Down Down Deeper And Down

We purchased an enormous great tent on the Mayday bank holiday; it then proceeded to piss it down just about every day for the next three months. Finally, last week the weather turned and, like rats up a drainpipe, we shot off to Cardigan Bay, where the seals and the dolphins play. We have had a couple of short camping trips in a borrowed tent before but this was our first trip in our own tent and our first attempt at putting the thing up without the aid of an online instructional video, so it was an opportunity to learn and to exercise our tired old brains. And boy, did we learn.

I won’t bore you with the details, suffice to say that the farmer upon whose we field we camped pointed out to us after our first night that our tent appeared to be falling down. He was exaggerating, but the thing did require endless tweaks for about the first 24 hours. Once we got it right though, it was the mutts nuts of tents, rigid, immoveable and despite the howling gales whipping in off the sea (I said the weather had improved, but it’s all relative) silent.

We were about two hours and a whole other world away from home. It never ceases to amaze me how close we are to such beauty and tranquility. The pace of life genuinely seems to be gentler, and slower. I am sure the area has its share of problems but I think you would have to actually search them out if you wanted to find them.

I shall resist the temptation to get all lyrical, but I will recommend that if the weather stays nice and you want to truly, truly get the sense that you are away from it all, and you want to see dolphins, and seals and all manner of sea bird, and you want to be surrounded by unutterable beauty every way you turn, and travel on near empty roads, and eat fish and chips on enormous beaches, or relax in perfect bays, or walk for miles along what must be the finest coastal path in Europe, you should get yourself over to West Wales. Don’t tell any other bugger about it though.

We stayed at Nant Y Croi farm, which is something else really. Very rural, very rustic, a bit rough around the edges, but just about the perfect place to camp, whatever your age. Our our three nippers were just about in paradise. The farmer is not exactly effusive in his welcome, but what he is, is genuinely friendly and genuinely helpful; he even hosed me down when I fell into an enormous pile of cowshit, much to the amusement of the family.

It is very remote. I couldn’t get radio 5 and I couldn’t get a mobile signal, so the transfer window closed with me not realising that Fuckin Luccin had led us up the garden path and we had instead signed some other genius of whom none of us had previously heard. I also missed all reports of our performance against Middlesboro, which, apparently, was abject even by our standards.

No one else seems to worried but I am, we have to win some games and we don’t seem capable of doing it, even though we have only played one of the top teams. History tells us that you cannot give the others a head start and expect to catch them up; history also tells us that we are incapable of stringing a run of wins together, we are going down, mark my words.

It is all a bit glum and gloomy at the moment being a Blues fan; there is no joie de vivre and very little hope. Everyone seems a bit hangdog and there is no spark. There is a torpor about the place and the board no longer seem bothered about us and cannot wait to offload us; unfortunately, Yeung sees to be as skint as me. I think we are in for some desperate times; it’s a good job that we have all become inured to it.

We Don't Need That Fascist Groove (Thang)

There is a short story in the Independent today by Roddy Doyle. It's worth a read because it is a good story, there is an added piquancy for Blues fans though.

Again in the Independent, from a couple of days ago, Robert Fisk wonders about the unanswered questions relating to the attack on America. He makes clear that he is no conspiracy theorist, but points out there are several fundamental and fairly simple questions that remain unanswered.

Roy Keane has told his players that they must not argue with the ref, which has to be the biggest laugh of the season so far, apart from Steve Bruce's shirt and Martin O'Neill's attempts to communicate with his staff via the miracle of modern technology. Also, Steve Bruce and O'Neill have both apologised to refs this week for comments that they made about them or to them. Bruce hasn't apologised for his shirt yet though.

This all makes perfect sense, ref's don't change their minds, there is no point arguing and to get booked for arguing is the height of stupidity. As for being nice to refs, well, keep calling refs nasty names and it is hardly likely that they will be any more kindly disposed to you next time you meet. Still, it's unusual and I wonder if managers have had their cards marked.

A good win for Blues on Saturday, however, given that every one else will also beat Derby I don't know how significant it will be at the end of the season. I think we look alright though and Bruce has publicly stated that he intends to attack, so I am hopeful of a good season. I think we have already scored more goals than we did in the whole of our relegation season.

Apparently, we are in for Peter Luccin, as in, who the devil is this fuckin' Luccin? You might well ask. We may or may not be in for some other bloke with an unpronounceable name as well, who may or may not be any good. I have said before that I don't know how this season will go for Blues, none of us do, because if we are honest we know hardly anything, if anything at all, about our new players. In the case of De Ridder, we may never know, given his career history of about 1.5 games per season. Of those we have seen so far, they look good, admittedly most of them being British.

Which sort of brings me to Man City. Who would have thunk it? I don't think I should be too embarrassed to admit that I had never heard of most of their signings, after all, the press had a field day ripping the piss out of Sven for buying blokes he had only seen on video (do they still make videos?). As early as it is, it is evident that these Carlos Kickaballs, generally, kick a ball very deftly indeed, whether we had previously heard of them or not. The prem is littered with people of whom we had little or no previous knowledge, but who are comfortable on the ball, confident, happy in the knowledge that they possess the ability to do their job, be it pass, run, tackle or all three.

So back to Blues. Of our new signings, the one likely to cause most excitement is Kapo. I had never heard of him before he arrived and even after the first game, struggled to remember his name. The pundits and experts in the pre season supplements told us that we had not bought wisely, and that Kapo had never settled anywhere, because he isn't very good. I don't think those highly paid experts knew what they were talking about, I don't think they ever know what they are talking about.

They saw an unfamiliar name sign for Blues and did a quick scan of his history via google and made assumptions, the lazy, lazy gets; the same can be said of their attitudes to Man City and others, notably Portsmouth, going back over several seasons. Kapo, is a pleasure to watch. He has style, grace and panache. He looks head and shoulders a better player than anyone else on our books, yet, none of us who are honest enough to admit, it had heard of him before. The experts considered him a journeyman, and maybe, in other leagues he is, but not this one.

Every season we see players come here and surpass our expectations. Take Dugarry. I could never work out how he got picked for France, whenever I saw him he looked hopeless, pathologically unable to score, and, when he signed for us the world mocked. Some wee Scottish bastard whose name escapes me for the moment, but who made his name playing for Ireland, because Scotland didn't want him, as well as turning out for our neighbours, told the world that he was a waste of space.

I am as thick and as stupid as Ray Houghton, (I remembered) because I also thought he was a waste of space, but he wasn't a waste of space; he was a genius at using space, and creating space, but he wasn't a waste of space. In 40 odd years of suffering the Blues, I can only think of Willie Johnstone (briefly) and Frank Worthington who can compare when it comes to taking ones breath away.

So where does the widely held notion that we have the best league in the world come from? I watch a fair bit of foreign football on the box and have done for years; I am not a narrow minded xenophobe, but I have never heard of half the players who turn up here; they are not exactly setting their leagues alight in Italy or France or Spain, yet they come here and show us all up. I have said it before and I will continue to say it: our arrogance and insularity is killing us, we need to wise up.

Meanwhile you could be listening to one of the best shows on the radio.

Talking of radio, more people are listening than ever, apparently, and awhat good thing that is; the interweb is a wonderful thing.

Recipe
Soften an onion, add garlic , some chopped carrot and a chilli, followed a bit later by some tomato puree, throw in two tins of different beans, like chick peas or borlotti, add a couple of handfuls of small pasta bits, cover with about two pints of decent stock, simmer for about half hour. Delicious. Even deliciouser if left for a day.

Too Much Too Young

I finished Donkey Punch the other day and haven't actually reflected on it that much, as I immediately got stuck into the New Bruen, which, as you might expect, is bloody magnificent and has kept kept me up way past my bedtime these last two nights. Bruen is masterful, most definitely the capo of crime writers, either British or American. The highest praise I can give Ray Banks is that he is up there with Bruen............he bears comparison: the trick will be keeping it up.

Derby v Blues on Saturday. I can't even bring myself to think about it, by 5 o clock on Saturday our season could be over, said the drama queen.

A child of 11 got shot in Liverpool. This is horrific and is something I genuinely cannot bring myself to think about, the slaughter of the innocents can bring a tear to the hardest of hearts. Listening, as ever, to the phone ins all day as I drive around there seems to be a consensus developing that we have to hit the bandits hard, make them suffer and squirm, and while we are at it we should make their families suffer and squirm a bit too.

I can't really go along with this. Living in an area which has more than it's fair share of petty crime and vandalism and more than it's fair share of 'orrible little gits, who have no fear of any adult, I find my liberal conscience troubling me, as I become less tolerant, and wish harsh punishment upon those who daily aggravate me, but, then, when I calm down, I try to rationalise it and I can't go along with the idea that it is being soft on crime that has led us to the state we apparently find ourselves in.

I do wonder, often, just what the fuck has happened. It wasn't that long ago that I was a nipper and I was right peeky blinder too, as were all my mates. Christ, the things we got up to. However, I think most of us and those like us, were mischievous and stupid rather than just plain bad. We didn't necessarily fear adulthood or authority, nor respect it, but we paid attention. We wouldn't trespass or damage property if an adult was about, and if were indulging in some wanton vandalism and an adult turned up we would leg it.

If we got caught and suffered a boot up the arse or a punch in the ear, we wouldn't complain, we would just hope the old man wouldn't find out, and he rarely did. Where we live, we get grief regularly from gangs of teenagers and also gangs of much younger nippers; their language and behaviour is.....................educational. They couldn't give a stuff who hears them and they couldn't give a stuff who sees them, there is no consequence of which they are afraid. They know that no adult will actually physically assault them, and they laugh in our faces.

How did it come to this? Well, I can tell you how it came to this, I can tell you how we arrived here...........it was an uncomfortable journey, but we got here in the end, via Thatcherism and the bloody equality gap. It's time to stop blaming the poor and the oppressed and the excluded. It's time to stop blaming teenage mothers and it's time to look at a bit of economic and social history. We are paying the price for Thatchers horrific experiment and Labours fear of the right wing press.

Thatcherism is one of the greatest evils ever visited upon this country. Whole sections of society were abandoned, in some cases entire communities were abandoned to their fate and invited to pull themselves up by their bootstraps. Thousands and thousands of people, were just tossed aside, there being no such thing as society, only a collection of self interested individuals. There will always be smart arses, like myself, who escape the daily horror of having no education, no job, no confidence and no hope, but there will be many who don't; some of whom will just sink into a sort of social catatonia, some of whom will become cheerful scallywags and get by as best they can and many of whom will get by with the help of drink, drugs, casual sex and crime.

There will be procreation, lots of it, in and out of wedlock; fathers may be known, they may not. The daily grind of poverty will continue, hopeless lives will stretch out into a blank horizon; there will be no positive role models, peoples lives will be shit and they will seek solace where they can and more babies will arrive and the cycle will continue endlessly on, because communities have been destroyed, industry has gone and respect for the working or non working man eroded.

Children will be born into a world characterised by a moral emptiness, where pleasure is taken whenever and wherever it is available, however short term it may be and regardless of the long term cost. They will have no stake in society, they will not care about society, they will not care about their neighbour and they will be a bunch of aggravating, scary bastards, but, really, whose fault is it? Would any of those people choose their lives, if they had any kind of a choice, I think not. They are abandoned, and they were first abandoned by people with a narrow political agenda who should have known better.

Our society is fucked up, but it's not the people on the estates who fucked it up, they are the victims of the fucking up; we are all the victims of the fucking up. We are the fuckees, not the fuckers. The damage Thatcher inflicted is immense and it will take more than a lily livered Labour regime to put it right. Meanwhile, as I keep saying, the fucking equality gap keeps getting wider, and as I keep saying, where this happens, social cohesion breaks down and life is, for many, nasty, brutish and short.

Tax the rich, squeeze them until their pips squeak and pump all the money into our destroyed and desolate estates. Abandon the olympics, use all that money to provide facilities and coaching in all towns and cities up and down the land. Lets just spend the money. Don't audit it, don't account for it, just spend it; lets give these anti social murderous bastards a reason to believe that they actually belong to this shitty world and have something to gain from engaging with it.

Cryin'

I told you Sunderland aren't very good, then again, neither are we and it could well be that the three that came up will all go back down, together. Many Blues fans regard today's result as unfortunate and blame the ref for giving a poor decision for the pen, or Doyle, for his naivety. They might be right, but I think they are wrong, I think we are poorly managed, and that is why we lost today. Again, we just kick the ball back to the opposition, again the midfield is too far away from the front two, so they look isolated, and the midfield support arrives too late, every time. This has been going on for years, it is not an accident.

West Ham at least looked like a half decent team today, but I still think if we had midfielders possessed of a bit more thrust and attacking intent, they wouldn't have looked so threatening. Bruce has to stop playing two purely defensive midfielders in the middle of the pitch. It's not as if our two wide men are constantly putting the opposition on the back foot to compensate. West Ham had Noble in the middle today and he was a genuinely class act, caused us problems all afternoon and they still managed to accommodate Etherington and Dyer, two players whose instinct is to attack. And West Ham were away. I can't think of any decent teams whose emphasis is on defence to the extent that Blues are.

Bruce isn't going to change, history proves this. Thousands of people spent a great deal of money to watch Blues today. The great Brummie diaspora will have travelled from many miles away, incurring petrol and catering costs on top of the price of admission. And they have all gone home, near and far, disappointed. Again.

It doesn't have to be like this, there are other ways. Bruce either can't or won't see the error of his ways, he either can't or won't see that his style of football is depressing, as well as ineffective. I think we have suffered enough and I think Bruce should go. Watching Blues should brighten the bloody week for us working class heroes, not darken it. We deserve more, we deserve better, not because we are noble, not because we are different, but because we bloody well pay for it. The Blues aren't delivering, the sums don't add up, we ain't getting enough bangs for the buck. It is time for a change, before it is too late.

Through the summer there was anticipation, there was excitement as we signed players that the more honest among us admitted we had never heard of. The general consensus was that the future was bright, because of all this new talent we would have at our disposal. The less credulous among us pointed out that we didn't actually know if any of our signings were any good, moreover, some of us pointed out, it would make no difference unless there was a radical change of thinking and intent on the part of the manager. It looks like we doom mongers had it about right. 1 point out of a possible 6 against teams who could be genuine contenders for a bottom three spot is just plain suicidal.

Still, it's only bloody football. The wonderful Iain Anderson played some Oysterband the other night and they seemed to have ditched the pub rock and returned to their roots, which can only be a good thing. Also a reason to be cheerful, one of the few things that can stop me thinking about the bloody Blues, I have in my possession a copy of the new Ken Bruen. I cannot stress enough how much I want you to click that link.

The new Rilo Kiley is getting good reviews and you can decide for yourself because they streaming it on their myspace site. Bloody hell, something of quality and class, available for free. Karren Brady please take note. The New Pornographers are also getting good reviews. The two sauciest broads in pop release albums in the same week, that cannot be a bad thing, can it?

Classic Northern Diversions

This is good: Jackie Leven

The Dusty Foot Philosopher

The Guardian gets on my nerves when it comes to its coverage of the Blues; I don't mind them being dismissive of us, it's the tired and inaccurate way that they do it which grates. I am afraid that I have become a bit of a one man rapid rebuttal unit, firing off e mails to point out the laziness of the jokes and inaccuracy of the statements, but I have come to forgive them, I have become magnanimous, because the best article of the season has already been written.

To offer a clue as to what it is about, the very long comment thread which accompanies the article contains this gem: It's a good job that so few Villa fans read The Guardian or you'd have the local historical society bombarding you with their views on the latest Messiah.

Mind you, I'm no apologist for the Blues and I don't share the evident joy that some are showing at our collecting of 1 point from a possible 6. We bleat about the unfairness of Sunderlands last minute winner the other night, but once again, we hardly played with gay abandon. The fact is, we invited Sunderland to attack us and they snatched a point. Whisper it, but Sunderland aren't actually very good and we have to view this as two points dropped. If we play in similar fashion against more talented teams we are asking for trouble.

We did play some fantastic stuff at times though and it is endlessly frustrating that our first instinct is always to defend, because if we really went for it we could do some damage. I'm not holding my breath though, because on a very loquacious day for Steve Bruce he commented along the lines that we need to concentrate on not giving anything away.

According to Bruce, football academies aren't working. The nation produces no more footballers now than it did 20 years ago. He has said that over the last 6 years Blues have spent over a million quid each year on the academy, yet no one has come through. So 6 million quid and we haven't produced anyone fit to lace the boots of Steve Bryant. Bruce should be ashamed of himself and resign now, as this is the saddest of all indictments of his reign.

If he has seen that our youth coaches are so useless, why has he not done something about it. With whom does the buck stop? I can think of three Brummies in the premier league outside the Villa. Carsley, Richards and someone else whose name escapes me. What a great scouting and coaching system we must have in a city of about a million people and a conurbation of about 3 million.

I don't get what Bruce is saying. Does he mean we just don't have the talent in the country? That the coaching is shit? or that the coaching is pointless? My guess is that he doesn't believe that theorising about the game has any value; you either have it you don't and the cream will always rise to the top. I might be wrong and I hope I am, because if I am right I might just have to open a vein.

Ajax don't seem to have done too badly with their numerous and varied academies, nor with the barmy idea that, up to to the age of twelve, results don't matter, learning new skills does. Barcelona don't seem to have too much trouble unearthing gems, I believe Fabregas went to Arsenal when he was nipper because he was some way down the pecking order at Barcelona. And on it goes, even in the Côte d'Ivoire, where the academy in Abidjan has noticeably more success at turning out players than Blues, with all our millions. Nearer home, Southampton seem to have a conveyor belt of talent.

Sometimes, old Bruce just makes me feel sad.

Did I mention that tomorrows game is a vital six pointer. Two games in and we are in a relegation dogfight! Win tomorrow and the future is rosy................. lose, and it is going to be a long, hard, dark, and depressing winter.

Pick Up The Pieces

As I have been saying about inequality:

The increasing concentration of income and wealth in the hands of a tiny elite isn't only a gross affront to social justice and any sense of equal worth in a single community. The evidence is clear that greater inequality fuels crime, corrodes democracy, divides our cities, prices people out of housing, skews the economy, is an engine of social apartheid, heightens ethnic tensions, is a barrier to opportunity and stifles social mobility - it's no coincidence that Britain and the US are at the bottom of the industrialised states' social mobility league and the more egalitarian Scandinavian countries at the top.

Another day another slaughter. In my usual naive and simplistic way I cannot see how this is allowed to continue. Forget about the Americans, surely the people of Iraq, those of the who are left, who haven't already died or left for pastures new have had enough? This is what I don't understand. The perpetrators of this mayhem cannot number all that many, so how come those with more goodness in their hearts don't denounce them, don't drive them out, don't betray them?

I appreciate that this is easier said than done and it would be a very brave man who stuck his head over the parapet, still, no rational person can imagine that these atrocities are in any way just or can be condoned. The horror of it is beyond imagining, surely, there are enough sane people left in Iraq who could just turn their backs on the crazed zealots, who could refuse to give them shelter or succour; the place is awash with weaponry, even the good guys must have guns with which to defend themselves, why don't they just turn their backs on the nutters?

There is always football to take our minds off the savagery:

The atmosphere will not resemble carnival celebrations characteristic of sports around the world, but something completely different. The special circumstances are noticeable kilometres away from the stadium itself. There will be special police forces in full riot gear at each big crossing, main streets shimmering blue with police uniforms and police vehicles, and citizens removing their vehicles and avoiding passing by the stadium with their families.

Ken Bruen: To Have And To Hold

We want to control other people and make them what we want them to be. Meanwhile, we are complaining that they do not accept us the way we are. Sometimes the biggest gift we can give to other people is just to let them be. Of course we try and help others, but helping others is very different from controlling them. We help others because we care about them; we control them because we care about ourselves.
- Ven. Chodron

Who Put The Bomp (In The Bomp, Bomp, Bomp)

For one week only, I am supporting Sarajevo, who might just qualify for the Champions League. Recent history in Germany, France, Spain and Italy shows that clubs can surpass expectations and thrive amongst their so called betters, a lesson to us all. We don't have to settle for seventeenth and survival, somebody does, but it doesn't have to be us!

A good start to the season for the Blues. OK , we lost, but we didn't embarrass ourselves and even surprised a few people, including every single one of us. Grave tending duties called me away on Sunday afternoon so I haven't seen much of the game, only about the first ten minutes and I can't say I was impressed, as we just endlessly kicked the ball back to Chelsea. Here we go, I though, same old same old, but it seems that we actually took the game too them and might well have won; I'm still not getting carried away though.

Looking around the superb Saturday Boy to find out what the term Donkey Punch means, I discovered more than I actually wanted to know! I haven't read the novel yet, having only picked it up from the library yesterday, but I suspect it won't leave me disappointed; I just wonder if I should read Saturdays Child first. If the author is anywhere near as good as the authors he likes, well, we will be alright.

I finished The Winter of Frankie Machine. I found it a bit strange reading it, after the Scent of Blood. The latter basically subverts and takes the piss out of the language used in crime books, and then subverts it some more. The Frankie book is full of such dialogue. It doesn't matter though because it is brilliant, and quite different from the also brilliant Power Of The Dog and is full of likeable psychopaths with a fine line in witty repartee.

I read or heard somewhere the other week that the ending toThe Shawshank Redemption isn't the original ending; it was tacked on because the studio didn't want the film to finish on too bleak a note and I wonder if something similar happened here, not that I would want to give the ending away, which would be a crime worthy of a donkey punch in anyones book.

Book recommender in chief, Bob Piper, thinks the book should be filmed and while I see his point, I disagree. The only bloke who could play Frankie Machine is Ben Gazzarra, and he's has to be dead by now.

The time has come to renew my Typepad subscription and I have to consider whether it is worth the money, and, in my case, it isn't. I no longer post enough and I don't get anything like enough visitors to justify it. While I have been gone, Blogger has improved enormously and many of the benefits that I associated with Typepad are now available here, for free, so this is where I shall be doing my blogging, for now, anyway.

You will have to excuse it being a bit crap and messy for a while; it requires a bit of maintenance and housekeeping, and I'm not good at that stuff. Also. I don't think I can be bothered with setting up another blog for the more discursive, personal stuff so you might find a bit more of that on here, if you can stomach it!

I just had a look at the Wychwood Festival site to see if any acts had been announced yet and saw that Country Joe McDonald will be performing. Now I am aware of the man, from the sixties and Woodstock and all that, but I have no knowledge of his music, but there is no reason to remain in ignorance as his website has dozens of songs available to listen to, for free.

Bloody ell. I sign up for Typepad, and now they give Blogger Pro away for free!

For the time being, most of my blogging will over at Typepad.

Oh dear. I am financially phobic.

A brilliant interview with Jake La Motta. If you can get hold of the Observer Sports Monthly, from which it comes, it has some brilliant photos, including one of La Motta knocking Sugar Ray Robinson clean out of the ring.

Bush or Chimp

I find Michael Palin alright in small doses, his website is something to shout about though, jam packed with good stuff it is.

Le Tour

Margaret Hodge reckons that having screwed up so badly in failing to protect the children of Islington she is uniquely qualified for the job of minister for children. Her logic defeats me.
I do not as a rule call for resignations or sackings when people cock up, everyone makes mistakes and the blame culture we live in appalls me.
This is different, she is putting her career first. She is a self seeking cow. If she had any sense she would have seen this coming and declined this job, but no, her eyes and her ego were too big.
It is question I seem to be asking on a daily basis, what happened to the notion of "the buck stops here"?
Children deserve much better

Jeffrey John, the gay vicar who was made a bishop has decided not to take the job. Now, I think he has made the wrong decision, nevertheless here is a chap, who has seen the bigger picture and made what he evidently thinks is the right decision; not for him, but for those he serves.
As bad as the fact that he has had to turn the job downs on grounds of sexuality is that he has to ask the Queens permission to turn it down. Sometimes this country just embarrasses me.


Democratic Underground.

Mr Stabby.

Thanks to Brian, Blues fan, Grand Fromage at Singing The Blues and citizen of Acocks Green, for directing me, in a roundabout sort of way, to the FBI file on Lenny Bruce.

Worldwide Wales TV has little films on all sorts of Welsh towns, including Cwmbran. Leaving aside the fact it is a completely untrue representation of the shithole, it is chuffin hilarious!

Cows With Guns, a brilliant animation and song.

Posts on both my blogs might be thin on the ground for the next week or so. I have managed to get msyelf accepted as a tester for Typepad, a new service which will be up and running, once they have finished testing I suppose. At first glance it looks bloody brilliant, but will be a subscription service, so it depends on the cost as to whether I actually take it up. In the meantime I shall have some fun with it.
So, if things look quiet around here it is probably because I am messing about there. Feel free to look, though it will probably be a bit messy, as I don't really know what I am going to do with it!

Quiz for the bookish among us. I got ten out of thirteen.

This is all a bit pointless, but fun nevertheless, in an annoying sort of a way. Say the colour, not the word.

Bukowski.

I love American noir novels from the thirties and forties, the best of them are much underrated. Bookforum has a brilliant piece on James M Cain.

Church of Me is a blog by a very wordy music fan, too wordy, some might say, but I like it.
Spin is a little more prosaic, but worth a look.

Anyone who has read my other blog will know that I am not very enamoured of my job at the moment. What makes it worse is that at the end of every month, long before the end of every month, I am left without a pot to piss in. I got paid 4 measly days ago and already we have no clue how will get through the month.
So. I have been economising. People keep telling me how good Aldi's wine is, so on the basis that it has to be better than no wine at all, I paid my first visit to an Aldi. I went for one of their more expensive wines, an organic Cabernet from California, at £3.99. It is, in fact........crap. It will do though.
I also got a Chiliean Sauvignon Blanc for 2.99. I am a bit scared of it.


Steve Bell

For such a powerful piece of prose the Declaration of Independence, is a flimsy little thing, well worth reading and it won't detain you long. I wish we had such a thing in Britain. Mind you, I dont think it counts for much in the U.S at the moment.
Magna Carta

I am probably the last eejit in the world to come across this, but here goes. Go to google and type in "weapons of mass destruction" then hit I'm feeling lucky. That's it.
It doesn't work with the toolbar, go to the google homepage to do it.
I downloaded version 2 of the toolbar yesterday, it has a very impressive pop up stopper.

Duct tape ball is bloody annoying.

Misanthrope has updated.

Inspired by Singing The Blues, I shall have a go at the Friday Five.

1. What were your favorite childhood stories?

I used to love Aesops Fables and also when I was a righ nipper in school we all used to sit in the hall and listen to listen with mother. I never knew my mother before she pegged it, and I used to find that programme incredibly reassuring. Probably subconsciously wishing the comforting middle class voice was my mother in heaven, reading to me.

2. What books from your childhood would you like to share with [your] children?

Tom Sawyer

3. Have you re-read any of those childhood stories and been surprised by anything?
Not really. With anything by Twain I suppose you are surprised at how good he is. With anything else that I read to my nippers, I am afraid I am even more starkly aware at how middle class and trite it all is.

4. How old were you when you first learned to read?

I think I may have been able to recognise some words before I went to school, I certainly learned to read very quickly once I started formal education. It's been a pleasure and a curse ever since.

5. Do you remember the first 'grown-up' book you read? How old were you?

I don't remember what it was, probably some porn from the new english library. I jest.
I don't know what it is like now, but when I was a nipper, the branch library in Acocks Green was open till 8 p.m, every night, and I loved that place, I would stay in there till they kicked me out.
They had a biggish junior section, then the adults section stated with a row of shelves which were suitable for teens. I used to sneak around and have a look, not thinking I could read those books as I was only ten, even though my brother was feeding me stuff like Kes and Loneliness of a Long Distance Runner at home.
I think the first adult book I read must have been Kes, or Walkabout.
There is a book I read when I was about 11 or 12 that haunts me to this day. It was about a nipper on his way to a family thing who witness some dastardly business on a train in fenland. He hops it and then and has to trek across county in the snow, pursued by the neerdowells. It was brilliant; I have no idea what it was called or who wrote it.

An interesting (or not) addendum to the libraries thing is that the library in this town close at 5 every night, except Wenesdays and Saturdays when it closes at 12. In Brum, libraries were open till 8 even in the early sixties. And they smelled wonderful too. It is an unfairly maligned city. Don't belive the hype if you read of the love of literature and education in the South Wales valleys.

All you didn't need to know about the number 23.

Now that young Bush has so selflessly liberated the people of Iraq from a murderous regime, do you suppose he will be turning his attention The Congo and Liberia?

What have refugees ever done for us?

The Proceedings of the Old Bailey website is as good as it gets. Where else could you read the details of the court case of several rioters, which took place on this day in 1749, and much else besides.

I have been looking for a decent recipe for apple muffins for ages, but can't find one. I used to have one, but I lost it. TheWilliams Sonoma websites primary purpose is to sell you things, but it has an ace collection of recipes, including one that looks pretty good for hazlenut muffins and this cool looking drink based on horchata. Mrs Buddha loves horchata, I will be earning myself some kudos with this. All I need to do now is find out what the hell a stick of butter is.



Back on Tack is one of those sites that provides dozens of photos illustrating the eccentricity of roadside America. Well worth a look.

The beauty of the web is that I can sit here at 9pm on a Wednesday listening to Monday nights Late Junction. As beautiful, soothing and , well, sexy as Fiona Talkingtons timbre is, I wish she would not pronounce Gillian Welch with a hard G, it's very irritating, even if it is, in fact, correct.

Hemingway's youngest son, Gregory, died in 2001 as a transsexual named Gloria, of causes that put a lot of strain on the term "natural."
The excellent Today In Literature on the suicide of Hemingway on this day in 1961. It seems to run in the family.
Me and Hemingway share a birthdate, and funny enough, I'm feeling suicidal.
Hemingway resource centre. Copious.

A lot of the more obscure political stuff I have linked to over the months was found on Floating Wreckage: Jettisoned Cargo which was a fantastic resource. I can barely believe it was run by one guy. I can believe, depressingly, that it has ceased to be, although some archives remain. The little corner of the radical world that is my kitchen is bereft.
If you have never seen it, have a look, just to see what you have missed.

Here in Cwmbran we have a Jim Crow Square and I have wondered, from time to time, who the bugger is. Plep comes to the rescue, with this link to a museum of Jim Crow.
A quick google provided links to loads of other sites, including this one and this one.
So the town I live in has a square in it named after a mythical character synonymous with the worst of Americas racist history. Nice.
Cwmbrans most famous son, apart from Helen of Big Brother fame, is John Fielding, who won a V.C at Rorke's Drift. Undoubtedly, he was incredibly brave, but he is famous for killing Zulus, admittedly who were trying to kill him. Still, I gotta get out of this town.

I am not often persuaded to agree wityh the Bloody Tories ( I grew up thinking they were actually called The Bloody Tories), but I am with them on the scandal of Margaret Hodge. I think I expressed some outrage following the inquiry into the death of Victoria Climbie, that the poor bloody infantry lost their jobs and careers while their superiors, to a man , up to and including the chief executive found themselves in better paid positions. Sickening.
Now we have Hodge, who completely failed abused children in a major London borough, being made minister for children.
Do these fuckers have no shame?

I had lost The War Prayer, but have found it again. Mark Twain is definitely my number one hero, amongst many. Mrs Buddha forbids me to try and infleunce the nippers in their likes and dislikes, I cannot shove the Blues down their throats, for instance, or instruct them to challenge the Christian ethos prevalent in the school nipper number one attends, and I can see the sense in it. However I did force Tom Sawyer upon nipper number one, disastrously. I shan't be doing that againg in a hurry. I hope I haven't put him off for life.

The origin of Chilli Con Carne.

Norman Mailer asks the question: "why did we go to war?", brilliantly.

If anyone has any bright career changing ideas, the Misanthrope would like to know about them.

This word game should keep Bluetitch occupied, it's bloody hard. I got 5 out of ten on my first attempt, which I thought was good, but was, in fact, crap.

The new Blaenavon, day one.

This NYT article on a chaps last Sunday lunch with his mother is a beautiful piece.

NYT interview with, and appraisal of, Clive James

Ode to Tomatoes,and other things by Pablo Neruda, who also wrote love poetry, including this.
He wrote Il Postino, which was made into a film that is well worth getting your hands on, especially if you want to earn romantic kudos by making your Mrs cry.

Somebody appreciates you.

Evil clown generator.

Paul Kimmage is one of the very few reasons why I persist with the Sunday Times, his in depth interviews are excellent.
He was a professional cyclist in the 80's and here he gives a brilliant account of what it is actually like to ride in the Tour de France.

I moan and moan about the BBC's coverage of Glastonbury, but I should just be grateful that we have it at all, it is definitely one of the highlights of the years viewing, especially mow BBC 3 covers it for hours on end.
This year the presenters have been less irritating than usual, the odious Phil Jupitus apart, but still they persist in showing the same bands playing the same songs over and over again. There miust be loads of good stuff going on but all we see is endless re runs of the likes of Radiohead and for some reason, Suede. I have lost count of the number of times I have seen Freddie and the Dreamers over the last 2 days; sorry, of course I mean The Coral. As I type, David Gray is on, again, for about the hundredth time.

Still, we at least got to see a superb and absolutely barking set by The Flaming Lips. I'm a bit fed up about that actually, having been banging on about them for at least 2 years now every silly chuffer is going to know them, and I can't show off. There is a good interview with chief lip, Wayne Coyne, in the Observer. He does seem genuinely off the wall. I like the guy.
Article on the subtle and not so subtle ways Glastonbury has changed this year.

I have had one of those long months where you just end up skint, so did no shopping this weekend, as I had nothing to shop with. Not to worry, we are resourceful, and the kitchen is full of stuff, so we weren't about to starve. I knocked up a carbonara at dinner time, and the kids dug up some of their own spuds which they scoffed with an omelette for tea.

For me and Mrs Buddha I did a simple baked spud. Caramelised some onions, frizzled some pancetta with them at the end, mixed up with the flesh of the spuds, with some Parmesan and Gruyere, all well lubricated with some good olive oil, before shoving back in the oven. It looked good and it smelled good. Unfortunately, another endless repeat started on the Glastonbury coverage, but it was the Lips, so I just set the time and departed for the living room.
Set it for 20 minutes, but forgot to press the button for conventional oven. So they had 20 minutes at 800 watts microwave power. Ever so slightly burnt. I am starving now but can't be arsed to cook anything else. Beer and crisps, I think will do the trick.

Found on B3TA a photo of a message left on the fridge in a shared house, may or may not be genuine.

10 things we were told about Iraq that appear to lack veracity.

Blaenavon, is a miserable and deprived town stuck in the Welsh Hills, nowhere very near anywhere else. It existed souly for the purpose of coal and iron, and when they went so did hope and civilisation frankly. It is a hell hole, I know, I spend half my working life there, dealing with the casualties of 20 years of neglect and decline.

Due to its history it has been awarded world heritage site status, which astonishes me. It is a shithole, there is nothing there, all the shops are boarded up, it is known as Plywood City.

Yet there is hope. There are plans to turn into a sort of little brother to Hay on Wye, and 9 bookshops have all opened there today, with more to follow, probably, hopefully. The local council, my local council, in fact, in return for ten grand, will give you a shop, shelving and shopfitting, along with a few thousand books to start you off. I have a brilliant idea for a bookshop actually, but I am to gutless to pursue that particular dream.

It would be nice if it worked, and I really hope it does, but I can't see it. There is nothing there, nowhere to get any decent scoff, or even crap scoff. No decent pubs, but plenty of indecent ones. And, unfortunately, the people. The town has been spruced up and painted for todays grand openings, and there is a day of events going on, but everybody I know fully expects everything to be vandalised and graffitied, probably tonight. I can't see where the staff will come from; the locals, to a man are surly and aggressive and will not want to lose their welfare benefits. The town is so isolated it will not be practical for people to come in on the bus, but I hope I'm wrong.
In the local paper the sort of unofficial spokesperson echoes my thoughts and suggest that the best they can hope for from it is a few more coppers on the beat and some cctv cameras, which says it all really.

Worst of all, the best second hand bookseller I know, from Abergavenny market, appears to have relocated there.
I will pop up there next week some time and report if I see any activity.

While we are on a literary bent, a beautiful poem by Mikey Delgado

I have ranted on about the festival of peace love and happiness that is Glastonbury before, so won't start on that again, not yet anyway. However, if these figures related to football match, there would be a national outcry, even if these figures related to arrests in a small town, there would be uproar, at least locally, and the bloody thing hadn't even started when the figures were released:
Latest figures from the police are that 115,000 people are now on site and there have been 60 arrests (2002 had 40 at same time) and 57 crimes (55 last year), but robberies are down by 50%. The good news is that there have been no reported crimes outside the site - last year saw battles with security and police outside the fence of steel. More stats for you - fence jumpers: 0; medical incidents: 524; minor injuries: 449; drug and alcohol-related medical incidents: 17.

I like the look of Books and Bloggers. Nothing to entice to me yet but it might be worth keeping an eye on.

I have a feeling this is not the first time I have posted optical illusions, never mind, they are worth a second look.

Yet again, the increasingly verbose Misanthrope has spoke.

Some days I am pretty chuffed with what I stick on here, some days, frankly, it's cack. Most days it's alright. Today, I spent a long time moaning on the other blog, plus I am knackered so havent put much effort in, not to this anyway, so it's cack. Nothing has jumped out at me and I can't be arsed looking for stuff. I am in a bad mood so have dissed something hundreds of thousands get completely blameless enjoyment from.
Usually, it wouldn't matter, and it still doesn't really. But it's bloody typical isn't it. For some reason my visitors have quadrupled today, and all they have seen is some moany old bastard post a couple of indifferent links.
Oh well, it's probably better to be small but exclusive!

I wouldn't normally link on here to something I have stuck elsewhere, Sportsfilter in this case, but bloody ell! , I am getting visitors, I have to give them something to look at! knock the nippers over with a ball; its fun, honest.

I watched, live on the telly, as a fit young man collapsed and died. It was distressing in the extreme but is a lesson to us all. Live your life as if each day is your last.

I cannot believe what the U.S is getting away with in its treatment of prisoners at Guantamano Bay. Even if you accept it's argument that they have no legal status, I cannot see how it justifiable to treat them so inhumanely. How the US can dare to claim moral superiority leaves me bewildered and confused.

The state of my trousers yesterday has become the stuff of legend. People are pointing and laughing at me wherever I go. Mrs Buddha is looking at me the same way the wife in Curb Your Enthusiasm does at Larry David when he has erred.
Never mind banning mobiles while you are driving, they should ban Magnums.

Steve Bell
And again.

Mission: Iraq a superb blog by Greenpeace members in Iraq. Absolutely essential reading.

More death, this time though, I couldn't give a bugger. Dennis Thatcher has bit the dust, as nobody needs me to tell them. It struck me as curious, as I browsed the BBC site for news on Foe, before his death was announced, that tributes have poured in for Sir Dennis. I just wondered what the hell this oaf had actually done to deserve a knighthood and fulsome tributes on the BBC site, apart from shacking up with a grotesque harridan. Hopefully she won't be long behind and we all have cause to rejoice.

Soul City is worth a diversion for all sorts of spiritual stuff, including a recipe for tommycock.

I genuinely hesitate before posting this, as I am inviting scorn to be poured upon my head, but it's a cracking article on slovenly use of the English language. From the chuffin Spectator!

Can't update, I am bloody knackered, Misanthrope knows why.

My p.c at home appears to be kaput, hence lack of updates, until I get the bleeder sorted out blogging will be difficult, will probably just post bits and bobs while at work, might be dodgy though, the FFC appears at your shoulder like grim death, unannounced.
While I am here I may as well post my thoughts on last nights game.
All the violence and brouhaha was to be expected and was entirely predictable. I can't say it upstes or bothers me at all; anything that pours more scorn on that shower of claret and blue shit is ok by me. And humiliation was piled upon humiliation.
A few things have soured the night for me though. Firstly the one eyed commentary on Sky, both the commentator, Rob Hawthorne, and his side kick, Alan Smith, are clearly Villa fans, and couldn't stop themselves. Every time a Blues player went down it was a despicable over reaction, conversely every Blues challenge was a savage assault (no pun intended). That was bad enough but to then have Andy Gray analysing was a bit much, although Gray at least makes no secret of his allegiance.
I am one of the few who thinks the ref could have done better. I agree he did well to keep his cards in his pocket early on but I think he let it go too far. In particular the little Villa skinhead in midfield should have been booked for a high , late and nasty challenge on Savage. When I say high I mean high, he caught Savage on the shoulder while he was standing at his full height. By the time he booked Cunningham for a fairly innocuous challenge it was too late, Villa had lost the plot.
The mass psychology that insists that Dublin is the aggrieved victim following his contretemps with Savage is bewildering. The mantra is that Dublin is a model pro and a nice guy and his actions were out of of character. All cobblers in my opinion, all through his career if there has been a row on the pitch Dublin has been conspicuous by his presence, inevitably with head thrust aggressively forward. He has always struck me as a bit of a bully. The media in general, including the quality press, continue to demonise Savage in a most unfair manner. First he was assaulted from behind , then when he had the gall to take umbrage, he got nutted. Somehow he has become portrayed as the aggressor. Quite mad.
I can't be bothered going on about the so called invasions, enough cobblers has been spouted on that. However, Blues were well and truly hammered after one guy got on and went about 10 yards at St Andrews. One guy last night went the length of the pitch twice and even then had to hang around making small talk with Enckleman before some fat bloke and his elderly sidekick decided to stroll on and remove him. I hope justice is seen to be done.

Martin Amis on war with Iraq

Steve Bell

Normal blogging will resume one day, I hope.

I believe Thanksgiving is quite a big deal in the U.S of A. It gave us Planes Trains and Automobiles, and for that, I give thanks.
Thanks to mefi, for the Thanksgiving poem by William Burroughs.
The Guardian guide to Thanksgiving.
Answers to more crucial Thanksgiving questions.


Another fantastic random clicky thing, this time of street photos. Apart from the Paris ones, a sample of which is above, you probably won't know where you are, but who cares.

I like the look of this TV reviewing site. There isn't much on it yet, but it has potential. Unbelievably, there is no review for the Sopranos, that will change very soon, I suspect.

The Bluetitch 5
1/ What is the biggest lie you've ever told?
I won't......no that joke is too disgusting even for me. I once lied to get a job, then having got the job had to confess that I had lied because it was about to become very obvious. Not a big lie just a stupid one. Sacked before I started.
2/ What is the biggest lie you've ever been told? I was grievously and pointlessly lied to by 2 health professionals I am suppossed to be working in partnership with last week. One of the ugly chuffers actually lied either to or about me 3 times (that I know of) just last week. This is actually a very big thing and has pissed me off immensley. The fuck faced cowbag knows of it and has ignored it, leaving me to deal with it myself, which will have inevitably messy consequences. Not the biggest, I suppose but cumulatively, the one that is pissing me off most, right this minute.
3/ What is the biggest secret you've ever kept?
Well, it wouldn't be a secret if I said, would it?
4/ What is the biggest secret you've not kept?
Mrs Buddha's first pregnacy
5/ What is the "best" lie you've ever heard being told?
Er, can't think of one, in general I don't approve, unless it is to save my own skin.

Addendum to the five, one of my favourite lyrics is from what led me to this town by The Jayhawks, which includes the line, "can I tell you a secret...I'm in love with you". Also, truth time, this was meant to be a gratuitous link to Wilco, until I realised I had got the wrong band.

The firemans strike is a bit of a sore point in our house and no longer to be discussed. Mrs Buddha supports them wholeheartedly and unreservedly. She keeps taking them boxes of biscuits and stuff. I have taken up a slightly different position. Anyway, this article about firemen and braziers made me chuckle, and really shouldn't offend either side, it's just a giggle, but true enough.

The BBC held a great Britons poll, and Winston Churchill won it. Well, that is just embarrassing really, Churchill was a git, quite prepared to send troops in against his own people.

Princess Diana irritated me intensely before her death, and even more after it. The continued hagiography of her by the press drives me mad, as prior to her death she was regarded as a vacuous dilettante. So I am more than happy that I can share this, which is a fair summation of her life and achievments.

ROFLMBO: a useful guide to internet abbreviations

My campaign against Saudi Arabia continues.

Yet another Blues fan starts a blog. Hugh Mungus this time; I have high hopes for this one.

Cultural infantilism. A couple of years ago, loads of parents of my nippers mates started to rave about Harry Potter. If the nippers had spent time at our house the parents would pick them up and after the usual niceties; "has he been good?", "did he eat his tea?" , they would say they would get them home, and bathed and read Harry Potter to them. Inevitably they would tell us how brilliant the books were and how they read them for themselves, rather than the nippers.

I was sceptical. I had thought my nipper was too young for Harry Potter but these people convinced me, and I bought a book. Well, it may be good childrens literature but it isn't for adults, it is plainly kids work, and my Mrs agrees, so that's that. My nipper loves it, and I haven't a problem with that, but I hope that when he is an adult he likes adult books. He prefers Snicket, Morpugo and Zephania as it is.

The reason for this little diatribe is my dismay at the cant and cobblers spouted about this latest book. It no wonder publishers and marketing types take us all for chuffing idiots; we do very little to disprove the notion.
2 Potter related links from the Observer, one is a positive review, with something pertinent to say about adults who read it.
Two is a typically witty and slightly cynical piece from Euan Ferguson.

Bernard Manning is an old style northern club comic who has got rich by being offensive about, well, everybody. He is on in Cwmbran soon and I am toying with going simply so I can blog about it. The thought of several hundred lagered up valleys boyos pissing themselves at "paki" gags, though, will prevent me from doing so. Odious as Manning is, his audience represents a very scary mob mentality, which I don't think I can stomach. Anyway, there is a brilliant interview with him in todays Guardian, by Simon Hattenstone. Mannings attempt to explain a "coon" joke to Hattenstone had me cracking up.

I have a habit, when I have bought a load of books, of keeping them all by the bed. Even if I have a book on the go, I will have a little dip into my new purchases, reading and rereading the back jacket and the reviews, maybe a paragraph or two. This caused me to get a chuffing bollocking this morning. While Mrs Buddha was running around like a maniac trying to get the 3 nippers sorted out, I took a peek at Down On Ponce, and kept peeking until she gently pointed out that this was no time to be reading a fucking book, about 3 chapters later.
I got home from work, knocked up the quickest tuna, bacon and tomato sauce for pasta in history, for the nippers, banged it down and legged it up to the bath where I got a few more chapters in before anyone noticed. He kills coppers is going to have to wait, not for long though.
Willard

So enamoured have I become with the work of Fred Willard I e mailed the bugger to tell him, and he replied. It appears that this very morning he sent the first part of his new novel tohis publisher. I am not sure if this is a good thing, why wouldn't he send the whole thing? Perhaps he is blocked.
Talking of why, why is the sequel to the Ice Harvest taking so long to appear?
The Misanthrope has been moaning his head off again.

Images of Havana, via Plep
From the same source, Buenos Aires

I have a dilemma. I have so much personal stuff to blog I don't know which blog to stick it on. As this one is much easier than the other this one will get more than the other, so if you are looking for daft links, well, later dude.

My work this week has been more stressful than I have ever known, and I have been in the game for more than 20 years. I won't go on about it here. I have another blog for that shit, but it's pertinent to what follows.

We are soft sods in my game, we don't get overtime but routinely start early, finish late and work through dinners. In fact we don't have dinner hours, we stop and eat but thats it and we usually work between mouthfuls. I say we all, but those who see my other blog won't take that as the literal truth, obviously.

The advantage is, though, we are always owed time (some of us legitimately) so I took today the fuck off.

Got up the usual time and got the train to Cardiff.. nice espresso, nice langorous haircut, mooch around the book and record shops, Yankees hat for the nipper. It was like I had a week off and it was barely past mid morning. Got a whole 69 p off Willards first book because of the battered cover, spent a fortune on sundry shit, including a half pound of Santos and Java coffee. And I thought retail therapy was for girls.

I arranged to meet the Mrs outside Waterstones at 12.30, the intention being we would have a little mooch and take the 2 that ain't in school down Cardiff Bay for an ice cream.

Cardiff Bay was buzzing. Beautiful hot sunshine and every bar and cafe abuzz. Unbelievably, nipper number 3 fell asleep between the car park and the bay. I cannot tell you what a result that was.

We headed straight for the Bosphorous, which is a Turkish joint ( I wish! ) which juts out on a pier like edifice into the water. Boardwalk up to the restaurant but tables all around, and one was free. We sat there listening to the waves and the hubbub of conversation, taking the smells of grilled food in. I swear it didnt take much imagination to take yourself away, especially as we were surronde by Spaniards.

We had one of those do's where they just keep bringing loads of small but beautifully prepared dishes. It being lunchtime and this being an unexpected pleasure I went for the house wine, which was actually very good. 8 quid for some Turkish thing which was much better value than the 20 quid I spent on a Pinot Grigio in Topo Gigoo last week.

A good day then. The daughter was present through all this and behaved herself beautifully and scoffed sophisticatedly. Number 3 slept all through it. The sun shone.

Travelled home, picked number one up, and his mate from school. Stuck myself in the garden. Put some music on, loud but quiet. You could hear it on our patio, but not on our lawn. It was ok for about 2 hours.

Mrs Buddha took the pal home about 6 and I reflected what a glorious day it had been and what a lucky sod I am, pissed by now, obviously. I further reflected that this little idyll would inevitably end, sooner rather than later, and it did.

I have said before, I have social housing to my immediate left, and posh housing to my right. The truth is I hate the lot of them. As I said last year though, it is only the fat, wobbly bastards from the social housing who drive me inside and stop me enjoying a pleasant summers evening in the garden.
By 6.30 tonight the Clampitts were at it. The worst is their music is crap and the system they play it on is nasty, and it gets louder as the night goes on. The fat fuckers have no class.

So while I had some Dexys on, sinking some lager or other, a generic eurobeat just took over everything. It is like some cheap Aldi soundsystem, turned up high, very nasty, worse than nails down a blackboard in terms of sound quality. And they stick on it the modern equivalent of those MUSIC FOR PLEASURE LP's you used to get from Woolworth. All the hits, but it wasn't till you got home and read the small print that you realised the music was not by original artists, but by the Swingle Sisters less tuneful sisters.

It's been a grand day, but check the neighborhood before you buy a house!

Inexplicable mobs. It seems that loads of people in New York get e mailed a location and then descend upon it, for no reason. It's the kind of pointless and stupid activity that I find very appealing.

Rebel Dread: long interview with Don Letts. He has something interesting to say about Sid Vicious.

Bleedinell. Now I can't eat tiger prawns. Never much cared for the buggers anyway.

I am a bit of a cricket traditionalist but can see the point of 20 20 cricket. The idea of popping down after work and sinking a few while first class players bash it about a bit for a couple of hours makes sense. The three games I have seen on the box so far though, have been crap. Fortunately, the Bears seem to have become quite adept at it, a report on last nights humilation of Worcestershire is a good reflective piece by an old fart.

A couple of tracks from the Paddy Mcaloon album, available for streaming.

U.S soldiers appear to be getting fed up.
This may or may not be a blog written by a US soldier in Iraq.

Bare bum. Click on it and it wiggles, the further away you click the more it wiggles. It's only a bum, but it's bare, so use your common sense.

Bjork has a new haircut.

Steve Bell

I have been banging on about how Late Junction is the best thing on radio for ages, I am listening to last nights show now, courtesy of the web. No one has taken any notice though, so I gave up. Well, what Matt Seaton said.

After roughly 280 days worth of fearful descriptions of the formidable Iraqi arsenal, coming on the heels of seven years of UNSCOM weapons inspections, four years of surveillance, months of UNMOVIC weapons inspections, the investiture of an entire nation by American and British forces, after which said forces searched "everywhere" per the words of the Marine commander over there and "found nothing," after interrogating dozens of the scientists and officers who have nothing to hide anymore because Hussein is gone, after finding out that the dreaded 'mobile labs' were weather balloon platforms sold to Iraq by the British, George W. Bush and his people suddenly have a few things to answer for.

And so does Blair.

The U.S. government could not have chosen a more inappropriate land in which to stage its illegal war and display its grotesque disregard for justice. Arundhati Roy waxes beautifully, brainily, lengthily and crucially.

For those who might be interested, the other blog has been updated.

It's been a bit of a pain these last few days finding a book to read and I have been dipping in and out of several. The trouble is I think, my work is so shitty and stressful I am exhausted all the fucking time, so starting a new book is just a bit, well irritating. I can't be arsed with the preliminaries I just want in there. I had a good go at To Die In California, but it was just too depressing as a bedtime read after a shitty day. I will definitely return to it though, despite the exremely small, eye knackering print.
I took myself into the Leisure Centre caff earlier, while nipper number 1 was at karate. A full hour to myself, with a coffee and a book, you cannot know what luxury that is. I decided I would take He Kills Coppers. Good choice got well into it and it will do for the next week or so. A very short excerpt

Plep continues to come up with the good stuff. These childrens stories have gone straight into my favourites.

I have a new discovery. Broken Social Scene. Believe the hype.

A short story by David Sedaris.

At the risk of sounding like a spluttering old bufoon, I have to say I am outraged at the news that the burglar who was shot by his victim, has won the right to sue for damages.
I have no sympathy with the victim, Tony Martin, as he comes across as quite unpleasant and dangerous himself. This twerp of a burglar though, needs to stop crying and accept some responsibility.
The little shit should grow up and be a man. Actions have consequences. If you are big enough and ugly enough to commit crime you should be big enough and ugly to accept the consequences, that includes having harm done to you if caught by the victim.
What a little wanker.

Cardiff is famous for its Clarks pies, God knows why because they are crap, this guide to buying and eating one, however, is priceless.
The first time I tried to buy one, just after moving to Cardiff in a chip shop on Albany Rd in Roath, was a disaster and I ended up with a piece of cod. It must have been my accent. Clarks pie and chips I said, and waited. I saw her put a piece of cod on the paper and asked if it was for me. Yes she said. I don't want fish, I said, I want a CLARKS PIE!. Thats what you have got she said........A LARGE COD. We repeated this mantra to each other about 5 times before I settled for the cod.

Just got back from Cardiff. Scoffed well at Topo Gigio, and drank very well there and in several other places. Saw Cerys Matthews. Wasn't all that good, wasn't bad, but not blow your socks off good. Still, as evenings go, with your Mrs, it was bleeding marvelous.
Topo Gigio is one of those trattoria type places that has pictures of the stars that have eat there all over the place, it has also got agreat big open front window effort with tables outside, so one can watch the world go buy and enjoy the hot, sultry, summer ambience. So, obviously the Mrs had the view. I had the photo. Michael Knighton and Ian Rush. It's a classy joint.

The guy who supported Cerys was a strange fish. I had hoped we had missed him going for the Italian and insisting on her having a puddding as I felt time spent in the bar would be more rewarding. As we entered she said she needed a piddle so more time wasted, I thought, then, when she emerged the guy said 2 minutes to showtime. Given the choice between watching me get even more pissed or watching the guy she chose the latter.
Frankly he was crap, Adam Green or somesuch. Self regarding yankee twerp. Avoid at all costs.

Cerys started as if she had never met her musicians before, it shows up what happens when you have a bunch of musicians rather than a band. They sorted it out though and by the 5th or 6th number sounded pretty tight. She looked beautiful in all her pregnant glory and despite her rock chick habits has a glorious voice and a winning personality.

Before we went I commented to Mrs Buddha it was going to be fucking homecoming, not a gig, full of Welsh mawkishness. She agreed and said she mentioned to her colleagues that she was worried I would hate it. Well, I wouldn't have, but it didnt apply. She ignored her past and didn't indulge in any Welsh girl banter even though large parts of the crowd were begging for it. Big Kudos to her for that, and for giving me and the Mrs the excuse for a brilliant, reaffirming night.

Cardiff has changed massively since I started breeding and stopped going out. Much better than Brum, and thats a phrase I thought I would never utter. Life is lived on the street, fantastic, they should pipe streetlife through the lamposts. Late on we went in a pub, the name of which I forget, on the end of Mill Lane. It's just a pub, nothing special, but will sell you,by the bottle, Faustino 5 and Berbera.

Crab Ball

A history of CBGB'S

It being bloody hot, my in car entertainment has mostly been classic 70's dub. I have also discovered Ted Leo, who is very far from being dub, but it is very, very good. The bugger is on in Cardiff in a couple of weeks for about a fiver, the night after The Sadies. Wonder if I can get to both. Jon Langford is guesting with Sadies, it will be a night to remember I suspect

There is a very good literary website, which publishes short fiction. Unlike others of the type it doesn't overload itself, so is very user friendly.

I read this last week and thought I must blog it then forgot all about it, till it popped up on Mefi. It's the story of a Japanese girl who turned up in Fargo, apparently looking for the money that was buried in the film. She wound up dead.

A snobby, but accurate, article on British grub.
Bloke in the Kitchen.
Healthy grub.

Just finished the Fred Willard, so good I am going to have to get another. First though I will finish the Thornburg I started last night and which pulled me in immediately.

Although at times he talks like a cock, much of this article looking at the Beckham transfer is spot on. I really don't know why I bother with football anymore. The whole thing including the personalities, is starting to make me feel nauseus.

I rarely give advice, so listen to this...do yourself a favour, one way or another, legal or illegal, get yourself a copy of I Trawl The Megahertz, by Paddy Mcaloon.
Interview with Mcaloon. Not recent.
Any excuse to share a recipe. Being skint I am always chuffed when I find something easy, cheap, quick and which all of us will eat. I don't know when, recently though, I invented the dogs bollocks of chicken thingys. Even if I say so myself.
Ingredients:
Olive oil
smoked paprika
oregano
couple of lemons
salt pepper, obviously
Small bag of nice spuds
3 lemons, probably
One clove garlic, chopped not minced,
Some shallots, or onion, quartered
About 8 chicken thighs

Put big, big glug of olive oil in roasting tin and chuck in the oregano, paprika and seasoning, with juice from 2 of the lemons.
Having sliced the spuds, not thick, not thin, toss them in all the lovely, fragranced oil.
Sprinkle over the garlic
Skin the chicken and score the bugger, give it a good coating of oil and lay over the spuds
Tuck a quartered lemon and some shallots all around ( or onion)
Bang it in hot oven for about an hour.
The chicken might be slightly overcooked, some spuds definitely will be, but it won''t matter because the flavour will knock everyones socks off. There will be no leftovers.

I did this with some left over spuds a few weeks ago and have done it pretty much every night since.
Cooked spuds, floury will do if you can devote time, love and patience.
1 big onion
2 cloves garlic, chopped not minced
I green chilli, chopped, wash your hands before going to the toilet.
Basically stick em all in a big frying or saute pan with oil and butter. Cook very slow, very gentle for about 45 minutes. The secret is the very slow gentle frying...the slower the better, be patient very low heat,,, gentle nudging till they go brown all over. Fuckin ace man.

I wonder if I am too old for an existential crisis?

Anyone remember Ducks Deluxe?

One of my favourite places on earth, possibly my favourite place on earth, is Barcelona market.

Make some biscuits.

They died for their government: an excellent article on war and patriotism.

Twin Oaks is a commune that was set up in the sixties. It is still going.

Bloody Spion Kop has had me disappearing up my own arris trying to post a poxy pic of him taken in about 1903. He's going to have to start his own blog.

There is a new blogger in town. He's pretty good too.

Robert Mugabe continues to lock up and murder his opponents, yet far from invading Zimbabwe and setting its people free, we play cricket with it. Even peaceful protests are banned from inside the ground by our cricket authorities. If I wasn't so old and cynical I would be spluttering with rage about this.
Saddams major mistake was in not having a cricket team; if he did, he would still be in power.

A brilliant account of life in Baghdad

I am still listening to M Ward, which just gets better and better, both of them. Thanks to the internet though, I have also got the Pernice Brothers new one, which is every bit as good as the last one, so it is very chuffing good indeed, obviously. I am finding Out Hud extremely groovy too.

It appears that there is chance that Bush might be impeached for lying through his teeth. Much as I would piss myself if it happened I cannot see it.
Bush and Blair both make me sick with their religious pieties. They seem to think that lying and cheating does not count if it is done by them, and they carry on regardless, like a pair of smug chimps. One way or another they will get their comeuppance.
Mind you, most Christians I know share similar traits and are a very unattractive and hypocritical bunch.

Is it art, or is it crap?

I paid a rare visit to one the Blues message boards today and found it depressingly full of ill shit. One or two of its contributors could do with learning a bit about tolerance.

Intriguing interview with an ex CIA chap who reckons he knows a thing or three about Saudi Arabia.

OO er. The template has changed. It's still much better than the one on my other blog, which is the essence of crap. I might just have to start posting all my work ramblings here.

This isn't a work rambling, although it might appear to be so. I will ramble workwise, later, but on the other blog; this is a general ramble which just happens to be work related.
This morning , while going for water, I saw someone struggling to get through a heavy door while carrying a big box. Instinctively, I went to help. Then I noticed it was some grease laden and orange faced cow from personal who not only was responsible for my pal Sian leaving but was very rude to me and my colleagues in Londinium the other week. So I just thought fuck it and let her struggle. That's all.

Cooking with Google.

WMD: where is the chuffing outrage!!

Read about M Ward.

"It took two or three days to walk correctly, but . . ."

Write better e mails.

Steve Bell

Long, fascinating article on the history of the Tour de France

Once again, it seems the people are more than willing to believe a big lie.

Short story by Murakami.

I have recently discovered M Ward (not the ex Blues player). Do yourself a favour, discover him too.

Steve Bell

Hugo Young on Blair and WMD.

Reviews of Shoedog, by Pelecanos.

I had always thought that Stagger Lee was just a great character in a Clash song. Now I learn that Stagger Lee is not a Clash song, it is an American classic, with a wonderful history and that it is based on a true story, whereby Stagger Lee killed someone in a St Louis bar for touching his hat. Now it is the subject of a book, which I going to have to get just as soon as I can lay my hands on it.

Build a bridge

Play 20 questions

Nims winter story is a bit special.

The week, generally, has been a bit wonderful. I have had such a great time time with Mrs Buddha and the kids I am waiting for some disaster to befall me so the pleasure gets balanced out by some pain, and I can stop feeling guilty at being so lucky.
We had so much fun I haven't even had time to get decently pissed before crawling to my pit; which means I at least had the wits about me to finish the Crumley.
Man that was a depressing read. I was in need of light relief, and my hand fell upon Princess Naughty and The Voodoo Cadillac, by Fred Willard. So far so good, I think I am going to like it, thankfully. I have taken some chances on pulp type novels recently and been sorely disappointed.

I have to say I have been a bit underwhelmed by my first mefiswap experience. Of the two cd's I received one was excelklent, full of really good stuff that I was unfamiliar with, the other was good as well, but not as surprising, or startling. But where the chuff are the other 3 ? Also, I keep having guilty pangs about putting unintended tracks on the one I sent out, and not being arsed to change them. I also realise that of all the Ed Harcourt tracks I could have put on, I chose the worst.
Oddly when I tested the link, the website was playing the tune I was actually listening to anyway. Spooky.

The suicide wave: an extremely harrowing account of young men approaching slaughter on Omaha beach June 16 1944.