Rise Like Lions

The Mekons, live somewhere in Holland in 2002. It's ace.

Shine On You Crazy Diamond

Hazel Blears has some regrets about the way she left the government. I bet she does. I wonder if she would be as regretful if her pals had succeeded with their pathetic attempt at a putsch?

Ghosts of Cable Street

Well, thank God that this years summer coincided with our weekend away. We are now hoping and praying that summer returns in September when we attend the End of The Road festival, which, for a Blues fan, must be the best named festival in the world.

Ah, the Blues. As I predicted from the moment we went down, we have gone back up and a strange an unfamiliar harmony has settled about the place. People are even beginning to warm to the board. Quite right too. They have already started spending money and more of it than we are accustomed to and everyone seems delighted with the players that have been mooted to join us. I will hang fire a bit before expressing delight as they are either lower league journeymen (who may, nevertheless, cut the mustard) or exotic foreigners of whom I have never previously heard. The signs are good though.

The world has managed over the weeks without me commenting on the current political pickle and I am sure it could last a few more weeks without input from me, but it won’t have to, because I have an opinion or three.

There is something that is really beginning to bug me, and that is the easy ride that David Cameron is enjoying. Somehow, he has managed to place himself on the moral high ground and I can’t understand it. Poor old Michael Martin got hounded out of his job because many MP’s turned out to be immoral freeloaders, and many Tory MP’s turned out to be extraordinarily extravagant immoral freeloaders. Apparently, it was all Michael Martins fault.

Right from the start, Cameron managed to hitch himself to a populist bandwagon and has managed to keep himself firmly hitched to it, despite milking the cash cows udder to within an inch of its life. All his expense claims manage to fall into just within the maximum. I read somewhere that he is independently wealthy (inherited, not earned) to the tune of 30 million quid, yet he will take as much as he possibly can out of the public purse to subsidise a second home. Fair enough if he needs a floor to sleep on when he is away from the family home, but how palatial does the floor need to be?

Johan Hari wrote a good article on Cameron the other week, wondering how he gets away with it, and it is a very good question.

Then we have had the unedifying sight of a bunch of Labour MP’s who no one has ever heard of resigning, some of them with nasty little smirks on their faces. Have they resigned because they helped themselves to the nations petty cash? No they have resigned because they don’t much like Gordon Brown. Pathetic. I don’t much like Gordon Brown myself; he has been a sorry disappointment, but he is preferable to the political pygmies who currently oppose him.

The little leadership crisis appears to be over, the plotters having displayed their lack of nous and their inability to organize a piss up in a brewery to magnificent effect. I hope now that Labour comes out swinging and goes for the Tories and also demands that the news media, particularly the BBC subjects Tory policies and personalities to the same forensic analysis and questioning that Labour is subject to. I am no fan of new labour, but if anyone thinks that the fucking Bullingdon Club and the party of the duck island owning classes will be an improvement, they need their bumps felt.

I keep hearing that the election of 2 BNP oafs to the European parliament is a bad thing, but I think that it is a good thing, Nick Griffin getting egged and scurrying away from his scrawny assailants is the best laugh I have had in months. Did you know that neither Griffin or his mate would be allowed to stand in local elections, because of their criminal pasts?

A superb video of the utterly brilliant Two Gallants performing in a Houston car park

Sunday dawned and once again I was up with it and once again it was beautiful, and once again I endured an agonising walk to the bogs. I think I had trenchfoot of the bollock region. There's something really lovely about rising with the sun on a beautiful day, especially if you have a Mrs who always makes sure that there is a cup of tea waiting. The camping field was really quiet and the few others who were up just pottered about, quietly enjoying the morning. What with the crowds and with everything else that goes on it is easy to forget that you are actually in a beautiful location.

Our Sunday morning more or less followed the routine of the previous day, minus the shopping trip. It is amazing how time can fly when you are basically doing not very much at all, apart from enjoying the weather and the company. The kids always disappear off to lark about on the racecourse itself, which puts us in the wonderful, but unaccustomed position of having time to ourselves.

Suitably rested and refreshed, we made it down to the arena in time to see the Beetroot Kings. I didn't really expect to pay much attention to them, intending merely to dump our stuff at our usual place and just lie back, soaking up the rays and the ambience. But they were good, and it wasn't long before I had been drawn down to the front. There was nothing special about them, but they had something and I can well imagine that in a club they would have the place rocking. For the time of the day that they were on, it was a very impressive performance and more than a few people were tentatively shaking a foot or a leg.

The brood had wandered off in all directions as usual, participating in the many and varied activities that are on offer. This is remarkable thing about Wychwood; it feels very safe. We park ourselves where we do because it is a very easy and identifiable spot to get back to and it never gets crowded, so it works as a safe and recognisable harbour for the kids. We then just let them go off and have fun. They didn't really bother with any of the organised activities this year and were happy to enjoy the freedom they had to just amuse themselves for about 16 hours every day.

Anyway, as early as it was, it was hot, so I once again hit the cider and once again it hit the spot. Next up on the main stage were Shtetl Superstars, who were alright, but a bit contrived and quite a few people seemed to actually get a bit pissed off. I didn't watch them, I just sat back and listened to them, enjoying the drink and sunshine and watching the world go by. I have had worse half hours.

I had, by now begun to feel really shit. There was the thigh problem, obviously, but my eyes started stinging and streaming tears and my sinuses became painful and I felt just weak. Despite the bucolic ambience, I started to feel a bit sorry for myself. Not for long though, because Justin Adams and Judeih Camara appeared on stage and just about blew the place away. It was a fantastic privilege to see this pair and their drummer; such virtuosity is rare. If you get a chance to see them go and see them, they were the definite highlight of the weekend.

Cara Dillon was pleasant enough but it all just sort of drifted by. I may have nodded off. Bellowhead were a different kettle of fish. I have their first album so knew I would like them, and they put me in mind of Barelyworks so I expected their live performance to be good. It wasn't good, it was outstanding. There was still a large crowd and just about everyone in it was bopping. hopping, jigging, reeling and dozy bloody doeing. They got the evening off to a fantastic start.

I had a brief look at The Travelling Band after Bellowhead, as everyone seemed to be raving about them. They sounded like they could be very good, but I was still feeling lousy and was in no mood for the awful sound quality in the tent they played in and didn't hang around long.

Unfortunately, the momentum built up by Bellowhead didn't last as half the crowd left once they had finished and the next band on the main stage were Dub Colossus. They should be done under the trade descriptions act as there was no dub and who the colossus is God only knows. They seemed very disengaged as they noodled some irritating jazz funk fusion shit, and I was very glad to see the back of them.

So, here we were, at the last act of the festival, and who was it? The Dhol Foundation. I thought the organisers must have taken leave of their senses. I had never heard of them, but the programme indicated that they were some sort of community youth club type ensemble. I needn't have worried. All the previously lost momentum returned, in spades and from the very first beat the crowd was jumping. Really jumping............jumping as if their very lives depended on it, and the jumping continued, joyously.

The Dhol Foundation were brilliant and brilliantly unexpected. The beats were amazing, but the best thing was the sense of fun that they brought to the occasion, the main man, Johnny must be the most engaging front man in music. What a way to end proceedings, with the whole crowd Bhangra dancing with huge smiles on their faces. I even forgot about my bollocks, albeit briefly. I don't know if their set was short, but it seemed very short. Whoever booked them as final act is a genius.

Everybody loved TDF, especially the kids, but, when it's gone, it's gone. We headed to the Silent Disco, but everything has started to feel a bit flat.I think the sun and the drink and the lack of sleep and the realisation that tomorrow we would be back in work clothes, rather than ridiculous outfits, had hit home. We didn't stay too long, and funnily enough, there were no complaints when we decided to head back to the tent.

As we crossed in front of the main stage, walking on an enormous bed of crushed plastic, my nipper noticed that the songlines tent was just closing up. He remembered that TDF had said that they would be in there, signing stuff and he hared off across the field. I tried to keep up with him, as best as my grievously afflicted bollock region would allow, and bugger me they were there and were more than happy to hoist the little chap aloft to have a picture taken with them. By Christ that boy was pleased and proud. TDF will always be heroes in our house.

And that was that, apart from sitting up drinking with the good companions until about 3 am, until the cold once again proved too much and the pit beckoned.

A Wychwood Spotify playlist.

Some pics.

Some more reviews
Gigwise

Independent

The Sun

Talking of geniuses, the man who invented sudocreme will always be welcome in this house!

Wonderland

Saturday dawned bright and beautiful. I had sat up drinking when we got back to the tent on Friday, and once the cold had sent me scurrying to my pit, there was an endless procession of happy revellers to keep me entertained, all through the night.

So, I wasn't feeling exactly 100 per cent, not with the state my upper thigh region was in anyway. I walked over to the main site to utilise the bogs in the grandstand, as it was likely that I would relieve myself more quickly that way than waiting in the queue for the bogs; even if every single step was agony.

Suitably refreshed we set about our day, which largely involved cooking breakfast, talking shit while waiting for the kids to wake up and wondering which of our neighbours had been the most aggravating through the night and which of the daft sods had started a fire. A fire, in a tent city populated by drunks.

For some reason, I decided to pay a visit to the local Sainbsurys before going on to the site. I only really needed some children's painkillers but I also took the opportunity to replenish the wine stocks and bought a load of cold juices and water for the nippers.

It occurred to me, when I parked up, that the security was being pretty vigilant in searching bags for glass and alcohol. The thought of walking back to the tent though, with my upper thighs in such a catastrophic state, was too much, so I stuck all the drinks in a rucksack, and packed all the soft drinks around the wine. At the gate I was asked if the bag contained any glass or alcohol. No, I said. She took the bag, opened it, rummaged around and then handed it back with a big smile on her face. I was chuffed.

It was beautiful wandering around the place at around 1 ish, with the sun high and hot in a cloudless sky and the place filling up and everyone just looking happy and delighted with life. I wandered across to the tent where Ade Edmonson and his Bad Shepherds were playing, but it was too hot, too crowded and the folky renditions of pub rock and punk tunes becomes tiresome very quickly, so I headed back out into the sunshine, back to base, just in front of the disabled ramp, a matter of feet from one of the bars. I risked a cloudy cider. Fuck me, it was cold. Fuck me, it hit the spot.

I didn't have high hopes for the music on Saturday. I was sure I would enjoy it, but none of it was particularly inspiring. How very, very wrong can a man be? The Mummers appeared on the main stage early on, and they blew me away. The ethereal quality of the music was just the job for a sunny afternoon and the quality of the singing and the playing was superb. It was early, I was still feeling a bit shit and I was watching a band I had never heard of play songs I had never heard and I was spellbound. This is a band to watch.

Having breakfasted very early, we headed back (agonisingly in my case)to the tent for our traditional festival meal of tinned curry, tinned chilli, tinned meatballs and pre cooked rice. We take a load of lovely, fresh prepared food for the Friday night then spend the rest of the weekend eating shit. Anyway, we weren't detained long and we took the necessarily slow walk back to the field in time for the start of the Oyterband.

The family departed to all points west and I hobbled with my John Wayne gait to the front. Just as I used to love Men They Couldn't Hang years ago, I used to love Oysterband too, although I went off them when they went all pub rock. So hopes were not all that high. Wrong again. They played a storming set, full of energy, passion and humour. Singer and bassist even ended up in the middle of the crowd at one point. Right band, right time. They really woke the place up and got everyone jumping. They got me jumping anyway, which was no mean feat.

I was reliably informed by the fart master Harris that I had missed a brilliant set by Kissmet while I was filling my face, I heard others comment upon how good they were too, but you can't see everything.

There was a bit of a hiatus after the Oysterband, but that was alright, it was a beautiful place to be, my companions had found distractions for themselves and I was just kicking back, enjoying the vibe and the cider, which was going down rather nicely; too nicely, because it was obvious from the very first sip hours earlier that it packed a punch. And I forgot all about Agnes Milewski in the Big Top, which I had been looking forward to. I did see a bit of the Ten Bears set, my mate loved them, I thought they were personable, but pointless and they had me singing My Sharona for the rest of the night, which is a bit unforgiveable, really.

Then Little Boots came on. The field was very packed by now, which was good. Little Boots was..........er, alright. Most of the crowd seemed to enjoy it so the happines quotient remained high and my left foot tapped a little bit. It was the one performance of the entire weekend that my daughter appreciated, which, of course, was a good thing. I had a very brief look at Spiro after Little Boots. They were OK.

By now, there had been a bit of a regrouping and me and the fartmiester started necking the cider a bit and we were getting thoroughly in the mood. Which was just as well because next up were the Beat. More accurately, next up were a Beat tribute act, who had the good fortune to have Ranking Roger as singer. Roger is the only remaining member of the original band and he was a pretty insignificant member back then, so it ain't really the Beat that you are watching. It didn't matter though, because they were absolutely ace.

What more could you want after a brilliant day in the sun, as the night darkens and the air becomes chilly? The bloody Beat, banging out hit after hit and a large crowd of happy, slightly drunk and podgy middle aged fools going apeshit and singing along to every word.................it was the most fun I have had in years: my upper thigh region was feeling the pace though. My kids loved 'em too. Everybody loved 'em, it was not possible not to love 'em.

Last up were Supergrass. I am no fan of this lot, but I don't dislike them either. My youngest loves 'em though. The night before we had allowed him and the fartmeisters kids to go right to the front for SFA and although they were ok it did get a bit wild towards the end of the set, so we disappointed them by not allowing them to the front for this, as we thought it would probably be even more raucous.

The upside for my nipper was that we went very close in anyway and, between us, me and the Mrs had him on our shoulders. Christ, he loved it..........bouncing, rocking, singing along, yelling with absolute abandon at the end of every song.................it was ace.

A very simple thing happened towards the end of the set. A couple of people appeared in the crowd armed with giant bubble machines, which they let go in a continuous stream. It all added to the fun, and I don't know if it was the cider or not, but the sight of those bubbles made me deliriously happy. It was a good set, the highlight being the way my nippers reacted, but they didn't do the "we are young" song, the miserable gets.

That was it for the main stage, but the kids persuaded us to try the silent disco, which we had never been to on any of our previous visits to Wychood. What can I say? Believe the hype is what I can say. It is brilliant and it is hilarious...........if you get the chance to go, go, you won't regret it. It's as good without the headphones as with them, as you see a couple of thousand dopes moving and grooving to what appears to be some imaginary beat, before they all yell, with absolutely perfect timing............."HI HO SILVER LINING" or whatever. It was a slow, happy walk home fuelled by fresh coffee and doughnuts and punctuated by frequent stops for banter with other tired, dishevelled but happy fools.

And nearly all the toilets were still clean. Amazing.

Some photos

Scarlet Ribbons

You spend ages waiting for the Wychwood festival to arrive and you spend the all of the week before obsessively checking the weather on metcheck, and then it comes and in the blink of an eye, it gone and you are struggling to remember half of it; not because you were wasted, but because so much of it was good. Don’t go running away with the idea that I didn’t get wasted though, because I did.

Friday morning arrived, and, cleverly, I had arranged a review at a placement not too far from the festival site. 7 minutes away, to be precise, I had also arranged for a colleague to take over the case and for him to accompany me, so that he could be introduced and to drop me off at Wychood. Meanwhile, the Mrs would be sorting out all the equipment the car and the kids, which all seemed fair enough to me!

As it turned out the journey up was not unproblematic and the visit, which I thought would be routine, turned out to be very unroutine, but I still got to the site in the early afternoon. We had stuck some stuff in my mates car to drop off, but the ever vigilant Wychwood stewards would not let him on to the camp site without a ticket, so I had to yomp all over it looking for the Mrs and our companions for the weekend, in the end, I found them easily, if sweatily enough. By the time I found them I was knackered and experiencing some discomfort in the upper thigh region.

I was bit surprised to find them camped in the general camping area, rather than the quiet or family area, but there was method in their madness, in that the family area is only quiet until the babies start waking up in the middle of the night and then it is very unquiet indeed: which was a point. Eyeing the general demeanour of a largish group of adults setting up next to us though, I had my doubts regarding the wisdom of the decision. As it turns out, my doubts were well founded, because, although the inconsiderate gets did not manage to spoil the weekend, they made a gallant effort. I think that there should be a separate field so that there is quiet area , a family area, a general area and a selfish, inconsiderate, ego driven, immature area.

Yes, it was a festival, yes, people have a right to enjoy themselves, and, yes, we were in general camping, but it wasn’t just us that they pissed off, it was everyone else in the general vicinity and many comments were made, which only served to annoy them. On Friday I heard them laughing about who would get most annoyed with them over the weekend and who would take mostoffence at their behaviour, as happens at every festival they go to, apparently. Who, they wondered loudly, would be Angry Bob.

Why would people be proud of the fact that everywhere they go, they piss people off? Moreover, why would people pay to go to a festival and then spend most of their time sitting in the camping field listening to their own shitty music on a endless loop on a shitty little system? Why would people do that? See, I said I wasn’t going to go on about it.

There were other large groups around us who all enjoyed themselves well into the night making sleep more or less impossible, but they didn’t really bother me; it’s not the sound of people have a laugh and enjoying themselves that grates, it’s the attitude that goes with it.

Anyway, on with the unpacking and the erecting, which is not really my forte and, what with the neighours, the journey, the visit, the sweat and the upper thigh discomfort, I managed to put myself in a bad mood, at which point I left the Mrs to sort everything out and took littlest nipper over to have a look at the opening band, Danny and the Champions of The World. It wasn’t long before I was in a good mood. This lot were superb and got the thing off to a rousing start; I loved them, including an extended jam which is normally the kind of thing that makes me want to throw up. They were very close to being the highlight of the whole weekend. The little chap was amazed by them and was happily sitting in front of the stage freaking out.

We wondered back to the campsite to rejoin our companions, got through 3 bottles of bubbly in very short order and wondered back over to the festival site. The upper thigh problem was becoming more acute. We missed a bit during this hiatus and I am struggling to remember what it was we missed, I think we al sort of split up and just generally wondered around, enjoying the vibe. I think it was at this point that I missed Ella Edmonson and Agnes Milew, which, in the latter case was a bit of a pisser.

I sat out the Wonderstuff, although I am told that the littlest one loved every single beat of every song and demonstrated this fact without any self consciosusness at all. I managed to hear them, without seeing them, while sitting outside a beer tent, on a perfectly beautiful evening while simultaneously listening to someone or other playing in the beer tent and imbibing enough Old Hooky to get me properly in the spirit of things.

At some point I had a look at Oysterbands John Jones strutting his Max Wall stuff and was very surprised to find him and his pals performing in front a very sparse audience. I like John, but he always looks as if he is having a shit.

I got back to the main stage for the Men They Couldn’t Hang. I used to love them, way back when but I always have my doubts about old bands making a comeback and trading on past glories. I needn’t have worried about the Men though, they were something else.They looked suitably haggard and aged as they put on a storming set, full of the old power and passion with even the new stuff (I think it was only the one song) sounding as good as the old stuff and this fucking festival was beginning to feel like a very special place to be. All the bouncing about did nothing to improve the upper thigh situation though.

I wasn’t very good this year at seeking out stuff on the smaller stage and in the beer tent, and stuck mainly to the main stage. I did pop my head into the other places, but either wasn’t inspired, or it was too damn hot, or the sound quality was shit. There were a couple of things worth noting though; already, it seemed that the reputation for having good bogs was going to be deserved. I haven’t always been impressed with the bogs at Wychwood but all through Friday night they stayed clean and you didn’t have to queue, at least you didn’t if you were prepared to walk a few yards from the main arena, also, and importantly, the system for queuing at the bars worked brilliantly and you never had to wait long for a refreshment.

The last band on were the Super Furry Animals. I have no problem with SFA, other than, outside the singles, I am not overly familiar with them. I don't like 'em, I don't dislike 'em, they just sort of pass me by. Having said that, there is something about them that I like, they are quirky, in a good way, like the Flaming Lips and seem to just play around, having fun, until they hit upon something that is just right, and they hit the right button, very often.

The lead singer who is a very cool dude indeed, said at the start that they would play the first side of their new record. I loved that; I bet half the audience thought that were talking Greek. Some said it was brave, some said it was foolhardy to play their new album straight through like that, but, Christ, in the age of Spotify, there is no reason not to be familiar with a bands oeuvre............ and the new stuff was better than the old stuff and suited the time and the mood and the venue. For what it's worth if you like the old shit, you will like the new shit more................spotify it!

Every now and then, the singer would hold up comedy style cards, exhorting the audience to applaud or go "whoah". I suppose you had to be there, but it was funny, but not as funny as the gormless look he put on his face as he held his cards aloft.

It had been a great night, much better than I had expected, but we were seriously knackered and headed back to the tent relatively early, not without stopping at the pizza tent though. How is that a load of youngsters in a tent can knock out a pizza to be proud of, while pizza hut does its best to put you off pizza for life?

Severn

 

Leaf

 

Blinded By The Light

 

In Spite of Ourselves

Robert Fisk on the cowardly BBC.

You might think that I have stopped reading, but I haven't, I am ploughing through The Girl With Dragon Tattoo. There is nothing wrong with it, particularly, but, by Christ it's hard going.

Mind you, I am also reading Awake at Work, which is slowing things down a bit. Awake at Work is OK if you like that sort of thing, but even if you do like that sort of thing, it ain't brilliant. If you mooch about the web site a bit you will find some decent articles though. If you like that sort of thing.

I've never heard of American football commentator, Tommy Smyth, but I have enjoyed reading about him!

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised- Gil Scott Heron
by larsen42

I have been driven to radio 2 this morning by the blanket coverage of the Hillsbrough memorial on 5 live, and even radio 4. I have no wish to belittle what happened and I commend this article on the affair (ta Bob)but once again, the media has gone into overdrive and it is more than I can stand.

Radio 2 has got my goat as well though. Matthew Bannister is hosting a phone in about the huge hulking copper who assaulted a tiny, if vociferous, woman. Bannister is clearly on the side of the police and so are his guests, apart from a token appearance by a Liberty person. Everything seems to be, or appears to be. The woman was vociferous and berating him aggressively, he states, before pleading for the whole affair to be taken into context.

Watch the video. It show a young man approach the police line, very calmly and peacefully, the police refuse to allow him through, he argues his point, calmly, and is then shoved to the ground. There is some loud protest from the crowd, including the little lady and she gets a hefty backhander across the chops. Now, Bannister says that we should have sympathy for the copper, because he was being shouted at and it is reasonable for him to lose his rag, he then said that the woman became very aggressive. Well, if being shouted at is a reasonable basis to lose your rag, surely being smacked about the face by a bloke 3 times your size is reason enough to become irritated. The woman did lose her rag, and shouted at the copper, whereupon the baton came out and she was smashed about the legs.

I don't think the BBC showed balance here, the sympathy was definitely with the police. Which brings me to something that has been playing on my mind for a couple of months. The BBC as official state broadcaster. I had thought that the institution was supposed to be impartial, but over the last few months it has become the voice of the state to an extent that would have us all squealing like stuck pigs, if it was the Venezuelan state broadcaster or Iranian, or Korean.

5 live seems to be on a mission to glorify and beatify the armed forces. There have been several phone ins lately coming directly from army bases in which our boys have been afforded the status of heroes. They probably are heroes, and I have absolutely nothing against them; some of the programmes I have seen on the box of what they are dealing with in Afghanistan, have left me mute with admiration. But you know, why all the hagiography, why no questioning of what they are actually doing in Afghanistan and Iraq? It seems to me that these programmes have been little more than grubby attempts to use the heroic bravery of individual soldiers to deflect from the very unheroic actions of the state.

I have nothing against the police either, well, not much, anyway. I have cause to work with them quite often and most of them are fine people, with rare qualities of patience, empathy, good humour and fortitude. I have sympathy with them when the fine upstanding members of our football hooligan community spit and snarl at them and if one those fine fellows got a swift one across the jaw I would probably applaud. Bad bastards are bad bastards though and should not be protected.

Bloggerheads

Tramp The Dirt Down

Some labour berk e mailed Derek Draper (what rock did he crawl back out from under?) with some salacious gossip and the bastard Tories and the media have, predictably, taken leave of their senses. The culprit has gone, but Cameron is furious and wants an apology from Brown. It seems that Cameron is always furious about something and always in need of an apology. He is like a child, he puts me in mind of Violet Elizabeth Bott.

I'm not convinced that his rage is always genuine, I think that he thinks that the public like to see displays of righteous indignation, so he plays to his particular gallery. Personally, whenever I see his outraged face on the box I want to heave my guts up, but then I don't think he cares very much what I think. Whatever, whether his rage is genuine or not, we see too much of it. We don't need a leader who is in a permanent state of high dudgeon, we need a leader who is capable of remaining calm and slightly aloof from the fray, in order to make rational decisions. So I offer some gentle and friendly advice to the young toff............grow up or fuck off.

It seems that there is a faint whiff of hypocrisy in the air.

The football season is reaching it's denouement and Blues lie in a very handy second place and still the air around St Andrews is full of bitching and whining. We had a good win against Wolves followed by a poor draw against Charlton. After the Wolves win we were world beaters apparently, with the best fans in the world. After the Charlton draw, we are once again, clueless, managed by an incompetent idiot. There is little sense of perspective amongst Blues fans theses days; it is always feast or famine and, frankly, it gets on my nerves.

Oh dear

There was a very good article in yesterdays Herald about Thatchers legacy, which I would recommend to everyone.

And there is a brilliant article in the Independent by Jason Cowley on being a football fan, then and now.

If you have Spotify, have a listen to California Bloodlines, an album by John Stewart from 1969. It is astonishingly good. I have no idea how I came across it, but there is the beauty of Spotify..............you just keep finding stuff.

Angels With Dirty Faces

I may have mentioned the sheep around these parts before, but I feel obliged to mention them again. I work in a strange borough, made up of old mining communities and steel towns, all of them very high up on any scale of poverty you care to mention and very low down on any quality of life measure…………although none of the proud folk who live there would agree with that. Anyway, unlike the urban sprawl of the Midlands, where you would not know when you have moved from one town to another (apart from Wolverhampton, where the low brow, open mouth and dragging knuckles of the populace indicate that you have entered a strange, other land) there is open countryside between all of the little communities.

Sheep reside on that hilly terrain, and they make frequent incursions into the towns and onto the roads. These sheep ain’t chickens. They will stare down anyone and they are as scrawny and tough looking as any 1930’s New York street gang. They can be quite scary. Until recently, the borough would round these silent, staring urchins up and return them to where they belong, but the borough is skint, and has stopped doing it, so they are left free to colonise the streets, take over the car parks and to charge down busy roads like a gang of 70's football hooligans, regardless of oncoming traffic. It is hilarious.

Having said that, in the last few days I have had to execute an emergency stop and have also been required to take avoiding action 3 times. You don’t get that in the bloody Midlands.

Talking of Welsh nutters, there I was in Tescos in Ebbw Vale last night, waiting to pay for my Beano, when I found myself being given an enormous bear hug, by a person unknown, with the unknown person simultaneously bellowing in my ear “The Blues are staying down, the Blues are staying down”, he then legged it, laughing, before shouting back at me:” see you in the play off's butty!”. He obviously knew me, but I haven’t got the faintest bloody idea who he was.

Youngest has started Judo. It was like living with bloody Cato anyway: Christ knows what it will be like now. It has come about because of some local bullies, although he has been asking to have a go for ages. The daughter and her pals like to go into a wood and play and build dens, but they are constantly subject to harassment, bullying and violence from some local scoundrels, one of whom should not be allowed out without his banjo.

Last Saturday, they came in for dinner and, to my great surprise, asked youngest if he wanted to help them in the afternoon, which, of course, he did. An hour or so later I had to round them up in readiness for some other activity, and couldn’t find the little ‘un, so, naturally, enquired as to his whereabouts. The girls sort of shuffled their feet a bit, looked a bit sheepish and pointed upwards.

He was sitting up a tree, looking quite content with his lot. “Hi Dad” he smiled, gummily. “What’s he doing up the tree”, I wondered. “Well”, the girls explained,” we stuck him up there with a load of sticks and told him if the boys come around again to throw the sticks at them”.

It was a damn fine, if reckless strategy, if you ask me.

You will ahve seen the universally good reviews for the new Leonard Cohen, which, by the wonder of the interweb, you can hear in its entirety, for free.

Proof

I heard, by chance, the best bit of radio of the year this dinnertime, as I was travelling these sunlit valleys. As usual I was furiously switching stations when I happened upon 5 live. The increasingly odious Victoria Derbyshire had just started an interview with Graham Souness. Apparently, there had been a story in one of the papers about Souness acting like a berk at his nippers football match and swearing in front of a lady.

Souness gave his side of the story and admitted that he had become upset and that he had sworn in front of the lady, and immediately apologised. He said the issue was that in this match between 9 year olds, a player had been sent off inside the first ten minutes for taking a brutal kick at his nipper and soon after, another player had done the same. The gist of it seemed to be that the ref didn't want to send a second player off, so asked the coach to sub him (I think) but the coach refused. Souness then intervened as he thought the coaches behaviour was despicable, and ended up swearing at the coach, with a lady nearby.

The ensuing discussion was hilarious, as it was obvious that Souness was in a rare old fit of pique. Derbyshire did her best to provoke him and succeeded, demanding that he should apologise even though he had already done so and ignoring his point that the coach seemed to be condoning the violence that his 9 year old players were perpetrating on the pitch. Derbyshire was pious and self righteous, but Souness was having none of it and launched into her. She never stood a chance.

Souness is a bit charmless but I felt like applauding him. Too many BBC journalists think that it is their job to be outraged and to embarrass any public figure that appears on the radio. They think that by being discourteous and labouring a point, they are doing the public a favour but they are not, they are massaging their own egos and Derbyshire is one of the worst culprits. I often wonder how public figures remain so calm and so polite in the face of the nonsense, but Souness is made of sterner stuff , he turned the tables on her, but his outrage was genuine and he made her look like a tit. We need more of that kind of behaviour.

The presenters no doubt see themselves as heroic figures cutting through the crap and getting those in the public domain to explain themselves, however awkward it is for them. It ain't exactly Bernstein and Woodward stuff though, usually it is some hapless council spokesman who has committed the cardinal sin of following the rules (political correctness gone mad)or a sportsman, usually poorly educated, who is getting hammered for some mild response to a load of dogs abuse.

It struck, me, listening to this, that there is a bit of a double standard. Derbyshire accused Souness of patronising her (he wasn't) but she patronises people all the time. If you are known person, you get tough questions..............if you are member of the public with some idiotic gripe against officialdom, you are patronised, however peurile your argument may be. What Derbyshire and others don't seem to realise, is that they are the establishment, much more so than the likes of Souness, yet when the table is turned on them, they don't like it.

After the interview, Derbyshire admitted that most of the texts into the show were supportive of Souness; none of those texts were read out, yet one of her co presenters read out a couple that were against Souness. She admitted herself that the audience seemed to be against her, but the only texts that were read were those that supported her. It's a small and insignificant issue but it is illustrative of everything that gets on my nerves about 5 live.

I have been in a mood with Derbyshire all week. I can't stand the woman and hardly ever listen, but, you, know, I flick a lot, and she will pop up. I have heard her, briefly, twice this week and both times she has got on my nerves. Earlier in the week there was some middle class loon on, going on about her disabled son and his right to have a good shag, if only he could find someone to shag him. This woman was irritating beyond belief and believed that that world had conspired against her sons right to ejaculate into a person, rather than into a tissue.

She said that he had written a note to another disabled person, which said that he wanted to take a shower with her and spend the day in bed with her, but the daft bint had rejected him, and really, it wasn't fair. Rather than ask if she should be thinking about educating the chap about how to aproach people, Derbyshire positively cooed that it sounded georgeous. I don't think she would have found it so cute if the bloke was a hairy arsed docker, rather than a bloke with disabilities.

They were both banging on about it not being fair that the rest of us refuse to treat people with disabilities the same as we would anyone else, while pleading for special treatment on this chaps behalf. It's another small point, I know, but she gets on my nerves and she really doesn't deserve to be on national radio. This is the B.B Bloody C we are talking about, and half the time it sounds like amateur hour. Don't even get me started on the coverage of the death of the actress!

If I told you about some of the stuff I have been dealing with in work today, you absolutely wouldn't believe me. Never, ever, be surprised by the depths to which humanity can sink. And trust no one.

Soul Rebel

It seems churlish to knock a good cause but by Christ comic relief gets on my tits. It’s an excuse for every berk who likes to think of himself as “mad, me”, to behave in even more annoying ways than they usually do. I don’t actually watch any of it, but I assume that it still has large multinationals donating tiny sums of money on enormous cardboard cheques, giving themselves a load of free, prime time publicity, Still, it’s all in a good cause and everyone gets to have a laugh, so its ok.

What may still be OK but grates with me anyway is all the hullabaloo over the nonentities who climbed Kilimanjaro. Apparently, they were accompanied by a small army, including a catering unit and a mobile editing suite. It raised a lot of money, but I wonder how much was raised relative to putting the whole thing together, not to mention the carbon footprint and the effects of such a large scale operation on the mountain itself. Something about it just doesn’t seem right to me.

I know that there are still people on this planet who haven’t yet downloaded Spotify; if you are one of those individuals, you are a fool; you are denying yourself unimagined pleasures.

I don’t often start books by the same author one after the other, but, having finished my first Westlake, I dived headfirst into another, and I am enjoying it just as much as the first. The Dortmunder gang are the funniest and best little mob since Richmal Cromptons Outlaws. Westlake was absolutely prolific, so I have hours and hours of good reading ahead. I won’t read them all at once though.

None of us are free

Regarding the Blues, I don't like to say I told you so, but, I told you so!

I have also been telling anyone who will listen that inequality leads to misery for us all, but no bugger has ever listened. Well.................

Drunkards Prayer

<a href="http://www.fabchannel.com/willard_grant_conspiracy_concert/2006-10-14">Live Concert Video - Willard Grant Conspiracy</a>

Blues inexorable rise to the the top continues apace and the citizens of Birmingham are walking around sporting expressions of profound joy. I made the last bit up.

Ian Bell, once again, writes with a brutal honesty, this time about the monsters in our midst.

I can't remember if I linked to this interview with Ray Banks before. It's worth reading for two reasons, the mans attitude, and what look to be some good book recommendations.

"Out of the Gates, Slowly Bleeding": The Life & Times of Harry Crews

Black Heart

<a href="http://www.fabchannel.com/calexico_concert/2008-10-15">Live Concert Video - Calexico</a>

Pancho and Lefty

There is a free cd coming with tomorrow Independent. I have no idea if it's any good but judging by the artistes involved I doubt if it will be my cup of tea. Having said that, I like the cut the of their jib and it's nice to know that there are still some angry young persons about. I like this quote:

"When I hear your music, I want to know your opinion," Lowkey adds. "I don't want to know about your girlfriend. I've got a girlfriend. Keep your girlfriend to yourself, mate."

Having just read the Guardian review of the album, well, it's still good that they have a conscience, but I don't think I want to be privy to it!

On one of my mini tours of the South Wales Valleys yesterday, impatiently changing radio channels in a futile attempt to find something to listen to that didn't aggravate me beyond reason, I happened upon Victoria Derbyshire. I can't stand that woman, but that's by the by. They were talking about the upcoming Michael Jackson tour and caller after caller hailed him as a genius, as the greatest pop artist ever. I don't get it. What makes him so special? I find his music anodyne at best, irritating at worst............what the hell am I missing?

Besides which, his character seems to be a bit flawed; does this not matter? Who is going to be the support act on this tour? Gary Glitter? With cameos from Jonathan King and a comic turn by Pee Wee Herman?

I am deluded.

Fray

Hungry? Have a scanwich

Life magazine images from the 1930's. It wasn't that long ago.

Somebodys Gonna Get Their Head Kicked In Tonight

One of the little perks of having job which entails you spending a fair bit of time in the car is the opportunity it affords you to happen across little gems on the radio, such as this programme on the art of the sleevenote. It's very good and is a lovely listen.

Disappointingly, the new Neko Case isn't available on spotify, but it doesn't matter, because you can stream the whole thing, for free.

Christopher Hitchens goes to Beirut and gets himself and his mates smacked up.

"I Fought the Battle of Trinidad and Tobago"

Another defeat for Blues, undone by the officials..............the chumps that are supposed to ensure fair play. There are not many that will agree with me, but our last few performances have been encouraging; if only in comparison with the utter tripe that has been served up previously. If we had a fully fit squad, half the team that played today wouldn't even get in the reserves (if we had reserves) and we were unlucky not to get a point. I remain hopeful and I continue to like the cut of the jib belonging to Big Eck.

There was a very good piece in the Guardian the other day all about Charles Bronson, Britain's most notorious old lag. It was interesting because it was written by Erwin James, who seems to have been quite a dangerous character himself. The plea by Bronson that he hasn't harmed anyone for 9 years isn't as impressive when you consider the conditions in which he is kept, which ensures that it would be extremely difficult for him to harm anyone.