Silence is Golden

Sometimes a problem shared is a problem doubled

Life's Little Lessons Keep Getting Bigger

The lesson keeps coming round in different guises, with each time hitting harder, and for the entire time it takes to be learnt.

Dealing with the Devil

Talent that cannot be derailed, seems the bearer will try anything to take back control, even if they must self destruct.

Final Cycle?

How many times must I come round? Doesn't matter. I'm a relentless adventurer, I'll never give up.

The Guellotine of Life

Until whenever dear friends, may the guellotine remain suspended.

Mouth Off & Move On

The context of this I forget, though I feel it is important to put a problem to bed, and often the quickest way is to mouth off, and move on.

What is Life

What is life for, if it isn't to smile?

One For The Road

Before entering the M60, if approaching a green light, slam on the brakes - it might turn amber at any minute. If you make it onto the motorway, should you experience light rain and/or a warning of certain weather conditions being likely, please take one of the following actions:- a) Whilst maintaining speed drive into the nearest field, embankment, bridge or fellow road user. b) Bring your vehicle to an abrupt halt and reverse up the nearest slip road. If already experienceing the conditions warned of above, simply shut your eyes, grab the steering wheel and pray. In normal conditions, ensure all accidents are observed carefully by slowing to a stop. Otherwise, maintain a slow steady speed in the overtaking lanes; the rule of the road is of course - stick to the right!

Over One Hundred Years Gone and Still We Have Not Moved On

Choke up every morning walking down my road, poor Annie below me, walking head height into the thick of it.

Blind

As a species, on large, we care so little about anything that isn't immidiate, self centred and superficial. When are we going to realise that just past the ends of our noses, the things that don't give us immidiate satisfaction or ease, the things that may require a little hardship, effort or expense, but which benefit everybody and everything, in the long run, are the most fundamental of self serving causes? All it takes is the little things by all, not to be ignored. If that insight is lost, so are we. Especially as our own governments won't do the big things.

Black Eye Friday

In my day 'Black Eye Friday' was a monumental piss and punch up Friday before Christmas, not a month's worth of January sales in f##*in November!

Visionary

One day, they'll all look back at us in terms of how we treat the environment in the same we all look back at slave proprietors and how they treated the brothers

Drunk Hospital Guy

The panic was subsiding now, that bloody Michael Jackson film, damn thing had sent me under. The problem was; I’d mentioned tightness in the chest to medics on entry. They wanted to keep me in to run tests for a heart attack. I hadn’t had one, I knew that, but best to do as I was told. I wanted to see the consultant anyway, I’d had an attack alright; a panic attack, and I wanted to know why. They stuck me in the drunks ward for the night, it was a Sunday night. Perhaps it was the only free bed, or perhaps they suspected my condition had been drink induced. They’d have been right of course, post drink anx to be precise, that and watching Michael Jackson on the big screen rehearsing for the future concert dates he would no longer attend. I couldn’t sleep so I watched the box, there was no way I’d be in work tomorrow, I’d take the day off and catch up with some sleep then if required. The fella’s in the other beds were just everyday alcoholic types, functioning somehow, but in for related issues. They were on the whole pretty subdued, no doubt wanting a drink but fags would have to do. Amazing the call of the cig, up and down the stairs they went, no matter how badly they were, no matter how close to dying and in need of some clean living, they just seemed to be smoking themselves to death. The guy opposite me hadn’t stirred though, hadn’t even moved, I would have thought he was dead if he hadn’t been rigged up to various machines with wires and tubes. The nurses came in and checked on him from time to time, no doubt the same poor sods that had to bed pan and bathe the stinking fucker. I got the impression there was very little patience for most of us in the room, there was regular sniping at the nurses who rather than just grin and bear it, barked right back. No wonder, alcohol abuse has to be one of the biggest drains on the NHS, and it’s completely voluntary most of the time. Wham, the old boy opposite sat up suddenly and disorientated, his hair sticking up, that which wasn’t matted and stuck into deep red crusty clots about his head. He’d taken a shoeing or a few nasty falls, maybe the whole works, whatever, he didn’t feel the need to stay. Sliding his legs off the bed he dropped down, his feet slapping against the floor as he landed and his hospital gown flaying open at the back showing his bare arse. He shuffled about the place looking for his trousers, only to discover he was wired up. Pulling the various tubes and cables out of his body, blood splattered to the floor and an alarm started. The final tube was a urinary catheter, he looked ahead, gathering some courage and composure he took hold of the tube, pulling hard and carefully away, it began to stretch and then slowly eased out of his own tube, also stretching. It snapped out of his manhood and slapped him on the hand like a catapult as his knob jangled back into place. A nurse came rushing in then out again signalling for assistance, then back in again. Attempting to get the rambling chap back into bed the nurse let slip a few snippets of information as he grumbled at her to find his trousers. The nurse was telling him he’d been brought in a week ago, having been found unconscious from alcohol and beaten up on the street, he’d spent the whole week sleeping it off and hadn’t even stirred once, the trousers were gone, cut off him on admission, he had no trousers she explained. ‘Me fags, me fags were in those trousers.’ The chap next to me offered his fags out and said he’d go for a smoke with him, after losing quite a bitter argument about this, the nurses found the old gizzard a dressing gown and some slippers, they patched him up a bit and let him out for a smoke. My neighbour returned a few minutes later saying nowt, drunk hospital guy never did.

Green Eyes

The best thing drifting through summer's fresh haze, is Samantha when she fixes your gaze.

Dig Deep Whirlow 10K

We burst off the start, up out of the farmyard and onto a steep rocky lonning. It was hard going jostling for position up the ridged cuts of alternating grip, running water and slippery mud, we were going well though, myself and the brother in law, making up places and really attacking the first ten minutes. As we came over the brow and off the end of the lonning we joined a well defined and level path which widened slightly as it went off ninety degrees to the left. Runners spaced out a bit as it gently dropped downhill, in turn allowing for some welcome relief on the legs and the chest, Paul and I maintained a good pace. The path led us through some open ground, its bulbous borders neatly cropped like a golfing green. A playing field sprawled out to the right behind a neat little fence. The lead runners were opening up quite a gap up front, they plummeted down a steeper section of hill as it veered off to the right again, tree lined on the far edge, walled on the near. Their bobbing heads disclosed their progress behind the wall, it was a little disheartening, but then these guys were pros. Looking at my feet, they were lifting well and driving forward, it was all going grand; a flicker of enjoyment came over me and with it, an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. The feeling wouldn’t pass, I was here, exactly here, both times I had been here before, in a race, the same race, I had been dreaming. The dream had been this detailed, I’d been aware I was dreaming too, I’d been controlling my pace within it, pushing not to lose. I knew exactly what was coming and for the next two minutes I watched astounded as it unravelled in front of me. From the grade of gravel to the gradient, the colours and detail of the fence, the boulder three quarters of the way down to the church at the bottom, I’d seen it all before.

Supermoon

Even though I can't see the supermoon, I know something remarkable is there, because whatever this reality is, whether induced by simulation or not, it is a beautiful thing - surely then, that which is responsible has to be good. The only bad, simply must be entirely down to us. We can therefore, but live up to our reality and it's creator.

Land Rover Series 2 Episode 1

Nicky turned up at the door, he’d just passed his test, first time too, and quite a way ahead of the rest of us, he was the eldest in our year. He had a surprise, it was late for him to have come calling on a week night; we were from opposite sides of the river. He asked us all to come out and look so we did. At the bottom of the street, standing proud was a green Series 2 diesel Land Rover. Little did I know the adventures and the injuries that this thing had in stall for us over the next year or so, it was to be an awakening. I was allowed to go out for a spin, and so began a route around Warwick Road, Burger King, Scotby and Wetheral until there were no less than ten lads in the back of this damn Land Rover! All rammed in and sat on top of one another, not one of us belted up, there were no belts, we were so tightly packed in I don’t think it would have mattered though. So we took our first outing in the Landy, we went to Penrith, got out, walked in a circle and got back in again, then headed off back down the M6. It wasn’t until we were midway down the M6 on route back to Carlisle that there was a sudden grinding noise before the offside rear of the truck suddenly dropped. I agreed to open the back door of the Landy whilst we continued on our way in order to check if I could see anything. Indeed I could, the offside rear wheel was bouncing down the hard shoulder and off into the grass verge, sparks flared out of the back of us like a Phoenix tail feather and the noise was a great deal louder out there. I reported forward to Nicky who pulled off the road. We had to work quickly, if the police turned up and found thirteen lads and one Series 2 Land rover, Nicky was for it. We were about twelve miles outside of Carlisle still; needless to say it was going to be a long, dangerous, cold and muddy night for the unfortunate few who bolted over the fences and into the blackness of the fields. It was a long time before the tow truck arrived, fortunately the police didn’t. The remainder of us made it home later than the lads on foot. A few days later the mechanic said that it looked almost like the bolts had been tampered with, as Nicky looked on like butter wouldn't melt, they’d sheered right off; he’d never seen anything like it. It was to be the first of a few firsts for us and that Landy.

Withnailed

Having fished overnight for sea trout in Dumfriesshire, my brother in law dropped me off early morning in Kendal on his way back down to Manchester. I made my way to the Globe at the top end of the Market Street and waited. A fellow Withnailer, Dave Mitchell was on his way up to meet me from Manchester. An unlikely pairing, we didn’t really know each other that well, occasionally passing in the corridors of the Town Hall, or in the pubs of Bury, we knew the film however, and those who know the film will know that that is enough. Dave arrived with his folks in tow; they had given him a lift that far and would take us both on to Shap from Kendal before continuing their way up for a weekend in the north Lakes. What a hoot they were, we found ourselves a table outside the pub and on the stroke of eleven set to it, his dad laying off a little, on account of his need to drive, his mother the opposite, on account she didn’t. Dave and I both gearing up for a weekend in character kept them coming. It wasn’t until we got up to leave following some roaring good craic that my drunkenness, even by that stage became apparent, no sleep coupled with no breakfast, already making its mark on my sobriety, I felt like you do when you start drinking early Christmas morning, lucid, excited, but wobbly. My bag and tent fell from my shoulder as I leant down to pick up some bottled water; they took out the empty glasses on the table, and then caught its edge, flipping it, causing me to drop the catalyst, which then bust, spraying across the floor. The landlord took it all in remarkably good spirit, he’d taken good money already and it wasn’t even time for lunch. We were the first to arrive at Sleddale Hall, besides the Picnic Cinema crew, who had set up the tepees for the glampers, the screen, lights and film paraphernalia; there was a van up there, but nobody really about. We pitched at the bottom of the field and in against a dry stone wall, although the sun was out and the day clear, you’re so high up that the wind swirls, but we were nicely tucked in and sheltered below it. We cracked into the boxed red and ciders, I’d say we started as we meant to go on, but we’d already started. Dave had a screenplay signed by Bruce Robinson himself, he’d won at auction a few weeks earlier so we took it down to the ‘shooting fish bridge’ with some wine. There were people coming down off the hills to access the estate via the bridge and we were there to meet them. Lots of like minded eccentric types, they were the cult following, or at least a proportion of it. All ages, obscure dress sense, from as far afield as London and Kent, all quoting ‘Withnail & I’ in pockets of harmony. There was a good sense of camaraderie building already, and a huge amount of anticipation at being let loose, to be as flamboyant as you liked with a group of like minded people, all in the middle of nowhere. We were quickly beginning to establish ourselves as a couple of likely characters from Manchester who everybody met. So much so, that by the time we’d worked the glamping pool and headed back to our tents to get supplies, a cameraman was waiting there with a microphone and camera ready to interview us. We were flying by now, both in character, although it was difficult to work out who was the ‘Withnail’ and who was the ‘I,’ for us as well, I guess we both thought of ourselves as ‘Withnail,’ we struggled a little for the limelight whilst still bouncing off one another and thoroughly enjoying the kindred company. It was a good dynamic, we waxed lyrically about the film and the prospect of what was to come. The night fell and we got up top for the main event. I’m afraid the combination of no sleep, no food, apart from a raw hash cake, and way too much booze had taken its toll on me. I could hear myself from behind the big screen, and then mine and Dave’s giant ten foot faces were getting beamed onto that screen, just chatting effortlessly in the sunlight of the day, some bits of ‘Withnail & I’ after that, there were definitely lots of people, but then nothing. Next thing I knew I woke up soaking and shaking, wet right through in the rain, somehow, I got back to my tent and collapsed. Next morning Dave explained to me about the antics of his night, seemed we’d struck a chord and gained rather a celebrity status amongst the revellers, our interview had gone down a storm and the full 30 minute film had been shown prior to the headline movie. Dave had relished in his new found celebrity, everybody wanted to meet us, give us booze, cake, share spliffs and in Dave’s case have sex with him, even having been propositioned by a sexy young couple for a threesome. I alas, had missed it all, flat out asleep in my pop up tent by a wall, sopping wet and cold, the one chance I had at fame, washed away in the rain. Dave on the other hand had his night in the limelight; he’d been his ‘Withnail.’ I put his tent away as he laid pay – pebble dashing the tops of the soaked moss covered stones. Still, it’s quite something to walk out of a campsite and every single person on site know you by name, they were all calling out at me, walking with me, talking to me, and Dave became ‘I,’ whilst I myself had no idea why. We hadn’t thought about how we’d get to Penrith to catch our train, seemed we didn’t need to, we got a lift in a people carrier from Samantha and her brother, her husband and son in another; nice, professional, middle class forty something’s by day, they’d done it in style, had a barbeque and everything, couldn’t stop talking about our antics though, mine especially, best thing they’d ever seen. We swopped e-mails and they dropped us at the pub in Shap, promises of seeing each other again next year. I won’t even tell you of the pictures her son had taken; she had sent them, (some time after). The landlord served us and stayed with us as we drank, promising we’d have his roast dinner after a few more. We woke the local taxi driver with a call from his card, he said he’d be with us after a shower and shave, took him three hours. The food did look good mind, soon there were others eating from whence we’d came, others that knew our name! We agreed we’d be back, have a full roast next year, but for now, cider, ice in the cider.

The Matrix Unplugged

There is no way on this earth that our level of consciousness just evolved on this earth. Just look at our cohabiting species. Just look at our Jurassic predecessors - they couldn't even talk, and yet we make CGI Disney Pixar films about them, and stream it to our tablets.

Unplugged

There is no way on this earth that this earth can sustain what we use on this earth, it's got to be a simulation, either that, or its being imported from off planet.

21 Century Zombies

I know I'm different as I walk away with my office colleagues, them holding a plastic bag a piece containing their single insulated boxed potato with plastic cutlery, me just holding my insulated boxed potato and upset enough at that. It took some persuading to get them there; the market for their weekly hot potato. Twice as close, twice as big, twice as tasty and half the price, still, their concern at not paying a premium for the Clancy name; security in the brand, security in being the same, never against the grain - to mediocrity! Such a washing, not easily washed away, and so they snigger without looking, without trying or buying, why come here for anything, when there's a Tesco just that bit farther away?o

Rememberence

Thankyou, I truly hope we can be worthy of your sacrifice, and that one day we will learn from it and rid the world of war.

Clear as Day, The Day to Day

It's not about being badly done to, it's not about point scoring or getting the raw deal, it's so much bigger than that, for each and every one of you. This is your mission, nobody else's.

Trump - to fart or break wind

Could've been worse, could've been Clinton

Philosophy of Reality

This may not be the reality in which we truly exist, but then, if we're thinking about that, it is.

To The Rising of the Meek - Rant

The power wielding sociopaths want it all and they want it now, they don't care about you, me, or anything's future, they just care about themselves and their right now. That is why almost every country on the planet is at war. These greedy parasites are the primary cause of our failure as a species to remain on our evolutionary path. Problem is, their blind ambition lands them in positions of power. They are bleeding our planet dry and it will die. It's time we cared to the point that we took these people down and scrapped their weapons, I don't know how, but it's time!

The Bastards Have Ground Us Down

For years I've smiled and said hello to people on corridors, they mostly kept their heads down, now I too keep my head down.

Equal Times?

I'm living in a time where the 'equal' and opposite sex is allocated less work for fear of upsetting them, and where ethnic minorities make me nervous for fear of offending them, and the latter's through absolutely no fault of their's, or mine.

Over Exposure

The danger of being surrounded by arseholes is becoming one yourself.

Epiphany For The Striving Upper Middle Classes

Happiness is more important than a job title and the size of your house.

Peaceful Is Less People

My phone is just the way I like it, it never stops, never stops being quiet.

SSS

Not sure if I've got a cold, or whether it's from all the shouting, snoring and snorting.

Cycle of Neglect

If that's how you're brought up, that's how you bring up, and each generation getting a little bit worse.

Perspective Over Possession

6:30am this morning, 'Daddy, why do we all die?' Nothing like a reminder of you're own mortality to make you a better person, isn't that right any power hungry people!

The Key

Developing missiles is futile, developing minds is key.

Spiritual Retardation

Power hungry people, on the whole, still have a very long way to go.

Annie Aged 3

My heart is beating really fast, it's because I'm falling in love with you.

Police Van Rave

Living in a converted ex-industrial mill surrounded by mostly empty ex-industrial mills in the heart of Manchester’s canal basin certainly had its advantages. New Year for instance, New Year was a very good time to live within the immidiate proximity of a host of vast mostly empty crumbling buildings with their underground networks, hidden rooms, thick cool walls and unnatural darkness - a clubber’s paradise in the right hands. Jose was such a hand, or at least his right hand man was. Jose was the son of a Brazilian wood magnet. The magnet himself remained in Brazil whilst his boy learnt the ropes in Manchester, overseeing movements from a nineteenth century red brick industrial unit, vastly oversized for the business, complete with its own sweat shop on top. The problem was, his drug habit, well it was for him anyway, but it worked to the advantage of some of those who worked for him, provided they kept things ship shape and ran things properly. Daddy need never know if the books were good and the clients happy. Clever boys indeed, keeping Jose alive, and the business too. Everyone got what they wanted, even the old boy overseas, despite his ignorance. Perhaps he knew, maybe there were favoured sons doing well closer to home whilst Jose was kept out of the way. This could be down to his extreme drug use, or maybe it caused it. Who the fuck knows? What I do know is that those boys threw a party. Their one and only risk of the year; the hugest most spectacular underground illegal rave known to man, well certainly the post Hacienda generation of Manchester man. I’d been attending these parties over the years, watching their hosts learn and evolve year on year. I even got sucked to death by a beautiful Goth claiming to be a vampire on the first year. This was to be their final year however. I took the girl I would later marry, the mother of my child. It was not her scene, at all. This is a girl who took a sip of a mushroom shake in Thailand and became catatonic for days, a crumb oh hash cake alone put her to sleep for twelve hours. She learnt early that recreational drugs were not for her, neither were raves; pop and peeve, that’s our Sam. She must have really loved me following me into that! Not that much though, oh no, I reckon within an hour I was being dragged up and out of the guts of it and into the cooler corridors towards the surface. There was no-one around really as we neared street level and came up upon and through a delivery bay and out onto the road. There we hit traffic, under the amber glow of flickering street lights, three long wheel based Maria vans sat still and silent in the cold air like some kind of memorial to troubled times. A light snow fall disclosed the fact that they hadn’t been there long, the dry borders along their undersides was as defined as a citadel division. Without thinking I’d already started peeing all over the back door of the nearest van in some drug fuelled act of deluded defiance. It was early days in my relationship with Sam; I had a lot to learn. As the clock struck twelve and I progressed into the rapid eye movement of pissing, the van doors swung open and twelve riot police looked down upon me weeing on their step, my mouth open, left arm swinging, vacant as a monkey. Sam grabbed my shoulder and pulled me backwards still urinating. The boys in blue went straight through us like storm troopers, like we weren’t even there, marching as one to raid the rave. They had bigger fish to fry. She dumped me for the first time on New Year’s Day that year.

The Art of Children

Ten minute walk with Annie, we covered Jason Bourne, birth, life, death, pre-birth, post death, blood pressure, meeting the right person and love. The stand out quote; 'Well who will mummy marry, because we are married and I love you, you can only marry one person?'

Like Father Like Daughter

Daddy, why does your heart beat, and why does it keep beating? What's in your finger? What's in your stomach? What goes into your stomach? What comes out? What are the tubes called? What's in your eyebrow? What's in your forehead? What does your brain do? Where does the air go? Why?

Deja Vu

Is it that deja vu is more than just the result of a random or predictive dream of what coincidentally may or may not be our future, or similar such scenario? Could it be more than just confirmation that you are on the right path at the right time? Could it be that perhaps you have actually been there before and the familiarity of the situation triggers the feeling? Perhaps we are living a life in circles, round and round again until we get it cracked? Or perhaps our more unusual dreams and feelings of vivid familiarity are the product of a link between ourselves here and ourselves across multiple dimensions in similar but varying circumstances, and that these feelings come from living in, or being linked to lives that have lived through such scenarios elsewhere before, or, at that very moment. Or perhaps the cause is not nearly as far out, perhaps the feelings come from a clairvoyant link we have with our fellow man right here, right now, we dream each other's dreams, and recognise what others have already seen.

My Final Words on Human Devolution

Human evolution should have reached a utopian plateau by now, instead we spend billions on totally unnecessary nuclear armament as those who profit administer their control by prohibition and oppression of what should be our natural progression by pedalling paranoia and catering for brain inactivity through television and supermarkets. Like animals in a zoo we just do what we gotta do and get fed, life becomes easy, and if we don't use it, we lose it - therein lies devolution.

Legacy

I'll leave my plates behind, one day for somebody to find.

Parenthood... Again

Being a parent... easy transition for me; it's all about getting used to folk staring at you like you're an alien!

Avoiding Meltdown

Alcohol, the honey of the worker bees, keeps us sweet, keeps us on our knees. It pays for its drain, adequately, pays for the pain. Cheers!

Digging A Hole

What is it with the human condition, sitting on this God given beautiful planet, behind closed doors, arguing, pontificating, and working on our self inflicted quests to nothing.

God Didn't Gift Us Here For This

Too many intelligent people spoil the broth.

The Evironment Was Where It Was At

One of the greatest mistakes of my life was a career in law.

Please No

If we can burn fuel blowing leaves around so the wind can blow them back, and throw away plastic bags filled with plastic packaging in every household every day; oil cannot possibly be a resource we'd kill for - surely that is impossible.

Disillusioned 2

How can you be the best in something that doesn't interest you, not even in the slightest?

Disillusioned

Sometimes I just want to wash pots, at least I could be the best at that, take some pride in it.

Magpies

Remembrance Sunday 2006, St Albert’s square, Manchester, and a gang of Magpies cackle throughout the service and then the silence, like football rattles in the trees, antagonising the respectful. It was the first time I’d ever seen them there, dancing above the gentle crowds. One tapped at my window once, when I wrote of darkness, but again, only then; One for sorrow, Two for joy, Three for a girl, Four for a boy, Five for silver, Six for gold, Seven for a secret, Never to be told.

Vapour Tales

A thick fog of strawberry vapour mixed with another unusual tobacco like smell wafted over my head as I nursed a pint outside the Moor Top. There was a guy on a bench to the left of me, and a woman on another bench to the right; both were sat alone. The man in his mid fifties, grey and yellow in complexion from years of heavy smoking had his vaping hardware set out in front of him like some kind of assassin. There were chambers, tubes, barrels and bottles, all placed with the upmost precision, immaculately presented, as though by a clinician of a deadly trade. He looked like he was about to prepare what could easily be mistaken for some kind of gun designed to be dismantled for importation as stealthily as possible before being rebuilt ahead of contact with the target. I was surprised he didn’t have black leather gloves on, if he had, I may have upped and left had it not been for the aforementioned woman already sucking on a similar, fully assembled such contraption. Its lights buzzed in different colours on top of buttons lining its shank in varying degrees of sizes. The main body was made up of a box at the bottom of the shank onto which the woman held. It reminded me of an electric recorder I’d once seen used by a Celtic rock band. They were enthusiasts of the craze; ‘vapers,’ and it wasn’t long before they hit it off over the top of me. The old crane looked shrink-wrapped in leather underneath her blouse and makeup, and she croaked like a fella too. ‘What you usin?’ She asked. ‘Mod Like?’ he responded. ‘Aye, yeah, mod?’ ‘WetBox, uses a 3 ml juice box with an automatic feed, fits in nice under the atomizer, like to mix my own juices too, cheaper like. You mix?’ ‘Yeah, well my hubby anyway, 16-18 milligrams, loads a flavours, like me fruits me though, you?’ ‘I like a basic tobacco to start, and then I’ll continue to more intense mixes, as ah drink like eh. Ye know, 555, which is kinda nutty, or DK-TAB, kinda spicey, then maybe end with a fruit, or even an RY4, like a whisky, mainly the tobacco’s though. ‘Fuckin ell!’ ‘Aye!’ He laughed, knowingly, and disappeared into the clouds.

We've taken Britain back alright; back a long way.

'Foreigners' urged to come back as voteless generation qualified in innovation and finance refuse to man the new industrial revolution aiming to take on China.

Get Over It

A Ferrari is still a Ferrari, whether it's black, white, red or yellow. Its just a colour scheme, the DNA is underneath. A human is the same.

The Cumberland Royal Infirmary

Gateway for stars

European Referendum 2016

When are we going to realise that it's the world against the universe, to leave Europe would be a devolution to Houses.

The Kushoom Kolly

The Kushoom Kolly, or the Kush if you’re local, run by a wild haired Indian with a broad Mancunion accent named Farouk, a bit of a local character. You’d think you were going to be the victim of a drive by as you’re approached by his large blacked out Merc, until ofcourse he emerges from the driver’s window, half hanging out, his black leather jacket and long wild hair flapping everywhere as he blows the shit out of an ultra powerful horn. My brother in law’s cousin grew up next door to him and practically lived off curries, even ended up speaking Bengali. Farook is a top guy, never forgets a face and always looks after you once you’re known to him. I slipped in one night, late on after a skin full. A very nasty fight broke out and spilled onto the street, Farouk and myself tried our best to prevent one lad from being killed, we succeeded and I was in the fold. The police arrived shortly after, at the same time as my curry, they interviewed me as I ate, better that than eat alone I guess, Farouk never charged me, never charged me full whack since neither. Noel, Liam, Manny, all frequent the Kush regularly, as do most of my mates, mostly because it’s the last place on the Moor you can buy a pint at night. Anyway, there was this one night I’d been off the grogg for a month, but it was one of the lad’s birthdays, usual drill – Moor Tour. This consists of a tour of all of the pubs in Heaton Moor followed by a curry at the Kush, after the demolition of the poppadom, the curry is really just table decoration to keep licensers happy as the larger flows. It’s wise to keep it that way too, especially if you have an important engagement the next day, or anything formal really. Whilst the curry is delicious, I’ve never known one like for mid to late morning expulsion. My new lifestyle was such that my drinking was limited and would return to zero following this monumental occasion; I therefore stuck to five pints of larger for the whole night. This did however mean that I ate every single scrap of Chicken Tikka Vindaloo put in front of me. The following day, off we went to Quarry Bank Mill in Style for a family woodland walk, just the ticket to give the dog and daughter a run with the Mrs. I’d clean forgotten about the Kush curry and didn’t feel too bad after only five pints, there were certainly no warning signs of what was to come, no grumblings, pains or wind at all. It wasn’t until we were deep into the wood by the Ox Bow lake throwing sticks for Barclay that I remembered. It came on damn fast, I dropped the stick beside me and turned to the wife, doubling over slightly and holding my tummy, ‘I’ve got to go,’ running up the bank as beads of sweat formed on my brow, ‘Kush.’ At the top of the bank I stopped, looking side to side to survey my situation in mild panic. There were a great deal of bushes and lots undergrowth around me, problem was, we were at the honey spot so most of it was riddled with paths and exposed due to the lack of foliage that time of year. I bared left and ran up towards a hill where two parting paths drew a folk away from one another, opening into a triangle of woodland with a good 50 metres of central foliage, as luck would have it there was a large bush smack in the middle, so I clambered in, the branches allowing enough camouflage to hide me, the lack of leaves allowing me to climb right inside. Pulling my pants down around my ankles as I squatted down, there wasn’t a moment to lose, immediately upon reaching a squat position it came. Like a fire hose it sprayed onto the floor with a surprising amount of force. The relief was compelling, when I turned to look at what I had done, I couldn’t believe it had come out of me, what I can only describe as a luminous orange cow pat lay beneath me, the smell was more one of curry than anything else. It was then as I rose, the fact I had nothing to wipe my bum dawned on me. There were only decaying leaves coated in mud available, so I very carefully eased up my boxers up and over the sticky dampness and then applied my trousers in the same way. I set off back down to Sam with a very careful robotic waddle, straight legged, one at a time, slowly. Eventually I made it to the family, ‘wet wipe...wet wipe please;’ one of the benefits of having a young child in tow. Sam passed me the packet, they’d been ready to move on and so came with me as I made my way back to the bush in question to clean up. Obviously I couldn’t believe my eyes when the scene of the crime came into view, there appeared to be a number of people surrounding the bush, they were well off the beaten track, what an earth were they doing we wondered, this was insane, what were the chances, why that bush? As we got closer, it became apparent that these people were two relatively young couples, early forties maybe, proper Cheshire types, all kitted out in expensive yachting togs with Barbour’s and Hunters on top. Their well spoken voices appeared to be concerned as they coaxed something out of my bush. All of a sudden, a white longed haired Golden Retriever burst out of the bush with the most tremendous smile on his face, his tongue hanging out of the side of his open mouth as he bound towards his owners. His entire front and whole side were matted in bright orange slurry that caused his hair to clot in what looked like ginger dreadlocks, there was so much of it on him that it slithered off as he circled and greeted anyone in his vicinity. A high pitched shrill followed by some more shrieks and squawks filled the wood as one of the women shouted, ‘urgh,’ in absolute horror, followed by, in a kind of drawn out terrified and panic stricken enquiry, ‘what is it, what is it?’ The more they ran from the dog, the more he thought it was all a game and chased them down, jumping on them playfully and shaking, showering them in shit. I forgot about wiping my bum, Sam and I just kept our heads down, trying not to look, or laugh for that matter, it wasn’t easy I can tell you, they couldn’t get that dog in the river for love or money. We saw them again later on in the car park, seems the dog needed a little less coaxing into the back of the brand new Range Rover, poor sods, might have been better just to shoot him!

Maintaining An Extended Family Life

Fundamental differences in opinions can sometimes cause the relevant parties to behave abnormally when in each other's company, often fuelling the flames of distain. It is thus critical that, when parties are family, adversarial opinions must not be discussed if such an outcome is likely. Rather an attitude of generosity and patience must be portrayed. We cannot expect that we should all do things the same way, nor that our way is the right or only way. Alas, our own company would be somewhat boring after a sustained period, and this would be all we would have to look forward to.

Generational Evolution

They don't fuck you up, your mum and dad, They teach you how not to be, and lead by bad example.

The Complexities of Basic Man Return

Disagreeable facts cause opinionated man to leave the room so as to maintain opinion.

In My Humble Opinion

At the very least, opinion requires evidence, analysis, pragmatism, empathy, flexibility and diplomacy, now try explaining that to an opinionated fucker.

The Complexities of Basic Man continued

Contrasting facts spur man on to become even more opinionated.

The Basic But Complex Human

Most of the time if somebody doesn't like you, they don't actually know you, they don't take the time to get to know you because they don't like you.

Break The Cycle

Without meanness, there may be less bitterness; Without bitterness, there may be less jealousy; Without jealousy, there may be less anger; Without anger there may be less spite; Without spite there may be less malice; Without malice there may be less judgement. Without all such things, they may never come out in our children.

Botany Bay

I once visited. Had to pay to get in. Couldn't wait to get out, felt like it had aged me 5 years when I eventually did. A visit to Botany Bay is not just a foot in the grave, its an entire leg! When you need a break from monotony, I always say, 'imagine you're on your way out of Botany Bay and somebody tells you that you've got to do it all again.' Mind numbing and life sapping the very thought. Not quite so bad after a decent break though, providing you don't have to pay again and sup another flat coke.

Anxiety Pushers

The news cuts the truth with shit, then hires tale tale tits to push it.

It's All For Granted

The problem with abundance is inefficiency.

To The Doer's Again

Why worry about anything that lies infront, when you've done all that lies behind.

To The Doer's

Ave a go! At least you'll know!

The Rolling Stones

Decent coke doesn't kill you, it just makes you stronger.

To The Brave

It's a shame it takes a band of cunts to make a star shine so brightly.

Tramp

‘Spare any change mate?’ His beard was wild, bushy, red and full of bits. The natural colour in it wasn’t in sequence with his age surely, but I couldn’t see his hair for a black beanie hat with an emblem embedded with grime, I think it was for the 2003 Olympics in Ireland. He was thick set and stocky for a tramp, but quite short, like some kind of Celtic dwarf from Lord of The Rings. His face looked battle hardened, his eyes alert and assertive. He wore a mismatch of modern looking dirt engrained clothing, picked up from the Salvation Army, or some such no doubt. ‘Fraid not mate, I’ve got nothing on me, living on my credit card until I get paid, sorry.’ I replied. ‘You could get me a bacon balm though.’ He said; gesturing towards the Greggs he was stood outside. His manner was forthright, it seemed a little cheeky, sounded almost like he expected it from me, like it was my duty, perhaps he’d done his duty, and we, the passersby, were oblivious. His eyes were searching though, perhaps he became a little uncertain in hindsight, but I admired his spirit, it brought a smile to my face as I kept walking, and rounded the corner on my return to work. Now anybody who knows me knows that it is impossible for me to be that heartless, I torture myself with regret in such circumstances. Not only that, but having visited Venice recently, I’d seen a beggar just off San Marco’s square, as she became visible between the reams of people I was almost upon her, she was so grotesque that I was taken aback. I made the split second decision that a two euro coin was too much and kept walking, in hindsight it was a snippet to pay not to have suffered from the regret I felt for the rest of the day. It had been the last day of our break; we had been down to our last cash, every euro counted. Still, by the time we got to the airport two euro’s remained – idiot. I made a pledge that day; always give to at least one person per day on each day I was asked. I wasn’t that bad anyway, I’d given plenty of euro’s away on my Venice trip already, and did the same a lot at home, but I needed to put this incident right, some good had to come of it, in the name of the beggar who missed out sort of speak. I turned on my heel and went back, ‘bacon balm was it?’ ‘Yes,’ he hesitated, ‘and a coffee.’ I had to smile, cheeky bastard had spirit. I made my way into Greggs and joined the queue, eventually asking for a bacon balm, I was stopped there, ‘we don’t do bacon balms after 11.’ ‘Right, I’ll just go and see what else he wants, gesturing to the tramp outside, they pretended not to notice. ‘Sausage butty then pal.’ Man didn’t do please and thankyou’s, but I liked him all the same, I was determined to get him something. ‘Sausage butty please,’ the queue a little bigger this time. ‘None left,’ came the response. I shrugged as if to gesture, ‘you know the drill,’ and left the shop again. ‘Cheese and onion pasty then,’ the tramp ordered, rubbing his fingerless gloves together while spreading blackened fingertips and looking away. I got the sense it was me who was embarrassing him. ‘Cheese and onion pasty and a coffee, and throw in a sausage roll for the old bugger too, they look good.’ Service without a smile took place and I paid for the old boy’s breakfast on my bloody credit card, as per his wishes. I pressed the hot food into his chest outside and gave him his cup of coffee, ‘there you go mate, enjoy,’ I said, turning before he asked for sugar and sauce. There was a hint of a thank you in my wake, that’s more than I could have asked for; I didn’t have to think about it again, that's all I ask for.

Dens Were The Days

Push bikes and building sites, hikey dikes and apple fights, oh dens were the days.

Quality Street Today

No doubt about it, Victoria Station needed a new roof alright, damn thing looked ready to peel open like a sardine can. The amount of water came in too - you felt like a bloody sardine yourself some mornings. Still, there was a sense of history about the place; it hadn’t changed much, just deteriorated. I made the walk to Manchester Victoria every day, from one end of Deansgate at Castlefield, to the other at the Cathedral, behind which was the old station. I caught the tram from Victoria to Bury where I worked. I could have caught it in Castlefield where I lived, but I enjoyed the daily walk, and was the slimmest I’d been for a long while because of it. Often, if I was at court in the mornings, I’d go straight to the Civil Justice Centre just off the middle of Deansgate - then jump on a tram from Victoria afterwards. Today was such a day. Now, the unspoken perk of being a solicitor was not the money or the glamour, there was none of that, it was the tastes of freedom you got following an out of office commitment, nobody keeping tabs on you, provided you didn’t take the piss. It was therefore always a good opportunity to run a few errands or pick up a few bits in town, and I needed a haircut. It wasn’t until I was walking through Victoria that I remembered this, catching site of one of the old barber’s shops in there. The one I used on occasion was a one man band who had either shut down or gone away, so I thought I’d give the other a try. It was full of old boys chewing the fat, most of the chairs were occupied, but it soon became apparent that nobody was waiting for a haircut, except me, and I was ushered into the barber’s chair on entry. The place was as traditional as it got, a well used, well maintained working environment that could keep on providing a service for as long as it was serviced in the manner to which it was clearly accustomed. The tools were sharp and bold, and as old as the place itself, you didn’t see mahogany handled brushes with best silver tipped badger bristles, the handles shining with use, this was rare. You certainly didn’t see straight razors with three pin horn handles and double transverse stabilisers, barbers of the day favoured clippers, gangsters; guns. These old boys had a nice array of hats, if indeed they belonged to them, it could be they adorned the hat stand on display, but who was I to say, they’d all seen better days. They wore tatty suits like you might see down a bookies or propping the bar in Wetherspoon’s, some wore tracksuits, others jeans and jackets. The barber favoured a long pressed black smock with collar, pockets for his tools, grey trousers and brogues. His silver hair greased back neatly and not a day over seventy. A younger man walked in, he was of the same ilk, but all flash and bravado; there was talk of a scam’s workings, and of getting the Bentley in. Just quiet enough for me not to hear, although remarkably my barber did, giving filleted advice to which all took note, before he went about his business and then them to theirs. The younger fella left from the other door and the room fell silent. ‘I remember the day we put the Kray’s back on the train. Frankie Frazer had a bad day that day.’

Always Remember

It is extremely rare that the fantasy might live up to the reality, extremely.

On The Wagon

Alcohol is great when you're a kid, but not so when you're responsible for one. My love/hate relationship with booze is tipping more and more towards hate the less I use. Today I realised this when I wrote the following to a friend, 'I cannot tell you how much better my weekend was for not poisoning my spirit. So much happier, so much more energy, so much more done with a smile. Honestly, drinking is shite, it's for people who have nothing else going on.'

Hotel Corridors

High Wycombe, home for a year or so, just while I got my training contract completed at any rate. I hadn’t been able to find one in London, a training contract that is, and after a great deal of bar work and applications, things had gone tits up with my girlfriend of the time, who happened to be the nanny for the wealthy family providing the tidy little St John’s Wood apartment roof over our heads. The classic London pub I’d been working in, just around the corner, The Jolly Crocker, also closed its doors at about the same time, sold to a Thai restaurateur. Fortunately, I managed to get a few days squatting on her upper floors by the grace of the Maori girl who’d been running her, just while I got my shit together. So, I ended up in High Wycombe, my London days had lasted all of six months, it’d been a taste, but I wanted a bigger bite, and I absolutely took one. My job meant that I spent a lot of time between the Royal Courts of Justice and the gypsy sites of Buckinghamshire, these were planning application appeal cases, and we were at the forefront, well, at least my boss Jeremy Brown was, amazing man, blind too, but it didn’t stop him getting to Lord’s on the tube with only a stick, he loved to listen to the cricket, played it too, using a ball with a bell. The firm I worked for was in Chesham, right at the end of the Metropolitan line - so London in my book. It meant I got to sample the capital’s rat race and post work drinking culture first hand, if only a few days a week. I wrote out a list of things I still wanted to see, do and experience in London, I think I always knew deep down I was only passing through. It was only 45 minutes on the train from High Wycombe to London Euston, so I boxed off quite a lot at the weekends, although not quite as many as I needed to. My housemates were great, collectively we met quite a lot of people in High Wycombe, socially it was busy. My lucky break away came when I lost my driving licence following a young solicitor’s dinner in Rickmansworth, or some such place. It was on the Metropolitan line in any event, so I’d left my car in Chesham and taken the tube. The do was awful, so much so, I drank seven pints of Stella early in the evening and left. I got back to Chesham and slept in my car for a while, not long enough it seemed. The result was that I had to move to Chesham so I could walk to work, and therein lay some more stories for another time. From then on I was in London every weekend, mostly on my own. I couldn’t afford to stay over in London, my earnings were everything I deserved at the time, pretty poor, my fine was costing me too, and London isn’t cheap. I used to stay out all day exploring, visiting attractions, exhibitions and galleries, then party at night, often until after my last tube home. When I did get stranded with a skin full, I came up with an ingenious if rather cheeky way of staying off the streets for the night. I’d find myself a nice hotel with revolving or automatic doors that remained unlocked, then sweep in with my head up, confident and purposeful, as if I owned the place, straight to the lift and up, all the way to the top floor. Empty plates and fresh newspapers were a good sign, then on to an alcove or corridor off the main routes, curl up on often quite thick carpet, and sleep. Only once did I not wake up on my own accord and exit the hotel as if butter wouldn’t melt. Instead, I was shaken by my shoulder; it was the hotel duty manger, he asked if I was okay. I told him my name was Grant and that I had rowed with my girlfriend and left without my phone or key, forgetting my room number. Not bad for a young man woken abruptly with a hangover, but such are the powers of fear following shock to stoke up assertiveness. He escorted me downstairs to reception so that he could find my room number on the computer and set me up with a new key. Whilst he was engrossed in firing up the system, I simply walked out of the door and into the fresh morning sunshine in search of some breakfast, feeling better all the time; after all, I’d slept like a baby. Remarkably, considering everything that happened in that year, a lot of which I write about, I actually managed to qualify as a solicitor. But more importantly, I ticked everything off my list, and that was the source of everything that happened, experience is everything.

Religion In Conflict

Religion - suppression of God given instincts.

Self Righteous Misguided Codgers

I love to give old people a hard time when they're in the wrong, makes up for all those years of misguided ballockings. The angry outspoken codger is often not nearly as clever as they should be, it's a picture of justice being done to take them apart, they never expect it.

Multi-tasking

We can all multi-task, aslong as anger counts

226 Alfreton Road

Student digs; 226 Alfreton Road, Radford, Nottingham. My goodness that place was haunted, and mouse infested, still, we kept it on for 2 years because it had three floors with four bedroom flats on each, and there were always at least twelve of us, close mates that is, we’d mostly met in halls in our first year and had become an unruly band of brothers as such, our family away from family. In the first year there, I was in the middle flat, the nicer of the three, but in the second, I was on the top floor, the dope smoking, rodent laced, unfixed bar containing homage to the 70’s and student living. It was the late 90’s, but we picked up lots of 70’s jumble to decorate. The wallpaper was hanging off and there were lots of holes, so we re-decorated with cheap posters from the student union. The furniture was mostly collapsed, but comfy enough as you sank down into it, we even had one of my flatmate’s friends living on the sofa for several months, he’d just decided to stop going to Uni in Derby, but didn’t want to go home either. We had some tremendous times and great parties, most of us would get thrown out of the student union on a Friday or Saturday night, we were banned from a great deal of student pubs, but this was a city with more than 365 public houses, and a great deal of nightclubs. Unfortunately however, on the whole I think girls found us rather unapproachable, not many of us had much luck in the old gaff in the girl department. Not surprising really, we were a tight knit rowdy clique, more into doing buckets and booze, and waking on torn lino under kitchen furniture in a kebab, minutes before tutorial. From time to time a mad girl used to visit one of the lads, nicknamed 'Can't Talk,' on account of his speech impediment. He dated her at home and she’d followed him to Uni, it was an unhealthy relationship and often involved her stomping around the premises looking for him, we’d hide him away, she got wise to this eventually though, having found him in a broom cupboard all Hell broke loose and she beat him up with a mop, we never saw her again. Anyway, that’s all by and by, my story is about the address, and just a few of my unusual experiences therein. They all started for me when I got into that top flat, and in particular the room that had the loft door, I got up into the loft early into my stay, just to have a nosey really, check out it’s storage potential, it was black to touch and to see, I wish I hadn’t gone up there, seems I probably disturbed something too. There was little doubt that my room was the coldest, not something the previous occupant had complained about, but then he’d moved out of the house entirely, allowing a new occupant to move in and me to move upstairs. That was the only one of us ever to break off, and we didn’t really see him much after that. It was a big room and I had my stereo at the end near the door, directly underneath the loft hatch. The bed was up at the other end on the far wall with a large window in the back wall behind it. My stereo was equipped with motion sensors so that when you got close it would light up, start flashing and bid you hello via scrolling digital text. Without fail, every night at about 3-4am this began to happen, despite nobody being anywhere near it, it always woke me because of the intensity of the blinking lights, the only full night’s sleep I got was when I passed out somewhere else. Not long after, following a heavy night in, consisting of bongs and Nash Bridges, everyone passed out, I included, but I awoke to see it was that time of night again, and the television screen had turned to static. I decided to watch it for a while, my mind still exploring thoughts from the dope and projecting images into the fuzz. Alas, I’d had enough and decided to head to bed, I couldn’t find the remote so remained seated, looking for it in my mind’s eye, it was no good, no doubt under someone elsewhere, so I put my forearm up on the arm of the chair forming a right angle, stuck out my index finger towards the ceiling and brought down my arm quickly under its own weight. As soon as my finger lined up with the screen, it turned off, the television actually turned off, instantly. I looked at the lads quickly to see if anyone had witnessed it, they all slept on soundly. Can't Talk was in the room next door to me, he rarely did any work, but when he did, it was always last minute and through the night. His bedroom door right next to mine, they formed the corner together on the hall, mine was often slightly ajar because it wouldn’t shut properly. Towards one of his major deadlines, my immediate neighbour was pulling an all-nighter mid week, the kind where pro-plus and A3 take precedent over ecstasy and skins. The next morning he was telling me that between 3 and 4am his door kept being pushed open, at first he’d thought it’d just been us playing around, but he’d been out to investigate and no-one was stirring, every time he’d shut the door it was pushed open again. It got to Christmas that year and everyone went home for the holidays, I didn’t however, my work placement in Mansfield still had a couple of days to run, it meant staying in that enormous haunted house in the middle of one of the most crime ridden areas of the country for two more nights, alone. The first night wasn’t too bad; I rummaged under the cushions and found enough small change for a large donner kebab from Bash at Kebabish just up the road, he was next door to the most dangerous KFC in the country apparently. Bash was taking delivery of what looked like a bleeding severed head in a tesco bag over the counter, he handed over some notes in exchange from the till and took my order, the blue neon flashing in the window behind me and a small sorry looking plastic Christmas tree hiding the redundant fan on the fridge. Having enjoyed my supper at home, I fell asleep on the sofa following an enormous joint which would normally have been enough for four of us. It was the next night that I was troubled, I had my bags packed and ready to go by early evening, but I didn’t have any means of intoxication for the night ahead. It was a blowy night too and Nottingham shook. A city surrounded by forests, full of history, cursed galleons, medieval pubs, castles, caves and bloody ghosts! When I finally did get to sleep, it seemed like no time before I was torn out of it. The noise was extremely loud, banging and clattering, as if somebody was trying to break into the front doors and their life depended on it, to be fair my room was at the back of the property so it was clear to anybody from the front that all of the students had gone home for Christmas. There was a door at the bottom of the staircase leading up to our flat so I went down and locked it, there was no sign of anyone outside the porch below though. As I went back to my bedroom I noticed that my bedroom door was shut, it had never done that before. I went back to bed, bloody terrified and cold. Drifting in and out I suddenly awoke completely. I was wide awake too, my heart thumping, my eyes wide on my side, boring into the darkness against the wall. There was a presence, I could feel it alright, shivers worked down my neck and I lay rigid, waiting. The stereo lights came on and flashed blue against the wall in front of me. I'd fully expected it to happen, ‘arrgh fuck,’ I thought, ‘here we go.’ There was a heavy tapping on my covers, stopping and starting intermittently at the end of my bed, I could feel it unmistakably through the covers, I remained still. Next, the covers were ripped from me and onto the floor, so I leaped up in the dark and ran to the light switch next to the door, the whole length of the room was in pitch darkness as I went. I managed to get the light on first time and turn my head to look back at the scene, panic must have been written across my face, there was nothing there that I could see, but there was no doubt what had happened. I fled the property and slept in my car, not going back until the start of the next term and the arrival of my housemates. When I told them all what had happened over Christmas we agreed to meet in the Spread Eagle and head in together. I was glad we did, when we got there, there were tramps sleeping in the porch on piles of old post, no sign of any ghosts though, my covers remained on the floor; I put them back on the bed. I became infested with scabies soon after. We would regularly sit on that porch roof in the warmer months and watch the world go by. It was quite a height, second floor up, plus a tiled roof on top of that, got you elevated to about 15 feet, but it would only sit four with your legs dangling. You could access it from the landing window on the way up to the third floor flat, if you stayed up there long enough you’d see prostitutes working their beats, flaming mattresses and televisions flying from upper floor windows, gang beatings, drug dealing, and if you were up early enough on one particular morning, a 328i BMW belonging to my old pal’s father being towed out of the bus lane below and taken to the compound. Unfortunately, none of us were up for that and so it took a while to work out the car hadn’t been stolen, his dad back up in Carlisle thankfully none the wiser. Some good parties took place building up to the summer, I’d get a weekly wage every Friday from my work placement, it’d be gone after a greasy spoon at Sonia’s on the Sunday, still no fun drinking on your own. FA cup final day was coming up and we planned a big day as usual, we’d spent two previous years making a day of it, I had already a reputation for something happening to me on this day, the year before I’d fallen asleep on a cemetery wall and woken up on a grave, the year before that I’d let a fire extinguisher off in halls and been heavily fined. This time we had t-shirts printed with our nicknames on the back and a large letter each below to spell out Aspley House when we stood in a line; this was the house name of 226. We filled the baths with ice and beer, drank that, and then hit the town. It was a messy day, I don’t recall watching any football and when we did finally get home, most of the chaps went to bed. I’d made it through the day without any mishaps, so was raring to keep things going. Those left standing plonked themselves in our flat and promptly went to sleep. I got some frozen sausages out and put them under the grill on a low heat to defrost and then rolled a joint. Nobody was awake to join me so I went out to smoke it in the night air on the porch roof. I took one drag and put my arms out behind me to lean back and look at the stars. My left hand missed the roof and went off the edge; I followed head first, somehow completing a full summersault in mid air and unbelievably landing on my feet, which promptly gave way and sent me down onto my hands. Fortunately not long after one of the lads from the bottom flat was on his way up to borrow a cigarette, he looked out of the window and saw me, he immediately called an ambulance. The ambulance did eventually arrive and pulled up behind a police car, which had pulled up behind a pizza delivery bike, all of them stood around me in a heap on the floor. The hospital had teased me that I was going for a record number of breaks, turned out I needed a plate and screws in my right ankle, had very bad bruising to the bones of my left and had cracked my shoulder socket on the left too as I went down on to my hands. It meant I couldn’t use crutches so I spent the summer in a wheelchair like a Vietnam vet crunching cans and shooting an air pistol out the back door. Therein lie some more tails for another time, and although the wheelchair went back with buckled wheels and flat tyres, such are the tribulations and mistakes that can make a man better.

Man Mankind

I'll just drop that, once I walk away its in somebody else's world, not mine.....!?!

Reality Bite

Going beyond rocket science and into the incomprehensible for mankind - without the planet earth we do not exist.

Disgust

Imagine being the generation of a species that caused the extinction of rhino in the wild for no good reason, what an all time low in terms of house keeping, and of a pretty shoddy innings on the whole.

What's Beyond

I wonder, does the soul have gender.... Or is that just something the spirit adapts to with physicality... Perhaps there can be nothing without the other.

Evolution of Man - The Karma Programme

Wrongful or naughty gratification is almost always met with equal in the opposite retribution, sometimes instantaneously, sometimes eventually, depending on how long or short lived the high, there is an almost pendulum effect to which the awoken soul is completely aware.

Incorrectionable

The PC brigade have ruined it for the pervs.

Injection v Adoption

If the UK courts can take a person's child, why then can they not take a life, for surely the former is worse? I know you can't appeal a death sentence once you're dead, but you could still appeal on death row if you had grounds. You can't appeal an adoption order once the child is living with a new family though - all ties are severed. I suppose that doesn't rule out a relationship with birth parents a long way down the line though, when child grows up, but child might not want that by then, or that could even be perceived as worse by any or all parties. As for a life sentence, well, I suppose new evidence might always come to light while incarcerated if you haven't got grounds to appeal right away, but I suppose that should be left up to the man being sentenced - whether or not he wants to sit it out on the off chance, but if he knows it's not going to happen because he's guilty, perhaps he may opt for death!

Why I Grew My Hair

After very many months of flirting, she finally leant over me, pushing her breast into my cheekbone and whispering, 'I live alone.' For twelve months thereafter I went without a haircut, I wear it long now, and go to Craig's instead for an occasional trim.

Not All Is As It Seems

It’s a lovely late afternoon, so I jump off the Met at Victoria to walk the rest of the route home. The sun is low and warming. Deansgate is swarming with commuters and shoppers making the most of the light. Battling with myself not to have a pint at every pub passed, I amble my way through, discreetly checking the office totty as I do. And out of the grey and blue comes black, a single black man wearing tribal lederhosen, bulging black thighs and biceps bursting out of all shorts, gleaming against tanned suede. He wears a tipped trilby and carries a white rabbit along the length of a forearm, the rabbit wears a harness attached to a red leather leash. The heavens open with a heavy suprise shower and the man's transparent umbrella erupts from his other forearm instantaneously. There is no interruption to the stride of his silver boots, and not one of the suits has an umbrella.

Berry Management

Bumbling bullshit from people pretending, and being told what to do by people who don't know what you do.

Oscar Row

Surely to rally for nominations for a performance award based on the race of the nominee is degrading to equality, and surely that would be counter productive for the cause of those calling for the very same. To be overtly liberal can drive the wedge home. If we are all the same then all white nominees would be the same as all black nominees.

MJ Death Day

I walked up Deansgate early morning, it was still dark and a down trodden feel prevailed over the drowsy dawn. The day was getting off to a slow start alright, it was like it was sick, or just needed more sleep. Few folk were about to lighten the flat, those who were kept their hats tipped and their coats wrapped as they made haste along the pavements. As I crossed the mouth of Bootle Street a figure made his way down, awkwardly, meandering over the double yellows and the puddle lined curbs. He cut the jib of a homeless, or a drunk just out of the cells maybe, dirty and unkempt looking, dishevelled like. The guy was laughing hard and loud, and when he saw me, laughed with even greater vigor, looking at me intently. This was not a happy soul; he was a snarling angry bastard who was laughing for badness. As he came close he leant forward into what I anticipated would be a lunge towards me, it wasn’t, it was a kind of dance which caused him to get around me like the f#cker had gone through me, dropping a paper in his wake. Michael Jackson was dead.

Devolution of Man

Some humans simply fail to evolve.

Just wear it, it may not be for best, but it could be for last.

The importance of living a full life is of the upmost, the danger is that if you do not, you may be prone to later life crisis, and if you subsequently fail to succumb to that, you are at risk of becoming bitter and twisted some time thereafter - should you live longer than you deserve of course.

The Great Orme

It was about the time when the former residence of Lewis Carroll had been fenced off, likely ahead of some restoration work, it was practically derelict, and no doubt a liability for somebody should trespassers get in. We did however; get in, the three Mazurek brothers, Rich and myself after a skin full in the local town of Llandudno. It had become a new hobby of ours; this breaking and entering, well, certainly entering of old abandoned buildings of historical significance at any rate. We already had Barnes Castle and the foundations of Dixon’s chimney in our repertoire, God knows why we did this, it was highly dangerous, but then I suppose highly exciting, and I guess it beats continuing the drinking into oblivion somewhere half as interesting, it’s also good physical exercise and a bloody cultural adventure to boot. We’d already set up camp on the Great Orme earlier that day, it was a stage we were going through, camping, adventure and mostly single life, I guess we were all just killing time and slowly beginning to spread our wings. We planned to walk up Snowden the next day. The Carroll residence scared the B ‘Jesus out of us, we scaled a six foot fence just to get into the grounds, then squeezed through a small window to fall through into a front room. It was pitch black in there, and besides a couple of small hand torches between five of us, we had no other means of lighting our way, there wasn’t even a decent moon up. As you can imagine an old house like that was absolutely full of noises, creaks, cracks and bangs, amplified by the silence. The Dutch courage forced us round a large hole in the floorboards of the hallway which disappeared into a deep cavern into the basement, from there we made our way up the stairs, which were lacking a banister, and onto the first floor. I was bringing up the rear with one of the torches; Mazza had the front with the other. We’d drawn the short straws there, but it was often us who instigated such excursions in the first place, and we wouldn’t have done it on our own, so I guess it’s the price you pay. If you’re not constantly looking behind you when you’re at the back, you are of course convinced that there is something about to grab you. And if you’re up front, well, say one or more of those behind you gets scared and the group bolts, you’re more often than not the last man out. Once on the landing, Mazza suggested we sit down in a circle, turn off the torches, and just listen in complete darkness. We obeyed, it was horrifying, the pictures the mind paints on a black canvass, truly frightening, but then when something fell with a bang in one of the nearby bedrooms it was all just too much, it was every man for himself as we scarpered as fast as we could to escape the place without being left behind or at the back. It must have been a sight from outside, five great strapping lads all trying to get through a small opening in a downstairs window, God only knows how one of us didn’t fall through the floor or something as we bound down those rickety old stairs! We escaped in one piece and sat laughing on the grassy bank above the house. Mark rolled a joint and then we smoked it as we headed off-piste up the steep climb onto the Great Orme. After several attacks of vertigo whilst lying back in mountain goat shit at height, looking into the stars, and feeling like you could just fall off earth and into the infinite void that is space, we somehow managed to find the tents. This relaxed us somewhat, so the booze stash was pilfered and we split up and looked for firewood. We soon got a decent heap together, it was the summer, so everything was nice and dry, and with the help of some beer boxes we soon had ourselves a roaring camp fire with plenty of reserve wood. It was then that Mark told us about a White Witch he knew, eccentric engineer by day, Witch by night, he lived on his parents’ farm near Harker. I’d met him once actually, fascinating guy, lived in a barn, made all kinds of contraptions, mostly from scratch, I had no idea he was a practicing White Witch though, curious where a thirst for knowledge can lead a highly practical person, mind you, I was sure he was on the autistic spectrum. Nevertheless, Mark reckoned he actually believed in some of this stuff he practiced, he’d seen it. Now, Mark could be a bit of a wind up merchant, so we went along with it, just to see what the craic was. He disappeared into his tent and came out with a box of candles; he started to place them around the camp fire whilst we smiled on in amusement. We helped light all the candles and stoked up the fire, then, we linked hands and formed a ring. Mark explained that really, as the person addressing the spirits, he should be wearing a white cloak or something, but I just put that down to banter. Mark then introduced himself to the spirits, being very respectful, friendly yet formal in his address. He asked the spirits to give us a sign if anything good would happen on our Snowden expedition the following day, nothing happened. He then asked if something bad was going to happen, almost immediately, the fire and every single candle was completely snuffed out at exactly the same time, it went very quiet and very dark very quickly. The chain of hands broke off and by the time blind panic had subsided and eyes had adjusted, we discovered that Mazza was no longer with us, he’d just disappeared. We split into two’s, each two taking a torch, we were worried, Mazza had no torch and there were a lot of steep drops and cliffs in the vicinity. After about half an hour of shouting and wandering, Snide discovered his big brother sat on a rock on the edge of a cliff talking quite contentedly to his deceased grandmother. We snapped him out of it; I couldn’t tell if it was an act or not, I don’t think he could at the time either. Needless to say it was a long night and we left the Orme at dawn flanked by the local goats. We did get to Snowden, but we turned back after a half arse attempt of Crib Goch, we were afraid of our own shadows that day and so didn’t even bother with the easy route either, we packed up and made our way home very slowly and carefully instead.