Out Out Out

A fitting way to watch the FA Cup final which - somewhat sadly - I really wasn't looking forward to all that much anyway. I was struck down early on Wednesday morning by some kind of gastric bug. I will spare you the gruesome details, but suffice it to say that I am still at the tail-end of the hideous fallout from it. On top of the rear end action, I was also feeling a little flu-ey: aching joints and head; slightly spaced out physicality, etc. No doubt compounded by the lack of sleep as I sat and stared at the tiled toilet floor in the middle of the night. So it was in this frame of mind that I crawled onto the sofa at 5 fucking 15 on Saturday, a can of beer unopened in front of me for nearly 45 minutes, listlessly watching the match unfold.

What can I say? I never expected - as so many fuckwits seemed to - that we would turn Wigan over. Just recently, we were extremely lucky to get away with a 1-0 win over them, and, unluckily mired as they are in the bottom three, they are still more than capable of playing some good football. I'm not calling him a fuckwit, but my cousin Steve predicted 4-1 City. I always (honestly - I'm not trying to big myself up) believed that it would be a low scoring affair. From the off, the Latics looked seemingly impenetrable in defence, though perhaps lacking in the final ball finesse to score, while we were lethargic and utterly bereft of ideas. A packed line of central defenders repeatedly stifled the darting runs of Kun and Tevez. Silva, on the rare occasions he did pick up the ball, was not playing at all well, and Yaya looked as if he was still suffering the muscle fatigue reported against Swansea earlier in the week. There was some hope rather than anticipation that we might click in the second half, but it was very short-lived and - truth be told - they (and particularly McManaman) came on much more strongly as the game progressed - cocking a snook at 'bloody' Roy Keane and his pearls of wisdom. I was too weak to shout, but that didn't matter as there was hardly anything worth shouting about. More and more often, Clichy was made to look an idiot down our left side, until their scoring seemed an inevitability, and then Zab got his marching orders, putting paid to any chance we might have had of (unjustly) nicking one to win it.

I'm no fan of Dave Whelan - in fact I think he's a Tory cunt - but I suppose I've got nothing in particular against their fans, even if they do like egg chasing more than the beautiful game. In any case, it's important to be magnanimous in defeat, so fair play to them, congratulations and all that.

We hear that Bobby is being treated in the now familiar shabby fashion that is modern football management, although swinging the axe on the very day that was the anniversary of our tremendous title win was classless in the extreme. The loss though, and the end to a potless and disappointing campaign, fits the mood of the moment - even as Sralex stands and cries in the middle of the Sty, sticking the knife in as the tears roll down his face. Wigan then, as much as City, deserved what they got, so it's time to look to the future and our exciting trips to South Africa and the USA. Time to consider life under a Chilean rather than an Italian.

Pride

Perhaps it was because there was nothing to fight for but pride; maybe it helped that Van Persil left his shooting boots at home and Roo (ha!) had a mare. It could have been any of those things, but in the end we easily deserved the glorious win that marked two consecutive away beatings of the old enemy. Another incredible goal from Kun to seal it, and an overall performance which showed few of the cracks and failings we have displayed in some of our worst matches this season. Nastasic looking solid, Clichy full of running, Vinnie back to his self-assured best, Yaya strong and powerful - playing a captain's role on the occasions when football was secondary to handbags - and Milner getting MOTM as he deservedly should have. Merlin not quite clicking as we know he can, but still more than bloody decent, and Nasri playing... well... OK, I suppose. Then it was all nicely capped off with the #tweetyourphiljonesface hilarity the next morning, once again confirming City fans as the wittiest in the country.

On to Chelsea then, and in the purest sense, the football gods you might say would demand a sacrifice, but the victory at the Sty was purely on merit, and I can say with my hand on my heart that we bossed the fuckers for pretty much the whole 96 or 97 minutes. Even their goal was ridiculous, down to a crazy Joe Hart lunge and a bounce off Jones' beaker mug onto the back of Vinnie's shirt before somehow going in. We all know that Bobby and Platty are right when they say that the title race is over, but we can dream. A small glimmer of hope to brighten this interminable winter with its persistent easterly wind gnawing at our bones.

Though they do say spring is on its way, with a possible 21 degrees at Wembley to look forward to tomorrow, and what promises to be a testing game against the Smilers. Could go either way that one (I'm not ashamed of the cliche, thank you) but it does look likely to have its moments. Mata, Hazard and Oscar are all deadly on their day, while Ba can bang them in, and even old Frankie Lamps is still a man to cause any team problems. But they are, if not a curate's egg (which is becoming one of my favourite phrases - typically slippery English) then certainly a curious bunch this season, Benitez's boys: full of flair and brio one minute and clod-hopping losers the next. On top of that, it is the FA Cup of course, and the accepted wisdom is that accepted wisdom goes flying out of the window. All I can say is that I'm looking forward to it. Sunday 4 o'clock kick-off is an ideal match time for me.

Current reading: Stephen King's It. Not up to the standard of Gerald's Game or The Shining, but entertaining nevertheless. King can write about childhood like nobody else, but It seems a little too unfocussed to hold the terror of - for example - the Overlook Hotel. I've had quite an exclusive diet of the Maine man lately, but I'll stick with It for the time being. I feel I can't flush Stephen out of my system till I get hold of a copy of Pet Sematary. Then I will move on to someone or something else.

Current listening: I've Been Everywhere, Man by Johnny Cash. What a tune! I'm trying to:

a) learn the words and

b) come up with an Oswestry version (having found that there's a Kiwi one, FFS!) even though Maesbury doesn't have quite the same ring as Sioux City.


Current work situation: being called a fucking wanker by some weirdo who spends his time ringing us up and complaining about... what? I don't know. I was rattled the first time it happened, but now everyone is surprised at how clamly I deal with him.

Sums

Following the great day of reckoning (appropriate that it should have been April Fools' Day) yesterday, we have - yet again - the patronising gimmick of asking a minister to live the life of a person in need. We've seen this before, seen it with homelessness, seen it as a TV show conceit, seen it to death, and it has done nothing to inform or enlighten the debate. These days, with the continued depressing debasement of any and all serious discussion, we are as far away from enlightenment as it is possible to be.

Regardless of facts, the crusade continues; savings or cuts, debt or deficit, tax or penalty. I have written about the Quiet Man before, and the facts of his life are there for all to see, but once again he is - incredibly - central to the way that this country operates. He talks in high-minded fashion about benefit dependency, and alludes to the moral duty of providing opportunities for people to escape from this trap. Iain Duncan Smith, personal wealth (mostly from public speaking engagements) estimated at £1,000,000, with an annual salary of £134,565, married to the daughter of 'The Commander' - Baron Cottesloe - moralises to the nation about a culture of entitlement and this vile hypocrisy is reduced to a stupid, pointless challenge to him to live for one week only on £53. What will this achieve? Sweet Fanny Adams. IDS is lucky to be where he is - in his rented cottage on the father-in-law's country estate, is lucky that his connections and a few cleverly crafted bits of misinformation on his CV allowed him to enter the echelons of privilege which make our scepter'd isle what it is. Just as the proverbial and apocryphal dole scrounger is unlucky to be wherever (s)he is, trying to make the best life they can while everything conspires to push their faces deeper into the mud.

But what of the facts? They are notoriously difficult to track down, because everyone puts their own gloss on the screeds of numbers pumped out each day, every vested interest finds one or other statistic to reinforce their agenda. What we do know is that the welfare bill is largely made up of payments to those of pension age, and that it is a huge number, growing all the time as we live longer and accrue more illnesses thanks to this ageing process and the lives we lead, the poisons we are fed (voluntarily and involuntarily) in the modern world, and the mountains of shit we belch and vomit into the environment every day. None of these inconvenient truths are mentioned by Mr Duncan Smith or his cohorts because many of the above-mentioned group are perceived to hold the power of election over them.

We also know that many of those in receipt of housing benefit are working, and that most of these people are also in receipt of tax credits to make up for the fact that the wages they are paid are not adequate to provide a living. Thus large companies are effectively supported by government money so that they can continue to pay wages below decent levels. Already we have a strong rebuttal to the general meaningless noise emitted by those in Whitehall: that there is some huge money sucking monstrosity of The Unemployed draining valuable resources in a time of general penury. This is clearly not true. However, IDS and others continue to peddle their egregious guff, ploughing on with no heed for the voices raised against them. Even more galling, the gulf between scum like him and the increasing numbers of poor people grows wider by the day, yet he has the nerve to preach about how everyone has a duty to work harder.

People in receipt of Income Support (how insidious is the use of language?) are now expected to pay towards their council tax, and in some cases this amounts to just over £1 a week. Not facts necessarily this time, but an educated guess: the cost of collecting these monies will easily outweigh the value of the sums collected - even in cases where people have both the ability and the will to pay. How much does it cost to calculate the required payment, how much to input the data on to a computer, and how much to print the sheets out before posting them to each claimant? If we factor in the guaranteed prosecutions for non-payment (remembering that such non-payment is a criminal, not civil offence) then the cost of administration will soar, making the whole process unworkable, meaningless and self-defeating. But who cares about shit like that?

Ruth

The anniversary of Ruth's death is 27th March, and I wanted to repost this, originally written in June 2012, in her memory. May her words and thoughts and deeds live forever in our hearts.

Ruth died on Tuesday 27th March 2012 at seventeen minutes past 10 in the evening. She had been suffering for just under a year with pancreatic cancer, and had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease some years prior to the cancer being identified. It isn't my place to go into too much detail about her life, but I feel the need to write a tribute to her.

She was a remarkable woman, who played a major part in my life from around the age of 17 or 18, when I swam into the orbit of her family. Just like anyone who ever met her, I'm sure, I will never forget her for her ready laugh and sometimes outrageous sense of humour; her strong but (generally) kind personality, and her immense but largely unrecognised writing talents. Her poetry had a light touch, and could be extremely funny, but poignant too. Some samples of her work are here and a book was produced in 2011. Her literary love was Dylan Thomas.

A great player of parlour games, she had a fondness for Trivial Pursuit when it was at the height of its popularity, and there was always a Braille Scrabble set around, as well as the letter cards from Lexicon that she could use for anagram games - beng able to make out the letter shapes in their large format.

In a world of timidity, there were few things she was scared of, and few things she wouldn't face by tackling them head on, before brewing up another pot of tea and blasting Tosca out of the stereo in the kitchen at full volume. There aren't many people I can remember having such laughs with, and even when I saw her last, with the Alzheimer's in full swing, we still spent a good part of the day roaring hysterically.

"I like him," she said, "He makes me laugh!" And how good did that make me feel?

Her eyesight began to deteriorate at the onset of adulthood, and continued to worsen throughout her life, so she would always be seen out with a white stick and (in later years) a guide dog. I remember that she loved Eastenders, and would sit virtually on top of the TV set following the plot. When making tea, she would put the tip of her finger over the rim of the cup to ensure that it was poured to the right level. This absence of vision did not however prevent her from living a full life, nor from bringing up a large family, each in their own way as remarkable as she was. As well as working for talking newspapers, she also advised special access groups on provision for those with sight disabilities, read her poetry from memory at various venues, and was a source of help and inspiration for almost anyone (and believe me, there were all sorts) who came to her door.

"And death shall have no dominion
Under the windings of the sea"

Oh Papa Papa

The time draws near. This blog's failing health is plain for all to see, and the burthen of carrying the hopes, dreams and prayers of millions of readers is taking its toll. It is time to leave the stage, to retire to a life of quiet, solemn contemplation. The allegations of financial mismanagement (some of the godless ones might go so far as to call it fraud) totally unfounded as they are, have no bearing on the decision to be taken over the coming days. In my place will come one chosen by the divine finger itself; a man of extreme modesty and humility who will cause the scales to fall from the eyes of those who watch; those who pour scorn on the sanctity of this seemingly endless, ludicrous and discredited pantomime. My fellow secret club members will not in any way influence the destination of the finger, and this I can wholeheartedly vouch for, having received the holy digit on my fundament myself, in those distant days when I was in full health and not having to explain yet another embarrassing incident of child sexual abuse. Amen.

Worried that I am starting to take on some of the characteristics of Jack Torrance in The Shining (it only took King four months to write the first draft of this magnificent book. FOUR MONTHS!) I am still seething over Saturday lunchtime and yet another ignominious defeat at the hands of the cursed Toffees. Despite the 3-0 drubbing in their previous match, I never expected an easy trip up the M62, and Goodison Park is a bastard of a place to go. My Rag mate nailed it I suppose when he said: 'No Yaya, no real rhythm really' - this just after he had returned my taunt to him ('Love a bit of Toffee mate') almost exactly a year ago. No Yaya, no Kun, no fucking hope - all combined with a jammy swerver in the first half and a breakaway goal in the second because we were chasing the game. It was very niggly early on. We were 'a bit slow' as Ratface (much as I hate to say it) rightly said on Sky Sports; rather too predictable and lacking in bite. Only Carlos really looked up for it, and we can really and truly forget the title now.

Fortunately, Spurs seem to be hitting a slow patch themselves, but Chelsea worry me with their players. We can only hope that fixture congestion causes a drain on their considerable resources, although I hope they beat the Rags in the FA Cup replay.

International break time approaches, and the demise of this sorry excuse for a blog draws ever closer. Come here and take your medicine you little fuck!

Practical Magic

 
Some thoughts on our modern society for you all now. Given that everyone seems to accept the fact that we must have a price tag hanging off all the bits that make us up (as a society as well as individuals) then there are a couple of things we could do (I humbly suggest) to make the whole thing just a bit more bearable. The first thought I had was about jury service. The way this suddenly topical area of civic life works could be radically changed without any additional cost, and could even be cheaper - taking into account the total cost of administering the thing. I don't think the system of trial by jury is going away any time soon, so my big idea is: why not have all juries selected from the ranks of the unemployed? It is of course possible to be selected for jury service now if one is unemployed, so the idea would actually not be so radical, and the benefits are obvious:

1) No cost to employers for missing or covering employees.
2) A clear benefit to the self-esteem of unemployed people in being able to use their time more productively.
3) Unemployed people would receive travel and food expenses and a minimal amount for childcare as they currently do anyway. This would be a considerable improvement on their jobseekers allowance, and would be 'cost neutral' to HM Courts Service, which is as much a victim of austerity as any other part of government. It is important to consider the whole cost to UK plc, and weighed along with the savings to employers by not having to accommodate their staff on jury service, would demonstrate a tangible cost benefit when taken in the round.
4) Skills learned on jury service (rhetoric, persuasion and negotiating skills, a better understanding of legal matters as just a few examples) would be very useful in the job market.

What's not to like about this plan? I suppose one might say that the unemployed may be prejudiced against - say - business people in specific cases; though this is a rather weak criticism to say the least. There are a few details to consider, such as the selection process. I would suggest that selection methods are not changed, but that those in employment may be excused simply by sending a letter verifying that they are employed. This would be easier than effectively means testing everyone prior to selection, I think. Second, if an appointed juror receives a job offer whilst already sitting on a case, then the prospective employer will be required to keep the offer open until jury service is completed. If there are any strong reasons why this should not happen, then I would be glad to hear them.

Extending the idea further, could not the same thing (or similar) be done with the appointment of magistrates? The role is currently voluntary, with the only entry restrictions around age (18-65), 'good hearing' - whatever that means - and concentration skills; no major (or indeed collection of minor) criminal convictions; no driving ban in the last 5-10 years (which is it? Five or ten, there is quite a difference) or having been declared bankrupt. The duty requires a minimum of 13 days' (or 26 half days') court attendance per year. All of this need not exclude the unemployed, and for the reasons above, it seems to me that this would be a highly desirable course of action.

Of course none of this will ever happen, because unemployed people are viewed with intense suspicion and (oddly, given the widespread deprivation in this country) an increasing amount of animosity. Ah well.

The jury is still (just about) out on our title challenge after last night's close one. Without Kun, I thought we performed well enough, especially as the first half drew to a close. We should have had at least two more, but there were a couple of scares when we almost fluffed our lines. Barnsley next up in the FA Cup and then back to business with a visit to Goodison of all places, while the Rags lose to Reading after their world stopping final loss against the Madrillenos. Still there, but the pulse is ever fainter...

Bonhomie

The fact that this blog has finally lost its treasured Triple A rating is in no way a cause for a change of direction. All it means is that I am more determined than ever to continue with the current difficult course of action. Even though I have repeatedly stated clearly that the loss of this rating was the single most important measure of my success or failure, I now maintain that I have succeeded more successfully than if the AAA rating had remained. One could say (and that is just what I'm going to do) that the downgrade is actually an indication that I have exceeded expectations. Not many people can be as tough as I am in the face of so many difficulties, but I will not stray from the path, which is the right one, even though it leads straight off the edge of the biggest cliff you have ever seen.



Now that the biting political satire is out of the way, it's on to the bloke who hands out copies of City AM outside St. James's Park station every weekday. For those unfamiliar, this particular rag is yet another free sheet, with a focus on 'City matters' (and I don't mean Manchester City, either) rather than the celebrity obsessed drivel that graces the Metro and the infuriating and unreadable comment of the Evening Standard. The man at the station makes a point of saying good morning to every person who passes him as they enter or exit. His staccato tone is impossible to miss, as is his unremitting cheerfulness:

"Good morning sirhave a nice daythank you very much. Good morning sirhave a nice daythank you very much. Good morning madamhave a nice daythank you very much..." as he hands over his free fucking newspapers.

There are a couple of things which really wind me up about this. One is the constant barrage of jolly, forced customer service white noise which forms such a backdrop to the modern world. And he's only giving away a paper FFS! The other is the falseness of the greeting, ejaculated a million times a day. Perhaps curmudgeonly of me, but I find myself gnashing my teeth every time I walk past him.

Hopefully, gnashing of the teeth, along with wailing and rending of cloth, will not be a part of the experience when we travel up to Brum on Monday. A good win over Chelsea on Sunday in the end (though thank Christ Joe saved that pen) which should give us some confidence. A win there is vital to keep the rampant Spurs at bay just as it is vital to keep the tiny spark of the championship challenge alive. My prediction: 2-0 City. Sadly (for Stephen Fry as much as anyone else) I don't think the Rags will have much to do to beat Norwich, although they may be tempted to insult the East Anglians by holding back the cream of the crop for the Madrid tie. Still hanging in there, by the most gossamer of threads...