ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The author, KJ Rolling, a former male prostitute for the Conservative Parliamentary Party, was a twice winner of the Netherlands downhill skiing championships in the 1990s and is one of the world’s great air guitarists. His rendition of Led Zeppelin’s ‘Black Dog’ being a firm bedroom favourite. His debut album, released in 1994, peaked at 840 in the Norwegian charts, after which he has never looked back ( owing largely to a suspect neck). Born on September 31st 1969, having originally been conceived on the night of the 29th of February 1947, the author is 432nd in line of succession to the throne of Belgium . He is also reportedly one of Osama Bin Laden’s favourite writers, and he has recently earned the coveted accolade of ‘most promising newcomer’ from the Wolverhampton Deep Sea Diving Association for the eighth year in succession. KJ Rolling, a reluctant sex symbol and earmarked to be one of the faces for future radio, lives alone with 35 lions and a dwindling herd of gazelles.
GENESIS
“Born under a bad sign
I’ve been down since I began to crawl
If it wasn’t for bad luck
I would have no luck at all” (Booker T.Jones/William Bell)
In the beginning, God created man and, to cut a long story short, I was born ( under a wand’rin star) many many years ago in a maternity hospital far away ( while shepherds watched their flocks by night), because there was no room at the inn.
I was the product of what sociologists might describe as a ‘mixed marriage’: my mother was a woman, and my father was a man, so I had a very difficult upbringing. In fact, my family were so impoverished that we were the only household in our housing estate who didn’t own a gun. My parents, bless their cotton socks and pink pajamas, always wanted me to go far – preferably as far as possible. The furthest however that I could manage was Parkhurst on the Isle of Wight . I would have went further, but I couldn’t get over the wall.
Sorry Mum and Dad, but I was a f*cking accident – literally. I was the product of a night of pre-marriage passion that had more consequences than the loving couple had anticipated. Yes folks, I wasn’t exactly planned. It was an inglorious debut for me, and I have striven hard to maintain my habit of ensuring that things don’t go according to plan ever since. Mind you, when you plan anything involving humans, then you are almost certainly doomed to failure.
My long-suffering parents were thus obliged to marry a little sooner than might otherwise have been the case, and to be fair to them, their marriage proved durable, and I cannot complain about parental abuse or neglect, which leads to the obvious question of what has prompted me to become an alienated, angry young(?) man? The answer is circ*mstances, pure and simple… or put another way – people! I am increasingly coming round to the opinion that the world would be a happier, more peaceful planet if there were no people on it. Retreating further from the well-intentioned but mindless morons who violate my lebensraum, I feel that I no longer belong in this world where my peers get their thrills from copious amounts of liquor and from watching violent movies at the cinema.
Most annoying of all, I am surrounded by self-important types in their big cars, big houses, dressed in their shirt and tie, who have not got a fraction of my numerous talents. The sentiments of ‘The Philosopher’ in the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes that, inter alia, ‘life is useless’ are readily endorsed by this writer. Before you drool over my miscellany of ramblings, rants, and really ridiculous ‘rubbish’ which are the very epicentre of my alienation, let us first embark on our Magical Mystery Tour via ‘Tom Brown’s Schooldays’, so come with me into a land where the eyes of man have never set foot.
TOM BROWN’S SCHOOLDAYS
“When I was at school, education could go hang, so long as a boy could hit a six, sing the school song very loud, and take a hot crumpet from behind without blubbing” ( extract from Blackadder Goes Forth).
When I was a little nipper, Norn Iron had the two-tier, antiquated education system in which eleven year olds were shunted, usually without their consent, into either grammar schools for cleverdicks or secondary schools for ‘thickos’, depending on their performance at the eleven-plus selection tests. Only at the behest of one-time education supremo, Martin McGuinness no less, is this system being earmarked to follow its’ English cousin to the knacker’s yard to be replaced by something vaguely related to comprehensive schools.
It was quite amusing watching the stink that Mr.McGuinness created as ‘his’ reform stirred the otherwise dormant Northern Irish middle-classes to an activity alien to them – protest. Yes folks, while the working classes of both communities tore each other’s hair out and plenty more besides, during ‘the Troubles’, the I’m Alright Jack Nimbys of the Northern Irish middle-class sat idly by, tut-tutting the sectarian bloodbath. It took a threat to their own self-interest to arouse the blue rinse bourgeoisie from their conservatories.
Norn Iron, you see, has been ‘blessed’ by an education system where the intelligent Davids and Sarahs at eleven go on to highly-reputable academies of learning to be taught to become captains of industry, while the stupid Jimmys and Sharons at the same tender age brace themselves for schools notorious for producing, perhaps through no fault of their own, many under-achievers. A welter of education statistics has confirmed the disparity in achievement between the high-flying grammar schools and the considerably less academically successful secondary schools. The absolute need to take my pew at a decent seat of learning was therefore seen as a life-changing crossroads moment in which I simply had to fulfil my early promise at primary school, during probably the best years of my life, and ensure success at the 11-plus.
So it came to pass that this young infant prodigy with ‘brains to burn’ (although I have yet to fulfil my potential and incinerate them, despite a couple of flirtations with hallucinogenics) managed to pass the Eleven-plus. I seemed destined for academic success and a wonderful career, going to work each day armed with a briefcase, shirt and tie (oh yes and trousers too) to do my stint at the office, throwing my weight around and then driving home in my big car to my big expensive, suburban house. Somehow, this high-flier has successfully managed to avoid realising this pseudo-American dream which has permeated many burghers on our side of the big pond.
Where did this young smart Alec go so horribly wrong – or even right? Well, I was actually encouraged by my father to consider a possible venture into the crazy world of an architect. Fortunately, this young man had other ideas. I mean, have you ever seen the sketch from Monty Python’s Flying Circus about the accountant, Mr.Anchovy, who visits the vocational guidance counsellor whereupon the accountant (might as well be an architect or office worker or whatever paper shuffler) confesses to the career adviser his desire to become a lion-tamer? The counsellor (played by John Cleese) helpfully suggests that the accountant (played by Michael Palin) should not attempt to get to the position of lion-tamer in one drastic career re-shuffle, but instead via stages, starting peculiarly with banking. Quite how banking is a step away from accountancy towards lion-taming is open to question, but this young genius at least managed to swerve these dreadfully dull but eminently respectable white-collar positions – much to my parents’ disappointment.
Personally, I blame my school for my development/deterioration, but then who doesn’t? You see, my academic factory is one of those Norn Iron pompous grammar schools that takes itself too seriously. This pseudo-public school is more interested in winning the apparently coveted rugby union Schools’ Cup to achieve bragging rights than in the academic progress of its’ students which is taken for granted, given that many of the pupils’ mummies and daddies are teachers and dare I say it, accountants and bankers. Whether any of them progressed towards the exalted position of lion-tamer, I am blissfully unaware.
Oh yes, I excelled at O Levels and A Levels, earning a passport to university, a truly pioneering step for someone from my family circle. The nearest any of my relatives got to university was driving past a local campus. Despite my academic ‘success’, I felt like a second-class citizen at a school where it was my misfortune not to be a rugger bugger. I had a very good attendance record at school and there was no bullying or disciplinary issues of note. I was just an anonymity at secondary school, an apprentice loner, largely keeping my large head down in apparent practice for the system that lay ahead. Mind you, although never ‘picked on’, I did still float from one clique to another, without belonging in any particular circle – a trait that I have long since perfected. I don’t have any particularly fond memories of attending an all-boys school. Like George Mallory, the Everest explorer, I simply climbed the mountain of school because it was there.
I was especially interested in such ‘useless’ subjects as history and politics, but a remedial no-hoper at the sciences. In fact, I was a spectacular failure at physics, which was like a foreign language to me. In the school Christmas exam, I earned the flattering mark of 17 per cent which was airbrushed up to 20% in my school report, on account of a school policy that dictated that minimum marks of 20% had to be recorded on one’s report. My ‘folks’ were horrified at the disgraceful 20%. Little did they know that the powers that be had generously improved my marks. I managed to fluke my way to a staggeringly impressive 28% in the summer physics exam, whereupon physics and I went our separate ways, very much by mutual consent. Had it not been for the multiple-choice format of the physics tests, I honestly would not have merited a double-figure percentage score. Some of my guesses in those physics tests must have been spectacularly wrong – as well as occasionally right. It calls to mind a Punt and Dennis sketch entitled ‘Science Is Fun’, I think, apparently in which they explained how helpful it was to have multiple-choice questions which usually included an absolutely absurd option that obviously should be ruled out immediately. For example, four possible answers for one question could be: is it a) an electron; b) a proton; c) an atom; or d) Geoff Hurst in the 1966 World Cup Final. Tragically, I think that too many of my ‘inspired guesses’ in the physics exams were of the Geoff Hurst variety – much to the consternation of my physics ‘master’. I never used the term ‘master’, as this young rebel without a cause never quite saw anything masterful about individuals who are regarded as ‘men amongst boys, but boys amongst men’. My physics under-achievement robbed me of a high-flying career as a rocket scientist, devising even more weapons of mass destruction for Iraq . NASA has never quite recovered from the near-mortal blow of my physics tragedies.
What I find most objectionable about Norn Iron grammar schools in particular, as I stand on my soapbox, is that they produce arrogant, sarcastic know-it-alls, perhaps like me, who are not taught enough humility and respect for everybody. Oh yes, schools try hard to juggle several balls in the air at once, I acknowledge this, but what on God’s earth is the point of learning about ancient Greece and trigonometry formulae whilst many life skills are neglected? For me, it is fundamentally important that teenagers are taught such basics as knowledge of cars, home insurance, life assurance, mortgages, drug and alcohol awareness, even self-defence, not to mention how to cook and even change a light bulb. Too many eighteen-year-olds, like yours truly, once upon a time, go out into the big bad world, snowed under with qualifications and high expectations, thinking that they know it all about everything, when in reality, the poor dears know nothing about anything. Maybe if I’m fighting for my life on a hospital bed or even attempting to raise a family, expertise in ancient Greece and trigonometry formulae will suddenly become belatedly useful, though I doubt it. As that nice Roger Waters once mused, all in all I was ‘just another brick in the wall’.
ALCOHOL: THE BRITISH AND IRISH DISEASE
Oh yes there is scarcely a country or city on the planet that doesn’t have its very own resident drunkards, but ask almost any citizen of the world about the problems of alcohol abuse and anti-social behaviour, and regrettably the British and Irish ‘yoof’ spring to mind all too often. In the British Isles after all, such annual celebrations as New Year’s Eve, Christmas, St Guinness’s Day, St George’s Day, and the 12th of July are merely drinking festivals. It even seems nowadays that the obvious pleasure of enjoying the gift of summer is blighted by the prospect of young people in the neighbourhood congregating in the garden next door and swallowing copious amounts of poison at literally all hours of the day. One only has to randomly trawl through the Myspace, Facebook and Bebo personal profiles to disgustingly discover thousands of young people paying homage to various alcoholic drinks, not to mention countless photographs of them taken in night clubs with such beverages in hand.
Just how do so many under-18s get access to alcohol? Night clubs in a shameless quest for extra revenue will accept almost anyone of any age, with the result that the rest of us suffer the dreaded prospect of boisterous, out of control teenagers pouring onto the streets in the early hours with more drink inside them than their body and mind is equipped to accommodate. All night clubs without exception, like any other club, should be members-only institutions with members aged over eighteen, or better still 21 only admitted. Identity ‘prove it’ cards or passports should be required by any responsible night club before it sells its soul and allows its premises to become a playground for under-age alcohol enthusiasts. Such clubs should be infiltrated by plain clothes police who can spot the presence of under-age occupants and then prosecute non-complying night clubs. Ask night clubs to sign up to such suggestions and one is likely to receive not co-operation but hostility. Ask police to take a more pro-active stance in the war against under-age drinking and they will shrug their shoulders and complain of a lack of resources.
I have come to realise that the police are loath to seize and process the arrest of large groups of anti-social practitioners because of the potential tedium of paperwork. The police much prefer to take the easy option and target one individual here, one individual there. The very notion of challenging a mob of drunken youths is anathema to the so-called forces of law and order. Alcohol consumption should be confined to people of 21 and over, instead of which fifteen or sixteen year olds are already downing poisonous liquids.
What is even more ludicrous but potentially tragic are the glamorous television commercials in which dozens of beautiful people are ‘enjoying’ a cool, sexy Bacardi, Magners or Smirnoff. The trouble is that the models in these advertisem*nts are filmed when they are stone-cold sober. It would be an eye-opener if such commercials were displaying people with a dozen or half a dozen spirits or pints in them. Such enthusiasts would not look so remotely attractive then. Alcohol advertising is massively misleading and should be banned. This will not happen, because in the final analysis, money talks and the rest of us will just have to grin and bear the spiralling problem of alcohol-induced anti-social behaviour. The alcohol manufacturers do include the drink responsibly suggestion in small writing on their products, but asking a young person to drink sensibly is akin to expecting a Formula One racing competitor to drive carefully.
PARTY ANIMAL
I occasionally get invited out by people, who obviously don’t know me very well. I mean I’d rather stick my head down the toilet than enlist in a lads’ night out bonding exercise. I’ve been there and done that. One goes out, drinks too much, spends too much, and unlike in the movies, comes home to an empty bed, having spent several wasted hours watching other people ‘enjoy themselves’. Oh yes, I cheerfully steer clear of that pathetic scenario nowadays.
Then of course, I don’t care much for socialising with a large group of people. Some people might prefer safety in numbers, but crammed in to a venue of ear-splitting, obnoxious music coupled with a large queue at the bar is not my idea of a good time. I even try to avoid work night outs or Christmas dinners which predictably are dominated by the loquacious few, in which several loud mouths hold forth on the tedious ‘I’ve done this and I’ve done that, and I’ve been here and I’ve been there, and I’ve seen everything and I know everything’, while the rest of the assembled mass hang off their every word. Meanwhile yours truly just slopes off to the periphery in self-imposed exile and protest at the proceedings. Worse still, once the drink starts to flow and the demons come out to play, then various people engage in a little light-hearted banter (or craic) in which friends and work colleagues tease each other. This evolves into sarcastic put downs. I mean there is only so much leg-pulling one can achieve, before the leg comes off. Ah yes, it all ends in tears and recriminations.
Ultimately, if you need liqueur as a means of seeking attention, you deserve pity. Can there be anyone more dreadfully dull than someone who needs alcohol to have a good time?
WEAKNESS
What exactly is weakness? Weakness is when you cannot devote yourself to one partner, even though you promised to do so. Weakness is when you cannot control your temper. There is nothing strong about acts of violent fury. Weakness is when one or two alcoholic beverages are not enough. Weakness is when you have to possess what everybody else seems to have. Weakness is not being content with what you own, and you crave more. Speaking of cravings, weakness is when you cannot resist such desires as smoking. I have tended to refrain from ranting about smoking, but all I can say is that when I see someone ‘coolly’ holding a cigarette, I think that the smoker should simply wear a tee-shirt stating that ‘I hate myself’. Weakness is simply a lack of self-control. You can be a muscular, powerful body-builder with bulging biceps, and yet be terribly weak. Ultimately we are all weak, but some people are weaker than others.
CONCERT CRETINS AND FESTIVAL FOOLS
I have to laugh at these people who state their dislike for religion before proceeding to follow the crowd and assemble in a muddy field, herded together like foul-smelling cattle as they pay collective homage to the pock-marked, acne, guitar heroes performing up high on the stage. These young idols fly in to the concert venue on their helicopter and then sing about their standard theme tunes of angst, boredom, depression, and despair before being flown back to their country mansion, whilst the ‘in-crowd’ spend several hours both queuing to get in and then dispersing at the end of the ‘fun’. No you won’t find me huddled together with fellow-believers worshipping that shambles. Yet again it all comes down to bragging rights. Person A wants to tell his or her mates that they saw U2 or Bruce Springsteen the other night. So, where exactly did you bump into them, then? Was it at the local off-license or were they waiting for their order at the local Chinese takeaway? No, they were up on a stage, seventy yards away in a big stadium!
The poor lonely crowd desperately attempting to re-create the next Woodstock are akin to the masses who chose to follow ‘Brian’. “Think for yourselves”, Brian urged his followers. How ironic that the bandwagon-jumping festival-goers who express their admiration for ‘The Life Of Brian’ are the living embodiment of Brian’s hangers-on, desperately seeking a flawed, human Messiah. It’s a pity that they are too pissed and stoned to realise that the joke is on them. Still, they’re not going to let the truth get in the way of their foolish escapism.
EMPTY GLASSES
There are a lot of silly people whose lives are like an empty glass…which needs alcohol to fill it. Give them a glass full of poison, they lose their inhibitions, start behaving ‘out of character’ and apparently have a good time, or what is known amongst the alcohol-addicted Irish as ‘craic’. They empty the glass down their stomach and then they too feel empty again. Ah yes, but help is at hand, as they proceed to fill their glass again and temporarily fill their life with this oh so worthwhile pursuit again. They repeat this exercise over and over in which the empty glass must be filled so that they too feel fulfilled, before the festivities conclude with empty glasses, as the empty people brace themselves once more for their empty life, which like an empty glass needs alcohol to fill it. Oh dear, how sad is this?
EMPTY FUTILE GESTURES
Oh crumbs, just as this book was progressing so nicely and I was destined for literary awards, critical acclaim, and a massive surge in my fan base, I go and sabotage all the glory by putting the following thoughts to paper.
Sorry folks but I feel compelled and duty-bound to scoff at the mass-produced outpourings of public sympathy that respond to such terrible tragedies as the news of a missing child, such as Madeleine McCann. Let’s get one thing straight: The abduction, assault, or murder of a young child is dreadful, evil, horrible, malicious, totally unacceptable, wicked. In fact there is a multitude of adjectives to describe such circ*mstances and one would not wish such a fate on anyone.
However, brace yourselves, for I am unmoved by the media-sponsored tidal wave of sympathy that emerges in such gruesome situations. Why do lots of people suddenly feel this urge to wear silly bracelets or armbands or tie ribbons round trees? Ultimately, these are token gestures which solve nothing. When a family is touched by the intense pain of a missing child, their profound sense of grief should not be violated by nationwide empty, futile gestures. Of course by all means any person with a morsel of information that could lead to the discovery of a missing child or the whereabouts of the culprits should co-operate fully with the investigation. This goes without saying. However, what should be avoided are the helpless people who try to help yet cannot and who only succeed in intruding on someone else’s tragedy. It’s almost as if the public relish the prospect of a hard luck story, so that they can rally together like London residents during ‘the Blitz’ of the early 1940s.
Oh come on, there are far too many bandwagon-jumpers around for my liking. May I remind you all that young children die in abuse, famine, neglect, poverty, terrorism, and wars every day, but of course non-British, non-white youngsters are not worthy of the same intense attention. Well, excuse me but the media and the sheep who follow them remind me of people waiting for a bus of misery to come along. Look everybody there goes another bandwagon for you to leap on. Too late, not to worry, I’m sure that there will be another one along soon.
PRETTY GRAVES
Have you ever visited the various military cemeteries dotted around Western Europe, the Far East, and elsewhere? Have you noticed how beautifully preserved the graves and headstones are? In fact, in most graveyards one will find a multitude of pretty graves. It is all the more ironic as lurking beneath the ground is a rotting, decomposing corpse who probably lived and died a life of pain and troubles. However, not to worry, we all may have to cope with a life of intermittent ugliness, but hey at least we will have a nice little plot with a lovely headstone, immaculately mowed grass and pretty flowers to ‘enjoy’ at the end of it all. I remain perpetually perplexed as to why we appear to care more for looking after the dead than we do for preserving the living. Come on folks. Let’s make one another’s life pretty, instead of devoting our energies to foolishly decorating each other’s grave.
DRIVEN TO DISTRACTION
In Norn Iron during the dark days of the 1970s and 1980s, there was a huge security presence in response to the various terrorist campaigns. Even though the war is over or the cessation of violence is ‘complete’ or even permanent, an increased police presence is once more required, I believe, for Northern Ireland’s continuing problem of careless, reckless and sometimes drunk driving.
There is indeed a new kind of terrorist plaguing the Six Counties (and beyond). He or she may be in a well-paid job, live in a lovely house, be well-educated, have wonderful children, drive a beautiful car and not possess extremist views on anything, but nevertheless this very same person could well be threatening the lives of other road users with his or her arrogant and defiant attitudes to road safety. Oh yes the accepted wisdom, reinforced by shock television advertisem*nts, emphasises that the majority of road accidents are caused by young motorists and/or by newly-qualified drivers. I don’t deny this. It is hard to do so when the statistics speak for themselves. However, rather than clamber onto the young people are dangerous drivers bandwagon, I have seen sufficient evidence with my own two eyes to suggest that there are a whole host of vehicle users from all walks of life and more particularly from age groups who should know better, whose antics on the roads leave an awful lot to be desired.
For a start, I am exasperated as a pedestrian by the number of occasions when I have witnessed drivers speed through traffic lights as they are changing from amber to red. The amber light is a signal to warn motorists to slow down because of an imminent red light. Amber is not intended as a starting-pistol for impatient, selfish drivers to sprint through the lights in order to avoid waiting two whole minutes for the next green light to shine. An imminent red light denotes that an adjacent traffic lane or a pedestrian crossing is about to go green. Those road-users (not necessarily young in age) who dash through amber lights are an absolute menace. I would appeal for cameras to be fixed on top of traffic lights so that the chancers who actually traverse a red light are recorded and issued with fines. I believe that fines of increasing severity for each traffic offence might be more of a deterrent than the pointless points system. Allocating three points to a speedster is about as effective as handing out a hundred lines, stating ‘I shall not put other road users at risk by driving so dangerously fast again.’
I would also recommend that each and every one of us re-take our driving test every ten years. Why should that be a problem? If one is a competent road-user, then one has nothing to fear. The increased revenue from say a £10 fee for a ten-yearly test could finance road improvements, which themselves will contribute to greater road safety for all motorists and passengers. Besides, if vehicles are tested on an annual basis to ascertain whether or not they are fit for the open highway, then surely those entrusted with the steering wheel, gears and brakes should also receive a regular driving health check, so to speak. Regularly assessing whether vehicles are dangerous or not is commendable, but the continued absence of evaluating whether the persons (charged with the great responsibility of driving them) are themselves road-worthy or not only serves to negate the purpose of MOT tests.
I would also like to nominate for the hall of shame the drivers, especially black taxis in London who seem to take exception to any pedestrian who has the bare-faced cheek to step on to a pedestrian crossing. It would be nice to see drivers slow down whilst approaching zebra crossings in the expectation that one or two human zebras just might be on the point of stepping off the pavement. Instead of which I find motorists accelerating over the crossings whilst pedestrians are actually stepping on to this designated point of access. One of the great ironies of life is that the white van man and other rent-a quotes who are not shy at coming on to radio phone-in shows complaining about the state of the world and the ‘yoof’ of today are the very same hypocrites who drive irresponsibly and then have the nerve to highlight the failings of other people when they themselves would do well to set a good example.
Finally, speaking as someone who has been prone to driving fast myself, I would urge a greater police presence on the motorways to combat the Formula One wannabees who mistakenly believe that the speed limit is 110 miles per hour. On the occasions when I have foolishly been driving beyond ninety miles per hour, it is quite an eye-opener to find a number of motorists over-taking me! Only the deterrent of watching police, as opposed to imaginary speed cameras, might persuade various big adults to stop driving like big babies. Perhaps traffic lights should be fitted on dual carriageways at ten mile intervals to halt excessive speed. Ultimately, the police ought to stop making excuses about a lack of manpower or resources. Dangerous driving is one of the most serious crimes in our society and those forces committed to crime prevention need to be visibly confronting it. Instead of which, police cars perform endless laps of the city centre all day long while the motorway terrorists are allowed to misbehave, driving the rest of us to distraction.
OSAMA BIN LADEN
Did you know that dear old Osama Bin Laden is an Arsenal football supporter? No wonder he is wanted for crimes against humanity. Apparently Arsene Wenger in his quest to recruit even more foreign players to the Emirates Stadium wished to sign Bin Laden. Osama Bin Laden stated that he wanted to continue living in Afghanistan, but that he would fly to Arsenal’s home fixtures. Wenger then asked him where he proposed to land his private aeroplane. Bin Laden replied that he would fly his ‘plane into the Palace of Westminster one week and then next time he would fly into Canary Wharf.
I’ve never understood why Osama Bin Laden is referred to as the world’s most wanted man. I mean, who wants him really? I don’t want him at all. I don’t ever find myself thinking that I must summon Bin Laden when I want someone to weed the garden. Similarly, England football fans often want a new manager, but surely they don’t actually ‘want’ Osama Bin Laden. Mind you, his team-talk before an international against the United States would be delivered with much passion: “I want you lads to fight for this win. I want you to compete against them as if it were life and death. Don’t be afraid when you tackle to take both man and ball. In fact, forget about the ball. Just take the man. Show him no mercy.” I must confess that as an unwanted person, I envy Bin Laden for being such a wanted and much sought after man.
Apparently, Osama Bin Laden is held responsible in absentia for the 9/11 massacre in the United States. Put simply, Bin Laden was basically the travel agent who arranged for the flights into the World Trade Center. However, if you went on holiday and the pilot crashed the aeroplane, who would you blame: the pilot or the travel agent? Personally, I would be having it out with the pilot for careless driving. I would not be storming round to the travel agents to complain.
I actually feel quite sorry for any young Muslim who genuinely wanted to pursue a career as an aeroplane pilot. Their chances of securing such a position since September 2001 must rest somewhere between nil and zero. Can you imagine a job interview where a Muslim male waits to be quizzed about his application. He passes the time by pulling out a copy of the Koran and starts reading it. Then suddenly he is called for his interview and he absent-mindedly walks into the interview with the Koran in his hand. Oh dear, I don’t think he’s going to be short-listed, do you?!
So why has Osama Bin Laden never been apprehended then? Well, there are two main reasons. Firstly, he is being hunted by American ‘intelligence’ forces. He’s perfectly safe then. Secondly, think about it: what happens when you go on the run? Let me explain. You don’t just pop back to your abode and pack your belongings. No, in your desperate desire to go into hiding immediately, you simply don’t have the opportunity or time to collect such essentials as deodorant, a clean pair of boxer shorts, a fresh pair of socks, nor after shave, nor shower gel, nor the shower itself. As a consequence, Osama Bin Laden went into hiding with no toiletries or change of clothes. The guy obviously stinks. His cave must be filthy and rotten in the extreme. Thus when the intelligent American intelligence come near Bin Laden’s cave, they exclaim that “there is absolutely no way we’re going near that cave over there. There is a foul stench coming from it.” So, if you’re looking for old Bin Lid, the misunderstood travel agent, his cave is the dwelling with the unbearable odour.
THE MIDDLE-EAST: A CULTURE OF BRUTALITY?
I have just completed my reading of Robert Fisk’s epic study of the Middle East, entitled ‘The Great War For Civilisation’. The publication was a real eye-opener on a host of subjects, not least Mr Fisk’s revelation of the twentieth century’s first (secret) holocaust – the ethnic cleansing of Armenian Christians by the Turks. Mr Fisk also graphically recounts the deadly consequences of the ‘civilised’ west’s pernicious use of depleted uranium shells against Iraq, resulting in innumerable child deaths from cancer in a country where healthcare provision was drastically undermined by the impact of economic sanctions.. The agonising suffering of these innocent infants doesn’t get reported on the front page of British tabloids because these wretched children are not middle-class, blue-eyed white girls. Fisk’s book also reinforced my sympathy for the dispossessed Palestinian people at the mercy of the merciless Israeli occupation. However, more than anything, I came to the realisation that the Middle East, both Muslim and Jew (not to mention ‘Christian’) is an area afflicted by a widespread culture of barbarity and violence.
Take Iran for instance. I grew up in the mistaken belief that the 1978 revolution ushered in a period of repression, only to discover that life under the Shah was no more pleasant for police detainees than it would be during the reign of the Shi’ite extremists. If Iran has been devoid of human rights for more decades than the west cares to admit, then the picture in neighbouring Iraq is even more grim. There, anyone who suffered arrest would brace themselves for the likelihood of an early death, or merely painful torture if they were particularly fortunate. Fisk writes of one interrogation centre where pedestrians were not permitted to walk on the pavement outside, in case they should hear the screaming of the internees held within. For all their alleged devotion to Allah, I am overwhelmed by the intense pain and suffering that Muslims actually inflict on each other! So much for brotherly love and fellowship.
This brings me on to something else. Whatever regime one cares to mention, one finds the Middle East is weighed down by a plethora of violent organisations determined to wage a war of insurgency, and frequently on each other. Such is the sense of disunity among the Muslim peoples that off the top of my head I could list such fearsome phenomena as Al Qaeda, the Taleban, the Mujahideen, the PLO, Fa’ata, Hamas, Hizbollah, Islamic Jihad, and then throw into the melting pot such diverse groups as the Sunnis, the Shias, the Kurds, the Jews, not to mention the Americans, the British, and previously the Russians, and one has an almighty political volcano.
Of course there are many followers of Islam who are perfectly peaceful men and women, but I cannot help but draw the conclusion that that the Arab-dominated (or American-dominated?) Middle East is a region awash with brutality and violence. If I was to climb onto a stool in the centre of Baghdad or Beirut and repeat this remark, the likely reaction of the locals would almost certainly confirm my worst fears.
THE ALL BLACKS
A dear friend of mine once participated in a rugby tour of South Africa and recalled how on one occasion his team played against an opposition that was composed entirely of coloured men. “Were they the All Blacks?” I quipped. Well folks, at least I think it was funny. Actually, the purpose of this item is not to pay tribute to the fearsome also-rans of rugby union that hail from New Zealand, but to draw attention to the multitude of young women who frustratingly choose to adorn themselves in all black outfits.
From bitter personal experience, it seems that many women all too predictably opt to wear all black on a date. What’s that all about? I have been reliably informed by my dearest sibling that black is worn by females who are insecure about their figure. I recently dated a woman who wore a black top and black trousers, and lo and behold three weeks later I met another female who wore an uncannily similar drab-coloured outfit. Is it my imagination or does the same black clothes get circulated on demand from one woman to another? It’s hugely ironic that after years of complaining about school uniform, young adult females find themselves dressed in another uniform. In fact there is scarcely anything more uniform in the real sense of the word than scores of young women in black clothes. Sorry ladies, but black clothes are not gothic chic, or symbolic of cool and glamour. They are funeral wear and represent a lack of creative thinking or individuality. At best, black suits can be confined to dressing formally for the office or black dresses for a formal, but black tops and trousers are otherwise run-of-the-mill. Worse still, what greater indictment is there for the lack of fashion sense in modern young women than to find more men dressed in a variety of colours than women who all wear the same dreadful colour.
Call me old-fashioned but shouldn’t one expect women to wear brighter colour clothes than men? I want women to be women and look like women. All black outfits are either intended to mask a poor figure or are half-baked macho chic, as one might expect in a spaghetti western. I would like to see women wearing skirts and flip-flops in the summer and skirts with boots in colder weather. Women wearing black trousers is the equivalent of a man wearing a pink skirt. Let women be women and men remain as men, instead of the revisionist thinking that straddles the accepted norms of what constitutes fashion. Oh how sexist you are, I can hear the bra-burners scream. Well, when I see a woman dressed in the ritual black, I exclaim “Oh no, not again.” Sorry folks, but a lady in a black outfit is just Johnny Cash with tit*.
THE FRUSTRATIONS OF FLIRTING WITH FLOOZY FEMME FATALES
I do so loathe the F-words. No not fornication, but in particular the words ‘fun’ and ‘friendship’. If you have been foolish enough like me to waste many hours trawling through internet dating, you will find many young women and men who seek ‘fun’. Well, ultimately we all want to have fun, and even the most boring people are capable of engaging in fun. However in the context of dating adverts, ‘fun’ is just a euphemism for another three-letter word. Yes folks, you’ve guessed it. Anyone seeking fun is merely desiring sex. I find this contemptible because a person requesting ‘fun’ is really stating that ‘I am not equipped to cope with the fluctuating fortunes of an adult relationship, but I am a cheap whor*.’ Sorry ladies, but anyone looking for ‘fun’ might as well wear a tee-shirt with the words ‘I am an irresponsible slag’. Speaking of which, apparently the Islamic extremists choose to bomb night clubs because they are appalled at young female women degrading themselves by dancing around drunk and scantily clad like glorified prostitutes. Do you know what? The Islamic extremists have my sympathies.
Then there is an even more frightening F-word. It’s called ‘friendship’. For me, friendship with a female is just a relationship without the intimacy or a pretend relationship where I am subjected to my female friend pouring out her heart about her boyfriend troubles while I am confined to the role of a eunuch. I personally find a female’s request for a friendship to be deeply insulting. It is akin to declaring that ‘I like you, but in a non-sexual way, because I don’t find you physically attractive, although I would dearly like to use you as someone whom I can burden my problems on.’ Oh yes, I need that situation like I need a hole in the head. It is quite true that young women and men cannot be friends because one tends to desire the other. A friendship is just a virtual relationship which has ‘virtually’ no appeal to this friendless fool. I do actually subscribe to the lyrics of that personable John Lydon who once sang about friendship ‘rearing its ugly head’. As I said, I cannot stand the F-words, and perhaps the most frightening F-word of all is females!
HALF A PERSON
It was no accident that God gave Adam a female companion to assist him. Call me old-fashioned but I think that we all need a partner to support us through the struggles of life. In a relationship each partner has different qualities which can complement one another’s needs. It makes perfect sense. Against this background of widely-acknowledged common sense, you can imagine my own frustration at having to negotiate the pitfalls of life on my own. There have been many times when my flawed thinking would have benefited from the wisdom of a partner who could positively impact upon my decision-making. Instead of which, I find myself exasperated at my solo journey. Consider the following:
Have you ever watched the Grand National? It is a gruelling marathon, even for big powerful horses and accomplished jockeys who collectively are expected to overcome thirty obstacles in a four and a half mile race. By the second circuit, even with more than sixteen fences safely behind them, jockeys start to pull up their horses while as the race nears its conclusion, some animals simply refuse to jump another fence. Well folks, this big animal is in the same mode. I have leapt, with varying results, more than my share of obstacles, and now I am reaching the point where I will refuse the next jump. I guess it’s what one would call losing the will to live, and no amount of counselling, medication, therapy, or bible stories will persuade me otherwise, like some persistent jockey who knows that the winning post is merely a few fences away.
Have you ever imagined what it would be like to live in a house with half of it missing, or to drive a car with half of it taken away? It would be miserable, not to mention impractical. In the continued absence of my other half, I remain half a person, to quote a Smiths’ track. When people see me or think of me, the expression must spring to their mind, ‘there but for the grace of God go I.’ God’s grace is a free gift. I look forward to the day when He bestows the blessing of a pretty woman on this half a person. Until such time, I remain hopelessly incomplete, and no happy ending is in sight.
OH LONESOME ME
I have to chuckle at those dreadful pop songs where the vocalist is pining about “I’m lonely without you, baby.” Do me a favour. Most people haven’t the first notion what loneliness really is. What is loneliness then? Loneliness is when your telephone doesn’t ring for about ten days. Loneliness is when the only person you speak to each day is the check-out assistant at the local supermarket. Loneliness is when you are alone with your thoughts 24/7 from Monday through Sunday, week after week, month by month, year in year out. Loneliness ultimately is when you could die and nobody would find your decaying body for more than a week. That’s loneliness.
It sounds truly terrible, but what exactly is the alternative? I don’t care much for Liverpool or Manchester United football supporters, nor followers of Glasgow Celtic, not even of Glasgow Rangers either. Ulster loyalists bore me and Irish republicans are equally tedious. Foul-mouthed men and women are tiresome. Big-headed, self-important types are a drag. Aficionados of violent action movies, of horrible pop music, reality tv watchers, not to mention trashy tabloid readers all fail to impress me. Self-righteous, holier-than-thou, disapproving ‘good living’ people are a turn-off too. Suddenly, perhaps the ghastly likelihood of lying, decomposing for more than 100 hours with flies buzzing around my corpse is quite appealing after all.
THE AFFLICTION OF FICTION
Why why why (and one more why) do people bury themselves in books about events that never happened, people who never lived, and places that don’t exist? Where is the modicum of sense in fiction when the rich tapestry of history has so much more to offer us concerning events that did happen, people who have lived, and places that do exist. Fiction should be confined to nine or ten-year-olds who are learning the art of essay writing. Adults should try living in the real world and stop trying to escape from both the glory and pain of past times. We shouldn’t dwell on the past, I hear you say. Fair enough, but we shouldn’t flee in the direction of never never land either. Besides, so many pieces of fiction are a fiction in themselves. How often does one find that a novel is based on the author’s personal experiences, with the character and place names merely altered? Well folks, such an exercise is not my idea of ‘creative writing’.
THE MYTH OF THE TITANIC
No I’m not about to suggest that ‘the unsinkable’ never sank at all, but here follows my humble attempt at what I would like to call historic revisionism. We have been frequently informed that the Titanic sank on its maiden voyage. Really? Where was it built? Let me remind you: Belfast. Where did the ship sail from en route to the United States? Let me remind you: Southampton. Unless the Titanic also made history by being the first ship to be transported by aeroplane, hovercraft, or hot air balloon, I would venture to suggest that its first voyage was indeed from Belfast to Southampton. Sorry to split hairs folks, but as anybody in the legal profession would confirm, it is absolutely crucial that we get our facts right, instead of perpetuating half-truths. Now who dares to sink this unsinkable argument?
REMEMBRANCE DAY
Throughout the United Kingdom and elsewhere in the world, people assemble at Cenotaphs to lay wreaths for the poor wretches who gave their young lives away so that our dearly beloved monarchy could continue to prosper – in all senses of the word. However, perhaps the real Remembrance Day isn’t November the eleventh. I would instead argue that either Good Friday or Easter Sunday ought to be regarded as Remembrance Day when the young Saviour of the World laid down His life so that we might have eternal life. Now that supreme, selfless sacrifice should be worthy of crowds gathering at Cenotaphs to lay wreaths in loving memory and respect for mankind’s greatest hero, who fought and won the greatest battle of all – over death. His resurrection proved this!
JEALOUSY
Whilst wee Northern Ireland’s football team were narrowly succumbing to another heroic defeat, this time in Spain, I and most folk from Norn Iron consoled ourselves with the fact that our dearly beloved neighbours in humble England had suffered a far greater humiliation at the hands of the ‘mighty’ Croatia. I’m certainly not anti-English, given that I am an armchair supporter of the cricket team and I even desired an England triumph in the rugby world cup final, if only because this was one tournament where the English emerged like a phoenix from the ashes to challenge for glory whereas normally they regard themselves as near-certainties before any sporting tournament even begins. I was after all born in England and I have lived a considerable chunk of my adult life in its green and pleasant land.
Most people from the Celtic nations nevertheless have distinct trouble warming to English sports stars when the ‘British’ Broadcasting Corporation, its radio stations, Sky Sports, and most irritatingly of all Blokesport, collectively prioritise coverage of English teams, relegating the seemingly less significant Celtic teams. This is painfully the case during the rugby union Six Nations, when one might be forgiven for thinking it’s a One Nation rugby tournament. Yes, over-exposure of England in the British sporting media only serves to antagonise the Celtic peoples, although one could counter that English success at the 1966 and 2003 football and rugby world cups has engendered a substantial amount of begrudging from the non-English members of the British Isles. However, putting the emotive issues of sport to one side, I have identified two groups of people who are particularly jealous of the English, for very different reasons.
Firstly, Irish republicans just loathe the English. They can dress their sectarian hatred in a multitude of ways, citing the predictable moan about centuries of English exploitation and oppression. There may be much historical evidence to validate this belief, but I would maintain that Irish republicans are jealous of the English. After all, while the English (and the rest of Britain) fought their way through the torment of the Second World War, the Irish republicans decided to sit out the conflict against fascist tyranny, probably hoping that the nation that contributed to the liberation of occupied Europe and the end of the Holocaust would actually be defeated. While England holds her head up at her resistance to the Nazis, the Oirish can hang their heads in shame. Similarly, while one finds many English soldiers contributing to the efforts of the United Nations peace-keeping forces, one will struggle to find a single citizen from Andersonstown or Ardoyne employed in such a role. Maybe that’s because Irish republicans don’t do peace-keeping.
The second group who are overcome with jealousy towards the English are Muslim immigrants. Of course many Muslim immigrants themselves become English, but frequently their loyalties are diverted towards Pakistan and the Islamic nations of the Middle East. A sizeable portion of British Muslims complain of an apparent police state in Britain, though few people (apart from Channel Four and Guardian readers) take their victim complex too seriously. The reality is that Muslim immigrants chose to come to England to avail themselves of what it has to offer, having fled from the brutal, unstable Islamic regimes that they continue to have an irrational sentimental attachment to. It must clearly rankle with British Muslims that Islamic countries have a shocking record on human rights and where personal advancement and prosperity is limited, while infidel Britain has (for all its flaws) an infinitely superior record on human rights, and a system of social security and meritocracy which collectively enables all newcomers the opportunities to cultivate a better existence for them and their families. If Islam is so truly wonderful, then why do Muslims have to migrate to ‘Christian’ (or secular) Britain?
Yes many Muslims are jealous of British democracy, and yet like the Irish republican hate mob, they detest the English so much that they come and live among them and claim state benefits!
LOYALIST BAND PARADE
The Shankill Young Pipe-Bombers Flute Band is holding its annual band parade this Friday night. Among the other bands expected to participate are the following:
The Tiger’s Bay Under-age Drinkers Flute Band
The Sandy Row White Trash Sons of Ulster
The Harryville Broad-Minded Sons of William
The Village People Band, South Belfast
The Rathcoole Teenage Thugs Loyalist Band
The East Belfast Uneducated Low-Life Flute Band
The Loyalist Terrorists’ Fan Club Flute Band
The Seymour Hill Foul-Mouthed Pride Of Ulster
The Macho Kick The Pope Flute Band, Larne
The Dundonald Dole-Scroungers Flute Band
The Coleraine Pride Of The Gutter Flute Band
The Ulster Refuse Collectors Flute Band
All Loyalist bands welcome. God Save The Queen……………………. (the fascist regime)
POOF PRIDE
I am considering the possibility of participating in next year’s gay pride parade. As a Northern Irishman, from a Protestant background, I do after all have a proven track record in parades. Besides, as I am ashamed to be a heterosexual, that ought to grant me an affinity with people who are proud to be hom*osexual. It’s hard not to be repulsed by heterosexuality when it seems that most men view young women as potential conquests and most young women apparently want to be with such men.
Nevertheless, why do gays have to flaunt their sense of self-pride? Clearly, it’s because after decades and even centuries of repressed feelings resulting from the ostracism and even persecution of hom*osexuality, gays and lesbians wish to celebrate their sexuality for all to see. I can only assume that in future years, traffic wardens will be holding a pride parade to signify their freedom from the understandable contempt that we all express towards these ‘jobsworths’. Why, even a pride parade for the employees of the Inland Revenue probably cannot be ruled out either.
There is however a suggestion in the word ‘pride’ that hom*osexuals want to boast of their sexuality, as if it is an enviable and much sought-after status symbol. A fine dividing line after all separates pride and boastfulness. I can only surmise that hom*osexuality is a quality that mere mortals like myself should strive to attain. I can now start to imagine a job interview where the applicant is asked to detail his achievements, and while his sporting prowess and various acts of heroism don’t register with the interview panel, his admission of being in a same sex relationship arouses the admiration of the interviewers. I now anticipate job application rejection letters in the post where I am informed that I wasn’t sufficiently hom*osexual to meet the exalted criteria.
Christians in particular are faced with an enormous moral dilemma over the issue of hom*osexuality. By refusing to tolerate same sex relationships, followers of Christ are labelled as bigots, but surely if the word of God decrees that hom*osexuality is unacceptable to our Creator, then who are we as His creation to defy His wishes. For a Christian to tolerate the unacceptable, is akin to someone tolerating drink drivers. I know that gay people will not enjoy this comparison, but it is important for them to understand that Christians and Muslims too regard hom*osexuality as wrong. How in the last analysis can they be expected to accept anything that they regard as wrong.
Meanwhile, one could argue that as William of Orange was almost certainly a hom*osexual, and the Orange Order are proud of him, there is a logic in arguing that Orange parades are further demonstrations of gay pride. Oh I do so envy these people who are so proud of their sexuality that they feel the need to parade it in front of everyone. Ultimately, I’m not gay…..just sad.
WALL OF SHAME
In Norn Iron, there are calls for a memorial to commemorate the terrorist dead and for a monument to celebrate peace. What is it with politicians and monuments? When it comes to a plaque, slab, tower, or wall officially opened by self-important public officials, self-seeking politicians would miss their daughter’s graduation to attend such an ego ceremony. Call me old-fashioned, but would funds for a peace memorial not be better diverted to healthcare instead of a bricks and mortar piece of Lego, designed to remind one and all of the greatness of various ‘statesmen’? As if this is not ludicrous enough, Irish republicans (and loyalists) are desiring a monument that fondly remembers their dead. I suggest a wall be erected, more for urinating against than wailing at, for such a purpose. After all, Belfast is renowned for its ironically-titled ‘peace walls’ while there is a tradition of urinating against walls that runs in parallel with the ‘marching season’. The inscription on the wall of shame should read as follows:
This memorial commemorates all those brave men and women who shot policemen and soldiers in the back, and then ran away hiding, as well as all those volunteers who planted bombs in hotels, bars, and shopping centres, with no regard for the safety of women and children. Also on this monument are listed the names of those courageous freedom fighters who fought to take away other people’s freedom of existence by killing unarmed Roman Catholics. This mural is a tribute to all those working-class heroes who created orphans, took husbands from their wives, wives from their husbands, and left grieving parents and children to pick up the pieces.
FOOTBALL IDOLS
I frequently hear how impressive it is to see the Anfield contingent as well as the copycats of Celtic Park with their scarves held aloft in unison, as they sing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. I find this whole scene, and similar slightly less passionate displays at other sporting arenas quite disturbing. There is quite clearly a religious fervour about the support that is offered by football followers to their respective clubs, while you won’t find any such demonstration of passion amongst the few football fans who go to God’s house to worship Him. It is all so reminiscent of the idolaters of the Old Testament. Excuse me for preaching, but could someone kindly remind football supporters that the Creator tolerates no rivals, yet it is abundantly obvious that many men (and women too) place their faith and trust ludicrously in flawed, inconsistent young men, barely out of school. It is quite clear where a lot of people’s worshipping priorities lie. It is frightening to think that God who created the whole world and everyone in it and then sent his Son to save all us sinners is less worthy of attention and praise than a young guy who sticks a ball in the net once every three or four matches. To add insult to injury, some of these young idols live an existence of questionable morals off the football pitch. Recurring stories of rape allegations and wild nights out do nothing to convince this writer that football ‘stars’ are worth worshipping for a second.
I also read with interest recently in a Sunday viewspaper about Harry Redknapp’s fury at the abuse he had been subjected to in a match against Aston Villa, whilst recounting a bad experience at Chelsea too. Redknapp was appalled that grown men were hurling obscenities at him in front of their children. Similarly, in the week-end after England’s Wembley debacle against Croatia, the Chelsea English contingent and Steven Gerrard were on the receiving end of verbal abuse. Commenting on Radio Five Live, Alan Green and Graham Taylor were equally horrified that adults were setting a terrible example to their youngsters with their shocking language and vitriol. Harry Redknapp suggested that football (or at least its supporters) was becoming ‘sick’. Quite frankly, if this is what constitutes being passionate about your club, then count me out! Some people, I believe, need to step back and come to their collective senses.
THE END OF A LOVE STORY
Get your tissues out folks, because this does not have a happy ending. Pathetic, sad, contemptible creature that I am, I have been ‘married’ to Chelsea Football Club for the best (or worst) part of twenty-two years. However, this battered housewife is belatedly filing for divorce on the grounds of the irretrievable breakdown in marriage relations. After years of abuse, as well as occasional good times, a painful experience on Tuesday May 1st 2007 has been the final straw.
On that evening of torment, Chelsea proceeded to lose their fourth semi-final in four successive years, their third consecutive Champions League semi-final knockout, and their third consecutive semi-final reverse to Liverpool. There is now an inevitability about Chelsea Champions League semi-final exits, reminiscent of Leeds United’s reputation as bridesmaids in the late sixties and early seventies when Don Revie’s outfit won less silverware than seemed frequently likely. Mind you, comparisons with that Leeds team and Jose Mourinho’s Chelsea hardly end there. Both teams have been short of admirers, at least amongst the Arsenal and Liverpool media luvvies, borne out of their uncompromising brand of no-nonsense football. However, the trouble with Chelsea in the Abramovich era is that the manager has had a ‘dare not lose’ mentality which on Anfield’s hallowed turf on the night in question produced a dreadful display in which the desire to avoid defeat stifled any attempt to win. The Blues failed time and again to stretch their hosts, resorting without exception to hoofing long balls to Drogba. There was no creativity, flair, or imagination, and if there was a Plan B, namely the introduction of Shaun Wright-Phillips, it was allocated a mere ten minutes to pull a rabbit out of the hat.
Of course Liverpool’s defence and goal-keeper excelled themselves, but failing to score once in three hours of football back in 2005, followed by a repeat performance in 2007 was simply too much to bear. Mourinho’s Chelsea were not attack-minded enough and yes I am belatedly waking up to the fact that Chelsea are boring. Mourinho fluffed his lines. Shevchenko’s goal return of four in his first Premiership season is a monumental embarrassment, but more significantly, while the manager had only two recognised central defenders in Carvalho and Terry, he had no fewer than four players for the lone holding role position. ‘Maureen’ was so possessed it seems with the need for defensive midfielders that any attacking impetus was clearly undermined. The greatest indictment was that while ‘the Special One’ refused to entertain Boulahrouz as a centre half, he played Michael Essien ( arguably his best player) out of position for a large proportion of the season. This re-shuffle was so outrageous that it was the equivalent of Ronaldinho playing centre-half for Barcelona, Gerrard playing in goal for Liverpool, or Ronaldo playing at right-back for Manchester United.
Chelsea and their manager have crossed the line as far as I am concerned. They have been boring and pragmatic, with a tendency to fluff their lines and shoot themselves in the foot in semi-finals. I am not a bad loser, I can assure you, although I have had plenty of practice. This is not a manifestation of sour grapes or a fickle football follower who quits when times are hard. Chelsea’s fortunes have been infinitely worse many times in my painful memory. However, there comes a time in any relationship where assessment is required. I have expended so much time, thought, expense, and emotional energy to a club that is no longer a pleasant distraction. Chelsea no longer make me feel good. Mind you, bragging rights based on the success of your football team is vastly over-rated. When all is said and done, you cannot take the silverware to bed with you or on holiday.
I was neither angry, tearful, nor sad at Chelsea’s routine Champions League exit. I felt nothing for a team who could not deliver a solitary goal in two hours of shambolic endeavour. Watching the stone-faced Steve Clarke and impassive Jose Mourinho perfectly encapsulated the proceedings. Sitting immobile on the bench, they had nothing to offer, pretty much like their hapless team. John Terry and Petr Cech deserve so much better, and so do the fans. This ex-fan could not even complain that Liverpool were lucky. Their penalty success was emphatic and merited. Chelsea no longer command my sympathy and respect. When one has reached this state of mind, it means that the spark has gone, the love affair is over, and it is time to move on.
‘THE DOC’: ANOTHER SPECIAL ONE
Long before the advent of the so-called ‘Special One’, there roamed another unique character in football management. His name was Tommy Docherty. Docherty had been an excellent servant of Arsenal, Glasgow Celtic, and Preston North End before he succeeded the admirable Ted Drake as a 33-year-old manager of an under-achieving Chelsea football team. By his own admission, Docherty (with no managerial record) was thrown in at the deep end and it was a case of sink or swim. Chelsea went backwards (via relegation) before Docherty getting into his stride advanced his ‘diamonds’ not only back to the top flight of English football, but the charismatic Scotsman launched a decade-long golden era at Stamford Bridge which his coach and successor Dave Sexton reaped the rewards from.
Docherty was hard work. He confessed to being a strict disciplinarian and like any good sergeant-major, he didn’t suffer fools. In the 1960s, long before football clubs recruited nutritionists, there was a drinking culture amongst the playing staff at Chelsea and other teams elsewhere. Docherty, no stranger to raising a glass or two himself, once infamously sent most of his team home to London from Blackpool on account of an alleged late night drinking session. Consequently, a patched-up Chelsea team were trounced 6-2 in their next fixture. The 1960s was a rollercoaster ride at Chelsea as Docherty and his young team quarrelled one moment and came close to success the next. The favourite story of ‘The Doc’ is undoubtedly his summoning of the local fire brigade to flood the Stamford Bridge pitch in order to oblige a postponement of a Fairs Cup semi-final with the mighty Barcelona, enabling one or two injured Chelsea players to recover in time for the re-arranged fixture. The Catalans were a trifle bemused that a bout of light rain should result in a waterlogged pitch!
Docherty left west London in October 1967 whereupon in his own words, he would accumulate “more clubs than Jack Nicklaus”. The Doc even managed his national team and I was startled to hear that Alex McLeish’s recent debut win as a Scotland manager was the first since Tommy Docherty in the early 1970s. Docherty, never far from the headlines, was appointed as a trouble-shooter at the ailing, post-Busby Manchester United where again the club went backwards (via relegation) only to advance back to Division One instantly, with glory in the 1977 FA Cup final thrown in to the mix. However, Docherty’s uncompromising attitude meant that the unreliable genius of George Best was dropped, transfer-listed, and eventually obliged to depart Old Trafford. Docherty’s own tenure characteristically was short-lived as his hero status was tarnished by tabloid revelations of an affair with the club physio’s wife. Never short of job offers or invitations for ‘after dinner speaking engagements’, ‘the Doc’ may or may not have been special, but he was certainly a one-off.
DO I NOT LIKE THAT
In my humble opinion, one of the greatest-ever television documentaries featured Graham Taylor’s ill-fated attempts to ensure that the England football team would qualify for the 1994 World Cup finals. The cameras followed Taylor around to observe at close quarters his foul-mouthed frustration at his team’s apparent under-achievement. It might have been shocking for the nation to hear what Graham Taylor referred to as “industrial language” but his vocabulary was the norm rather than the exception among the practitioners of soccer management.
Back in 1990 Bobby Robson bowed out as England manager after the national team had recovered from their failure at the 1988 European Championships and a sluggish start to Italia ’90 to reach the semi-finals for only the second time ever in the World Cup. Only penalty heartache (a recurring theme) prevented the English from playing in the final. The question was could the new appointment Graham Taylor build upon England’s quarter-finals and semi-finals appearances in successive World Cups? Taylor’s own reputation was based on outstanding service at Watford allied with taking Aston Villa to second place in Division One in 1990, their highest place since their championship-winning year of 1981.
The omens however were not encouraging when England yet again flopped in a European Championships, this time in Sweden in 1992. Prolific striker Gary Lineker bowed out prematurely from the England set-up after this tournament, vowing never to return. Nevertheless, with promising new striker Alan Shearer emerging to assist the likes of Paul Gascoigne and David Platt, England’s chances of appearing at the World Cup finals in the United States ought to have been reasonably good. However, the only concern was being drawn in a group that included the dangerous Holland and Poland, but it was Norway, not for the first time, who turned the form book on its head – at England’s expense.
By the early summer of 1993, the wheels were starting to come off the England World Cup campaign. Back in the spring, the Dutch had escaped from Wembley with a draw when Des Walker had conceded a penalty to Dennis Bergkamp. Worse was to happen when England first failed to score in Poland and then were soundly beaten 2-0 in Norway. Poor old Taylor lamented in the dug-out to his assistant Phil Neal about how his team were seemingly paying no attention to his pre-match instructions. On top of this major setback, England failed to impress on a brief visit to the United States. It was becoming increasingly likely that the national team would not be returning there in a year’s time.
On to the autumn and a resounding 3-0 home victory against Poland gave rise to hope that England would still be travelling across the Atlantic Ocean the following summer. Everything now rested on a trip to Holland, with Paul Gascoigne crucially suspended. On the fateful night in question, dubious refereeing decisions conspired against the visitors en route to a 2-0 defeat and as a tabloid headline subsequently suggested, it was ‘End Of the World’ for the England team – and not least the despised Taylor who had been slaughtered in the press as a turnip head whose strategy was exclusively one of ‘route one’ football. Taylor in a moment of supreme farce approached the official on the touchline and told him to relay to his colleague on the field the fact that his decisions had got him the sack. He wasn’t wrong. England had the remaining formality of overcoming San Marino in their last qualifying match but contrived to concede an early lead to compound Graham Taylor’s embarrassment.
I for one have much sympathy and respect for the much-maligned Taylor. He called it ‘the impossible job’ and claimed that Princess Diana thanked him for taking her off the newspaper headlines. Compared with Ericsson and McLaren’s under-achievement with a considerably more talented squad of players, the Taylor era doesn’t seem quite such a dismal failure. Furthermore, as a Radio Five Live expert analyst, Taylor talks an enormous amount of sense, though like many an English football observer, Taylor talks a good game, but then of course delivering it is not so straight-forward when confronted with the poisoned chalice of the impossible job. I’m sure this wise owl was relieved to be sat safely in the commentary box instead of charged with the task of justifying his team selections to a sceptical press conference or sitting in a dugout, cringing his way through a 0-0 with Israel or a 2-0 defeat in Croatia.
FOOTBALL CRAZY
Is it my imagination or is there a lot of stupidity in the world of football? Take football players first. How often do we read about soccer stars filling sports pages in newspapers in which they talk up their chances before a match while disrespectfully dismissing the possibility that their imminent opponents might actually play well and even win? Can there be anything more counter-productive than motivating your opponents by almost ridiculing the other team’s chances? If they had a modicum of sense, football players would pay tribute to the team that they are about to play, almost as a shrewd attempt to cultivate complacency. Unfortunately this level-headed approach is either conspicuously absent amongst soccer stars or else is frowned upon by newspapers that thrive upon gloating and provocative remarks from sneering sports competitors. Speaking of sneering soccer players, Ryan Giggs and his Manchester United buddies were less than generous when they narrowly succumbed to defeat by Chelsea in the FA Cup final. Bemoaning their luck and particularly a controversial refereeing decision merely confirmed them as bad losers who do benefit from the referee when they play at Old Trafford. Manchester United are certainly not alone in the predictable practise of paying tribute to the team they have just beaten but throwing their toys out of the pram when they have lost. It’s hard to respect soccer players who cannot admit that they lost to a better team and who instead resort to empty promises of revenge next time.
Let’s now examine the fans. Why do football supporters unleash a barrage of abuse on an opposing player on the premise that he used to play for their club but now has the cheek to play for the opposition? If a player has made a hundred appearances or scored dozens of goals for a club, why does its supporters single him out for vitriol during the course of a match, and not his colleagues who never played previously for that club? I’m sure that Leeds United fans would hurl abuse at Alan Smith for playing for Manchester United, but they fail to recognise that he gave more service to Leeds than all the other Red Devils put together, yet he is more likely to endure boos than say Ronaldo or Rooney from Leeds fans. It is as if football players are not permitted to change clubs.
Why also do so many men (and women) jump on the bandwagon and swear allegiance to the most successful football teams? Northern Irish people like to suggest that their support of Manchester United is based on the fact that George Best played for the Red Devils. However, there are dozens of excellent servants of the Northern Ireland team who played for other lesser clubs, so why not support them? Billy Bingham played for Luton Town but you will struggle to find many Belfast folk supporting the Hatters, while the late Derek Dougan’s service at Wolverhampton Wanderers did not prompt many Ulster folk to pay homage to Wolves.
It strikes me that people cling on to the bragging rights of their football team to camouflage the obvious lack of success in their own lives: “my team is better than your team”, “my club is bigger than your club”, “our home crowds are bigger than your home crowds”, “we have more history than you”, “we have a better manager than you”, “we have a better goalkeeper”, “ we have better goal-posts”, et cetera , et cetera, ad nauseam.It is a sad state of affairs when a person relies upon the fluctuating fortunes of their football club to ensure a sense of personal satisfaction. Following the biggest and best football teams is a strategy adopted by under-achievers whose own lack of qualifications, career progression and income necessitates the desire to look to successful clubs to compensate for their own sense of failure.
SNOOKER LOOPY
I remember my mother uncharacteristically writing me a note so that I could be excused from primary school one January afternoon, not because of a dental appointment, but because Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins was due to play in a Benson And Hedges match on television. Oh we all were bewitched by the remarkable Higgins whose style of play was ahead of its time, as his quick fire potting procedure was eminently more watchable than the deliberations of his contemporaries. In a snooker landscape of Terry Griffiths, Ray Reardon, Cliff Thorburn, and Eddie Charlton, the Hurricane was the speed freak, who sent balls into oblivion in the blink of an eye. It was such a pity that ‘Hurricocaine Higgins’ (to quote Jimmy Greaves) failed to build on his World Championships of 1972 and 1982, as yet another Belfast prodigy started to make newspaper headlines, but not for sporting heroics.
If you liked Alex Higgins, you loathed Steve Davis, his nemesis. I too was initially swept along on the anti-‘Ginger Magician’ tide of emotion. However, whether or not Davis was Higgins’s polar opposite is questionable. In fact, to quote the old cliché, the Hurricane’s worst enemy or the person who most threatened his status among the snooker elite was the face staring back through his mirror. As for Steve Davis, he went from success to success in the 1980s, apart from unexpected reverses in the 1985 and 1986 world championship finals. As time marched on, my admiration for Davis increased. I myself was growing up and symptomatic of my increasing maturity was a respect for the prowess and apparent decency of likeable Steve. Mr. Davis found himself lampooned by Spitting Image as ‘Interesting’, but old ‘Interesting’ went on to star in ‘They Think It’s All Over’ as well as lend his considerable knowledge to the BBC snooker experts, so he did indeed prove to be very interesting. Only Stephen Hendry has probably eclipsed Steve Davis as the greatest snooker player of the television era.
It’s kind of weird how we all swear allegiance to one or two snooker or darts players while feeling distinctly cold about the other competitors. For example, I always had an irrational liking for Eric Bristow at the expense of his darts rival, John Lowe. Similarly, Stephen Hendry was one snooker player whom I never warmed to, for no apparent reason, yet like Davis before him, this Hearts football fan was a model professional and an outstanding player. Instead, I grew to like Jimmy White whom I initially ‘disliked’ again during my early ‘Higgins years’. Has there ever been a greater hard luck story in the whole of sport than the Whirlwind’s consistently spectacular near misses at Sheffield’s Crucible Theatre each spring? I can still remember Higgins embracing young White in a 1982 world championship semi-final after the Ulsterman had come from behind to sneak home 16-15 with the help of one of the greatest-ever clearance breaks in the history of snooker. Most people of course still recall the pain of Jimmy’s ritual defeats at the hands of Stephen Hendry. What is all the more remarkable was that Jimmy idolised Alex and then eclipsed the Hurricane as world snooker’s most eye-catching competitor, while Stephen idolised Jimmy, only to prevent his hero from ever seizing the world crown. Jimmy White is unquestionably the greatest snooker player never to become world champion, and I think we can all relate to his heroic misfortune.
Fast-forwarding to the 21st century and I peculiarly like both the unflappable Mark Williams and the show-stopping Ronnie O’Sullivan which is all the more remarkable, considering that these two snooker greats have little warmth for one another. Oh all the memories: ‘the grinder’ Cliff Thorburn collapsing in unbounded delight at recording the world championship’s first-ever maximum break; the farcical 35th and final frame between the likeable Dennis Taylor and Steve Davis in 1985: the John Virgo impersonations of his fellow professionals; the personal feuds and mutual admiration, they all confirm that the game of snooker isn’t a load of balls after all.
SPIN
The art of spin extends far beyond the cricket pitch or Downing Street nowadays. Take a look for instance at the world of employment to see how both employers and employees, not to mention the self-employed, put a spin on their job title. No longer are factory fodder the factory workers of bygone days of yore. Now they are termed as operatives. Gosh I loathe that word ‘operative’ – it’s just a euphemism for ‘dog’s body’. Can you imagine a new episode of Blackadder in these apparently self-conscious times: “Please allow me to introduce Baldrick. He’s my operative.”
As if this stupidity isn’t bad enough, one finds that shop assistants are now designated as ‘customer service advisers’. Do me a favour. Worse still are the job vacancies that advertise for ‘telesales executives’. Executives? Are you having a laugh? They’re just a bunch of gobby, pushy twenty-somethings fresh from university. Most ludicrous of all however are the silly contestants on The Weakest Link who describe themselves as ‘a company director’. Fortunately that nice Anne Robinson quizzes them about their job title: “So tell me. This company of yours; how many employees does it have?” “Er, two.” “Two?” “Yeah, me and me brother.” “What, and you call yourself a company director?” “Yeah, well we still have a company and I help to direct it!”
Dear oh dear oh dear. Britain is overflowing with a growing army of people who have an exaggerated sense of self-importance who blag their way through job interviews and pub conversations with their inflated nonsense. As far as I am concerned (and I am concerned), there is a fine dividing line between spin and bullsh*t.
FRIENDLY FIRE
It must be doubly upsetting for grieving relatives of British military personnel to discover that their loved one was killed by that most outrageous of phrases: ‘friendly fire’. What is it with American armed forces and friendly fire? It’s bad enough that their airport security was not particularly secure back in September 2001 and that their intelligence before and after has not been especially noteworthy for its intelligence. Therefore, I think that I will pay a state visit to George Dubya Bush at the White House. I will probably be stopped en route by airport security who will demand to know what the hell I am doing in possession of an automatic Kalashnikov-47 – to which I will reply, “Oh don’t worry, I’m only being ‘friendly’.”
REGIME CHANGE
It became oh so fashionable in the final months of the Blair premiership to pour scorn on the Prime Minister for his counter-productive pursuit of war in Iraq. Of course Britain went to war on a false premise – namely the need to seek out and destroy Iraq’s imaginary weapons of mass destruction. Mr Blair and his neo-conservative buddies across the big pond were however effectively engaged in a struggle to effect a regime change, and in this objective, they have hardly departed from the conventional approach to almost any war. Take for example the two world wars.
When Germany invaded Belgium in August 1914, British statesmen and people alike were not tossing and turning in bed at night, worried about the neutrality of Belgium. No, Britain went to war against the Kaiser to topple him and end his expansionist ambitions which had frayed the nerves of Europe for more than a decade. The First World War, like the conflict in Iraq, was fought to achieve regime change.
Even more peculiarly in the Second World War, Britain began hostilities against Nazi Germany in response to its invasion of Poland. Britain in fact was so upset by the territorial violation of Poland that it acquiesced in the Soviet Union’s acquisition of the Polish state at the end of the conflict. So much for concern about Poland. Yes the Second World War too was fought not for the stated reason. It was another attempt at regime change.
Tony Blair, for all his flaws, has only put into practice the much-used formula of going to war for false reasons. Every conflict, almost without exception, is designed to achieve regime change, irrespective of what excuse any politician offers.
BETTING TIPS
Is gambling a mug’s game? Well, consider the following. Who backed Foinavon to win the 1967 Grand National at 100-1? Who had a punt on North Korea to defeat Italy in the 1966 World Cup finals? Who realistically thought that Sunderland would overcome Leeds United in the 1973 FA Cup final? As for Wimbledon’s victory against Liverpool in the 1988 FA Cup final, who saw that one coming? Then there was the 1999 and 2007 rugby world cup matches where New Zealand only had to turn up to beat France. Well they did turn up, but they didn’t win. Have you got the picture yet? One could go on and on. There are no such things as nailed-on certainties in gambling, in spite of the misleading advice of expert tipsters, some of whom couldn’t be entrusted to predict the weather in a hot country.
A punt is a risky venture, pure and simple. If the chances are good, the betting odds are a miserly price, so defeating the bookmaker is a task and a half. Incidentally, do not be fooled by the newspaper racing pundits who predict the winner in every single race each day. It is inevitable that the tipster will enjoy several wins out of about 25 or 30 farcical selections. One is then confronted with the racing page headline the next day of ‘champion tipster’s double at Newbury yesterday’. What the newspaper headline fails to record is the ‘expert’s’ losing selections in the other five Newbury races. Then of course, there is the recent invention of ‘virtual racing’, designed presumably for punters who back virtual winners. I’ve never put money on any ‘horse’ in the virtual racing – primarily because I’ve never heard of any of the listed jockeys! Anyhow, here are my racing tips for today:
Sandown, 2.00: Avoid backing anything in this maiden race. Maidens have never won a race before, and so therefore have as much racing credentials as a turtle.
Kempton, 2.15: Steer clear of this contest. It has a field of twenty-two runners. Have you ever tried to locate a needle in a hay stack? Picking a winner in this race is equally straight-forward.
Doncaster, 3.05: One horse is the clear favourite, but its odds are so ridiculously short that you should put your wallet away.
Hexham, 3.45: The runners and riders have to negotiate twenty fences over 3.5 miles. Fences are the great leveller. Even the most accomplished jumper can fall at a fence, so keep your money in your pocket.
Chester, 5.00: An amateur race. Horses nobody has ever heard of ridden by jockeys that no-one has ever heard of – virtual racing in all but name. Definitely an ideal opportunity to waste your money.
Brighton, 5.20: This is regarded as a wide-open race, with no clear favourites, so avoid it like the plague.
POLE-DANCING
In the winter, provided that you are not suffering from German measles, why not pluck up some Dutch courage and bring a little warmth to those Chile nights with a spot of Pole dancing. Furthermore, with Christmas looming, a second income is necessary for those shopping trips to the local Iceland to buy a Turkey, Irish stew, Danish cookies, French fried onions, Spanish wine and some Brazil nuts for those Hungary mouths in your family. So while you’re up to your armpits in elbow Greece in a desperate attempt to buy the in-laws a piece of China for Christmas, why not consider Pole dancing. There is nothing more sensuous and satisfying as jiving the night away with someone from Cracow or Warsaw. Then when you Finnish your work, the boss gives you a nice, big fat Czech in reward for your services and you can then treat yourself to an Indian.
THE NEW ONE POUND SHOP
The following conversation takes place over there between him and me, while she wisely doesn’t want to get involved. I hope you like it.
Me: I’ve just had a brainwave idea for a brilliant new business venture.
Him: Oh no, not again.
Me: What do you mean, “oh no, not again?”
Him: I mean we’ve been here before – with your silly crackpot schemes.
Me: I beg your pardon. When?
Him: What about that time when you opened an American souvenir shop in Teheran?
Me: Oh yes, but apart from that?
Him: What about your great idea of selling sun cream and sunglasses at the Glastonbury Festivals?
Me: Okay, a minor aberration, I concede.
Him: Or the time you tried to sell Bibles on the street market in Karachi?
Me: Oh be fair man. I thought Muslims like Jesus.
Him: They do, I’ll grant you that, but they don’t care much for Moses or Solomon.
Me: Oh alright, clever clogs, but this retail venture is a certain winner.
Him: Go on then and bore me. What is it?
Me: It’s going to be a new one pound shop.
Him: What’s new about that? There are many stores knocking about which sell all items for one pound.
Me: Ah yes, but I won’t be selling my items for £1.
Him: I don’t understand. How can you call it a one pound shop, then?
Me: Well, I am going to be giving one pound change to each and every purchase.
Him: You mean that your items will cost £4 or £9 or £19 and the purchaser will give you a fiver or a tenner or a £20 note, thus ensuring £1 change.
Me: Not necessarily. The item may cost £2.99 and they give me a £20 note, so obviously they will receive £1 change, as stated on the shop sign.
Him: Your mathematics leaves a lot to be desired. What possesses you to think that this idea will work?
Me: Apart from demons, what possesses me is the realisation that shoppers like to know where they stand, and in knowing that each purchase entitles them to one pound, they clearly know exactly where they stand.
Him: It sounds to me pretty much like they will be standing on quicksand.
Me: Ah yes, but at least they will know where they stand.
THE BECKHAMS: MR AND MRS JESUS CHRIST?
Am I alone in being completely staggered by the grand arrival of David and Victoria Beckham in the United States? What exactly have they done to merit such a media-fuelled hysteria? If it had been Mahatma Gandhi and Mother Teresa arriving ensemble, I could just about comprehend it. Instead of which, I am left to ask myself and you the reader precisely what have the Beckhams done – for anybody? No, seriously, tell me….. what have they actually done for the world? Please tell me. I need to know. From what I can gather, she is an average pop singer, with better-than-average looks. She is hardly a pop diva nor a pin-up beauty. David is an excellent footballer but would struggle to be chosen for a World XI.
Therefore, you can possibly understand my irritation when silly old Channel Five now want to annoy us all with ‘David Beckham Soccer USA’ on a regular basis, while ITV in their questionable wisdom screened and then astonishingly repeated documentaries on each of the Beckhams as they prepared to conquer the United States, en route to world domination. It seems that the broadcasting media surrender their integrity to the Beckhams’ megabucks public relations machine and over-nourish us with a junk food helping of Beckhams, Beckhams, and Beckhams for dessert. It is all so nauseating and sickening.
I repeat again in all seriousness, precisely what have the Beckhams contributed to humanity? What is their legacy? Please inform me. Judging by their landing in Californication, one could be forgiven for thinking that Jesus Christ had arrived. Are the Beckhams really the Second Coming, or should we be waiting for another Messiah?
THIS WEEK’S ITV EVENING PROGRAMME HIGHLIGHTS
MONDAY
7.00-7.30: Emmerdale – a murder takes place in the village
7.30-8.00: Coronation Street – a murder occurs on the street
8.00-8.30: Tonight with Trevor ‘I’m really satirical, y’know’ MacDonald, in which would-be comedian Trev puts on his serious hat and investigates the rise of violent crime (on television)
8.30-9.00: Coronation Street – the locals come to terms with this week’s murder
9.00-10.30: Rebus – Rebus investigates a murder
10.30-11.00: The News – including news reports about violence, and probably murder
11.00-12.00: This Is David Pest (who isn’t yet murdered)
12.00-1.00: Celebrity salsa dancing
TUESDAY
7.00-8.00: Emmerdale – the locals come to terms with murder in the village
8.00-9.00: Murder She Wrote – Angela Lansbury has to solve yet another murder
9.00-10.30: Murder City – apparently the detectives are required to investigate an unsolved murder
10.30-11.00: The News – featuring crime stories, including murder
11.00-12.00: This Is David Pest (mercilessly repeated)
12.00-1.00: Celebrity wine-tasting
WEDNESDAY
8.00-9.00: The Bill – another murder occurs in Sun Hill
9.00-10.30: A Touch Of Frost – Frost investigates a murder
10.30-11.00: The News - The Prime Minister answers questions in Parliament about the rise in murder
11.00-12.30: Cracker – Cracker tries to crack the mystery of a murder
12.30-1.30: Celebrity Pass The Parcel
THURSDAY
8.00-9.00: The Bill – the detectives desperately need to solve a murder before the next show starts at 9.
9.00-10.30: Blue Murder
10.30-11.00: The News – more news stories about…..murder
11.00-12.00: The Second Coming – A documentary on the Beckhams’ arrival in the USA
12.00-1.00: Celebrity snakes and ladders
FRIDAY
7.30-8.00: Coronation Street – The Duckworths stay in and watch a murder programme on ITV
9.00-10.30: Taggart – Taggart investigates a murder
10.30-11.00: The News – probably even more murders to report
11.00-12.30: Midsomer Murders – A repeat showing of a murder from a previous series
12.30-1.30: Celebrity bee-keeping
SATURDAY
6.00-7.00: Bear-baiting, presented by Jeremy Kyle
7.00-8.00: X Factor – Several would-be murderers attempt to murder the panel of judges
8.00-9.00: Stars In Their Eyes – Featuring nobodies doing karaoke impersonations of The Police, The Fun Lovin’ Criminals, and their own versions of ‘Smooth Criminal’ and ‘I Fought The Law’
9.00-11.00: Film – Murder On The Orient Express. Hercule Poirot investigates a murder.
11.00-11.15: The News – expect to find one or two items on murder
11.15-12.15: The Second Coming – A chance to see again the Beckhams prepare to conquer the USA
12.15-1.15: Celebrity egg and spoon race
SUNDAY
8.00-9.00: Heartbeat – A murder takes place in Aidensfield, some time in the 1960s
9.00-10.30: Wire In The Blood – more murder
10.30-10.45: The News – featuring a round-up of all the weekend’s murders
10.45-11.45: The South Bank Show – Melvyn Bragg quizzes the ITV programmes scheduler about the absence of comedy and variety on ITV.
SPOILSPORTS PERSONALITY OF THE YEAR
Is there anything remotely so tiresome as the regular rotation of rubbish that is otherwise known as television awards ceremonies? Amongst others, there is the Baftas, the soap awards, the Brits, the MOBO awards, Oscars, Sports Review of the Year, comedy awards, and other forgettable awards too numerous to mention and too tedious to recall. Take the BBC sports personality of the year ceremony. The award invariably is conferred upon the individual who has made the greatest sporting achievement during the year, which is fair enough, but why then call the award ‘sports personality of the year’? Should it not be re-titled ‘most outstanding achievement of the year’ award. I mean if we were really selecting the sports personality of the year, somebody like Colin Montgomerie would get my vote nearly every time. Perhaps the greatest-ever golfer to never win a major, this colossus at the Ryder Cups is sometimes grumpy and irascible on the golf course and he has been known to let off some steam. Well, bravo Monty, at least he has quite clearly got a personality, unlike many of the other sporting robots who perform their heroics on auto-pilot and are then curiously short-listed for sports ‘personality’ of the year.
It is my humble estimation that a new awards channel should be established so that all those wretched ceremonies where the great and the good congregate in their finest attire, eat a slap-up meal, drink themselves silly, and pay ghastly tributes to their fellow luvvies, can be shunted off to an exclusive pay-per-view channel. A typical day’s broadcasting schedule for an awards channel would look something like this:
00.00-02.00: Cat Burglar of the Year awards
02.00-04.00: National Insomniac awards for 2008
04.00-06.00: The Milkman of the Year review
06.00-08.00: Breakfast Television awards, sponsored by Kellogg’s
08.00-10.00: Wife-beater of the year awards, presented by Jerry Springer
10.00-12.00: Daytime television’s television awards, presented by Kay Adams
12.00-14.00: Spoilsports personality of the year awards
14.00-16.00: Award ceremony of the year awards
16.00-18.00: Richard And Judy’s Celebrity Book of the Year awards
18.00 20.00: Reality TV awards, presented by very special guest, Davina McCall
20.00-22.00: Prime-time tacky TV awards, presented by Graham Norton
22.00-00.00: Comedy (or farcical) awards, presented by Johnathan Woss
GERALD WILEY
The supremely gifted Two Ronnies, like many entertainers, were ably assisted by various comedy scriptwriters, including Terry Jones and Michael Palin of Monty Python fame. One such contributor who made a favourable impression was the writer, Mr. Gerald Wiley. In fact, one of Ronnie Barker’s bosses at the BBC was so fascinated by the material from the reclusive Mr. Wiley that he urged Ronnie Barker to introduce this Gerald Wiley. As a consequence, Ronnie Barker and his superior went out for a meal during which it had been arranged that Mr.Wiley would join them. As the dinner started in the absence of Mr. Wiley, Ronnie Barker was asked what had happened to this missing Wiley character, when the late great bespectacled one confessed to his dining partner, “well, actually, I’m Gerald Wiley!”
THE BEATLES: THE END OF THE DREAM
By 1966, even three long years after the phenomenon of Beatlemania, the Fab Four could still seemingly do no wrong. The Beatles had been awarded MBEs and showered with critical acclaim, not to mention riches accumulated from albums and singles that unerringly ascended to the top of their respective charts. However it could be argued that the growing disharmony that characterised the group’s later years could be traced back to 1966.
True, John Lennon cried for ‘Help’ in 1965 which maybe was a revelation that being a successful Moptop was not all that it was cracked up to be, but it was the following year when the unsinkable Beatles started struggling to keep afloat, though not financially. Instead, 1966 was a turbulent year that persuaded Liverpool’s finest to kick tours and concert appearances into touch – and with good reason. A bad experience in the Philippines where the four cheeky chappies had the ‘audacity’ to snub President Marcos and his shoe fetish wife led to the Beatles fleeing almost in fear for their lives. Worse was to follow in the United States.
Hailed as conquering heroes in February 1964, the Beatles now incurred the wrath of the ‘Bible Belt’ after John Lennon tactlessly, though perhaps accurately, was revealed to have stated in a newspaper interview that “we’re more popular than Jesus”. Those apparent Jesus-followers, the Ku Klux Klan were incensed, while public burnings of Beatles merchandise prompted the Fab Four to decide that their concert at Candlestick Park in San Francisco at the end of August would be their final gig. By a curious coincidence, another questionably fab four, the Sex Pistols, would also play their last concert in San Francisco in January 1978 before a brief reunion occurred two decades later.
John Lennon later confessed that “this was the end really, but I was too scared to walk away.” Having known nothing else but performing and composing music for almost a decade, the Beatles soldiered on, on the understanding that they would devote their energies to the recording studio whilst also fulfilling their contracted film-making obligations. After John returned from his film role in ‘How I Won The War’ and George Harrison returned from India, the Beatles in mid-winter set about the difficult task of finding a suitable follow-up to their ‘Revolver’ album. The result was ‘Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’.
Released in June 1967 and following in the footsteps of the outstanding double A-side of Strawberry Fields Forever coupled with Penny Lane, the Beatles were scaling new peaks. With their new single, ‘All You Need Is Love’ broadcast via the ‘Our World’ television project to a massive global audience, the Liverpool quartet’s plans for world domination had apparently paid off handsomely. However, just as the end of touring had curtailed the group’s functions, they soon found themselves manager-less as their mentor Brian Epstein, recently marginalised by the decision to stop touring, was found dead from an overdose in August. It was a terrible end to a colourful ‘flower power’ summer of love.
The Beatles then made the grave error of persevering without a manager for almost eighteen months, choosing to run their own business affairs. The trouble was that their Apple project that included a boutique as well as signing new artists to their new record label proved that the ensemble were as talented at losing money as they were at accumulating it. The tempestuous year of 1967 also ended on a low note, arising out of a perfectly understandable public reaction to the television broadcast of the short Magical Mystery Tour film. All I will say is that while the accompanying music remained of the highest quality, the movie itself left an awful lot to be desired. It ought to have been ample evidence that the group were not film-makers, but it did not deter them from filming the recording sessions for the ‘Let It Be’ album in early 1969 for a project initially entitled ‘Get Back’.
This particular movie was a courageous if foolish attempt at cinema verite, in which the artists were to be screened warts and all. The problem was that relations had deteriorated to such an extent that the recording sessions were miserable, and even placid George Harrison was moved to tell a domineering Paul McCartney “I’ll play whatever you want me to play. Or I’ll not play at all, if you don’t want me to. Whatever it is that will please you, I will do it.”
Bickering in the recording studios is commonplace in every band, but the sight and news of the loveable Moptops quarrelling was hard for their adoring public to digest. Even easy-going Ringo Starr had cause to walk out on the group during the recording sessions for the ‘White Album’ back in September 1968. Not even enlightenment from their new guru, the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, nor the continued success of their latest releases could bring a smile to their faces.
In an act of desperation at their state of misery, the group made a final impromptu public performance on the top of the Apple building in central London, causing the city centre traffic to come to a standstill, while work halted in nearby buildings, as the Beatles’ January 1969 concert reminded the public of their magic. It culminated of course in John stating that “I hope we passed the audition.” They did, but John and Paul failed two different auditions – namely their relationships with Cynthia Lennon and Jane Asher. Not only did the song-writing partners fall out of love almost simultaneously, but remarkably they both got married in quick succession in March 1969, thus providing the lyrics to their next chart-topper, ‘The Ballad Of John And Yoko’.
It was their marriages more than anything that spelt the end of the dream. Such was the intensity of their new passions that it would impact upon the tightly-knit group dynamic. In the case of Paul, he was strongly in favour of Lee Eastman, his wife Linda’s father, taking over the reins as the new group manager, but he was over-ruled by the rest of the band who elected the Rolling Stones’ hard-boiled manager Allen Klein. This decision did nothing for Paul’s affection for the other three. Worse than this, John alienated himself from the others by insisting that his new partner, Yoko Ono, be allowed to trespass the holy of all holies – Beatles recording sessions. Yoko’s presence at the construction of the excellent ‘White Album’, followed by ‘Let It Be’ and finally ‘Abbey Road’ antagonised the others whose collective policy of no wives or girlfriends in the recording studio had been violated.
The cracks were well and truly starting to emerge, yet for all the increased tension, the group continued to enjoy chart-topping success. In fact, it wasn’t until the release of George Harrison’s supremely beautiful ‘Something’ in the autumn of 1969 that the group ironically failed to reach the top three in the British singles chart for the first time in a staggering seven years. The song was issued to support their new album ‘Abbey Road’, which with the assistance of George Martin saw the group bury their differences and complete their swansong in August 1969 without the acrimony that had upset recent recording projects.
Nevertheless, when Paul suggested several weeks later that the group start touring again, John was having none of it. “I think you’re daft”, he reportedly replied. “I want a divorce”, he said, only for Allen Klein and Paul to talk him out of any public announcement. Paul, realising he could no longer cajole an unwilling group, set about recording his debut solo album, and when Ringo was despatched the following spring to urge Paul not to release his solo debut simultaneous to the belated outing of ‘Let It Be’, Paul apparently threw Ringo out of his house. The inevitable happened, though in unforeseen circ*mstances, when Paul announced the break-up of the Beatles which was all the more ironic since he was least in favour of a split. An incensed John retorted that “Paul hasn’t left the Beatles. I’ve sacked him.” By the end of 1970, Paul felt the need to take his old buddies to the High Court to dissolve the partnership. John in his track called ‘God’ subsequently sang “the dream is over.”
THE STROLLING RUINS IN 1967
1967 was a pivotal year in the evolution of the youth generation’s counter-culture. It incorporated the Monterey pop festival, the hippy pilgrimages to Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco, the ‘summer of love’, ‘flower power’, the emergence of a new guitar hero called Jimi Hendrix, and the explosion of psychedelic music and fashion, while Sergeant Pepper first saw the light of day and The Beatles reminded a worried world that ‘All You Need Is Love’. Yet for the Rolling Stones, 1967 was a year that they might prefer to forget.
Even as early as January, the omens of increasing notoriety were not good. Appearing on both the American Ed Sullivan show and ITV’s Sunday Night At The London Palladium in order to plug their latest single, the five bad boys of British pop were warned not to sing ‘Let’s Spend The Night Together’. In those unenlightened, pre-permissive times, Mick Jagger was required to mumble instead ‘let’s spend some time together’. In protest, the group refused to appear on the carousel of smiling, waving artists at the conclusion of the ITV show. A storm in a teacup, I think that you will all agree, but in those slightly dark ages, such an issue provoked a considerable controversy. Worse was to follow for the Stones….. much worse.
Apparently, wayward genius Brian Jones had let slip in a London night-club to an unscrupulous journalist drinking partner about his group’s fondness for unprescribed pharmaceuticals. However, all hell broke loose when the News Of the World mistakenly revealed that Mick Jagger had confessed the band’s drug habits. Jagger understandably threatened libel action for the falsehood only for the Sunday newspaper to retaliate by allegedly conspiring with the police to have the troublesome Stones arrested for possession of drugs on the following Sunday. Even forty years later, that infamous drugs bust at Keith Richard’s Redlands home on the evening of Sunday 12th of February remains one of the most remarkable episodes in British cultural history – ever. The police had been tipped off (by journalists?); George Harrison of the still wholesome Beatles had only just left; Brian Jones wasn’t even there; and then there was the presence of Miss X, naked but for a fur rug, subsequently revealed to be Jagger’s girlfriend and pop singer Marianne Faithfull. With a cast of celebrities and a huge portion of intrigue, I am surprised that this Redlands bust which was basically Celebrity Big Brother ahead of its time has never been re-enacted on film.
Consequently, Jagger and Richard were charged and convicted, and their briefest of incarcerations was overturned on appeal. Their co-defendant and art dealer, friend Robert Fraser wasn’t so fortunate, but then he wasn’t a celebrity. Indeed, the apparent prosecution or persecution of the ‘Glimmer Twins’ prompted a public reaction of sympathy. The Times’ editorial, of all sources, joined ranks with the underground press and rallied to their defence by asking ‘Who Breaks A Butterfly On A Wheel?’ The Who also lent their support to the poor little butterfly by releasing Stones cover versions in honour of Mick and Keef.
Meanwhile back in May, Brian Jones also fell foul of the law on drugs possession. His gig in court was scheduled for October. Against this background of upheaval, the Rolling Stones soldiered on with a new project, which was a poorly-disguised attempt to compete with Pepper and to climb on board the psychedelic bandwagon. The result was ‘Their Satanic Majesties Request’, a release that didn’t surface until December, partially on account of record company apprehension at the album title. I choose to depart from conventional wisdom on this Stones’ collaboration, believing that ‘their satanic majesties’ produced an excellent long-player. I furthermore find it disappointing, though not entirely surprising, that in the recently-published ‘Rough Guide To The Rolling Stones’, neither ‘She’s A Rainbow’ nor the marvellous ‘2,000 Light Years From Home’ are listed among the group’s fifty greatest tracks. ‘Light Years’ was all the more poignant as Mick Jagger wrote it as a reminder of what life behind high walls and locked doors felt like.
One other musical offering of note from that tempestuous summer was the single, ‘We Love You’. Its eventual chart peak position of No.8 represented something of a commercial failure for the high-flying Stones, but mercifully ‘The Rough Guide’ has recognised this song’s undoubted place among the group’s fifty finest. John and Paul were summoned to provide harmonies, returning the compliment for Jagger appearing on ‘All You Need Is Love’ and Jones blowing a saxophone on its flip-side, ‘Baby, You’re A Rich Man’. This historic record therefore represented the nearest that the friendly rivals of the Fab Four and the infamous five came to a musical collaboration. Assisted by the rattle of chains, a clanging cell door, and a remarkable promo film that ‘replayed’ the trial (and persecution) of Oscar Wilde, ‘We Love You’ occupies a special place in not only the history of the Rolling Stones but in the story of popular music as a whole. It was an oasis in an otherwise unrelenting year of misfortune and bad vibes for the Stones. Perhaps it was no coincidence that between 1964 and 1969, this was the only year that Mick Jagger and his associates didn’t create a chart-topping single in Britain.
Brian Jones meanwhile, like his ‘friends’ before him, narrowly escaped a prison sentence, but while Mick and Keith could rely on their powers of recovery, Brian Jones was on the slippery slope to an early grave. The footage of the blond bombshell in the ‘We Love You’ promo film was reason enough to doubt his future. Not even a VIP guest appearance at the Monterey pop festival in June could lift Brian’s spirits, because back in March another dark episode had cast a shadow over his relations with the band.
In an attempt to escape from the ‘heavy’ ramifications of the Redlands debacle, the Stones sought a temporary refuge in Morocco. However what was intended as a welcome break culminated in a holiday nightmare, as Keith Richard persuaded Anita Pallenberg to defect to him as a consequence of Jones’s unfaithfulness, unreliability, and violence. Jones and Richard, the group’s twin guitarists, were not on speaking terms for some time thereafter. My sympathy is with Keith on this one. Brian ruined his love affair and spent the remainder of his short life embittered by the apparent treachery.
With the burden of drug convictions and increasing group tension, touring commitments were kept to a minimum. Collectively, it represents a depressing chapter in the development of the Rolling Stones. With the law firmly on their backs, the Stones faced an uncertain future. For one protagonist that future was brief, but for the others their survival instincts helped them away from the abyss of 1967 and fortified the Strolling Ruins for the self-constructed pitfalls that lay ahead.
A TRIBUTE TO MADNESS
No this is not a bizarre commercial, endorsing the merits of insanity. Instead I recently watched my Complete Madness video compilation. It’s forty minutes well spent. I remain a little disappointed that the hugely popular septet from north London never received the critical acclaim that they perhaps deserved. After all, ask anyone on the street or in the music business about Madness and nobody it seems has a bad word to say about Camden Town’s finest. Yet for all the string of hit singles that began with ‘The Prince’ in the autumn of 1979, one will struggle to find a solitary music critic who recognises the impact that Madness had on British pop music in the 1980s and beyond.
It is probable that the group’s eye-catching, wacky videos perhaps deflected the fact that the group created outstanding records. ‘Baggy Trousers’ spent a remarkable twenty weeks in the singles charts and is a terrific social commentary on comprehensive education, while the group’s only number one, ‘House Of Fun’, is a light-hearted look at the coming of age. ‘Embarrassment’, ‘Cardiac Arrest’, and ‘Grey Day’ were also superbly crafted pop songs which nevertheless explored a darker side to the group’s collective songwriting formula, not forgetting the delights of ‘Wings Of A Dove’, ‘Uncle Sam’, and ‘Waiting For The Ghost Train’ which each covered politics without preaching or getting too inaccessibly intellectual.
Only Graham McPherson, under the alias of Suggs, has increased his profile since Madness became more sane in the mid-1980s, courtesy of a television show, followed by an excellent residency at Virgin Radio, not to mention a ‘This Is Your Life’ profile and a fish fingers advertisem*nt. What a pity that the group as a whole never quite garnered the critical esteem that their musical exploits merited. Their influence almost certainly re-surfaced in such Britpop anthems as ‘Common People’ and ‘Parklife’, yet Madness probably suffer for the image they cultivated: fast-paced anthems performed by an unpretentious, down-to-earth bunch of lads, who didn’t take themselves too seriously. However, to ignore their music and its legacy, well that would be absolutely madness.
PECULIAR FLOYD
I’ve just been reading my fourth Pink Floyd book, entitled ‘The Rough Guide To Pink Floyd’ by Toby Manning, following on from Nicholas Schaffner’s ‘Saucerful Of Secrets’, Nick Mason’s ‘Inside Out’, and John Harris’s ‘Dark Side Of The Moon’. Gosh the enigmatic Floyd are hard work. The group’s Dark Side Of The Moon album occupied a place on the American charts for an earth-shattering total approaching eight hundred weeks. It is widely suggested that somebody somewhere in the world is playing this record at each minute of the day. Far from being one-hit wonders, Pink Floyd’s output included Meddle, Obscured By Clouds, The Final Cut, The Wall, and Wish You Were Here, and many other albums and even singles which collectively turned on to varying degrees numerous music listeners and even critics alike.
Yet for all their unquestioned global success, Pink Floyd remained a miserable, some might argue thoroughly unlikeable bunch. On the credit side, the Floyd refreshingly side-stepped the standard, tedious histrionics of most other rock groups that indulged in heavy drugs, instrument thrashing, hotel wrecking, and high jinks at high altitudes on aeroplanes. Though largely avoiding whatever groupies dared to cross their path, the Floyd were not one woman men, yet by contrast to most other annoying rock musicians, they were gentlemen by comparison. For some immature observers who buy into the sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll of rock Babylon, the aloof Pink Floyd were boring and a group that needed to let their long hair down.
What I find remarkable about the Floyd is how ungenerous they have been to one another. For two decades, the group were a relatively closed book that commendably gave a wide berth to chat show appearances and magazine interviews designed to ascertain their favourite food and their most embarrassing moments. Yet by the mid-Eighties when bassist and principal songwriter Roger Waters chose to dissolve the group in the firm belief that the others couldn’t assemble without him, all hell broke loose as his estranged musical partner David Gilmour proceeded to re-convene the band for the Momentary Lapse Of Reason project in 1986. As a consequence, the Floyd’s warring factions began washing their dirty linen in public in a media brawl that made the McLaren versus Rotten, Lennon versus McCartney, and Jagger versus Richards spats seem like a storm in a teacup.
For the best part of two decades, Waters on the one hand and Gilmour allied with drummer Nick Mason on the other traded insults or, put diplomatically, ‘unkind remarks’. Only their remarkable reformation for their Live 8 concert at Hyde Park in July 2005 appeared to bring the curtain down on one of rock music’s most notorious feuds. I have some sympathy with the hard to get along with Roger Waters who had visions in the 1970s which he was determined to musically implement. The trouble for Roger was that the others were less enthusiastic for Roger’s plans and they had to be dragged almost kicking and screaming sometimes to complete the ideas of Mr. Waters. What a real shame that a group which brought such pleasure or enlightenment to literally millions of people grew to despise one another. Rarely have the ‘fab four’ paid tribute to one another’s musical output or song-writing ability, preferring instead to devote themselves to character assassinations.
If ever there is an obvious commercial for how miserable and unfulfilled riches can render anybody, then the Floyd are the reference point. The Floyd were not so much Pink, personable, or pleasant, but peculiar is perhaps more appropriate.
SO HARD TO BEAT?
A twice-broadcast documentary on BBC1 Northern Ireland has been glorifying the apparent contribution of Ulster to the world of rock and pop. The programme has been mystifyingly entitled ‘So Hard To Beat’. However, the absence of any sizeable ethnic minority in Northern Ireland has ensured that the popular music that emanated from the north of the island has been almost exclusively performed by young white men for the benefit of white students and schoolboys. Groups such as Ash, Snow Patrol, The Undertones, and Stiff Little Fingers have just been standard-bearers of white boy music. With the slight exception of Stiff Little Fingers who ‘followed’ (a recurring theme in Northern Irish youth) their heroes The Clash in embracing reggae, there has been a notable absence in brass, strings, or keyboards, with the only instruments employed being the run-of-the-mill bass, drums, and guitars.
Northern Irish groups rarely think outside of the box and rely on formulaic indie sounds. How very original. How ‘so hard to beat’. Can you imagine something innovative like The Orb or The Chemical Brothers coming from Norn Iron? Could you imagine something progressive like Pink Floyd or avant-garde like Talking Heads originating from Ulster? Well, I certainly couldn’t. Tragically, Northern Ireland remains a cultural backwater where half of the population are still turned on to the sounds of the macho nonsense of loyalist bands who each compete to see who bangs their drums loudest. Half the population meanwhile dig the totally unfashionable, cringe-worthy Garth Brooks, Johnny Cash, and the Eagles, whilst sporting their Jack Sugden cheque shirts. Dear oh dear.
The youth scene remains mired in predictable indie sounds with no creativity, imagination, or original thinking – symbolic of Northern Ireland which culturally and historically follows trends instead of leading them. In terms of ‘yoof culture’, to suggest that the music or fashion of Ulster is ‘so hard to beat’ is plainly ludicrous.
DESERT ISLAND DISCS
Are celebrities really stupid or what? I mean, they are each allowed to take several records with them to a desert island, yet in their choice of luxury items, they don’t possess the good sense to take a record player with them. I mean, what is the point of opting for Radiohead’s ‘OK Computer’ if you subsequently fail to include an ipod or MP3 player amongst your luxury items?
As for me, if I was going to be stranded on an island in the desert, I would wish to have as a priority a flare gun so that I could fire distress signals. Mind you, in moments of distress my flare gun thus far doesn’t appear to have caught anybody’s attention. As a second choice of item, I would require a roll-on deodorant. It’s bound to be hot, sticky, and sweaty stuck in the middle of the desert. Unlike most celebrities, I feel the need for an item of personal hygiene because I’m hygiene conscious – conscious of the fact that I’m lacking in it.
As for discs, I would choose ‘Echoes’ by Pink Floyd, if only because it lasts almost twenty-five minutes. It would be tiresome to choose several three minute songs because ultimately they would be played repeatedly on a nauseatingly numerous scale. Mind you, in the absence of a record player, the disc that I would choose during my lone vigil in the desert would be ‘Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’, not because it is a great record, but because its cover artwork merits prolonged attention even if its hyped contents do not.
APPLICATION FORMS
Application forms are an absolute drag. It seems that in some instances they are deliberately devised to deter people from completing them. An extensive application form with a multitude of questions to be scrutinised over is quite necessary for certain lofty positions or for public office. Otherwise, one frustratingly finds application forms that demand a plethora of irrelevant responses for jobs which are not particularly remarkable. I certainly have no sympathy for employers who ask downright stupid questions. I recently ‘applied’ for a role as an assistant manager in a Belfast wine shop, or off-license. One category included ‘Current Employment’, and perched immediately beneath was space for me to write my ‘reason for leaving’. Sorry, but if you are in current employment, then there cannot be a reason for leaving. I stated this in the appropriate space. Funnily enough, I wasn’t short-listed for an interview.
What is even more irksome are the silly questions, such as demanding the actual grades one achieved at the age of sixteen. How vastly different is my potential in the workplace if I attained a B grade in a geography GCSE instead of a mere C. The bottom line is that most employers don’t give a stuff what grades one achieved in GCSE biology or Spanish. These columns and questions on an application form, like much of the rest of the contents, are designed purely as an exercise in nosiness that bear no semblance of reality to the job vacancy. Application forms that demand information on everything, short of possibly shoe size or favourite colour, are an invasion of privacy and a thinly-disguised attempt to know one’s life story rather than ascertain a candidate’s worthiness as a potential employee.
Furthermore, organisations such as financial institutions that request your telephone number or email address don’t use this contact information, and one finds a mortgage application delayed because the would-be lender sends a second-class posted letter when a query needs to be addressed, even though they have access to your email address or telephone number. It is my humble estimation that tedious application forms are intended for information and intelligence-gathering. It would be perhaps more preferable if people volunteered to have their qualifications and employment history stored on a national database, thus sparing them the tedium of having to complete such sections in application forms, and thus enabling prospective employers to access this information before supplying dreadful application forms. We need to see the nonsense questions and irrelevant sections of application forms drastically curtailed in order to make them user-friendly for the poor wretches who are required to complete them.
HORSES FOR COURSES
‘Horses for courses’ is one of my favourite phrases. I have occasion to recite it. For example, there have been periods in recent years when this loser was losing money, not to mention the will to live, and my well-intentioned family were suggesting all manner of occupations in a desperate attempt to rescue me from my slide into the abyss. However, although I actually respect each and every person who is able to perform jobs that I cannot, there simply are jobs that I refuse to entertain. No I don’t mean doing the washing up, or hoovering the carpet. Consequently, my family and I had a conflict of interests. They were interested in me working in any trade and I frankly was not.
I mean, could you imagine Tony Blair as a long-distance truck driver, David Cameron on a building site, Prince Charles as a milkman, or the Queen as a night-club disc jockey? Ultimately, we all have specific skills and few of us are a Jack of all trades, which brings me back to horses for courses. Again, can you imagine a twelve-year-old foxhunter competing in a five-furlong sprint or a two-year-old filly racing in a three mile steeplechase? Similarly, there are courses that this old horse isn’t fit for: namely working on a building site, or in a garage, or in an office, or in a bar, or in a warehouse, or in a shop, or in a bank – come to think of it: anywhere!
THE DEADLIEST JOKE IN THE WORLD
My favourite war story is of the killer German joke that resulted in the recipient reeling over in fits of laughter, before collapsing in a heap – in a heap of precisely what, I don’t know. I must strongly warn you that the joke that you are about to read has fatal consequences. I have seen its deadly effects for myself as I have sent several people to an early grave with it, and I am currently helping police with their enquiries. Anyhow here goes, so brace yourself for the joke that caused much loss of life in the Second World War: “Wenn ist das Nurnstuck git und slotermayer?” “Ja, es ist gespullt.” Whatever you do, don’t recite it to anyone – except perhaps your next door neighbour or your mother-in-law. Fortunately, as Eric Idol stated, “in 1945 peace broke out. It was the end of the joke.”
ANGELS
Do you believe in angels? My mother, God rest her soul (she’s still alive, but may God rest her soul nevertheless) recalls a story when on holiday in Switzerland with my terminally ill father, a man appeared from seemingly nowhere to help my Dad with one or two suitcases, and then this kind stranger just as quickly disappeared. Nobody is suggesting that this ‘angel’ vanished into thin air, but I too had an encouraging experience when, to paraphrase Blanche Dubois, I was able to ‘depend on the kindness of strangers’.
Foolish man that I am, I ran out of petrol about twenty miles from my destination of Belfast. However, I had no sooner parked my car by the side of the motorway than a passing motorist and his family offered me a lift to the nearest garage. By some peculiar fortune, we seemed to be as far away from a nearby petrol station as was humanly possible. I think that it took my helpers in the region of forty minutes to find a garage and return me with my petrol can to my car. Giving up a large chunk of their time at about nine on a Saturday evening was massive. If these residents of Carrickfergus who drove a silver Nissan are not angels, then who are?
IT’S A MIRACLE
Do you believe in miracles? Many times I have been in need of a miracle of some sort or another. I used to foolishly bemoan that miracles were only something that happened long, long ago in Capernaum or Jerusalem. However, if we look closer to home, in fact if we look in the mirror, we can see a miracle staring back at us. You see, humans are not machines that are purchased in a shop, complete with a box, to be brought out of the container and then plugged into the electricity mains. Nor are we battery-operated. We function by means of the most vastly intricate system of machinery contained within our bodies. Take such a vital organ as the heart. It keeps beating without fail, every second, minute and hour of the day, each day of every week of every month of every year for as many years as we dare to hope. Yes some hearts last longer than others, but have you ever stopped to consider that your heart could choose to stop at any moment. It’s almost a frightening thought, isn’t it?
Similarly there is something equally awesome about our consciousness. We go to bed, fall asleep and appear to be half-dead, and yet lo and behold several hours later we return to complete consciousness, ready yet again to confront the challenge of the day ahead. It’s remarkable how our mind can switch off and then on again. I could write a large volume about the complicated processes of the other vital organs. As for our legs, arms, fingers, feet, and mouth, isn’t it extraordinary how they are able to operate as we wish?
I have come to the awakening that my life (and yours too) is a miracle, not least in how we emerge from the womb and evolve from tiny little children into grown-up adults. So who or what is responsible for this phenomenal state of affairs? Well, I am more than ever satisfied that there is a God whose wonders are the very source of our existence. For all you God-deniers, what other possible explanation is there? Are you seriously telling me that a big bang has resulted in my body and yours functioning in the miraculous way that they do. No folks, there has to be a greater power providing the feat of engineering that has resulted in the creation and prolongation of the human race.
BEREAVEMENT
There is no manual or textbook that provides appropriate guidelines on how to cope with the enormous loss of a loved one. Responses after all vary from hysterics to morose behaviour, neither of which is good or bad, nor right or wrong. For everyone touched by the searing pain of bereavement, I would suggest the following two sources which in their own way act as an enormous comfort.
First of all, whatever misgivings many people may have about the Orange Order, the institution’s prayer for the bereaved is an excellent form of consolation. It runs something like this:
‘Grant O Lord to all who are bereaved the spirit and strength
That they might meet the days to come, not sorrowing as those without hope
But in thankful remembrance of Thy great goodness in past years
And in the sure expectation of a joyful reunion in the Heavenly places.’ Amen.
Secondly, I have always been struck by the reaction of King David to the loss of his wife Bathsheba. His entourage not unnaturally expected the king to be mired in the depths of anguish, and they were understandably anxious to avoid the king, lest they be subjected to any anticipated display of grief. Instead of which, David had a wash, put on his best clothes, emerged looking untouched by any personal tragedy and confidently explained to his startled onlookers that “she cannot come back to where I am. However, some day I will go to where she is.” Now that’s what I call faith!
BIBLE-BASHERS
I recently saw an episode of The Weakest Link where one particularly weak link expressed the hope that the person voted off in the next round would be the so-called “Bible-basher”. There is something nonsensical about the term ‘Bible-basher’, which just about sums up the anti-Christian bigots. They suggest that someone who has the cheek to quote from God’s written word is a ‘Bible-basher’. However, it is quite clear that any such well-intentioned soul is highlighting God’s word, and certainly not bashing it. After all, who bashes something that they respect? I mean, if someone liked to quote from the Communist Manifesto, would they qualify as a Marx-basher? Of course they wouldn’t. No it’s not people who dare to quote from God’s word who are bashing the Bible. It is instead those smart alecs who reject God’s word who are the real ‘Bible-bashers’.
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I’LL SEE YOU AGAIN”
My late father had been on his death-bed for several weeks, surpassing a previous medical prediction that he had about two weeks to live. There was no knowing when the end would come. I found myself having to return to work in England after a month of bedside vigils. It was with a heavy heart that I was abdicating any semblance of a duty of care to a loved one, but I had little option. When the Thursday morning came when I paid one last visit to the hospital before taking my leave of my Dad, it was potentially an emotional scene. As it transpired, my father chose precisely the perfect words for such a parting. It was almost as if he had given careful thought to what might be his final words to me and they have remained embedded in my consciousness ever since.
Having drawn closer to the Lord during his two-year struggle against terminal illness, Dad was able to elect a farewell that strikes a resonance with all Christians. He said, with calm confidence, “I’ll see you again.” I guess it is not far removed from the words of Jesus as He bade temporary farewell to His disciples and subsequently ascended into heaven. My Dad’s words always struck me as a remarkable declaration of faith, based on the likelihood of a heavenly reunion. After all, when one Christian leaves this temporary world and all its cares for the permanency of Paradise, then naturally he or she will bid a farewell couched in such positive terms. Christians don’t really believe in ‘goodbye’ because they anticipate a joyful reunion in eternity’s resting home. Therefore, my father’s words, “I’ll see you again” were not only inspiring but very much in keeping with a man confident about his eternal future.
HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE
With every day that passes, I am becoming more alienated and disenchanted with the rest of the people of Britain (and beyond).
Firstly, take the so-called ‘working’ class. I have grown to despise them. Your stereotypical working class alpha male or caveman, has to get his head shaven so that he can sport his ‘wee hard-man haircut’ to fit in with the hair fashion of his mates. He must also adorn tattoos to enhance his street credibility, while an ability to utter vulgarities in every spoken sentence is necessary too. When I approach two or three blokes on the pavement, busily engaged in yet another vacuous mobile phone conversation, I wonder if I can pass by without over-hearing a string of obscenities. I usually can’t. Throw in an enthusiasm for hard drinking and a passion for aggression and violence, not forgetting the need to read the obligatory tabloid trash, and voila you have your imperfectly formed, totally uninformed working class male cretin. Is it any small wonder that white working class men are regarded as the biggest under-achievers in our society? The very notion of trying to better themselves by reading a more informative newspaper or watching current affairs or nature documentaries would be anathema or too ‘cissy’ for these butch buffoons. Thus many Neanderthal tee-shirt wearers remain in the gutter, but they need not worry because there is an army of young clingy, desperate, insecure female admirers only too eager to fall for the ‘charms’ of these charm-less beasts. Ah yes, the working class deserve each other.
A step up from the white trash are the middle class – a thoroughly unhappy and mean-spirited lot. Just tell someone ten years ago that they would now be earning thirty thousand pounds or more per year and they would have been thrilled. Well, actually they aren’t. High earners look over their shoulders at their neighbours, work colleagues, and relatives, and the need to compete and achieve bragging rights is an absolute must. Therefore, if Mr and Mrs Well-Off are earning fifty thousand pounds per year, this counts for nothing if their suburban neighbours have completed an extension to their conservatory! Similarly, what good is earning forty thousand pounds per year if your wine-bar acquaintances are all buying up foreign properties in various places in the sun? Consequently, middle-class people plunge themselves into mountainous debts in a desperate attempt to maintain their place in the chasing pack of the rat race whilst spending their week-ends in shopping arcades on another outing of retail therapy. Added to this, middle class people are the most vocal in their opposition to rates increases, income tax, and anything which threatens their unquenchable thirst for more riches. Yes, the loathsome bourgeoisie remain as greedy and selfish as ever. Ultimately, if you are good to every person you meet, and you bring your children up to be good to everyone they meet, then this is the only bragging right you will ever need. Instead of which, the chattering class think that their suit, shirt, tie, big car, and power dressing affords them respect. Could I possibly respect any group of people less?
Well, the answer to that is yes. There remains the aristocracy and the new decadent aristocracy, namely celebrities, who all have more money than sense and who lavish one another as if they grow fifty pounds notes in their garden. I recently had the extreme misfortune of reading a horrible magazine extract in which Tara Palmer-Tomkinson recalled how she had had a bad day, so her friend Robbie Williams went and bought her an obscenely expensive watch to console her. Dear God, what planet are these people on? Are there any good, sane people out there, anywhere? I am afraid that I have to concur with Jean-Paul Sartre who stated that ‘l’enfer, c’est les autres.’
GREAT BRITAIN
Almost one million men in the First World War, and nearly half a million men in the Second World War gave their lives so that this country could be free: free to produce and listen to dreadful pop music; free to binge drink; free to run riot at football matches and in town centres on Friday and Saturday nights; free to produce and watch tacky drivel on television; free to bully minorities and hate foreigners; free to be educated by tabloid newspapers. Isn’t it so comforting to know that the sacrifices of all those brave young souls was not in vain? Isn’t Britain just Great?
BRAGGING RIGHTS
I am gradually becoming disillusioned with the once magical world of football. The amounts of money earned by professionals is obscene, and in a world of poverty and starvation, footballers’ wages are an affront to human civilisation – such as it is. Nowadays, footballers ‘entertain’ with snarling, unpleasant faces, and proceed to surround the referees with their rage and scorn, when the official has dared to pronounce a judgment that is at loggerheads with their plans for world domination. Mis-behaving football players and tantrum-prone managers are horrible role models for impressionable young males.
As for the fans, the support of one football club frequently necessitates a fanatical hatred of rival football clubs. In truth, each major English football club has its’ own distinctive bragging rights, whether it be Arsenal’s ‘invincibles’ of 2004, Tottenham’s outstanding track record in FA Cup finals, Manchester United’s treble of 1999, Liverpool’s five European Cups, Chelsea’s back-to-back Premierships, or even West Ham United’s ludicrous claim of having ‘won’ the 1966 World Cup final. The list could go on to include, amongst others, Aston Villa and Nottingham Forest ’s European Cup triumphs. It seems that a football supporter clings on to his club’s bragging rights to compensate for his or her own personal under-achievement and inadequacies. One only has to observe the reactions of fanatical football supporters to a goal or a result to discover how earth-shatteringly important the occasion is. It is really tragic to think that an individual’s state of mind and general well-being is at the mercy of the outcome of a football match. Could there be anything more sad and contemptible?
P.I.G.S
Winston Churchill once remarked that cats look down at us, dogs look up to us, and pigs treat us as equals. Pigs, as we all know, are obese, gluttonous, and filthy. There are a lot of human creatures who could be equally described in such terms. I concede that it is all too easy to make generalisations, but hey, we are all guilty of it. Therefore, when I have a swipe at the binge-drinking, tabloid reading, soap watching members of our beloved society, I am referring to the pig-like behaviour of P.I.G.S, or people in general. Of course there are many wonderful people who have integrity, humility, and perform acts of kindness, thoughtfulness, and selflessness. My beef is with PIGS (people in general) who are loud, attention seekers, who lack intelligence, don’t listen to reason, and who throw numerous stones from within their glasshouses. Why are city centre pubs ( especially at the week-end) over-populated with herds of these PIGS? People in general (PIGS) fill me with dismay, but bravo to the good, sensitive, thoughtful people in this world. They know who they are.
BIG PEOPLE AND SMALL PEOPLE
Top military strategist and Chief of the Imperial General Staff for much of the Second World War, Lord Alanbrooke, wrote in his outspoken diaries scathingly of one or two colleagues, such as Field Marshal Alexander, and one or two exalted politicians, whom he described as ‘small’ people. It got me thinking that indeed there are a lot of individuals in our society who may not be tall in stature, but are ‘big’ people, while there are many more people who may be six foot or more in height, but who are essentially ‘small’ people.
Let me explain. Northern Ireland , where I grew up ( to a debatable extent) is full of small people. They consist mainly of big men who all choose to follow Liverpool or Manchester United because their mates do the same. They join a band or orange lodge because their mates do the same. They go boozing at the week-end because, guess what, their mates do the same. A sense of individuality and independent-thinking has been sucked out of many such people. Many young men ( and women) surrender their own sense of self-awareness to go with the flow and follow the crowd. People are petrified to dress differently or have attitudes contrary to their peer group. Do not be fooled, folks. Big men with tattoos, muscles, t-shirt, and jeans are frequently small people who are so insecure that they hide themselves in a group of so-called mates. They would cheerfully bring their mates along to their job interview or if they were having a bath. Just ask someone what they did at the week-end, and you will receive the predictable response that “me and my mates did…” and “me and my mates went…” Yes ‘small’ man, but what did you do?!
Hats off to the big men and women who can stand on their own two feet, who don’t have to cling desperately to fellow co-dependents, and who are not afraid of their own company. Furthermore, they don’t deliberately tailor their allegiances, clothes, and values to fit in with so-called accepted norms. To the big men and women who may not be tall in stature, who do not feel that they have to surround themselves with so-called friends, I salute you.
BANDWAGON-JUMPING
The great British media and public love nothing more than to indulge in their favourite pastime of jumping on a bandwagon. Let us observe the cases of George Best and John Lennon, two cultural icons. These individuals were the recipients of much scorn and tut-tutting during their lives, on account of their behaviour and lifestyle. Yet when they die, they suddenly have airports named after them and have lavish praise heaped on them by a plethora of bandwagon-jumpers. I sincerely hope that when I am finally pushing up the daisies, that those individuals who have frowned upon me and unleashed various abuse and disapproval when I was alive are at least consistent when I am deceased. To jump on any bandwagon and pay posthumous tributes to me would almost certainly prompt me to turn in my grave. Please don’t feel the urge to name an airport after me, although if you must, you can name a park bench after me. In fact, I promise to return and spookily haunt anyone who dares to start any chorus of ‘he was a wonderful human being’.
FUNERALS
A lot of people seize the opportunity of a funeral to take a day off work, put on their Sunday best, and then pay a moving tribute to the deceased, whom they hadn’t seen or spoken to for many months or years even. When I cease to be, becoming an ex-parrot, bereft of life, joining the choir invisible, I sincerely hope that a multitude of distant relatives and even more long-lost friends don’t come out of the woodwork, lay down their tools and overalls, and proceed to lavish praise on me. If they really want to pay their respects to me, my ‘countless’ legion of friends and relatives should maintain their attitude of apathy and indifference, as perfected during my existence. Let me rest in peace. Mind you, I do have a tendency to wake up once or twice in the middle of the night, so when I am ‘sleeping’ in my grave, I suspect that I will awaken every few years.
DEATH:A GOOD CAREER MOVE
If, like me, you are going nowhere slowly, money’s too tight to mention, or you are in a dead-end job, or you failed to catch the buses to love, happiness, prosperity, and success, perhaps death would be a good career move. It has certainly worked wonders for the formerly flagging fortunes of Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Marilyn Monroe, Jim Morrison, and Elvis Presley, to name but a few individuals who have managed to successfully revive and /or maintain their careers without breathing a single breath. In fact, just consider the following lyrics:
“Suicide isn’t painless
It hurts like Hell
It’s set aside for the rich and the famous
A little suicide sells” (Morrison/Carter)
YOUNG PEOPLE AND ALCOHOL
It is both contemptible and lamentable to find most students and twenty-somethings who attempt to obscure their insecurities and self-loathing by herding together at week-ends to numb their senses with large doses of alcohol. Oh yes, we can put it down to ‘part of growing up’ or ‘just a phase that we all go through’, but there is something terribly lacking in individuals who sacrifice large chunks of their spare time in the pathetic pursuit of getting drunk. If certain folk could only see themselves when they are intoxicated or visit a few hospital wards to witness the consequences of alcohol abuse, they would realise that there is nothing remotely sexy, cool, or glamorous about over-indulgence in alcohol consumption.
In Belfast for example, you are nobody unless you are seen to be raising a glass with your mates in a club or wine bar at the week-end. Many poor souls like to surround themselves with so-called mates so that they can forget who they are and what they are, and invest precious time and money into so-called socialising. How often have you witnessed such ‘sociable’ people end up bickering, bitching, snarling, and fighting both amongst themselves and with anyone who dares to look at them the wrong way. So much for being sociable. Frequently, a group of dreadfully insecure mates go out, they cling to one another for dear life, they don’t befriend anyone else, and nobody is welcome to penetrate their sad little circle. There is scarcely a sadder sight in the world than scores of young people, some in their teens, queuing impatiently at a bar, desperate for a quick fix of poison. These people must truly hate themselves.
ACTION FILMS
Is it my imagination or do most cinema-goers get terribly bored if someone hasn’t been killed or violently attacked within the first five minutes of a movie? Precious few people, and they are precious, seem to care much for plot or dialogue. Action films cater for sad, impressionable chavs who draw inspiration from the on-screen Neanderthal nonsense, and replicate the behaviour in their own pathetic lives. Is it no coincidence that thugs like violent movies and own dangerous dogs? You can learn a lot by the ‘taste’ or lack of it that many people possess in films. Any bloke who likes Green Street or any Guy Ritchie/Vinnie Jones rubbish is someone I would not want to associate with. The trouble is that many silly little girls are just so inclined to cling on desperately to hard-drinking, hard-living, Billy Hard. It is a recipe for blood, toil, tears, and sweat. When will you people learn?
Movie billboards such as Miami Vice which portray the cops wearing dark glasses, and Mr and Mrs Smith, featuring the deliciously sexy couple of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt lend such films a glamour and gloss they scarcely deserve. Anyone who thinks that such movies are cool and sexy should pay a visit to a few hospital wards to witness the glamorous consequences of violence. Lying in a bed with your body all mashed up is far from cool or sexy. Action films ultimately cater for the brain dead who are easily amused, in other words for people with a single figure I.Q.
THE BRITISH MIDDLE-CLASS
The British middle-class is a herd of selfish, suburban swine. These middle-aged, moralising, disapproving people are intoxicated with selfishness. The tell-tale signs are when they appear on a television news bulletin, letting off considerable steam about such earth-shatteringly important subject as lack of funding for the arts or Britain ’s association with Europe . Life and death issues such as health service waiting lists, the homeless in their own towns, and famine in the Third World just don’t seem to register on their Richter Scales. It is only self-interest that arouses the British middle-class from their smug complacency. When I see a middle-aged, middle-class individual getting agitated about Europe or interest rates, it is clear where their priorities lie – firmly with themselves.
Rising crime and drug abuse in the inner-cities is of no concern for the selfish middle-class. Even the laws of the land were constructed with emphasis on the interests of property and capital, at the expense of personal safety for every individual. Let me explain. An individual who kills someone through drink-driving or who violently assaults someone is likely to receive a lighter sentence than someone who defrauds a fat cat’s big business organisation. It is fundamentally clear that money is more valuable than human life if the British judicial system is observed.
The biggest travesty is the National Lottery, a poor man’s tax, in which the nation is hoodwinked into spending money on the unattainable goal of a lottery win in order to raise funds for charity. The trouble is that the charity in question tends to be an opera house or a theatre – the staple leisure diets of the middle-class, which is so self-centred that they seemingly can’t help themselves, and certainly has no intention of helping anyone else. The only redeeming feature of the National Robbery is that it is not screened on ITV. Can you imagine what would happen if it was: ‘you will find out what this week’s bonus ball is right after this commercial break’.
That nice young man, Johnny Rotten, in his autobiography ‘No Blacks, No Dogs, No Irish’ accurately points out that the British middle-class are competitive in all the wrong ways: ‘our lawn is better manicured than yours’. What motivates most middle-class people is the need to have a better suite of furniture than their friends and relatives. If I ever become that contemptibly materialistic, I hope that someone will finish me off humanely.
THE BRITISH PRESS
The British public get a raw deal from their newspapers. In the gutter lurk several tabloids ( or ‘red tops’) which don’t educate or inform their readers. Their bog standard formula revolves around outrage and screaming headlines, hysteria, panic, sensationalism, trivia, and gossip – some of it malicious. Tabloid journalists are spineless creatures who hide behind their desks and computer screens, and pour merciless vitriol on anyone that they take exception to. To coin a phrase, these peddlers of hate rarely allow the truth to get in the way of a good story. I remain perpetually perplexed as to why so many people sell themselves short by purchasing tabloid rags that offer precious little besides bingo, tit*, and sport. Gutter newspapers cater evidently for people with a single-figure I.Q.
At the other end of the journalistic spectrum, we find the pseudo-intellectual newspapers that overwhelm their readers with words and phrases that barely belong in the English language. They word their articles in such an incomprehensible way that only an ‘octo-champion’ on Countdown could remotely understand. While tabloid newspapers are not shy at dumbing down their apparently dumb readers, broadsheets deliver the kind of gobbledygook jargon which belongs only in the confines of a university lecture theatre. Worse still are the week-end supplement magazines that the broadsheets offer. These supplements contain the biggest amount of filler material that one could possibly imagine, with a plethora of advertisem*nts about exclusive offers and holidays so unaffordable that clearly the readership must consist of mega-rich celebrities and drug dealers. My biggest objection to all British newspapers is that if one removes all the advertisem*nts and all the opinionated columns, we are left with precious little ‘news’ items.
Finally, in the middle of the market, are the sermonising, self-righteous, holier-than-thou Daily Express and Daily Mail, which have a collective tendency to pander to the xenophobic little Englanders and ‘Nimbys’. There is only one thing that British newspapers are good for, and that is for eating fish and chips out of.
BRITAIN ’S CONSERVATIVE PARTIES
It is going to be pretty tough deciding which political party to vote for at the next general election, when you consider the following: The Conservative Party are keen to improve the national health service, boost the economy, reduce crime, and revive the education system; while the Labour Conservatives want to improve the national health service, boost the economy, reduce crime, and revive the education system. Alternatively, the Liberal Democrat Conservatives seek to improve the national health service, boost the economy, reduce crime, and guess what, revive the education system. Oh it is going to be an almighty struggle choosing which political party that I will not vote for, when they each have such wonderful plans for the nation. Perhaps I should just pull a party name out of a hat and make the same kind of informed decision that Joe Tabloid and other voters arrive at. If truth be told, the political party that wins most votes is the one with the most convincing liars.
There used to be a predictable cycle in British politics whereby the electorate turfed out the condescending Conservative Party every five years or so in favour of the equally patronising ‘we know what’s best for you’ Labour Conservatives. Nowadays, however, that trend has been replaced by a more tolerant electorate who are prepared to suffer the same patronising Tories in government for about eighteen years before foolishly allowing the condescending Labour Tories to deliver on a fraction of their manifesto promises over a similarly long tenure in office. I am always amused when a political party explains away its’ general election humiliation by suggesting that they failed to get their message across properly. This is a classic example of denial, when the reality is that the voters were only too painfully aware of their ‘misunderstood’ message. Is it also not frequently the case that the people who complain about the government are the very same voters who put them in power in the first place? I guess that ultimately the binge drinking, tabloid reading, soap watchers that comprise an unhealthily high proportion of our ‘informed’ electorate get the government that they so richly deserve.
THE TRIUMPH OF NEW LABOUR
Margaret Thatcher has reportedly claimed that her greatest legacy is ‘New Labour’ – a political party that abandoned its’ socialist roots and re-invented itself in the 1990s as an electable, catch-all party. Whereas the 1972 Watergate burglary was a bungled affair which would impact gravely upon the Nixon administration which sponsored it, the Labour Party’s theft of Mrs Thatcher’s ideological clothes was a spectacularly successful heist. Gatecrashing the Conservative Party in the mid-1990s and helping themselves to the Tories’ wardrobe has enabled the Blairite Labour Party to pose in such right-of-centre clobber as ‘tough on crime’ and less tolerant of immigration, not to mention a vigorous prosecution of American foreign policy, waging war on anyone remotely associated with international terrorism.
Consequently, Tony Blair stormed to an overwhelming endorsem*nt at the general elections of 1997, 2001, and 2005, while ironically he progressively became less popular within his own political party. The ‘rabbit caught in headlights’ Conservative Party has therefore been obliged to contest the last two of these elections on a ticket even further to the right of New Labour. The trouble was that the Tories, in their quest to establish clear-blue water between them and New Labour, effectively became a thoroughly unelectable, thinking man’s British National Party.
Learning from the debacles of 2001 and 2005, the ‘new improved flavour’, reconstructed Conservative Party under the leadership of former Etonian and ‘man of the people’, David Cameron, is almost a throwback to the left-of-centre ‘wets’ of the Heath administration of the early 1970s. You have to feel some sympathy with the Tories. They have been so hopelessly outflanked by New Labour that they have been denuded of all their traditional clothes that they don’t even have a union jack left to wrap around themselves.
Tony Blair may have the appearance of a sanctimonious vicar who misled his country into the Vietnam of Iraq, but to be fair to Tory Blair, he is an accomplished parliamentary performer who has presided over momentous peace initiatives in the formerly insoluble ‘Irish question’ that tormented the likes of Gladstone, Lloyd George, Heath, Thatcher, and Major.
TONY BLAIR AND WORLD SUMMITS
It must be very awkward and embarrassing for the British Prime Minister when in conversation with the likes of the President of the USA . Imagine the following: “Well Mr.President, how’s things in the USA these days?” “Yo Blair, we are pioneering new medical research and leading the world in scientific and technological discoveries. So, Blair, how’s things in Britain ?” “Er, well, we are leading the world in darts and snooker.”
Dear oh dear oh dear. This once great sceptred isle of ours with its’ historic triumphs at Agincourt, Blenheim, Trafalgar, Waterloo , and Rorke’s Drift to name but a few. Nowadays, our bragging rights are confined to a couple of blokes rowing fast up and down a river, or cycling very fast round a track. How the once-mighty British Empire has fallen.
ENGLISH-NESS
I think that it was that nice Napoleon Bonaparte who once dismissively described the English/British as a nation of shop-keepers. That flattering portrait can now be replaced by a thoroughly modern interpretation. The English nowadays can be defined as a nation of quarter-finalists. If there were a Third World War, I am supremely confident that England/Britain would be defeated narrowly and gallantly at the quarter-finals stage.
ENGLAND WILL WIN THE NEXT FOOTBALL WORLD CUP
When England toiled recently in Germany against the mighty Paraguay, the supremely talented Trinidad And Tobago and against the awesome Costa Rica , we were informed that the poor dears could not cope with the heat. Only weeks before, we were all assured that England were champions-elect, yet it now appears that any possible England success at the World Cup finals is at the mercy of the temperatures. However, is it not the case that almost every world cup in recent memory, perhaps with the obvious exception of the 1966 world cup in sunny England is played in hot, summery weather? How then do England propose to win a world cup played in hot weather? A recent home humiliation at the hands of Spain was played in freezing February in freezing Manchester , so I would venture to suggest that England cannot play in cold weather either. Perhaps England ’s best chance of future glory in the world cup is if the tournament is played indoors as a five-a-side competition.
I have no doubts whatsoever that England will finally emulate their success of 1966, if the following is realised: penalty kicks are banned, Portugal and Sweden fail to qualify for the World Cup finals, and the following are disqualified during the tournament: Argentina , Brazil , France , Germany , Holland , Italy , and Spain .
EAST EUROPEANS IN BELFAST
I recently found myself asking why so many people were migrating from eastern Europe to sunny Belfast , when it suddenly struck me that they wanted to find somewhere grim that would remind them of a communist country. Oh come on, Belfast people, don’t be so bloody touchy.
HISTORY LESSON
Why do so many people like to escape into the fantasy world of Star Wars, Lord Of The Rings, James Bond, and Harry Potter, whilst neglecting the real world of history? Is it because if we were to look closely at the sad*stic Romans, Vikings, Nazis, loyalist terrorists, and Irish republican terrorists, we might see ourselves in the mirror?
IRISH REPUBLICANISM AND POLICING
It would be hugely inaccurate to suggest that Irish republicans don’t care much for justice. However, as a movement allegedly committed to seeking justice for all the people of Ireland, Irish republicans have struggled enormously to come to terms with the need to support the administration of justice in Northern Ireland, and in particular with the obligation to sign up for policing. A quick rummage through the last century would reveal that Irish republicans have always been hostile to policing, be it in the guise of the Royal Irish Constabulary, the ‘B Specials’, the Royal Ulster Constabulary, and even the Police Service of Northern Ireland. The relationship between the Garda Siochana and Irish republicans could hardly be described as particularly cordial either. One could consequently be forgiven for drawing the conclusion that Irish republicans would much prefer a vigilante, wild west state. It is all very well expressing serious reservations about the neutrality of sectarian police forces imposing British law and order in the six counties, but the Irish Republican Army’s own track record at policing its’ own community scarcely suggested the presence of a non-sectarian organisation keen on protecting the civil liberties of the individual or of the promotion of human rights.
Irish republicans like to explain away their own cavalier administration of justice by suggesting that there was a war going on, but surely does this analysis not apply to the British forces? If the Provos felt justified in bravely shooting their (sometimes unarmed) victims from behind in their dirty war, then why should the British forces be expected to treat the conflict as if it were a cricket match, with strict guidelines on fair play. The insurgency of the Irish republicans necessitated counter-insurgency from such shadowy organisations as Special Branch, the SAS, and MI5.
Gerry Adams and the Irish republican leadership are not shy at re-counting their stories of brutal treatment and rough-handling in Castlereagh detention centre and elsewhere, but since when did the Provos win awards for conscientious community policing? While the European Court of Human Rights was pronouncing a guilty verdict on the British administration of justice in Northern Ireland in the 1970s, the policing practised by Irish republicans was considerably worse. ‘Suspects’ seized by the Provos or INLA were not read their rights, were not granted a solicitor, were not afforded a jury trial or right of appeal, and if they were lucky they were merely forced into permanent exile or shot in the knees. The unlucky ones were executed, some of whom were never to be found again and allowed a decent burial. Even dogs get a decent burial, but not victims of IRA ‘policing’. With a track record like that, who are the Irish republicans to complain about injustice and to lecture everyone else about policing?
SMILE: THE GREATEST ALBUM THAT NEVER WAS
In 1964 Brian Wilson, Beach Boys’ singer and songwriter, had a breakdown which resulted in him advising the rest of the group that they should find a replacement for their touring commitments, while Brian would devote his energies to composing new material and working in the recording studio. Initially Glen Campbell was drafted in, before the likeable Bruce Johnston was appointed as Wilson ’s touring substitute.
America ’s answer to the Fab Four entertained audiences worldwide with their simple pop formula based around pretty girls, cars, and surfing (an activity that was actually foreign to them, except drummer Dennis Wilson). Meanwhile, the supremely talented Brian now found the time to stretch the group’s creativity as he sought to surpass The Beatles and the sounds of ace producer Phil Spector. First of all, in response to hearing the ground-breaking album ‘Rubber Soul’(1965), Wilson resolved to reply with an artistic statement of his own. Wilson’s riposte was the incomparably beautiful ‘Pet Sounds’(1966), a record that blended pop harmonies with a wide range of instruments performed by the best session musicians that Brian could assemble. The emotions of hope and despair that represented ‘Pet Sounds’ did not meet with unanimous approval in the American album charts, but critical acclaim on both sides of the Atlantic persuaded Wilson to launch into an even loftier project which, it was anticipated, would blow away all competitors, Beatles included.
Recruiting a young man called Van Dyke Parks to provide the lyrics, Wilson feverishly assembled ideas and songs for his next album which had the working title of ’Dumb Angel’, before evolving into ‘Smile’. The trouble was that as Wilson was scaling his artistic peak, the substances that had stimulated his creativity on ‘Pet Sounds’ were now undermining his progress. Hashish and LSD were beginning to wreck havoc in the mind of an already emotionally fragile individual. Wilson , traumatised by a bullying father, and struggling to sell his new ideas to the rest of the Beach Boys became progressively unbalanced. Consequently, Brian conceived a plethora of plans for ‘Smile’, only to abandon them soon after, including flirtations with health food, the desire to produce an album of sound effects, and also a record devoted to humour. Even Van Dyke Parks, author of ‘far out’ lyrics, was embarrassed by Wilson ’s unhinged, ‘far out’ behaviour.
Then, as Capitol Records and the rest of the pop world rubbed their hands at the imminent release of ‘Smile’, Brian pulled the plug on the album, and its’ release was scrapped as Wilson mistakenly feared that the issue of ‘Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’ was too good to compete against. What a tragedy that Wilson ’s ‘teenage symphony to God’ was shelved, surfacing in part in the anaemic ‘Smiley Smile’. Tracks such as ‘Good Vibrations’, ‘Heroes And Villains’, and the formidable harmonies of ‘Surf’s Up’ would have kicked the hyped Pepper into touch. After losing his nerve, not to mention his marbles, Wilson and his group absented themselves from the Monterey pop festival, and while The Beach Boys soldiered on with varying degrees of success, Brian retreated to his bedroom for the best part of ten years, even installing a refrigerator in his bedroom so that he would not have to venture far for a snack.
By the mid-1970s, Wilson was a beached whale in self-imposed exile who had missed the bus. Yet, remarkably, three decades later Brian is back on stage basking in the glory of the long overdue release of ‘Smile’. If eccentricity and genius are two sides of the same coin, then Wilson, ace composer and producer, possesses that penny. What summed up the erratic behaviour of Brian during the ‘Smile’ sessions was his method acting approach to the recording of the ‘Fire’ segment of a suite entitled ‘The Elements’. Wilson instructed the classical-trained musicians to adorn toy replicas of fireman’s hats during the recording of ‘Fire’. However, when Brian subsequently discovered that a nearby building had burned down simultaneous to this extraordinary recording session, Wilson decreed that the ‘vibes’ were ominously bad, and ‘Fire’ joined other ‘Smile’ tapes in a vault ,out of harm’s way. My favourite observation of Brian Wilson, wayward genius, emanates from the late Derek Taylor, publicist for The Beatles and The Beach Boys, who explained that being in the company of Brian was akin to the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party: ‘have some tea; there isn’t any’.
STAR TREATMENT AT THE CARPHONE WAREHOUSE
How appropriate that Carphone Warehouse should sponsor Pondlife Big Brother, a show in which four pieces of white trash practise the ancient English custom of bullying a foreigner. Rumour has it that Anonymity Big Brother will next be sponsored by the British National Party. As for Carphone Warehouse, well, they offer ‘star treatment’ according to their commercials, but the experience of many customers suggests otherwise.
Many people who have had the misfortune to be seduced ( some might say, ‘misled’) by the promise of money back offers from Carphone Warehouse have discovered to their horror how many hoops that they have to leap through in order to claim back money from half line rental deals. For example, a customer is required to send in a 4th or 6th bill for his or her first redemption payment. However, it transpires that the required bill is number 5, not number 4, because Carphone Warehouse insist that they need the 4th airtime bill, which is bill number 5, and not bill number 4. You can imagine the confusion for many customers. If for some reason, the subsequent cheque fails to reach the customer, and he or she has to allow about fifty days for the cheque to arrive via Portugal, then a re-issued cheque is required, and a customer is expected to wait a further 60 to 80 days for the cheque. It can take many frustrating months for a customer to get their money ‘redeemed’. Even a change of address for redemption claims is not mentioned to customers unless they happen to ring an advice line and find out, while little or no written information is available to help customers understand the redemption procedure. Furthermore, two claims for money back that are sent in the same envelope are treated as one claim with only one cheque being paid instead of two, while faxed or posted bills, that are missing a page are also rejected. Now, the question is, would you regard that as star treatment?
SMALLTOWN BOY
“The place where I come from is a small town” sang Peter Gabriel in ‘Big Time’. My home town is a fairly unremarkable locality, possessing some areas that are nicer than others, some shops that are better than others, and some people that are nicer than others. Like many small towns, it is merely a haven of small town and neighbourhood gossip. It actually reached the stage where I could not bear to be out walking along the footpath without imagining a passing motorist pointing out to his or her passenger: “there goes whichyoumacallit, y’know, the son of whichyoumacallit, who lives next door to whichyoumacallit, and who used to work for whichyoumacallit.” In small towns, you cannot break wind without everybody knowing about it – not that my wind-breaking antics are particularly newsworthy. What sums up my home town are the following lyrics from Morrissey, who else: “The rain falls hard on a humdrum town; this town has dragged you down.”
WELCOME TO MY WORLD
Do you despair of the foul-mouthed, attention-seeking teenagers and twenty-somethings in our society? Are you dismayed by the talent-less stars and celebrities who infest our magazines, newspapers, and television screens? Are you demoralised by the greed of fat cats and self-important sporting and musical ‘heroes’? Are you angry about how taxpayers’ money is wasted by careless politicians who think that ‘fact-finding’ all expenses paid missions to places in the sun are more crucial than health service waiting lists? Are you losing the will to live, weighed down by the injustice in your life? Then, welcome to my world. Make yourselves at home, pull up a chair, while I go and stick the kettle on.
AGONY AUNT
Good cover versions are hard to find, but among my favourites are The Byrds’ interpretation of Bob Dylan’s ‘My Back Pages’, and also The Jimi Hendrix Experience’s re-working of Mr.Zimmerman’s ‘All Along The Watchtower’ is awesome, while UB40’s cover of Jimmy Cliff’s ‘Many Rivers To Cross’ deserves special mention. Another cover version which I have a particular liking for is Grace Jones’s version of The Pretenders’ ‘Private Life’. I really ‘dig’ Chrissie Hynde’s lyrics, which Jones, ably assisted by ace Jamaican duo of Sly and Robbie, does tremendous justice to.
Consider the following gems: “You ask my advice; I say use the door
But you’re still clinging to somebody you deplore
And now you want to use me for emotional blackmail
I just feel pity when you lie; contempt when you cry”…
“Your marriage is a tragedy; but it’s not my concern”…
“Your sex life complications are not my fascinations”
“Sentimental gestures bore me to death
You’ve made a desperate appeal; now save your breath”.
Oh yes, when I hear from anyone that “my girlfriend and I are going through a bad patch” or “my boyfriend has walked out on me”, I just want to quote the above lyrics. Pouring your heart out to me about your relationship problems is like going for a lovely walk and then returning to tell a cripple that your poor legs are hurting. Unless your loved one is terminally ill or your children are starving, then don’t give me your drama queen routine. If after visiting a children’s leukaemia ward, you still feel that you have a hard luck story to share, then you are very welcome. Otherwise, dry your tears and ‘save your breath’ before you ‘bore me to death’ with your ‘sex life complications’.
GUNS VERSUS BUTTER
In a country of finite resources, there is the classic economics dilemma of guns versus butter. It is outrageous in the extreme when politicians choose to divert a nation’s finances towards armaments ( both nuclear and conventional) whilst neglecting to ‘feed’ its’ people with improvements in healthcare provision and other such essentials as education and transport infrastructure. How obscene must it be for someone’s taxes to be distributed towards weapons of mass destruction – that phrase again. Oh yes, there are weapons of mass destruction to be found in Britain and the United States , though ironically not in ‘evil’ Iraq .
I cannot for the life of me comprehend the wisdom of investing in useless space exploration and armaments programmes whilst there are homeless on our streets and starving people in the world that our nuclear weapons are supposedly constructed to ‘protect’. How would a family feel if the breadwinner spent his or her wages on buying one or two guns for ‘self-defence’ and not spending money on groceries, a new car, a holiday, new furniture, or home refurbishment? I guess that ultimately, the acquisition of more nuclear weapons is merely an exercise in bragging rights – a recurring theme, in which one country boasts about its’ strength. Thus, ‘a strong defence’ is merely a status symbol for a head of state. Have you ever had a conversation where you relate to someone the fact that you went on holiday to Spain for a week only for the other person to reply that “well, we’re going on a Caribbean cruise for a month”. Similarly, imagine telling someone that you have just bought an apartment in Turkey , only for the other person to respond with “well, we have just bought a big villa in the Bahamas ”. The arms race is along similar lines in that at a world summit, one head of state claims that his country has 150 nuclear warheads, only for the other one to state “ well, my country has 300 nuclear warheads”. Perhaps defence spending is not intended for the preservation of national security but is purely for vanity motives.
UNCLE SAM
Try reciting the ‘hallowed’ names of Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, Bill Clinton, and George ‘Dubya’ Bush without smiling or breaking out in laughter. It’s hard, isn’t it? I guess that ultimately the American people get the President that they so richly deserve….. and to think that they regard themselves as a super-power! I don’t quite know if it is funny or just plain frightening.
CHILDREN IN NEED
When I pay my taxes and National Insurance contributions, I am donating to children in need – in theory. In reality however, the government chooses to divert my generous funds to armaments to slaughter other countries’ children in need. If I had a pound for every time the government wasted taxpayers’ money, I could take an early retirement. The tragedy is that if our taxes were not squandered, but invested in healthcare, education, and eradicating poverty, there would be no need for celebrities and lesser egos humiliating themselves each November for children in need.
CRIME DOES PAY
Isn’t it appalling to find hard-working people living on top of each other in high rise blocks and/or in streets of unremarkable terraced houses while fat cats and other criminals live in the detached houses of suburbia. Let me dispel any illusions. For every ten grand houses on the edge of town, you will find at least one occupant who doesn’t make an honest living. Nobody ever got rich from working 9 to 5, Monday to Friday. However, let’s not pick on the poor, defenceless drug dealers and other entrepreneurs in their Chelsea tractors and Spanish villas. The biggest crooks in our society are the Premiership footballers, golfers, snooker players, tennis stars, pop stars, and so-called television entertainers who earn ( what a ridiculous word) obscene amounts of money. That we all allow the massive disparity in wages between the haves and the have nots to persist is the biggest crime of all. To add insult to injury, celebrities are afforded greater legal protection, via the best solicitors and barristers that money can buy, in contrast to us lesser mortals. Only in America , after all, can a ‘star’ get away with murder or even child abuse. Not only does crime pay, but it reaps handsome dividends.
LOSING MY RELIGION
I grew up a Protestant. Like most people in this wonderful world, my religious affiliation was inherited at birth, and not the result of an informed choice from all the available ‘brands’. I no longer consider myself a Protestant. My ‘road to Damascus’ moment was when so-called Protestants in Northern Ireland gunned down a young Roman Catholic postman a few years ago for no other apparent reason than he was a fenian who dared to date a Protestant, and thus ‘contaminate’ her. The shame of him. Worse still were the so-called Protestants who blocked youngsters en route to primary school, not to mention those lovely Christians who picketed the Roman Catholic church at Harryville, Ballymena. What a lot of people do not realize is that the word ‘protestant’ derives from the fact that in the 1520s, some early followers of the theology of Martin Luther made a declaration in which they proclaimed or ‘protested’ their faith. The trouble is that ever since, they have been protesting against everybody else’s faith. Surely the Protestant loyalists of Northern Ireland are not the modern representatives of Martin Luther, let alone the ambassadors of Jesus Christ.
I have also become increasingly disenchanted with the loyal orders, so-called. I admit that I have got a kick out of parading along the middle of the road behind various bands, and if they are honest, other ‘Christian’ loyalists ought to admit the same. Parading however is just an ego exercise in which thousands of n’er-do-wells feel like they are king for a day, swapping their blue collar jobs for their Sunday best, as they wave at all their family and friends. Let’s face it, the word ‘parading’ basically means showing off, or in the case of Ulster loyalists, it is a thinly disguised show of strength to their neighbours. A Glaswegian once told me that an orange parade in his city was just an outing for Glasgow ’s underclass. These ‘Christian’ loyalists seem to think that Protestantism is a badge of pride in which former glorious battles are celebrated. However, the sectarian murders in Ulster , not to mention the numerous killings in Europe since the sixteenth century would suggest that there is much shame attached with Protestantism. Protestants were just as responsible as Roman Catholics for the various outbreaks of anti-semitism in Europe over the last few centuries.
Where the biblical precedent is for loyalist parades, I have never located in frequent searches. There is nothing in the life and teachings of Jesus Christ to resemble the practice of triumphalist parades. The nearest the Lord came to ‘parading’ was riding into Jerusalem on a donkey, followed shortly after by exiting the city with a cross. Why on God’s earth do so-called Christians have to march behind drums en route to worship at God’s house? It is pseudo-militaristic nonsense, which distorts Christianity. It is as if too many people are consumed by one particular Christian hymn, which states “ onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war”. Just to prove how ‘Christian’ the loyalists of Ulster really are will be their predictably hostile, ‘Christian’ response to my Lundy-like treachery.
What is even more baffling is the reluctance of Unionist politicians to share power with former terrorists. Forgiveness is at the epicentre of Christianity. Did Jesus Christ not forgive his executioners whilst he languished on the cross? Only forgiven people (by God) can forgive. Those ‘Christians’ who cannot or will not forgive their erstwhile enemies are clearly not forgiven (or saved) people, as they frequently seem to suggest. Some people’s Christian outlook is a distinctively selective one. Loyalists should take a leaf out of the book of Gordon Wilson (whose daughter was tragically killed in the Enniskillen war memorial bomb in November 1987). Gordon Wilson can forgive the murderers of his Mary, which makes him a thousand times more worthy follower of Jesus Christ than the Ulster Protestants who don’t forgive.
Of all the loyal orders, the Royal Black Preceptory is the least controversial one. For the sake of simplicity, it is basically a cross between the Orange Order and the freemasons, with perhaps a stronger emphasis on biblical scriptures than the Orange Order or the Apprentice Boys of Derry. However, the Black Institution requires its’ ‘Sir Knights’ ( a ludicrous form of address) to complete eleven degrees which contain 37 Old Testament references and a paltry eleven New Testament references. Therefore, with 75% of degree work based on the Old Testament, the Royal Black Preceptory seems to focus more on Judaism than on Christianity. Consequently, God is severely mis-represented by this pick-n-mix approach to his Word. Most alarming of all, only three of the 48 biblical references are drawn from the four New Testament gospels. This is scarcely compelling evidence of an organisation focusing on their Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. Yet, central to the Christian faith is the realisation that no-one comes to the Father except through the Son. It seems to me that Ulster loyalists like to fuse and even confuse worship of God with adoration of the Queen, yet God reminds us that he refuses to tolerate any ‘competitors’ or idols, while it would be important for the loyal orders to remember that Jesus Christ is the king of kings. Every other monarch, be it Elizabeth II, William III or whoever is a pale imitation. It is my humble opinion therefore that the loyal orders and ‘Christian’, God-fearing loyalists of Ulster are skating on extremely thin ice!
LOYALIST BAND PARADES
Speaking as something of an authority on the contentious subject of loyalist parades in Northern Ireland , it is first necessary to divide parades into three different categories. Firstly, there are the major annual commemoration parades, such as the 12th of July for the Orange Order, the Relief of Derry parade for the Apprentice Boys of Derry and the Last Saturday in August demonstrations for the Royal Black Institution. Secondly, there are church parades, usually organised by the afore-mentioned groups, and finally there are band parades, which don’t involve men (and women) in regalia carrying banners behind a band. The controversial Drumcree ‘march’, or non-march as the case may be, is actually a church parade, no more, no less. The trouble with the Irish Republican constituency, who may have aspirations of undermining or at least challenging Orange culture which tends to suffocate the life out of normality each tension-strewn summer, is that the opponents of loyalism, or those with major misgivings about parades, have been focussing their antipathy on the first two categories which are sacred to the so-called loyal orders. This approach is erroneous because it has enabled the so-called loyal orders to suggest that their routes to church worship, albeit via marching,are being threatened. If the Republican anti-loyalists had a greater modicum of sense, they would concentrate their energies on loyalist band parades.
As a witness of numerous Friday night/Saturday night band parades, I must state that these spectacles could not be further removed from Christianity, the Reformation, Protestantism, or even patriotism and loyalty to one’s country. These band parades, without exception, are an unseemly display which are a far cry from Trooping The Colour or a Remembrance Day parade. Totally devoid of dignity, loyalist band parades are merely a playground for bands with paramilitary associations, led at the front by their flag party of fifteen or sixteen-year-old, gum-chewing slu*ts. The bandsmen are frequently ne’er-do-wells who swap their boiler suits and betting slips for some grand-looking band uniform which boosts their self-worth for a few drunken hours. They play tunes which celebrate loyalist terrorism and glorify paramilitary heroes, all belted out by a thunderous drumbeat from a semi-intoxicated drummer who wants to let the neighbourhood know that his lads are currently marching down the middle of the road, cheered on by their WKD drinking teenage hangers-on, dragging down the colours of Glasgow Rangers Football Club, which they wear. It is continuing support and public fear of these unedifying spectacles which keeps Ulster loyalism in the gutter, regrettably.
It is hugely ironic, but working-class protestants were badly neglected by the Ulster unionist bourgeois patricians in ‘bygone days of yore’, who failed to improve their standards of living, preferring instead to hoodwink them with the consolation that ‘at least you’re better than the fenians’. However, now that the ‘fenians’ have all the rights that they have yearned for, the increasingly neglected loyalists realise that the Orange card is not what it was cracked up to be. After all, what good is there in playing in a so-called ‘Kick The Pope’ band, if you are struggling to put dinner on the table for your children?
POLITICS IN NORTHERN IRELAND
The political squabbling in Norn Iron has been described accurately as ‘the dialogue of the deaf’, in which various parties and politicians simply wish to get their points across whilst refusing to hear their opponents’ arguments and reasoning. A good friend of mine once said that it was no accident that God gave us two ears, but only one mouth, as listening is more important than talking. It is impossible to understand anything and anyone, especially your political opponents, if you do not listen. The day that Northern Ireland’s motley crew of politicians choose to listen to one another’s hopes and fears, or at least to respect one another’s electoral mandate, is the day that the six counties joins the rest of the twenty-first century world.
Until that happy day, I would urge the struggling Ulster Unionist Party and the SDLP to consider a re-alignment with the Alliance Party in Stormont at least so as to ensure that they are the largest designated bloc. Of course, these parties have major differences over parades and post-primary selection for schoolchildren, but a Stormont coalition would allow these parties to out-flank the rejectionists and vetoists in the DUP and Sinn Fein.
CHRISTIANITY
Most young people would do very well to discard their posters and adulation of flawed, unreliable heroes, pin-ups, and ‘stars’, and focus on the flawless, totally reliable saviour Jesus Christ. While we all let people down at various times of our lives, without necessarily meaning to do so, the Messiah fails nobody. Christianity is a good thing. What spoils it is Christians. Like many people, when I hear someone with a Northern Irish accent starting to rant about God, I want to run for cover.
IN THE NAME OF GOD
One of the massive ironies of human history during the last two millennia is that such phenomena as the Crusades, the thoroughly unpleasant Spanish Inquisition, the religious wars in Europe in the sixteenth century, the English Civil War, the religious conflict in Ireland and Scotland in the seventeenth century, to name but a few, were all perpetrated in the name of God. The participants in all this bloodshed along with the noble savages who drove the Africans, the Aboriginies, and the Red Indians off their native territories will be perhaps shocked to discover on Judgment Day that their Creator is far from happy with the blood, misery, pain, and torture inflicted apparently in His name. I have been reliably informed that the last act of violence that was acceptable to God was the sacrifice of His son on the cross in AD30. Those Christian, Jewish, or Muslim ‘fanatics’ who have subsequent to this date attempted to justify their murders as being God-sponsored are sadly mistaken.
THE TRAGEDY OF THE FIRST WORLD WAR
Did you know that Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany used to wear a glove on one hand and carry a glove in the other hand in a vain attempt to conceal the fact that one of his arms was considerably shorter than the other? Did you also know that the Kaiser was Queen Victoria ’s favourite grandson, and that he was present at her bedside when the Empress of India breathed her last in January 1901? Are you also aware that the German emperor rode at the head of the procession alongside his cousin King George V at the funeral of his disapproving uncle, King Edward VII, in 1910?
Bob Dylan once sang of the ‘Great War’ in ‘With God On Our Side’ that “ the reason for fighting, I never did get”. The tragedy of the First World War is that the massive carnage in the mud and trenches of both western and eastern Europe was the result of a family ‘tiff’ between cousins Wilhelm II, King George V, and the Russian Tsar, Nicholas III. What was even more tragic was that the likes of Adolf Hitler stepped in to the void to denounce the ‘November criminals’ for allegedly stabbing the undefeated army in the back. The little Austrian corporal went on to persecute Germany ’s Jews, many of whom had served alongside the Viennese tramp in the cause of the Kaiser. The rest is history.
THE MYTH OF THE SECOND WORLD WAR
We like to congratulate ourselves that the eventual victory of Britain (the United States and several other countries helped a bit too) prevented the absolute annihilation of European Jewry in the Second World War. However, British national governments barely registered a whimper when the Nazis started persecuting German and Austrian Jews long before the outbreak of the global conflict. Britain was even most reluctant to accept Jewish refugees fleeing Nazi terror. Yes, the Allies belatedly liberated the death camps, but not before an approximate six million wretches had perished. However, what prompted Britain ’s reluctant participation in the hostilities in September 1939 was Germany ’s violation of Poland ’s sovereignty. The irony was that at the ‘successful’ conclusion of the bloodshed six years later, Poland was forced to surrender her independence to the equally villainous Soviet Union .
THE MYTH OF ANNE BOLEYN
Good old ‘Harry of England’, Henry VIII, was a fat, horrible hypocrite. Like many a noble monarch, Henry liked to sleep around, whilst demanding that his spouses be devoted to him alone. Two ‘unfortunate’ souls, Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard, failed to live by the tyrant’s rules, and lost their heads – literally. Catherine’s crime was that she had an appetite for members of the opposite sex as many other healthy teenage girls would have.
Meanwhile, Anne Boleyn has remarkably been treated even more kindly by history. True, it was tragic that she should be cruelly taken from her infant daughter, the future Elizabeth I. However, what few people seem to realise is that Anne was public enemy one, a conniving, manipulative, and scheming individual, whose affair with the king had wrecked his marriage to the long-suffering, but hugely popular Catherine of Aragon. There was also the small matter of incurring the wrath of the Pope with the result that the king was excommunicated, and obliged to form his own church of England. Anne Boleyn would probably have made very good tabloid fodder – such was the resentment that she aroused. Perhaps her untimely death and martyrdom was a good career move.
THE MYTH OF SERGEANT PEPPER’S LONELY HEARTS CLUB BAND
I remain amazed that so many self-appointed expert commentators, not to mention our Mums and Dads, regard Sergeant Pepper (1967) as the greatest album of all time. For a start, it is not even The Beatles’ best album. Some people prefer its’ predecessors, Rubber Soul (1965) and Revolver (1966), but this young man believes that the so-called White Album (1968) and Abbey Road (1969) are the Fab Four’s best album offerings. Furthermore, Pepper was not even the best album to emerge from EMI’s Abbey Road recording studios in 1967. That distinction belongs with Pink Floyd’s debut long-player ‘The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn’.
Furthermore, as an exercise in psychedelia, Sergeant Pepper is hardly choc full of mind-expanding material. Commentators will predictably point to Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds, but Paul McCartney’s products such as Lovely Rita, Getting Better, and When I’m Sixty-Four are about as ‘far out, man’ as a Max Bygraves album.
Of course the album’s cover and montage of assorted heroes and anti-heroes merit much praise, but as an exercise in hype and myth, Pepper is the ultimate let-down. True, there are musical highlights, such as George Harrison ’s ‘Within You, Without You’, which sounded absolutely nothing like anything that had been inserted on a pop album before. Similarly, ‘A Day In The Life’ is an equally unique track that sounds like nothing recorded before or in four decades since. The greatest tragedy of Sergeant Pepper is that the outstanding double A-side,Strawberry Fields Forever and Penny Lane , were omitted from the album. Pepper is yet another good record from an excellent group of musicians, nothing more, nothing less.
YOU CAN’T SEE THE WOOD FOR THE TREES
Dear reader, you know that you are a bandwagon-jumper, who can’t see the wood for the trees if you think that Elton John’s ‘Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me’ or ‘Candle In The Wind’ is better than the hugely under-rated ‘I’ve Seen That Movie Too’ (from Goodbye Yellow Brick Road ). Furthermore, you can’t see the wood for the trees if you think that Eric Clapton’s ‘Wonderful Tonight’ is a superior love song to the ace guitarist’s ‘Let It Grow’. Similarly, you can’t see the wood for the trees if you think that’Wonderwall’ or ‘Don’t Look Back In Anger’ are better Oasis tracks than the sorely under-rated ‘Columbia’ (which is infinitely better than anything The Beatles ever did). Finally, you definitely cannot see the wood for the trees if you think that ‘Nowhere To Run’ by Martha Reeves and The Vandellas is a more appropriate Vietnam War track than The Byrds’ ‘Draft Morning’, from their outstanding Notorious Byrd Brothers album.
Yes I know that tastes differ and beauty is in the eye of the beholder,but judging by how so many sheep shuffle in behind the ‘humble’ views of one or two critics, it is clear that a lot of people can’t see the wood for the trees. There is a whole host of outstanding records out there that didn’t get the credit that they deserve, while others are hyped beyond their worth. Perhaps the best examples are the tracks ‘The Last Resort’ and ‘Pretty Maids All In A Row’ which are considerably superior to The Eagles’ ‘Hotel California’, while Simon And Garfunkel’s ‘The Only Living Boy In New York’ is at least as good as ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’. Even Pink Floyd’s ‘obscure’ album ‘Obscured By Clouds’ is nowhere near as inferior to its’ successor, ‘The Dark Side Of The Moon’, as some shallow experts would have you believe. Excuse my arrogance, ladies and gentlemen, but too many of you lovely people are swayed by the limited playlists and downright favouritism and neglect of numerous disc-jockeys.
Mind you, the worst culprits are the legion of Monty Python fans who draw attention to such highlights as the Lumberjack Song, the Dead Parrott sketch, or The Life Of Brian. It is patently obvious that these bandwagon-jumpers have not watched a single one of Flying Circus’s forty-five 30 minute episodes. As I said, you just can’t see the wood for the trees, especially the larch.
MONTY PYTHON’S FLYING CIRCUS
Nearly every October there is a documentary or newspaper article that celebrates the anniversary of the first reluctant BBC broadcast of a ground-breaking comedy show which Michael Palin wanted to be called Gwen Dibley’s Flying Circus. The continual Transatlantic fascination with the pythons baffles me. They are horribly, nasty, slimy creatures. I much prefer cobras.
CAREER ADVICE
My humble advice to any youngsters with aspirations of a life of luxury and wealth is to try pursuing one of the following occupations: Marry Paul McCartney, and then divorce him a few years later, thereby winning a substantial compensation settlement for having to endure his singing on a daily basis. Alternatively, to those of an artistic inclination, why not paint a mural glorifying an Ulster terrorist group and then receive a generous donation from the government to remove your original artwork. Failing these enterprises, a career as a grossly overpaid footballer, golfer, tennis player, or a rock star is an absolute must. In the last resort, perhaps making a dishonest living as a television star would be desirable.
FREE NELSON MANDELA
There are few records that have impacted outside of the pop charts. One obvious exception is John Lennon’s debut solo single ‘Give Peace A Chance’, famously recorded during a Montreal hotel bed-in in 1969, which became a great rallying cry for the anti-Vietnam War campaign. Similarly, John and Yoko’s ‘Happy Christmas (War Is Over)’ was another anti-war anthem which struck a chord with thousands of people worldwide after its release in 1971.
Another ‘historic’ single which has never quite received the recognition that it merited was a track from a group by the name of The Special AKA, called ‘Nelson Mandela’. Before this song squeezed into the Top Ten in early 1984, I had never heard of Robben Island ’s most famous ‘resident’. I suspect that most of the post-sixties generation had never heard of this remarkable man who two decades earlier was the ‘black pimpernel’ – South Africa ’s public enemy number one. However, this song, the brainchild of Jerry Dammers (a sorely under-rated composer and keyboardist) created greater awareness of the plight of Mandela in captivity and also of the sufferings of the black majority in the apartheid regime. Dammers assembled a host of artists, including ex-members of his former group The Specials, and The Beat, as well as recruiting Elvis Costello as producer for this rallying cry for the anti-apartheid movement.
Having never heard of Mandela before, I suddenly found this ‘terrorist’ being frequently mentioned on news items. Eventually, he was released in February 1990, and before long, this notorious ‘criminal’ became his country’s President, impressing the world in his role as international statesman. An uptempo record from 1984 cannot be under-estimated in its impact upon Mandela’s eventual release. Of course this ground-breaking single was dwarfed several months later when Bob Geldof and Midge Ure assembled an even more illustrious roster of pop artists to record the Band Aid single, ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’, which was a worthy response to the news reports of famine in Ethiopia. Who knows, perhaps pop music can indeed change the world…..a little bit.
LIVE 8 – THE SEQUEL
I am pleased to announce the exciting news that there will be another concert extravaganza to raise awareness of poverty in the Third World . At the time of going to press, the assembled entertainers include: Tony Blair on guitar; George Dubya Bush reciting poetry; Gordon Brown doing stand-up comedy; Vladimir Putin performing an organ recital; and a comeback appearance on saxophone from Bill Clinton. These ‘artists’ are performing in protest against the riches owned by the world’s wealthiest people: Elton John, Madonna, Bono, Robbie Williams, Paul McCartney, and Mick Jagger. If these egotistical fat cats donated half their undeserved wealth to the Third World, they would make poverty ancient history.
COMMERCIALISM
I find that there is something distasteful about mega-rich celebrities earning even extra thousands of pounds, endorsing various products in television commercials, where they are encouraging people considerably less well-off than themselves to part with their hard-earned money for a quick fix of a materialistic ‘high’, thereby going further into debt. There is something lacking in people who throw their scarce resources at unnecessary items of furniture and ornaments to make them feel good about themselves again…..briefly.
STOP YOUR SOBBING
If you are complaining about your job, spare a thought for those who cannot get one. If you are moaning about the lengthy building repairs to your house, spare a thought for those who are homeless. If you are moaning about only being able to go abroad once every year, spare a thought for those who can scarcely afford to put food on their tables. If your children are giving you a hard time, spare a thought for those couples who cannot produce offspring. If your loved one is upsetting you, spare a thought for those souls who have nobody to love them. If your bout of influenza is making you feel miserable, spare a thought for those people who are terminally ill. There are an awful lot of drama queens out there who need to dry their tears and count their blessings. As Ray Davies once penned: “each little tear that falls from your eyes, makes me want to take you in my arms and tell you to stop all your sobbing”.
ANGER
There are a lot of angry people about – even angrier than me. Are they not getting much sex either? There is something horrible about certain individuals who take great pleasure in raising their voice, playing the role of a drama queen and making some unfortunate wretch look small. I also find that too many people are very horny in their cars, wanting to beep furiously over nothing in particular. If I had a pound for every storm in teacup which is blown out of proportion, I could take an early retirement. I must concur with the abuse dished out by the late Graham Chapman in Monty Python’s ‘Argument Clinic’: To all you angry, frustrated little people “shut your festering gob, you tit, your type makes me puke”.
MOTORISTS
We all have our ‘moments’ whilst driving. My own grievances focus largely on the apparent reluctance, even refusal, of many ‘responsible adults’ to use their indicators whilst driving. Is it just ignorance or another bad-mannered manifestation of the ‘don’t give a stuff’ mentality that plagues our roads, footpaths, homes, and workplaces? To get to the point, this young man remains baffled why many drivers wish to keep their movements in their vehicle concealed from other road-users. Do you ignorant people think that I am a mind-reader? Indicate which exit at the round-about that you are planning to take, if you would be so kind. Adding more insults to more injuries, and yes I am feeling increasingly wounded, many individuals not only don’t indicate when they should, but horror of horrors, indicate when they don’t need to! Why, if the lane that you are in goes right only, are you indicating to go right? Even more ludicrous are the desperados who break the world land speed record when rushing through amber lights. Do these silly people expect the subsequent red light to stay red for an hour and a half? Those cretins who just have to overtake all and sundry are not driving their wife, who has gone into labour, to hospital. No, they are in a frantic hurry to be home in time for Coronation Street . Gosh, they lead such important lives. Oh, who will rid me of these turbulent motorists?
RUSH HOUR
There is no quality of life in sitting miserably behind the wheel of a car for what seems like an eternity, as traffic crawls along at what is ironically referred to as ‘rush hour’. My suggestion for Belfast and a few other British urban centres is that more businesses need to take the initiative (which is what business firms ought to specialise in ) and start their employees at earlier times in the morning. If we had more people starting at the staggered times of 6, 7, and 8 in the morning, there would be much less motorists all heading in the same direction between 8 and 9am each weekday. Consider the advantage of working from 7am to 3pm. Children could be ‘collected’ from school’, instead of killing time around shopping centres each late afternoon. There would also be an opportunity for a little shopping, which is denied anyone on the 9 to 5, Monday to Friday treadmill. I accept that this solution is far too crazy and/or sensible, but ultimately maybe several companies could be given a financial incentive to start earlier each morning, thus alleviating traffic congestion during the laughably-titled ‘rush hour’.
LIFE IS A PERPETUAL SHOWER
Like most semi-normal people, I get up in the morning, have a shower, go outside, and get soaked going to work in a shower. I get to work. My colleagues are an absolute shower ( and some of them need a shower). When I go out for lunch, I am in another shower. When work is finished, I go home in yet another shower, and on reaching home I settle down to watch the shower that masquerades as entertainment on television. I then go out in a shower and join the shower at the local pub where I shower myself with booze, before returning home in another shower. I then finish the day by having another shower.
THIEVES LIKE US
Every time that I step into a supermarket, an announcement immediately goes out in the store’s intercom: “could all security personnel return to their close circuit television screens at once”. I can no longer go shop-lifting, without fear of being watched and intimidated. What is this society coming to? Worst of all, supermarkets are just a social club where folks meet one another and exchange progress reports on their lengthy wait for a hip replacement operation. Then you get those couples who wish to share their dietary habits with an unwilling audience: “love, don’t get those baked beans again; you know they don’t agree with me.”
IN THE SUMMERTIME
You can always tell when summer has truly arrived: yet another Brit gets knocked out in the quarter-finals at Wimbledon, the England football team lose another penalty kick shoot-out in a major finals, train drivers on the London Underground take industrial action, and French air traffic controllers go on strike. I cannot wait for the next summer holidays, when my family spend the large majority of our two-week vacation at Heathrow Airport .
HOUSE-SHARING
Sharing a house with other people is perhaps second only to raising children as the hardest task in the world. It is difficult enough to live with one’s family and loved ones, so how much more taxing is it to share a house with complete strangers? House-sharing is almost a rite of passage for all students nowadays. Perhaps the only consolation with sharing a home with strangers is how ‘educational’ it is to survive in the company of people from different walks of life, with their assorted attitudes and values.
I recently shared a humble abode in London, where a man moved in, who told me that he had been living in the Belmarsh area of east London for the previous eight years. Shortly after, a young woman moved in to our house. She apparently had been living in the Holloway area of north London for the previous six months. Not long afterwards, a gentleman who had spent the last twenty years residing in the Broadmoor area also moved in. Well, all I can say is that I don’t know what these areas are like or what kind of upbringing these individuals have had, but ever since they moved in, a lot of items have gone missing in the house.
GAMBLING
There is a myth that book-makers cannot be beaten. In fact, I have been helpfully told that you will rarely (if ever) see a bookie on a bike – more likely in a BMW or Mercedes. However, my mixed fortunes as a gambler have demonstrated that you can change your life for better or for worse by having a hopeful punt. I came close to cracking the code to the safe, but ultimately I painfully discovered that gambling is one step forward, two steps back. I used to win big, but lose very big too. I was not interested in fun bets of a few pounds. I failed to see the thrill in having a silly little bet on a horse in a twenty-horse race, whose chances of winning, despite its’ proven track record, was basically one in twenty. The best gambles, in my semi-humble opinion, ought to be based on studying the mathematical probability of various outcomes, whilst ignoring the obvious. After all, if the obvious certainties really were certainties, then book-makers would never win, which isn’t exactly the case. I concentrated on singles bets where I backed one football team to beat another or one horse to finish ahead of another. In these instances, there are two possible outcomes for the latter bet and three different potential outcomes for the former scenario. Anybody who invests in accumulators is badly mistaken. Such bets were deliberately created by book-makers in the safe knowledge that the chances of winning are remote. Those football punters who for example back a mere four teams to win their respective matches should understand that the mathematical probability of this, irrespective of so-called form, is 1 in 81, although you won’t find the clever book-makers paying out £81 if you invest £1. Even this smart alec discovered that backing one cricket or rugby team to beat another is not as simple as it seems. I mean, if it were a straight-forward path to riches, do you think that I would feel the need to write this book?
I could repeat the old cliché that my only gambling problem was losing, but the major trouble that I have with gambling is that one tends to end up adopting a gambling psyche in other areas of one’s life. Gambling on football, greyhounds, and horses is one thing, but taking gambles in the traffic lane on the motorway, or gambling with other people’s lives is far more serious.
TEXTING
God forgive me, but I despise people who are constantly texting, instead of talking. Texting was invented for teenagers and people who cannot spell. By the time that you have reached 22 ( and almost come of age) you should be growing out of texting and short trousers. Instead of which, I am surrounded by chavs who want to communicate in code to one another. Worst of all are the insecure types: “my boyfriend hasn’t spoken to me in fifteen minutes. I’d better send him a text.” Get yourselves a life!
OUR PERVERSE SOCIETY
No, I am not going to pour scorn on the breath-taking hypocrisy of tabloid newspapers that scream outrage at the activities of a paedophile on one page while sexily portraying a teen sensation on the facing page.Instead, I am more concerned at the growing trend in the summer of men wearing shorts, while women wear trousers. Can there be anything more perverse than men showing off their hairy legs, and women hiding their (hairy) legs? Worst of all, a heatwave gives license to all sorts of less than attractive people to go out shopping, scantily clad. Yuk! If that is not bad enough, we have to endure the sight of seventy-somethings wearing shorts, sandals, and grey socks. I look at these coffin dodgers, and I wonder to myself about how we ever managed to win two world wars. (Disclaimer: the United States and France helped a bit too.) I then realise the truth: that granddad, rest his soul, landed on the beaches at Anzio or Normandy in his shorts, sandals, and grey socks. The Germans took one look at him, dropped their guns, and quite understandably made a run for it.
LONDON BUSES
A lot of people are frustrated by the tendency for London buses to be absent for fifteen minutes or more and then at least two appear at once. I , moreover, am perplexed by the enormous amount of London buses that are all travelling to a mysterious destination, entitled ‘Not In Service’. Could anyone in Greater London kindly inform me where this location Not In Service is? I must protest in the strongest terms at the large volume of buses all apparently going to this Not In Service area, which is clearly under-populated, because there is never any passengers on this route. I would humbly suggest that London United runs fewer buses to the Not In Service locality, because the route isn’t very popular, and concentrate on providing more buses to more populated areas. I would also like to draw attention to the bus passengers in London and elsewhere who choose to sit in the ‘aisle seat’ and not occupy the window seat so that nobody can sit next to them. They even feel that their bags of shopping are entitled to a seat whilst others on the bus have to stand. To all those ignorant men and women who feel that their bus ticket provides them with not one but two seats, shame on you.
BRITISH MUSLIMS
Being a semi-brave soul, or perhaps a fool with a death wish, I shall dare to speak on the controversial subject of Muslims in Britain . What fascinates me is that a lot of Muslims leave Asia and the Middle East for a better life in Britain, where they have expectations of a home, a job or state benefits in the absence of employment, as well as all the legal protection and human rights that are apportioned to any British citizen. However, a point that needs to be addressed to all immigrants, particularly Muslims, is that Britain has expectations of its’ new residents. Britain expects its’ new members to obey all areas of the law, and among other things, new citizens are expected to raise their children in the education system in much the same way as everyone else is required.
However, what we find increasingly is that many people come to Britain and ghettoise themselves, and form de facto independent states within specific areas of various British urban localities. This ‘ourselves alone’ separatism manifests itself in such ways as Muslims wishing to have separate education in which their offspring are perhaps taught values and attitudes which are at a tangent from what non-Muslims accept or expect. Yes, I am all for individuality and not necessarily mind-numbing conformity. However, fears are being raised that the extreme fascist followers of Islam would gladly introduce sharia law to parts of Britain . What is worse is when the Islamic extremists, egged on by their liberal, politically correct solicitors, complain that Britain is a police state. It would be outrageous if it weren’t so ridiculous. Someone needs to remind the Muslim separatists that if they have misgivings about the administration of law and order and justice in infidel Britain, they can always take their chances in the arab states, north Africa, not to mention certain Muslim-dominated states of the Middle East and Pakistan where their collective record on human rights leaves even more to be desired than the imperfect administration of justice in the ‘police state’ of Britain.
This must not be perceived in the well-worn, tiresome terms of a rabid racist. Indeed, it is most regrettable that anybody who expresses concerns or even constructive criticism about the Muslim community is immediately scorned as a white supremacist. The tragedy is that until Britain ’s Muslims take a full role in contributing to their new country without divorcing themselves whenever it suits them, the far right in the British National Party will reap the benefits of increasing anxieties about the mentality and behaviour of British Muslims. Britain ’s Muslims must learn to be more tolerant of dissent, which is part and parcel of life in a free speech society. Our new citizens must be willing to listen to non-Muslims’ anxieties, and seek to address them. Wouldn’t it be good if British Muslims were prepared to enlist in our armed forces and police service? Continuing failure to do so only arouses the suspicion that British Muslims do not approve of our country’s rule of law and our foreign policy. This then begs the question of how can people ‘settle’ in a country where they are at loggerheads with that country’s requirements?
I would like to finish by paraphrasing the late John F.Kennedy by stating that British immigrants, most notably Muslims, should not ask what their country can do for them, but what they can do for their country. A continuing failure to address this question only serves to increase alienation and racial tension, which racists, of which I am emphatically not one, will take advantage of.
BLACK PEOPLE
I must confess that I am opposed to any further immigration to London . There are far too many people moving to the capital from Belfast , Dublin , Glasgow , Manchester , Newcastle , Prague , and Warsaw . They come to London , steal ‘our’ jobs, claim benefits, and before you know it, they will be opening their own corner shops. It must stop immediately. No seriously, I do admit to having previously been apprehensive of the flood ( according to the British press) of Commonwealth immigration that has ‘swamped’ Britain over the last five decades. However, on reflection, I must congratulate the successive Conservative and Labour governments for their open door policy. If it had not been for the foresight of many politicians in past years, Britain would end up with about two medals in the Olympics – one for cycling, and one for rowing. Black power, I say.
Have you ever wondered why black men are so much better at sprinting? I think that I have discovered the answer. Young black men spend their teenage years being chased by the police, so that by the time that they reach their twenties, they are experts at sprinting. It must be fun being a black person in Britain. I mean at night, when you walk along the pavement and you see one or two black youths approaching from the opposite direction, you think ‘well, I think I’ll cross the road and take no chances’. It must be amusing for black people to see all these terrified whites criss-crossing the road at night.
I once went for a job interview in a Brixton reggae shop. The proprietor asked me if I was a racist. I said yes I am. Before I could say another word, the ex-Jamaican threw me out. If he had let me finish my sentence, he would have discovered that I cannot stand white people.
THE MYTH OF IRISH REPUBLICANISM
I actually have enormous respect for such ‘bogeymen’ as Gerry Adams, Martin McGuinness, Mitchel McLaughlin, and even po-faced Gerry ‘Securocrats’ Kelly. For all their chequered past and controversial curriculum vitae, these individuals and many others in Sinn Fein are very competent politicians, articulate, intelligent and very capable administrators. One only has to observe the increasing popularity of the Shinners in recent elections to recognise that more and more people (albeit within the Roman Catholic ‘nationalist’ community) respect Sinn Fein as a bona fide political party that is dedicated to representing their voters and embracing, perhaps through gritted teeth, devolved democracy in Northern Ireland.
How times are changing dramatically: the DUP contemplating sharing power with ‘fenians’ and Irish republicans governing the six counties from within the confines of Stormont, the bastion of Ulster unionism. One’s head could be forgiven for spinning at the ‘historic’ turn of events in the two steps forward, one step back peace process.
My own sympathy, as a British republican, takes its’ cue from the socialist tradition of Irish republicanism as pioneered by Easter Rising martyr, James Connolly. I also accept that the Irish tricolour, an infamous symbol in the ‘north’, is as much orange as it is green, which demonstrates the apparent desire of Irish republicans to unite the erstwhile polar opposites, admittedly within the context of a thirty-two county state. Clearly, Sinn Fein strategy is now tailored towards building confidence in the sceptical unionist community that Irish nationalists and northern loyalists can govern together, so that one fine day Protestants in the six counties will come round to the belief that sharing power in a Dublin-based government would not be such a bad thing after all, especially given the mixed record of direct rule ministers, not to mention the fact that the Roman Catholic church’s stranglehold in the Republic of Ireland is much less firm than it notoriously was. Republicans could massively help their cause however by displaying a greater tolerance of parades, shedding their ‘not in my backyard’ territorial stance, whilst also making their own areas less of a cold house for Protestants by removing murals and flags which might render the Falls Road a tourist attraction but which collectively are not making the area very user-friendly for anyone other than Irish republicans. Both republicans and loyalists have a shared responsibility to de-militarise their territories.
What spoils Irish republicanism for me are the cleverdick comedians and liberal writers in England and the American-Irish who have misty-eyed perceptions of Irish republicanism. Is it no coincidence that the only major films about the conflict in Ireland, north and south, have been movies that seem to portray the poor, oppressed, loveable leprechauns of Irish republicanism suffering injustice at the hands of those big, bad, bloody, brutal British. ‘Flicks’ such as In The Name Of The Father, Michael Collins, and When The Wind Shakes The Barley would have you believe that only one community has ever suffered during the conflict. I look forward to the day when the Neil Jordans of this world shoot ( no pun intended) a film covering the atrocities at Ballykelly, Enniskillen, Warrenpoint, and Warrington . Yes I know that one person’s terrorist is another person’s freedom fighter, but there is nothing remotely glorious or heroic about exploding bombs in chip shops or shopping centres which kill women and children. Such ‘freedom fighters’ are on a par with paedophiles – or maybe this is an insult to child molesters.
