at the Big Sky

Kate Bush. What a gorgeous new album. Especially the second disk. Idiosyncratic as ever (birdsong imitations anyone?), but a real grower.

There's a Sharp factory near us. Attached to it is a factory shop where they sell discontinued stuff and stuff with dodgy packaging at very cheap prices. About 18 months ago Eldest bought himself a DAB radio for £120. We all agreed it was a good price as up to that point they were usually about two hundred quid. Then last Christmas Dearest and I spot the same model in the Sharp shop for £70. Bargain - we snapped it up. A few weeks ago, my mother and father required a new stereo so the Sharp shop was the place to go. What do I see when I get there? The same radio for £35. I got one for the parents and now they sit there marvelling at the way it says "hello" and "goodbye" when they turn it on and off and lapping up the Saga station.

It did occur to me at the time to buy another one for my room but I figured I had enough distractions in there as it was. However every now and then the idea kept leaping, unbidden, into my mind. So, yesterday, I decide to go and get one and it's a good job I did because I got the last one in the place - result.

It's a good job they stopped sponsoring United or I wouldn't have been able to buy any of it. So now I'm sat typing this and listening to the great rock sounds of The Arrow as recommended by the Fat Buddha

I still need one more distraction for my room however and I've decided on a lava lamp. I'll start dropping hints seeing as it's nearly Jesus' birthday. You know, when we were kids in the mid-sixties we would walk for a couple of miles to see lava lamps in a shop window they were that bizarre for the time.

And when the corner shop got a new bacon-slicer the queue stretched for miles.

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Nowt much happening around here at the mo' as you can tell. Nice to see God's second best friend get defeated over the 90 day detention stuff. The beginning of the end I feel and about time. I must admit I can't get that worked up about politics anymore, I couldn't give a shit who leads the Tory party or what type of underwear they favour. The shenanigans in the Labour party leave me cold whereas at one point in my life I would have been transfixed.

The best thing this week was watching Wallace and Gromit and the Curse of the Were-Rabbit. It's frighteningly good with some laugh out loud scenes as well as all the usual tit-bits in the background for the observant.

I can't see it playing well in America though.

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I just nipped out to acquire some ale for this evening's probable Sven-inspired bore-a-thon against Argentina. I nearly didn't come back on account of a chav, mobile stuck to ear, rounding a bend on the opposite side of the road.

Skin 'em alive and dip 'em in brine. That'll learn 'em.

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For all of you who attempted to kill music via home taping back in the 70s, 80s and 90s, see if you can find your favourite brand here.

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Dearest has just arrived home from an all-dayer at Cheshire Oaks - it's 3:45pm. She went there at 9:00am to buy a dress. She didn't get one. The place is massive and chock-full of every dress shop you could possibly imagine. Six hours and she couldn't find a dress. Six hours and all she has bought are two pairs of pyjamas (Xmas presents for some apparently pyjama-less acquaintencies or family members).

Christ I'm glad I'm a bloke.

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**UPDATE** Well that was not a bore-a-thon but a cracking game of football played in the right spirit and ending with the right result.

Crying

There they were in their finery. Old suits and blazers bedecked with campaign medals from here, there and everywhere. Berets. Badges. Grey hair, grey skin, wrinkles, aches, pains, pins and poppies.

They called me "young sir" like some surreal, aged Fast Show protagonists. One of them - tall as a tree - bent and personally attached the poppy to my lapel. They thanked me profusely for my meagre offering. They thanked everyone, no matter how small the donation.

I couldn't help think of my Grandad who, in his later years, was helped by the British Legion and the Dunkirk Veteran's Association. The next thing I've got big bobbers brimming and I fear I'm going to urst into tears. I walk off into the horror that is a shopping centre awaiting the arrival of Father fuckin' Christmas and contemplate what I may have been walking into, but for an accident of birth, all those years ago.

Thank you for your sacrifices on our behalf.

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It's funny y'know, but on my side of the family I can't remember anybody living past eighty. In a lot of cases the poor buggers never made it to seventy and in some cases sixty was a far off dream. Take my dad for example. Seventy six and practically housebound. Bladder problems. Mini strokes and prostate problems. Would he want to live untill eighty in his present condition? No of course he wouldn't. Trouble is he dreams of "getting right again". He thinks he'll be tripping the light fantastic again sometime soon. He just needs a little "tweak" to the old waterworks and all will be fine.

Today at the poppy stall, octogenarians ruled the roost. Straight-backed and healthy in their own way, they accomplished tasks my Dad has been incapable of for two or three years now. It's a lottery health. Sure I know there are lifestyle choices you can adopt that prolong vitality but, by the same token, you can drink 'n' smoke 'n' romp 'n' cuss and live to a ripe old age.

It's a lottery I tell yer - a lottery.

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Thursday night saw myself, Eldest and Youngest down at my Mam and Dad's moving furniture out of their bedroom in readiness for the decorator who was arriving "first thing Friday morning". The temprature must've been 110 and lifting heavy weights was a damp experience, believe me.

Two TVs they've got in their bedroom: two.

"Why have you got two teles in your bedroom?" We enquired. We were told that one had a good picture and the other had a good sound. My Mam was quite happy to ditch one, but not my Dad.

I reckon he can't bear to part with anything from his past.

It's not a recent phenomonon though. Shifting stuff from one room to another revealed much useless detrius. From ancient reel-to-reel tape recorders (with no tapes) to stacks of LPs with no record player.

We emptied drawers in an effort to make the job easier. In the bottom of one set we discovered newspaper lining - it's one of those things that folk used to do, line drawers with newspaper.

"They look old", I thought.

Further investigation revealed broadsheet copies of the Manchester Evening News from 1967! Nineteen! Sixty! Seven! I was thirteen the last time they changed the lining in those drawers. They've moved twice since then. However, as my Mother said: "well, they didn't need changing".

There was a story about Manchester's proposed "Skyway" in one of the papers. That Skyway became the Mancunian Way, a monstrous, concrete, ribbon of crap that scars the Mancunian landscape on a par with the Luftwaffe's attempts a couple of decades earlier.

Manchester City had just embarked on a season that would eventually yeild the First Division Championship (for all post-Murdoch football fans, that's the same as the Premiership), so you can tell it was a long, long time ago.

Anyway, after a few hours, we had the bedroom emptied and ready.

Did the decorator turn up though?

Did he bollocks.

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Sat here now, typing this with what sound like bombs going off right, left and centre. The dog's going wild and City lost today.

Time to shorten my life with an alcoholic lifestyle choice I feel.

Lost in France

Back in the days when my Dad was still active, Dearest and I, along with Eldest and Youngest, accompanied him and my Mam on a fortnight’s holiday in a Gite near Coutance in Normandy. We took two cars, Mam and Dad following Dearest and myself on the long trip down to Portsmouth, onto the ferry and then the 100 or so miles to our destination. A good time was had by all with all the usual Frenchified shenanigans being experienced: good, cheap wines, excellent food and surly Frenchmen. My father didn’t help of course, his absolute refusal to use one word of French certainly did nothing to improve the already well-established Gallic hatred of “les Anglaise”.

There was one guy though – a near neighbour – who was helpful, friendly and courteous. He must’ve been in his late 70s and he probably thought he’d seen and heard all the world could throw at him until that fateful night when two crazy English women appeared at his farmhouse door, miles from anywhere, miming the unmistakeable routine of giving someone a blowjob.

It all started sometime during the second week of the holiday. All six of us had been to Caen and as we were getting in our cars my Dad said he would probably be needing petrol soon. There was a petrol station not far from the Gite, he said he’d fill up there.

I slowed down outside the petrol station – little more than a village shop really, with a few pumps. I watched as an old woman shuffled out to my father, before setting off home.

After half an hour or so Mam and Dad still haven’t appeared. It’s only a five minute drive to the petrol station. Something was wrong.

Sure enough five minutes later my Mother turns up on foot in tears.

“The car’s broke down, your Dad thinks the Frenchwoman’s filled it with diesel.”

Now I know there’s a certain leftover animosity between the English and French and a history of fisticuffs from Agincourt to Napoleon, but filling a hapless tourist’s automobile with the wrong fuel smacks of taking things a tad too far.

We all toddled off to push the dadmoblile home.

Further interrogation of my father (after he’d stopped cursing the entire French race), revealed that he’s pulled up at a pump clearly marked “Gazole” and said “fill her up”. Hmmmmmmmm.

Anyway, the recriminations would have to wait. The important thing was to get the offending crap out of the car. But how? After an hour or so of pissing about with various ideas and devices, we hit upon a solution.

We attached jump leads between the two cars, kept my engine ticking over and my Dad kept turning the ignition key in his. We had detached the fuel supply so every time the ignition was turned a small amount of diesel would be ejaculated. Trouble was we had nothing to put it in and nothing to transfer it from the fuel pump.

We realised we need a large receptacle and, crucially, a tube or hose or somesuch to siphon the gazole into it.

Cue my Mam and Dearest setting forth to other houses in the vicinity hoping against hope that someone had a smattering of English.

‘Twas not to be.

Most of the places they tried were empty – including the nearby owners of our holiday home. Eventually they stumble across the old farmer’s place. After a while he opens the door to find two women gabbling away in a foreign language. He probably guessed it was English but he certainly didn’t understand it.

My mother attempted to use the time-honoured English method of communicating with other races: talking slowly and loudly – as though to a simpleton.

No dice.

Becoming increasing desperate, and liberally sprinkling their speech with “le car est broke” and “le car est kaput”, they eventually donned white-face and began their infamous attempt to make him understand thay they needed a tube or something through which they could siphon. How to mime siphoning? It’s easy. You just position your hands as though holding a tube and start sucking.

Apparently his eyebrows shot a foot off the top of his head. It was few seconds before Dearest and my Mother realised the signals they were sending out and quickly stopped before bursting into laughter. Fortunately the old guy laughed as well (possibly in anticipation – who knows?).

Eventually, with the help of a pen and paper, he understood and accompanied them back to our Gite with a massive bucket and a long hose. Once he saw what we were doing he pissed himself and walked away laughing and muttering indecipherable French interspersed with frequent use of “gazole”.

It took eight hours to empty the tank. Eight fuckin’ hours.

Then I had the unenviable task of acquiring a few litres of “essence avec plomb” in order to get dad’s car back to the petrol place and filling it up correctly.

But that’s another story.

Us And Them

Certain occurencies have pissed me off these past few days.

First off Arsenal, Mike Riley and whoever was running the line and disallowed our goal. Why is it that "big clubs" always seem to get the benefit of the doubt when it comes to borderline decisions? We should've got something from that game - in fact we could've won it. Grrrr.****

Then I call in a traditional chippy - fish 'n' chips being required - and a girl of about fifteen years of age asks for "chips to go". To go? To-fuckin'-go? You're in Manchester dear, not fuckin' downtown Chicago. It's "a portion of chips to take out please" round here, not "chips to go". To go? I ask yer? It'll be "chips to go and hold the vinegar" next, followed by prom queens, sophomore years and trick or treat some other creeping Americanism that Chantelle saw at the "movies" or read about in "Chav Monthly." Double grrrrrrrr.

If that wasn't bad enough, the Iron Poodle announces plans for the "pivotal" and "irreversible" reforms of the school system, driven by the needs of the pupils Big Business/Faith organisations and other insidious, unelected, unnacountable sets of twats the length and breadth of the English bit of this Sceptered Isle.

Anyone familiar with this blog will know how much "faith" and its attendent medievilism pisses me off. When that medievilism creeps into the heart of the Cabinet it scares the pants off me. When that medievilism is rammed down the throats (probably in more ways than one - allegedly) in "Faith Schools", I despair.

What it is about so-called educated men and women who, when faced with something that mankind can't explain (yet), automatically jump to the conclusion that there's a fucking all-seeing, all-knowing alien who has set it all up to test the faithful? If you are that educated can you please explain exactly why this omniscient smartarse would bother with such an anal enterprise? I'm sick of asking the question, I really am.

As for the well-known altruistic leanings of Big Business, well, all I can say is, I've worked for two multinational companies in the last 30 years of my working life and when it comes altruism, there's a limit, and you would be surprised just how low the bar is on that limit.

In the past I've become involved - indeed in one case - helped introduce and instigate a "PCs/networks and expertise into local schools" - initiative. All's fine until the company decided the budget needs tightening and, believe me, they drop their "charitable work" (their description - not mine) immediately.

Same with a local Hospice we promised were ordered to help. We were very reluctant to get involved. It's a natural reaction after you expend so much energy and enthusiasm - only for the rug to be pulled from under your feet after months of effort. Nonetheless the Company promised much and insisted they wouldn't - indeed couldn't, on account of matters of conscience - raise people's hopes so high - only to dash them at the slightest hint of a downturn in trade.

Nonetheless they did., and it still shames me to my shoes whenever I bump into the fundraiser for that hospice. I've explained, he's listened and accepted that "that's life" because he's more of a human-being than any of faceless arseholes, desperate to make-it-to-the-top, will ever be. I still feel like a complete and utter twat though.

So, sorry Tone but, forgive me if I don't put quite as much "faith" in the greedy gits anxious to "raise the corporation's profile" and reap the reward via enhanced brand awareness and a steady stream of unquestioning, Orwellian cannon-fodder; available to replace the worn out automatons who left school and joined Big Business on temporary contracts with promises of future wonderfulness the year before.

One question. Did Margaret suggest all this to you last week at her 80th?

Grrrr. Grrrrrrrrr. GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

**** One thing I did enjoy about the Arsenal v City game was that City, for the last 15 minutes of the match had no less than six academy lads playing against Arsenal! Arsenal didn't have one Brit in the team or, crucially, on the bench.

I know which I'd like to watch and, I suspect, a lot more fans of the beautiful game probably feel the same.

Ey Tarquin... are yer trolleys on't right way round?

I'm right pissed off. Earlier, as I re-acquainted myself with Ale-Fan's re-invigorated blog I became all nostialgic after Mr Fan utilised the name "Boddingtons" as a bench mark for crap beer. I penned a blogsworth of reminiscence of the great beers of Manchester's recent past. From Boddies, through Wilsons, Oldham Brewery (OB), Chesters, Robinsons and a few others. In the interests of balance, I added a devastating critique of the wasteland we now call the "modern brewing industry."

The comment got chewed. Fuck

One of my earliest jobs was at a local engineering factory. Every Friday dinnertime the local pub would be overwhelmed by hairy-arsed fitters, turners, millers, labourers and *ahem* efette office-types. My first week, the bloke I worked with with got me in there at 11:55am. I walkede in this huge North Manchester pub and the bar was chock full of more pints of pale yellow Boddies (not unlike clear-as-crystal piss actually) than I'd ever seen in my life. Ten minutes later, the lot was gone and the second helpings were being ordered.

It was nectar Boddies. It was gorgeous petal. These days, It's just "Redibrew." It tastes just like effervescent piss actually - but there you go. Progress eh? Today we are served up "lifestyle" drink choices from the Pale-as-piss modern Boddies all the way through to WKD. End result? Ooooh, about three or four multinationals purchasing ingredients, brewing, wholesaling and retailing an alcoholic-lifestyle-choice. And, incidentally, screwing anybody smaller into the dirt, shutting 'em down or takin' them over.

One of the first go where I live was OB (Oldham Breweries). Ironically taken over by Boddingtons when the first batch of be-suited, asset-stripping, Thatcherite twats arrived on the Manchester/Salford border. Now OB was a good drink. Cheap as well. Sadly long gone though. "Oldham Bitter" - doesn't look good on a can in a supermarket does it?

And all the rest followed. Now all these chain-pubs are trying to make out they're different. How do they do this? Well first off they install a 29 year old couldn't-give-a-shit/ambitilous-as-buggery/female-but-usually-male clone who is "enthusiastic". Next up the quiz night is introduced and an android delivers questions from a "Happy-as-fuck", head-office produced, quiz sheet that's "not too taxing". Twenty questions will do - we don't want them thinking too hard, they'll stop drinking multi-coloured drinks.

Then the Karaoke arrives. More enforced "jollity". Fuck right off. Pubs are places where, sometimes, someone wants to stare into the bottom of a glass and hate the world. Next thing you've got Gavin, Lou or Becky thrusting a well-worn folder in your hand, chock full of banal shite that even Engelbert Humpledink - or, indeed, Paul McCartney - wouldn't dream of touching with a barge pole.

Then they shut down for a bit for refurbishing. This is, apparently, guaranteed to make the pub a total and utter success on re-opening - because it will be equipped with a fabulous, state of the art kitchen manned by straight out of the local comprehensive, nose-picking, "who's-Tony-Blair?", cutting-edge chefs whose wonderful "all-day-breakfasts" are on a par with Jamie Olivier's.

Eventually, the kitchen closes, the quizzes become even simpler and the karaoke is almost constant modern R&B/RAP. The happy "hours" start to stretch the concept of time and the slow drift into "'allo, is that the brewery? Is there any chance of you providing shutters for the windows?" Begins.

All that's left in Manchester these days are Lees and Holts. Neither "travel", believe me. And both are acquired tastes. I have to say if you get a good one you'll be hooked forever.

But you won't get it in a can.

Family Affair

Well. Monday night on More4 is become required viewing. Last week we were entertained on the Blunkett-go-round, and this week Capturing The Friedmans made an appearance.

Now this is a quality documentary. Intelligent use of modern interview and contemporary home movies/videos/audio made this a gripping two hours of TV. Furthermore, it's wonderful that this is shown - prime time as-it-were on a new commercial TV station dedicated to "adult entertainment".

For those who haven't seen it, the basics are: an upper middle-class jewish family, with a penchant for recording most of their lives on super 8, video and audio tape, implode under the weight of more allegations of the sexual abuse of minors than you could shake a stick at.

Three things struck me as I watched this evening.

First: the need for the father and the three sons to document their lives to the extent that they did. The father hammed it up whilst out on bail, the youngest son - who was also accused - felt the need to dance and mug to the camera on the steps of the court whilst waiting for the verdict that he had a pretty good idea would send him down for a long time. The entire family screaming at each other as lines were drawn and a no man's land formed between the genders. All of them (father excluded - he died, according to his death certificate, of an overdose of something-or-other, although his brother or one of his kids stated he died of an unexpected heart attack earlier in the film), felt the need to be interviewed throughout the judicial process and after.

Second: I couldn't shake off the feeling that each and every person interviewed had an agenda. The polarity between prosecution and defence was understandable but, on this occasion, they were miles apart. Charges from the police of 100s of incidents of actual forced buggery of kids who attended a computer class at the accused's home. No physical evidence was produced and, for all the time the classes were running, not one kid raised a complaint. Statements from a defence lawyer that one of Friedman's sons admitted his father abused him (denied by the abused later) also felt odd. I should've believed the lawyer, but too many *hmmmmmms* were playing about my lips.

Third: Why the need for exposure? The eldest son has become a clown (errm y'know; red nose, daft clothes, entertains kids - there's one of those *hmmmmmms* again.) He stated that if anyone - in his profession - got a whiff of the scandal surrounding his father, he'd be out of business. Yeah, right, so take part in a documentary about it, given the fact you live in New York, nobody you know will be aware of it I'm sure.

Ahhh, garbled crap most of that, and I haven't even touched on the fact that Daddy Friedman used to be the leader of a mambo band in the late 40s early 50s.

Seriously though that was quality televisin, and most welcome. God bless Freeview!

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Me Mam and Dad live in warden-controlled flats these days. A few months ago a temporary warden was installed while the regular holidayed. The temp got involved with all her charges and ascertaind that Mater and Pater were paying too much out each week in rent and council tax.

So she organises a clever bugger with a nose for benefits to come and interview them. The next thing you know their rent has gone from nearly £60 a week to £17. On top of that they have received a cheque for £1300 for overpaid rent, and £700 for overpayment of council tax. They've not got many Christmases left, but at least they won't be scrimping and scraping this year.

The fact remains though, that if they're entitled to all that now, they were entitled to it years ago. Why should the onus be on the poor bugger paying out week after week, year after year to get professional advice just to claim what they're entitled to?

Sort it Blair.

Hurt

My monthly copy of Word arrived a couple of days ago. A fabulous read that mixes the best of the new with a lot of the best of the past. On top of that, each copy drops through the letterbox with a CD full of delight, as well as shite, every month.

This month's CD reaquainted me with Jackie Leven, a Scottish Romany ex-leader of Doll By Doll - one of eighties rock music's many footnotes. He's also a big mate of Ian Rankin. I had heard some of his solo stuff on Cooking Vinyl's esoteric samplers, usually given away with mags such as Froots and the like. I must admit he intrigues me with individual tracks, but every time I have delved deeper, he disappoints.

Today, the free CD was no exception. Once again the magnificence of the free track:- - "Elegy For Johnny Cash" - embarrassed the rest of the stuff on the album. The free track actually convinced me to download (legally) the rest of his opus: and what a load of average bollox the rest of his opus was. Sad, but c'est la vie. In future I'll just thank my lucky stars that the man repeatedly gives away the best of his work via the monthly music glossies.

But listening to today's freebie, I was caught in that no-mans-land of absolute surrender. On the verge of tears I was - what a strange amalgam of styles. Blurred vision led me to Mr Leven's explanation of why the music sounded familiar but strangely odd. (Or should that be Strangely Strange But Oddly Normal?) It was recorded in Lebanon and mixed in Wales.

One of the guys he played with in Lebanon had never heard of Mr Cash - Jackie explains:-

ELEGY FOR JOHNNY CASH - Elegiac more than a true elegy, i wanted to write one last song for Johnny Cash to sing and for the song to speak of the whole of his life. This sprang from my complete respect for the last recordings he made with Rick Rubin. There was a beautiful moment in recording when Mixalis Kataxanis, the Greek 'Rembetiko' style viola player felt he could not play on the song as its genre was so far removed from his playing experience, and further, he did not understand who Johnny Cash was.

I showed him the towering video of Johnny Cash singing 'HURT'. At the end, he just nodded and returned to the studio to play...

That reference to the video for Hurt sent me scurrying round t'internet to find it again. I've not seen it for two years. I found it. Once again, the tears flowed. Watch it. Listen. A man laid bare.

And you can have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt

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Bollocks. 3:15am and I'm wide awake and full of Stella Artois. Prognosis = lazy day tomorrow. With a bit of luck the sum total of my effort will be taking the shit-machine for a crap late on saturday night. iPod on I reckon. Listen to some Jackie Leven, Dr Strangely Strange and The Archies. (One of them was a joke).

I Can See Clearly Now

Well, I settled down to watch A Very Social Secretary this evening. Bernard Hill as David Blunkett was uncanny. It was HIM. he had every nuance of the erstwhile home secretary's behaviour down to the last strangled giggle. Robert Lindsay, as Tony, also, I though, managed to convey the strange amalgam of forcefullness, timidity and cowardice that I have always believed God's right-hand man (after Dubya)was manufactured from.

A witty script should also be applauded. Clap.

But the "thick Northener" always out for a scrap was lazy writing in my opinion. "D'yer think yer can tek on a Sheffield lad"? Laughable. And the idea that a Northener had never experienced oral (or, in Blunkett's case, aural) sex before, was hard to believe. I can understand that shagging the night away in a little cottage provided by aristocracy just might have an edge on downing pints of best in a Sheffield Working Man's Club with overweight, intellectually challenged drunks, but, purlease, is everyone south of Watford as rich as Croesus and blessed with the social skills of Gore Vidal? I don't think so, otherwise they wouldn't be planning to rebuild that pointless pier at Saaarfend for the third time in twenty years or so.

So, c'mon, let's debunk this everything south = good; everything north = bad shall we. I know you're a scriptwriter/musician/playright/designer/politician/Richard and Judy but, FFS, catch a train/plane/camel/National Express and experience life - yes life, it DOES exist - elsewhere. Mind you, not too many of you, we don't want you artificially inflating house and beer prices by moving up here because it only takes 30 minutes to travel 20 miles - from the centre of a city!

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It's good to see a free digital channel opening on Freeview that offers some thought-provoking programmes. I guess the last was BBC4, and very good it is too - certainly better than the numerous "Price-Drop", "QTV" and various other bags of shopping crap that have proliferated since the service started and we were told that there would be very few shopping channels cluttering up the bandwidth.

Some decent films and documentaries coming up as well. So check out the schedule in the link above.

Nighty Night. (Still crap).

Bits And Pieces

A few observations.

Little Britain is actually shite. Canned laughter so we can recognise the repetitive and profoundly unfunny jokes. Yeah but, no but yeah - honest.

Nighty Night - latest flagbearer of BBC Three's "comedy" blockbuster - is purely and simply adolescent. Unbelievingly unfunny and unbelievingly crude. Please, somebody out there explain what I'm missing. Or am I just old?

Personally, my money's on the "Nighty Night is shit" ticket.

But please - feel free to argue.......

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George Bush and Tony praying. Y'know when I vote for a Party to govern my life for the next few years, I don't expect the leader of that Party to believe in fairy stories, voodoo, alien abductions or any other nonsense. When that leader teams up with a man who believes God talks to him and gets down on his knees to talk to God as well I conclude that he is as mad as a fish. Retire soon please Tony I've had enough.

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Question Time's Greatest Hits. Quality.

These Boots Were Made For Walking

Dearest has always had a problem acquiring footwear that fits. She reckons she has a broad foot. I reckon she's just scared of a little pain or, as Dearest calls it "searing pain". "Wear 'em in", I say "they'll be right as rain in a couple of days and you'll be able to walk round places like Venice photographing washing. Just like in the photograph on the left."

But no, it's not good enough. The shoes/boots/sandals/flip-flops have to be returned and Dearest, once again has to schlepp around in old shoes until she chances upon the next magical pair that she a)likes and b)receives no pain from.

This week she's surpassed herself. She bought a pair of high heels from some shop or other but after wearing them for while she realised the left one was bit tight. "They'll have to go back" she said. However a day or two later she sees the same pair in another shop and tries them on. The right is too tight but the left is perfect. So she buys them, brings them home and marries the right shoe from pair one with left shoe from pair two. Result. All she has to do now is take left shoe/pair one and right shoe/pair two back for a refund at shop one - or two. She's not made her mind up yet.

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Bloody hell Ken Russell's still reasonably alive and well and still desperately attempting to get financial backing for his celluloid ambitions. Failing that he's got a novel that's been rejected by publishers far and wide. 78 and still at it. Nice one Ken.

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Looks like an autumnal night in tonight. Copious amounts of vin rouge and a DVD or two. The question is what to watch? Lined up and ready to go are Death in Venice, Ladies in Lavender or The Madness of King George (free in today's Guardian). Mind you our time is our own, we could watch all three if we start early enough and take the shit machine out during the intervals. Couldn't we?

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?

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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.