Too much information

I'm coming to the end of my first long weekend for ten weeks. Consequently I'm as depressed as depressed can be. Never let me forget just how much I hate this job. Never. And tomorrow? Rain. Heavy at times, but always there. Unremitting, soaking, dispiriting fucking rain.

Still, chin up.

"Oh mother tell your children
Not to do what I have done
Spend your lives in sin and misery
Posting junkmail as a pissed-off postman"

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I have been tentatively offered a job (that I can't do and I told them at the beginning of the interview I couldn't do), with a profoundly ploddish and dock-greened institution. After the main interviewer outlined the job on offer, I had to hold my hands up and say "I'm sorry but there's been a misunderstanding here, I may have read your advertisement wrong (I hadn't), but I don't want to waste any more of your time. I have no experience of administering Oracle databases; I thought I was here to be interviewed for a basic 2nd or 3rd line IT support role with experience of databases in general?"

"Errrrr....O.....Kayyyyy.......Hmmmmmm, well, let's do the interview anyway and see how we both feel at the end. What is your understanding of 'diversity'?"

An hour and half later I walked out into the beautiful Mancunian incessant rain and thought "well, no chance."

A week later I get a letter saying I was successful - subject to the vetting of my ENTIRE family - including my dead father and my feckless, criminal-record-as-long-as-your-arm brother.

So, we'll see. In the meantime......"Postman Pat, Postman Pat, Postman Pat and his black and white cat............."

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In the meantime, that pic of books to read above shows just what I need to do to get back up to speed with the technological malarkey required to shuffle through a typical day in IT support - wherever that support is required.

Ho hum!

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Balloons. Manchester City. Cock ups. What can you say? The urge for City fans is to say "typical City" - that's almost become Mantra over the years. Whatever can go wrong WILL go wrong. Roll on the "minute's silence".

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A few more pics. Thanks for all your kind comments.


Old bridge at a local beauty spot.


I have been dreaming a lot about trees just recently. Why? I haven't goat a clue. Any dream-analysts out there?


Fast car.


Shop window, Manchester January 2008.


As a kid I used to love reading these at junior school. Exotic, full colour photographs that took your breath away. As well as the superb photography there was also the opportunity to view bare breasted women from around the Empire. A fabulous combination of education and voyeurism. I was only 11.

Just Walkin' in the Rain

I'm getting very angry about the "predicted" disruption of the minute's silence at the Manchester Derby next month. The media are discussing it like it's already happened. It hasn't. Perhaps it will happen. Perhaps not, But can we stop reporting it as though it already has? Furthermore, can we stop the pious nonsense coming from every commentator, journalist and "spokesman" about the "need" to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the Munich disaster.

It could be remembered with dignity in a reserved way without all the brouhaha and media circus. It could be something other than the commercial money spinner that it has evolved into.

I was four when the tragedy occurred so it didn't really affect me at the time but, as I grew and morphed into a City fan, I often used to try to imagine how I would have felt if my beloved team of the late 60s had met a similar fate? Colin Bell, Mike Summerbee, Neil Young, Tony Book, Glyn Pardoe, Alan Oakes, Joe Corrigan gone. Cut down in their prime. As it happens we did lose a great City player in that plane crash. Frank Swift was a giant of a man who was City's goalkeeper for 17 years or so. He also represented England. By 1958 he was sports journalist for the News of the World and was with United as they boarded on that fateful day. We also almost lost another ex-City player in Matt Busby. The sad thing is IF the silence is broken, it'll be broken by somebody who wasn't even alive during the event being remembered. I'll tell you this much; if some chavved-up dickhead started disrupting the minute's silence if it was for Bell, Summerbee et al I think I'd quite cheerfully kill him or her.

Just like if I was a Leeds United fan and Manchester United or Liverpool "supporters" started singing about Turks with knives. Just like I would if I was a Liverpool fan and Manchester United "supporters" started singing about Hillsborough. Hypocrisy.

Death transcends football. Always has and always will. Shankly was wrong.

Sadly commerce transcends football as well and that's what leaves the sour taste in my mouth regarding this whole sorry business. For there can be no doubt that Big Business is rubbing its hands together as the Glazer machine ups the ante on the Munich disaster. There's quite a lot of anger in Manchester about the fact that United's sponsors AIG have their logo spattered all over anything to do with the 50th anniversary celebration remembrance. A United spokesman called it "entirely appropriate" that the logo should be there. And quite right too. A brilliant marketing tie in there. I mean plane crashes and insurance companies. A match made in Heaven?

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In other news part of me was gobsmacked that this could be even considered in the early 21st century, but on the other hand it is religion so perhaps I shouldn't be too shocked.

"Plans to exhume Padre Pio - one of Italy's most popular saints - on the 40th anniversary of his death have been attacked by relatives and followers. Church authorities say they want to display the body for veneration by the faithful for several months from April."

I ask yer. The man's only been dead forty years or so - would you go and see him? Morbid, God-botherin' arseholes.

Oh, and get this:-

"The hands of the saint, who lived to the age of 81, often bled copiously. His followers said he bore the wounds of the crucified Christ."

How did he manage that then? Did he go to the doctors? "Doc my hands keep bleeding copiously what the hell do you think it could be?"

"I think you are either a)regularly sticking nails in them when no one is looking or b)God is attempting to communicate with mankind via the obvious portal of your paws."

On a similar theme. Can you believe this.

(via Alastair's Heart Monitor)

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Right, I'll sign off with a few pics again.


Going home. Manchester January 2008


The Manchester Wheel. January 2008


Beneath the Wheel in the rain. Manchester 2008.


Manchester January 2008


The library back entrance with selective colour. Manchester January 2008.


Never pontificate with a pigeon on your pate.


By the Cathedral in the rain. Manchester January 2008

That's all folks!

Happiness is Easy

Howdy doody everybody. Am I back? Who knows. I am today at least. So we'll see how it goes. It's been a hard few months with brief moments of optimism so I've not really been in a mood for spouting nonsense on t'Internet.

I'm just glad the "festive season" has finally fucked off. This year has been particularly difficult but I've done it now and hopefully I can move on. I've been worried sick about my Mam's ability to cope with her first Xmas without my Dad but, fortunately/unfortunately, her disintegrating mind has allowed most of it to wash over her. Today she's had a call from her brother in South Africa to go and stay with him for a few weeks so she's perked up a bit at that.

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I'm still a part time postman and I still fucking hate it. What an institutionalised management style they have in the Royal Mail Group. Here's an example:-

"I will be needing a day off sometime in January, what's the procedure?"

"You come and see me and I'll tell you if you can have the day off or not."

I made a mental note to phone in sick as I stared into the power-mad face of the managerial - and indeed social - inadequate. The man's a fucking buffoon. What do you think he thought he'd achieved with that reply? It was the first time I'd ever spoken to him. It was a basic, general query about a basic necessity of ALL employees. Why did he feel the need to demonstrate his "power"? Why the aggressive response? Why the flicker of a smirk playing around the corners of his lips?

Because he's what happens when you promote some fucker beyond his abilities. Believe me The Royal Mail Group is full of 'em. Self-important "overseers" who bellow orders at those at the bottom of the ladder and then stand there watching the work being done without pitching in themselves. Fred Engels would've recognised the working environment I now find myself in. Honestly.

But I can't leave until I get something else. I can't just walk out or I'll be picking up bad references and the stigma that attaches itself to those who just stick up two fingers and bugger off. I have a few irons in the fire but it'll be a few weeks before any of them become potential get outs. Here's hoping.

Once I've sorted my mail and got out of the sorting office though, life isn't so bad. Some days I walk round with the iPod on, set to "shuffle" and an instruction to listen to everything - regardless of what it is. Some days I just get pissed wet through. Other days freezing cold. Most days knackered.

On the plus side I'm a hell of a lot fitter - walking 6 to 8 miles a day and having a two week break from drink - I've lost nearly 2 stone in 6 weeks. It's costing me a fortune in new clothes though. But on the whole it's still better than sitting at home all day doing fuck all.

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I'm enjoying my music again and have seen a few good bands over the past few weeks. Tunng I especially enjoyed. Sigur Ross's new "LP" is a constant on t'iPod and I'm discovering a band from my hometown who are massive on the continent - Puressence. Youngest was at school with the lead singer and was at the local, small and intimate gig they did just before New Year at a local dive. Lead singer James Mudrickzi has invited to sing along side Leonard Cohen and Rufus Wainwright in the spring Judy Collins tribute in the US. He's got a fabulous voice and he is extremely honoured and blown away by the invite.

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And finally......it's photography time again. Eeeeee I love this Pentax K100D DSLR. I'm thinking of setting up a proper photoblog but until or if I do I'll stick the ones I like best on here. So, here you go:-



Manchester at sunset. December 2007.



A street of "social housing", 5 minutes walk from the centre of Manchester.



Table lamps on one of the European stalls in St Ann's Square, Manchester.



Billy Bragg at the Manchester Central. December 2007.



In Manchester the streets are paved with gold.



Salford Quays Dali-style.



The Theatre of overpaid Tossers from across the Manchester Ship Canal.



Stop.



Hotel room.

Have a great New Year everyone.

Walkin' Blues

"Yes I woke up this mornin', lookin' 'round for my shoes, you know 'bout that babe, got them walkin' blues." Ah yes, Mr Johnson sure hit the nail on the head with that one. I really do know how he feels as I've become a (supposedly part-time) postman. Anything to get me out of the house I thought to myself as I signed on the dotted line and kissed goodbye to lie-ins for the foreseeable future. The word that immediately springs to mind is "mistake", "big mistake".

Now don't get me wrong, a postie's life can be a good one and a lot my new colleagues have been in the job for decades and absolutely adore it. Not me though. I can't wait to hand my notice in and take off to pastures new, it's just that no other fucker seems to want me so, for the time being (aka "the busiest time of the year to work for Royal Mail") I'll be schlepping up hill and up hill (there's no down hill where my round is) until someone with a proper job welcomes me with open arms.

It pays an absolute pittance as well. Ho hum.

Eldest, who always sees his glass half full was encouraging me to look on the bright side of the job though and I must admit, the weight has been falling off me like an anorexic. My face is noticeably thinner and my belly is looking all nostalgic. The belly of a younger man. So not all bad news then. Honest.

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I've still been out snappin' though. The light trails on the M60 motorway in the picture above is a particular favourite. I've joined up with the Manchester group of Flickrites and I've attended my first Flickr meet which consisted of walking around Manchester city centre and immediate surroundings photographing this and that to our hearts' content. I thoroughly enjoyed it and I met some great people with a healthy attitude to life in general and photography in particular.

In the past my interest in photography led me to join camera clubs and the like in an effort to understand the whole process from taking the picture to getting in the Darkroom. Sadly all I met in such places were sexist blokes with delusions of photographic splendour and a penchant for the "glamour" side of the medium. They came across as patronising and condescending to a young lad (which I was at the time) who soon thought "fuck 'em" and went on to plough his own furrow.

The Flickr group's different though. It's essentially amorphous. Nobody's in charge and you don't get borish twats sitting in judgement over your efforts.

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So, to finish off, here's a few recent efforts. (It's getting a regular thing this isn't it?)



The Mancunian skyline from a nice little vantage point five minutes walk from my front door.



Self indulgent bourgeois fuckers it says in the Temple of Convenience toilets, Oxford Road, Manchester. The Temple actually used to be one of those pleasant underground toilets that most cities used to have. Actually, when you're in there you can tell it was a bog but ssshhh....don't tell anyone.



Bust of Sir John Barbarolli in Manchester Town Hall. I love this sculpture.



After the battle. We've just been on another cruise. I caught this late afternoon shot as we pulled out of some nondescript port towards some other nondescript port somewhere else.



On deck. Backlit sunbeds waiting for pasty holidaymakers.



Manchester Town Hall in the evening sunlight with its poppy.

This One's Got Lazyitis....

I've been a little remiss I know. Can't-be-arsedness has been rampant and the World has turned and the days have zipped by and the clock has ticked and ticked and ticked and ticked.......

But what have I been doing apart from trying to find a fucking job in Mr Brown's New World Order? (Perhaps that should just be New Order as I've just watched 24 Hour Party People and read the Anthony H Wilson "novelisation". If you know what I'm talking about, great. If not, it doesn't matter. But perhaps you should read/watch films more. To paraphrase a recurring motif from the said work.)

But, yeah, what have I been doing? Well, drinking a lot and playing the Blues obviously. When a man has a resonator guitar, a glass bottleneck and a moon to howl at, that's what a man will do. Well, this man anyway.

I've also been discovering some great music and can personally recommend Cherry Ghost, Newton Faulkner and Steve Earle's latest.

Perhaps the most bizarre thing I have decided to turn my "talents" to, though, is ballroom dancing. And before you point your fingers and snigger, it's fuck all to do with that "Reality" TV show in which the be-chinned one ekes the last few pieces of silver of his career from the BBC. It's the unique way it's funded y'know. And I should know. It's me (and a few million others) funding the fucker. Still, a Brucie bonus (for Brucie), nice.

No, it's not that. It's the fact that Dearest has always wanted to glide across a dance floor with apparent ease in the arms of a suave and simmering hunk with a penchant for the Paso Doble**. So, essentially, there's a gun to my head. I know my place.

I have surprisingly enjoyed it though. Apart from sweating like a pig at the end of the hours session because I've never danced for more than the length of your average pop tune in my life. And I've enjoyed it in spite of the be-buttoned, be-cardiganned bereft-of-an-original-thought-in-their-forlorn-lives fellow learners who shuffle and twitch to our right and left as we struggle to master the basics of the waltz.

Now this has had me baffled 'cos, for all intents and purposes the waltz should be - and is - a piece of piss. But for me it just doesn't work. I feel alien trying to do it. The quickstep and the square tango I can handle, but the waltz......

I even tried practising alone, at home, when Dearest was elsewhere acquiring even more shoes. It's just plain wrong. (The waltz that is. Not, obviously, the Gollumesque search for the precious shoes/boots/crocs/sandals/wellies/fustian feetwarmers. That's apparently perfectly natural.) I sat awhile and gathered my thoughts about why I couldn't grasp this simplest of dances. And then I realised that it feels alien because it is fucking alien. Waltz time is not a natural rhythm. You may think it is because it seems to have been round since time immemorial, but it isn't. 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3 ISN'T NATURAL! All the dances I've been able to get my head round (and I'm not alone here - Dearest can't grasp the waltz either) have their roots firmly in common time. 4/4, four to the floor, call it what you will, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4.

It's just natural. You probably walk in 4/4 time. You would have marched in 4/4 time. You would have gone into battle in 4/4 time. You certainly wouldn't have chanced going over the top to the strains of the Blue Danube or Tales From The Vienna Woods. It's not right. It feels, to me, like an 18th century affectation. I would need a wig, waistcoat and pomander to get in the zone.

So, given that I'm 53 and time's flashing by at the speed of light, with the nights too dark and the days too bright, the waltz can fuck off. There are not enough hours in the decade.

It's four-to-the-floor for me from now on. The quickstep'll do for me. Hip-hop, rock, pop. Y'know I reckon that even reggae lends itself.

Now, where's me Old Spice, cardigan and ganja?

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I've also tramped the highways and byways of my immediate surroundings - mostly with the shit-machine - but sometimes not and pointed the soul-stealer and clicked the button and fired up Photoshop and....well.....here's a few of my faves:-



"What was that?"



Trilby.



The evening sun kisses the Arndale as the wheel turns.



This should've been a band. Manchester's fabulous Northern Quarter swathed in Autumnal sunlight.



The fountain in the centre of Piccadilly Gardens, Manchester.



Heaton Park, Manchester. October 2007.

**I can never figure out whether that's irony or sarcasm.

I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees......

Sometimes a man needs to succour his soul. This is my latest addition to the guitar bank, a Vintage AMG1 Resonator.

The AMG1 is a bell brass bodied resonator, with a chrome finish and a rosewood neck.

It is a single cone resonator, loosely based upon a 1937 style O National guitar, and is best for blues slide guitar and ragtime finger picking. It plays best in open D and open G, and one slide up the neck transports you straight to the Mississippi delta.

All I need now is a porch.

While Lennon Read a Book on Marx and the Quartet Practiced in the Park............

This pub, above, was my haunt du jour from 1985 to 1990. As a "mature" student I had embarked on a journey of discovery of myself as well as the rest of the planet that resulted in a decent BA (Hons) degree in Politics and Contemporary History. I loved every minute (apart from the Saturday morning exams). I loved the structure it gave to my reading. The purpose it gave to my life. The consolation it brought me during the dark hours when I was holding down a demanding full-time job and studying. The friends, the debaters, the arseholes, but, most of all, the little coterie who canoodled intellectually after every evening of lecture and tutorial in the Crescent. A pub that did not bow to the all-consuming late 80s Thatcherite style and no substance of the day, but actually had a landlord who spat in the face of the Grande Dame and her cohorts.

And now, today, I find out that a) it's under threat from DEVELOPERS and b) Marx and Engels considered it their local during the writing of the Communist Manifesto and some of the rest.

It was a great pub.. It sold real ales. It had proper furniture picked up from house clearances, a black-leaded range with a proper coal fire. A great juke box and great clientele.

Developers eh?

Oh Mama Don't Take My Kodachrome Away.....

It's been a rough few months but I feel that a corner has been turned and that life, if not back to the carefree days of my youth, is at least getting back onto a level playing field. (Mixed metaphor alert!)

I've been crushed by the bureaucratic nightmare that kicks in after the death of a loved one. No Will. Bank accounts. Funeral expenses. Life Assurance. Pension. In short, everything. But it's mostly all done now and I can start to breathe again. It's a good job I've been around to do this because my Mother has not really been capable. Her minds not 100% and most of the stuff that's needed doing has passed her by.

Dearest, Eldest and Youngest have helped as well especially with their insistence that I take some time to myself every now and then. As a result I've been off walking here, there and everywhere taking photographs and trying to get to grips with Photoshop - with mixed results. It's not easy that there Photoshop. No wonder experts command big salaries.

On the sport front I have sat gobsmacked watching the sublime football that Manchester City have been playing recently. Can it continue? Here's hoping. All I know is I've not been this optimistic for decades.

On top of that Tim Henman has finally retired on a losing streak. Nothing new there then.

Anyway, here's some snaps from the past few months.



This is a local bar that overlooks the Rochdale Canal. Built around 1830 it has recently had a refurb and now refreshes the over 25s of the area.



Guell Parc Barcelona. I waited ages for the crowds to disappear and one figure to appear. I like this one.



A family day out in the centre of Manchester on Bank Holiday Monday. I'm a little nervous about candid street photography. So much can go wrong. But this turned out quite well.



Just a load of balls.



Taken during the Gay Pride weekend in Manchester.



A view of Manchester a couple of minutes walk from my house.



A "dog walk" night shot.



A tree. Saddleworth Moor.



The evening sky over Nerja, Spain.



You wouldn't believe this was the centre of Manchester would you?

Well, that's enough for now. I'm off to watch Droylsden FC this afternoon.