Vindaloo

Well Sven I hope you're satisfied, 'cos your choice of an embryo as fourth striker looks like a biiiig mistake now doesn't it?

Speaking of the embryo, why didn't the Master Tactician give him a run out last night? Let the lad get a feel for the atmosphere, give him the chance to get rid of those "debut nerves". Last night was the night to do it. The chances are that the poor bugger will be thrust into the limelight during a match where England are chasing the game and all our available strikeforce has been decimated by injury and/or exhaustion.

God help us if Rooney suffers an injury. We'll probably end up with David James up front at this rate. (Don't laugh - Stuart Pierce tried it once).

If we progress in this competition it will be in spite of Eriksonn not because of him. If we don't progress in this competition, the BBC will be tempted to start showing Wimbledon and slowly ditching the games they think nobody will want to watch. Arrrggghh! Wimbledon! Aaarrrrrrrggggggghhhhhh!

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In other news, my Dad's home again and slowly disappearing whilst sat in his favourite chair watching UKTV History (or "the War" as my Mother calls it.) He has three visits a day from some healthcare agency in order to get him up, clean him up and put him back to bed again.

Yes life's just one long social whirl.

And it'll come to us all eventually.

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In other, other news I have a crappy little non-entity of a cough that makes me sound like Richard Attenborough in his portrayal of John Christie in 10, Rillington Place. Luckily for him, it only manifested itself during moments of heightened sexual activity. Sadly, for me, heightened sexual activity is possibly the only time the symptoms desist.

"Dearest? Oh Dearest......................."

Back Home....They'll be Thinking About Us.....

It was great you know. The atmosphere was electric. The train ride from Amsterdam to Gelsenkirchen absolutely spot on. The colours. The chants. The camararaderie between the different fans and nationalities. (and how often would you experience that at an England game)? The glorious stadium. The cheap beer (2 euros)! The sheer bloody magic of being at a World Cup match. An ambition achieved. With my kids and assorted acquaintences.

And we got VIP tickets. (God bless you Eldest and Youngest's Best Man). And we got to see a decent match with some great goals, a beer in hand and comfy seats!.

The sun shone and it's a fabulous memory I shall cherish forever. And I just love starting a sentence with "and".

Ronnie van der Meuren is one of the World's greatest barmen. He made Amsterdam special. Cheers Ronnie.

That's his bar on the left. The day we arrived - just in time for the second half of Holland's first World Cup game. A home from home.

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However, for those of you who wouldn't know Rooney's metatarsal from the 63rd Psalm, here's a video and tune filmed in a pub within 20 minutes of Occupied Towers.

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And I got a Steely Dan DVD for 6.99 Euros in Schipol Airport!

And then we came back home home and the "same old shit" hadn't actually fucked off forever, like I'd hoped it would.

But, hey. There you go. Why should travelling to Europe and back change the World?

Every Picture Tells a Story....

Well, I don't know what's happened here, but I can assure you that the other night I posted some pics and text here but, it's gone. I even had a comment on it as proof of its existance. However it's gone now and I can't remember what it was I was pontificating about or what pics I posted. I'll try again.



Here we go. Venice last September. The glorious Salute from across the Grand Canal through a bobbing forest of gondoliers.



You know I really do want England to win the World Cup but a part of me baulks at the thought of Beckham being the first man to lift it for England since the great Bobby Moore. Similarly Svenn.



My reading and iPod table on the balcony at the Nikiforos apartments, Cassiopi, Corfu last June. Some good reads there. Some not so good. Loads of music on that iPod. Ry Cooder's "Chavez Ravine" being the soundtrack of the fortnight. Jeez - a year ago. who knows where the time goes.



And if I hear another word about Rooney's foot I'll take off and become a recluse occasionally releasing critically acclaimed albums of delicate thunder.......



....with evocative titles and strange messages for those "in the know".



The coolest nightspots in the Western World would pound to the sound.



But I'd never forget where I came from and I would always remember my roots and routes.



Right, I'm off to Amsterdam and Gelsenkirchen hopefully to take in USA v Czech Rep and wallow in the general World Cup ambience. See ya in a week.

I Vow to Thee my Country...........

So: here we go, here we go, here we go - an' all that. Flags everywhere you look. On cars, on newly acquired flagpoles from B and Q or wherever and hanging from upstairs windows the length and breadth of this verdant home of ours. Although not on the "more exclusive" estates.

Why? Seriously. Why? I mean I know all about the World Cup blah, blah, blah - in fact I'm off to Germany next week to try and get a ticket to see a game - any game that Macdonalds, Budweiser and whoever haven't already snapped up all the tickets for. I guess I'll eventually end up staring at a big screen somewhere near the Dutch border. But, at least I can say I tried.

However, apart from my inabilty to acquire a ticket, I'm still intrigued by this new found (well, yeah, it happened four years ago - but not quite the same) prediliction for "flying the flag".

There's a book - or, at the very least, a thesis here. Honest.

For many years I would pontificate on the state of the indigenous musics and folklore of states, countries, counties, archipeligos and islands.

"Wherever you look" I said, "countries that have suffered under the heel of the oppressor - from Ireland to South Africa - have embraced their own "folk" music, their own "literature", their own "art" as a protest, as a declaration of their right to exist in the face of occupation by a foreign power. As a right to protest and, hopefully, undermine."

In fact, on many occasions indigenous folk music (or even dance - just ask Michael Flatley) - was banned outright.

And that, I feel, is why the World Cup is, once again, stirring, not only the Chav, but also the Fairport Convention afficianado, the Kate Rusby lover and the Steeleye Span/Jethro tull completist.

The "English" culture is a culture under attack and, these days, anything that can be utilised in the fight for the reclamation of the Flag, will win massive favour - among those, like me, who feel that "my flag" has been usurped.

Good? Bad? Hmmmmm! I don't yet know. As a hairy guy in the late 60s, constantly finding myself alone but surrounded by many "shaven-headed" opponents of my "beliefs" - ie "skinheads" draped, tattoed and be-booted with "my flag", I still have difficulties 30 years later. They even ran me over once. With a fuckin' Ford Anglia.

Thanks. You wankers.

Picture Book.....

At night on the boat. Very deChirico. In fact, all it needs is a mysterious shadow.......



Graffitti in Toulon. The poor lad in the picture had actually just walked 'round the corner straight into the frame. He didn't (as far as I am aware) spray the paint.



Lennon, wine and wallpaper......bliss! Well, apart from the wallpaper.



Sometime last winter. The meta data supplied from the camera says last November. A lifetime ago.

More cogent posts a little later.

It's Been a Long, Long Time....Hasn't it?

Ah well. Here I am again. Weeks of silence. Weeks.

Weeks spent hospital-visiting and such but not all of my time has been taken up with depressing fayre. I had a cruise round the Med for a week with Dearest, Eldest, Youngest and Youngest's Darlin'. (Soon to become Mrs Youngest - in Austria no less. August 17th). The cruise was courtesy of Dearest's redundancy payment. She treated the kids and myself. We booked early enough to qualify for free all-inclusive which meant that the entire week we gorged on fabulous food and too much drink. Sadly I was boat-bound for three days with a recurrence of my achilles problem but I only missed a few places.

So back home to the usual round of hospital visits, work, drink, dog-walking and sleep with precious little time for anything else, although playing the blues deep into the night is a must. I can't even get annoyed about this most Tory of Labour Governments. Suffice to say if it wasn't for the inefectual opposition, the longest period of Labour power would be over. I wouldn't shed a tear. At least you know what a Tory Government would do. Furthermore, any cabinet with a practising (cilice-wearing?) Opus Dei member doesn't deserve support from the likes of me.

Speaking of Opus Dei, there I was this morning listening to 5Live when Nicky Campbell interviewed the head of Opus Dei (UK). Eventually they got onto the subject of wearing a cilice and the whole area of corporeal mortification.

As I downed my cuppa I fully expected to hear that the wearing of such a medievil, barbaric device as a cilice was a thing of the past. Imagine my surprise when he told us that to wear a celice was a little like working out and that celice-wearing is quite common.

"No wonder Ruth Kelly's got a face like a slapped arse" I thought...........

How long before it becomes the latest celebrity, detox, weight-loss aid, though:

Posh Spice has told the 3am girls that she will be taking her new diamond encrusted cilice to the World Cup. "Those German sausages are so fattening, and if I am in mortal agony, I don't eat", she reports.

We will be buying our own high street versions of Posh's cilice this weekend. Get your's while you can.

Incidentally, this powerful man believes that The Life of Brian was a bigger threat to the Church than the Da Vinci Code.

Rainbow Chaser

Round our way, spelling mistakes are are punished severely. Take this example: stuck on a board outside one of our recently refurbished taverns in order to encourage public ridicule.

That'll learn 'em.

The landlord's a decent bloke. Suffice to say he hasn't got a clue that this error is there for all to see. Twice.

God bless Camera-Phones.

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Don't know if any of you have been watching The Street lately. That's the Jimmy McGovern written BBC affair not Corrie.

You would never guess Mr McGovern was a scouser would you?

God I hate your fucking team!

Jim Broadbent doing his best to commit suicide. I have a feeling a few of my City supporting bloggers will quite enjoy the clip too. Bluetealeaf and The Obscurer in particular.

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I got myself one of those new-fangled DVD recorders for the TV yesterday. Recorded that new prog about the Impressionists. Played it back today and the quality is superb. I chose the third best qualty - sacrificing in order to stretch the amount of recording time on the disk to 4 hours. I probably won't be able to see the difference in the higher qualities on account of a)inadequate TV technology and b)failing eyesight.

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Pater's back in dock, but I'm getting quite used to it it now. I see the patterns. I also recognise the bad back acquired while trying to manoeuvre him into his bed the night before he was readmitted. They think he's had another stroke. I KNOW he has. A week last Saturday he was opening the door to me and shuffling off back to his throne and settling d0own to watch UKTV History 'till it finishes. Thursday night, when I became bruised and bad-backed, he couldn't walk, talk properly or defecate.

He's "getting better" in a local Hospital at the mo'.

Honest.

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Bedroom/study/shed/bathroom/random room recording reaches new highs with this feller. Belive me.

"Joni Mitchell melodies, Beach Boys harmonies....." "....like a chapter from the XTC manual"

Give him a listen and, if you like, BUY!

I Keep Singing That Same Old Song

Today I bought this - to feed my inner child. A child that was/is musically rampant 1964-present.

It's a herding together of three or four "Sampler Albums" that Island Records pioneered in the late 60s and early 70s. Albums that are indelibly printed deep within my very DNA. This grey matter will still be hummin' tunes, solos (guitar, organ, crumhorn, drums, cittern, etc) and vocal pyrotechnics from these albums as my cadever either rots or burns.

Bliss.

I also snapped up a remastered "Bless The Weather" by John Martyn.

I spent the night in my eyrie, with a decent bottle of red and these 'blasts from my past'. Double bliss.

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Mind you, I needed to, to try and rid my mind's eye of images of "Two Shags" breaking his wife's heart.

The twat.

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If this sorry bunch of shiny, bland, balls of steel wool, smart suits, shields and shite, deserve anything then it should be the indifference of history. I can see it now, a classroom a hundred years hence: "Oh yes the Blair Governments? Well, they were essentially Thatcherite in all but name. Certainly many of the founders and stalwarts of the Labour Party wouldn't have recognised the sleazy, profit-fixated, ego-centric non-entities of the Blair/Brown years as socialists or, moreover, nice people to live next door to. I mean.....Margaret Hodge for fuck's sake? Charles Clarke? Hewitt? Phil Woolas!!!!!

And, when we vote them out of office, the fuckers'll pick up comfortable "jobs" here, there and everywhere.

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Mind you, it looks like some of us attending Youngest's Stag Do in June may have just acquired tickets for a World Cup Game. Not an England one obviously, 'cos that would be chock full of the usual suspects and, after the England v Licheinstein game at Old Trafford, I'll never bother with attending a live England game again.

This attempt to acquire tickets (Czech Rep v USA) has taken weeks of 10 of our merry band constantly hitting the ticket websites day-after-day-after-day. And each ticket has cost 105 euros!!!!!!!!!!!

Here's hoping we actually get them.

Love and Marriage

A really good change at Easter - off to the wedding of one of Eldest and Youngest's best friends. A particularly crappy drive down to Newmarket on Good Friday was more than made up for by the rather nice hotel we stayed in.

A refreshing ceremony as well. Not one reference to fairy stories as the happy couple were spliced at a CIVIL ceremony. Y'know what I didn't know about these affairs is that there can be no reference to religion at all. Consequently "God Only Knows" by the Beach Boys was a no-no but "I've Got You Under My Skin" by Frank Sinatra was OK. (And all the better for it I thought). Poems were read, music was played, vows were exchanged and then we all retired to the dining room for food and speeches.

Eldest was a joint best man with the groom's brother. They had written the speech in tandem and it bore all the hallmarks of their twisted sense of humour. Apparently the groom had "more skeletons in his closet than Fred West", but they had managed to whittle the list of misdemeanours down so that it wasn't too tedious: "longer than Abu Hamza's arm but shorter than Ken Bigley's neck" (Ouch!).

After food and, crucially, drink, the younger folk went kicking a ball about in the gardens whilst I busied myself photographing the fornicating ladybirds you see above. Rampant sex on OccupiedCountry's blog? Who'd a thunk it?

After a while watching the kids footballing, it occured to me that here was an opportunity to kick a ball again. Something I haven't done for more years than I care to remember. The next think the ball is walloped into the air and I see my chancee to volley it as hard as possible. I leapt like a salmon and hit it good and proper - the kids were impressed at first, then amazed as I continued my trajectory - "arse over tit" I think the phrase is. Seconds later I hit the hard gravel floor and my head smacks the ground like a hammer. After the initial shock and pain I was OK. My wedding trousers and shirt however were full of crap - all down the back. The kids (kids? They're all 30-ish!) rallied round trying to get as much muck off me as possibe, perhaps sensing that they too would be in the women's bad books.

In the end we knew we couldn't get all the crap off my clothes and so I had to sheepishly go back to the wedding with everyone noticing. I put my head down, wrung my hands and said:

"I fell".

Like a five-year-old.

It worked. Dearest and the others looked at each other with that look that women have mastered that let's us men know just how inadequate we are, without them having to bother thinking of words that can express the same sentiment.

Well it was either that or the wine that Dearest and the rest had been drinking.

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My Dad's slightly better and, more or less, keeping on an even keel. Hopefully he's learnt his lesson and will make more of an effort to eat and drink.

Here's hoping.

I'm Going To Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter....

I've just been reading my own blog and, bugger me, I need to smile a bit more.

I Get Knocked Down.......But I Get Up Again....

OK. after many weeks of hospitalisation, my Dad is back home. He's still convinced he's not ill though. Still convinced he's gonna get better. Still convinced the nurses and doctors want to keep him in hospital for their own amusement.

So, the first day he arrives home, we get a phone call just after we returned from Frank's Dad's funeral. "Yer Dad can't get into bed and I can't help him - can you come round?" So, off I go, little suspecting that he would be half-on-half-off the bed with no underpants on. I manouvered him into a position that would allow my Mam to get his nappy on and then I took over. A banana and some milk and sugar later, we were able to leave him to sleep like Rumplestilkskin - which he did 'till the morning after. Then, the day after I phone up from work, and he's fine. Getting up and shuffling to the toilet, eating properly and drinking plenty of water.

Two weeks later and the food intake is reducing - along with the fluids. I can't take this in. I've impressed upon him time and time again that, at the very least he needs fluids. Without them his mind goes. Without them he ends up back where he doesn't want to go. Hospital.

Yesterday, once again, he apparently ended up indisposed and passing blood whilst defecating. He does not want a doctor or paramedic though because he believes he's going to end up back in dock. So what do we do?

What the hell do we do?

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Friday we returned to The Cotton Tree - all the usual suspects were still there, propping up the bar, collapsing against the one-armed-bandit or vomiting copiously in the toilet. We patronise some really classy hostelries. We can't help it - like moths to a flame. There was "No AIDS Bob", "Cricket Man", "Low Lie", "Bad Teeth Pete", "Mr Effin Drunken' Bum" and his wife "Mrs Effin Drunken' Bum" and a hst of others.

"Cricket Man" should need no explanation. Cricket. he plays it, watches it, talks about it, is completely and utterly anally retentive about it. Do not demonstrate more knowledge than him about past Test matches, the minutiae of local cricket rivalries or the finer points of reverse swing. He doesn't like it. In fact he gets quite Jack-Nicholson-in-The-Shining-y about it and you begin to wonder if he hasn't got cellars full of cadevers who disagreed with him about Farouk Engineer's career or David Gower's twattishness.

"No AIDS Bob" I've known for years. We used to visit the early 70s nightclubs of Manchester together in a swirl of tie-die, satin and, on occasion, denim. He's at least 5 or 6 years older than me though and soon we drifted apart.

When he hit his mid-fifties, folk began to comment on just how stick-thin he was. This eventually evolved into the nickname "AIDS Bob" in his local. "How you doing "AIDS Bob", fancy a pint?"

Everyone just took it as a joke. Not "AIDS Bob" though. It played on his mind. He was fed up of being linked with a disease that essentially associated him with being Gay, something that he most definitely was not.

So he decided to slope off and have an AIDS test. Once and for all he would be able to rid himself of the association with an illness that, quite frankly, didn't do much to ingratiate himself with the opposite sex.

Then, one day he walks in the pub with a little piece of paper in his hand testifying to the fact that he did not have AIDS. It was official!

"That'll fix it" he thought. "Nobody will be able to call me "AIDS Bob" again after this."

"How you doing "No-AIDS Bob", fancy a pint?"

And that's what it's been ever since.

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I'll tell you about the other buggers some other time. I'm not used to all this writing - it has been almost a month you know.

Man of Constant Sorrow

I spent last weekend in Wrocklaw in Poland's Silesia. Minus fifteen they reckoned it was. Didn't feel it though as the sun shone on the frozen streets and Polish beer and vodka swished around our innards.

It was stag weekend for one of Eldest and Youngest's oldest mates and it did me good to be away from responsibilty of hospital visits, cheering my mother up and all the other thankless tasks associated with long term hospitalisation.

Yes my Dad's still in. he's making miniscule progress though so I guess it's not all bad news. He'll need care morning and evening if he ever makes it home. No doubt about that. No doubt at all.

Consequently I am fucking depressed and, third year anniversary or not, disinclined to stick inadequate bits of verbal bollocks up here for the Blogosphere to snigger at.

Maybe in a Month or two. Sayonara!

Turbulent Indigo

Long time, no talk. Nowt to say really - that's why: I just feel as if I should. It's been a traumatic few weeks to be honest. Stroke victims in close proximity everynight. Conflicting prognosis from inadequate NHS personnel, combined with an obvious need to clear the bed of a poor old sod who will never, as long as my arse points South, be able to perambulate around the neighbourhood like he once did. He comes home tomorrow and he's not ready.

It's a clinical business health. Believe me. God help us when the Hypocratic oath is emasculated to the point where it can't defend itself against the financial imperitive that deems old folk an expensive drain on limited resource. It'll come, that's why Euthanasia is top of the pops in certain Health Care arenas.

"I will adhere to the Hypocratic Oath but I demand the right to practice Shipmanism when I feel the "time is right" or when the cost of keeping the old buggers alive outweighs the money coming in from taxes" It's a mad, mad, mad, mad world.

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In other news, I have a painful, lumpy "growth" on the heel of my right foot.

"It's an inflamed Achilles" spake the Doc.

"How do I cure it Doc" I said, "I'm off to Poland for a stag night with my kids and their mates next week. I'll look a right old prick if I can't even walk.........I would imagine that Wrocklaw from a hotel bed ain't got the same immediacy as the real thing".

"Rest, anti-inflammataries and a dose of good luck, failing that you'll be in a cast for 6 to 8 weeks!"

Fuck.

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Dearest's wardrobe rail has just collapsed under the weight of a lifetime's unworn "bargains". Somehow this is my fault. After half an hour of transferring clothing I have never seen before in my life to door jambs here, there and everywhere, I mentioned to Dearest that she should feel ashamed of the amount of clothing she has that still has the price tag on it.

A not unreasonable statement I would have thought.

I have a lot to learn.

Oooops I did it again........

http://media.putfile.com/bin

Enjoy yet another cartoon.

Sorry but my metalink facility seems to have fucked off. You'll have to cut and paste the URL into your browser. Well worth it though.

If a picture paints a thousand words then why can't I paint you......

http://www.jesusandmo.net/

For some reason I can't seem to leave a direct link to this website. You'll just have to cut and paste if you want to see. Please leave your Fatwas in the comments. Ta.

God is Love

Freedom of speech my arse. We now have a Government Minister apologising to masked men with guns for a cartoon. A cartoon!!!! We also have the spectacle of Muslims marching through London holding up placards that call for the massacre of blasphemers and the murder of non-believers. Incitement? I should think so. No police or political intervention whatsover however.

Hold up a flag of St George in the Chaddy end at Oldham and the full majesty of the law is galvanised into action.

If I, as a commited, rational atheist were to parade through the metropolis with a banner that proclaimed all religions as crap and that anyone who followed one should be decapitated, disembowelled or (heaven* forfend) gassed, I would be inside a local constabulary within minutes. I would also imagine that the whole of the so-called left-wing would be screaming for my blood - from Toneh Blair to Gorgeous Galloway.

Something doesn't add up.

The lawmakers have to restart the process of being able to discuss serious issues without the liberal (taxpayer funded) protectors of frankly, obnoxius, illiberal minorities, sticking their oar in and deeming anyone who disagrees with stoning women to death for adultery as essentially intolerant.

It's a cartoon FFS! Offended by it are you? I don't think so. It just allows the dickhead minority of bearded fascists to point the finger, once again, at the Western Democracies where most of 'em who spout off live - because the "freedom of speech" these medievil purveyors of hate and death enjoy, allows them to.

Why, oh why, in the 21st century are we still surrounded by intellectual incompetants who believe in Big Men (always men), who live in the sky?

I truly despair. I just might move to France. There's no Bishops with an automatic seat in the legislature there and obviously the wine's cheap and good.

*not really heaven obviously - just a figure of speech :-)

Can't leave without a link to Yorkshire Pudding's take on the same issue. A great Larson cartoon as well BTW.

Mad World

First off, an update. My dad is recovering at a fantastic rate. Each day that passes, a little bit more of his mind comes back. So much so that he pretty much hates everyone else in the ward and realises that Sunderland's win at weekend was only their second of the season. (He was born in Sunderland BTW). The physical effects won't be so easily remedied, but the physio should help in that department.

Secondly, can I just thank all of you who commented or blogged and sent your best wishes. I "know" none of you from Adam really, but this virtual world full of virtual friends has certainly warmed my heart and helped me get through some difficult days. Once again - thanks.

Finally, thank God for the carthartic presence of the web in general and the blog in particular.

The Closest Thing to Crazy

So, less than a month after the violation, my Dad has a stroke.

Please forgive me if I don't feel very charitable at the moment, but I've just broke my heart crying for the man that was always there and now isn't.

Love Will Tear Us Apart

I'm not dead or anything and I'm not banged up as a result of catching the scum referred to in my last post. Ooops, did I say "catching" then? No chance. Not with the archaic, fumbling, creaking insurance assessors police force we are blessed with.

I am, however, severely pissed off and at odds with the world. Even a weekend in Riga didn't put me back together again. Ho hum.

In the meantime there's a few additions from Riga in my photoblog on the right. Pictures, not words at the moment I'm afraid.

Here's some night photography that makes mine look positively pedestrian.

Not even cheering City's stuffing of the Reds in a pub full of United supporters in Riga helped. Must be bad.

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.