Saturday, May 22, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Hey readers – I was watching the news this morning and saw some fat cat chief executive from an airline moaning on about how the government over-reacted to the threat of Volcanic Ash. The airlines, he said, have lost millions and it was the government’s fault!
Well, I hate The Man as much as the next man. But I have to question the validity of the CEO’s points. Joe Public, as well as the airlines, has also found himself out of pocket thanks to the Volcanic Ash since some insurance companies declared that they would not pay out on claims made as the Volcanic Ash cloud was an ‘act of God’.
I thought it was particularly rich of the said CEO since the comments were made on the same day that the World’s Favourite [sic] Airline, British Airways, was grounded due to the industrial action of disgruntled cabin staff! Maybe if the airlines treated their staff better and they weren’t so reliant on jet engines then we wouldn’t have had so many delays?
I know that there is something of a blame culture prevalent in Cameron’s Britain and maybe that is a bad thing. But if someone does have to take the fall, who is to blame for Volcanic Ash? God, the government, the airlines? You decide. Here’s the evidence:
God - He sometimes gets fingered for massive natural catastrophes. Although, in fairness to the omnipotent creator, it is almost always one of His earthbound flunkies that points the finger of blame. Men of the cloth are usually quick to point out that a natural disaster has come about due to God being angered by homosexuals. Maybe this time, God was angry with Stelios et al. Or based on the fact that Northern Ireland seems to have been affected worse than the rest of the UK, He’s got the hump with the peace protest. While the Catholics and Protestants were at each other’s throats we didn’t have ash clouds did we? And, as the old saying goes, there’s no smoke without fire.
The thing is, the volcano is located in Iceland – so maybe it’s not the Abrahamic God kicking up the ash. Maybe it’s a Norse god like Thor or Odin. Those Norse Gods were a bit more involved on a day-to-day basis with their believers. Volcanoes, fires, storms – its all meat and drink to the Norse Gods. If we’re going to blame the Volcanic Ash on a God, then I say we Look North. I reckon the Old Testament God is probably kicking back and considering the Middle East and the rise of arabs.
The government – like a football manager must take ultimate responsibility for his team’s performance, so too must David Cameron and his sidekick Nick Clegg take the blame for ANYTHING that goes wrong. I saw chancellor of the exchequer George Osborne on the telly yesterday slagging off Alistair Darling’s budgeting skills. It’s a classic move, natch, it’s called getting your excuses in early doors Osbourne. Tough shit though, it’s your mess now and unless you turn things around quickly you’ll be the schmuck carrying the can. That said, the government cannot really stop volcanoes exploding and if they had let the planes carryon flying and one of them had crashed, then they most definitely would have ended up looking silly.
The airlines – well, granted they were told by the government that they shouldn’t fly their aircraft and they almost certainly didn’t cause the volcanic eruptions. Unless, that is, the Gods were displeased with the working conditions of the cabin crew. Joking aside, maybe that might have something to do with it. It strikes me that a good number of people are quite scared of flying and so they probably do quite a lot of praying that their flights are safe and successful. There’s probably a damn sight more praying that happens in airports than in churches these days, it all adds up doesn’t it?
Sunday, May 16, 2010
First up I'd like to say a Big Newsdesk 'THANK YOU' to Mr C.
He's what I like to call a Newsdesk Long termer. I'm not quite sure exactly when he became a captive of my posts, and I don't have time to check back to see when he first joined since I'm a bit pushed for time - I need to steal moments on Roger's laptop while he's out. Honestly, Mum (whom my love for has been rekindled and remains undiminished, despite her attachment to one of Lincoln's leading fascists) has got me locked up like Paul Sheldon in Misery.
I love Stephen King readers. I'd love to write a horror story. But I think that there's probably too much horror in the world - I suppose that's why I try to keep my posting upbeat.
I was going to write a post about serial killers today. Only I was going to call it Cereal Killers. I was inspired to write the post when I poured out my Snap, Crackle and Pop and, having reached the end of the pack prematurely thanks to Roger helping himself to my breakfast, the Rice Krispies became drenched in dust readers. I fucking hate cereal dust. It ruins things. I felt like murdering the old goat.
Then I started wondering what Josef Fritzl used to have for breakfast. I know that when we get Cheerios there's a lot less dust at the end of the pack and consequently I'm always calmer when I run out of Cheerios than when I run out of SC&P.
Then I thought maybe if Fritzl had the option of Cheerios maybe he wouldn't have been so damn moody.
Dave the roofer once told me that Cheerios were classified as a drug in America due to the various health claims made my the manufacturer's marketing department. It wouldn't surprise me one bit, Americans can't half be a bit dim.
Anyway, I logged on and Mr C had asked me what my "slant" on education might be, and to be fair and totally honest, I thought that would make a far more compelling post subject that my musing on breakfast and homicide.
They say that everyone remembers their first teacher.
Of course, they also say that those that can't do, teach.
Mind, loads of people have said stuff about teachers. They used to say that Mr Salt was a kiddy fiddler. I don't think he was, still that's the price you pay for being unnecessarily tactile. Paedophillia wasn't as popular when I was growing up as it is today. These days, if you believe everything you read in the Daily Mail, no one is beyond suspicion.
Well, not no one in my view, because there is no fucking way Mr C is a paedo and if anyone out there says he is, I'll come down on their ass with some judo shit. Man, that sort of thing drives me nutso.
If there was one teacher I wouldn't have minded being a paedo it was my maths teacher Miss Cuff. We called her Kiss Muff.
Thinking back now, it's hardly a surprise that I failed my O'level, I was a young man, full of raging hormones and sexual awakening. She was a woman of the world with an excellent head for figures. Turns out she was knocking off the the art teacher, which was amazing to me back then, since everyone assumed he was a gay thanks to his purple and pink shoes. Just goes to show, you can't just a book by its cover.
Which is exactly what my old English teacher used to say, and she had MASSIVE tits. Really, really big they were - well, they probably still are, I doubt she's dead she was pretty young. Unless she was murdered or killed in an accident. Or maybe contracted a terminal illness. Still, humongous bazookas. Good God, how I would have loved a piece of that action.
You can't judge a book by its cover, unless its got a pair of massive tits on it, then it's probably going to be a bit saucy. Or indeed, unless the cover has the words 'the bible' on, then it's probably going to be quite religious.
American Psycho is also a book that you can judge by its cover. Not the artwork, natch, just the words, they kinda give it away a bit. lol
I failed English O'level too. Amazing really, when you consider the quality of my writing nowadays. Still, if I knew then what I know now, things would have turned out a bit bloody different.
Perhaps if I'd worked a bit harder at school I wouldn't have ended up at Trent Poly. I might have made it to a proper university, I might have made it as a proper journalist!
Still I can't do, so maybe I should go into teaching. It can't be bad being a teacher. Knocking off at 3:30 and having all those holidays to boot. Lovely jubbly.
o-oh, I think I can hear some keys rattling in the door, I'd best be off before Mum comes in and hobbles me.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
It might surprise my new readers and followers to discover that I was not the most popular child in the playground.
I know, it’s quite staggering really. I wish they could see me now! An international jet-setting, eco-warrior, Citizen Journalist, blogospheric sensation.
I remember the day Steve joined our school. His family had moved up from London and his dad was a policeman. To say that he was not instantly popular with the other kids would be an understatement. He was bullied readers, bullied remorselessly. Steve Pigson the Cockney Copper Cock they called him.
For a while, much to my eternal shame, I relished the fact that the spotlight of juvenile torment had swivelled away from yours truly. However, even at that early age, I was a boy of compassion and high moral standing. I knew that I could not leave Steve to the face the taunts and tribulations alone. I stepped in and offered the hand of friendship, eventually.
For a time we were close. We even formed a special Crime Investigation Club. We had a Code of Practice, secret handshakes and special rules that we did not tell non-members. No one else wanted to join, in fact if the truth be told, the bullies used to take the piss out of our club. But it didn’t matter to us. We had each other and we had the club. We stuck together through thick and thin that term. It didn’t really stop the bullying. In fact I think if anything it might well have helped redouble the efforts of our tormentors.
Still, we made it to the summer holidays and hung out every day until Steve and his family came went to Ibiza to visit Steve’s dad’s sister and her Balearic husband. It was a long fortnight. When it was over, Steve came around to see me and he had the stupidest look on his face. He was practically bursting with excitement it seems. I thought that maybe he'd managed to get lucky with a girl or something.
Steve waited until Mum had left the house to go to her book club and then he went rummaging in his bag and pulled out a video tape. Steve had stolen the tape from his uncle’s den. He didn't say what it was, he just drew the curtains and popped it in the player. A grainy image appeared and so Steve twiddled with the tracking. Then in full focus was a large backside moving jerkily back and forth. The sound was low, but it sounded like someone was in trouble. Lots of shouting and grunting. Then I realised what it was!
It was hardcore German porn readers! I had never seen anything quite like it. Massive they were. Really, really massive cocks. I'd never seen a circumsized penis. I didn't think they were real! Sure, like any young boy I had seen a few interesting magazines in my time, but nothing like this. This was high grade filth. The kind of high grade smut that people would pay good money to see. And when I say ‘people’ what I really mean is ‘school boys’.
The Crime Investigation Club quickly morphed into The Jazz Film Club. A plan was hatched. We knew that Jeremy Clarke’s mum and dad had two video recorders because he’d recently tried to hawk pirated copies of Porkies from the Patel’s corner shop video hire. We knew this because he’d been under the close surveillance of the Crime Investigation Club! We knew this because we’d tried to buy a copy and he said that we “weren’t the right type of clientele”. Clarke was using his pirated Porkies to win friends and influence people, just not us... We decided to use the porn video to befriend Clarke, with the aim of using his copying facilities, meanwhile Steve and I would market and sell the German porn at a premium rate.
The plan ran surprisingly smoothly at first. Both Steve and I had wracked up a significant number of prospects in the new business pipeline and we soon become quite amazingly popular. All of a sudden the taunts had turned to jovial banter – our playground streetcred had gone through the roof. As each day passed by our stock rose.
Clarke’s recording services, however, were proving a sticking point. He insisted that he needed to borrow the movie and could only record the film over night while his parents were asleep. Steve and I might well have been stupid, but we weren’t idiots! We insisted that we needed to be present for all the recordings in case Clarke decided to cut us out of the loop and make his own sub-master tape. We hit an impasse. A seemingly impassable impasse, or so it seemed, until I came up with the brainwave of jumping on a bus to Nottingham to pick up some copying cables and blank cassettes. I would travel down at the weekend. Mum was due to be away visiting friends at the weekend, so Steve would sneak his parents’ video recorder around to my house and we’d stay up all night making copies of the porn.
Early on Saturday morning I jumped on the bus to Nottingham. In those days a trip to Nottingham from Lincoln was a major bloody deal for me. I’d been there before to see Notts Forest of course, but that was on specially organised coach trips. This time I was travelling solo to the big city. I’ll cut to the chase. After a day of hunting around the Broadmarsh and Victoria Centres, I finally found a specialist video outlet hidden away in the Lace Market that had the cables I needed.
I finally made it back home for early evening and called Steve. Steve didn’t answer the phone. I gave it a while, then called again. Again no answer. I sat in the front room surrounded by empty video cassettes and cables. I’d even got in a bottle of cider from a shop in Nottingham where they didn’t need ID. I called Steve again, although now it was getting late. There was no answer. By now, I’d had ¾ of a bottle of Olde English and I was feeling a little bit miffed, our plans were looking shaky. I got on my bike and I went around to Steve’s place to see where he was and what was happening.
The curtains were drawn as I approached, but I could see the flickering light from the television set. I knock on the door, I knocked again. I knock a third time with all my might and eventually a flustered Jeremy Clarke came to the door. I barged past him and into Steve’s front room, and there he was surrounded by video tapes with a guilty look on his face.
Unbeknownst to me Steve had done a deal with Jeremy. Jeremy had the video recording facilities, but more than that, thanks to his trade in Porkies videos, he could offer Steve new business channels into the local Scouts and the school just up the road. And with it, not just financial wealth but also the adulation that Steve craved so much. I had been cut out of the loop by greed.
And that readers, is pretty much how I felt when Nick Clegg sided with David fucking Cameron.
It was almost as sickening as watching Blackpool beat Notts Forest at the City Ground.
Still, Steve and Jeremy’s video empire came crashing down almost as soon as it started. Somehow Steve’s father found out about the taping business. Someone told him. I have no idea who it was. ;-)
Steve’s fair-weather fanclub slipped away faster than it had grown since Steve had taken some payments in advance for the video in order to buy the blank cassettes and the bullies wanted their money back plus interest!
Eventually, I offered the hand of friendship back to Steve. Even though he had the cheek to call me a snitch! I suspect Nick Clegg’s wounded liberals might one day forgive him. But not before the whole sorry mess comes crashing down.
Yours in politics
Yours in politics
Sunday, May 9, 2010
It’s funny really, but you know when you go on holiday and come back and you’re expecting everything to be different. Then it turns out that actually not much has happened?
Well, walk a mile in my shoes readers and you’ll appreciate that practically my entire world has turn upside down in my absence.
While I was away, it seems as though the country was gripped tight by the televised three-way mass debates of Clegg, Brown and Cameron. Now we find ourselves staring into the barrels of a well hung parliament. It's not the sort of return I was expecting to life back in the blogosphere.
I've been saving the duck-billed platypuses in Wollumbin Park. Literally a million miles from the corridors of power in Whitehall. Well, I was for a few weeks anyway, then if the truth be told, it all started going a bit mental on my ass!!!
Things between Dippy and myself took a bit of nosedive not long after my last post in late February. I always knew she was a free spirit, I suppose that was always part of the attraction. I’ve never been one to tie myself down and be content with humdrum existence.
Unfortunately, Dippy attracts the wrong type of person. Some people are only really out for themselves and she’s such a giving carer that she can easily get carried away. She got carried away behind my back several times at the camp with the self-appointed chief of our tribe – Shane Taylor.
I’m afraid I lost it a bit readers, I went a little bit mad.
I went into the jungle alone. Have you ever been at one with Mother Nature? I have.
I remember getting a stiffy after seeing Melanie Tate’s erect nipples through her swimsuit while we were on the beach on a school trip to Skegness. I needed to hide the evidence before Steve or anyone else noticed – I suppose in retrospect it might have stopped all the taunts about Brian Jacks, but I was too young to know any better. I hit the deck hard. I could still see Melanie of course, I couldn’t really stop myself. I dry-humped the beach readers. I felt like Mother Nature’s rapist. It was animal instinct.
But out in the jungles of Australia things were far more serious. I’d rather not dwell too long on events. Like everyone else in the camp I was taking massive amounts of psychotropic hallucinogens. It was like the Blair Witch Project meets Predator meets First Blood.
Apparently, they found me lying unconscious, dehydrated and half-starved on the outskirts of Lismore. I had fashioned what appeared to be a crude attempt at what my rescuers described as ‘a platypus superhero outfit’.
I was carted off to a hospital at after my rescue/discovery and stayed put for another week or two before finally Dippy and Shane came to visit. They identified me to the authorities and fingered me for what they claimed were some severe and frightening terror attacks on the camp.
No one could prove anything though and I genuinely didn’t really know what happened back in the jungle. In the end, the British embassy stepped in and I was given a one way ticket back to blighty. The irony of an Englishman being deported from Australia! lol ;-)
I’ve been convalescing up at Mum’s in Lincoln for the past week. So I suppose that even though things didn’t quite work out with Dippy, at least I have managed to patch things up with Mum.
Sadly, I didn’t get to vote in the elections since I’d been out of the country and missed registering. Still, the vote that I would have given to the Lib Dem’s Reg Shore would have been a complete waste of time, since the bloody Tories snagged the seat back off Labour by well over 1000 votes anyway.
At least Roger was in a pretty foul mood since his BNP candidate only managed just over 1,300 votes – a laughable sum that even Reg Shore managed to beat by a country mile. Still 1,300 fascists in Lincoln is still 1,300 too many!
Not sure quite how long I’ll be in Lincoln readers. I called Dan up and he said that unfortunately he’d not been able to keep my job open. So I guess I’m back on the old rock ‘n’ roll for a while.
It hasn’t been all bad news though. Dan’s partner has moved in and so my mortgage is being covered. Which is great. Apparently, Dan's falla is a former Muslim. It’s like that pair of gay guys on Eastenders isn’t it? Living in my flat! You should have seen the look on Roger’s face when I told him. Hilarious.
Also, upon my return to reality and life online I discovered a rather exciting email from Eddie Bluelights offering yours truly the opportunity of being given a good roasting on his blog. I want to send out a special shout of thanks to Mr London Street for bigging me up. Cheers MLS, you're a star.
Gotta go now, I'm using Roger's laptop to send this post. Ha! Another one in the eye for nazi goat. But he'll be back soon enough from visiting him own mother at the rest home so I'd best get back in front of the gogglebox. Dad's Army is on later - and I know for a fact that Mum loves that show, much to Roger's chargrin.