Mondays Thursdays are for drinking with the seldom seen kid

It all started on a Thursday night when Dearest and I attended a solo acoustic concert by Steve Earle. Alt dot country or what? With an hour to spare before kickoff we found ourselves in the Briton’s Protection pub. The Jennings was inspiring. Dearest stuck to vodka and diet coke. As I waited at the bar a familiar figure approached. “I know him” I thought. A few minutes later I had placed him. It was Guy Garvey of Mercury prizewinning Elbow fame. I shook him by the hand and thanked him for the music (sorry!)

Now I love Elbow and I think all the albums they have produced have been superb. What I wouldn’t have expected though is just how humble and pleased Mr Garvey was. We chatted for about 5 minutes as we waited at the bar – he was on Guinness with a single malt chaser – and, as I left, he shook me warmly by the hand and thanked me for the kind words. They were just that: kind words, not the witty, incisive and intelligent words that pour out of him like water from a running tap. They’re in the studio this week recording the follow up to Seldom Seen Kid.

As we were near the Bridgewater Hall he asked If I was off to see Mr Earle and we had a chat about him. “It’s a solo acoustic tour “ I said. “It may well be” he replied, “but he’s still got the mother of all tour buses parked up ‘round the back. “

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Steve Earle was pretty impressive – a few too many Townes Van Sandt numbers for my liking, but he was promoting his album of Townes’ songs so I guess that’s what should be expected. I never quite got Van Sandt. All his songs sound pretty samey too me and, given the musical similarity, I don’t hear much profundity in the lyrics. Could just be me though. The Bridgewater hall isn’t the greatest place for a rock gig I’ve been told but it was pretty good for one man and a guitar or mandolin and a great appetizer for our flight to Skiathos the day after.

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After enjoying the delights of the VIP lounge at Manchester airport – free drinks, snacks and wifi – we spent as cramped three and a half hours on one of Monarch airways delightful Boeing 757s Once on board we were informed there were a few seats with extra legroom for an additional charge of £25. Nobody took up the offer. Ten minutes later the same same steward announced she was sorry but she’d got the price wrong, it should’ve been £15. At least she had the decency to blush when the entire aircraft burst into sarcastic laughter. “Give it ten minutes and it’ll be a fiver” some wag shouted. It didn’t become a fiver, but still nobody took up the offer.

As we waited for our baggage at Skiathos’s miniscule airport it started to rain. It carried on raining for the next two days. And I’m not talking airy fairy showers here: I’m talking incessant and by-the-bucketload. The entrance to our apartments was via a small track – after day one it was via a plank over a fast-moving rivulet. Still at least myself and Dearest are nimble enough and in command of our faculties enough to take on such a challenge: we were told that the week before that the rivulet was that deep and forceful one couple had had to arrange alternate accommodation until the raging torrent had subsided.

Sunday and Monday were fine and gloriously sunny. Monday evening we dined beneath the stars and marvelled at the flashes that lit up the night sky. By midnight we were experiencing a fabulous thunderstorm. Lightning flashes and claps of thunder to quicken to pulse and to momentarily imprint the surrounding woods onto the retinas. It was fabulous. A one-off. Something to be experienced properly. There was only one thing for it. We stripped off and stood wild and naked as the warm rain flooded over us. It was elemental. It was strange . That deeply ingrained Victorian Englishness we all carry told us it was naughty and Chatterleyish, but just to stand on that drenched grass and feel the water run down our bodies and important little places was wonderful. If you ever get the chance don’t pass up on it, grab it while you can . Live a little - you won’t regret it.

Even watching Dolphins in the wild a few days later paled into insignificance compared with the nakedness, but even so, dolphins in the wild are not to be sniffed at. They have this ability to cheer everybody up, I don’t know what it is but, once again there is a connection between the human and the natural world. You look at those dolphins and think “look at them surviving without the need for technology, clothing, transport........”

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Sunday saw us watching Manchester United v Manchester City in a local outdoor bar with me and Dearest (City), a random bloke from our site (he’s not from Manchester – United), another random bloke not from our site (also not from Manchester – United) and a token Evertonian (from Liverpool).

I’ve got over my initial disgust at the amount added time given – I do think that, overall, the best team won – just. Even so it left a nasty taste and soured what was one of the great Manchester derbies. City should’ve done what I was always told when I played: play to the whistle!

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And so back to work tomorrow.............


Old friends.


Off Skiathos Town


It's a hard life #6


It's a hard life #5


Chairs


Patatiri, Alonissis


Scopelos


What is this life if full of care, We have no time to stand sit and stare?


Plane spotting Skiathos Town.


Duck!


This fella looked happy enough with his view!


Skiathos Town


Night ferry, Skiathos Town.


Back home to Autumn.

This Sporting Life.....

So, there we are on the platform at Nice waiting for a train. We (Eldest, Youngest a mate and me) are off to Monaco to the European Super Cup between Shaktar Donesk and Barcelona. The previous evening's excesses are beginning to fade and the sun is shining. As the train pulls in the crowd starts to mill towards the doors creating a bit of a crush. The doors slide open and we all start to clamber aboard. Once all four of us had got on we stood in the crowded carriage and started to chat. At that point some French guy heads towards the door of the train he's just got on, pushing through exclaiming "excuse moi, je suis désolé".. He pushes the door back just before it fully closes and gets off. We look at each other, shrug our shoulders and the train sets off.

Then a bizarre event occurs. All of a sudden a French man stood a few feet away shouts my name out. Forename, middle name and surname. I was stood there dumbstruck. How the hell did this foreign stranger know my full name? Why was he shouting? What had I done?

I indicated that the name he had bellowed was mine and he handed me my passport which he had picked up off the floor. My passport had been in a zipped up pocket in my shorts so how on earth had it ended up on the deck? Seconds later an American guy in the same carriage shouts out that his passport has gone then his wife yelps that hers has too.

The Americans got off at the next stop while we breathed sighs of relief. Apart from anything else we needed my passport to pick up the tickets that awaited us at the stade Louis II and we weren't the only ones. Practically everybody attending the game had to pick up tickets and provide some form of ID. Rich pickings for passport pick pockets on overcrowded trains.

The rest of the day was spent constantly checking our pockets.

Once we had the tickets we relaxed a little and settled outside a small restaurant where we ordered quatre bières. Then the truly bad news: "Je regrette pas d'alcool."

Merde!

It turns out that the authorities had imposed a blanket on sales of alcohol throughout the vicinity. Nous avons été dévastés!! But then the proprieter glanced around for lurking gendarmes before tapping his nose and disappearing into his premises. He soon reappears and places four empty non-alcoholic beer bottles on our table and goes back inside. A few minutes later he comes out with four half litres of lager. Result, well....apart from the price: 8 euros for a beer.

Later we took in the entertainment in the various bays of Monaco before finding another establishment prepared to flaunt the rules. Some food and a few more beers later we headed off to the match.

It was strange being fenced in. Just like the 70s and 80s. It was strange seeing the flares being set off with no sanction. It was a crap match, played on a crap pitch with just the one goal - which we missed because the game had gone to extra time and we had a train to catch.

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Saturday we flew back home and on Sunday we set off for Old Trafford and Engalnd v Australia Twenty20. We all met up at Sinclairs Oyster Bar in the centre of Manchester and got a taxi to the ground.

It's no wonder Old Trafford has lost it's Test venue status, they couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery. 40 minutes to queue for the bar. The same number of Gents toilets as Ladies and seats that would be hard pressed to fit a\ toddler on nevermind a broader backside. I'm told that when they host concerts the facilities are not what they could be. Lancashire Cricket Club need to pull their finger out if they want to attract top events and Test match cricket.

Whereas in years gone by you could pretty much turn up at any gate and amble round the ground to your seat, this time we were told we could only get in via the gate printed on the ticket as the barcodes could only be read from the correct device. It sounded and still sounds like bullshit to me but we had to walk a hell of a way around the surrounding office blocks and car parks to a gate on exactly the opposite side of the ground from where we were.

After Austarlia's healthy innings England were soon 4 for 2 after one and a bit overs. Then the heavens opened and the match was abandoned. Two days later the next meeting was abandoned too - without a ball being bowled as the much heralded new drainage system failed to deal with the Mancunian climate.

Not an experience I'll be repeating in the near future that's for certain.

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The next day was better. A memorial Twenty20 game at my local cricket club in honour of a stalwart who had died at the tragically young age of 51.

The local Manchester City Supporter's Club provided a team to play a team of members and waifs and strays from the pub with all proceeds going to charity.

Stumps at 2:00pm, the coin toss and the members, waifs and strays decide to bat. 77 all out. It was an easy target that the City team soon got to with a couple of wickets in hand. It was just as well as the rain set in soon after the end so it was under the awnings and gazebos for potato pie, chilli and and lots of other good stuff.

It was a lovely way to spend a bank holiday and, after the presentation of the trophy we sank a few beers and watched the rain soak the wicket through the open doors of the clubhouse.

Beat that Old Trafford.

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I'm getting a bit fed up with this never-ending barbecue summer aren't you. I can hardly see, what with the sweat flowing freely down my brow. Shirt stuck to my back. Constant glare from a searing sun and the all-pervading aroma of UV protection liberally applied.

We are told that weather forecasting is not an exact science but in this summer's case it's not even been a not-quite-an-exact-science it's been a completely and utterly inexact science. I fail to see how a prediction can be so buttock-clenchingly embarrassingly wrong. I mean it's one thing to forecast dry, sunny weather and have a few clouds spoiling the day but we've had weeks of the heavy, scudding type emptying their payloads on us as we attempt to light the barby. Last weekend when we were in Nice, the BBC website alerted us to the fact that for the duration of our stay it would be raining. In fact they promised us 'heavy showers' Thursday and Friday with a brief return of sunshine on Saturday.

There wasn't a cloud in the sky all the time we were there. 30+ degrees every day. I've come back with a tan that would have David Dickinson green with envy. How is it possible to get this so monumentally wrong?

You don't need a weather man to know which way the wind blows.........

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Dearest and I fly to Skiathos on Friday - a Greek island I've never been to. In fact it's a Greek island I've never given much thought too until Dearest suddenly decided it was the place to be. I thought nothing of it until I was asked by a colleage which island we were going to. "Ah Skiathos" she replied, "that's where they filmed Mamma Mia." So, mystery solved, we're taking a chance on Skiathos. Two weeks of slobbery in the sun with a pile of books and an iPod full of tunes.

Apart from the more recent novels I have also deceded to re-read Cold Comfort Farm and I felt it was time I read some 'classics' that everyone has heard of but I've never read. So for this trip it will be Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K Jerome.

Has anyone got any other suggestions? Classics I mean. Nothing too heavy, Ulysses certainly won't be in my kit bag and my days with Dostoyevsky are definitely over. So, feel free.........


Monaco


Monaco


Nice


Twenty20


Twenty20


Twenty20

Get Your Kicks........

I've just discovered that First Group, of crap bus and train journey fame, own the famous Greyhound Bus group and they have since 2007. Is nothing sacred? First Group symbolises (along with Stagecoach) everything that is lacking in the provision of public transport in this country. Everything from filling profitable routes with too many buses to taking a hefty public subsidy to run the less profitable ones - although most of the time the unprofitable ones are cut and the areas they once serviced are left isolated. Unless you have a car of course.

First Group and other like-minded transport providers are also adept at targeting newcomers with highly aggressive price cuts in order to kill off all competition before hiking the prices back up again. In fact just this week the Office of Fair trading has published findings slamming the industry for this – and many other – sharp practices.

Still I suppose it's just the natural progress of the 'free' market that such an unloved corporation can acquire a brand with so much romance attached to it. A romance that I fear will soon be tarnished as they attempt to set up Greyhound routes over here. They're starting this autumn with trips from London to Southampton and Portsmouth and then they hope to roll out more destinations later.

Greyhound buses put me in mind of Dustin Hoffman breathing his last cradled in Jon Voight's arms at the end of Midnight Cowboy, of Paul Simon singing "Kathy I said as we boarded a Greyhound in Pittsburgh, Michigan seems like a dream to me now.....", of huge distances and life altering journies. Of the romance of the open road and big skies. Somehow Shepherd's Bush doesn't have that cache does it? "Doris I said as I boarded a Greyhound in Clapham............" doesn't really do it either.

Travel, within Britain, is prosaic. There's no romance whatsoever. You can't do proper road trips. At a pinch you could probably do O'Groats to Land's End in a day presuming an average speed of 60mph. That's not a real adventure is it? Not getting your kicks on Route 66?

Bus travel in Britain is National Express, overpriced motorway services, draughty bus stations and other people. Not romantic people, just, well, other people just like you. Having said that, it can produce a great pop song: The Divine Comedy's "National Express."

Take the National Express when your life's in a mess
It'll make you smile
All human life is here
From the feeble old dear to the screaming child
From the student who knows that to have one of those
Would be suicide
To the family man
Manhandling the pram with paternal pride
And everybody sings ba ba ba da...
Were going where the air is free

On the national express theres a jolly hostess
Selling crisps and tea
She'll provide you with drinks and theatrical winks
For a sky-high fee
Mini-skirts were in style when she danced down the aisle
Back in 63 (yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)
But its hard to get by when your arse is the size
Of a small country
And everybody sings ba ba ba da...
Were going where the air is free
Tomorrow belongs to me
When youre sad and feeling blue
With nothing better to do
Dont just sit there feeling stressed
Take a trip on the national express

Neil Hannon take a bow.

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I’ve finally galvanized myself enough to migrate my ISP from BT to O2. As an existing O2 customer I got a great deal with unlimited usage and speeds of over 8Meg. With BT it was trundling along at around 2. All this for £7.84 per month! A bargain if you ask me.

The faster speed has improved my experience of watching and listening to streamed content to an extent that I would never have believed a few years ago. On Wednesday night I had a wired desktop and a wireless laptop streaming City’s live game against Barcelona and the quality was TV like it was that good. No periodic jerking, no buffering just smooth, sharp images and sound.

It was a cracking game as well with Barca having most of the possession and hammering our defence which, to its credit, held firm for a 1-0 victory. This is the third or fourth friendly that the club has streamed live on its website and it is turning out to be a fantastic success. The club’s website revealed that the stream was watched by 94,000 in the UK. That’s an impressive statistic in anybody’s book and could pave the way for City dedicated TV station in the near future like United, Chelsea, Arsenal and Liverpool.

The same night we were beating Barcelona at the Nou Camp, United were being beaten by Burnley at Turf Moor.

We are living in strange times.

Still, some things never change. As I write England have just lost Anderton for a duck and now stand on 308-9 at 11:05am on the second day of the crucial last test. All the Aussies need is a draw. Is there going to be enough in the pitch to get 20 wickets over the next 4 days? Or was England’s first innings just a typical England Innings? Too much hype followed by too little class. We’ll see.

**UPDATE** Well, my word, it appears there just may be enough in the wicket. England made 332 and then bowl out the Aussies for 160 with Stuart Broad on an impressive 5 for 37. As write today (Saturday) England are on 174 for 5. We can win this.

I've just listened to Aggers interviewing pop princess Lily Allen on Test Match Special. I think you can safely say he's greatly enamoured of the diminutive songstress. She was flirting like mad with him and I got the impression he loved every minute of it. Later, on the BBC's test text updates we got this:-

Jonathan Agnew reflects on his interview with Lily Allen on Twitter: "Well, what can I say...lovely girl and already heading off to Chelmsford. Great effort"

Still on a cricket theme I've been listening to the Duckworth Lewis Method's fabulous homage to the true beautiful game. Get yourselves along to Spotify and give it a listen. It exudes a summery Englishness that belies the Irishness of it's authors. Sublime.

Neil Hannon take a bow.

**UPDATE UPDATE**

WE Won!!!

Wahey!!


Manchester from my favourite vantage point.


The M60 towards the North

Things May Come And Things May Go But The Art School Dance Goes On Forever…..

A rather unpleasant weekend the other week. Woken in the middle of Friday night by an agitated stomach, I ended up spending all of Saturday and most of Sunday in bed or in the bathroom. As I lay on there on Saturday morning I was fearing the worst and considering the possibility of swine flu: aching limbs? – Check!, High temperature? – Check! Upset stomach? – Check! But then……Sore Throat?…erm no! Sneezes? Ermmmm no again. Whatever it was it wasn’t swine flu but it laid me low and buggered off just in time for me to to go to work on Monday morning. I was knackered though and when I got home I had a bit of tea (dinner) and then went to bed at 7:00pm. I woke at 7:30am a different man. I wonder how many others have got it and claimed they had succumbed to the pandemic?

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I see the body overseeing the Olympics have reneged on their 2004 promise of tickets starting at £15 with free transport thrown in. I know, I couldn’t believe it either. Us lesser folk should have understood however that the 2004 prices were ‘indicative’ and based on dollars and consequently, despite the best intentions of the lying bastards honourable men and women faced with an arduous task the price will, unfortunately have to rise. But all is not lost! Paul Deighton the Chief Executive of the London organising committee has waffled promised “the principle still applies that a very significant chunk of our tickets will be highly affordable so we can get families there.”

Hmmmm there’s a lot of variables there aren’t there? Unquantifiable variables too. Have we a definition for ‘very significant’, ‘chunk’ or ‘highly affordable’? Sounds like vagueness worthy of a gold medal to me. I know this much, if you can’t peg the ticket price at £15 now I dread to think what it will have risen to in three years time I would also imagine that the ‘cheap’ tickets will not get you within a million miles of a sexy event – track and field finals for example. Still, I expect the fencing will be nice and well worth the £100+ for the spectacle of your family watching three entertaining bouts, on top of the hundreds spent on rail travel from your northern home and the rip-off room rate in the closest hotel you could get – in Northampton.

Still, at least London’s getting some top class sporting facilities. Super.

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So, Barcelona can acquire Ibrahimovitch for the measly sum of £40million PLUS Samuel Eto’o AND the loan of Hleb and they are not killing football with their ostentatious displays of wealth. Real Madrid can stump up £56million for Kaka and £80million for the show pony and everything’s fine. Business as usual, no need to panic, the activities of clubs with a God-given right to pay mega-bucks won’t distort the market at all. It’s only when Johnny-come-latelys like Manchester City spend a few quid that the ire of FIFA, EUFA and Sir Alex is collectively aroused. We’re a small club with a small mentality apparently, well according to Fergie that is. I guess that’s why he’s upset at us spending big, although I can’t remember him having a go at big spenders when it was him and Liverpool etc doing the big spending.

“Everything comes and goes just like lovers and styles of clothes…….

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I’ve borrowed a sophisticated scanner off a mate of mine and have started the protracted task of scanning my negatives from the late 1970s to the dawn of the digital age. What has annoyed me though is the amount of specks of dust I have on them considering they have been filed away in a purpose-bought negative storage system. This means time-consuming cloning out of dust spots in photoshop which is tedious as you can imagine. It’s a shame because even on a medium setting quality-wise the resultant images are very good.

It’s been an education looking back at the prints though. Were Dearest and I really that slim? Was my hair once free of grey? Did I honestly wear shorts that…well…short – and revealing? Were Eldest and Youngest once so young?

My family were my models and I photographed them endlessly with my Zenith EM and, later, my beloved Pentax K1000. The spare bedroom became a darkroom and many happy hours disappeared as I lost myself in the magic of creating images in the spooky red glow.

All these years later I’m so glad I did. I now have a portfolio of a young family at work and at play, at home and elsewhere. Snaps of the ordinary days as well as the high days and holidays. On some of them the quality leaves something to be desired as I struggled to discover how to do it properly, but practically every negative is a hive of memories – places, things and people: some no longer with us.

There’s Dearest’s mother chatting in the street to her lifelong friend Stella. There’s my Dad playing football with his grandchildren. My granddad and grandmother and various uncles, cousins and acquaintances. I came across a few of Shughie and Ronald that have acquired an added poignancy knowing now what we didn’t know then.

What a bloody brilliant thing a camera is.

Here's a few.......

Here Comes the Rain Again.....

St Swithin’s day I awoke to incessant rain. That’s us bollixed for the next 40 days then. It’s going to be wet if the old fairy story adage is to be believed. I don’t believe it though. It was one of those bits of information you’re given as a kid that you quickly realise is pish. In fact in my particular case I would probably go so far as to say it it helped sow the atheist seed. We were told the tale by Mr Hadfield on the very day and, on the very day, it rained. The day after that it rained also. The entire junior school was resigned to washed out summer holidays.

On the third day the clouds evaporated and the sun scorched the earth – as it did for most of the next 38 days.

Mr Hadfield never managed a satisfactory explanation and the kernel of doubt took purchase. A Saint was fallible. No ifs, no buts. By the time I went to Grammar School I had no belief.

It makes me wonder what would’ve happened if Mr Hadfield hadn’t told the story or it had rained for 40 days during that sixties summer? Would I be a regular at Evensong? A happy clapper at the church of the groovy Father? A man of the cloth even? Who knows, but isn’t it funny how little episodes in life have such an influence whereas others that, at the time, you would’ve thought more portentous, come to nothing?

By ‘eck He moves in mysterious ways dun’t ‘e?

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I watched a crackin’ drama/doc type thing on iPlayer the other night. It was about the French Revolution and specifically Robespierre. Intermingling dramatised scenes, snatches of an early silent movie, documentary footage from wherever dictators lurked and talking heads, the programme advanced the idea that Robespierre was the father of state terror and that Stalin, Mao and the rest were his natural heirs. I love the whole period and I especially love the way ‘enlightened’ Maximilien hangs on to the notion of a ‘Supreme Being’ and treats Rousseau’s ‘Social Contract’ as his Bible. I love the way he gradually becomes more despotic as his logic effectively creates the notion of ‘thought crime’, denunciation and the extermination of the ‘enemies of the Revolution’.

Erstwhile colleagues like Danton were eventually dispatched. Camille Desmoulins – Robespierre’s friend since childhood – also. Eventually the ‘People’ have their fill of the man who loved them so much he had to kill so many and he was shot during arrest. One of the shots smashed his jaw and he could no longer use his most powerful weapon…speech. “Who would have thought it? He's outlived his mouth?” commented Carnot.

His near-dead body was dragged to the Guillotine where he embraced the Supreme Being forever.

Watch it while it’s available but if you miss it I can thoroughly recommend a fabulous novelisation of the period: ‘A Place of Greater Safety’ by Hilary Mantel. It’s so good I bought it twice!

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All the latest comings and comings at Eastlands have me dizzy. It seems like the Tevez signing could be the catalyst…a tipping point may have been reached. I certainly think the likes of Carlos, Adebeyor (maybe) and Barry have been good signings and are likely to attract others. Just watch us lose the first four five games now. It wouldn’t be City if we didn’t.


Local School


And again....

(S)he's Out of my Life...

So, Neil Young's still rockin' in the free world and still sounding good. We had a great day, the sun shone on Nottingham – a place I can’t recall ever visiting before – and the hotel we chose was clean, cheap and central. First off, after a quick shower, we crossed the road and sauntered around the Arboretum in the summer sunshine. It was beautiful: fountains, bandstands, families….did I mention the sunshine? Oh yes that lucky ol’ Sun can certainly make a difference.

After a while we ambled through the town centre before settling on a canal side pub that sold real ale and had a decent menu. We were fairly close to the venue and we soon spotted Neil’s audience. Rock tribes, each with their own idiosyncrasies are funny. In this case there was a lot of overly long hair wreathing wrinkled faces, tour t-shirts (mostly black) and an above average sprinkling of hats. I guess it’s better to fade out than to burn away – eh Neil?.

Anyway, after the grub we found ourselves in a cracking real ale pub that I sadly can’t remember the name of. I had a pint of something local, dark and nutty. I could’ve handled a few more of them, it was just a shame that we couldn’t stay for more but time was passing and Shakey was calling…

Here’s the setlist:

Hey Hey My My (Into The Black)
Mansion On The Hill
Are You Ready For The Country
Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere
Pocahontas
Words
Cinnamon Girl
Mother Earth
Don't Let It Bring You Down
Comes A Time
On The Way Home
Burned
Heart Of Gold
Old Man
Down By The River
Get Behind The Wheel
Rockin' In The Free World
Encore

A Day In The Life

Now by any standards that’s a pretty good selection of his best work but, having seen some of his other sets that fans have posted I was slightly miffed that I hadn’t heard The Needle and the Damage Done, Like a Hurricane, Cortez the Killer and a few others. Silly, given what he did perform, but I was left with that old ‘grass is greener’ feeling as we repaired to a nearby boozer to discuss the finer points of the show.

He can still do it though – as you may have seen if you caught him on the BBC’s Glastonbury coverage – and it is good to see that he is treating his back catalogue with the respect it deserves.

A Day in the Life’s a bit pointless though.

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And then one of the World’s best professional weirdos breathed his last. Wacko Jacko’s heart must have had enough, because it stopped. And when it stopped the schmaltz fest began. Sheesh but there are some strange people in the world. There were reports of fans committing suicide to be with him in heaven, although I’ve not actually seen any corroborated so they could apocryphal but…..well it wouldn’t surprise you would it? Even the more grounded were out in the streets crying their eyes out for a man they had never met. What’s to do with people? I can honestly say that I don’t know anyone who has ever sobbed uncontrollably in public after hearing of the death of a celebrity (or even, on one memorable occasion, a princess.) I doubt if they’ve even shed a small tear in the privacy of their own homes. Sure I’ve been touched by the deaths of folk I admire – Lennon, Zappa, Sinatra etc., but I’ve never run outside screaming with anguish and giving snot-filled interviews to any camera crew I can find.

Then came the ‘close friends’ who eulogised with such buttock-clenchingly embarrasing displays of grief that you couldn’t help but laugh. Third rate R’n’Bers, washed up movie stars and the industry’s rentaquotes all eager to prove they were more ‘devastated than the rest. All trying to boost their careers in the reflected ‘glory’ of the so-called ‘King of Pop’. Unedifying.

The following week saw the inevitable tabloid frenzy as headline after headline proclaimed shady doings or no shady doings. ‘Experts’ were consulted, ‘close friends’ questioned and facts invented to feed the mighty media machine as the Michael Jackson Memorial drew closer.

The BBC felt it had to cover it – why? I’ll never know. Pop star dies. Is buried. End. Of. But no, Auntie wheeled out the increasingly bizarre Paul Gambacinni to cover the whole spectacle as we were ‘treated’ to the sight of a junior Jacko breaking down in tears. The fact that the poor kid loved and missed her father was on the front of newspapers and broadcast on TV and radio the next day. In what way was that ‘news’?

But what of the artistic legacy? Undoubtedly MJ produced three fine albums in the late 70s early 80s that contain some great music but the ‘King of Pop’? I must’ve missed something. Since his death I’ve beeen told he wrote great songs like Thriller - he didn’t, although he did write others like Billie Jean and Beat it. I reckon he earned more from his ownership of the Beatles’ back catalogue than he did from his own stuff. Since his death I’m told he made the greatest pop video of all time – he didn’t, he danced in it and lip synced. Jon Landis made the video. Since his death I’ve been told he invented the Moonwalk – he didn’t and here’s the proof about 1 minute 30 seconds in.

All told he was a great singer and dancer who, throughout a 40 year career, had a hand in writing a small number of hits that coincided with the video age and, to my mind, that makes him more of a song and dance man than the King of pop. RIP Mr Jackson.

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Dearest’s shoulder is healing nicely although, according to her physio, it will never be 100% again. She’s still unable to drive and iron, but she can rub along with everything else. The only snag now is she goes in hospital next week for a long awaited operation on her foot that will see her on crutches for a while. So it’ll be back to me doing everything again.

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I had some Amazon gift vouchers so I bought a flat bed scanner with a facility for scanning slides and negatives as well. Crap it is too. It scanned one negative then all the following scans were black even though the backlight was on. I indicated I would be returning it so Amazon quickly sent a replacement and that was crap too although for a different reason. I tried them both on more than one PC with the same faults so I don’t want another replacement. I think I’ll go for a dedicated film scanner. In the meantime I’ve two scanners boxed and ready for pick up by TNT or somebody. Grrrrrrrr! As well as the scanner I got a little wind-up radio for whenever I’m doing something out of earshot of the ones I already have. It’s brilliant! A solar panel on top, a USB port and a wind handle can all be used to charge the battery. It’s only FM/AM so, sooner or later it will be obsolete but in the meantime it’s more than adequate for talk-based radio – which is why I bought it. On top of that I’m doing my bit for the planet by not having to buy batteries for it. Yay!

---

I had the misfortune of listening to Talksport radio a few days ago. What a pointless, vacuous exercise that was. Contentious statements for the sake of it. Over-inflated egos and a lack of insight or self-awareness that beggars belief. At one point I was listening to somebody knocking City for trying to buy a team who can challenge whilst opining that Chelsea needed to ‘spend big’ if they want to be serious contenders. I give up. The other day I was reading an article about City’s pursuit of Samuel Eto’o in which the reporter said that because Eto’o had an ‘o’ after his name he’d feel at home at City because they normally have an ‘0’ after their name too. For the record City were the highest scorers in the Premiership outside the top 4 last season but let’s not let a simple fact get in the way of a bile-filled cheap shot eh?

When we were first taken over by the ADUG group I had serious doubts about MY team. I felt as though the local team for local people was being wrenched out of the community and were being dragged towards a star-studded but ultimately empty future of razzamatazzed franchise branding. I foresaw a managerial swinging door through which gaffers would pass each other as the results didn’t live up to the Sheik’s expectations. I saw an empty Academy and plastic, glory-hunter fans who knew feck all about the roots of the club. We may still end up with that; who knows? But the signs are that Sheik Mansour is in this for the long haul, backing the manager, declaring himself delighted with the progress so far and developing Academies overseas based on the City model.

I can live with that.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the downright hostilty in the Press towards us. Admitted we weren’t helped by the buffoon spokesman declaring we would buy Ronaldo, Kaka, Messi etc., but even so it really wasn’t necessary. And it won’t only be City either. Other clubs will be snapped up by multi-billionaires and the poisonous rants against them will start appearing also. If you’re not ‘big four’ you should know your place. As a result I just hope we can start ramming the the words they’ve written and spouted back down their jealous throats as we play sublimely entertaining, attacking football that wins us accolades as well as trophies.

In the meantime the ‘will-they’ ‘won’t-they’ speculation continues as we are linked with Terry (no thank you), Eto’o (if he comes he comes if not fine), Tevez (ditto), Lescott (yes please) and God knows who else. Strange times indeed.

We were in the pub the other week trying to remember who made up the City team that faced Gillingham in the old Third Division play off final in May 1999. A mere 10 years ago. After much argument and racking of brains, we cracked it.

GK Nicky Weaver
RB Richard Edgehill
CB Andy Morrison
CB Gerard Weikens
LB Tony Vaughan
RW Terry Cooke
M Ian Bishop
M Jeff Whitley
LW Kevin Horlock
St Shaun Goater
St Paul Dickov

I seem to remember Gareth Taylor and Lee Crooks playing their bit as well.

10 years? What a difference a decade makes!

Everyone's Gone to the Movies....

We were having a discussion at work the other day. Films, movies, cinema, pictures….whatever you want to call them....was what the discussion centred on and the primary subject was what films were/are worth making the effort to go and see on the big screen?

Now, I’m not a great fan of the cinema-attending experience: overpriced popcorn, pic’n’mix and soft drinks combined with the close proximity of the rest of the audience makes for a dull evening’s entertainment in my book. When I combine that with some of the fare on offer I can quite cheerfully wait until the latest ‘must-see’ appears on the TV or on DVD. I think it’s because I come from an era when the cinema-going experience was one to be savoured. They were occasions that lasted hours. There would be a support film, a cartoon and other bits and bobs before the main feature. And the main features lasted hours. You would walk into the cinema in broad daylight and reappear hours later in the depths of night with blinking eyes and an arse devoid of feeling. Ben Hur, Lawrence of Arabia, Spartacus and many others. They were that long the had intervals in the middle so you could relieve yourself and take on more refreshments. Proper films.

Whereas today they barely last ninety minutes to two hours. And if one should break the two hour barrier it’s almost always referred to in the reviews as though to warn those of a limited attention span that they would probably be best not bothering.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying old=good new=bad, some contemporary films are superb and equally some old films are crap. It’s the experience I’m castigating – or at least the experiences I encountered on my most recent visits to the ‘pictures’.

Needless to say my colleagues (who are mainly younger) disagreed telling me that the whole ‘movie-going’ business was brilliant nowadays and a far cry from their experiences in the distant past. It was then that we started harking back to the last film we had seen in a cinema and it was then that I started racking my brains.

I was convinced it wasn’t long ago but after sifting through my ailing memory it came as a shock to realise the last time I had set foot in one of the places was 1981! Dearest and I took the kids to se ET.

Nineteen eighty bloody one! My thesis was hanging in tatters. How could I maintain a credible argument when it was based on research that was not far off thirty years old? It was time to accept defeat and start considering the possibility of heading for the local multiplex which, I am told, are nowadays full of big comfy seats and bars. But what to see?

Angels & Demons
Doghouse
Drag Me to Hell
Last Chance Harvey
Looking For Eric
Night at the Museum 2
Red Cliff
Star Trek
Terminator Salvation
The Hangover

I have actually heard of the majority of them but ‘Looking for Eric’ apart I certainly wouldn’t make an effort to see any of the rest. Even ‘Looking for Eric’ isn’t really a must-see-on-a-big-screen flick is it? In fact it would probably benefit from a more intimate small screen showing from what I’ve read of the reviews. Mind you it’s about Manchester U-bloody-nited and it may just tip me over the edge. “Je ne suis pas un homme, je suis Cantona” my arse!

---

I’m off to see Neil Young next Tuesday evening. Finally, after thirty odd years of listening to him, I am able to actually attend one of his shows. In the past they have coincided with weddings, holidays, other already made plans and sold out signs. Eldest and Mrs Eldest are coming as well. Down to Nottingham via rail and then an overnight stay.

I’ve been perusing the set lists from the tour so far and the portents are good. I reckon we can definitely count on Mansion on the Hill, Cortez the Killer, Cinnamon Girl, Heart of Gold, Old Man, Hey Hey My My, Pocahontas, Everybody knows this is Nowhere, Are You Ready for the Country, The Needle and the Damage Done, Unknown Legend, Down by the River and Rockin’ in the Free World. We may also get Like a Hurricane, Tonight’s the Night, Fuckin’ Up, Comes a Time, From Hank to Hendrix and World on a String. That’ll do me – fan friendly and accessible to those (like Mrs Eldest) who don’t really know his stuff. Should be grand!

---

Hazel Blears eh? What a twonk. Mind you, she’s very sorry now for resigning when she did and taking the mickey (however justified) out of Gordon’s YouTube appearance. It’s patently obvious that she didn’t think the PM would survive the aftershocks of the European and local elections and even more patently obvious that she thought she’d been clever by getting out and – in her view at least – positioning herself for a cabinet position under the next incumbent. Whoops! Never jump when you’re not sure where the shore is.

What really got my goat was the brooch. ‘Rocking the boat’. What the hell was that about? What was going through her smug little mind as she pinned that to her coat? God knows but I know this, those three errors of judgement plus the little matter of her woeful paying back of the innocent £13,000 should ensure that she does not get re-selected for her Salford constituency again. If she does I think the local Labour Party are in for a surprise come the next General Election. Still at least she’ll be able to repent at leisure.

As a result of these shenanigans, I’ve heard and read some brilliant descriptions of Ms Blears. I thought ‘like a feral Krankie’ was good but ‘Bride of Chucky’ was spot on.

See The Sky About To Rain.....

Today we had a good old-fashioned trip to the seaside. Butties, a flask, a dog and a positive attitude was all we needed so the car was made ready and off we sped in the glorious June sunshine. Didn't we have a lovely time, the day we went to.......

We had planned on heading Southport way, to the endless beaches and dunes of that part of the Lancashire coastline that doesn’t have a place called Blackpool stuck in the middle of it like a running sore. Southport would be ideal, we could let the dog exercise for a good two minutes or so before she would collapse in an exhausted heap and I could photograph the endless horizon whilst contemplating mortality. Dearest could get some sea air to her broken bits and it would be just like being kids again.

“Are we there yet?”

Except we never made it to Southport. Somebody (ahem) wasn’t paying attention to the road signs on the motorway and he missed the turn off. We were heading for North Wales at a rate of knots with no immediate means of retracing, so we decided to stay with it. After all, there was no schedule, no timetable, just two crazy kids and a dog on the highway to oblivion!

It was looking like Conwy or Llandudno – that’s where we usually end up when we can’t think of anywhere else to go. And, to be fair we have had some cracking times there in the past with the kids and others. It’s a beautiful part of the world but one that we’ve been to too often.

Then we saw a sign that said ‘Prestatyn’. Now we haven’t been there for years so we thought we’d give it a go. I vaguely remembered a decent beach and tacky 1950s seaside architecture. To be frank I was in the mood for a decent beach and some tacky 1950s seaside architecture. Mirror, signal and manoeuvre – we turned right and tootled down some delightful country roads and through some cute little Welsh villages and hamlets before pitching up on Prestatyn’s sea front. After paying and displaying we set off down what turned out to be an absolutely excellent three mile walk down a practically deserted sea front. Dunes on one side, the beach on the other. No ice-cream kiosks, do-nut sellers, ‘amusement’ arcades or ‘kiss-me-quick’ hats anywhere.

We really did enjoy ourselves. A good six mile walk and the quality of the light was special – sunshine from one part of the sky and heavy clouds in the other. My favourite visual treat. There was a becalmed wind farm out at sea standing testament to the stillness of the day. It were grand, as they say in the vernacular.

And then my hip started to ache. Another physical niggle to add to the growing list. Old age? It’s a bitch.

---

I see Real Madrid aren’t “killing football” with their recent spending. It’s only City who get accused of that. £80million plus £45million for Kaka. Wages for the pair of them that would make anybody’s eyes water and hardly a Gallic eyebrow raised. Monsieur Platini mustn’t have been paying that much attention. Oh sure he did make the odd comment but it’s nothing like the bile he directed at the Sky Blues in January. But then again, Madrid aren’t rocking the boat are they? As long as the billions flow between the ‘Big’ clubs then all’s OK and the World can carry on spinning.

La petite tarte!

Her's some pics from today.......


See the sky, about to rain...


The errant possessive apostrophe.


Skulkin'


Outlook: Mixed!


Foreshore


Beach


Time to go.


Reflections in public art.

That's all folks!

Same As It Ever Was......

So, the vagaries of PR, coupled with a dismal turnout, have resulted in the current leader of the BNP and the ex-leader of the NF heading for Brussels to presumably team up with others of like mind. It’s a sad day when the political process delivers as unpalatable a pair as this but hey, that’s democracy and the people have spoken although they did poll fewer votes than last time. We may not agree with their choice but we have to take on board the thought processes behind the voting; thought processes that the chattering classes just don’t seem capable of ever understanding.

Like the politicians they endlessly interview, too many of our opinion formers and recorders have never lived in the world that the vast majority inhabit. A world of monotonous, far-from-secure, low-paid jobs that Polly Toynbee, for example, simply wouldn’t recognise. She looked shell-shocked last night Ms Toynbee, although she did accept that she could understand why low-skilled workers would feel threatened by a huge influx of highly skilled and ambitious young Poles, completely ignoring the fact that many of them worked for lower pay than existing workers and also ignoring the fact that the vast majority of them have now gone back home.

Personally, although I thought we wouldn’t find ourselves in this position, I’m not surprised that the far right have made inroads in the ex-textile towns of the North West and Yorkshire. Far from the cultural melting pot that the Toynbees of this world believe that these places are, all I see are ghettos where different cultures exist side by side and no matter how hard the powers-that-be try to integrate them, they are as compartmentalised as ever.

When I had the misfortune to deliver Mail my first round was in Glodwick. You may vaguely remember the place – it was the epicentre of the Oldham riots a few years back and it is almost exclusively Asian. Shops, businesses, mosques all geared to a population that definitely wasn’t, and still isn’t integrating. A couple of miles south and you’re in Fitton Hill: almost exclusively White and with a population that definitely isn’t integrating either. 5,400+ votes the BNP acquired in Oldham. I bet you could come up with a fairly good guess where they came from.

I would imagine this same situation is replicated in Burnley, Bradford, Blackburn etc. And yet, to listen to the great and the good you would think that entirely the opposite is true. We all dream of living in harmonious multi-cultural societies but to blithely assume, from the comfort of Hampstead, that such situations are the norm is, at best wishful thinking and, at worst sheer ignorance. As I said in my last post, this is a debate that needs honesty on all sides and it needs to begin soon. Middle class commentators interviewing middle class representatives of ‘Inter-Faith’ groups is not – and has never been – the way forward.

---

Another thing that has surprised me about the election results, both European and local is the lack of imagination the electorate has shown in their response to the ‘collapse of trust’ that the expenses farrago has supposedly triggered.

It seems to me that all they’ve done is revert to type, given the incumbents a kicking and transferred their votes to the other main opposition party or stayed at home and watched Big Brother. Lord knows there were enough alternatives on the ballot paper for some constructive protest voting apart from the BNP. It’s an opportunity lost and one that we may all live to regret. It wasn’t just Labour politicians with their snouts in the trough but I’ve got a funny feeling that years down the line the moat-cleaning and duck islands will be forever linked with Labour, just like the three-day week of the early Seventies is.

This electoral timidity will result in the psephologists of the main parties believing they got off the hook and it’s business as usual. All that’s required is to sit back, head down and wait until swine flu or something takes over the headlines again. Gordon, for example, is reported as considering slowing the privatisation of Royal Mail. Slowing down? What sort of procrastinating, Asquithian response is that? What the hell is that going to achieve? That’s not a change of policy. His response to this battering is to ‘slow something down’? He’s also apparently on the verge of announcing an enquiry into the Iraq war. An enquiry eh? And how long will that take to report? Decades I reckon and even then it will be a whitewash. Here's an idea Gordon, ditch the ridiculous ID Card scheme. That would do for starters.

They think they’ve got away with it and, you know what?

They have.

---

I watched the England v Kazakhstan game on Saturday. It was a scrappy affair not helped by the state of the pitch but, in the end, we got the result even though none of the team performed outstandingly. It’s always nice being able to watch two Manchester City players in England shirts as well.

Come Sunday morning I ambled down to the paper shop and bought The Observer, The Mail and the Daily Mirror (the latter at the request of Dearest as there was something in it she wanted ?). As I lazily poached a couple of eggs I skimmed the match report statistics in the Mirror. They have a helpful section called ‘villain of the game’ or something like that. Guess who it was. Yup, new City signing Gareth Barry. Now I don’t happen to think he had a great game but after the first twenty minutes or so I though he settled down and let’s not forget he did get the first goal. Glen Johnston on the other hand made mistakes that almost led to goals and was generally skinned every time the opposition approached. David Beckham was pointless, lacklustre and wasteful. But Gareth was the villain.

I opened the Mail, they gave Gareth 8 out of 10 for his performance and the Observer was similarly complementary.

Now I don’t normally read the Mirror as it’s a comic not a newspaper, but I have heard a lot of City fans complain about its in-built anti City reporters and I have seen some uncalled for bile on their website in the past, but this for me takes the biscuit. This isn’t reportage it’s petty and pathetic and the reporters (for it is more than one) need to get a life.

Oooops I Did It Again......

I’ll tell you what, this ‘house-husband’ malarkey is bloody hard work. Take the glorious weekend that has just flashed by. Instead of languidly greeting the morning and easing myself into the day ahead I had to jump out of bed and attack the garden, a garden that has not been attended to for quite some weeks (months possibly). The grass was a good 8 to 10 inches high and the ‘lawn’ itself was still damp from all the rain we’ve been experiencing in these parts. It was almost too much for the aging Flymo, but after an hour of cursing, pushin’, sweatin’, pullin’ swearin’ and a-cussin’ the first pass was complete.

“That looks a mess” observed Dearest helpfully as I wiped salty sweat from my eyes, jealously observed the next door neighbours reclining in the heat with a glass of something cool and considered phase two.

“We need a strimmer!”

I set off in the increasing heat to the local branch of Focus. This, in retrospect was a big mistake as the roadworks pixies had been out overnight putting up a temporary yet complicated six set traffic light sequence that was cheerfully holding up vehicles in what seemed like a twenty mile radius all round the store I was trying to access. A mass road rage outbreak was simmering just beneath the surface as I finally parked up in their crowded car park and marched purposefully in.

Within minutes I was walking resignedly out. There’s been a “run” on strimmers and all they had left were top of the range solid gold models with a price tag to match.

Time for plan B. B and Q. Once more into the congestion.

In short it took me nearly two hours to purchase a strimmer. Given that my original destination was a mere half mile from my front door I think that can be described as excessive. But, undaunted I assembled the various parts and approached the lawn edge. I pulled the trigger and the grass and weeds fell. Twenty seconds later I had the strimmer unplugged and was threading more cord through as the first ten seconds of activity was too much for the original. Over the next hour or so I must have repeated this fulfilling activity fifteen times as the flora took it’s toll.

Eventually it was over and the lawn edges were once again defined and the weeds and overgrowth had gone. “Dearest’ll be impressed now” I thought as I readied myself for one more mow.

“Where have my ornamental grasses gone?”

Sometimes you just can’t win……….

---

Later, after a long horticultural lecture from Dearest, we decamped to the local beer garden and were soon joined by Eldest, Mrs Eldest, Eldest’s best man and his two year old twin boys. By the time we were ready to leave we had been joined by another five or six – friends that is, not twins - although by this time we were inside the pub as it did cool significantly as the sun dropped. Before we left I had been convinced to book a flight to Nice in order to watch Barcelona take on Shakthar Donesk in Monaco. It’s the winners of the Champion’s League v the winners of the EUFA Cup and it should be a great opportunity for me to watch a shedload of City’s future stars play for Barca as we’re about to buy them all apparently.

Sunday arrived and the ironing pile had reached tipping point. What a great way to pass the time in a heatwave, The only way to approach this task was stripped to my boxers with an electric fan gently cooling me.

I’ll soon have lost pounds at this rate.

---

Here in the North West we’re “being targeted by the BNP” according to local news sources. Come Thursday’s Euro elections the “thugs in suits” hope to gain enough of a share of the vote to send a significant number of representatives to Strasbourg. Certainly the press seem to think so because the number of articles on the dangers of using them as a protest vote against the mainstream parties must now be in three figures at least. Locally we’ve had the Manchester Evening News, The Oldham Chronicle and Advertiser. Nationally The Observer, Guardian, Mirror and a host of others all running with similar analyses. Add to this the features on “the murky past” of most – if not all – BNP leaders and the worry among the liberal elite becomes palpable.

I think I have a little more faith in the electorate than that. I think the likes of UKIP, The English Democratic Party and maybe The Greens will receive the protest votes. Moreover we could see a massive rise in abstentions and spoilt papers. Sure there will be an increase for the fascists but not on the scale that is feared. People, on the whole, aren’t stupid and it will only be those that are who will vote for the racist tossers.

What doesn’t help in situations like this though is when a climate of fear of expressing a viewpoint that challenges the prevailing multi-culturism-and-diversity-is-always-good stance is met with a carte blanche charge of racism and bigotry. The left at present seems to me to be shooting itself in the foot over this issue by appearing to condone cultures that oppress women and discriminate against other cultures – mainly western capitalism – the very culture that allows them the freedom of speech to call for its overthrow. There’s some very flawed logic knocking around this whole area and the politicians and opinion formers need to start addressing it seriously.

Fascism exists in many different guises and it doesn’t always have a white face.

---

Dearest won’t be able to “roll with it” this coming weekend. Originally she was to have attended one of the Oasis concerts in Manchester’s Heaton Park with Mrs Eldest but the broken shoulder has rendered it unwise to do so. She will just have to make sure it’s OK for the Neil Young gig on June 23rd.

I'll Regret It All In The Morning

Well what a challenging couple of weeks that was, awash with travel, fun, laughter and catastrophe.

It all started with Dearest, Eldest, Mrs Eldest, Youngest, Mrs Youngest and myself flying to Corfu Town to rendezvous with the good ship Celebration for a week of cruising the Adriatic: Koper, Venice, Split, Dubrovnik and Kotor. Free food and free drink added a certain je ne sais quoi . A good time was going to be had by all.

And, in fairness, a good time was had by most of us. The itinerary was superb and the ship was excellent. Unfortunately one of our party thought it would be a good idea to break her shoulder on the first night!! Good old Dearest thought that a spot of Riverdancing was a good idea after a few hours of free cocktails. A visit to the ship’s medical centre followed where Dearest was strapped up and medicated. The day after was a day at sea so she didn’t get an X-Ray until we arrived in Slovenia on Sunday morning. She was than strapped into a strange Velcro contraption that left her with very little movement but protected her enough to get around without too much discomfort. Nights were worse though as she couldn’t get comfortable and ended up having to sleep almost sitting up. Painkillers through the nights and Vodka and Diet Cokes through the days saw her through though and she did enjoy herself in her own way. £800 it cost us which we have now got to try to wring out of our travel insurance.

I’ve got a feeling it may take some time.

---

As I write Burnley have just won the play off final and will grace the Premiership next season. I bet Alistair Campbell is cock-a-hoop. It’s great having all these Lancashire mill towns represented in the top competition again. Bolton, Blackburn and now Burnley, it’s just like the fifties again.

I wonder if Sheffield United will try to sue somebody?

Congratulations to the Mackems and the Tigers too. Both of them avoided relegation yesterday although Mrs Eldest (being a Geordie and a ‘Toon fan) had what can only be described as a bad day. Still, she comforted herself with the fact that ‘Boro went down too.

---

The sun shone on Bank Holiday weekend and the barbecues were being fired up all around. The smell of cheap sausage and beefburgers was overwhelming. Why aren’t folk a little more adventurous when it comes to glowing charcoal? You may as well stick sausage and beefburgers under the grill. Use your imagination. Barbecue some fish – sea bass, trout. Spear some good stuff and make kebabs – peppers, onions, courgettes etc. Marinade something. Make an effort, make plans BEFORE you drag out the rusting bucket from behind the shed.

---

Politicians eh? Thieving bastards. Well, not all politicians obviously because, believe it or not there are some really hard-working, honest ‘doing-it-for-all-the-right-reasons’ people out there. Helping constituents, sitting on select committees, doing all that tedious, unsung crappy stuff that needs to be done. Rarely appearing on TV, rarely attracting media attention at all actually. Just diligently plodding away at their vocation. Just doing the job they don’t get overpaid to do. And doing it well.

But then you get the pisstakers. I don’t know what’s worse; claiming to have your moat cleaned or claiming for a packet of HobNobs, a bath plug or a toilet brush. Hazel Blears unable to grasp that by writing a cheque for £13,000 she was not only accepting she knew her moral compass had been interfered with but, moreover, her Salfordian constituents would have watched her do that and think ‘I barely earn £13,000 a year and yet this ‘Socialist’ can cavalierly sign away a similar sum whilst grinning her fixed grin and staring down the media’.

Meanwhile the odious pair who were the first to be fingered for ‘inadvertently’ claiming rent on a second home owned by a trust have finally announced they are to stand down at the next election because they ‘cannot maintain the hectic pace politics’. Hmmmm, really? I look forward to further revelations in July.

It really is shocking just what has emerged over the past few weeks. I mean this isn’t just a few – no matter what Anne Widdicombe and the rest say – this is a sizeable number of senior politicians with their nose in the trough and an inability to understand that ordinary working people, who were already disillusioned with the state of politics, have now been tipped over the edge. We have Cabinet members who have claimed £11,000 for personal accountancy advice. Jacqui Smith, Blears (again), Miliband, Purnell, Douglas Alexander, Geoff Hoon and Hilary Benn and Alistair Darling.

Perception is all that matters here and there can be no doubt that – regardless of all the aforementioned ‘good guys and gals’ – Parliament is now viewed as a joke filled with main chancers and grubby little snake oil salesmen. When public faith in political institutions is undermined to this extent then the vacuum that remains is in danger of being filled by the advocates of extremity. Intent on convincing us that we need to throw the baby out with the bathwater.

Change in our system is long overdue but the last thing we need is a knee-jerk response that leaves us with a half-arsed, ill-thought solution that within a short time produces yet more problems.

Fingers crossed.

---

Do you remember my posts from last summer regarding the double suicide of Shughie and Ronald? Well here's the newspaper report of the Coroner's findings:-

A DEVOTED father and son were even united in death as they carried out a shocking suicide pact after being unable to live without each other.

Mystery surrounded the deaths of Shugie and Ronald after the pair — aged 87 and 58 —were found hanged in their house in Failsworth by horrified neighbours on July 5, last year.

As a double inquest yesterday revealed details of a tragic past blighted with health problems, coroner Simon Nelson described it as the saddest inquest he had dealt with in 10 years.

Shughie’s sister-in-law Ida Wrigley told the Oldham hearing: “There was a very close and loving relationship between father and son. I don’t think they could have lived without each other.”

Ronald was diagnosed with a brain tumour aged only 13. He needed eight hours of surgery and was initially unable to walk or talk. With the help of his mum, Beryl, Ronald fully recovered to become a draughtsman and a qualified glider pilot.

Beryl died 15 years ago. In 2001, Ronald was diagnosed with dystonia, a painful condition affecting control of the neck muscles.

The former Chadderton Grammar School pupil, who always lived with his parents and never married, had to stop working and give up his hobby and socialising.

Several years ago his dad discovered a note on his computer and found Ronald in bed after taking an overdose. He was hospitalised for five weeks.

Shughie, a retired engineer, began having breathing problems four years before his death. He was advised to get rid of a pigeon they kept inside the house.

Doctors’ records showed Shughie had glaucoma, high blood pressure and osteoarthritis but neither had made suicidal comments or shown signs of depression. Ronald had been receiving botox injections but it had stopped relieving his neck problems.

Mrs Wrigley said: “Shughie was a very nice, friendly man, quietly spoken and very reserved. Ronald was a very pleasant, laid back and reserved gentlemen but never spoke of concerns.”

The pair were found by neighbour TWLFWWLND after Shughie’s niece Susan Thompson, from Failsworth, became worried she had not heard from the pair, who she described as very friendly and very good to her but who kept themselves to themselves.

Shughie left behind a box of financial documents and instructions for solicitors and a suicide note, which spoke of his intention to kill himself and the pair’s worsening health.

Detective Inspector Derek Weaver said the pair had hanged themselves next to each other in an identical manner. Ronald’s rope had unravelled and he was found lying at his dad’s feet.

He said there was nothing to suggest either had assisted the other against their will and it appeared a joint venture.

Recording a verdict that they each took their own life, Mr Nelson said: “There was a tremendous bond between them. Just as they cared for each other in life they were united in death.”

Ah well....back to life.........

Snaps


Butterflies? In the Adriatic?


Leaving Montenegro.


It's a hard life.


Yes it is.


Kotor, Montenegro.


Dubrovnik, Croatia.


Dubrovnik, Croatia.


Farewell Venice.


I dream of Venice.


Venice.


Reflections on the hull


Corfu Town.

That's all folks!