Let's Go Back To Your Childhood*

BEEP BEEP
Uploaded by zaratoustra

Many happy hours spent watching these two. As the years progress, I begin to notice the magnificence of the characterisation. The facial expressions of Old Wiley, the ingenious invention of his.....err inventions (all from ACME) as he tries his best. Classic.

* The Bonzos - "Sport".

Hard Times Living in this Modern World....Holes in your Pocket Where the Hope Falls through.....*

Hard times at the mo', so here's one of the best cover versions EVER. Kate Bush, may you reign forever. Just listen to the moment when Davy Spillane comes in on the old Uilleann pipes. Bliss.



* Me.

I Get Up...I Get Down......

There I was, reading Mojo magazine and minding my own business, when I happened upon a fabulous article on one of the under-rated pop/rock bands - Slade. You must remember them? That's right; the dyslexic twats from the Black Country. All platform soles and baco-foil.

They were beneath me at the time. There wasn't a 6/8 time signature amongst them. Three minute pop songs with a heavy beat. That was their forte. Everbody knew. Beneath contempt.

But what the hell did I know? A pompous prick, that was me. Although, even at the time I found myself whistling along. A guilty pleasure. Guilty because they (well....Dave Hill) placed so much emphasis on display that it seemed to detract from the music which, in retrospect, I find very, very good - errr the music that is. Not the display. Not all of it mind. Not "Mama Weer All Crazeee Now" and "Gudby t'Jane" and the like. But some of their less popular stuff was sublime.

In 1972 -73 I would have found Yes a far more musically erudite band. Their musicianship far outstripped anything Noddy and the boys could throw up but, over the years, I guess you take stock. What can I say? It was a strange time - honest. Because, as the years have zipped on by at the speed of light, with the nights too dark and the days too bright, I've realised that the essence of what music is, is in the response it levers out of you. Slade, these days, make me smile and whistle along. Furthermore, they also make me wish I'd written what I'm listening (and whistling along) to. I suppose the question is: do Yes?

And the answer, strangely, is yes (ho ho ho) they do. What messrs Anderson, Howe, Bruford/White, Wakeman and Squire did was write some exquisite "pop" tunes. Catchy little motifs that re-occur throughout their overblown attempts at immortality. Just listen to "Close to the Edge", "The Yes Album" and "Fragile".

Oh bugger! Remastered. With additional tracks. And cheap. Amazon, here I come............

---

Here's a little video for you.

"Keep Your Jesus Off My Penis"

"So you'll execute a person

But protect a single cell

But mercy-kill the terminally ill

And you're going straight to hell............"

---

In other news, I still feel eighteen but look a hundred and three. Curse you Yahweh. Curse you.......

to be continued..........

Give me money.....that's what I want.....

Tom was put down tonight. £6,000 those fucking "I want to be a vet" parasites made out of his last fortnight.

I hope you're fucking proud.

I hope that, as you drift off to sleep tonight, you remember the idealism, the desire, the wish to right all wrongs that, hopefully, filled your youthful thoughts.

So just when, precisely, did you become a cynical twat who allows an animal to linger on for another week or two? So you can earn a couple more "grand" for you or the company you work for? A couple of grand that makes you look good in the eyes of the directors and shareholders. A couple of grand that the the poor fuckers who adore the animal can't afford? Professionals? Fuck off. Scum. £6,000. You knew he wouldn't survive. You preyed on the inherent humanity of a couple of kids who, at the very least, will be able to say: "we did all we could".

Vets? Fuck 'em.

Kodachrome

Thank You For Being a Friend

So, last Sunday Mr and Mrs Youngest were transported to Manchester airport to await their honeymoon flight to New York. An hour later they get a phone call from the kennels informing them that one of their greyhounds had collapsed and was in a bad way.

Against all advice that the rest of the family would deal with it, Mr and Mrs Youngest cancel their flights and retrieve their baggage. Deeply upset they arrange a vet to investigate the dog and check their pet insurance. In the end the dog has to have an operation to remove a blood clot from its spine. £5,000 and counting. We still don't know whether he's going to pull through. Here's hoping.

Come Monday I receive the following email from one of Mr and Mrs Youngest's mates:-

"Hello all,

Don't know if all of you have heard but [Mr and Mrs Youngest] have had to miss their honeymoon due to Tom collapsing just as they where about to board their plane to NYC. Tom has had an operation and it seems he only has 50% chance of making it :-( Hopefully they should know by sometime today.

When I asked what was going to happen about their honeymoon I was told that they could no longer afford to go on one due to the Vet fees they are now going to have to pay out.

Now, I believe every married couple deserves a honeymoon and I'm really gutted for both of them as we all know how much they were looking forward to going and for them not to be going away just doesn't seem right.

So I was thinking if we could all put a little money in (whatever people can afford) we could maybe raise enough for them to go away and have a nice honeymoon when things settle down. We could maybe get them some holiday vouchers or just get them a later flight to New York so they don't totally miss out on the hotels they've already paid for.

What do people think? Do you think they would be happy for us to do this? I would be willing to put in £50 to get things started.

If you could pass this on to anyone who you think would be willing to chip in and that I've missed out that would be great."

Then the replies started coming back: "count me in", "I'm game", "put me down for £xx". And so on. Dearest, myself and Mrs Youngest's parents were really touched (in fact I'm filling up just writing this).

To cut a long story short, as we met up for our usual Thursday evening at the quiz, travel vouchers worth £1,000 were presented to the gob-smacked couple along with two tickets to see The Raconteurs (they should've been seeing them in Atlantic City - but they'll have to make do with Manchester ;-)). And there's still a couple of hundred pounds to put towards a helicopter ride round the Grand Canyon.

Don't it just warm your cockles?

Mrs Youngest sent a thank you email to everone:-

SPEECHLESS! (Soppy email alert.) Dearest everyone

I've been trying to write this email on behalf of myself and {Youngest] for ages now, and its one of the hardest I've ever had to write. Its been started and scrapped several times now, because it just doesnt do justice to how we feel right now.

I've figured that, even though I am rubbish at this sort of thing, I just need to get it said... I apologise now for mistakes & general crapness.

What started as a normal thursday night in the Willow yesterday, left both [Youngest] and myself totally and utterly astonished, amazed, overwhelmed & speechless by the generosity, and kindness of you all. In fact, I'm welling up again just thinking about it!! :-) I really dont quite know how to say thanks for the wedding present you gave us yesterday.

To cancel the honeymoon was gutting, but as you all know, Tom's our baby and there was no way we could go and have a happy holiday. All I can really say, is thank you sooooooooooooooooooooo much for the vouchers - we will get something sorted as soon as we we have a better idea of Tom's condition.

And not forgetting the tickets for the Raconteurs gig - when we opened the first card with the details of the gig, we were speechless and overwhelmed by that alone ... that was before we knew about the vouchers.

All that remains is to say that you all really really are the bestest and most kindest bunch of people I've ever come across!!! And extra special thanks to [friend] for sorting it all out :-))))))))))) xxx

Now, I'm off to have another little weep onto my sandwiches, as I've overwhelmed myself again!!!

There are a few people who also need to see this message, who's email address I dont have here at work, so please could someone pass it on for them to see :-)

The biggest ever love and hugs

They sure have got some wonderful friends.

---

And so to current affairs.

Here's question for you. How long do you think it will be before Dubya invades Thailand to restore democracy?

I'll take that as a "never" then shall I?

Speaking of current affairs, Manchester's chock full of HMGs finest getting ready to break some heads (possibly) during this afternoon's anti war march through the streets of the world's first industrial city. The Labour Party's conference is being held in my fair city for the first time and a lot of the locals are severely pissed off with the effect on their daily routine. Streets closed, whole areas deemed "no go" and glowering, dark-suited goons sending a shiver down your spine.

Enjoy your last conference Toneh.

---

Well it looks like the wheels have fallen off City's Premiership campaign already. Out of the Carling Cup after being humiliated by the mighty Chesterfied Never trust a town with a crooked spire.

The tabloids are now talking of "crunch time for Pearce" and predicting the next three games as crucial to his survival. Eldest has got my season ticket for today's West Ham encounter and Dearest and myself will make do with the live screening in the local. I'm not confident. Not confident at all.

+++++UPDATE+++++UPDATE+++++UPDATE+++++ Well, I should've been very confident indeed. We won 2-0 thanks to two fab strikes from Giorgis Samaras and, to put things further into perspective, United were held to a draw by the mighty Reading.

Just When I Needed You Most

The local has finally kissed goodbye to H the landlord for the past 15 years. A staunch City fan, H has allowed his pub to be used as the venue for the local City Supporter’s Club for quite a while. We’ve had visits from players, managers and coaches past and present and generally had a good time. It was a bit of a worry when we discovered he was upping sticks as the prospect of a dyed-in-the-wool Red taking over didn’t bear thinking about.

As it turns out the new bloke seems uninterested in football (as far as I can tell anyway), so I guess the prospect of filling the pub with City folk appeals because his takings will be up. The first football night was the Macedonia v England game and he got a sizable crowd in. In return he provided chicken curry, chips and, bizarrely, sausage. It went down a treat – and England won.

“I’m doing a chili for City’s match against Reading” he told us.

Brilliant.

So, Monday arrives and by 7:30 the tap room is packed to the rafters. The tantalising smell of chili fills the room as the ale is quaffed and the tension mounts.

“C’mon you Blues. Allez les Blues…………..”

7:50. Ten minutes to go to KO. Time for a toilet break and another round.

7:55. Sat in front the largest of the three screens discussing what we should be expecting from the game.

7:58. PPPPHHHHHHHHUUUUUUUUUTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!

Every screen in the room goes blank.

And that was that. No matter what the landlord or the rest of the Sky “experts” did the picture never came back.

8:10. One massive pan of chili, three blank screens and an empty pub.

It’s a fine line the line between success and failure, as I suspect Stuart Pearce told his underachieving bunch of overpaid wasters after the game.

---

Eeeeeeh aren’t the nights drawing in?

Je Ne Regrette Rien

Up where I live we have a forum on t'web that allows us locals to converse with various waifs and strays that have left the locality and ventured to places as far flung as Didsbury and *gulp* that there London. Generally it's a jolly affair with the usual links to bizarre news events and the like. Occasionally friendly banter regarding the various merits (or otherwise) of Manchester City and United - along with shots across the bows from a raggle taggle band of Oldham Athletic aficionados ensues and, generally a good time is had by all.

There is one particular friend of Eldest, Youngest and their mates though, who seems to want to stir things up every time he posts something. Apart from the fact that he is constantly disparaging about the place he left, he gives the impression of sneering at everything and anything that others do or say. Occasionally some of the more outspoken contributors will have a go back at him and he invariably replies with apologies that his remarks were taken out of context and heartfelt regrets. A couple of days later he's back again with a comment here, a veiled put down there. I have a feeling if he still lived in these parts he would no longer be part of the gang.

At the same time the guy is a fairly talented musician and puts together dancy-type tracks featuring repetitive motifs that slowly build to climax before fading out or stopping suddenly. He has stuck a few tracks up on MySpace and has then visited many other sites and adding them to his list of 'friends'. This, naturally has the effect of generating visits to his page and compliments being left about his tracks - usually with entreaties by the authors that he listens to their stuff and comment on it. This, he has interpreted as genuine interest in his stuff. Maybe it is, maybe not. What it most certainly isn't is the "Artic Monkeys" type conquering of the music industry that he thinks it is.

And so, back to the forum. One of the great areas for debate is naturally music. Over the past year or so we have had some thought-provoking discussions and it's good for me as an *ahem* older contributor to read the opinions of those young enough to be my children as well as my children. Whether the young 'uns benefit from my interjections is open to conjecture but there you go.

Anyway, a comment was posted regarding the closure of OLGA, the online guitar archive by the music publishing industry due to the fact that free tablature was available on the site and that was copyright infringement. I replied saying it was sad and reminiscing about the difficulties fledging axe-meisters had in the late 60s trying to get sheet music that was transcribed for guitar and how, if easily-accessible tab had been around my guitar playing would improved imeasurably. Mr Music Man replied saying he didn't play other people's music, it was "boring". He only ever played his own. So a friendly debate ensues. Some of us in favour of the "learning other stuff outside your comfort zone stretches you" school and him. "I create I don't regurgitate" he wrote, and "I'm doing something fresh and new".

"The pompous prick" I thought to myself.

So I wrote a post asking how repetitive motifs that slowly build to climax before fading out or stopping suddenly could be "fresh and new" when everyone from Ravel to the Chemical Brothers - via Steve Reich and many others - had already probably wrung every drop of freshness and newness out of the genre. Sure there's nothing wrong with exploring that particular avenue - and some his stuff is quite good - but to maintain he is at the forefront of some cultural breakthrough is over-egging it a bit.

I was fairly amazed at the nasty personal reply he posted, accusing me of "mocking his music". (Oh purleeeeze let's not play the "sensitive little soul" over this). Letting me know that as I was in my fifties I should know better - whatever that means. So I told him he'd completely missed the point and left it at that. But he wouldn't give up so, in the end I told him I wouldn't be replying to his posts anymore. He then apologised.

But y'know what? He can fuck off.

Still it left me a bit shook up, the idea that he was harbouring those thoughts all along. I must be giving out the wrong signals when I write. Perhaps I'm not conveying what I'm thinking clearly enough. Perhaps I am a bit of twat.

---

Dearest, myself and the shit-machine are off for a few days in the wilds of Northumberland next month. We were considering a romantic cottage tucked under the imposing might of Bamburgh Castle listening to the crackle of a log fire as the autumn tides crash beyond the dunes, but the prices were, frankly, a piss take. We could've taken a family of eight on a continental holiday for four months for a similar outlay. On top of that we were expected to pay for the dog? Now what's that about? £40 a week - what do we get for that? Dog food? No. Perhaps the jolly proprieter nips round each evening for walkies? Errrrr......No.

So we've settled on a caravan near Lindisfarne - £110 for four nights (including £20 for the dog). Not quite the same but, then again, I've not been in a caravan for ages and, after all, it's only a base.

I'm in a bit of a quandary though. I've been searching Flickr for images of the North East and I'm now tempted to do something I would've thought was unthinkable from the moment I acquired my first digital camera: dig out my trusty Pentax K1000 with SMC 35-75 zoom lens and put some good, old-fashioned film in it. Inspiration requires control over aperture and shutter speed and that's just what my Pentax offers. Can't wait to get the film back from Jessops or wherever I take it, although there will be a CD of the images as well. I think I'm going back indeed.

So, Lindisfarne, Bamburgh, Alnwick, Craster, Dunstanburgh Castle, Berwick-on-Tweed and Beadnell here-we-come.

I Think I'm Going Back...........

.........To one of the greatest little bands of all time. And, for the record, Steve Marriott was one of THE voices of the sixties.

Itchycoo......



Tin.........



Lazy...........



Autumn..........



And finally....who remembers "Colour Me Pop"? Late 60's precursor to "Th'Owd Gree Whistle Test". Well here they are (dig the crazee link guy) doing "Song Of a Baker"..............

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Did you see how I never mentioned Ben Thatcher at all then? Did you?

Good, wannit?

Crying in the Chapel

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

The wedding of Youngest and Youngest’s Darlin’ was all that anyone could have wished for. (Well, an added bonus would have been the ability of the Grandparents of the Groom to have made it, but, life’s like that I guess).

Around thirty friends and family made the trip to Zell-am-See with four of us stopping off in Salzburg for a few days sightseeing and getting wet through.

But before we arrived in Austria we had to endure Manchester Airport on full security alert. Scrumptious! First of all we were advised that, apart from essentials (passport, cash etc.,.) all valuables would have to put into hold baggage. Then we were advised to get to the airport at least two hours before we normally would. ie. Four hours before the flight instead of two.

So, that’s what we did. 9:00am we arrived. For a 1:00pm flight. Plenty of time we thought. Half an hour or so to book in, then the long wait in the security queues waiting to have our important little places prodded and probed by those that enjoy such things. Sorted.

Except it wasn’t and we weren’t – sorted I mean. Because the Airline didn’t open their counters until TWO HOURS before departure. Pricks. So, a pleasant time was spent by all, forlornly slouched over suitcases imagining missed flights due to the enhanced measures we knew we had to face once we got to the departure lounge. No explanation for the incorrect information we had received from the inadequate fuckers. No apology. Nothing but blank-faced bureaucratic customer-facing business-speak-bollox all dressed up in the new-found finery of “security”.

We did catch the plane eventually and endured quite a pleasant-ish flight before touching down in Salzburg around 4:30pm. Time for the holiday to begin.

Two hours later and we’re still stood round the baggage carousel waiting for two suitcases that we knew were not going to appear. A woman from another party was waiting for three parcels that she had witnessed being put on the correct baggage trolley back in Manchester. That’s five items missing from one flight. A flight that wasn’t even full. And to make matters worse Eldest’s bag contained the wedding suits for both Eldest and the Groom. And to make matters even worse than worse, Eldest’s bag contained his new camera, mobile and iPod.

Three days of frantic attempts to sort out more suits and get them out to Austria ensued before the missing luggage turned up – minus the new camera, mobile and iPod. Apparently theft was rife around the airports of Britain. Ain’t it nice to know that in times of adversity whereas most will rally round and help each other, there are those who view such times as opportunities to line their own pockets.

Another, and more important, aspect of this whole business lies in the fact that our baggage was tampered with AFTER it had gone through its security checks. Now, as far I am concerned, if you can take something out of a bag, you can also put something in it – can’t you? Or am I just being thick? Either way – it makes a mockery of the whole “security” situation.

---

But enough grouching – justified or otherwise. The wedding itself was magnificent. The Bride glowed, the Groom smiled and the best man didn’t embarrass too many with his speech. A good friend of the couple who couldn’t be there turned up in the shape of a life-size cardboard cut out which was later taken round the flesh pots of Zell-am-See with hilarious consequencies. (That sounds like the blurb from some woeful sitcom).

Austria is just too beautiful. It’s the first time I’ve been, but I’ll be back.

---

And so I returned to see City carry on where they left off last season with yet another loss. I had determined that I wasn’t going to renew my season ticket this year. It was to be my little protest against the rampant commercializing of the game (and club) I love. “The pockets of greedy swine like (enter name of player of your choice) will not be swelled by any of my hard earned cash” I said.

My ticket arrived at the end of July and I’ll once again be sat in my usual seat this Wednesday as David James has the game of his life against his old club.

I’m a man of steel me. A man of steel I tells yer!

Take it Easy

Youngest gets married next week and we all fly out to Salzburg on Saturday. My suit has been fitted, tried and acquired and Dearest's epic quest for the Mother-of-the-Groom dress has finally reached its conclusion. So, what could possibly go wrong?

My achilles heel that's what. On cue the bloody thing decides to rear its ugly head again - reducing me to the armchair, foot up and ice-packed. Anti-inflammatory drugs are being ingested as I write and Dearest's fearsome "you had better be OK for the wedding" (a threat I think not sympathy) should deter any further deterioration. It better improve pretty soon though or else Id hate to be in my shoes (literally).

---

My Dad's back home after his respite and, touch wood, him and my Mam seem to be settling down to a lifestyle they can rub along with even though it's not ideal. The only snag on the horizon is his next appointment to decide whether or not he can take an operation to install a permanent catheter. It seems to me that the strokes occur not long after he's been anaesthetised. Still, he can't carry on with the one he's got now indefinitely so we'll just have to hope for the best.

I tell you what though, all this close proximity to the "social services" has exposed me to the fact that "business-speak-bollox" has infiltrated every area of our lives and deaths. When this is allied with the horrors that modern health and safety legislation requires, we have a potent brew of "we're not allowed" and "that won't be possible". Factor in cost-cutting (one care worker to get my Dad up, washed/showered and dressed whereas a few weeks ago we were assured a minimum of two would be needed n account of H & S again)and you wonder just how the hell folk survive.

Still, as long as it looks good on paper who are we to complain.

---

Well, the football season's started again and already City are confounding me. You see we've actually made some decent signings. Didi Hamaan and Osmana Dabo are intelligent purchases with the added benefit of sounding like a kids TV show in the centre of midfield. The Didi and Dabo Show!! Bernardo Corradi I'm less enthusiastic about as he's well over six foot and, at Eastlands at least, that usually means the long ball and spectators going home with stiff necks. But, we'll have to wait and see, there's a few who still might be leaving yet - Distin and James for example.

I guess congrats are due to JJ - she can look Reidski in the eye safe in the knowledge that Northampton are just above Millwall due to a superior goals scored ratio. The Fat Buddha can also smile to himself after Birmingham kicked off their Championship season with a welcome win.

It won't be long before my Blues take to the pitch in anger once more. Chelsea away.

I think we're gonna kill 'em.

I'll leave you with Jose. Enjoy.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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............

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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.

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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.

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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......

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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!

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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.