Please be upstanding for....The Queen...

Broken

My comments seem to have disappeared. But only for the last post?

Hands Across the Water

Well. So much to tell you and, yet, so little inclination. My four year anniversary as well. The strange thing is that there is so much going on in my life that I should be committing it to paper/screen on a par with Keith Waterhouse. Still.

Dearest and I have just returned from a weekend in Cologne. Curate's egg. 'Nuff said.

My Dad went into Respite on Monday. He's back in Hospital today - blood sugar as low as a low thing listening to "Low" by David Bowie. It's hard.

In other news, I finally got accepted for redundancy. I know I should be over the moon, but I really am very wobbly with this, even though I knew I had no option but to accept the "King's Shilling".

Twenty Eight years it's been since I last had an interview and, as I peruse the classifieds, my bowels loosen more and more. Prelimanary telephone interviews, role-play, presentation-giving after the formal interview..........??????????

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And to top things off TNR has "tagged" me. My five secrets.

Well, first off - and given the synchronicity between myself and my Kilmarnock-supporting alter-ego - I find it truly remarkable that I too was a trainee carpet salesman. Christmas 1971 found me hawking the Axminsters, crap suites and £1.25-a-square-yard-shite on the corner of Princess Street, Moss Side, Manchester.

I had worked there about two weeks over the Xmas period when, one testicle-shrinking, raw afternoon, the 5 foot 2 inch owner ("Piggy Mills") and his 69-year-old-acolyte had to go somewhere. I was "in charge."

Being a long-haired, loon-panted liberal I set about my task with woeful worries about "selling" stuff, surrendering to CAPITALISM and putting the hard-earned of the Proletariat into the pockets of the MAN.

As it was, after three hours I only had one enquiry. A West-Indian couple (still rare in those days: even in Moss Side) entered. They were interested in a three-piece suite they had seen in the window. I showed them the same suite indoors and asked them to try it out. See how it felt etc etc etc etc. I was seventeen! What did I know about selling?

As I struggled with my financial dichotomy Piggy Mills and Bob returned and immediately (and I mean immediately) started screaming some of the most abusive, racist crap I've ever, ever heard in my life. All of it along the lines of " get out you b*l*a*c*k s*c*u*m": "We don't serve your kind in here........."

I got a right bollocking.

I told him to stick his job up his tiny arse.

It was a fucking long walk home from Moss Side to North Manchester.

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Dearest and I called off our big church wedding two hours before it should have happened. People had come from all over the world. We got married in a Registry office a month or two later.

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I was once convicted of "chicken rustling". Already dead.

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I was once propostioned by a twenty-five stone bloke who offered me a fiver (a lot of money in 1972) for a "play around". Brought up proper-like, I answered "not tonight thanks" and ran for my life.

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And finally, as I have written before, I'm fairly convinced that Hindley and Brady picked me up in their car circa 1965. It was always a vague memory, but what brought it home was the fact that, watching a documentary on it a few months ago, I realised that Brady didn't drive and the couple who picked me up were odd because the woman drove. I'm sure I only escaped because the gates at Clayton Bridge Railway crossing shut and I opened the door and ran and ran and ran and ran.........

It was years later when the significance hit me. Here's my originaql post:-

Sometime in 1965 at the tender age of 11 I stupidly got into a car with a man and a blonde woman after they had stopped and asked me for directions. I couldn't explain properly - or so they said - so they asked if I'd show them. Adults you see, in those days you were taught to be polite to them and, well the polite thing to do was to comply with their request. The minute we moved off I realised to idiocy of what I was doing and I become very scared. Neither of them spoke to me as we drove along. It was only afterwards I remembered that they supposedly hadn't known where to go. Fortunately for me we came to a level-crossing and a train was coming. We stopped and I quickly opened the door and ran and ran and ran.

Are you Happy now TNR? :-)

When I was a kid, me and my mate Graham adored Ancient Romans and Greeks. Our favourite though was Leonidas and the three hundred Spartans. Quality story (and true to boot). As we left the Matinee, our duffle coats flapped wildly behind our pre-pubecsent frames. Heaven.

I was looking forward to seeing the new interpretation - "300" - until I watched the trailer and Leonidas is heard saying "we're in for a wild night tonight".

WTF?

"Fuck me, they're Persian. D'you reckon they've got Kebabs???"

USA, for fuck's sake sake make an effort.

Let Us Pause In Life's Troubles.....

Some pretty famous faces in there, all performing a Stephen Foster song from the 1850s.

There is reason why some songs last so long.

Incidentally, Seth Lakeman was the DOG'S BOLLOCKS.

Lay me Grace and Bake me Pie I'm Starvin' for me Gravy....."

Dearest and I went to visit my Dad today. Back in hospital he is and not really very well. We arrived and eventually found him fast asleep. So, what do you do? Slope off or wake him? We decided to wake him and I have to say he was not 100%. He talked vague bollocks for a good 5 minutes. Mind you, I've accused him of talking vague bollocks for the past 15 years or so.

He doesn't read, watch TV or listen to the radio/walkman any more. He struggles to remember words, family names, days of the week.........

Eventually I started quizzing him about Germany. I spent one afternoon in the place when we all went to the World Cup from Amsterdam. I was that impressed I booked a weekend there for Dearest and I.

"You've been to Germany haven't you Dad" I quizzed.

"No not me. Never been".

"Yes you have - Dearest and I gave you a trip down the Rhine as a pressie for your Golden Wedding Anniversary".

"Oh aye. Yes...that fat bloke Manfred who owned the hotel.............................................. ......................................" End of conversation.

I just hope he has fabulous dreams because it seems he sleeps 15 - 20 hours a day.

Life....go easy on me. Love, don't pass me by.

Does it really "come to us all?"

How Can This Be Love?

I've just returned from the "Theatre of Base Comedy" (© Stuart Hall, City fan and BBC broadcaster) as angry about a mere "game" of football as I've ever been in my life. I've just heard Stuart "I'm a Patriot me" Pearce's blasé post-match interview. Who the fuck does he think he is? I'll tell you what is: a clueless, here-today-gone-tomorrow undergraduate at the Manchester City Academy for footballing under-achievers.

Mr Pearce that was CRAP!!! Reading at home - and we play 3-5-2 with no width and a baffling reliance on the long ball. Samaras played like he didn't know what a football was. £6 million and he falls over the ball instead of kicking it. Vassell? How many more chances does he need? Dabo? What is he for? Beasley? Overpaid, over-hyped and over-here. It was that bad that, when it started getting foggy I was praying for the ref to blow the whistle and call it off. It was a farce.

I fear another relegation battle come April and May. It is written. Our last home game of the season is against the Red hordes from Salford - a Wayne Rooney back heel into Weaver's net and down we go as United secure the necessary points to clinch the title after a late surge from Chelsea and Liverpool. IT IS WRITTEN.

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On the left you can see the little bit of public art commissioned by Manchester City Council to commemorate the Commonwealth Games of 2002. I took this pic this afternoon just before the debacle referred to above from one of the spiral walkways at Eastlands. Directly to the left is the area where Manchester's "Super-Casino" is to be built in the next few years. It's going to regenerate the area apparently. Again. I say again because the area has been regenerated to death over the past few years and it is still referred to as "one of the most deprived areas in the UK".

Are we allowed to say "Regeneration isn't working"? I was privy - at a very early stage - to some of the meetings of politicians, businessmen and women, faith leaders and educators involved in the embryonic grand plan for East Manchester. An East Manchester that, at the time, was best described as decaying. An area full of dying heavy industries, demolition and sink estates.

Now, OK, these days that same area has a world-class velodrome, football stadium, tennis centre, athletics track, 24 hour ASDA Wal-Mart and a few other bits of businesses unconnected to the "SportCity" that now occupies the site of Manchester Steel and Bradford Pit. But could it be that local folk aren't employed there? Possibly because they lack the skills to do so? Could it be that these businesses and services are managed by commuters from places like Wilmslow, Didsbury and Saddleworth? Even the minimum wage jobs are taken by foreign students with a minimal grasp of the language. The sink estates have been tidied up and repaired but the communities in them would still appear to prefer the "Social" or petty theft and drug dealing to get them through.

Regeneration benefits nobody but Big Business and the smug ego-driven politicians who climb into bed with them in order to get their face on the TV and a cushy little number once their political careers are over. It seems to me that some areas are in danger of being regenerated to death. The same will happen in East Manchester - more and more of the upwardly mobile will move into the newly thrown up "City centre apartments" (at £750,000 or so) - and the poor will have to find somewhere else to live.

Still, a casino. That'll be nice.

I Keep Singing The Same Old Song

I see Tony has given the Catholic adoption agencies a couple of years to stop discriminating against Gays. In the meantime I presume it's OK to kick out applications for gay adoption, requests to book the Church Hall for a Gay disco or, God-forbid, a civil wedding. Cardinal Cormac Murphy-O'Connor said he was disappointed, but said he hoped there might still be some way the agencies could "continue their work".

I can't see how Mr Murphy-O'Connor, I really can't. After all it's the WORD OF GOD isn't it? I don't think there's a grey area that allows you to challenge what the Lord hath forbidden.

Mind you, with a bit of thought you could perhaps ditch this particular command - after all if you can make limbo disappear I reckon you can do anything. And there is a precedent - you completely ignore Our Father when it comes to eating shellfish, wearing different fabrics at the same time and stoning adulterers to death so I guess you'll be able to mealy-mouth your way around this as the months drag by.

The be-frocked apologist went on to add "the move risked forcing religious people out of public life"

Well here's hoping Cormac. Here's hoping. We could start with Tony and Ruth.

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It's amazing how this unholy trinity of Chavdom are all claiming that Endemol/Channel4 edited Celebrity Big Brother to make them look like the boorish, ill-educated arseholes that they actually are. Foul-mouthed, uncouth, bullying and, yes, racist.

With a bit of luck they will all drift into the obscurity they obviously deserve, the obscurity that evidently frightens the life out of them.

Ken Russell got it right - along with the so-called punk rocker: in came the Goody family and out they went - sharpish.

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Some pleasant bastard scratched practically every car on our side of the street the other night - including mine and Dearest's. Now I can understand burglary, theft and the like. I can appreciate the fact that, at the end of it, the burglar has something tangible, and usually useful, to show for his or hers efforts. But mindless vandalism? I don't get it. I'd actually punish it far more than the other crimes (which usually involve drug-addiction anyway). Tie 'em to a lamppsot with barbed-wire and invite the local community to abuse their human-rights for a week or two.

That'll learn 'em.

They Call it Stormy Monday

Haiku time.......

I am still alive
Though pissed off and downhearted
Wish it was Friday

The Pretty Things are going to Hell

I see the God-botherers are out and about again. I like the fact that denying them the freedom to deny others their freedom is denying them their freedom. It's an odd world the religious one. It must take all your time up just running around making sure nobody is being offensive to God. It must be really hard finding folk who are just sat there, on their own, being quietly homosexual and visiting the wrath of a vengeful God on them. I'd be knackered at the end of the day I can tell yer.

It's funny how they only trot out "what the Bible says" when they want their prejudices supporting though isn't it? I don't see any of the smug fuckers campaigning to ban shellfish. And they should, for, as stated in Leviticus 11:9-12:

9 These shall ye eat of all that are in the waters: whatsoever hath fins and scales in the waters, in the seas, and in the rivers, them shall ye eat.

10 And all that have not fins and scales in the seas, and in the rivers, of all that move in the waters, and of any living thing which is in the waters, they shall be an abomination unto you:

11 They shall be even an abomination unto you; ye shall not eat of their flesh, but ye shall have their carcases in abomination.

12 Whatsoever hath no fins nor scales in the waters, that shall be an abomination unto you.

Deuteronomy also:

9 These ye shall eat of all that are in the waters: all that have fins and scales shall ye eat:

10 And whatsoever hath not fins and scales ye may not eat; it is unclean unto you.<

So, that takes care of prawns, lobster, crab, cockles, winkles and I guess angels on horseback won't be gracing the tables at any evangelical gala luncheons in the near future. I don't see any demos outside fishmongers though - or perhaps I missed them?

Similarly I haven't seen hordes of believers outside Marks and Spencer protesting against people who wear clothes made of more than one fabric (Leviticus 19:19) a habit that I personally find absolutely disgusting. (Honest!)

Still it's nice to be able to pick and choose your "Laws of God" isn't it?

The oleaginous, smug pricks.

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Speaking of oleaginous, smug pricks, I see everyone's favourite celice-wearer is back in the headlines and brazenly swanning around in differing fabrics to boot. Rumour also has it that, to add insult to injury, the occasional prawn cocktail has slipped down her blasphemous throat.

Still God helps those that help themselves as some rich twat once said.

It's the hypocrisy I can't take. From Blair, Dianne Abbott, Lord Falconer, Keith Bradley, Harriet Harmon and many others. "Do as I say not as I do". Just like the Tories over a decade ago. Seriously, if Cameron can get his act and his Party together there could be a very interesting General Election in the offing next time round.

I still blame Thatcher though.

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"I may not have succeeded in halting the war, but I did secure the right of Parliament to decide on war," reads the headstone of the late Livingston MP Robin Cook. It's hard to remember a time when politicians with something to lose still held on to their convictions and sacrificed their careers in the face of it.

Just think, had he lived he could be sat on the backbenches still saying "I told you so" at every opportunity.

You Can Never Hold Back Spring

See that? On the left? Well, that's my Album Of The Year!!

Not Springsteen - although, for me, he was a CLOSE second. Certainly not Dylan - although the initial euphoria made me hope and pray - and, perhaps, invest too much "genius" into, what is essentially an old man singing and playing basic blues, in the end I had to accept it for what it was.

Perhaps in a few years the "proper" music critics will realise that the very wonderful 1st volume of "Chronicles" does not necessarily mean a great album will follow. We'll see.

The Waits' album though is a mishmash of tear-jerkers, rockers, sea shanties, Kurt Weil-like ruminations and general Tom-ness. Youngest and Mrs Youngest bought it for me and I can't explain just how receptive I am to the bitter-sweet gorgeousness that is Mr Waits, when he's on form. Bar room ballads accompanied by accordians, wheezing harmoniums, banjos, overstrung pianos, guitars, brass, mandolins, ramshackle percussion and a voice like "sand and glue".

What more could you ask for?

Incidentally, he's been "on-form" most of his entire life.

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They also bought us tickets to see Seth Lakeman in February. I haven't heard that much - but what I have I like. Looking forward to it.

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Eldest and his newly acquired Geordie "proto-Mrs Eldest" presented me with Shaun Goater's autobiography, a Tommy Cooper DVD (I've always loved him) and this:-

Woodstock! The Director's cut! An extra 40 minutes of "brand new footage".

Sadly the Hendrix footage exacerbates his poor performance. The Who though, once again shine through - what a fucking band they were!

1969 (I think?) The Who were playing The Free Trade Hall in Manchester. My mate and I had tickets. To say we were looking forward to it was an understatement. It was The Who in their pomp. "Tommy", "The Who Sell Out", plus all the hits.........

My mate though, decides that strong drink will be needed and, as we were only sixteen at the time, Whisky Mac (probably 14% proof - a combination of Whisky and Green Ginger Ale) was the ideal pre-gig tipple.

"Fuck off Graham" I replied when he proferred the syrupy shite, "I've come to watch the band, not end up vomiting all over the audience."

Graham was not to be deterred though as he had renounced society - what with his waist-length blond hair, his Victorian drummer boy's jacket (purchased a few month's earlier on our first trip to Portobello Road) and his packing in of school that very term.

So, as we trundled towards the centre of Manchester on the 76, this scourge of the establishment downs the full bottle.

Miraculously, it appeared he was OK by the time we reached the guy on the doors of the venerable Hall, and this is after a walk of half-a-mile from Piccadilly to the Fields of Peterloo. We edged through the crowds of infinitely older, trendier folk than us. Up and up and up and up and up and up. The Gods they call it. They should've called it something mountainous. I got vertigo and I was sober. God knows what Timothy Leary's Acolyte - in his Hippie zenith experienced.

I can't remember a support act - but it was a long time ago - in fact, I can't find a reference to this gig anywhere on the net. Could it have been a year later or earlier? A different gig? At the Free Trade Hall? I doubt it. Although it was a terrifically long time ago.

Anyway - I remember The Who coming on stage to rapturous applause. I remember (I think) power chords from Townshend. I certainly remember my " best friend" saying "I'm gonna be sick".

We were sat in seats angled at 45 degrees almost. When it came it drenched ten to twenty seats in front us us. I slammed his exploding head down into the footwell. He was strong with the strength that drink-induced projectile-vomiting bestows. Up it came. Time and time and time again. The more I forced his miniscule pate down, the more he reappeared and the more the audience were sprayed.

I don't know how we got out alive - all I know is I wasted my ticket. A ticket I had queued up for hours for.

Years later my "mate" ended up inside for dealing. Like a prick I still visited him in one of Her Majesty's finest.

The hedonistic twat nearly got me arrested but, being the loyal fucker I tend to be.......I still never thought he was takin' the piss. After all, smoking a joint in full view of the guards during a visit was perfectly natural in his world by then - and which "screw" would admit that dope was rife in the establishment he was passing time in?

Until the woman he called his "partner" - the same one I picked up and drove a 400 mile round trip weekend after weekend (with no offer of "petrol money") to see him in his cell - OD'd not long after he was released.

Soon after he phoned up and asked if he could live in my loft.

"You won't know I'm there" he reasoned.

"And where are you going to shit, shave, piss and cook Graham?"

When you have a wife, two kids under the age of fifteen, a job and a mortgage, self-indulgent druggies like the best-mate-I-first-met-on-my-first-day-at-school need to be dropped like stones.

He really did have an intelligence about him that I think a hell of a lot of Grammar School kids from the 60s who ended up doing degrees had. How they dealt with it in the years that followed was another matter. Glass ceilings, Monty Python:-



Happy New Year everbody....Everwhere.....

Gone

I've just noticed that the last post before one has been overwritten by the last post. I presume it was an oversight on my part.

And You And I.....

I have a "moleskine" that I jot and draw in because, these days, the World is tilting on its axis so far that I'm finding it hard to hang on. Consequently these pages are getting neglected. Sorry. But, there ya go!

I think that the decision has been made that my Dad - MY DAD! Is going to have to go into a home. He is beyond the world the rest of us live in. He's in pain and my Mam isn't strong enough to pick him up, never mind pick him up and wipe his arse at the same time. I get calls most days to come and pick him up - it's making me inefibly sad to see him. Gaunt, devoid of joy. Incontinent. Moribund.

All these emotions are heightened by the disgrace that is Xmas. Enforced fuckin' jollity - wall to wall. I HATE IT! I did before - but the ability of it to EMPHASISE the shite in folks' lives makes me hate it even more. It's not religion though - I'll give you that. It's Capitalism, red, in tooth and claw.

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And, so....onto The Pogues at the MEN Arena 16th Dec 2006. (Supported by the Saw Doctors). We started off 'round the European Markets in the centre of Manchester. We ate Moroccan at a great stall down Brazenose Street - not far from the statue of Abraham Lincoln. Chicken breast, onion, tomatoes, peas, spices avec salad, garlic sauce and pitta bread - all for £3.50 and all of it wonderful.

We then perambulated towards the MEN Arena. Where we first encountered the piss-poor sound while the Saw Doctors were on. Although, for both Doctors and The Pogues, I don't think the "sound" was the primary concern.

All the crowd were interested in was jigging and crowd-surfing. But, for those of us who were brought up on the music it was a grave disappointment. The place is too big for the nuances of any music - apart from, perhaps, Meatloaf or Grand Funk Railroad. Celtic traditional music - in my opinion - suffers more than most in the huge arena. That and the insidious marketing of all things Irish, from bars to bodhrans, reduces everything to the "Craic". Magnify that a thousandfold and the whole thing becomes a pissed up 17 year-old's idea of heaven. Everything else dies on the vine.

A gig to forget. Although Dearest enjoyed herself thoroughly. She quite rightly ditched me to go dancin' in the seats behind with some classy Tipperary women.

Shane MacGowan - peacock-chested with his new teeth - constantly staggered off the stage and left the rest of the band to fill in. Without MacGowan and his his songs, that band is average. The highlights were:-

The Broad Majestic Shannon

A Pair Of Brown Eyes

A Rainy Night in Soho (magnificent)

Dirty Ol' Town

And, obviously, "A Fairytale of New York". Jem Finer's daughter - sister - wife - cousin.....well, her second name was Finer - sang the Kirsty MacColl bit as the fake snow fell and the everyone (well almost everyone) held their mobile phones aloft in a strangely Sci-Fi pastiche of the lighters of days gone by.

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Over the weekend I have read Joe Boyd's wonderful autobiography "White Bicycles".

Now, this man has been one of my heroes since the late sixties. He produced Nick Drake, John Martyn, Richard Thompson, Fairport Convention and many other Island recording stars. Witchseason Productions - who remembers that logo?

What I didn't know was that the Ivy League educated hipster had organised concerts by the likes of Lonnie Johnson and the Rev Gary Davis out of his own pocket for a few friends - who all chipped in - when he was about 17!. He ended up - straight from college organising a European tour of blues greats in the early 60s. Muddy Waters, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, Brownie McGhee and Sonny Terry. Later he was a tour manager for the likes of Roland Kirk, Dudu Pukwana, Coleman Hawkins and John Lee Hooker. He worked with Duke Ellington!!

When he finally shipped up in Britain at the tail-end of austerity, he fell-in with the Watersons, Martin Carthiy, Anne Briggs, Paul Simon and many, many others.

I've loved his roster of artists from the first time I heard them, but I never knew that he was sound engineer who didn't turn it down in the face of Pete Seegar and Theodore Bikel's "requests" at the Newport Jazz and Folk Festival 1964 as Dylan appeared on stage with his electric band.

Respect Mr Boyd. Respect.

Buy it now:-

"The best book I've read about music in years" - Brian Eno

"Fascinating, capturing and enthralling - what a life, and what a way to write it" - Charlie Gillett

And. Crucially.

"Joe Boyd knows" - Kate Bush.

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

First, the good news. This evil twat has finally popped his clogs.

Y'know, it's at times like this I wish I believed. Because I'd love to think this bastard was roasting in hell.

I would also love to imagine this porcine fucker being momentarliy reunited with Victor Jara before he said Hi to the fire and brimstone. Pinochet that is - not Victor.

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So, you sit there thinking all's well with the world.

Two hours later and a significant group of people have voted the Queen's grandaughter as "Sports Personality of the Year".

What a fuckin' joke! I hope the Beeb is hanging its head in shame.

I hope Zara Phillips has the humility to realise and accept what's going on.

She leads a molly-coddled life. True sportspeople of the year have struggled against adversity.

Who the fuck voted for her?

Seriously though, don't you think it's scary?

Pastaman Vibration

I've found religion.

Big. Time.

Now I too can take comfort in a belief system every bit as ludicrous as Christianity, Islam, Judaesm and all the rest of the metaphysical mumbo-jumbo. I too can adopt a smug, self righteous, "knowing" smirk when confronted with non-believers.

Y'know I never thought it would happen. I was always a rational soul who sneered at the medievil nonsense spouted by Rabbis, Bishops, Imams and Popes alike. It just goes to show - the Creator does move in mysterious ways. Praise be.

Furthermore, not only have I seen the light but I've actively converted a number of people to my religion. They have adopted its teachings wholeheartedly and, in at least one case, have bought the t-shirt.

For I have become a Pastafarian.

Us Pastafarians believe that an invisible and undetectable Flying Spaghetti Monster created the universe, including a mountain, trees and a midget. Pastafarian heaven has beer volcanoes as far as the eye can see and stripper factories.

All evidence for evolution was planted by the Flying Spaghetti Monster. The FSM tests Pastafarians' faith by making things look older than they are. For example, a scientist may perform a carbon-dating process on an artifact. He finds that approximately 75% of the Carbon-14 has decayed by electron emission to Nitrogen-14, and infers that this artifact is approximately 11,000 years old, as the half-life of Carbon-14 appears to be 5,730 years. But what our scientist does not realize is that every time he makes a measurement, the Flying Spaghetti Monster is there changing the results with His Noodly Appendage. We have numerous texts that describe in detail how this can be possible and the reasons why He does this. He is of course invisible and can pass through normal matter with ease.

According to the Pastafarian belief system, pirates are "absolute divine beings" and the original Pastafarians. Their image as "thieves and outcasts" is misinformation spread by Christian theologians in the Middle Ages. Pastafarianism says that they were in fact "peace-loving explorers and spreaders of good will" who distributed candy to children.

As the Pirates' numbers have decreased over the centuries, we can observe a corresponding increase in Global Warming. Ergo an increase in pirates will stem and eventually pull back global warming.

It all sounds good to me - and it does make a serious point. See the Flying Spaghetti Monster page on Wikipedia to get the full facts and, who knows you too could be "touched by His noodly appendage".

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In other news I've just booked a weekend in Cologne as a birthday treat for Dearest. £70 foor two return flights and 185 euros for a basic double bedroom in a central hotel.

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A couple of the blogs I peruse have become "infected" with cowardly twats leaving anonymous derogatory comments. Both Yorkshire Pudding and Demob Happy Teacher have been affected. Why? What's the point? If I was that brassed off with the content of a blog (rather than, say, the Government, World Poverty, Global Warming or even Jeremy Kyle) I'd have to question my existence. If I was that brassed off and I didn't have enough courage to even semi-identify myself, I think I would just crawl under a rock and die.

There's a nice guy from Scotland who v-blogs on YouTube who, this very week has opened his mouth on this very issue - although, to be fair, it's not as anonymous on video. Nevertheless there are still a significant number of humans making the effort to slag folk off. What on Earth do you think they gain?

Have a listen to Mr PeriUrban:-

Woke up this mornin'

This morning I had to phone our help desk in India. Cue automated voice telling me that I would have to wait for three minutes as all their operatives were currently busy.

Enter the "on hold" music. Later I began to realise that I was listening to an album of tunes from the cinema - on permanent loop.

It was just unfortunate that the first tune I heard was the THAT theme from Psycho!

Scraping, high-pitched fiddles bashing out an atonal racket is just the job early on a Monday after a night in t'Willer I can tell you.

Sometimes you just can't win.

Meddle

Blues in the morning.......Blues at the break of day.



Right, I'm off to watch the match in the local and binge drink.

Blue is the Colour....

Here's the Blues warm up I usually do before stretching my digits. A couple of slightly fluffed notes but what do you expect? It's a warm up. Heh!



Eeee I love the Blues.

I must admit though, I look a miserable bugger - even though my heart's singin' 'cos I'm playing the Blues. Now, I must admit, my interpretation is a little restricted in scope but, hey, that' life.

I'm just grateful I can string two chords together.

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I guess Dubya's been listening to mournful C & W all evening, what with the crushing blow to his neo-con outlook on Life, The Universe and Everything.

Or maybe him and Rummy have been duetting some deep Delta stuff while Condi sings of broken hearts and bad livers. Who knows.

All I Want For Christmas Is A Dukla Prague Away Kit

A mate of my Dad's died a few weeks ago. Bob. I suppose I knew him for 20 years or so. A cheerful soul who worshipped Manchester City with a passion. Sky blue and white flowers on his coffin. A serious supporter. On the odd occasion I saw him he would spout forth on the shortcomings of the present team - a team that could never ever again recapture the glory years of the mid fifties and the late sixties. Bob was also an enthusiastic amateur footballer in his day. I knew this from the discussions I had had with him over the years. He bemoaned the lack of physical contact in today's game. "It's girl's game nowadays" he would pronounce after his third pint of mild. "What's wrong with a well-executed shoulder charge? It used to be allowed once. Not today though."

Bob blamed the foreign influence on our modern game but did concede that the NHS was stretched enough as it was without weekend influxes of football-related injuries.

At Bob's funeral we learned just how much of an avid proponent Bob was of the "physical game" during his illustrious amateur footballing career.

The Vicar spake thus:

"Bob was an enthustiastic member of any team he played for. In those days - back in the forties and fifties - Bob's hair was a shock of ginger. This led to his sobriquet "Dirty Ginger Bob" for he was, indeed, possibly the dirtiest player ever to grace the amateur leagues of the North West."

The Vicar went on to speculate that there could possibly be folk out there still sporting scar tissue as a result of a tussle with Bob.

I guess if you're going to leave your mark, scar tissue's as good a way as any.

Give God a kick from me Bob.

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This was huge back in 1975 - certainly where I lived anyway. Poor old Stefan. I always reckoned that because he was "different" the police didn't look for anyone else - a typical case of "fitting" someone up to fit the crime instead of getting off their fat arses and finding the real culprit.

Not long before 1975 he would have swung. As it happens he lost sixteen years of his life and died a year after his release. Tragic.

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I don't know if anyone remembers the little chav/scrote/ned/prick I caught three years back? Y'know the one who was trying to put a firework in the post box that I had just posted Dearest's sick note after her major surgery. Well, Sunday Dearest and I set off for our traditional early evening drinky-poos with our friends, "Ahh I'll post my Amazon DVD Rental disc on the way to the pub."

An hour or so later we noticed a Fire Engine's flashing lights quite close but paid no heed as we caroused, joked and quaffed.

Later, as we walked home we passed the post box and noticed a hell of a lot of water round it on what was a clear night.

Sure enough I've had it confirmed that Amazon haven't received the disk. Melted. Gone.

Twats.

Flesh and Blood

A few notes to accompany this technological breakthrough. Me. Live on t'Web. Who'd a thunk it? I'm obviously a bit pink-cheeked but, there you go. Dearest and I had just watched "Frost" with a bottle of wine. (Stowells Red actually and I drank most of it).

"Latency" = The time difference between hitting a note on the keyboard (or any other instrument) and the sound coming out of the PC, sound module......whatever.

In the background you can see: over my right shoulder: the beer fridge and, over my left: the top of my Manchester City Poster.

N-Track is a marvellously cheap piece of software. Check it out at www.fasoft.com. I've been singing its praises far and wide but cool dudes seem to think that you have to spend a fortune on stuff like Cubase, Logic, Sonar and the rest in order to make something semi-decent. Pricks.

The scars on my forehead are the result of being hit in the face with a pint pot back in 1972. Never try to have a "debate" with a psychopath.

I quite enjoyed doing this and I might just do it again.

Cheery bye everyone..........

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".