Jesus on the Mainline

When I was younger I used to struggle with a musical/intellectual paradox. How could I - a card-carrying atheist; heathen through and through - enjoy gospel music so much? I used to joke that if the local Sunday school my brother and I were packed off to each week had hymns as full of soul as the churches of the deep south, I'd be praising the Lord with the best of them. Alas 'twas not to be. I was subjected to a dreary, frock-coated "thou shalt not" Northern non-conformism that stifled the spirit. I knew the Devil had all the best tunes - hadn't I just seen and heard the Rolling Stones on Top of the Pops?

As the sixties rolled by and I finally became a teenager, I started hearing all these old black guys who the Stones and many other blues-based groups of the day namechecked as influences. Muddy Waters, Big Bill Broonzy, John Lee Hooker and Sonny Boy Williamson soon led me onto investigating further. Blind Blake, Lightnin' Hopkins, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee followed and then Blind Willie McTell, Blind Willie Johnson and the creme de la creme: Robert Johnson. I'd buy compilation albums full of people with alien names like Kokomo Arnold, Cripple Clarence Lofton and Sleepy John Estes. I couldn't get enough. It was a guilty secret that hid behind the facade of the usual late sixties fare of Zeppelin, Tull and Cream. On these compilation albums there always seemed to be some gospel music thrown in. Either as a solo voice and guitar/piano performance, or as a full choir rendition. I loved it. Those *blue* notes sent shivers etc etc.

But I couldn't throw myself fully into it. It was the lyrics. Twaddle. 'Woke up this morning and my woman had gone' I could relate to. Hell it was always happening to me even at that tender age. 'What a friend I have in Jesus' just made me laugh though. As a result I slowly stopped listening and buying and turned my attention to heavy(ish) rock.

Years later I 'discover' Ry Cooder and I'm back there again. His arrangements of old blues and gospels are sublime. 'Happy Meeting in Glory', Jesus on the Mainline and many more make me realise what I've been missing. I still can't handle the lyrics though but I think I've established a compromise that can withstand a little intellectual rigour. So here I have to raise my hat to the faith (misguided though I think it is) that inspired some of the greatest music of the 20th century. In the final analysis it's a profoundly human creation and I don't have to agree with lyrics to enjoy the song do I? I mean I adore 'Hey Joe' but give a big thumbs down to the practise of carrying a gun in your hand to shoot your woman down.

So. Well done God and well done mankind for inventing him in the first place.

This post was written to a soundtrack of Ry Cooder's 'Jazz' and 'Paradise and Lunch' albums. Two of his best and a perfect way to start a weekend.

Now I'm off to see City and Chelsea. Let's hope the perfect start to the weekend continues.

Everything You Did

This is most enjoyable. Roy Keane. How old is he? Stamping on an opponent in the 88th minute or so. Bet the 'Youngsters' will be paying attention next time you slag 'em off for letting the team down won't they Roy?

Schadenfreude. Especially when we find a coach who seems as good at mind games as Ol' Red Face.

"Mourinho poured scorn on Ferguson's reaction to United's defeat. "I understand why he is a bit emotional. "You would be sad if your team gets as clearly dominated by an opponent who has been built on 10% of the budget." "

I expect Alex is incandescent - literally. I love the way he tries to appear calm and reasoned in interviews though - the way he attempts to paper over the cracks. Listen to this from tonight's post match chat:-

"There was no malice in the incident, it is not Roy's style to do anything like that.

"The goalkeeper made more of it than he should have done. Certainly he stood on the lad but I don't know whether he could have got out of the way.

"I can understand why the linesman flagged but the keeper made a meal of it."

It's "not Roy's style"? Ha ha ha. My arse. Poor old Roy. Looks like he won't be playing in a European Cup Final again. Shame.

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"I thought the movie did an EXCELLENT job in vividly displaying the gospels. In my view it is the rebirth-rite of every human to experience the scourging and crucifixion of Christ. It prompted my family to read the book of John for the first time in 20 years and Bible reading during this time of turmoil is not a bad thing."

St Mel's portrayal of the last 12 hours of the Bolshie Chippy from Nazareth's life (allegedly) has been released today. Ash Wednesday as well. I *wonder* if that's just a coincidence? I pulled the quote above from the reader reviews off the New York Times website. "Rebirth-rite?" "Scourging?" I must be missing something here. I've never witnessed a 'scourging' of anybody in my life, and as for a 'rebirth-rite'? Well.....

"For God so loved the world that He gave His only son...how can you minimize the sacrifice? I already have my tickets for this film and can't wait to see it. Just think...the whole world is talking about Jesus. Thank you, Mel Gibson for accomplishing what we've been trying to do for decades."

Just for the record, the 'whole world' ISN'T talking about Jesus - if they're talking about anyone it's probably Mohammed, what's for dinner and whether they'll still be alive in the morning. Furthermore, most of the third world doesn't have, y'know, access or the wherewithal to attend the gala opening of St Mel's Anti-Semetic jamboree "Masterpiece."

I'll leave you with this review from the same site (New York Times)

"This movie would've been much better in the hands of Quentin Tarantino. The dialogue would have been wittier, the Christ would've been more hip, and the violence would be more tasteful."

I just hope that that IS a piss-take.

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Just started to re-acquaint myself with Steely Dan's ouvre. Class. Sheer bloody class.

The Eton Boat Song

Wahey! The BBC has finally decided to dump that pointless piece of class-ridden bollocks - the boat race. Sadly, ITV have, apparently picked up the mantle and are running with it. The BBC has stated that the boat race organisers had decided to pursue a 'highly commercial agenda'. I think we can construe from this that they were asking an arm and a leg for the TV rights. Just what 'old money' makes of these parvenus selling to the highest bidder hasn't been recorded, but I expect the jowls are shaking and dark mutterings are echoing round the corridors of power.

Personally I'm just glad that my licence money isn't being used to line the pockets of the chinless undeserving any longer. A more pointless activity I can't think of. It smacks of pre-war clipped accents, comfortable privelege and the class system. Good riddance.

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When I first dived recklessly into the wonderful world of t'internet, I did so via Demon. I still keep the account going and let my Dad use it. It saves him having to faff about setting up his own and saves him the monthly fee.

I still clear out the mailbox every now and then. As a result of allowing my demon email address to circulate (now I know better) 99% of the content is just spam. I was doing this earlier and noticed some of the ludicrous names that these viagra sellers, loan offerers and pornographers adopt. I say adopt because names like Arnoldo Fico, Nathaniel Stranger, Trenton Woody, Zack McCain, Octavio Spinks and the wonderful Lino McHendry surely can't be real? These are names out of Airport novels and 'Danielle Steele Presents....' afternoon movies.

"It's a boy Mrs McHendry"

"A boy? We'll call him.....Lino"

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Well the Ukranian evening eventually turned into a great success. In retrospect this was due to the discovery of a powerful Ukranian beer called Obolon. The version I was quaffing was a 5.2% and it was very well received. Add to this the ludicrously low prices in the club and a good night is almost guaranteed. As an example 2 half litre bottles of Obolon, a Bells whisky, a Malibu (don't ask) and a vodka came to the dizzy sum of £6.20 !! It almost made wearing the monkey suit worth it.

Highlight of the evening was a display of Ukrainian dancing. Supported by an old guy on a huge piano accordian with a folorn looking gentleman (think Clement Freud - see above left) providing a beat by hitting a bass drum, young women with sparkling eyes and dazzling smiles were flung around in colourful costumes by muscular young men in baggy trousers and knee-high boots. As the wee small hours approached, Ukranian 'pop' music was played by a local band as the floor filled with bog-standard dancers twitching and shuffling a much more prosaic pastiche of the glory that had gone before.

All in all it was a good day Saturday. City finally won a league game after three months and United were held to a draw by Leeds.

As I Walked Out One Bright May Morning....

Let's talk about Folk Music.

I've got to confess, I'm not one of the 'finger-in-t'ear' brigade, but I do like a bit of fal-de-ra and fol-de-rol - periodically. I especially adore it when it doesn't attempt to pretend it's not about sex, death, war and entrails which, as we all should be aware, is *exactly* what it IS about. I also adore it when it's performed with sensitivity and musicianship. (Note to self: Make damn sure your auto-biography, when it's written is called 'Sensitivity and Musicianship')

After returning from the recently re-installed-in-our-social-calendar Friday night 'Early Doors', we tuned into BBC4 as we shared a Chinese takeaway. Friday night on the Beeb's flagship Arts channel generally focuses on 'roots' music of some description - African, Eastern and Western European and North and South American. Ry Cooder, Salif Keita, Martin Carthy, Emmylou Harris, John Martyn have all appeared recently. A muso's paradise.

Tonight we were offered the 'saccharine-ised' Irish-folk-twaddle of Brian Kennedy and Cara Dillon with a full orchestra. Result? Well it sounds like something you may buy your Gran for her birthday before wising up and getting something much more racy like a.....Barbara Cartland 'novel'.

God-awful it was, absolutely God-awful. Everything folk music shouldn't be.

Later we had Kate Rusby and her band. Exquisite playing and singing. Harmonies that enhanced, light and shade and playing you would sell your soul to emulate. I like her - in relatively small doses though. I want some earth and grit in my music. Blood, snot and shagging. (Note to self: Make damn sure your auto-biography, when it's written is called 'Blood, Snot and Shagging'). Kate hits the spot in a gentle, snuggly, secreting bodily fluids kind of way but sometimes, just sometimes you require a Pogues or a Clash ex-member to come along and 'punk it up' a bit.

Tomorrow night Dearest and I are having to don Dinner Suits and Posh Frocks to watch Traditional Ukrainian music and dancing! WTF? I hope it sounds more like The Pogues than Peter, Paul and Mary. I've got a feeling those Balalaikas will be reverbed to easy-listening heaven though.

I can understand why the Ukrainians, Poles, Irish and the rest cling to their indigenous musics. It's an expression of your cultural heritage in the face of Imperial occupation - be it Great Britain, Russia, the Soviet Union (Imperial in all but name), Napoleon's French version or America's Coca-Cola-nisation. The same argument, for me, explains the emasculation of English folk music. We have had no need to utilise our heritage in the face of foreign invasion.

I would love to find out if there was a boom in English Folk and dance during the dark days of WW2 though.

Where am I going with this? Fuck knows but it's been grand discussing it as I listen to:-

The Band - Acadian Driftwood
R L Burnside - Got Messed Up
Steve Earle - Amerika v6.00
Nick Drake - River Man
Dan Ar Bras - Spike Island Lasses
Old Blind Dogs - Johnny O'Braidislee
etc., etc., etc.,

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Dearest was recounting a day when she used to work in Manchester City Centre - as opposed to Altrincham where she now has to travel miles to get to. She fell asleep on the bus as she journeyed. At the time she had a coat that sported anorak-like cords with toggles on the end. Given the ridiculous design of this, her favourite coat, these toggles probably amounted to six or eight.

Anyway, to cut a long story.......etc........etc.

As she woke - still in the fug of deep sleep - she looked down, saw the toggles and screamed. This frightened the Bejasus out of everyone else on the top of deck of the number 76.

Later, when she had calmed down, she explained that she had woken up, looked down and convinced herself that she had:-

"A Kneeful of Bees"

Her eyes have never been 20-20.

(Note to self: Make damn sure your auto-biography, when it's written is called '"A Kneeful of Bees"')

Boots of Spanish Leather

If this story about Henry XIII is true, dig him up and give him a game at Eastlands. There's more life in the rotund regal rascal than there is in any of Keegan's back four.

Blogger's spell-checker wants me to replace Keegan with Cezanne. Well....any port in a storm. There's also the added bonus of him speaking french - he'll be able to communicate effectively with half the squad immediately.

Have we any other suggestions for Artists managing Football Club? Personally I'd go with Van Gogh for City. Wildly optimistic one minute, deep in despair the next and quite likely to blow his brains out at a moment's notice. Or Toulouse Lautrec? A pygmy attempting to control and order a massive talent?

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Apparently Beyonce "gasped in mock horror when a male dancer flashed his Union Jack boxer shorts" during her routine at this evening's Brits. This was, we were told, " - a send-up of the furore in the US caused by Janet Jackson flashing her nipple at the Super Bowl" Radical eh? We've come a long way since the days of Chumbawumba drenching Two Jags and Jarvis Cocker committing outright blasphemy in front of Saint Michael of Neverland.

*Yawn*

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Second week of biking to and from work. Tonight was bloody freezing. Tomorrow looks like it's going to be freezing WITH a wind chill. I'll guarantee that wind will be in my face all the way to work and all the way back.

Bugger!

Coward of the County

I've just returned from watching the most spineless City display since the last most spineless City display. I'm getting extremely pissed off with the bottle-less bunch of overpaid tossers. THIS IS MANCHESTER UNITED YOU'RE PLAYING ! Show some frigging passion. They were down to 10 men. Did Kevin change our tactics to take care of this? Y'know maybe play to our strengths and their weaknesses? Did he bollox. He is inept. I truly despair.

I won't be comforted by talk of 'concentrating on the league' either.

Furthermore when I go out tonight I am going to be wound up unmercifully by all the Reds I know.

Pissed off!

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When I frequented folk clubs, the songs of Woody Guthrie were frequently heard. One in particular - Deportees - I particularly enjoyed. It told the story of the illegal migrant workers who flocked to California to pick fruit in the 1930s. Periodically these workers were rounded up and sent back to their countries of origin (mainly Mexico) by air.

Woody wrote Deportees about one of the aircraft crashing killing many illegals and the response of the American public whose attitude was "hell, they were just deportees".

I was reminded of this attitude when I heard of the awful deaths of the 19 Chinese cocklers. The first response of many seems to have been jokes about the tragedy and an air of "hell, they were just illegal immigrants". Human life disregarded because they were trying to better themselves and believed all the bullshit that the Gangmasters told them about streets paved with gold.

Freezing cold, lonely and frightened to death in the pitch black night. Many of their bodies recovered clothes-less in their pitiful attempts to try and swim against some of the strongest tides in the country. That's how they were found - miles from where they drowned and many miles from home.

I had a drink with a bloke who used to sing Deportees the other night. I mentioned that I felt that this was a similar situation to Woody's song and he more or less blanked me with a sneer. He didn't exactly say who gives a shit, but his response wasn't far off. Hell they were just illegal immigrants.

Deportees

Woody Guthrie

The crops are all in and the peaches are rott'ning,
The oranges piled in their creosote dumps
They're flying 'em back to the Mexican border
To pay all their money to wade back again

CHORUS:
Goodbye to my Juan, goodbye, Rosalita,
Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria;
You won't have your names when you ride the big airplane,
All they will call you will be "deportees"

My father's own father, he waded that river,
They took all the money he made in his life;
My brothers and sisters come working the fruit trees,
And they rode the truck till they took down and died.

Some of us are illegal, and some are not wanted,
Our work contract's out and we have to move on;
Six hundred miles to that Mexican border,
They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves.

We died in your hills, we died in your deserts,
We died in your valleys and died on your plains.
We died 'neath your trees and we died in your bushes,
Both sides of the river, we died just the same.

The sky plane caught fire over Los Gatos Canyon,
A fireball of lightning, and shook all our hills,
Who are all these friends, all scattered like dry leaves?
The radio says, "They are just deportees"

Is this the best way we can grow our big orchards?
Is this the best way we can grow our good fruit?
To fall like dry leaves to rot on my topsoil
And be called by no name except "deportees"?

My White Bicycle (and other stories)

Why oh why has Manchester City become the 'agony aunt' of the Premiership? Hello Mr McCLaren. Not won away all season? Have a chat with City - I'm sure they can sort you out. Hell they'll probably even score for you if you explain the problem. How you doing Eddie Gray? In the middle of a freefall where you just can't grab a point? Never fear, the Man City Claire Raynor will allow you to flatter to deceive and return home happy in the knowledge that the rot has been stopped. Oh it's that nice Mr Owen with his annual goal-drought problem. There you go, have one on us.

After the euphoria of last Wednesday I am fast beginning to realise just what trouble we are in. Six points from a possible 42 measures up to the worse form in the Prem.

In my book it looks like relegation. We need at least an other 16 points to avoid the drop and, looking at our fixture list I can't see where they are going to come from.

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I'm reading 'His Dark Materials' at the moment. Simply because it was one of the Big Read top twenty-ones and so many *intellectual* celebs have insisted that I must. Added to this was the lure provided by a particularly devout reviewer on Amazon.com who denounced the work thus:-

"I simply must go against the grain of all the 5 star reviews of this series. The big, niggling detractor for me throughout my reading experience was the overt and blatant promotion of atheism and renouncement of all things "Christian" in this work

That'll do for me I thought and promptly placed my order.

The first two parts of the trilogy have been, for a kid's book, brilliantly imaginative and inventive page-turners. I'm almost frightened of starting on the third in case disappointment kicks in - as it often does, for me at least, with trilogies. Here's hoping.

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Dearest has inexplicably become a fan of 'I'm a Celeb...'. How this happened I know not and neither does she. But, glued to the box as she is every night, she's finding it hard to deny.

To baffle me even more, she actually voted! For Jennie Bond?

"You'll be wearing a Burberry baseball cap, wearing ostentatious 9 carat gold and hankering after a Pit Bull next." I told her.

Her reply, though not as course as John Lydon's was, nonetheless, to the point and just as pithy

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Started biking to work again yesterday. This means riding in the dark for the first time since I was a kid. I can't tell you just how much child-like pleasure can be gained from pedalling along with lights - yes lights - on your bike. Shining into the darkness like an Aldis lamp. Nine years old again......

Mind you, I feel anything but child-like as I dismount at the end of another day at the coalface we call 'Desktop Support". (Cue: stirring music of an unthreatening yet patriotic nature.)

Oh Danny Boy......

A grand time was had by all during our weekend in Cork. Great food, walks, music and pubs. Guinness, Beamish and Murphy's do taste better in the Emerald Isle.

Memories:-

• Sitting in Waxy's surrounded by 100s of Irish Man United fans as Everton clawed back from being 3-0 down at half time. Just a shame they couldn't re-create City's unbelievable comeback at White Hart Lane.


• Listening to fiddles, mandolins, guitars and bodhrans and knocking back the black stuff 'till the wee small hours of the morning in Spalpeen's.


• The grunts, screams and glottal stops filling the air as we sauntered past a Karate class on the crisp, clear Sunday morning after the rains of the days before.


• The friendliness of the locals. This really is a country well used to socialising.


• Finding a load of Irish City fans in Cashman's bar on Sunday afternoon as we settled down to watch the match against Birmingham. Sadly we were held to a nil-nil again.

All in all - a cracking weekend. Cheap as well. Return flights for two - £104. Two nights in Jury's Inn - 110 Euros. Bazzin'

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"An inappropriate level of sharing" was the phrase used by American Airlines in an attempt to defend the happy-clappy, born-again dickhead who obviously thought he was flying for Jesus. Personally I would be suing the Airline for every last cent they had.

Given that the good folk of the US are suing Ms Jackson on account of her disgraceful breast baring causing them to "suffer outrage, anger, embarrassment and serious injury", I think I should be able to extract at least a couple of million.

Incidentally I can understand outrage, anger and embarrassment, but just how the hell do you risk serious injury from viewing a naked breast on a TV screen? All suggestions welcome.

I Believe in Miracles....

Jesus! What a game. 3-0 down at half time and reduced to 10 men, I went to the gents (I was watching in the local). Seeing the morose faces I joked "chin up lads, it'll be 4-3 to City believe me!"

It was an' all. Unbelievable.

Here's an early report.

Oh....Incidentally......Wright-Phillips was onside. The rules state that there should be 'air' (quote.....unquote) between the last man and the attacker. But even if he wasn't....I couldn't give a toss. Man U....here we come. We'll either get absolutely battered, or annihilate them. City are so unpredictable.

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This is also unbelievable. Last night I attempted to extract a new Gillette Razor from its Bubble-Wrapped hell. It took me an hour and a half. I need say no more. I considered a self-righteous, I've cut me fucking finger blog, but then I thought.......who cares?

This morning it appears they've actually researched how people slightly older than myself feel about attempting to extract common and garden bits 'o crap like shavers from the Fort Knox-like blister packs they encase them in.

I say to you. They only do it to break your nails. Y'know, the ones you've looked after for years....

Time for bed....I'm...errr........tired and emotional.................

Superbowl Sweethearts

"Wardrobe malfunction" my arse. I ask you: if you have no intention of the world seeing your right (or indeed left) breast, why bother adorning your nipple with a 'silver tassle'? All I can say is Janet must have an album coming out or attempting a comeback or something.

What has become a source of amusement though is the absolute outrage of Corporate America. Grow up - it's only a breast fer Gawd's sake. They're fairly common on the front of females I'm led to believe. The sight of a rogue one flapping uncontrollably does not necessitate the dimming of the stadium lights, pulling the plug on the live TV coverage and prayer meetings the length and breadth of the US of A.

Mind you, if the protagonists didn't believe that the predictable furore would occur, they probably wouldn't have done it would they?

Get the full fascinating facts here.

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Arsenal bloody well annoyed me last night. I thought it was a good game, and I thought we were unlucky not to come away with a point. Nice to see Keegan employing a 4-5-1 to try and contain the best team in England. An own goal from Tarnat and a wonder strike from the exquisite Henry bagged it for the Gunners though. Our winless run continues. Unfortunately as the dying seconds ticked away Cole acted like a complete pillock - again. He seems to get away with murder that boy. Anelka was wrong grabbing his head but, if Anelka gets a red then Cole should get the same - not to mention Edu who ran the full length of the pitch to join in.

So Mr GenX at 40 the full compliment of points for Wenger's lads again this season. Now we've given them to you don't waste them, store them safely, add to them and finally - come May - you will hopefully severely disappoint the red half of Manchester once more. I'll drink to that.

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I picked my new glasses up yesterday (Opticians open on a Sunday! Why?) They phoned me up at about 2:00pm to tell me they were ready. Being in a Sunday type of 'hang loose, read the papers' mood, it never dawned on me they were actually open at the time of the call. God knows who I thought was phoning me with the news, but Dearest pointed out that it may be a good idea to go and pick them up as I was at work all week and we are flying to Cork for the weekend on Friday.

So I did and now I'm in that 'learning zone' that new glasses bring. For a start off I can see clearly again. Spots, blemishes, wrinkles all self-esteem-crushingly visible as I shave. Still, it won't be long before the clinical, pin sharp view of myself begins to blur at the edges. The slow decline starts the minute you get your new pair you know. You just don't realise that you can't see properly until you acquire the next, thicker and, usually dearer pair. I guess this scenario repeats itself every few years until the day comes when you pick up your last...........

No doubt Opticians will be opening Christmas Day by then.

End of the Innocence

Well we did survive the snow - just. Minor traffic accidents were skillfully avoided and kids having 'fun' with snowballs were tolerated. A friend's father spent the last seconds of his life face down in the stuff though. We don't know yet whether he slipped or dropped. The Post Mortem should provide answers.

It looks so beautiful too.

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Mr Keegan has finally recognised that we are in freefall and the reason lies in defence (although our midfield has been suspect at times). Enter the next 'club saviour' - Belgian International Daniel Van Buyten. Untried in the Premiership so we'll have to see if he's any better than what we had. Here's hoping.

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I downloaded the latest version of Winamp the other day. The facility for playing Internet radio and TV stations is superb. Especially with broadband. There's a list of around 500 radio stations and 95 TV. Every taste is catered for from classical to Thrash Metal. Hours of good, clean fun for all the family.

It's a digital world.

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I stuck the 'I Love The BBC' icon up on the right after seeing it on Bloggerheads. There is a good piece there highlighting the danger that this wonderful institution could find itself in if we fall for the drip-feed of shit emanating from Murdoch's press and his (mainly) Tory henchmen. It really does break the hearts of these leeches when they see the potential for lining their pockets from the Beeb. The trouble is these days we get aspirationally-challenged, Sky dish owners complaining that there's "never anything worth watching" on terrestial and "why should I pay a TV licence?" before returning to the never-ending stream of crap they can watch on their 4 million plus channels.

I was always amazed that the BBC survived Thatcher, we must be careful that her son and heir doesn't think he can use the Hutton report as an excuse to break it up.

TV, radio and now the internet, whatever the BBC involves itself in generally results in quality. It's unique in its funding and independence from Government and advertising revenue. It should be cherished for, as Joni Mitchell once sang, "You don't know what you got 'till it's gone".

Too Close for Comfort

I've spent all day listening to warnings on the Radio. There's snow in them there heavens apparently and it's on its way to a motorway, A road, B road and farm track near you. Needless to say, in Manchester at least the weather's been cold but drier than a Thatcher cabinet. No doubt when the white deluge arrives it will envelop us in a good 1 to 2 inches, the transport system will grind to a halt and Parliamentary questions will be asked. Youngest travelled to New York a couple of weeks back. The temperature there was minus 16 with a chill-factor that drove it even lower. The place had had more snow dumped on it in a couple of days than we get in a couple of decades and still it functioned.

As I left work to walk the 2 miles home I was wrapped up like an extra from 'Cold Mountain'. Layer upon layer of insothermolated, state of the art extreme-weather clothing had me prepared for whatever the elements chose to throw at me. A glorious clear sky awaited. I took a snap of the traffic on the M60 (see above) and went on my way. Soon I began to regret the over-zealous attempts to keep warm as the sweat ran freely. I'll no doubt take tomorrow's warnings with a pinch of salt and be found frozen to death on the banks of the Rochdale canal wearing naught but a T-Shirt, shorts and sandals.

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Well I see Tony scraped through with the Top up fees bill. He couldn't convince 71 of his own Party though and ended up with a majority of 5. That's quite a remarkable feat for a man who has a majority of 160ish in Parliament. Is it a fatal wounding ? Not in the short term but significant damage such as this does have an effect. Combined with the Iraq problem and whatever may come of the Hutton report due tomorrow it could result in a slow, lingering political death of a Prime Minister who once promised so much.

I see Diane Abbott voted against the Government. A futile attempt to air her 'lefty' credentials. Hypocrite.

As I write it has just started to snow. Who knows what catastrophe could befall me and mine before daybreak.

I'm Gonna Get Myself Arrested

It's not April the first is it ? I was bloody sure it was when I read about the 'wisecracking parrot'. I always believed that parrots and the like merely reproduced the sounds they heard regularly around them ? Am I now supposed to believe that this bird not only has a vocabulary of nearly 1,000 words, but can also form sentences with them that show an almost human understanding of what's going on around it ?

This is the second parrot story to hit the headlines in the past few weeks. Winston's foul-mouthed feathered friend was subsequently exposed for the imposter he was. It can't be long before N'Kisi and his headline-grabbing entourage are denounced as charlatans also.

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After yet another gutless second half performance in front of the BBCs cameras on Sunday, City now have the lure of playing the PLC brand known as 'Man U' in the next round of the cup. If that prospect doesn't fire 'em up then nothing will.

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Note to self: When an odious client expresses the opinion that, in his view, the company you work for has "made him look a twat", don't reply thus:

"No we haven't. You've always looked a twat."

This is the Modern World

8/- For a Cadbury's Creme Egg !!! (For those of you of a post-decimal persuasion that's 8 shillings. These days known as 40p). 8 shillings. They must be making a fortune out of each one they lovingly hand-craft in the quaint village of Bourneville.

I'm positive they're smaller as well - like Wagon Wheels. When I was a kid Wagon Wheels were bloody huge. You could feed a family of four with one for two days at least. These days they're no bigger than Jaffa cakes. I must be very, very old.

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As a result of all this bloggish debate regarding the importance (or not) of correct grammar, I'm frightened to death of writing anything that could expose me to the pity of those blessed with a clinical understanding of the way verbs, nouns, adverbs, adjectives and the rest fit together. There, their, they're. Its It's. All guaranteed to advertise our inadequacies. My Mother always had problems differentiating has and as. "My son was not in school last Wednesday has he as had a bad cold." An odd affliction I thought. All the rest she handled with ease. It's apostrophised plurals that get to me though. Pretty much everything else I can handle.

Does it matter as long as ideas and opinions are expressed ? I guess not but when you see them written with scant regard for spelling or grammar you surely wonder if the ideas were up to scratch in the first place ?

No matter how many times I re-read this, I know, I just *know* there will be a spelling or grammatical error in it somewhere.

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So you turn up late for your flight and the check in staff won't let you proceed because, well because you're too late. So what do you do ? Apologise profusely tendering any number of mitigating circumstances in an attempt to ingratiate yourself with the assorted EasyJet personnel ?

Not if your a Chavette you don't. Oh no that would be too easy. In order to convince them to delay the flight while you get on it you hurl verbal abuse and tell them there's a bomb in your luggage.

Now that's quality.

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Whoop !! The African Nations Cup is being broadcast on BBC Three (is the magic number). There could be some strained relationships dans le Towers Occupied during the next couple of weeks. What with the Beeb showing Liverpool v Newcastle and City v Spurs over the weekend, it's just like old times. The icing on the cake is Match of the Day returning next season. I just hope we're still in the Premiership.

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My eldest is 30 years of age on Sunday. I still remember with fondness the 4 ton, bearded 'nurse' presenting me with the shriveled prune that became one of my best mates; Youngest and Dearest being the others. "Here's your son" she said in a voice as deep as Billy Goat Gruff's. Us mere Males weren't allowed in theatre back then. It was female territory. Full stop. A couple of doors away my wife was enjoying a life-threatening haemorrhage. Still, it doesn't do to fuss does it ?

In retrospect it was a hectic evening. I may write more about it, I may not. Who knows ?

What a Friend We Have in Jesus

"Like most people I lived for a long time with my mother and father.
My father liked to watch the wrestling. My mother liked to wrestle."

Tonight I have been mostly watching 'Oranges are not the Only Fruit'.

"This is Kindly Light calling Manchester. Come in Manchester, this is Kindly Light."

Quality. Sheer quality.

Teach Your Children

Last Saturday as Dearest and I settled in our seats at the City of Manchester stadium, the pre-match 'entertainment' started. This generally consists of a profoundly unoriginal playlist at top volume interspersed with announcements regarding fan's birthdays, team news, latest scores etc.

Recently the thrill-fest that is the penalty shoot out has transferred from half-time to pre-match. This consists of youngsters from each camp trying to score past City's resident mascots - Moonchester and Moonbeam.

All good clean fun n'est pas ? Well up to a point Lord Copper. The DJ (a regular on Manchester's Key103 I am told) decides to have a quiz. Three questions for the assorted 6, 7 and 8 year olds. Questions like "whose latest single is called 'Sexed Up'"? "Which local comedian's catchphrases include 'a bit 'o blue f't'dads'."?

Now I might be being a bit thick here but why on earth would anyone think that these were suitable questions for kids who, not too long ago, were still toddling . Why not refer to Peter Kay's more well known catchphrases ? "Garlic Bread" for instance. Why not "what's the title of that stout Glaswegian's...er Michelle's hit single" ?

There must a thousand and one more suitable questions that could've been asked. Why should kids of that age be dragged into adulthood before their time ? "Mummy what does 'sexed up' mean"? "Daddy what's a 'bit of blue'"?

I was ruminating on this over the weekend. After reading Nakedblog and being directed to the Chavscum web page I came to the conclusion that the type of youngster that probably would au fait with a 'bit 'o blue' would be a 'Chavlet'.

Still, I smugly thought, at least my kids are big enough not to embarass me with such questions. Then I read Robin's blog and discovered much philosophising (?) re: censoring the pop songs that are broadcast on aimed-at-kids- radio. In his excellent analysis he observes "the whole [radio] listening experience is packed with unwelcome surprises, a bit like finding sex toys in a Barbie set." Rap and R&B takes the biscuit when it comes to adult content. "Sexed up" is pretty bland next to 50cent and his ilk.

It wasn't always like this was it ? Its not just me growing older is it ?

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"Saudi Arabia's highest religious authority has issued a stern rebuke to women who appeared at a conference unveiled in the presence of men." The Grand Mufti (a man as usual) had probably received a phone call from God telling him that the women's behaviour was "shameful" and to warn them of "grave consequences".

No doubt the *faithful* will be calling for stonings or somesuch to punish this wicked affront to Allah. I mean....showing your face - whatever next ?

If it wasn't so serious it'd be laughable.

Feelin' Alright ???????

I'll leave no comment on this report other than this quote from...you've guessed it....the elected representatives of the most obese country on the planet.

They "objected to singling out specific types of food, such as those high in fat and sugar" as causes (of obesity).

"Hell Jeb every good ol' boy jest knows that them veggietables make you fatter than a hog and windy as Chcago. Goddam Erpeans interfering with our God-given right to gorge ourselves stoopid at MacDonalds, KFC and Burger Goddam King..........." Get the full fascinating facts here.

Echoes of Kyoto anyone ??

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I'm indebted to Mr Russell for this link. If you ever thought that the underclass was a myth, think again. This is just one consequence of the inabilty of our policy-makers to understand just what the truth is about 'life at the coal face'. I'm not surprised there's a dearth of Science graduates.

I Keep Singing the Same Old Song

I keep hearing snatches of African music on the TV or radio and everytime I do I find myself really enjoying it. Tonight it was Malian Kora music. The Kora is a harp-like instrument and the guy playing it was the 23rd generation of his family to master it. The sounds coming out of it were almost Celtic with a Blues sensibility and they were sublime.. It's amazing that such ancient noises can still trigger a response, although let's not forget that this music travelled to the Americas on British, French and Portuguese slave ships where it was augmented by the folk musics of Europe before landing in the Liverpools, Bristols and Londons of the UK. Some connection is inevitable.

So a few samples need to be acquired via t'internet. Ali farke Toure, Youssou N'Dour and Baba Maal for starters I think. Anyone got any other suggestions ?

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Dearest finally returned to work today and I finally returned to Shanks's Pony to get me to my place of toil. Completely and utterly knackered I was. So much so that I couldn't face my public for a good 30 minutes. At least the Xmas pounds will soon be scattered hither and thither.

Although I might get a taxi tomorrow.

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BBC 4 came up trumps again later this evening. A pleasantly nostalgic hour or two was spent in an investigation into Prog Rock. The rostrum camera hovered over album covers so familiar I could almost smell them. Middle-aged men still hankering after *relevance* were interviewed. The petty wars, back-stabbing and ambition still fresh in the memories of some but long forgotten and forgiven in others. The clothing was still slightly outlandish and, remarkably, only Rick Wakeman had any grey hair to speak of ;-)

I didn't like John Peel's sneering assertions that he's always thought it was a load of bollox that attracted middle-class grammar school boys though. I remember Mr Peel (before he became the institution he is today) championing the likes of King Crimson.

Methinks you doth protest too much John. It doesn't become you. Accept your past and blame it on the fact that, although you weren't grammar school boy, you were certainly middle-class.

Trouble in Paradise

Frosty-faced and frosty-toed walking down Joe Mercer Way with heavy hearts and bleak futures. What is it about this *game* that has the devious ability to colour an entire evening - nay week - black as coal ? Another lead thrown away in a moment's lapse and another two points kissed goodbye. It's almost expected now. We won't win. We can't win. We are City in our new stadium and we're jinxed.

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Way back in the Devil's decade (the 80's), power-dressed executives rushed from their breakfast meetings clutching the blueprint for the next great leap forwards. 'Just In Time' (JIT) was the way. No longer would we keep stock on site. We would simply buy it in as and when needed. Why employ stockeepers, storemen and women ? Let some other - inevitably smaller - company be our stockholders. Needless to say within months of this managerial breakthrough, experience had already taught the buyers that JIT had a habit of arriving too late to keep production going. Consequently judicious use of a tactical but clandestine 'Just In Case' policy slowly returned stock to pre-JIT levels.

It's truly shocking to hear of these same tired business-bollox ideas being applied to the logistics of supplying armed forces in a theatre of war halfway round the world. To hear Hoon complacently insisting that kit was delivered to the area in good time is saddening. If the system works anything like it has in my experience the necessaries will probably be stuck in some military equivalent of 'goods received' waiting for the relevant paperwork. In the meantime Tommy Atkins has to beg, steal and borrow suitable gear from wherever he can.

It's going to be a tough few weeks for Tony and his pals but not half as tough as it has been for the poor squaddies out there doing the Government's dirty work for them.

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I see the hijab brigade have been out and about blathering about 'human rights'. This, I feel, is a bit rich coming - as it does - from *true believers*. Before their 'God' humans have no rights whatsoever. They are at the mercy of the omnipresent all-seeing, all-knowing deity who has written his (always HIS) thoughts about what humans are allowed to do in a big book that then has to be interpreted by men (always MEN).

The opium of the masses ? I'll say.

Hanging Loose

The last person I would've expected to top 'imself was Harold Shipman. Given the fact that he always denied the murders he committed and that he had an appeal coming up shortly, suicide should've been the last thing on his mind.

During his trial and during the exhumations I couldn't quite believe the accusations being levelled. His practice was a mere 5 or 6 miles from where I live and I think the whole thing was a little too close to home. Mass murder on this scale (and at the time it was *only* 15) couldn't possibly happen round here.

After his conviction I watched a documentary on local BBC TV detailing the full horror. Relatives, friends and intended victims were all beginning to realise that Shipman was an Angel of Death. In fact some of his victims had actually pleaded with their nearest and dearest not to let him near them. Entire streets had been decimated by his actions. It was absolutely horrific.

Prior to charges actually being brought, Dearest worked with a colleague who's mother ran a charity shop with Shipman's last victim. Dearest's friend used to regale her with these fantastic tales of suspicion, forged wills and requests for exhumation that we all took with a pinch of salt, believing them to be the ramblings of a lonely old woman.

In the end that was the key to his 'success'. Old people - in the main - were his prey. Old people that were of no further use to society. Old people who are deemed to have 'had their time'. Old people with no one to fight their corner. Old people who were - on the whole - women.

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More shock horror down in the soap opera known as Man City. First off David Seaman announces his retirement and now it looks like we're going to sign Calamity James to replace him. So we have a defence that can't deal with crosses and now another keeper who flaps everytime the ball comes near him at height.

God help us.