Welcome to the House of Fun

“Right Dad, now you’ve finished your food let’s get you back to your chair before I have to go.” My Dad slowly rises and grasps his zimmer frame before tentatively making a move for his designated armchair.

At this point I notice a miniscule woman with the complexion of a walnut zimmering like a thing possessed towards us. “You’ve NO RIGHT to sit in that chair, that’s my chair, that’s where I sit when I have a cigarette” she screamed as she aimed for the chair in question, her zimmer frame a blur. “Hang about my Father’s been sat there for the best part of two weeks, that’s the chair they gave him because it’s higher than the others and easier for him to get out of.” She wasn’t having it. “It’s MY chair!” Funny thing was though, neither was my Dad. He set off for his chair with his zimmer going ten to the dozen. “Fuck me” I thought “game on – a race.”

And it was. The pair of them were neck and neck across the tasteful carpet, occasionally hitting speeds of 1 mph. It was exciting stuff and the entire place was agog. They would have taken bets if they could – it was that close. In the end though my Dad’s superior zimmer-handling shone through and he won by a length. The abuse didn’t stop though. The walnut carried on and on until, in the end, my Dad found some more spirit and told her to “SHUT UP!”

It was all too much for the old feller by the window though, he burst into tears and couldn’t be consoled for quite some time.

In the end the carers appeared from wherever it is they disappear to at moments like this and order was soon restored although not for long.

One of the carers had spotted some old man sat out in the sun without a hat on. It was very hot and his bald head was turning a delicious shade of pink. “Where’s your hat Tommy?”

“I don’t know, I can’t find it. Burglars I reckon.”

“It’s not burglars you daft bugger It’ll be you putting it down and forgetting where. I’ll go and find it”

10 minutes later and there’s still no sign of his hat so, worried that he’ll burn, she decides to lend him a sombrero somebody had acquired on holiday.

“I couldn’t find your hat Tommy so I’ll let you borrow this one.” Whereupon she plonks the sombrero on his head.

Tommy suddenly looks serious and slowly raises his hands to his head and feels the hat. Next thing he’s taken it off and is looking at it with disdain.

“You’re taking the fucking piss out of me!” The hat flies Oddjob-like through the air and Tommy glares at the carer.

An old woman in the corner shouts: “He swore. He swore. He swore.” Over and over.

“Shut up you fool.” Says Tommy. Others join in and soon Bedlam reigns again.

Honestly you don’t know what you’re missing. Visit a respite home near you today for hours of top quality entertainment.

One day we had to ask my Dad where his glasses were as he can’t see a thing without them. He didn’t know. We asked the carers if they could find them and about half an hour later they were returned to my Dad.

Some old bloke in another room had found them, took a liking to them and had sat wearing them all day. The thing was though they were varifocals and this guy didn’t need glasses. What the hell he thought he’d been looking at I’ve no idea.

As I was leaving an old woman beckoned me over. "Have you come to see me?"

Life’s rich tapestry.

You Can Say the Soul Has Gone, the Feelings Just Not There

Strokes are funny things you know. I suppose they affect people in different ways and generalisations can't be made about the likely outcome a few weeks down the line. However, having seen (and heard) my fair share of the poor buggers over the past few months, I can attest that some become angry and aggressive, some lose all control of various parts of their bodies and some just smile. It's looking like my Dad is reverting to a kind of child-like state. Hardly able to walk, he sits in his chair in the respite home and watches the world go by. Any attempts at conversation are met with a smile and a "yes" or "no". Anything that enters his vision is stared at.

That was what he was like on Sunday afternoon when I went up to visit him. I was fast running out of things to say to him as nothing was coming back to me and it's hard holding a one-way conversation, you start to feel like you're the one with the problem. So, as the clock ticked away in the main recreation and relaxation area, our "conversation" slowly petered away. We sat for a while and I noticed his trousers were slipping down from his waist as he moved around in the chair. Too much weight loss and a finite supply of recent trousers y'see. Eventually I made to leave and asked him to stand while I pulled his pants up a bit. He did as he was asked and stood holding his zimmer frame. Not looking I put my hand round his back to grab the waistband and that's when I realised he'd soiled himself. I was initially appalled and told him to stay where he was until I could get a carer to come and help. He just said "OK" and stood there like a three-year-old. As I moved off I could see that his chair had suffered also. I couldn't believe it. In full view of patients and visitors.

The carers soon came and led him off to the toilet whereupon I told him I had to go. He just smiled and said "tara" as he was led off like a naughty schoolboy. The care staff were great and told me not to worry, they would deal with it and they were used to this kind of occurence.

What really, really got to me though was the fact that he obviously did not know what he'd done and he certainly didn't appear to be embarrassed by what he'd done.

My Dad would have been appalled, but this isn't my Dad. This is a strange approxiamation of my Dad. Bits of him are still recognisable but others are fading away. Will he ever come back or am I witnessing the slow, inexorable internal demolition of the man who gave me life?

I think we all know, but what would be the good in admitting it?

---

This evening - straight from work - I drove up to spend a few minutes with my Dad and to pick my Mam up to take her home after a hard-day's visiting. The sun was a powerful presence as we came down from the edge of the Saddleworth Moors to pass through Oldham on the way home.

Something far off kept glinting and annoying me. In the end as we neared Oldham I discovered that the glint was bouncing off a gaudy looking minaret on one of the local mosques. A quick perusal of the townscape below us soon revealed more mosques and a few churches. Religion on the march again.

It depresses me. I'm sick of it. I stopped listening to Radio 4 because of its obsession with the sodding Church of England, I'm often found dumbstruck staring at the TV while some fucking Priest, Imam, Vicar and the like spouts arrant nonsense (and is usually paid to do so), while an impotent interviewer has to act as though the basis of his right to spokesmanship ("I know what God meant") is truth.

When the time comes, the Humanist society will be contacted to organise a rational, freethinkers funeral. I know that's what my Dad will want.

---

Right, what else has been happening? Oh yes Beruit/Lebanon/Iran/Syria/Israel. When will we ever learn?

And Iraq? Civil war I call it just as I predicted a couple of years ago. Now George and Toneh might call it something else but I call it Civil War and it will get worse because the opposing sides are killing the others because, wait for it.......yes, you've got it, they have different RELIGIOUS beliefs. You couldn't make it up.

Cheeers Deities. You're great you are.

I get knocked down but I get up again....

Back again after a short while. Nothing too dramatic - just life getting in the way. My Dad's gone into respite care for two to six weeks. They're hopefully going to come to some conclusion about the best way forward for him. I must admit the place he's in is bloody lovely; all clean sheets and artwork on the walls. He has his own room but is encouraged to mix with the other "inmates" as often as possible. They get taken for the occasional pub lunch or day out as well as physiotherapy, chiropody, hairdressing etc. I wouldn't mind a stint of it myself.

---

Apart the "toad work" squatting constantly on my back, I have managed to keep my outlook sunny with a trip to the 20-20 cup match between Lancs and Yorks. I even managed to stay sunny despite Lancashire's (injury-induced) defeat to the Tykes. Still there's always next year. Really it's just an excuse for a whole mess of us to enjoy an evening of good banter, crap beer and long queues. Defeat was the least of our worries.

We split into two groups - those with strong constitutions set off for the fleshpots of Manchester whilst those with work the day after or flabby, old-before-time bodies headed home via Chester Road in the hope of flagging a passing black cab.

A mistake as we soon discovered. Finally we decided to pop into the Pomona Palace hostelry in order to get a beer and order a taxi.

The barmaid appeared bemused to be inundated with 4 customers at 9:30 on a Friday evening and took some time sorting out the pouring of such an unprecidented amount of ale. We asked for a local taxi number.

"Well I can give you one but it won't turn up" she grimaced.

"Err why?" We enquired.

"Dunno....they just don't."

Super. A phone call to one of our usual Taxi firms produced one within 15 minutes and half an hour after calling we were ensconced in our local where we discovered that the landlord of 15 years has finally decided to call it a day this coming September.

Please God don't make it a fucking "fun" pub. Please.

---

So last night a bunch of us decided to get together for a night of guitars, pianos, gob-irons and beer/wine. The occasion being a complete absence of women who were all away on Youngest's Darlin's Hen weekend in York/Leeds.

The Captain's new house just around the corner from Occupied Towers is an ideal place for this type of thing as it's fairly cut off from surrounding houses and a good thrash isn't going to disturb the entire neighborhood.

We range from almost complete beginners to a few very accomplished musicians. So, if you were walking past between the hours of 8:00pm and 1:00am you would have heard an eclectic selection although heavily influenced by the Blues - which is just as it should be.

It was grand and it does a man's soul good to pay hamage to the likes of Cash, Williams, Johnson, Lennon and McCartney, Clapton, Mitchell, Dylan, Simon, Cobain and many others in the company of folk young enough to be my son (as, indeed, one was).

It's been a long time since I played in anger with others stretching me. Lovely.

There was a moon and a streetlight, I didn't know I drank such a lot, Till I pissed a tequilla anaconda the full length of the parking lot...***

Wardle. Verb. To Wardle: To give the impression that you are aware of what is expected of you in the near future and to be prepared for whatever it is you are expected to do. [Negative]To be humiliatingly exposed as not being prepared whatsover and being a 100% sham. Wardling: The act of giving the impression you are fully prepared for what is to come. [Negative] The act of fucking up when it comes to the "ay lads ay".

Ahhh yes. Wardling. Named after Norman (Norrie) Wardle (circa 1954-) , 5th former at my school 1969-70. Norrie always reckoned he had the GCE exams sewn up. Well-prepared he reckoned he was. Never tired of telling all the rest of us that we should've started work on revision and the rest earlier.

Sadly Norman knew damn well he'd done fuck all.

First exam - Physics. 1:00pm exam starts. 1:10pm Wardle announces: "Sir, I've finished".

Geography. 10am exam starts. 10:15am Wardle announces: "Sir, I've finished".

English, well.......you get the picture.

He passed fuck all.

And that's how I feel with my Dad. I think I'm Wardling and soon these Emperor's clothes are just going to fall away.

It's hard enough seeing a loved one slowly and inexorably fade into the twilight without having to deal with all the crap that comes with it. I'm sick to death of being the stalwart for my mother, my brother and anybody else who feels the need for information, comfort or just confirmation that we're all mortal.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

---

You know, when you're faced with mortality and other matters of great import, what really puts things into perspective is the sight of grown men - millionaires many times over some of them - crying their sorry little hearts out because they got beat in a football competition. It's one of those pivotal moments in my love of Association Football. One of those distasteful images that will stick with me a long time. Along with some of the horrific stuff I experienced in the 70s that kept me away from football grounds for a long, long time. The likes of the entire England squad are nothing but mollycoddled, removed from reality tarts.

Football should be all about Saturday afternoons (City have already had 10 fixtures changed BEFORE XMAS to accomodate the voracious appetites of the Murdoch Empire). It should be about pride in acquiring the skill to play for a local club or - in your wildest dreams - your country. It should be about sportsmanship, fair play and honour. It should be about the ordinary fan being able to acquire tickets at a price reasonable enough to take his/her family to the match. It should be an expression of mankind's ability to play games that bring nations together. Jeux sans frontier. War without tears. It should a fucking joy from kick off to final whistle.

But it's been hijacked by the greed merchants, Murdoch, agents and the rest. It's frequently viewed as a cash cow (believe me all these protests of being skint in the Premiership don't wash - even towards the bottom end of the table) and the bog standard lover of the game/club/country is milked like a factory-farmed Ermintrude until, dessicated and shrivelled, a love of the game is kicked out of them just as efficiently as a "bovver boy" of the late 60s - early 70s.

Time to put football on the back burner for a while.

Having said that, I think Germany have really shone under that ex-cheat Klinsmann so, who knows, there may be hope for us all.

PS What I will share with you though is the utter hatred of all things Ronaldo here in Manchester. And I'm not talking City fans, but dyed in the wool Reds of long standing - 3 - 4 generations in some cases. Blokes boasting great grandads who stood on the terraces at Newton Heath. If he doesn't fuck off to Madrid, he's going to have a torrid season. I can't wait until he tips up at Eastlands. Heh heh heh heh heh............

---

So, after tea (dinner as it's called elsewhere in the world), I sat on the patio with a decent bottle of red and finished off "What a Carve Up" by Jonathon Coe. Superb book and a lovely, quiet, relaxing evening.

Later, as I took the shit-machine for her nightly..well..shit, I happened across 2 cars parked about 30 yards from the local Old Folks Home with their doors open and foul-mouthed hip hop blasting forth.

As they would probably say in France: "Wankeurs".

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Muslim this, Christian that. Whenever do us Atheists get a look in?

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*** Brownie points for whoever recognises the origin of the lyric.

Crossroads Blues

Here's small video I took of a busker in Amsterdam. I stayed and listened to three or four of his renditions. He was really good. He certainly knew his Robert Johnson and gave me carte blance to request whatever I wanted.

He got a generous donation in return.

---

I was out and about in the garden this morning photographing lilies in the early morning sun.



I haven't a clue what type of lily these are other than they look gorgeous.



A splash of colour can really lift the mood.



Later I finished concocting a nice bolognese sauce and it's now simmering away in the kitchen.



Mmmmmmmmmmmm.

---

I took the opportunity to avail myself of a free One months trial of Ancestry. It's an online service that allows you to access census returns, birth, marriage and death indexes etc. As a result, in less than one week, I've been able to trace my mother's side of the family back to an Ann Richardson born around 1812 in Bristol. In 1838 she gave birth to a son John in Liverpool - another port. Later she turns up in Stockport living with John and a "lodger" John Billingsly, a Porter from Worcestershire. Later still, she turns up living in Hulme, Manchester with a daughter Mary and a "visitor" William Green who was a plasterer from Yorkshire. After the 1871 census she disappears - presumably having shuffled off her mortal coil between '71 and '81. I'm trying to discover if she ever married as I can't, as yet, find any reference to a Mr Richardson.

The hunt continues......

---

And so to the probable Sven Svansong this afternoon.

I honestly can't see him outwitting Scolari. We'll be 1 - 0 up at half time (Crouch - off the back of his head unaware he had even touched it) and then Portugal will make a tactical switch and Sven and his acolyte McClaren will be caught like rabbits in a headlight. 2 - 1 to Portugal.

But, then again, I've been hopelessly wrong before and no doubt I will again. So here's hoping.

It still baffles me how a flourish of talent like the present England team has can have the joie-de-vivre eliminated from their game so efficiently. Sadly I think McClaren will offer more of the same. Conservative (with a small c) team selection (Walcott apart), route one football and a lack of tactical awareness that borders on the comical.

I'll be watching in the local where I intend to forget all about the shit that's going on in my life at the moment (Dad's back inside BTW) and wake up tomorrow wondering how the hell I got to bed.

I'll let you know how I get on.

Now...where's me rattle?

C'MON ENGLAND!!!!

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!

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.