Life in a Northern Town

A quick perusal of the BBCs website this afternoon and it was confirmed that some unseeded Croatian had ended Tim's Wimbledon for yet another year. Straight sets an' all.

"I'll let the rest of the office know" I thought.

"Henman lost in straight sets" I hollered.

You should've heard the laughter, the cries of "bottler", "wanker" and the like.

The women too. "Didn't think he'd do it, he never does. He always loses his bottle".

Later I listened to a phone-in on Five Live. With a few exceptions (that only serve to prove the rule), calls from the North were generally anti-Tim and those from the South pro. North South divide? I'll say.

Now, I've made my opinion of the loser known elsewhere, but when I hear people trying to say he's a success because he gets to quarter and semi finals, then I know why he'll never win. I don't hear anybody claiming the English Football team were successful losing to Portugal last week - and quite right too. They lost - just like Timothy did.

Hopefully England will learn from their defeat, Tim won't. I don't know if you can learn bottle.

Mind you, at least the TV, radio and press will give up their canonisation of him and I won't have to listen to the plummy voices, loose with too many Pimms, making him out to be the greatest living English sportsman.

Just the final few days to get over and then we can get this yearly middle-class jamboree over and done with.

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I had to nip into Oldham tonight. I was under orders from Dearest to pick up a copy of the car insurance documents that have been mislaid (or, more likely, thrown out in one of Dearest's cleaning frenzies). So, with a 'grin' and a air of 'bearing it' I sullied forth.

"Ay up" I thought - being Northern an' all, "I'll nip into the charity shops and peruse the bookshelves like I usually do when I'm up here".

The beauty of the bookshelves of Oldham's charity shops is that they are mainly stocked by the inhabitants of Saddleworth. TV producers, theatre directors, novelists, artists and the bored partners of captains of industry.

When you combine this with the obvious fact that the vast majority of charity shop customers - in Oldham at least - are not pre-disposed to the stock of books in particular and reading in general, it usually leaves juicy goodies for me.

Today there was a bumper crop of novels I had already read so the final booty was a little restricted. Nonethless, for less than a fiver I walked away with almost pristine copies of Jung Chang's 'Wild Swans', Damon Runyan's 'On Broadway', Dee Brown's wonderful history of the North American Indian 'Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee' and an anthology of short stories from Manchester by writers such as Val MacDiarmid, Jeff Noon and The Fall's Mark E Smith.

Now, if only the Saddleworthians would start donating some decent DVDs and CDs as well.....

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As a lapsed member of the Labour Party, I am not surprised that Party membership has fallen to its lowest level in 70 years.

But it's all ok because they've gone from having a deficit of nearly £1million in 2002 to an operating surplus of £2.6million.

I can only assume they're going to pay canvassers and leaflet posters at the next election, because, round here at least, the hard core members who were out on the street election after election, have gone.

Fortuntely, like Labour in the mid-eighties, the Tories seem to be dedicated to making themselves unelectable.

The Winner Takes It All

Yee Hah! I finally won an auction on ebay. £16 for a cheapo ukelele - a guitar-shaped, 4-stringed bundle of fun. My cheque's in the post. The seller's credentials are 100% so I'm expecting a speedy-ish delivery. All I need now is to win the bidding for a lampost at the corner of the street and a little stick of Blackpool rock and I'll be set for life. Only snag is it's red. Bah! Still I could always sand it back to the wood.

I love acoustic instruments I do. Don't get me wrong I adore a screaming electric guitar solo as much as the next 49 year old white male, but deep inside it's wood, steel or nylon and fingers that resonates. Over the years I've acquired a few including a fiddle, dulcimer, mandolin, nylon-strung classical guitar and my favourite - a hand-made Fylde steel-strung acoustic that plays like an angel and sings like a bird.

Also scattered about are a Fender Strat, Yamaha bass, Aria Pro 335 and various keyboards, percussion items, tin whistles and harmonicas.

Of course what I really need is a shed to put them all in so I could sit there of an evening playing the blues, supping Brasso and howling at the moon.

---

I can't wait to shoot down to that there Londinium to gaze in awe at the Queen-Of-All-Our-Hearts'™ memorial fountain. £3.6 million well spent in my opinion. Anyone who disagrees is simply being churlish. Let's face it, if Weatherfield Council can find the wherewithal to build a similar magnificent erection in honour of the memory of Alf Roberts, then I think it's the least we could've done. I was filling up today when I heard it was finally ready after all these years - I really, really was.

Gawd bless yer Ma'am, you was one in a million you was. Us common folk just were'nt fit to kiss yer feet you was that grand an' all. Not like that bloody Camilla Horse-face. No you had the common touch you did and you was photogenic and an excellent media manipulator to boot.

£3.6 million. Just think, it could've built a hospital wing or helped bail out all them poor bastards whose pension funds have gone tits up. Maybe it could've purchased books for school libraries, bought back a few playing fields, built some Outward Bound centres, helped repair dilapadated school buildings.......well a thousand and one things really.

Still. A fountain. In London. That'll be nice.

Twats.

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If anyone remembers the horrific images that were broadcast on terrestial TV at the time of the Bradford City fire of 1985 when 56 supporters were burnt alive, they, like me will wonder what the hell was going through the minds of the cretins who thought the same images were just thing to sell sportswear.

As a health and safety representative, I had to watch the full film of that day and I can tell you it's something that still gives me the horrors even now. Less than four minutes it took to envelop the entire stand. Four minutes and no warning. Padlocked gates and fire escapes. 56 dead and over 300 injured.

They had a whip round for the victims and their families. The Bradford Disaster Appeal Fund. It raised £3.5 million.

Just not quite enough for a fountain.

Starry,Starry Night.....

I've acquired one of those cheapo tablet and pen things to try out. It's a Nisis one - the Wacoms are a bit expensive to just dip your toe in the water with. Initial impressions? It's bloody hard work. The pen, in particular, seems, at times, to have a life of its own. Still, it does add a little idiosyncrasy to anything I attempt.

Its impossible to draw a straight line - as you can see from this sketch of my mini-disc multitracker - but I like that. I think it adds a bit of vitality to the finished product.

I'll just have to keep practicing.

---

Bloody hell! Tiiiiiiiiimmms just beaten Phillopousis in a tie break. This means I'm going to have to put up with even more "gollys", "goshes", "my words" and "oooh I says".

Twats.

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In a moment of blinding perception, Dubya let everyone know that in Iraq, "the security situation was 'tough'". He was speaking with reference to the premature handing over of 'sovereignty' to an unelected, disparate bunch of chancers who most sane Iraqis recognise for the cul-de-sac they will inevitably prove to be.

Still, it looks good back in the land of the brave and the free and, as long as everything stays reasonably stable until November, George Jnr will be hoping and praying that he's done enough to get the Republican vote off the sofa and down to the polling booths.

The question now is 'what does Kerry do now?', So far his reticence hasn't done him any favours but, by the same token, it's not done him any real harm either. How he handles a daily drip feed of body bags and hostages for the next four months could well decide who sits in the Oval office for the next four years.

Here's hoping.

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Oh England. Not even the bridesmaid again and certainly never the bride on this showing. Once again - after the event I might add - we are informed that Goldenballs wasn't fully fit. Once again we stick with a system that's not balanced because we have'nt got a natural left-sided midfielder. The substitutions were timid and, once Rooney was out of the picture, we were bereft of bite.

Roll on the World Cup qualifiers. I will fully expect a decent right winger to be plying his trade on a regular basis - someone who can take his man on - Shaun Wright-Phillips. Believe me this kid's got a big future and yes I do think he should supplant Mr Beckham. Then again when Mr Erikson maintains that he will always be his first automatic choice, I don't hold out much hope just yet. As for the troublesome left side, why the hell can't Sven give Ashley Cole a prolonged stab at it with Wayne Bridge slotting in to the left back spot? Or have I missed something?

At least it looks like Emile has passed his sell-by date and I do have faith in the rest of the forwards. Same with the defence.

Which brings me to David James. When he arrived at Manchester City I was deeply depressed. We had just had half a season of David Seaman who, quite frankly, was a disaster. He didn't command his area, his shot stopping was woeful and he hardly said a word to his, at times, crap defence. James confounded me. He was a breath of fresh air. All the skills Seaman had lost David had in abundance. His approach to crosses was superb. He bossed the defence. He saved penalty after penalty and kept us in the Premiership.

Suddenly he turns up with England and crosses look like they frighten him to death. Why? I can only surmise that the England defensive and goal keeping coaching leaves a lot to be desired.

Then again, I'm a City fan so what would expect? I expect that there's quite a few of you disagree with me. Aren't there?

I Got Those SW19 Blues Again....

Can I just reiterate - here and now - just how much I hate tennis in general and Wimbledon in particular. A cornucopia of "Queen's English". Smug, self-satisfied plummy voices waffling on about Tim. Strawberries and cream. Virginia "Ginny" Wade and the rest of the "oh I say" over-privileged wankers.

And now they've taken over my radio station of choice so I'll either have to retune to another or reacquaint myself with the more obscure parts of my music collection

I've said it before and I'll say it again, Tennis, as a competetive sport in this country will never thrive because it is almost the sole reserve of the "holiday home in the country" type. A talented kid from a sink estate has as much chance of landing on the moon as appearing at Wimbledon. Just like show-jumping.

Blazered and buffed-up old duffers rule and losing gallantly with dignity is revered over winning a bloody trophy.

My word.

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Poor old David's one-trick-ponyism has been discovered for the lacklustre affair it really is. For a long time I have said that he is essentially a dead ball specialist and superb crosser (as in "of the ball" not "dressing").

He's not a winger - he has no pace and he can't pass a man unless he indulges in a one-two. His left foot is non-existant and he lacks the vision to be a truly creative midfielder.

On top of all that he's finding life in Spain difficult because he can't go out of his front door. Back in Manchester he was happy because the Beckhams could stroll round the Trafford Centre unmolested.

Well, that's great Dave it really is. I have one question though: why the fuck would you want to? The Trafford Centre? It's a man's worst nightmare. Mile after mile of the same shops you get on every city centre high street. Mile after mile of ubiquitous fast "food" emporia. Bars you can't have a drink in because - well - because you had to drive fuckin' miles just to get to the sprawling nightmare of Prince Charles-friendly architectural bollox. Woeful cinemas showing the same dumbed down American blockbuster every other cinema in the country is showing. In short: I think I'd rather stay in and maybe read a book. Paint a picture. Watch a decent film (on Film Four perhaps). Anything but find myself in that 21st century nightmare.

Mind you I have to keep reminding myself you're only a Chav with plenty of money.

---

"For the first time, an American president comes to Ireland greeted by silence and an almost complete absence of cheering crowds"

Good. Perhaps his "this'll play good back home" photo opportunties will suffer as a result. The man's a buffoon of the highest order. Via Christine, I watched the most powerful man on the planet stumble through an 11 minute interview with RTE's Carole Coleman. It was painful to listen to him thrutching with all the aplomb of a two year old. After the interview he complained about being interrupted.

George, you should've been grateful. Anything to eat up the time and stop you being exposed as the intellectual lightweight you most definately are.

Twat. Simple as.

---

I've been trying to acquire a reasonably priced ukelele on ebay now for about 3 months. Everytime I think I've got one of the buggers someone - a bastard - beats me to it. I've just had my bid for a nice vintage Harmony model beat by some wastrel who'll probably never pluck a string in anger. So, now what? Up my bid to £40? Or admit defeat again?

£40? For a ukelele? Where's me white flag.

---

I've just watched Jamie Cullum at Glastonbury. Absolutely brilliant. He got the audience singing 3 part harmony while he extemporised on top for God's sake. 3 part fuckin' harmony! While the rain pissed down from a great height and 9 out of 10 of the poor over-charged bastards must have felt like shit. "Singin' in the Rain" he sang. Nice one James - you have impressed a very hard to impress person tonight. I'll probably download your album without paying for it as a result.

More to the point though, next time you visit Manchester, I'll be sat near the front and I might hand over proper greenbacks for your second platter.

That's as good as it gets these days at occupied towers so just rejoice at that news.

Back to Life

Hello, I'm back. It's been a hard week, what with the miscarriage and my Father's ill health. The black dog has been hanging round my door, but it's time to try and think positive again, after all England are through to the quarter-finals and Tim nearly lost in the first round - so it's not all bad.

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This weekend I, like many other bloggers, read the top 100 BRITISH albums of all time in The Observer Music Magazine. Having perused the selections of many of my blogging peers, I began to apply my thought processes to my own top 10.

The thing about these things is that they are inextricably linked to the "good old days" of your own halcyon youth. It really is very rare that an old codger like me will find a recent album that can surpass Clifford T Ward never mind The Beatles. Certain discs of the early 70s are stuck like shit to a blanket to BIG events in my life. Free's "Fire And Water" is me holidaying with my mates for the first time. Zappa's "The Grand Wazoo" will always remind me of Dearest when we first met. Steely Dan's "Can't Buy a Thrill" thrilled me during Eldest's conception. *blush*

So I can understand The Stone Roses being number one for a lot of folk out there (media darlings or not). It was their youth and they were still immortal. I ain't gonna knock it.

So, right. Top 10. All British. Hmmmph that's the Dan and Francis Vincent Zappa out of the window right away. Anyway. Here goes:-

BTW This exercise has made me appreciate just how much American music I listen to.

1 The Beatles - The White Album.
2 The Beatles - Revolver
3 The Who - Who's Next
4 The Clash - London Calling
5 Traffic - John Barleycorn Must die
6 John Martyn - Solid Air
7 XTC - Wasp Star
8 Roy Harper - Bullinamingvase
9 Yes - Close to the Edge
10 Led Zeppelin - III

Bubbling Under:-

Free - Fire and Water
The Pogues - Rum, Sodomy and the Lash
David Bowie - Low
The Beatles - Rubber Soul
Elton John - Madman Across the Water
Led Zeppelin - II
Caravan - For Girls Who Grow Plump in the Night
10CC - How Dare You/Sheet Music

Jesus, I've not even mentioned John Mayall, Eric Clapton, The Stones, Richard Thompson, The Bonzo Dog Band, The Kinks, Cream, Individual Beatles or Cliff yet!

Is Rolf British? I mean, he is really isn't he? Because "Sun Arise" and "Johnny Day" were fuckin' brilliant when you were a 9 or 10 year old in the early 60s. Simple as.

---

Well Dad's back in dock tomorrow for some more pissing about (literally) by disinterested consultants with an eye on the clock and more profitable patients. Dad's appointment is at 8:00am in the morning. That means he'll be up most of the night to make sure he gets there on time. The consultant will be there to make sure his NHS patients can be dispensed with early enough to make some real money nibbling at the genitalia of richer "clients".

Twats.

---

Mind you, life's lookin' up. Italy have just had to book flights home from Euro 2004.

*Dances round the room laughin' his balls off*

In a Broken Dream

Deep sadness. Miscarriage.

Gutted.

Homeward Bound

Pater's coming home tomorrow with a catheter and a bag attached to his left knee. He's like a kid on Christmas Eve. My mother's looking forward to having a bit of a rest. Everyday since he went in she's spent from 3:00pm to 8:00pm sat by his bed like a faithful spaniel.

He's got to go back in a couple of weeks for a cystological scan so it's not quite all over yet but here's hoping.

---

I was sat with a Gillingham fan in the local last night watching the match. He must be the only Gillingham fan north of...well, Gillingham. As a result he was au fait with the disappointment of being certain match winners with just injury time to play.

30th May 1999. Wembley. The 2nd Division Play Off Final. Gillingham v Manchester City. Pissing down - that fine rain that soaks you through. Dearest, Eldest and I had acquired tickets for the most important game in City's glorious history. We couldn't lose. Could we?

Our seats were on the front row - the roof didn't quite cover the front row. We were wet. I remember looking up at the famous scoreboard:

GILLINGHAM 2 MANCHESTER CITY 0 90mins

The ref announced injury time of 5 minutes I couldn't face it so we left. I've never left a game early in my life but this occasion was too much even for a City fan to take. As we entered the concourse under the stands I stood knee-deep in piss while Dearest went for a wee. There was a roar. City had scored a consolation via the left foot of Kevin Horlock.

So what. Miracles don't happen to Manchester City, that was the sole reserve of the red lot across town who, earlier that very week, had won the European Cup by scoring twice in the dying minutes to mortify Bayern Munich. Nah, a consolation that's all.

Then, just as Dearest reappeared, there was an earthquake. The entire ground shook above our heads and the roar that ensued defied description. I knew what had happened.

We'd equalised. WE'D ONLY GONE AN' EQUALISED!

Foolishly I picked Dearest up and ran a 100 yards in my excitement. I could have dropped dead of a heart attack there and then. I wouldn't have known the final score either.

The rest, as they say, is history. The scores stayed the same after extra time and City won on penalties thanks to the heroics of young Nicky Weaver, City's 20 year old goalkeeper.

Five minutes earlier 30,000 Gillingham 'fans' had been chanting take-the-piss songs at us. But now the air was full of 'you're not singing anymore' sung with exclusively Mancunian accents.

Oh what bliss.

Last night I found out what it was like to be a Gillingham or Bayern Munich supporter and I didn't like it one bit.

Incidentally Clive (Man United) Tyldseley is the most annoying commentator since Racist Ron (Man United) Atkinson.

I Scare Myself

When I finally become a Grandfather, I realise I will need a bogyman, a ghoul, a scare-the-shit-out-of-yer evil bastard to quieten the little one with. You know the type of thing: "if you don't eat your greens, go to sleep, stop putting your fingers in the plug, XXXXXXXX will come and suck your eyeballs out of their sockets!

When I was a toddler my mother used to scare me shitless with threats of the Teddy Boys coming to get me. Teddy Boys? I had this horrific image of fuckin' massive teddy bears with evil frowns chasing me all over the country with hate in their hearts, a taste for human flesh and profoundly empty bellies.

And it didn't do me any harm! *twitch*

For years I've actually made mental notes of potential candidates. From Hannibal Lecter to that bloke who 'allegedly' shot Jill Dando, I've filled notebooks with the inhabitants of Evil-ville. All worthy candidates.

But today, after watching Ronnie's funeral and seeing Margaret's pre-recorded eulogy, it's got to be The Iron Lady.

Eat your muesli or Thatcher's gonna get yer!

Oh yes. There's a certain ring to it. Isn't there?

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Thanks to all and sundry for the good wishes for my Dad. Tonight he is a 1000% better. Alert, eating and, most importantly, laughing. Blood Pressure down, blood sugar under control and appetite back. Ain't morphine great?

Some more *explorations* will take place come Monday and then, hopefully, we can look at getting him back home. He's dying for a light ale.

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Who watched The Ginger Geezer tonight on BBC4? I did. Followed by the first episode of The Prisoner

Hit the Road Jack

RIP Ray Charles.

A true original. Ray was a conduit through which Blues, Jazz, Country and Pop flowed in one huge delicious amalgam.

His version of Georgia On My Mind was THE definitive version.

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Well my Dad wasn't released today, in fact he's gone downhill. In fact I can't see him coming out before next week sometime. Unless............

Bollocks.

Yesterday Once More

Well, he's disappointed right now but sure he'll be raring to go come a week on Monday. Bollocks Timothy, as I have pointed out deep within my archives, you are a bottler.

I must admit though you are a deeply incisive and perceptive interviewee.

Take this gem from today's after-match chat:

"I would liked to have won more matches here"

Erm Tim, didn't you mean to say "I would have liked to have won A match here"

Roll on Wimbledon, this year it clashes with Euro 2004 and no doubt the middle-class twadges that run our venerable institution will decide that Tim takes precedence over a France v Spain semi final or whatever.

Twats

Fucking tennis. Fucking Henman. Fucking BBC. (No, I love it really - I do).

---

**Bad taste alert**

Here's a headline that is as relevant now as it was 20 years ago:

Reagan's body arrives in capitol.

The President's brain must still be missing then?

I'll get me coat.

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When a were a kid, an' it were summer 'olidays, me Gran used to mind me an' Younger Brother while me mam laboured and sweated to supplement me Dad's engineer's pay packet. Dad's hedonistic lifestyle required a decent supply of light ales as you can imagine. In thrall to Wilson's brewery he were. In thrall. But I digress.

Sometimes the sun would shine like blazes all over north west Manchester and us kids would end up hot, dripping and parched.

"Nana we're really hot can we have a drink to cool us down?"

"Course you can. A nice cup of tea, that'll cool you down."

How? How the fuck does a hot cup of tea cool you down?

I know the answer everyone comes out with: "it makes you sweat and that's nature's way of cooling you down."

I know, but before you cool down you have to get hotter to sweat. Thirty minutes later you've finally hyperventilated in the cruel northern heat enough to stabilise.

On top that you stink like fuck. Why not just give us an ice-cool dandelion and burdock instead of crap old wives tales of the refrigerating effects of hot tea?

Well essentially because tea was a lot fuckin' cheaper that's why.

---

My Dad was nowty, snappy and full of pain today. My Mam bore the brunt and ended up in tears. Eventually the nurses took his catheter out and he seemed a lot better. Mind you, so would I. He may be home tomorrow. Just as well because my Mam fell out of bed last night, in a deep, deep sleep. There was no Dad there to act like gates on a cot you see.

Old Man Take A Look At My Life, I'm a Lot Like You Were

Well, a bed was available for my Dad and so we molly-coddled him to it and tried to make light of the seriousness of the situation. Like you do. My Mother is frightened half to death by recent events and, I must admit, images of her in widow's weeds keep leaping, unbidden, into my mind's eye. But, fuck it. Let's be positive. He's finally had the operation this morning (after a long and lonely sleepless night), and he seems more relaxed. Chances are he'll be out by weekend so here's hoping. Just the biopsy to get over.

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The new wheels I'm acquiring this weekend come equipped with the last century's technology. I'm talkin' magnetic tape here. Magnetic tape! What kind of a medium's that? Winding forward, winding back. Instant access? My arse.

I'm quite looking forward to it actually. D'you remember when you would listen to an LP/cassette all the way through. Good tracks and bad? It was all part of the listening and lovin' process. There was a balance. On every Abbey Road there was an Octopus' Garden and an I Want You (She's So Heavy). On every White Album a Revolution 9.

Furthermore, as I sit here in my eyrie, I find myself surrounded by 20 years of intense home-taping action. There must be at least 300 tapes squatting on the functional shelving of Occupied Country's room. So, out you come Randy Newman, Planxty, The Blues Band, Nic Jones and many, many, many compilation tapes.

I guess it was me who 'killed music' with all my home-taping.

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Today was the hottest day this year. Too friggin' hot in my opinion. Especially when you're running here, there and everywhere ferrying folk to and from hospital/girlfriends/work.

More of the same tomorrow I guess....

60 Years On

I've just watched Charlie Windsor looking sombre and concerned as he discussed the events of June 1944 with some of the survivors who have managed to get themselves across the channel this weekend.

How he had the brass neck to wear his 'medals' in the company of those who actually did something to earn their own is beyond me.

Twat.

---

I've acquired Youngest's Sweetheart's old motor. She's buying a new car and the part-ex offers she received were derisory. So, in steps Dearest with an acceptable offer and next Saturday I will have a nice little Polo to run the few miles to work and back.

So I might have to start attending the gym again if my bike riding is to be curtailed. At least on the treadmill I won't run the risk of being flattened by a significant amount of steel and glass. I won't get pissed wet through and I'll regain a mobility that will give me a few more options at work.

I still might give the bike a run on the really nice summer mornings though.

---

So, Reagan pops his clogs. They reckon he had succumbed to Alzheimer's in 1994. I reckon he'd succumbed a damn site earlier than that.

Incidentally, it was only this afternoon that members of his family were denying reorts that he was on death's door. WTF is that about? He's human therefore eventually he shuffles. Is that a sign of weakness or something?

Lots of guff about what a great president he was is, at this moment, being spouted, splurged and spewed onto the BBC messageboards.

He wasn't a President. He was an actor.

Sunshine's Better

It's been a John Martyn evening. A long trawl through Bless the Weather, Solid Air, One World, And, Sweet Little Mysteries and a few others have left me mellower than I was. With a guitar technique to kidnap for and a voice that slurs, slips and slides to find *that* note, it has always baffled me why he never made it to the 'top'.

"Where should you be going Johnny?"

"To the top."

"And where's that Johnny?"

"To the toppermost of the poppermost."

Mind you 35 years of hitting the bottle big time probably influenced the career trajectory of the now shambling genius amputee.

By 'eck that music's still gorgeous though petal.

---

Dearest, full of the enthusiasm that imminent Grannyhood sprinkles hither and thither, is downstairs attempting to knit something that, should it ever be finished, will - without question - be so big that our first grandchild will probably be around 5 or 6 before it will fit.

Dearest, it should be added, has no sewing/knitting/cross-stitching/darning skills whatsoever. I'll never forget when Youngest was still in thrall to the Cub movement. Proudly proffering his first badge for being good at something he asked Dearest to sew it on his Cub jersey. Dearest, bursting with pride, readily assented and set to. Half an hour later she proclaimed the task completed. Youngest came running across to his proud parent as she picked the garment up off her lap.

"What the hell's happening here.........."

She'd sewn the badge on beautifully.

She had also sewn the badge and jersey to her skirt.

I can't wait to see this cardigan she's knitting.

---

My Dad's operation is scheduled for next Tuesday. He has been told to phone up between 10:00am and 12:00pm next Monday to find out if there's a bed available. IF there's a bed available? If we weren't spending untold (and we'll never find out the exact amount)billions on shabby wars supporting the 'free world's' village idiot there could be beds a plenty.

Twats.

Still, I've just received my postal vote papers and, once I've deciphered the legal-speak explaining what to do, I'll be letting my feelings be known.

Sometimes Democracy feels good. Here's hoping Iraq acquires some semblance of it one day.

Just thought I'd try this new picture sending malarky that Blogger have introduced. I wish it was possible to dictate the alignment as you post but, on the whole, it's pretty good way of sticking snaps up.

I took this as the sun went down outside while I sat outside an Irish Bar in Porta Pollenza. The Guinness was just kicking in, the stress levels had all but disappeared and all was well with the world.

Just heard that the inevitable has happened and Claudio and Chelsea have finally parted company. A sad day. Abramovich is making the mistake of believing that money makes teams. I can't help but think that he'll find that out next season.

Kind of Blue

Ah well, back off my hols and back at work. I've missed out on a lot of news over the past two weeks due to the bloody boat having no internet access and no TV/Radio. I did find out I was wrong about the 'doctored' photographs though so I guess I'll just have to accept I was wrong.

I jotted down a half-arsed diary/blog into my Revo so I'll stick it here for your perusal and as a memory jogger.

May 15

Arrived 5:00ish. Signed up for the 'drinks unlimited' package. £119 each for the week and all you your drinks - beer, wine, shorts, soft drinks etc are paid for. We 'broke even' by Wednesday - *grin*. Quick shower. Drinks on Deck. Later we retired to the piano bar and enjoyed a fabulous blues pianist-vocalist called Michael Monroe. The talented git started off with a 15 minute bluesy jazz noodle of profound accomplishment before breaking into a smoky vocalisation of Stormy Monday Blues. Bliss.

May 16

All day at sea. Late afternoon a small school of dolphins swim with the boat. Only a small species and we only saw 3 or 4 of 'em but, by God just the mere sight of them is incredible.

May 17

Cadiz

Not overly impressed with Cadiz.

This evening we met our dining table occupants. 2 Canadian women. Early 30s? The fates then conspired to send me an Everton season ticket holder so I could take the piss as a result of City's 5-1 hammering of them on Saturday. He was a good sport and a good laugh. He's possibly the only shaven headed, 40+, Saxon-lovin' (the heavy metal band not the the Anglo tribe) white wine drinker I've ever met. There was also a Welsh father and son - mostly pissed and constantly dropping references to how much they earn, have and spend. There was something shifty and deeply unlikeable about them both.

May 18

Casablanca

Rick's cafe and the souk. Fabulous mosque. Not as hassled as in other African countries. Although Dearest forgot her cardigan and was subjected to some disgusted looks from some of the men folk. Well, I think it was disgust - either that or her naked shoulders whipped them into a state of sexual frenzy.

May 19

Gibralter

Took a taxi tour with Derek Diaz the driver and an American couple (early to mid 30s) and their 4 children. Apes, caves and tunnels. Excellent value at 28euros including entrance to the national park.

May 19

Almeria

Fairly nondescript place. A few days later and nothing really sticks in my mind. Pleasant old town with a castle overlooking the port.

May 20

Ibiza Town

Delightful surprise. The old town is a jumble of tumble down the hill backstreets with typical Mallorcan dwellings. The fortifications at the top of the town were a struggle to reach but well worth the climb.

May 22 Porta Pollenza after delay at Palma. Arrived 2:30ish.

Watched Man U predictably beat Millwall in the cup final before a kip then a trip down the seafront for a selection of Tapas and a bottle of house red.

Behind us a table of obnoxiously loud late 30 something tarts women bragging about their careers, husband's jobs and children.

One of them discussing how she could get selected for some role within her child's school was advised to give the chair of governors a blowjob.

"Oh I would" she replied, "but I wouldn't swallow".

May 23

Late night last night as we shared a bottle of red and watched the final part of "Test the Nation". Later, after Dearest had fallen asleep, I ended up awake till 4:00am watching first a typical Charles Ronson vehicle entitled Mr Majestyk, and second, a repeat of Friday's Jonathon Ross show with Gareth Gates (surprisingly likeable), Carol Voordamon (surprisingly likeable)and Eddie Izard (surprisingly reticent).

May 25

Later - 8:30ish, the outdoor bingo started. A dozen or so hardliners dobbing away to some Majorcan guy who had as much idea of bingo as Ian Paisley must have of the Mass. The place was cryingng out for Peter. Sat in our apartment we could hear every number called, every woeful attempt at humour from the caller and every 'shout' from the hardy twelve.

The minute the bingo finished - in case we got bored and were unable to entertain ourselves - the disco began. The mindless, shallow pap that passes for pop these days rent the air asunder for the benefit of the miniscule group of dancers. The vast majority of punters were sat in their apartments reading or watching tv. Still, it's nice to have a soundtrack to Armageddon little background music to relax to.

Later, we were aurally bombarded entertained by a trio of r & b fixated wannabes warblin' along to a selection of soul classic backing tracks.

Cacophony.

I sat in my apartment with my headphones on full trying to listen to the White Stripes and I could still hear the 'whoops', 'alrights' and 'clap your hands y'alls'. Half past friggin' eleven they finally finished their second encore - even though nobody had requested a first.

This morning I have started go notice the tell tale signs: the chunky nine carat stuff, tattoos all over the place and, the piece de resistance: a pair of Burberry swimming trunks.

We could be in for a long week.

Tonight was cold and overcast, so the 'entertainment' didn't appear - bliss. So, we stayed in and shared a meal of baked beans with sausage, fried onions, cheese and crusty bread. We were knackered and that was all we had in the larder. All this was washed down with an eighty five cents bottle of red that was as good as any you would buy for 4 times the price back home.

Dearest faded just after the Royle Family. A Hollywood 'hey we are geat after all' version of the Medgar Evers assasination was a decent enough way to finish off the night but, fuck me America (well actually don't - I'm sick of it), what a white-folk-back-slappin' affair that was. I'm surprised Charlton Heston wasn't in it. Actually it reminded me a lot of the film they haven't made yet about Abu Ghraib prison (sp?). "Hell we done wrong, but don't you worry boy, in about 30 years we'll bring the perpertrators to justice". Hot damn.

Porta Pollenza I'm not quite sure about - yet. Typical mediterranean type of quiet town on the coast. You get them everywhere.

May 26

Overcast so spent all day indoors reading and watching tv. Live from Chelsea flower show we could see the lucky bastards who stayed at home enjoying the searing sun.

It was too cold for 'Kylie' to strut her funky stuff at the apartment complex tonight so it was relatively peaceful.

Later I watched a made for tv all-american disaster movie called Inferno. Jesus H ! Laughable. What the fuck is the BBC doing screening shit like this? Stereotypical bollocks from beginning to end. The premis is that a particularly energetic bout of sun spot activity sends a radio active ball of flame hurtling towards America Earth. Within 72 hours the temprature will reach 150 degrees. Cokin filters set to maximum? Time to start shooting.

At one point someone points out how hot it is and how it's a good job it's night or else they would all be dying. Woah America! Not in freaking Australia it ain't. Them poor Bruce's and Sheila's are being boiled alive as you speak.

The steroetypes persist: A decent doctor who's been struck off, a shit-hot, ideallist teacher who is decent enough to teach in a ghetto school. A token good black army reservist, a token black wild kid who was fundamentally salt of the earth. An evil seargant who harbours visions of Vietnam and sees the catastrophe as an opportunity to kill blacks. etc etc

150 degrees and the top brass were still wearing collars and ties but it was that hot that all the women were, how shall we say? Well they were wearing a lot less than the men that's for certain. Fuckin-A man.

If the good folk of the USA are being spoon fed crap like this night after night then the West is doomed to hell. I'll say it again though: what the hell is the BBC doing with this?

Roderick Taylor and Bruce A Taylor as producers of this I have to salute you for producing this wonderfully fascinatin peice of tat. The final scenes as the heat boils the sea, thus producing massive clouds, and those clouds cause heavy rainfall were masterful. The rainbow above LA - class. And finally the 'let us pray and give thanks' scene was just what I've come to expect.

The final two days the sun came out and transformed the place. We found a restaurant (El Mojito) that cooked exquisite mussels in various sauces, lamb that melted in the mouth and a decent bottle of house red at a very reasonable price. A guy with a classical guitar played beautifully and, later in the week, a trio of musicians made the evenings special with Cuban and Spanish music.

And then, back home to reality.

Oh, nearly forgot - matching Burberry luggage on the carousel at Manchester Airport.

I'll Follow the Sun

Confirmation from a person dressed medically. A Grandad I am bound to be. January 8th or thereabouts. Absolutely fabulous. I can hardly breathe I'm that proud.

Good news to go on holiday with. I believe the sun is somewhere down south, so I'm off to follow it in a beautiful pea green boat.

See you all in a fortnight.

White Black Stripes

Hmmmmm. What's goin' on 'ere then? On the left is a screenshot of what Andy is presented with when he points his browser here. As far as I can gather this has only occurred since the new-look Blogger arrived. The only thing I tried was the comments system - but I soon got rid of the code 'cos it's crap. It seems fine to me when I access it from home and work. Is it the fact that I use IE and Andy uses Mozilla? Anyone else having the same problem? Stupid question really 'cos if you were you wouldn't be able to read what I'd just typed would you?

Silly Occupied Country.

Still - I take it all you Micro$oft users can see?

Everybody Loves the Sound of a Train in the Distance

Time to start thinking positive again: it just gets pretty hard to do sometimes. What with the sadness of the World and everything, it takes all a chap can do to breathe let alone be happy. So, away with you negativity. No more seeing the grim reaper grinning behind my loved ones. No more constantly fearing the worst. It might be a good idea to stop supporting Manchester City as well.... but......

Actually my involvement with the rest of the season has finished as I won't be here for the last match against Everton - a match that could so easily have been a relegation scrap for both teams. Hard to believe the season's over and May is here again. Hard to believe that I'm off on another cruise on Saturday, followed by a week in the Mallorcan sun. Much needed I can tell ya.

---

I'm still not convinced that these photographs are fake. I've lost count of the number of times those supposedly 'in the know' are 'almost 100% certain' that, 'in their view' they *believe* the images to have been staged. Now they're telling us that they 'don't believe' the truck pictured has ever been to Iraq. In fact they are convinced it's in England.

OK. If it's in England show us the bloody thing. I presume it's still in the employ of the Army? I mean it's not on *special offer* at an Army Surplus Store is it? Just do it - it can't be that hard.

Similarly with soldiers A, B, C and D. I find it hard to believe that nobody in the chain of command - from Corporal to General - has an idea who's spilling the beans.

Am I led to believe that the British Army hasn't got a single Military Policemen with the ability to root out the perpetrators? I bet Tamsin Outhwaite would've got to the bottom of it.

Meanwhile the spin goes on. Now, if I'm proved wrong I'll hold my hands up - but how long has it been now? Two weeks? Hmmmmm. Mind you, given the latest revelations, whether the pics were staged or not will probably be irrelevant.

---

About a year ago I commented on this blog that I thought the White Stripes were unworthy of attention. Well here I am admitting I was wrong. Having had the album relentlessly played listened to it with a critically tuned ear, I now think it's bloody marvelous. I guess you've just got to be in the right mood for receptiveness. Full marks and additional Brownie points to Simon for letting me know they were well worth a listen.

While we're on the subject of recommendations, thanks are due to TimesNewRoman who advised me to read The Rotter's Club by Jonathon Coe. So I did. What a great read. It took me back to the 70s: Berni Inns, strikes, IRA bombs, flares, albums......... eeeeeee the *good ol' days* when the pubs were shut most of the day and you could only get three TV channels. Anyway, cheers fellow bloggers. All recommendations gratefully received.

---

Not keen on this new Blogger interface.

That's Life

An odd few days. Good and bad. Weird and wonderful. Joyous and sad.

First off we discover my father has been peeing blood for a number of weeks, but neglected doing anything about it because he figured he knew what the problem was. Well, of course you did Dad; you being a Urologist and everything. Anyway he finally decides that the professionals should get involved and catches the 52 to the crap, decaying inner-city hospital that *serves* his needs.

It's a growth in the bladder - and he also needs his kidneys looking at. Somehow I don't think it was the diagnosis he'd arrived at. So, brave faces all round but with him being at the age of 76 there's a strange, unspoken fear that bubbles beneath the "you'll be fines" and "they'll soon have that cleared ups". Either that or this generation that oversaw and funded the creation of the Welfare State still believe. He's waiting for a date to go in and have *it* removed. Of course that's when the real fun begins. Waiting for the biopsy.

I called round to see him and my Mam last week. I rebuilt his PC a couple of weeks ago (his motherboard went tits up) and upgraded his operating system to XP. Youngest furnished him with his old Digital Camera (Olympus C-100) and he started to get stuck into getting his 'snaps' from the camera to the PC.

I like giving him the opportunity to exercise his mind like that. He loves computers but, as the years have started to take their toll, he's finding harder to grasp the constant changes. He was the first in our family to actually buy a computer. Back in the early 80s, out of the blue he comes homes with a Sinclair Spectrum 48. Later he progressed to an Atari 520 FM before leaping into the wonderful world of PCs.

That's when he started to struggle. With a Spectrum or an Atari if he buggered up he simply rebooted and all was well again. With a PC it's slightly different and within a week or two he would have turned the PC off - mid application - that often, that a software rebuild would be the only solution.

So last week I went round to download the patch for the latest virus and to update his anti virus software. I turn his PC on and, what seemed like a year later, after five or six programs fired themselves up for no other reason than they were all in my Dad's start up directory, we were presented with his desktop. God Almighty does it really only take a couple of weeks to completely screw everything up so completely?

Still, only an hour and everything's up, sorted and running. So now he can bugger up safe from the latest infections.

I love him so.

---

So back home and listening to Chelsea kiss goodbye to EuroSilverware, there's a knock at the front door. Dearest answers it and it turns out to be Youngest and his Darlin'.

They had been 'drivin' past' and had decided to call in. We chatted for a while and then, out of the blue, Youngest says something along the lines of:-

"Anyway, the reason we called is to let you know that you're probably about to become Grandparents".

Tests have proved positive but the final 'yes you're pregnant' hasn't been uttered by a man or woman in a white coat yet, so I guess there's still a possibility that it's a false alarm.

I started to cry. Tears of happiness for these two wonderful people and their future, mingled with tears for my father.

So, two little things growing inside. Both waiting for the judgment of the Medical profession and both with the potential to change our futures forever.

Hang Down Your Head

Oh shit. I think I may have been responsible for someone's final moments. Someone's death. I'm absolutely gutted. I can't stop thinking about what I should've done. I can't stop thinking about the error I made and the possible consequences. How could I have been so stupid? Why didn't I pay more attention? I might - just might - have made a difference.

To be honest I hadn't given the incident a moment's thought since it first happened last Friday evening. Dearest and I had been for our traditional early evening trip to local number two. Miserable Chris the barman had been at his depressing best so we decided to go home and cheer ourselves up watching holocaust documentaries. Just then Old Dot arrived with her son. Now Dot is one of those eternally cheerful eighty-odd year olds still chock full of fun and faculties. So we stayed for a few extra and a chinwag.

We probably left the pub around 10:00pm and sauntered the half mile back home. After a while I spot someone lay face down on the pavement with his feet in the gutter. I immediately thought "oh no - he must be dead". We both approached him. He looked like he had a shaved head and was wearing a bomber jacket of some description. When I got to within 4 or 5 yards of him, he let out a loud snore.

"He's pissed" I expertly concluded. We passed him by.

---

Last night we went to the weekly quiz in local number one. Our next door neighbour joins us most weeks.

"Hey we saw you last Friday night near the chippy, had you passed an old bloke face down on the floor?"

An 'old bloke'? What does he mean 'old bloke'?

"We passed a bloke yeah, but he wasn't old, he had a shaved head and a bomber jacket. He was pissed as a fart".

"No he wasn't. We passed you in the car and then passed the bloke. C made me stop the car and investigate. We think he'd had a heart-attack. C gave him mouth-to-mouth till the ambulance arrived. They took him off but I think he was dead". He was ninety.

"Ninety? He couldn't be..... He had a shaved head and........."

"He was bald - not shaved".

"But he was dressed.. well.... young".

"He was wearing carpet slippers".

Carpet slippers? How the hell had I missed them? He just looked.... YOUNG. I can only repeat it. He just appeared young.

"But he was snoring - we heard him".

"Snoring?"

"Well yeah... well he snored once anyway".

Oh bollocks. Had I mistaken a death-rattle for a snore? Would he have lived if we had intervened? I don't know. The next door neighbour probably got to him about one minute after we passed so there wouldn't have been that much of a time lag. Dearest and I wouldn't have been able to give him mouth-to-mouth either so perhaps it was for the best that it wasn't us who tried to help him.

But I can't help thinking I'm somehow responsible. Why did I automatically assume he was pissed? Why didn't I stop and think and make sure he was ok? It's because I stereotyped him. I thought it was just someone acting Chav-ish on a Friday night and drinking too much and I thought "I'm not getting involved 'cos your an arsehole".

But it wasn't a smashed Chav, it was a ninety year old (but he DID look young from the back) looking for the lid off his new re-cycling bin.

But Chav or Old 'un I should have stopped to help.

Some fucking Good Samaritan I'd have made.

Elephant

Not a lot to add really.

Not a lot to add here either.

Is this really a shock?

Al Jazeera was the place to be George. Couldn't stomach it eh?

Down Where the Drunkards Roll

I went to the dogs last night. Y'know greyhounds legging it after a pretend hare in the name of good, clean fun. By the time we got to race eight, I had come to the sensible conclusion that I would no longer indulge in picking two random numbers and putting my hard-earned on the dogs attached to said numbers. I guess I saved myself £30.

I took myself off for a tour of the grandstand and track. It really does attract a strange amalgam of folk from all walks of life. Rich, poor, educated, uneducated, couth, uncouth, young, old... everything. Most of 'em had one thing in common though: alcohol. They were full of the stuff. Plastic glasses housing mainly lager but some bitter and various alcopops for the women and children. Some high spirits from the rare racegoers and nervous swigging from the hardened gamblers eyeing the screens (not the track - never the track). All told there must've been a few thousand punters throwing money at the bookies like it had gone out of fashion.

The first race was at 7:20pm - we arrived at about 7:15pm and the place was packed. The drinking had obviously started much earlier as most were already glassy-eyed. Shaved heads wherever you looked. Tattoos. Baseball caps not allowed so I guess their best Burberry was left at home. A sense of menace.

I went for a pee. There were two blokes having a 'quiet discussion'. In their late thirties early forties they were, Ben Sherman shirts not tucked in. Levis and highly polished shoes. Earrings and facial jewellry. They differed from most of the crowd as they had hair. Gelled and spikey - too young a style that highlighted the onset of age betrayed by their faces and necks.

"I'll tell yer who causes all the fuckin' trouble....."

"Who?"

"Fuckin' Doreen....that cow's an evil bitch. Fuckin' bitch."

"Fuck off yer twat my Doreen's all right, it's your fuckin' missus who's the fuckin' evil bitch. She's a fuckin' witch."

I stood, dick in hand, willing every nerve in my body to finish urinating before it kicked off big time. But they seemed content with just badmouthing each other's women. Either that or they were just too pissed to fight. It was with relief though that I finished shaking, zipped up, washed and fled.

Bored with giving boomakers our money and less than impressed with the waitress 'service', we buggered off around ten and went back the the local for a few. Match of the day was a pleasure to watch this week as City did the unthinkable by winning at home and United lost to Blackburn. All we need now is a Bolton win against Leeds today and its Premiership football next year for the boys in blue.***

---

There's a lot of people queuing up to cast doubt on the veracity of these images of British squaddies abusing their Iraqi captive. Too many in my opinion. All falling over themselves to cast doubt. Nobody has actually stated that they believe the images are fake, they just report that some ex-servicemen seem to think that the lorry they were photographed in isn't standard issue and from that we have an unspoken assumption that they aren't authentic. I've not seen the names of these faceless ex-soldiers printed anywhere, just references to them. Others have expressed the opinion that the images look staged. I must admit that yes they do but I still wouldn't like to bet that they were set up.

It sounds to me like a classic bit of spin is going on here. Apart from the Mirror group who first published the pictures, all other news reports are now centered on the authenticity of them. Suddenly that's the story. Not the mistreatment of the poor bastard or the fact that photographs were taken.

***UPDATE*** Bolton hammer Leeds and City are now safe. Bye bye Leeds. The party starts now. Yee Haa!

Now we're safe I just hope Keegan gives some of our young reserves a run out. There's something about Academy kids coming through the ranks and playing in the first team. Shaun Wright-Phillips and Joey Barton have both added plenty of skill and determination to the team this season and last so here's hoping the likes of Stephen Jordan, Stephen Elliot, Willo Flood, Lee Croft and Mikkel Bischoff all get a chance.

Flash, Bang, wallop - What a Picture!

Well George 'doesn't like it one bit' apparently, which should comfort the Iraqis subjected to humiliation, indignity and mental torture during their incarceration. I expect that the Arab world will understand that it's just a few bad apples blackening the name of the coalition forces. Tony's upset as well.

Just when you think things couldn't get any worse. Y'know after a week when conservative estimates put the civilian dead in Fallujah at 800ish. It really is starting to resemble the Vietnam debacle. American body bags arriving daily at Dover Delaware, allegations of American brutality against civilians and now the mistreatment of prisoners. The one major difference between then and now though is the control of the press and TV.

When images sneak through the *firewall* that is the modern USA Military machine though, the similarities reverberate. I wonder how many more incidences have occurred that have not been photographed or recorded?

What's next? A My Lai equivalent?

---

On a lighter note: cheese soup? What the fuck's that about? What addled brain considers cheese soup edible? What addled brain thought it would be acceptable to heat up his cheese soup in our fucking office microwave? I don't think I've ever encountered a stench like it in my life and I don't think I ever will. The idea that someone - a human being for Christ's sake - would have smelt that and then put the curdled, steaming shite in his mouth makes me gip*. Three hours later we could still smell the odious, insidious miasma throughout the office.

No doubt, in a few days time, the decaying body of the twat with the soup will be as ripe as his lunch.

*Gip, gipping, gipped - A Northern word. To be on the verge of vomiting. Also known as gag, gagging, gagged.

Oh Well Part 2

Whoop whoop! Back on broadband. As Eldest is spending most of his days and nights at his Darlin's, we agreed that I would plug the ADSL modem direct into my PC. So I did. Next I downloaded the drivers via my dial-up connection. Four hours later and we're up and running.

Next thing I've got SVCHOST.EXE taking up all my resources and my box is running like a dog. So - download the latest dat file for my Anti-Virus software and check the PC. Clean.

Baffled. Any of you PC boffins out there got any ideas?

'Cos now I can't play BBC Radio, my MP3 playback is full of interference and I am getting well pissed off.

---

I can't believe that George Michael is the most played artist on British radio over the past 20 years. Now don't get me wrong, I think George has produced some fantastic music over the years (well after he split up Wham anyway), 'Listen Without Prejudice' being a particular favourite. I just can't believe that he's the one at number one.

The fact that George's career has spanned the past two decades has, I would've thought, helped him a great deal in his climb to the top of this meaningless chart. So I guess I shouldn't be that surprised.

I shouldn't be surprised at the dull, MOR blandness of the list either - but I can't help it. It depresses the life out of me. That top ten demonstrates just how homogenised popular radio has become.

Williams, Minogue, Adams, Madonna, Collins, Richard and Hucknall. What a fucking impressive bunch of blandness. Yet we have the Director of the Radio Academy (whatever that is) commenting:

"This chart is an interesting snapshot of which artists have most shaped popular culture as the number of radio stations both competing for our attention and playing their material has spiraled"

I'll tell you this, if that sorry shower of shit has 'shaped popular culture' then we're fucked. Simple as.

Oh Well Part 1

Well, I can only imagine that someone within Occupied Towers used my razor over the weekend in order to shave a hedgehog or something. Yesterday morning (Monday lest we forget), I stood staring in horror as half of my chin floated, bloodily, in the scummy water lapping my washbasin.

Nobody had used said razor over the weekend though. Honestly. What had obviously happened was a mysterious oxidisation resulting in the complete and utter collapse of the molecular structure of the edge of the blade.

Dearest is the proud owner of *very* smooth legs though. Remarkable.

---

Manchester City will probably be the death of me. This season is going to go to the wire. Last season was the first that ended with mid-table obscurity since the early 90s. Since 1996 we have been relegated from the Premiership, struggled in Division 1, got relegated to Div 2, managed to clamber back into the first Division via the cliff-hanger play-off final against Gillingham. A year later we were at Blackburn, last game of the season. We had to draw to win promotion. Eventually we won 4-1 and the promised land of the Premiership beckoned. By the end of the 2000-01 campaign a win was required at Ipswich to give us any chance of staying up. We failed and down we went: bye bye Joe Royle.

Along comes Kevin and we end the season beating all comers and winning the league. Back to the Premiership and our last season at Maine Road. 11th position in our first season back and with squad strengthening in the summer a top six finish was confidently predicted.

Alas, t'was not to be and here we are once again staring relegation in the face with the most expensive and - on paper - the most talented squad we've ever had.

Blood pressure up, heart rate erratic but here I am still dreaming of next season and what we might achieve.

---

There's a fabulous shop for men in Manchester called Slater's Menswear. It's a bloke's shop. It sells just about everything a man could require, from boxers to best-bib-and-tuckers, from cufflinks to cummerbunds. All alterations are included in the purchase price - and the prices are more than reasonable.

On Saturday determined not to be a hostage to fortune listening to the Leicester v City commentary on GMR, I went for a pair of Chinos and a pair of Levis. Fifteen minutes after going in I had been sorted and my newly acquired strides were -more than likely already being altered. Total outlay £60ish. Pick ‘em up on Tuesday. Sorted – as they say in these parts.

---

Catastrophe chez Occupied at the mo’. The server is playing silly buggers and the broadband connection has decided it’s being overworked. It’s looking like a rebuild of the server is in order and that it will probably be the weekend before we get round to it.

In the meantime I’ve dug out an old 56k modem and I am currently re-acquainting myself with the glory of dial-up.

To think I used to surf the net with a 14400 modem and, prior to that, bulletin boards with a 9600.

King of Pain

A strange and unwelcome state of affairs has occurred as a result of riding my bike. I had one of those days where boxer shorts and 'roomy' trousers resulted in little or no support for my nether regions. As my legs pumped up and down, my 'manhood' jigged from side to side. This resulted in a bad case of that little-known affliction: 'jogger's foreskin'.

Virtually unknown in the circumcised areas of the world, this condition can bring even the most macho to his knees.

Vaseline anybody?

---

So Ron Atkinson' true colours are nailed high for all to see today. I heard his sorry excuse that he didn't even realise he'd said what he had said until they played it back to him. As today's Guardian attests though, Big Ron has displayed a less than edifying approach to the issue in the recent past.

But despite praise from black players he has worked with throughout his career, including some of the first black stars of the game that emerged during his tenure at West Brom at a time when overt racism was rife on the terraces, Atkinson has displayed signs of casual racism in the past.

"It was a great time. I think there's more racial prejudice now than there was then, though we used to make them sit on the back of the bus going to away games. We all used to laugh and joke about it. Cyrille [Regis] would say, 'If you don't stop giving me stick I'm going to buy a house next door to you'," he said in a recent interview.

The Atkinson incident has highlighted - for me at least - the way that language evolves. Twenty or thirty years ago Big Ron would have been sacked for using the F word on air. The N word wouldn't have raised an eyebrow.

S'funny ol' world ain't it?

Sign in Stranger

We were deep into the afternoon’s drinking when the stranger at the next table asked if anyone would like tickets for the Norah Jones concert.

All discussion of Keegan’s lack of tactical nous stopped as Dearest nonchalantly suggested she might be interested.

“I’ll have ‘em.”

Then, an afterthought. “How much?”

“Well I paid £67 quid for two, but you can have them for £40. Just to cut my losses. We can’t make it you see.

Immediately my spidey sense kicks in and I start to envisage cons, rip offs and stings of the highest order. I mean he’s been sat there for ages, occasionally throwing a bored eye in the direction the Sunderland v West Brom top-of-the-table clash in the corner, occasionally sipping from a pint of Boddingtons. Like Strider he was. The Lone Stranger

Now he’s offering tickets to a sold out concert (we know because Dearest had already tried) at knock down prices? There’s just a touch of the ’little bit whooo, little bit waaayyyy' about this guy and I’m desperately trying to signal that a tactical withdrawal is in order.

Too late though, the deal is done. Bollocks!

Then it starts to get surreal.

“You’ll have to pick the tickets up from the Box Office on the night of the concert.”

My suspicions confirmed. The man’s a con. Dearest - too – becomes suspicious and points out, not unreasonably, that there’s no way that she is going to fork out £40 then turn up at Manchester Apollo only to be laughed out of the Box Office.

Not being the world’s greatest Norah fan I was quite happy that the deal had collapsed. We returned to Keegan.

The next Strider has, well…strode (stridden?) across to our table to explain that he wouldn’t dream of taking the money upfront, he understood our doubts and that the tickets can only be claimed with his credit card anyway.

We left the pub with his credit card and a letter authorising us to pick up the tickets.

“Just leave the money behind the bar – I’ll call in for it during the week.”

I’m a great judge of other people I am. I could see straight away that the shifty git was a wrong ‘un.

---

The seats were bloody superb as well. Row D, right in the middle. Perfect view and pretty near perfect sound. Ms Jones and the Handsome Band (surely a pisstake), were on form. Starting with an excellent version of Hank Williams’ ‘Cold, Cold Heart’, they played a selection from her first two albums plus a few tasty covers from artists as diverse as AC/DC, Tom Waits and ‘Dook’ Ellington.

An excellent group of musicians; including American jazz guitarist Adam Levy and English ‘sessioneer to the stars’ Robbie McIntosh on slide, mandolin and various electrics.

Trouble is it's all soooooo *nice*. I mean. don't get me wrong, the musicianship is of the highest standard. Some of the songwriting also. It's just too, well, *samey*. The Apollo – at least from where we were sat – was small enough to still retain the intimate atmosphere of a jazz, folk or blues club. A larger venue would probably overwhelm the band – and the music, which could do with a little more arrangement - a little more chiaroscuro.

Forty quid well spent though - on the whole. I might ‘ve baulked at £67 (including booking fee). Actually I would’ve baulked at £67 (including booking fee), I mean I can remember when you could experience the greatest Rock Stars the world has ever seen and still have change from a pound note.

Mind you, we had a great time abusing his credit card.

---

Back on the bike now the inclement weather has left the North West. No noticable improvement in waist size, lung capacity or muscle though.

Tell me it’s doing me good. Please.

Same as it ever was.......

After yesterday's spineless capitulation to a very average side, Kevin Keegan maintains that the situation is not desperate. We are 2 points above the bottom three and, looking at the remaining 4 games I can't see us winning any more. Back to the Nationwide league with a brand new stadium and £50 to £60 million in debt.

The thing that really got me yesterday was the inability to change tactics to deal with a scrapping, battling Southampton team who have nothing left to play for this season. City were last to every ball, couldn't pass to a blue shirt and cocked up every one of the few chances they created. £50 million spent on a bunch of overpaid, underperforming pile of crap.

All season the commentators have been spewing forth the same old cliches, 'too good to go down', 'a strong squad that is more than capable of winning silverware'. For most of the season the supporters have recognised relegation form. God knows we've seen enough of it over the years. Only the most over-optimistic predict Premiership football at Eastlands next season.

---

Well Tony has done himself no favours whatsoever this past week. Starting last Sunday with his article in The Observer regretting nothing and promising more of the same, he then nipped over the pond to help his mate Dubya with his election campaign.

More of the same: 'resolve', 'steadfast', 'war on terror', 'democracy', 'good', 'evil', 'right', 'wrong'.

Side by side in the Rose Garden, Dubya sank to the occassion. Oh he was fine with his scripted little speeches, it was the question and answer session that gave us a disturbing snapshot of a smug moron. Tony, on the other hand, showed quick thinking and was eloquent in his replies. Sadly the substantive part of his responses gave full support to Bush's mistakes in Iraq and also, now, in Palestine.

Just how anyone can believe that unilaterally declaring a policy without negotiation is a 'breakthrough' is beyond me. How we can sanction the illegal occupation of Palestine is also beyond me. Surely our esteemed leader recognises the election year imperative behind the 'policy'? The pro-Israel, Christian Right will be over the moon.

Meanwhile the suicide bombings and assasinations carry on.

A breakthrough? My arse.

---

I thought Scorseze's first film in the Blues series currently being serialised on BBC4 was patchy and a bit of a disappointment. The music itself was excellent for the most part but there was little by way of expanation going on. Most of the time we had Corey Harris playing and singing alone or with others. The rest of the time he was listening to others reminisce or play and the end result was confused.

Next Friday should hopefully be better. Entitled 'Red, White and Blues', it tells the story of the British Blues boom of the 1960s. Prior to that we are presented with John Mayall's 70th birthday concert and then a documentary on the Godfather of British blues.

Sadly Dearest has never been an afficionado and usually ends the evening snoozing, blissfully unaware of the heartache, pain and poverty howling from the TV in the corner.

The World Turned Upside Down

Listening to Radio 5live yesterday I happened upon a report that somebody, somewhere has suggested that 16 year olds should not only be allowed to vote, but also be allowed to become MPs. The logic underpinning this twaddle has its roots firmly embedded in the 'involve-'em-and-they'll-get-interested' camp, which is closely allied to the 'I-am-a-middle-class-airhead-with-no-true-experience-of-life-as-the-rest-of-us-understand-it' faction. Palpable crap

Even Pitt the Younger would have surely raised an eyebrow at some of this country's finest examples of responsible young aldultism? I mean can you imagine attending your local MPs surgery to be confronted by a 16 year old? (Assuming he turns up). Let's face it, that adolescent is either going to be a baseball-capped, sneering bundle of happiness who stood for election 'fer a laugh', or a modern version of the teenage William Hague - or worse still that ill-informed prick who spouts nonsense on Conservative Commentary.

Hansard. 15th November 2023.

Speaker: "The Honourable Member for Chavsville North...."

The Honourable Member for Chavsville North: "I'd errrr *like*, errr *y'know*, *like* err say Hey dudes it's my first speech in da house so don't 'dis wiv me man'. Errrrr....that's it man.

Later, in the members bar:-

"Three Snakebites please mate and three 'aftershocks' and three pints of Stella for me and my fucking wastrel mate constituent."

Question Time (Thursday nights not Wednesday afternoons) would plumb depths even greater than it's achieved since the demise of Robin Day.

Chair of QT: "But surely Mr Chav your argument is empirically n......"

Mr Chav "Fuck off yer poncy twat...heh heh heh."

Yes, quality idea. I can't wait.

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Tonight I needed some cash and washing up liquid (Dearest insisting on the latter, mere existence in the modern world requesting the former). Being 8:30ish I drove about half a mile to a local ex-Co-op - now a 'Late Shop'. As an added bonus it also boasts an ATM that faces onto the main Manchester to Oldham road. In goes the little piece of plastic and round the corner comes a burberry of chavs.*

Just my luck that the 'transaction is being processed - please wait', so no chance of aborting and buggering off.

Next thing I'm in the midst of the shaven-headed bastards

"Rob the fucker Micky......ha ha ha ha!."

There must've been 5 or 6 of 'em and it's very, very worrying. So it was a joke (I think - perhaps I was too big for 6 of them to overcome), but it certainly makes your heartbeat step up a gear.

Perhaps they were on a fact-finding tour of a Northern conurbation's streets at night with a view to acquiring experience of the problems suffered by ordinary people before standing for election in some happy-clappy-everything-is-beautiful hustings of the near future.

But somehow I doubt it.

*C'mon all you wordsmiths - You know who you are. Let's hear your suggestions: a collective noun for chavs.

Life Gets Tedious Don't It?

Well Easter's come and gone and the over-paid prima donnas of Manchester City have thrown away the chance to grab three points each against Wolves and Spurs. Given the fact that both Leeds and Portsmouth look like they've re-found their form, things are looking bad at Eastlands.

On top of that we now hear rumours of Russian billionaires showing an interest in taking us over. That's the last thing we need. To become the plaything of shady politician-cum-'businessman' who would presumably throw money at our problems in a bid for glory could, quite possibly cause us many more troubles than we already have. Bring back David Bernstein.

---

Quite a nice Easter break and a good old fashioned Indian last night. Mmmmmmm. Reshmi kebab followed by chicken tikka and two pints of Bengal lager. A decent Indian restaurant 15 minutes from my front door. 30 years ago there wouldn't have been one 15 miles from my front door.

I Can't Stand Up for Falling Down

Oh dear, what's George up to now? Too many John Wayne films, hellfire, damnation and New American Century nonsense have surely fried the president's brain.

Yes there is, understandably, insurgency and pissed-off-ness on the rise in Iraq. But what did you expect you latter-day Crusader you?

Sorry? What was that George? Oh, you're not a Crusader. That's just the Left-Wing Commie bastards trying to make you look a twat?

Bit late for that I would've thought but, no matter. George, here's some advice from a dyed in the wool atheist.

DON'T ATTACK PLACES OF WORSHIP!

Regardless of who's in the thing. Leave it be. Withdraw. Starve the buggers out if you have to but, Mosque, Cathedral, Chapel or a Rasta 'Ganga-hut', leave the fucker well alone.

George, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you (I mean you must have hundreds of advisors), but now the Arab world has a lovely touchy-feely video of USA Helicopters firing rockets into a Mosque. A Mosque! A Video that will be replayed as much as the first Twin-Tower images were in the West. Are you *really* as stupid as 'Have I Got News For You' makes you out to be?

All I've heard since is 'kick-ass' speeches from the commanders and politicians that are doing absolutely nothing to ease the situation. You're digging a hole so deep you may never re-emerge. Wake up. Even Richard Nixon saw sense eventually and started the process that ended the Vietnam debacle.

But, then again, apart from being a lying, conniving, thoroughly unlikable main-chancer, at least Tricky had some intelligence. He recognised a dead end when he saw one. God knows he'd met enough before he swore allegiance in the thin January sunshine of 1968.

Mind you, by the same token, he probably only paid lip-service to the Big-Man.

I reckon Tone will be on his knees again next month when he visits the White House. George will get his election piccies and Tone will surely be praying that Kerry does the business come November.

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Another great night for Euro-Champ upsets. Milan well and truly done over after leading 4-1 before the second leg. It's been a funny year football-wise. Millwall in the FA Cup Final, Chelsea whupping the Arse's arse last night and City, having won nowt, are now struggling to avoid the drop. Unbelievable.

In a Broken Dream

Well, within the space of a few days, Arsenal's 'treble' has been divided into three by some God of Football. What a game that was tonight. First half I thought Chelsea had no chance. They lost the midfield and Hasselbaink and Gudjohnsen were playing too forward to be able to link effectively. The goal just before half time was, I thought, a killer. Second half the 'Tinkerman' (ie Claudio Ranieri) brought on Gronkjaer who added something in the middle and the wing. Suddenly the game began to change. In the end it was Chelsea hammering away at Arsenal and, eventually the goal came.

Claudio Ranieri has been the epitome of dignity throughout this season (and, indeed the last). From the moment he took over at Stamford Bridge he's been looked upon as some joke figure. A joke because when he first arrived he couldn't speak English. So much of a joke that even his translator took the piss by making up post-match comments from Claudio's Italian. Less than two years later, he has enough mastery of the language to conduct pre and post-match interviews with intelligence and a fabulous gallows sense of humour. Never once have I seen him explode. Never once have I seen him lose his rag when asked for the 40,000th time whether he's definitely going to be sacked at the end of the season.

This dignity, this forbearance has endeared the man to many football fans who support teams other than Chelsea. I just hope he wins the Champion's League and the Premiership then turns round and tells Chelsea's board - in broken English - to go and find some other punch bag.

That football tonight lived up to hype that went before. It doesn't happen often, but when it does you remember what it was that first drew you inexorably to it.

After the game I switched to ITV 2 to watch Monaco dump the mighty Real Madrid out of the self same competition. It's been a shit week for Becks hasn't it? Although proper United fans dismiss the reports and conjecture as so much 'who gives a shit'. Youngest as well actually. He was chatting away tonight on Messenger after the Arse and Real bit the dust. So near for the Red Devils - and yet - so far. Shame.

Bring it on Home

Yee Haa! I've been waiting for Martin Scorsese's Blues series to appear on BBC4 for a good many months. Over the weekend I received my newsletter from the Beeb's flagship arts channel informing me that it's on its way.

Produced as seven films all directed by such diverse aficionados as Mike Figgis, Scorsese, Clint Eastwood and Wim Wenders, hopefully the concept will match Ken Burns' masterful 'Story of Jazz', although the reviews I've read so far do highlight the overall fragmented result of so many differing approaches. Nonetheless we'll wait and see and make our own minds up. Critics have rarely tuned into the same wavelength as I. Although, on many occasions, the critics were probably more au fait with what was class and what was not. I await the 15th April with delicious anticipation: Howling Wolf, Muddy, BB, the various Messrs Johnson - Robert, Blind Willie and the rest, Bessie, Fats, Jelly Roll, Skip, Lightnin' and company.

Now this IS what the BBC is all about.

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Are City going to survive this season? I'm beginning to get extremely worried now. Listening to the radio commentary on Sunday, it was painfully obvious that too many members of the squad seem to think that they are 'too good to go down'. Well, there's many a team languishing in the lower divisions because of that attitude. Teams that once graced the top divisions (and even Europe) before falling. Nottingham Forest, Sheffield Wednesday, QPR, Derby County, West Ham and the rest. On Easter Saturday we play Wolves at home. Wolves have not won away this season. I've got a profoundly uneasy feeling about it.

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Just over a year ago when I started this blog, George Dubya was starting his 'war on terror' in Iraq. At the time I made the point (like many others) that it would all end in tears for the Bush dynasty. Problems with the Shi'ites, possibly resulting civil disobedience on a massive scale and evolving into a full blown civil war were, in my opinion, a distinct possiblity. Can George turn it round? I doubt it. It's election year and good ol' Dubya has to play each card with both eyes on the domestic every time he makes a decision abroad. It's gonna be an interesting year.

It must be nice for George though. I mean, with his 'hotline to God', he'll already know who gonna win in November. Surely?

Welcome back my friends to the song that never ends........(er well obviously one day it will but....)

Back on line at last. The little beavers that constitute the 'coal-facers' of BT have finally burrowed deep enough under the subsoil of central Manchester to fix what was unfixed by that most elemental of elements - fire. Strangely my land line was fine. Big deal. Youngest suffered even more. He lives just over a mile away and both his land line and broadband were bolloxed. Someone else I know on BT who lives half a mile from me had no problem with either land line or broadband. Both provided by BT. The Byzantine shenanigans involved in network routing has always left me dazed and confused. I wouldn't dream of even attempting to understand it at my advanced age.

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Speaking of advanced age, my colleague and I have established a monthly dinner-time trip to a local Gent's Barbers. Although the only 'barber' in the place is female, she is a man's female. Doesn't constantly waffle on about nothing in particular. Cuts your hair with the minimum amount of fuss, time and cost. 4 years or so we've been regulars.

So, come Wednesday, resembling an aged chorus line from a local Rep's over-50s presentation of 'Hair' (without the gratuitous nudity obviously), we presented ourselves and our £3.50s at the threshold of Maria's.

But, it wasn't Maria. A young lad was being attended to with the gusto of Edward Scissorhands as his twitching mother vacillated between distress for her offspring's scalp and the need to make small talk. The scalper was a jet-black haired, mascarared, push-up bra'd, too-tight-jeaned-for-her-age scarecrow.

Maria is finding her success hard to deal with as a one-man-show and she felt she needed to share the burden. Edward Scissorhands was the solution. All the while she snipped and snapped, she never stopped talking. Ex-boyfriends, husbands, places she'd worked, her PMT, how she was always being asked out by her clients. She never drew breath. Death, life, mucus and jizz. Bargains, rip-offs, holidays and divorces. It didn't bode well.

So, seven hours later, when she had finally finished with the 6 year old, I approached the chair. The first two minutes went well. I began to relax. Then:

"Is that your son?" My head a blur of snipping, snapping steel.

"Sorry?"

"Is that your son?" Gesturing at D my colleague. My colleague who is, incidentally, a mere 10 years younger than I.

"You what??????"

Cue much raucous laughter from 'my son', red-faces from the scalper and a supremely pissed-off occupiedcountry.

After some, frankly embarrassing, back-tracking, she blundered on:

"I have to dye my hair every couple of weeks because I'm not really this colour."

Fuck me you're kidding aren't you? I mean you can't be a day over 52 and here you are in your obsidian-headed splendour. She carried on...

"In fact, if I didn't dye it you'd see that I'd probably be almost as grey as you!!"

Is this 'You've been framed?'

Once again deep apologies. "Oh I'm sorry I didn't mean it to come out like that, I mean, err....at least you've got a full head of hair."

Caught off guard by this apparent compliment (I get so few), I confessed to a small bald spot round my crown.

She considered this for a moment. The scissors stopped. She stared.

"Yeah you're right" she said, "you have got a bit of a 'CHIMP'S ARSE' haven't you?"

What seemed like two hours later, when she'd stopped pissing around with my head (internally and externally), I paid up.

"Thank's love, you've really boosted my confidence."

---

It was D's turn next so I nipped along to the Butty (sandwich) shop next door. Within 2 minutes I was back with my tuna and cucumber creation.

"........so I bought myself a 'Rampant Rabbit'."

"A what......?"

"A 'Rampant Rabbit' love. It's a vibrator."

A brief pause ensued. I eyed my tuna and cucumber creation. How the hell had they got on to this subject after 2 minutes? D has led a sheltered life and has ,evidently, never had the need for a 'rampant rabbit'. I caught his eye in the mirror as his face turned the same colour as his neck. Predictably Edward Scissorhands observed:

"Fuck me, his face has turned the same colour as his neck."

Later we discussed the rota that was pinned to the wall. Obsidian-head has one day a week off. We'll be going on Thursdays in future.

We'll attend counselling sessions on Wednesdays.

---

Today, on the Jeremy Vine show, a radical explained why no muslim should ever let the police know that he or she suspected, or even knew, that a fellow muslim was guilty of terrorism.

"Allah says that no true believer can talk to 'the enemy' (ie. us secular, christian, jewish, jedi, branch-davidian, Blake's Seveners). "

He refused to condemn the Madrid bombings. He refused to accept the culpability of his own 'true believers'. He constantly referred to the past - and had a point. But when he was presented with a scenario of a muslim suicide-bomber killing 100s of people on a train in Spain - including his own brother - and asked would he tell the police who the bomber was if he knew, he said no.

He said no.

Once again a 'Big-Man-Who-Lives-In-The-Sky', a man who died centuries ago, was presented as justification for this. At the same time the tosser explained that he was a muslim and, naturally, didn't believe in democracy. He also felt that it was OK to live as though under Sharia Law in the UK, regardless of the actual laws of the country until these sceptered isles become a Muslim dependancy. Later he pontificated on the inability of the decadent to live purely.

I truly despair.

I thought that, by now, we would've become completely rational human beings. I mean, it IS the 21st century!