I'm A Loser

Barcelona

So there I am watching Chelski v Abromovich's other team when I over hear Dearest on the phone to either Eldest or Youngest or one of their Darlin's:

"Yeah he was trying to replace the bulb in it and broke the bloody thing. You can have it if you want."

Dearest was referring to the cheapo, crap uplighters she bought about two years ago from some upmarket emporium like Argos. For some God-forsaken reason (and probably the reason they were so 'competitively priced') they had halogen bulbs in them. Recently one of the bulbs went and Dearest started 'hinting' that I get it replaced.

Now the corner shop doesn't sell halogen light bulbs - I mean why should it? So I said I'd pick one up at the weekend and sort it.

Come the weekend I start to take the old bulb out in order to purchase the correct replacement and it soon becomes evident just what a pile of risible crap I am dealing with. The ceramic bed in which the bulb sits crumbles to dust at my touch.

"It's a worthless piece of crap that should be binned right now" I expertly concluded. "That's why it had halogen bulbs in it - it had a lifetime of one bulb".

So we bought new (and that was a traumatic shopping-fest in its own right believe me). They were expensive but well made and we had to order the buggers - but at least they use normal bulbs that they sell in the corner shop.

So tonight they arrive and I assembled and installed them, thus triggering the aforementioned telephone call.

I was pissed off - to say the least - that the shoddiness of the bloody thing should suddenly become my fault. I was also mightily peeved that Dearest has listened to me telling her (and offering to show her) just how crap the thing was, whilst all the while thinking I had broken it and was just making excuses!

I can't help but think though that my reaction to this 'slur' is a little over-the-top. But it is really annoying me.

Reality doesn't matter y'know. It's perception that counts.

---

I see Arsenal nearly threw it all away again in the Chump's League. It seems to me that there is a massive mental block about Europe for the Gunners that Arsene is going to have some trouble overcoming. It's hard to believe that a team with so much talent and such strength in depth can become such shadows of their normal selves. For long periods tonight Panathinaikos looked like the home team. Arsenal sat deep and, as time went by, the Greeks looked more and more like nicking it. The very idea of Arsenal at Highbury should be making teams quake in their boots.

Perception doesn't matter y'know. It's reality that counts.

---

As for the election: well apparently it has now become too close to call. Occupiedcountry's not afraid of predictions though, and here it is:

There will be legal challenges before the sun sets on Wednesday.

God bless America.

Kid Charlemagne

Whew what a night. Dearest and I along with Eldest and his Darlin' and N and T took ourselves along to The Witchwood to see Steely Dan tribute band Nearly Dan. Sheer bloody magic it was. The place was packed with folk about my age listening to almost note perfect renditions from Steely's back catalogue. 'Do It Again', 'Reelin' In The Years', 'Aja', 'Peg', 'Babylon Sisters'. Heaven for an old timer like me and my ilk. In fact one bloke near me was so impressed he kept shouting "clever bastards" after every number. If they're ever in your area...etc...etc

This of course has resulted in a new iPod playlist featuring the real thing. What a fabulous way to spend a pre-drinkypoos Sunday afternoon especially now the nights are drawing in.

A great day yesterday. But then again it always is when United get beat. I guess last weeks defeat of Arsenal didn't kick-start their season after all.

---

I've often wondered just what the point of a remake is. Hollywood-wise that is. The recent offering with Jude Law as Alfie was friggin' pointless as far as I can tell and a good example. Rehashed and inevitably transferred to the good ol' US of A, it has become a sanitised pile of crap - just like most other remakes. You would think someone in Filmworld would have sussed this out and put a stop to vast amounts of money being wasted. But apparently not. From Psycho to The Italian Job the dollars keep getting spent.

And now we have the worst ever remakes as voted by the discerning British public. Sylvester Stallone's Get Carter tops the list but the usual suspects are also there. Planet Of The Apes, Ocean's 11, King Kong. "Time after time, remakes fail to sparkle like the originals," said Alex Chesterman, founder of ScreenSelect.co.uk. "This poll is an indication that remakes can't compare with films which were classics of their time." So why oh why do they keep making the buggers then?

---

Well it looks like George is going to be extending his stay at The White House for another four years. And now his old mate Mr Laden has reappeared to give his campaign a kick up the arse by reminding the waverers that politics is black and white and the bogeyman must be defeated. Four more years of pro-creationism. Four more years of treating the Bible like a manifesto for the 21st century. Four more years of lining Halliburton's pockets. Four more years of gung ho foreign policy. Four more years of fiscal incompetance. Four more years of disdain for the opinions of anyone else but America. Four more fuckin' years.

There's one policy I hope he will adopt. A policy that was all the rage back in the 30s I'm told. Isolationism.

I'm not holding my breath though.

World On A String

So 60,000 ballot papers have gone missing in Florida of all places. I can't quite believe that lightning is going to strike twice after the debacle of the 2000 election. I mean it's a friggin' disgrace isn't it? And sadly it's not the only instance of murky shenanigans surfacing as the day approaches. Perhaps the time has come to send independant observers over - French, Spanish, Irish for example. Y'know people with integrity and principles - to make sure that the election for President in the World's foremost democracy takes place in a free and fair manner.

When you swan round the world flexing your muscles in the name of introducing democracy here, there and everywhere, it makes sense to make sure your own version of it is waterproof.

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

Well. This is a turn up for the books isn't it? What a shame. Here's the Government intent on opening up the political process and blasting apart the incestuous underbelly of the corridors of power, only to find that most of the documents relevant to the recent history of the good ol' UK (ie the 1980s) are contaminated with asbestos.

I bet there's Sir Humphrey types all over Whitehall rushing to find asbestos they can sprinkle over the governmental documents of the past five years or so.

"Look, look at this: it's rife with asbestos - look at all the white asbestos powder on this file detailing discussions between PM and GWB from 2000 to present. It needs to quarantined for at least a century."

"I'm sorry Sir Humphrey but initial investigations indicate that the substance is actually baking powder......."

"Are you sure...there could be a Knighthood in this you know?"

I'm sure there are at least one or two historians or political scientists out there prepared to sacrifice their personal wellbeing in the search for the truth. I'm sure they would even sign wavers absolving the powers that be of any responsibility whatsoever. Anything to allow them to dig and delve into the primary evidence of the recent past.

And yet we all know that won't happen. Just like we all know that there's no asbestos been within 200 miles of the aforementioned documentation.

---

After listening to City go two down yesterday, I set off to the local to watch United and Arsenal. The local though was crowded so, Dearest and I set off for our Friday night pub and had a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon (apart from the result[s]).

How can my team score more goals in 45 minutes of one match WITHOUT Anelka than we have over the same period of time all season? A strike force of Fowler and Wright-Phillips and suddenly a Premiership top six side can't handle us. Strange.

Stranger still is the 'groin injury' to our only Muslim player as Ramadan begins. He's hardly ever injured is Anelka. In fact the last time he was injured and had to go off, we were 3-0 down to Spurs at half time in the Cup. Joey Barton got sent off for arguing and, just after the restart we lost Anelka to injury.

With 10 men we scored 4 goals in 45 minutes to confound the pundits who had us down and out.

Perhaps that groin needs a few kicks in training.......

---

Well I was right in my prediction about the 'game of the millennium' yesterday. I had a feeling United would nick it - and that was before I realised the ref was Mike (I'd better give Utd a Penalty I'm at Old Trafford) Riley.

Arsenal are a set of moaning main-chancers who try every dirty trick in the book to win. I should know, I watched 'em a couple of weeks ago as they struggled to beat the Mighty Blues. Lehmann in particular I detest. He's a mard tart who deserves every mistake he makes. Sorry Alan.

And as for United? Van Nistelrooy, you are one dirty, cheating bastard. I remember watching your histrionic diving at Maine Road during the last ever Derby there. That tackle on Cole was a disgrace. It'll be interesting to see what the Video Panel make of it over the next few days. Personally I think he should be banned for a few games. It was a nasty tackle that could've broke Cole's leg.

Still, at least you won didn't you? A fellow professional's leg must be worth that anyday. Sorry Andy.

Sunday Bloody Sunday

I must confess there's some hyperbole spouted about this affy's United v Arsenal match. 'Game of the season', 'Premiership decider' and even 'Game of the decade'. I bet Andy and Alan are on tenterhooks waiting for the kick off. Youngest the traitor has gone to Old Trafford with a realistic outlook on the outcome. As far as he's concerned win, lose or draw United are not the team they were and Ferguson is certainly not the manager he was.

When were we last allowed a glimpse of Fergie admitting he was wrong? But suddenly there he is trying to justify some of his weird signings (Bellion fer Christ's sake) by confessing he has been picking the wrong team. Hmmmmmm Djemba-Djemba? Kleberson? Miller? Ricardo? Howard? Etc etc. When he does buy quality (Rooney, Smith, Saha) e plays them all over the shop. Last week against Birmingham he played Saha and later Rooney on the left wing. By the latter stages of the match he was that desperate to score he had Van Nistelrooy, Rooney, Saha, Smith, Ronanldo and Scholes all on the pitch at the same time. An embarrassment of riches?

Wenger on the other hand - when he does dive into the transfer market - tends to snap up players with no previous reputation who then become integral parts of the Arsenal team. I can only point to his purchase of Francis Jeffers as a recent mistake.

Having said that I've got a feeling the 50 premier games unbeaten record won't be reached. I reckon United are going to defy the form books and pull something out of the pan. We'll see. I'm off to the pub to cheer on Arsenal and wind up the local armchair fans who've 'supported-the Reds-all-their-lives-and-have-the-replica-shirts-and-United-duvet-covers-to-prove-it'.

With a bit of luck City might get something from Newcastle as well.

---

Dearest has proclaimed a need for something to talk to and stroke during the long winter evenings.

"You could always stroke me" I replied with a salacious undercurrent.

No dice. It was a precursor to the periodic 'I want a dog' debate that, in the past I have been able to win via references to dog shit on the carpet, walkies in the pissing down rain, odd smells, stolen food and embarrassing crotch incidents.

But this time she'd done some research and all my well-rehearsed arguments dissipated like mist from the morning sun. It's a well-trained guide dog for the blind she wants. One of those that doesn't quite make the grade when it comes to stopping their charges from walking in front of juggernauts, but are well able to control their bladders and bowels to the extent that you can tell them when and where they go for crap.

"Great", I said, "I'll tell it to do it in next door's garden - result!"

So the bottom line is: Dearest applied for one of these outcasts and has passed the stringent home visit/interview. We are on the list and the new arrival could turn up next week, next year or the next decade. We have to be 'matched' with our perfect companion you see.

So that'll be me taking it walkies in the pissing down rain then. Ah well.

Nothin' But The Same Old Story

It's true what they say you know. History does repeat itself.

'Home by Xmas' eh Tony? Now where have I heard that before? I predict that even if you do get them home by then, they will have been replaced by others. Furthermore some of the poor bastards will not be coming home with breath in their bodies. No sirree, their bodies will be coming home in bags. Mark my words.

Sounds to me like someone wants George to win the election to me. Here's the scenario:

Kerry: "90 percent of the casualties and 90 percent of the cost". (Repeats charge ad infinitum)

Bush: "Oh shit. He's right. I know. I'll tell Tony his chicken-livered Limey army'll have to help out more. That'll help me win the election".

Blair: "Dubya's right. If Kerry gets in he'll disagree with practically every bit of foreign policy George and I worked hard to introduce over the past few years. I'll have to bend over backwards to help him out.

"Hoon.....mobilise the Black Watch".

*Thinks*..."They're being disbanded soon anyway and on top of that they're Scots so nobody will give a shit.....heh heh heh heh....Sorted"

How Do You Sleep?

Mater and Pater have finally been transferred to the latest innovation in dishing out the state pension. It takes the form of a 'credit' card type affair which, when presented with your pin number, allows you to draw your pension each week.

'Cept of course when you forget your pin. As you're apt to do when the brain cells start fading and the events of 1948 seem a lot clearer and closer than the events of last week.

Which me Dad did today. He's convinced that the pin he used was the same as part of his army number. (He left in the early 50s but he's adamant that's the pin he picked - and I'm inclined to believe him).

So he's advised of the 'procedure' for getting pin numbers unlocked and given a phone number to ring. The two of them toddle off home and my Mother rings the number, chooses the myriad options available and finally reached the queue for unlocking pins

The usual crap: "Thank you for calling the 'I've forgot me pin I'm that old' helpline. Currently all our operators are otherwise engaged and you, you poor bastard, are 130th in the queue."

Now, most of that last paragraph was exaggerated for effect (I guess you noticed), apart from one stone cold, nailed on, absolute FACT! Yup, that's right she was 130th. Don't worry though 'cos the call is charged at local rate?

IT SHOULDN'T BE CHARGED FOR AT ALL YOU THATCHERITE BASTARDS. I'ts a phone line PENSIONERS HAVE to use to sort their pin numbers out so they can DRAW THEIR PENSIONS! You know, the friggin' disgraceful pittance that this SOCIALIST government reckons is all it can afford. Well, y'know, with the war and everything????

I've said it before and I'll say it again: 'is this what I voted for?'

---

Over the past few weeks I have, via t'internet, watched the Bush-Kerry debates in their entirety. I have one thing to say:-

? I don't care what your political persuasion is, Kerry won all three. I base my judgement on his abilty to speak whereas George...well was unable to piece together a rational sentence nevermind a road map to peace in the Middle East or an exit strategy for Iraq.

I'm sorry but if your President can't think on his feet (and I do believe that even Ronnie was streets ahead of George Jnr on this point), then you most categorically should not be electing him the President of the most powerful country on the planet.

Or at least if you do - and it's looking increasingly likely - then at least let's hope the new Administration adopts an Isolationist policy.

I doubt it somehow.

Hearts and Bones

What a complete and utter shite day. From the moment I put my head on the pillow last night and spent the next 8 hours wide awake, to this morning's trip to Oldham Royal for 'tests', to coming home and receiving a phone call that my Dad had collapsed in the street, it's been - as days go - an absolute disappointment.

Dad's ok. Shook up but alive. This is what happens when my mother goes shopping and he forgets he's had next to nothing to eat and decides to keep fit by going for quite a long walk. The point is though that he forgets in the first place. He can tell you all about the war and the early years of Frank Sinatra no problem. That'll be me in a bit. I'll be waffling on about the Falklands and The Beatles circa 1964-1970. It comes to us all.

---

This morning's news regarding Christopher Reeve was sad, but I confess to being more affected by the reporting of the death of Pete McCarthy. In actual fact he 'slipped away' last Wednesday. A victim of the cancer he had suffered from for a mere eight months. I loved his Travelog programmes on Channel Four (I think it was). Erudite, eloquent and witty he provides a slightly skewed view of travel in the early 90s. His two books "McCarthy's Bar" and "The Road to McCarthy" made me feel as though I knew the guy - which I obviously didn't. But if any of you out there haven't read these thoughtful, irreverent and ultimately serious journals of trips here, there and everywhere, get yourselves here now!

He made me think. He made me laugh. I never even knew him. What a fabulous gift. Thank you Pete.

---

How fed up are you at having to sit 'correcting' those suggestions by Micro$oft's spell checkers that you've spelt 'centre' wrong? Itemised? Surely it has a Zee? Same with all those other words that end with 'ised'. I, and others of my age are probably the last generation that will be able to hold out against the overwhelming onslaught of all things American/Texted/Dumbed-Down-Chav-Crap.

Orwell's 'Newspeak' we hear every day from the Planet's only 'Emperor'. But Burgess's 'Nadsat' we hear in more convoluted forms around us as we shop and work and eat and drink.

Cabernet Merlot and 5,000+ tracks on iTunes. Yer can't beat it can you?

Especially after today.

G'Night everyone, everywhere.

Apparently Nothin'

"Hiya. It's your Mam."

"Hiya Mam, what's the news."

"Your Dad's blood pressure's too high for them to carry out the 'procedure' so they're going to keep him in until Friday and try and do it then."

"Keep him in?"

"Yes."

"What's the bloody point of that? he'll be wound up to high heaven with the calibre of dickhead they've got wandering around on the ward. Blokes with their 'personal' TV systems turned way up loud 'cos they're deaf and they 'don't like headphones'. Constantly being woken up by the groans, growls and God knows what else all night. His blood pressure will be sky high and the fact that he's stuck in there will probably send it even higher."

"Well the doctor wants him to stay in."

Doctors eh? The sun shines don't it? What they say is received like the ten commandments by my Mother's generation. I'd feel a lot better and I reckon he would as well, if he was sent home to try his new medication otherwise he could spend a week in hospital and, come Friday, his blood pressure could still be too high.

---

Six hours later: "Hiya, it's your Mam."

"Hiya Mam."

"Your Dad's coming home."

"But I thought???"

"Yes but the Doctor's just checked his schedule for Friday and he's already got too much on so your Dad can come home."

"And the Doctor couldn't have figured that out six hours ago? I reckon he's just had a shedload of private patients book in."

---

So another trip to the hospital and back to their flat. My Dad's pig sick. He was hoping that this latest trip would be his last for quite a while. It's bloody hard for my Mam as well. She's obviously worried to death about him.

It's a good job they've got me to ferry them about. He just wouldn't have been up to the constant bus journeys to and from Crumpsall Hospital. It's awkward to get to from where they live anyway and it costs money.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: old age, what an absolute bastard it is. Is this all we've got to look forward to?

I hope not as I've always harboured a vision of myself with a full head of distinguished grey hair supported by a snow-white beard, playing blues and jazz on my trusty Fylde and partaking of the odd glass of vin rouge here and there. Books, fillums, music, photography, art. Kids, grandkids, great-grandkids, baby-sitting, day-trips, holidays. Life!

And who knows? Perhaps I'll still be doing this.

Going gentle into that good night doesn't come into it. I am going to rage and rage and rage and rage against the dying of the light.

You Gotta Roll With It....

Ah well, Dad's back in dock for more probing and prodding. In fact they called him in the other week. So he spends a few days getting wound up about it, a couple of sleepless nights before I pick him and my Mam up and drive them down to the hospital. I had to get back to work so I left them with instructions to phone me as soon as they knew anything.

Six hours later the poor buggers phone me. Six hours sat waiting to be seen to. Six hours not knowing just what the hell was coming.

"It's OK, everything's all right"

"Why what?ve they done?"

"Nothing".

"????????? Nothing????"

"Yeah, when they finally got your Dad onto the ward, the nurse came and asked a few questions before saying 'right then, let's get that catheter out then you can go home'"

"I've not got a catheter fitted" said Dad truthfully.

"Are you sure?" said the nurse.

"Have you ever had a catheter fitted love? You would bloody well know if you had one up I can tell you".

So off nursey goes, coming back ten minutes later with some profuse apologies and an explanation that included staff turnover, the outsourced clerical function, some guy called Cobleigh. And all.

---

So they finally get their act together a few weeks later and call him in for a check up. He has to stay in overnight and look forward to a camera up his penis in the morning. Some time. Or maybe the afternoon. Possibly even the evening.

Pleasant.

---

I watched the Bush/Kerry debate online the other night. The full 90 minutes. How anyone who watched it can honestly believe that Dubya came out of it looking anything but an incompetent is beyond me. And this was the one about foreign policy and homeland security - George Junior's strong point!

I have to say that I really don't know that much about Kerry, but how that incoherent, God-bothering smug little prick Bush could even be thought of as presidential is beyond me.

The man is blessed with all the absolute certainty of the terminally stupid. He's as certain he's correct in his world/otherworld view as Bin Laden and the rest.

I'm beginning to look with a truly critical eye at the concept of Democracy. Especially in a world where opinions are formed via news media owned and controlled by a rich and powerful few. Is it any better than a dictatorship? Well. Is it?

---

Is Elton back on the Coke? Not content with the "rude, vile, pigs" outburst in Taiwan or wherever, now he's dissing Madonna at the Q awards.

"Madonna, best f***ing live act? F*** off."

"Since when has lip-synching been live?.

"That's me off her f***ing Christmas card list but do I give a toss? No."

Now either she mimes (suddenly known as lip-synching) or she doesn?t. I have to say this though, she must be extremely fit if she can throw herself round the stage in those arduous dance routines while singing in tune and without loss of breath for hours and hours. Hmmmmmm

Still, Elton. Grow up.

---

Dearest and I have become great friends with a couple of contemporaries who have never listened to Neil Young (apart from the ubiquitous 'Heart of Gold' etc.) They've been to ours a couple of times now and have uttered comments like: "who's this? It's great!". So I'm sorting out an 'Introduction to Neil Young' CD for them both. How the hell do you reach the grand old age of 50 without ever knowing what Neil Young sounds like?

Anyway, as I put it together this evening - to distract me from the shenanigans with my father - I have ended up enjoying a marvellous trawl through the bugger's back catalogue - along with a few Long Island Teas. And mighty fine it was too. Mighty fine

Our friends are in for a treat.

Ruby Tuesday

Fecund. What a great word that is. It’s one of those words that, to me, sound the opposite of what they actually mean. To me fecund sounds as though it’s describing a barren landscape, bereft of life and all shagged out.

“Christ almighty that prick Keegan’s fecund when it comes to original thought regarding the tactics we are employing on the pitch week in week out.”

However the Cambridge dictionary tells me it means:-

“able to produce a lot of crops, fruit, babies, young animals, etc”

Hmmm “Christ almighty that prick Keegan’s able to produce a lot of crops, fruit, babies, young animals, etc when it comes to original thought regarding the tactics we are employing on the pitch week in week out.” Doesn’t have the same ring does it?

Anybody else got any words that sound as though they should be describing the opposite of what they do?

---

So, Tony’s big speech. A few hecklers and no reference to ‘New Labour’. A warm thank you to Gordon and a big verbal slap on the back for Two Jags.

It really is odd when, in the middle of a war that is costing literally 1,000s of lives – British, American and Iraqi – the press and the Party are more interested in what we can discover regarding The Great Rift between Tone and Gord. The media manipulation of politics has finally ‘progressed’ to the American model circa 1976. Once again the medium is the message.

Today for example Conference voted to re-nationalise the railways. Unbelievably, given the vitriol that was heaped upon British Rail in the years before deregulation, one would have thought that the very idea would be unthinkable. Remember the promises of faster, streamlined, leaner and fitter train service providers galvanised by profit, falling over themselves to take us here, there and everywhere? Yeah. So do I.

Consequently, I reckon there is now a sizable majority out there who think that renationalisation would be a good thing. They may be right, they may be wrong. But I happen to think that the policy would be popular.

The media though have hardly reported it. When they have it’s usually been part of a ‘look how Conference’s power has been emascualted’ type of story. I suspect it’s partly due to Tone’s speech, the Pro-Hunt Protestors and a nod and a wink between editors and spin doctors. The fact is 10 or 15 years ago that would have been a massive story. But it would cost big money - so it’s quietly throttled.

We can’t afford to waste big money on stupid things like reinventing our public transport system. No, we need every spare penny to prop up Dubya’s piratical shenanigins in the Middle East.

So what do we end up with? Honest debate? Ideas freely exchanged? Do we bollocks. We end up with media coaches arranging who sits where on the top table. Where the flowers should placed to best effect, what’s said/not said and making sure everything stays sanitised till the whole kit and kaboodle rolls out of town at the end of the week.

---

Mind you, I reckon the Pro Hunt Protestors were praying for media manipulators on a par with the People’s Party.

Why oh why would anyone, anywhere think that dumping the carcasses of horses, calves and cows on the streets of Brighton would attract ordinary folk to their cause? Seriously I can’t even follow the logic that reasons that people who are fundamentally opposed to the idea of hunting with dogs would have their beliefs shaken by the introduction of dead (and in some cases profoundly rotted) animals in the street?

I can only conclude that the dipsticks the Police finally arrested for this crime were Burberry-capped and blinged beneath their waxed jackets and green wellies.

Country Chavs that’s what they are. I know now that the Countryside Alliance has actually come out and condemned the action. But when I was listening live on 5live at dinnertime all of those interviewed stopped short of condemnation.

I guess they hadn’t received their orders at the time.

If foxes are a menace then shoot the buggers. Or poison ‘em. Just like gamekeepers do with all sorts of other ‘vermin’ they feel needs controlling. Just stop pretending that the most humane way of doing it is via a pack of dogs and a pack of tossers on horseback. You ENJOY it: that’s why you do it. Just admit that one fact and I might, just might have more sympathy for your future.

Pricks.

Everything Put Together Sooner Or Later Falls Apart

Just listening to a bit of debate on 5Live lamenting the loss of the Album Cover. Already battered by the hegemony of CDs, the argument takes in the rise of download culture and concludes that the medium is finally dead. These days even the concept of an album itself is under threat given the pick'n'mix nature of downloading, so why do we need something to wrap a virtual product in?

I guess they're right. Certainly my own experience of trying to decipher some of the miniscule text presented on some CD covers has left me with a can't-be-arsed-lookin' attitude these days. Aimed at youngsters with 20-20 you see. Us older folk aren't considered when it comes to cutting edge design. I guess they think we should be content with Daniel O'Donnell, Mantovani and Max Bygraves.

This constant miniturisation has rid me of the urge to spend days on end browsing through rack after rack of good old-fashioned 12 inch Long Players gazing at the sophisticated artwork and the concepts contained therein. Certainly as the Sixties progressed and the gatefold sleeve made an entrance, some of the designs far outclassed the pretentious crap on the vinyl.

Peter Blake's Sgt Pepper, the Andy Warhol Sticky Fingers cover with its real zip, and hordes of lesser artists and designers commendable efforts. Many, many overblown progressive rock offerings. There was an explosion of artistic expression. Arguments between bands and record companies over the rising cost of these 'works of art' began to be reported. The Beatles' Abbey Road cover was apparently going to be a photograph of loads of monks and the band somewhere up a Himalayan mountain. In the end inertia on the part of the group left us with one of the most recognised zebra crossings in the world.

Even the Punk backlash was infused with artistic endeavor when it came to the sleeves. Stripped back for sure. Angry and angular definitely. But still interesting works in their own right. And produced in bedrooms utilising the original cut'n'paste concept. Cutting stuff up and pasting it (using actual paste no less) onto the artwork. Like their predecessors, they became objects that would be pored over for hours, looking for clues.

Sad. But the rot did set in with the rise of the CD. There's not many covers that have become as iconic as the Dark Side of the Moon or Led Zepellin II since the work area shrunk by over 50%. Nevermind by Nirvana is one of very few that come to mind and even that one offended the American Bible Belt so they had to erase the baby's penis! If you buy it over here though those innocent naughty bits are still there in all their potential glory.

The question is: does it matter? Surely it's the music we all revere? Certainly, these days when your entire music collection can reside on a 4" x 2" bit of plastic and technology, the days of lugging round a few albums to your mate's or a party or wherever seem profoundly neanderthal. But something deep inside of me suspects that when the acquisition of music becomes too easy and we end up with thousands of cheap or free mp3s, we don't quite revere it as much as we did.

So times change. Technology drives that change and the commercial/artistic community respond by adapting and adopting. The medium is the message. Sadly, if we do download some crap, we won't be able to console ourselves anymore by admiring the artwork on the cover, we'll just delete the bugger.

Easy come. Easy go.

The Bogus Man

The world is chock full of liars, main-chancers, cads, mountebanks, thieves, ne'er-do-wells and fundamentalist religious bigots.*

Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition eh Jimmy? You are the pits. Dripping with hypocrisy. You, of all people, dare threaten murder in the name of your 'forgiving' God while your congregation whoops and hollers its whole-hearted support.

Y'know if it was pointed out to the fundamentalist prick that he was no better than the likes of Abu Hamza or some other Islamic hate figure, he would react with horrified disbelief.

According to a transcript of the program, Swaggart said: "I'm trying to find the correct name for it ... this utter absolute, asinine, idiotic stupidity of men marrying men. ... I've never seen a man in my life I wanted to marry. And I'm gonna be blunt and plain; if one ever looks at me like that, I'm gonna kill him and tell God he died."

"I'm gonna kill him and tell God he died." ???????? Errrr.... Jimmy..... According to you and your mates God is all-seeing and all-knowing. Don't you think he'd know what you did? An inkling perhaps? He's supposed to be omnipresent and omniescient isn't he? I mean even if YOU hadn't remembered that, I thought that at least the pious and devout in your congregation may have.

After all the media focus on the other side of the religious divide, we need to be reminded that idiocy is not the sole preserve of the medievil nutters swaggering around the Middle East. Killing Homos, puffs, queers? It's one area where Swaggart and Abu Musab al-Zarqawi could shake hands and agree with each other.

I despair.

* Thanks to Christine for the link.

Farewell

So long Cloughie. You were definitely a one-off. In an age of spin infecting every aspect of football these days, to read Ol' Big 'Ead every month in 4-4-2 magazine or hear his rare interviews on 5Live, was a breath of fresh air. An honest opinion, given without recourse to the polish of a PR machine to buff his words into meaningless diamonds.

One of the great managers of the post war era up there with Shankly, Paisley, Busby, Mercer and, dare I say it, Ferguson.

A sad day.

Gee But It's Great To Be Home Again...

A weekend of sporting happiness has kept me from this here blog on account of the fact that, non-believer though I may be, when it comes to Manchester City's future and the Ryder Cup my rationality goes AWOL.

Consequently I was sort of praying to the Gods of Sporting Justice to a)let City win and b)allow Europe to completely shred the Yanks.

Cheers Gods of Sporting Justice.

---

OK. Barcelona. What a city. Up there on a par with Manchester and Prague. Holy shit it's even got a fabulous beach that goes on for miles and miles and miles and miles and............

The busking was classy (usually Hot Club du Paris 1930s jazz played by groups of four with two accordions one clarinet and a percussionist) although classical guitarists also held sway.

Sadly the 'hostel' we stayed in was an absolute shit hole. I mean, c'mon, have you EVER stayed in a place with no plug socket in your room?? I wouldn't mind if we'd known we were going to a hostel, but the place advertises itself as a friggin' HOTEL. Lying bastards. We booked this place in good faith via lastminute.com having no qualms whatsoever regarding internet transactions, I mean, we've done so many!

---

On this occasion though we got a dump - and a dump that we'd paid upfront for because 'that's lastminute.CON's policy'. A policy incidentally that does not fly in your face until you click the button marked 'confim?'

Totally and completely unimpressed.

It's a bloody good job Barca is sooooooooo cracking!

The beach and the architecture and the food and the Olympic Stadiums and Village. Gaudi and Picasso and Miro and cheap transport, great little bars here and there with multitudes of Tapas on display and ready to eat.

We tried really hard on Tuesday to book a different, quieter hotel, but they were ALL booked up. *weep*

In the end we had to stay where we were. But hey....life's like that.

---

Days spent in indolent architectural appreciation and evenings spent soaking up some great music, food and drink.

On Thursday evening we sauntered into local square and it was alive with music and audience. A free concert from a jazz band so tight you couldn't have got a credit card between the buttocks of any of 'em.

So much free live music and such a happy crowd from youngster to pensioner. It was a pleasure to watch and listen.

Travellin' Man

David James was colossal yesterday. He pulled off saves that shouldn't be possible and kept us in with a chance when we could've been so easily 3-0 down by half time.

So if England don't want him, that's OK. He's doing just fine at Eastlands.

Stick with Robinson, Green and Kirkland. I'm sure the press will be comparing them to donkeys as well in the not too distant future.

---

Off to Barcelona tomorrow for a few days staring at Gaudi's architecture and Piccaso's early stuff (Blue Period I believe). On top of that they've got Joan Miro. That new camera of mine is gonna get some serious use.

---

Hard to believe that the anniversary of September 11th has passed again. Sheesh, 31 years since the democratically elected Allende was toppled and murdered by the fascist, best friend of Thatcher - Pinochet. Backed, of course, by the land of the Brave and the Free.

Summer In The City Part Two

St Ann's Square

A trip to sunny Manchester was the order of the day for Sunday and a mighty fine day it was. I took my new camera along to capture the glorious sunshine. We were treated to more European markets - the panorama above shows a German stall in St Ann's Square surrounded by seated patrons.

The busking was top class also. From the Hootchie Cootchie Man belting out the blues to a James Taylor wannabe via a classical guitarist, a wide selection of musical taste was catered for.

It's not long ago that all the buskers would have been 'moved on' by over-zealous coppers suspicious of anything even slightly bohemian. From hippies with guitars to war veterans with harmonicas it was all the same to plod.

Manchester seethed with humanity. I can remember the days of Sundays being all about "THOU SHALT NOT", TV dominated by religious twaddle until 7.00pm, pubs shutting early and the repressed sexual hypocrisy of rags like the News of the World - ("I made my excuses and left...."). It almost seemed a punishment for the hedonism of Saturday night. And now I hear people talking about the 'good old days', days spent with the family in quiet contemplation. Bollocks, those that could afford it were on the golf course or enjoying a weekend at their country cottage. It was the rest of us poor buggers who had to experience boredom on a scale that sheer we positively welcomed the prospect of Monday morning. There's no contest in my book. I accept all the arguments about shopworkers and the like having to work at weekends but, to me that means extra jobs and money in the pockets of folk who would otherwise be cashing Giros on a regular basis. Sundays are positively wonderful these days. You young uns don't know you're born.

---

I finally traded my Waterstone's vouchers for a few novels including Monica Ali's Brick Lane and the latest word-of-mouth blockbuster The Da Vinci Code.

Hey Judas!

So, the world's richest club has lured a chav with a talent from the backstreets of Liverpool (Croxteth if I'm not mistaken) to Manchester Utd Corps (European Division).

Quite a lot of money has changed hands as well. £27 million appears to be the consensus. £10 million up front, £10 million next year and the rest dependent on appearances etc.

Will Mr Rooney cut the mustard? Has Sir Alex lost the plot? Wouldn't a centre back and a world class midfielder have been dosh better spent? The next few months should be quite interesting. Certainly the brothels of Manchester must be stocking up on PVC boots from Harpurhey market at this very moment and I definitely predict a 'fracas' in a Mancunian nightclub involving Shrek and his sink-estate scally relatives and hangers-on friends before his contract expires.

Time will tell.

---

Over the border from Old Trafford, the transfer deadline activity has been minimal. Well, non-existent actually. Deep down I'm relieved on two counts. First at least we have managed to keep hold of Shawn Wright-Phillips for at least another 6 months. Second I'm chuffed that the board has not capitulated to Keegan's heavy hints regarding the size of the squad and has kept the purse strings as tight as possible.

Prudence. It's the new extravagance you know.

Sweets For My Sweet

Just a quick link to a great Premiership highlights site. The commentary's in Hungarian, but you don't need commentary to watch the beautiful game.

Enjoy.

Just Gimme Some Truth

The best EVER description of late 20th - early 21st century Pop music I have heard. Courtesy of one of the Man City message boards and penned by a chap called OldBourney. I quote:

"just get 19 seconds of an old record and play it in a loop.

Then shout a lot"

Quality. Absolutely spot on quality. In fact he's that quality he should be writing for the Qualities. There's no justice.

Watching Reading The Detectives

As I lay in bed for most of the day, recovering the strength I need to continue the important role I play in a multinational IT company's attempts to take over the world, I read another Ian Rankin 'Rebus' novel.

Now I like Rankin and I like Rebus, but I've always considered 'crime writing' as essentially 'Airport' stuff. It's bought to fill in the time you spend sat on balconies, swanning round pools and beaches or stuck in forlorn B & Bs as the rain sweeps in - once again - from the Atlantic.

This one, though, was definitely different. All the rest have been written well enough. The characters have been well fleshed out and everything, but, once it's been read, it's forgotten.

'The Hanging Gardens' is different. Looking at the dates of publication it's the latest book of his I have read (1997), so that might explain a few things. If that's the case though, all I can say is roll on all the rest.

---

Here we have a cracking example of 'Big Business' and the be-suited, business-degree automatons that they employ really excelling.

Apparently 'Mr Eddington said there was always criticism of BA over whether it was "doing enough to take costs out of our business".'

"It's a very difficult balance to get right - clearly we have to get it right." '

His admission comes a day after BA's director of operations Mike Street apologised to passengers.

So Mr Eddington, I have a question: who is critising BA over whether it is doing enough to take costs out of your business? 'Cos from I'm sat I don't hear it.

What I do hear is passengers pointing out that you are too friggin' expensive. But, as I know only too well, that does not equate to staff being paid good money - nor indeed the hiring of enough staff to 'man the gates' when needed.

Nah. To me, costs = overpaid 'management' making the wrong decisions time and time and time and time again.

Have the customers finished paying for your woeful tailplane designs yet? Your disgraceful attempts to put Branson out of business? Your complete and utter ineptitude?

It sickened me yesterday to see the same management lackey attempting to reassure the shareholders and media (NOT THE CUSTOMERS SAT IN THE TERMINAL) that 'everything was under control', 'management was volunteering to man check in desks' and ' everything would be back to normal in a few hours'. Anybody would think it was anybody but his fault in the first place. Who caused the problem? Adolf Hitler? Shakin' Stevens? D C Thompson? A typical management bollox-speak twat simply trying to impress the MD - nobody else. "I might get a rise out of this".

When, when, when are we going to realise that the shit these 80s throwbacks come out with have nothing to do with reality? It's about time the Government legislated so we could shoot the bastards as they held their press conferences. I can feel a mission statement coming on.

---

So, speaking of 80s throwbacks, Mark Thatcher eh? What an odious bastard he ALWAYS was. Thick as pigshit but 'blessed' with a Daddy who owned a business brain and a Mummy who had power and contacts.

In my book he's on a par with Jeffrey Archer, Hannibal Lector and Pol Pot. Just a shifty, evil bastard who - like Hannibal could be fictional he's that much of a comic-book liability.

There's always been doubts about young Thatcher. 3 O levels after attending a private school. Failing his accountancy exams three times on the trot and, of course, getting lost during a famous rally - at a time when Mummy could've simply ordered out the Nimrods and Daddy could have paid the World to find him. Questions asked in the house about how he was able to earn a reputed £12m deal to sell planes to the Saudis while his Mam was still the PM?

Strange that not too long after Daddy shuffles off his coil, the protection seems to have stopped and Thatcher junior suddenly gets pulled in over allegations that have been flying around for quite a while now. Allegedly financing a coup, organised by one of his mates. A coup that - due to the shitload of oil reserves that the country involved controlled - could've landed him a fortune. Well, actually most of the reports don't mention that fact but, for me at least, it seem the most plausible explanation for the spawn of Satan's daughter.

Nice to see him being tried in post-apartheid South Africa though isn't' it ? Y'know, after all the support his Mam and Dad gave to the Anti-Apartheid movement. I guess they'll be falling over themselves to give him the benefit of the doubt.

I still can't believe he'll do time. Can you? Here's hoping though.

Too many of the 'great and good' from the eighties still believe they can get away with whatever they want. It's good to know that there are people out there still willing to track them down. Like latter-day Simon Wiesenthals they are tenacious. From Pinochet to Shirley Porter we shall hunt them and exact revenge.

Time It Was, It Was, And What A Time It Was...

Time was I thought Kevin Keegan had a clue. I now think it's time for Kevin to go.

Bye. And take the rest of the sorry bunch of expensive wastes of space with you. Because, if you stay, we WILL be relegated.

Another pointless performance (Heskey for pity's sake?) but the footballing genius had this to say:

"We were unlucky not to get something here tonight. David James made one save and we conceded a goal which I hopes* we would have dealt with," he said.

"We had chances, half-chances and possession, but it didn't run for us. We had pretty much all of the second half."

"I was quite pleased with the performance, though you're never happy to lose a game.

"There are things to work on, but it's early season. We'll probably play like that away from home several times and get results.

"Generally I've been quite pleased with the performances but we've got one point out of nine."

For God's sake GO!

*Hopes? Hopes? Ain't that the type of language Popeye uses?

---

Another good weekend (apart from the football of course), but my molecules and stuff then conspired to infect me with something queasy, feverish and extremely loose stool-ish. Bodies eh? Who'd have 'em? And as for microbes.....

---

Hey, it's a good job nobody with an ounce of authority knew - or indeed sanctioned - what was going on at Abu Ghraib, or else the USA would have appeared no better than Iraq, Argentina (during the good old days of the 'disappeared'), China, USSR and many other 'enemies of freedom'

Sheesh ! Now that would have been embarrassing.

---

So, live music is flourishing in lowly pubs and clubs throughout the land. And yet, this, so-called government 'of the people, by the people, for the people' is still convinced that we need to restrict the number of performers at any one time to two.

Now I have to admit I have an issue with this. For a start off I've performed solo, duo, as part of a 5-piece blues band and sat in with ad hoc assortments of musicians all over the North West. I like to think live musicians perform a historical service in some ways. Showing kids who know no better that music is organic and not produced as a result of pressing play on a CD player, MP3 player or - heaven forbid - mobile phone.

So why are the Government insistent on bringing this legislation in? Apparently to regulate live music, attract more people to it and to restrict noisy purveyors of the stuff. How? How do you do the former by requiring an expensive license is purchased, and how do you stop noise nuisance by restricting an acoustic trio but allowing ONE DJ rapping along to 'beats' blasting out from his or her decks??

---

A bit like Kevin Keegan and his 'management team', I reckon Tone and the sycophantic yes-men/women hanging on his every word have stopped thinking with any semblance of originality or self-awareness. "That next re-shuffle just might - just might - bring me a junior position." So, regardless of the intelligence of arguments against, the new legislation comes in next year, and businesses - from Pubs and Clubs to successful (yet relatively unknown) bands will go to the wall.

Jesus. Is this what I voted for??

A Love Supreme Part Two

Shaun Wright-Phillips I remember your City home debut way back when against Portsmouth. You were that small your name on the back of your shirt ran halfway down either arm. I turned to Dearest:

"He's got potential but really he's much too small to ever make it in a top class league like the Premiership."

There were tears in my eyes tonight when he scored on his England debut.

"Why are you crying, it's only a friendly?" asked Dearest.

"He's just signed a four year contract" I mananged to blurt out before the uncontrollable delirous tears of happiness overtook me completely.

I Could Be A Millionaire....If I Had The Money...

Ahhhhh.....just been perusing the Prague photo folder on my hard disk. Such a photogenic confection of a City. Youngest is there at the moment for four days with his best mate. Lucky bugger. Here's some snaps.

What I don't understand about this City in the heart of Europe though is how it manages to experience all the shenanigans that wars, revolutions, overthrowing of Prague Springs and communist 'town planning' can throw at a destination without losing any of its medieval architecture. I mean I'm not talking bog standard architectural delights here - I'm talking 'bugger me let's sit here for an hour and just gaze at this wonderfully perfect house' - that snuggles contentedly halfway down some nondescript side street. The place, for me, just seems to be the location where all my 'imaginings' of the places all those childhood fairy stories we were told were set.

---

Dearest and I enjoyed the place enormously. The bars, the vibrancy, the history, the people. It's the first ex-communist country I've been to so, consequently, the embrace of raw capitalism is still in its early days. Even so, the McDonald's, the Starbucks and the rest are putting down roots and pushing up prices. I guess that in a relatively short period of time the rapacious greed of big business will have converted the place into a prettier replica of almost every other City from Chicago to London. Shame. But, who are we to tell Czechs not to try and earn more money from their fabulousness? If the men and women who are employed to oversee the next ten, fifteen or twenty years development have any sense though, they must realise that the future lies in culture-vultures and not the male half of Doreen and Kevin's pre-nuptual 'let's-wreck-an-entire-City-in-a-drunken-stupour-weekend' celebrations.

---

One of the few things that Manchester lacks - and there's not many - is an obvious, in-yer-face river.

I've always felt it should be a pre-requisite to becoming a City: having a proper river like the one on the left mirroring Prague Castle. A bit like having a Cathedral, Blockbuster, Pizza Hut or whatever it is you need to acquire Civility these days. Manchester is lagging a bit here as ours - the Medlock, Irk, Irwell etc., have been culverted out of sight. Rivers, for me, are a geographical focal point. A way in and a way out. A place to sit, stare and ruminate. A commercial highway, a lifeline, a provider, an artery. The Tyne, the Weir, the Thames, the Mersey, the Isis, the Ouse. "River Man". "Watching the River Flow". "Many Rivers to Cross". "Down by the River". "River of Dreams". "Lazy River".

Rivers. Fabulous. Unless, of course, you live in Boscastle

---

When I took this I was sitting, staring and ruminating - (see above). What we have here is a snap of the pints of draught Budvar on our dining table after we had enjoyed a lunch of goulash (Dearest) and a ham sandwich like a baby's arm (me - not finished 'cos it was full of unrequested thousand island dressing - Note to Self: ALWAYS ASK WHAT'S ON THE INNOCUOUS SOUNDING HAM SANDWICH BEFORE YOU ORDER THE BUGGER). We had stared at the rushing river for a good two hours before we left. I told you it was hypnotic didn't I?

The view behind is the Charles Bridge - epicentre of Prague. Rivers again. A 14 - 15th century edifice that is rammed full of sellers of slightly better tat than that you can acquire from Newton Heath Market, Manchester every Wednesday and Saturday. On either side we can experience Gothic statues of more saints than you ever thought existed. However - you get tat-sellers everywhere. One of Dearest's favourite relatives was disgusted to find blow-up Santas for sale in the heart of Bethlehem. Strangely I would never have expected anything less from the little town - apart from blow-up sheep, shepherds and 'wise' men. All with orifices ready for the next 'true believer' to do what a lot of 'true believers' secretly do.

Expectations eh?

---

And finally here we have a snap of the Astronomical Clock at night - the only time (apart from just after the hour) when it's not looking down on hundreds of tourists waiting for the next 'extavaganza'. The 'extravaganza occurs when a sorry bunch of clockwork saints appear at the window. There are chimes from the clock tower then, a minute or so after it started. It ends. Everyone looks at each other and says: 'was that it?' A mate of mine told me that the best photograph would be of the pickpockets who thrive here on account of everyone looking up.

---

Dearest and I would really like to go back in deep midwinter. As I said earlier, the entire place reminds us of Hans Christian Anderson and the Brothers Grimm. Don't get me wrong, the place is marvelous in Summer. Truly marvelous. But Winter.....dressed in the right clothing, must be wonderful. A Winter wonderland in fact.

The funny thing is, everybody else I've talked to who has been, has toured in Winter. They all want to experience the place in Summer. It's a funny old world isn't it?

A Love Supreme

Whew! What a weekend. After the abject fraughtness of the 'mislaid' season tickets - found a mere 4 hours before the first game of the campaign I should add - we decided to spend the evening in Manchester. Eldest and his Darlin' came with us.

We started off at 8.00pm in the The Fringe, a snug little place just over the road from the Band on the Wall. A great little pub with some fabulous foreign beers. Everything from Starpromen to Belgian fruit stuff. Some good old-fashioned bitters and milds as well. Good music also because the juke box was being fed by some proper old hippies. Beards that would put ZZ Top to shame. Clothing that would've embarrassed Wurzel Gummidge. It was fab. I fitted in.

Next up was The Wheatsheaf. A proper old-fashioned pub right in the heart of the Northern Quarter of Manchester. The oldest DJ the world has ever seen was keeping the beat - and mighty fine he was too. Abba, The Pogues, Beatles, Nat King Cole, The Clash. The first DJ I've ever met who recognised his audience's taste. And probably the last. Furthermore the only words he uttered all evening were to thank us for listening and to wish us goodnight. Are you hearing this Steve Wright you talentless twat?

The campest guy in the world ran this place and believe me, he's hit the nail right on the head. It's a triumph. It's like the queer eye for a straight guy decided to sort out a pub. Brilliant.

Later - 12 o clock or so - we walked about 200 yards down Tib Street to Bar Centro. £1 in and 5 minutes later we're enjoying pints of Budvar and listening to some wonderful jazz with a rock beat.

I went to the bar and who do I find myself stood next to but Badly Drawn Boy. I wanted to say hi and let him know how much I've enjoyed his albums, but I couldn't remember the bearded and bobby-hatted bugger's real name.

I could hardly say "alright Badly how you doing" could I.

"Good evening Mr Badly Drawn Boy" also seemed a little formal given the vibe.

Later, as our urine mingled in the downstairs toilets I ventured an "alright mate - did you go to the match today?", Badly being a massive City fan and everything.

I like Badly. Nice to seem him being normal in a bar downtown dressed exactly the same as he always is. Does he ever change?

Good songwriter as well.

Later we were that pissed off trying flag down legitimate taxis, that we resorted to an illegal. As it pulled up it was full of stickers proclaiming the fact that, if hailed in the street without ordering it from the taxi office meant that we were all uninsured.

We spent some time considering this info. All of ten seconds in fact.

"How much mate?"

"A tenner".

"Nice one. Sorted"

I woke up at Eldest and his Darlin's place watching Sky Sports News, listening to Badly and nursing a bottle of Sol. 4.00am it was. Bugger.

Apparently I'd been muttering and chunnering as I snored. Old age. It's a complete and utter bastard isn't it?

---

This morning I rose at 12.30pm to be informed we were dining in Manchester and meeting Eldest and his Darlin' at 2.00pm.

Oh God yes, now I remember.

I ended up breakfasting on a Chinese banquet at the very reasonable PanAsia in Chinatown. Hot and sour soup though is not a patch on bacon and eggs believe me. £43 for four of us to stuff our faces for as long as we wanted. Wonderful.

Later, we wondered round Manchester and today she was dressed as though for Whit Week. She was glorious in her finery. Festooned with flowers, buskers and sunshine. Another fine time in one of the greatest cities in the northern hemisphere.

Vinyl Exchange then beckoned. A Fawlty Towers DVD. CDs by Joni Mitchell, some Cuban Guys (for Dearest) and numerous jazzy compilations for the rest of us. Finally back to the frozen north of Manchester and off to t'Willow to meet S, Av, Youngest and Mate. Youngest and Mate had been watching United attempting to beat Chelsea. They failed. Shame.

*Dances round room laughing his balls off*.

A good weekend. A really good weekend.

Saved By The Bell

It's OK everyone. No need to worry. Deep down inside I just knew I would find the Season Tickets that Dearest had helpfully tidied away. I love the way she keeps our marriage alive with these little tests of our relationship.

Life Gets Tedious Don't It?

A Year ago today:-

Welcome Home

I am such a sucker for the football season. Every year I feel that familiar tingle, the ridiculous hopes (Europe, The Premiership, FA Cup etc) and, most years, the subsequent disappointments. Recent years have seen me organising a Fantasy Football league. Cajoling, collecting monies, checking application forms and sending the lot off to the Daily Telegraph. Not that any of us are fans of that bastion of the outraged right. It's just that it has the best Fantasy Football League going. Out of twenty teams in our league only one of us buys a copy of the rag each Wednesday and then emails the rest with the weekly transfer password.

Right now, as I type, I'm listening to 5Live over the net. It's the first round of the curling Cup (previously known as the Worthington Cup, Coca Cola Cup, Milk Cup and League Cup. Among others). I just love it. The "minnows" harbouring visions of "giant-killing". The promise of future ties against the big boys. The possibility of filling the club's coffers. Hardly daring to think of a Cup Final !

This season had Manchester City fans like me looking forward to the opening of the club's new stadium, and we weren't disappointed with a fabulous win against a strong Barcelona side. The game was played under sweltering, humid conditions. The sweat ran freely down our brows and backs (and important little places) as we enjoyed some quality football. Thursday night sees the the first foray into Europe for about 24 years as we take on the might of TNS from a little Welsh Town I have no intention of attempting to spell.

That's another thing I like about the season to come - the changing weather that the game is played in. From the blue skies of August, through the rain-swept Novembers and on to the ice and snow of mid-winter before emerging once again into the promise of Easter and the end of season run in. Cracking

I've acquired a brilliant new DVD player from WH Smiths of all places. A mere £49.99 and it plays DVD, MP3, MPEG, AVI and JPEGs. Absolutely superb value. Order one off the web site and have it delivered, free of charge, to your local Branch of WH Smiths. I've watched AVIs of the second series of Phoenix Nights and the quality is brilliant. Buy one (or two - one for the bedroom or wherever. Or even as presents for relatives, friends and significant others).

I've also had to bolster my DVD collection with some classics. "Lawrence of Arabia 2 disk edition" for Lean at his best, Leone's Masterful "Once Upon a Time in America" (with an achingly beautiful score from Ennio Morricone) and Scorsese's "The Last Waltz" to travel back in (musical) time with. The Band's last concert in 1976 supported by Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, Muddy Waters and many others. Treble cracking!!!

The start of the new season has me feeling EXACTLY the same. The cheapo DVD player gave up the ghost about 4 weeks ago. I have to send it back to the factory that produced it for a *free* sort out of the 'entirely fried' innards of the bloody thing - if I want to. Bollocks to that. Everyone I know who acquired one has had the same problem. Cheaper to buy a new one - which I don't have to, 'cos the lads@work bought me one for my 50th.

I am SO predictable! 12 months later and I'm STILL in thrall to the promise of the sky blue and white.

C'mon you Bllluueees!!!!!!!!

Rational?

Moi?

Non!

Summer In The City

Dearest and I went down to Manchester on Sunday. The sun was still shining and the City was doing itself proud. The Cow Parade (exactly the same as the one in Prague) was still attracting kids who had to be captured on Compactflash, Smartmedia and memory sticks. We also have a fountain in Piccadilly that you can run about in without fear of slipping and splitting your head open like what happens in that crap fountain that they made in that there London. It was full of kids in various states of undress. A very dodgy place to be caught taking photographs these days though. Sad.

A Cora player entertained me on Mosley Street - and he really was fab. On Market Street, walking down towards Cross Street, I encountered a Bagpipist, the ubiquitous Pan Pipe Southern Americans, a Jazz Trombonist, an exquisite Fiddler and a pedestrian guitarist.

As I ambled into St Anne's (the creme de la creme of Mancunian squares), I chanced upon an amazing young man playing an amplified nylon-strung guitar with an accomplishment you would pay good folding money to hear anywhere else.

I exchanged some of my birthday vouchers for some music that I'm not really that familiar with. A 2 CD sampler of Cuban stuff from the late 50s and early 60s, post-revolution. Bebel Gilberto (some relation of Astrud - Girl From Ipenema - Gilberto I believe) was only £4.99 (err......her CD not her body) and a mighty fine purchase it was an' all. I'm searching again for that certain something..... The Gypsy Kings I am familiar with so I bought one of their offerings also. Just need to rip 'em to my iPod now. I bet you can't believe I'm 50 can you?

Anyway......

---

Darcus Howe is a poor iconoclast. Discuss.

Last night I watched part of a Channel 4 doc called "Who You Callin' Nigger" or somesuch, It was a kind of trendy 1980s 'Marxism Today' title anyway. It was supposedly investigating the schism between young Muslim Asians and young Christian blacks.

Incoherent twaddle most of it. I've no doubt that the rise of militant Islam among Asian youth is causing friction in many areas, I can't help but think that the Muslim/Christian emphasis was overplayed though. The trouble with Darcus is that, although he can be a perceptive and erudite observer of the social condition, these days he tends to fall back on lazy rhetoric and lazier analyses. He focusses in on the more extreme stereotypes that can back up the opinions he already has. Everything else can oxidise on the cutting room floor.

And it's a shame really because in days gone by he was an interesting, thought-provoking commentator. Still, it's too easy to get funding from the type of production company that supplies C4 with an 'edgy', camera-all-over-the-place, one minute colour, the next B & W, provocative piece of scripted invective that guarantees the healthy cheque and rerun heaven.

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Fay Wray has finally fallen to the bottom of the Empire State and been reunited with Kong - the only mammal that truly loved her. Still a fabulous film. And yes, it was beauty that killed the beast. Doesn't he/she always?

Probably.

I Want My..I Want My...I Want My MTV MP3

I must apologise here and now for this shameless plug. Apple iPods are the proverbial dog's bollox. 10+ Gbs-worth of music transferred from my hard disk to this stunningly beautiful amalgam of steel, plastic and electronics in less than 7 minutes! And I've still only filled half of it. Empty spaces always need filling.

One of the kid's mates set me up with £20 credit on iTunes, so I've even LEGALLY purchased music by the likes of the Gypsy Kings, Pat Metheny and a few others. I'm so 21st century I can't believe I'm half a century! Balls to it. I'll go to my grave 'wired'. iPods, Revos, PCs, graphics tablets. I'll be getting all Ben Hammersley or Tom Coates-ish if I'm not careful. Except that, while they're discussing deeply important things like 'New Music Functionality', I'm actually sat here listening to...well...music. Good Vibrations at the moment actually, but Mr Dylan's exquisite 'Tangled Up In Blue' is actually pictured *in situ* on the right AND it SHOULD have been the title of this website - but there you go, some quicker, more vibrant half-my-ager has probably already snapped it up about 5 years ago so he could hold Mr Zimmerman to ransom. Twat.

I know it's hard sometimes, and I know this post might suggest otherwise, but, seriously, the medium is NOT the message. This iPod looks superb AND sounds superb. What more can I say?

Peter Green is whispering the Blues in my ear now. Bliss.

Goodnight everyone.....everywhere....

I Live In a Suitcase

Back again and a whole decade older but, apart from that seismic shift in my personal space/time continuum, the world carries on much as it always has done. Shit just happens.

Pretty eventful week this last one. Four days in the most gorgeous city I've ever seen. Prague really is a feast for the eyes. Fabulous people as well (most of 'em anyway - a few were twats but wherever I may wander and wherever I may roam, I've come to expect my share of twats so I just adjust my sights slightly downwards and I am usually pleasantly surprised.

They were definitely twats who threw that grenade in a crowded street though. In fact not only twats but wankers and twats I should think.

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I actually had my fair share of twats before we arrived in Prague. First off I was what can only be described as sexually assaulted by a security guard at Manchester Airport. I ask you: who the hell smuggles lethal weaponry in their testicles?

Next up we have a nervous flyer who leaves it till we are flying to tell us she can't stand up once the plane is moving. And where was the twat rooted? Aisle seat of course. She hadn't the wit to a) inform us of her affliction while we could all do something about it and b) inform the fucking check in staff so they could superglue her to a friggin' window seat for the benefit of all concerned.

On the return flight she was once again blocking vital exit routes with her fairly substantial frame and 'I'm more frightened than the rest of you' expression.

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And so we returned to a muggy Manchester with my 50th party to enjoy.

I have to congratulate Dearest and Eldest's Darlin' for the amount of work they put into making it such a success. Gazebos were erected, food and drink on a scale not seen since Betty Windsor's last shindig and a generous supply of just making sure.........all made for a memorable evening.

Around fifty to sixty friends turned up and filled our little semi from top to bottom. Everyone from work colleagues to a dear mate who I first met aged five on my first day at infant school.

Half-past-eight the next morning I went to bed. Just after the last guests had left. Fifty being the new forty and everything I was able to last the course. Much meaty music was enjoyed by the hardcore who were able to stay awake long enough to say hi to the milkman.

I have acquired many fancy whiskies, impressive bottles of vin rouge, DVDs, a DVD player, a fabulous Italian meal at the Sul Lago, the aforementioned week in Prague and, an iPod off the offspring and their Darlin's.

Sometimes I just feel blessed.

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But then my hard disk went tits up. An iPod without a PC is as much use as a libido enhancer for Sven.

The Bogus Man

Jesus H ! Mandelson returns AGAIN. How many more times is this slimy, slithy-mouthed, spinner supreme going to be hauled back from the pit and thrust into our faces? How many more times have I got to listen to that self-satisfied reedy voice smirking and gloating over his latest resurrection?

I'll tell you this: once a devious, conniving bastard always a devious, conniving bastard. It'll end in tears again. Mark my words.

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Well Dearest and I are off to Prague on Monday as a precursor to my glorious 50th next Friday. We're having a big birthday bash at ours to which, of course, you are all invited except, of course, you don't know where I live and you wouldn't know anybody if you did. Still it's the thought that counts. 50 though. Scary.

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Well City returned to form and put in a lacklustre display against Bury (or 'lowly' Bury as the press refer to them). 0-0 - and that's with the likes of Fowler, Wanchope and McManaman playing. The 2nd half was much better when Keegan gave the kids a run out. We got to see Shawn Wright-Phillips play with his brother. Willo Flood, Lee Croft, Paul Collins as well as Bradley Wright-Phillips all played some excellent football that put the 'stars' to shame. I reckon Keegan could do worse than to give 'em an outing or two early in the season. That should put a rocket up the arses of the under achievers.

We're On A Road To Nowhere

In order to deal with the problems of increasingly congested roads, us sophisticated Mancunians re-introduced a tram system a few years ago that can only be described as an absolute resounding success. The only drawback has been the fact that, at present, it's still a little restricted when it comes to routes. But, no matter, hadn't the Government given the go ahead for the expansion of the tram network? Indeed, haven't houses already been demolished in the areas these routes are due to be built through? Hasn't work already started on massive public works in anticipation of the infrastructure requirements of such a huge and forward-thinking project? After all, according to every Governmental utterance, isn't PUBLIC TRANSPORT supposedly the way forward?

I mean, if that is the case, can somebody provide me with the evidence that proves that Manchester's expanded tram system is a bad idea? 'Cos I fuckin' can't.

But that's what's happened. They've pulled the plug. A Labour Government. A Labour Government has done this. A Labour Government has decided that my City's transport system should be sacrificed for the sake of 'good ol' London's' Olympic bid. It just beggar's belief.

Well I'm sorry all my local Labour colleagues, but I'm not voting for a Party that contains both Margaret Thatcher's Godson as well as Margaret Thatcher's policies.

It's time for that God-bothering, Bush-loving Tory Tony to go. Today's announcement, for me, was the last straw. The so-called provinces once-again sacrificed so that the 'prosperous', 'over-heated economy' of the South East can open its gaping maw while the taxes we pay in the rest of the country are poured in.

There's local economies up here that are relying on that tram system. People have invested in property with a view to creating some wealth on the back of vacuous promises from the Government of a man who seems to be rapidly acquiring the soubriquet 'lame duck' as each day passes.

Don't let me stop you considering fucking off Tony will you? 'Cos your Party won't get my vote until you do.

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And, as if I wasn't nadgy enough, I've had a friggin' nightmare trying to type this rant into the "new, improved Blogger interface. It is, quite frankly, shite. Something has been over-egged I do believe. Rethink required? Most certainly.

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Off to see City play a friendly with Bury FC tomorrow night. Here we go again - the pre-season begins.

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**WEIGHT UPDATE** Another 2 pounds disappeared.

It All Makes Work For The Working Man To Do

Quite a nondescript few days since I last blogged. We treated eight family members to a meal on Friday to celebrate the Brother-in-Law's birthday. Saturday, knowing I had to fix a new security light to the world's hardest house brick, I swanned off to the local B & Q and acquired a few masonry drills. Sunday I ascended the ladder and started drilling. It's a bastard trying to apply pressure as you drill with one hand whilst balanced at the top of a ladder. It should be a challenge on one of these ubiquitous SAS, survival, reality shows that are springing up everywhere as sad, sexually-tensioned imitations of the Krypton Factor. What seemed like a week later, with a withered limb, I was bathed in glorious light. Sadly it was broad daylight and the bloody thing should've remained unlit. A further bout of expert fiddling with the miniscule controls ensued. They were handily coloured black to make them stand out against the black material of the lamp itself. Then I had to wait until it got dark before I could check the settings. Dusk was hours away. The pub beckoned. I answered its call.

When we returned at 9:45pm we forgot all about the light. This evening I remembered and walked out to the patio whereupon I whirled like a Dervish to no avail. I could've demolished the shed and nicked each and every one of the 'valuables' therein and I wouldn't have raised a flutter. So, out come the ladders as a precursor to fiddling about again. After a while I succeed in getting the light to appear in the gloaming. A second or two later it goes off again. Bollocks. More fiddling. Now the light comes on again and stays on - for frigging ages. More bollocks. More fiddling. Eventually me and this inanimate object reach a compromise and now, should any scally, scrote or chav wish to break into my garden shed, they can do so bathed in light that neither stays on too long nor goes off too soon.

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I was listening to Radio 5Live's 'Any Sporting Questions' tonight and I heard a question that I never in my life thought I would ever hear:-

"Do you think Colonel Gaddafi will be bad for football?"

Quality.

Run for your Life

Well, what a difference a week makes. Or does it? I know this much, I am knackered with a Capital-Kicking-Kay. Four days exercise last week, coupled with - so far - Three days this, has left my ravaged frame devoid of any vestige of vigour or vim. Although at this point I feel I should state that any similarity between my definition of 'exercise' and, say, Paula Ratcliffe's, would show that the English language has, at times, an inadequacy we can barely comprehend. If the Inuit need eight million words - or so I'm led to believe - to describe different types of snow, then we need at least two to distinguish my version of becoming breathless and red-faced with Paula's.

For yes - my va-va-voom va-va-vanished soon after my initial, arrogant reintroduction to the treadmill. A couple of sessions later I was no better. Far from dreams of my once-svelte chassis returning, all the future appeared to hold was heart failure and shin splints.

A complete change of regime was called for.

"I know" I thought, "I'll pack it in".

But no. I knew I couldn't. Hadn't I already informed Blogworld? "Doh!!!!!!"

So, back to the drawing board. No more jogging. Too much strain involved. It was time to start looking at the other implements of modern torture gym equipment to see which could furnish me with a decent cardio-vascular work out, whilst allowing me to retain the use of my limbs once I'd left the place. Just little things y'know. Like having the strength to depress the clutch pedal as I drove home.

So, first up I spot a ski-like contraption with two plates for your feet coupled with two poles for your hands to hold. I'd spotted a lean, mean workout machine with immaculate gelled hair, nonchalantly Franz Hammer-ing his way through an entire Richard and Judy (there are personal TVs on every appliance) a few evenings before. He spent most of the time giggling at their every utterance. It was evidently a doddle. I strode purposefully towards it. I assumed the position described in the faded, laminated instructions blue-tacked to the just-too-far-away-if-you-haven't-got-yer-glasses 'control-panel'.

I became, seconds after pressing the button marked 'START', a flailing, screaming rag doll. Fearing for my head, which was thrashing wildly on my whiplashing neck, I frantically attempted to prod the button marked 'STOP FOR FUCK'S SAKE'. In my defence, given the wild perambulations of my napper, the fucking thing kept going in and out of focus. Old eyes - what a waste of space in situations like this. To no avail. I pressed and pressed and punched and banged and, finally, jumped.

All activity had stopped. Apart from the ski-machine, which was still thrutching away like the automaton it was; whirring and sniggering, malevolently in the alcove by the window. The other, sleeker, shinier, handsomer, healthier, full-of-breath dick-for-brains tore their sweat-free faces from MTV to watch the new kid make a pillock of himself. Most sniggered, some guffawed. One, with a physique like Michaelangelo's David, explained how the controls worked and how some devious bastards thought it fun to 'Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun' before they leave.

He was OK. The rest?

Twats.

Anyway, come Thursday I'd switched to the cycle-machine. It was just like riding me bike. I felt comfortable and I'm also constantly cycling (with no freewheeling) rather more than I did when I cycled to and from work each day. Suddenly I feel like I'm achieving something.

On top of that, I can watch Richard and Judy while I'm doing it.

So, by this morning - a week after this reckless decision, and a week that included many drinkypoos and even one barbecue, I've lost 3 pounds. Weight loss AND Richard and Judy - result.

Mind you, I'm off to Prague for four days in a couple of weeks and then I'm having a party for my 50th. Ah well.............

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Now, as for trivial news such as The Butler Report..........one word: whitewash. Hmmm. Or is it two words? White wash. Oh, who gives a shit. Blair lied. So did Bush. But, hey! Nobody was to blame! Yee Ha!

You know, at least the likes of Anthony Eden had the decency to stand down. Even Lyndon B Johnson could see the writing on the wall. Why don't politicians take responsibility for their actions anymore? The last honourable resignation I can remember was Lord Carrington's after the invasion of the Falklands. He was Foreign Secretary and felt he should have known what was going on in the south Atlantic even though his advisors (civil servants all) didn't. I didn't - and don't agree with the man's politics - but at least he had the dignity and conscientiousness to fall on his own sword.

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So I see City have acquired Danny Mills. Danny Mills. Ben Thatcher. Paul Bosvelt and Joey Barton. We won't be getting into Europe via the Fair Play League then?

Friday on my Mind

Quite a surprise this evening as we returned from a pleasant tincture or two with the redoubtable Dot - 86 and still full of vigour.

First off was David James on the Jonathon Ross show. After that, surfing the vast choice that Freeview allows, I came across an hours-worth of Richard Thompson on BBC2. Wonderful.

Have you noticed that, as time goes by, all these programs, radio broadcasts and magic lantern shows are the product of the BBC? An institution that still has one foot firmly planted in the public service tradition.

Can't see it lasting though. Can you?

Still....all you MM knockers, deal with this:-

"This movie is perhaps the most thoroughly researched and vetted documentary of our time. No fewer than a dozen people, including three teams of lawyers and the venerable one-time fact-checkers from The New Yorker went through this movie with a fine-tooth comb so that we can make this guarantee to you. Do not let anyone say this or that isn't true. If they say that, they are lying. Let them know that the OPINIONS in the film are mine, and anyone certainly has a right to disagree with them. And the questions I pose in the movie, based on these irrefutable facts, are also mine. And I have a right to ask them. And I will continue to ask them until they are answered."

And so say all of us. Well, over here at least.

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Eldest reckons that the weirdest thing that's ever been said to him at a Premiership match is:-

"Bloody hell. There's Rick Wakeman".

As, indeed, it was. The erstwhile Yes keyboardman had swapped his allegiance from Brentford to the only football club to come from Manchester.

Dressed from head to foot in black he was. Although it was merely a suit and not a cloak, heavy with baubles, bangles and beads.

He lives next door to Norman Wisdom these days. On the Isle of Man.

He did the half time draw.

I remembered "Tales From Topographic Oceans".

Don't Want to be a Fat Man.

Well, since Monday, I've decided that this too, too solid flesh needs to be reduced a little. (Mind you, so has Dearest). Consequently - given the fact that I now commute via my new car instead of the bike or Shank's Pony - OccupiedCountry has, once again, graced the Client's company gym. This time though, I have taken advantage of the Client's technical inaptitude re: access. In other words, I stopped paying the rich buggers £10+ every month, but I can still get in. ;-)

So, Monday evening. Almost 18 stone of disgraceful hedonism, I enter the arena. "I'll be ok" I assume, "I've been riding the bike to work up until quite recently". The treadmill beckons. "3 miles" I think to myself, "that'll ease me in. Tomorrow I'll build up to 3 and a half. Piece 'o' piss".

The evening sun blasts through the semi-frosted windows as I attempt to re-acquire a level of fitness I thought I still had up until a couple of years - or so - ago. My arse! Monday. 6-o-clock. I was completely and utterly, fucked. I coudn't breathe never mind 'jog'. The memory plays tricks you see. It must be 2 months since I last sat on a bike, never mind pumped the pedals to work and back. Even so I thought that well, at least.........

Y'see, the weight I've acquired sat in my room, sharing my thought(s) with my adoring public, has left me with a well-upholstered backside. Not too bad you may surmise. Unfortunately it is almost perfectly balanced by my worryingly massive stomach. The past couple of months I have become nothing more than a lard arse, and I need to address the problem. I can remember, not so long ago, playing squash once a week, badminton, swimming......all gone. All gone. It's funny how habits change in such a short time but, at the same time, that 'short time' seems like a lifetime.

Is this the right thing to do? Telling you lot? On t'inernet? About my ability - or not - to shed pounds? I don't know but please, please give me shit if I don't lose at least a couple of pounds a week.

Tonight I was 17stone 12 pounds. I WILL post again next Wednesday. HELP!!!

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I've spent this evening listening to Billy Connolly on BBC Radio 2 playing his favourite stuff and reminiscing about his days as a fledgling folkie in Glasgee all them years ago. Get yourself along to the BBC website. Click on the 'listen again' button on the radio 2 bit and then "The Mike Harding Show". Until next Wednesday it'll still be Billy. Give it a go. You'll either love it or hate it.

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Later this evening (9:30 ish) Eldest and Youngest phoned to tell us they were retiring to t'Willer for last orders. So, off we plodded. 4 Carlings ain't gonna rid me of the 'bit in the middle'.

Later, after the pub, I used the playback stuff myself to finish off Billy's night. You can't beat conviction and love of the product regardless of what the rest of the world says.

Cry Baby Cry

Hmmmmm. Looks like somebody thought they just had to turn up and everything would be fine.

A modicum of advice Christiano, tears in victory are a sign of humility. An indication that the weeper of those tears, at such a time in their life, recognises the significance of their achievement and the tears come as a result of that self-awareness. Roger Federer this very afternoon showed the world how - if at all - it should be done.

Tears when you've just been beaten by the underdogs simply make you look like a spoilt little prick who is, quite possibly, intent on scweaming until he is sick: just like Violet Elizabeth.

Tart! (As they say in these parts).

incidentally, I'm waiting for all you James-knockers to comment on Ricardo's goalkeeping display this evening.

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I watched the John Martyn doc that was originally broadcast on BBC 4 on Friday night. What a wasted opportunity to examine the man's artistic life, rather than film his grotesquely overweight body struggle with the loss of his leg and the seemingly constant supply of vino veritas.

Instead of a genius, we got a drunk. Instead of film of him playing his acoustic sets (y'know, the ones everyone wants to hear), we end up with too much overblown synth shit from the early eighties.

An opportunity wasted. You, who made it, should be ashamed.