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.