The Man With Two Names or Simon Peter

So we say adieu to 2009. Thank Christ for that. The first Pope, rendered beautifully by Rubens above, looks down at us, rattling the keys to Heaven. Will he allow the current Captain of Jesus, Cardinal Ratzinger to enter, I wonder, what with all the paedo baggage and the ongoing craziness of the condom edicts?

Will the holy Blair (intriguing and infuriating in equal measure that the man is still so relevant. Thanks in part to the no-doubt useless Chilcot Inquiry) make it in - confessing as he did to the Messianic strain - who saw the mission to remove Saddam as over-riding all concerns of international law or morals, as well as being further exposed as a loony God-botherer who refused to take any calls while 'worshipping'? Will there be a place for Barry from D.C., clutching his Peace Prize to his chest and nipping out the back of God's Kingdom for a quick drag? Another one, he, convinced of the 'rightness' of his cause, and prepared to sacrifice whatever it takes to achieve his aims.

Is that, after all, the sign of good leadership? Continuing blindly on despite the consternation and wailing of the nay-sayers? Do we, as Christian nations, still believe that we are leading the Heathen hordes to the path of righteousness? I have heard rhetoric this year to freeze my blood. People are actually harking back to the days of the Crusades in defence of the ridiculous venture in Afghanistan. I have been accused on Facebook of conflating issues when saying that the war over there is somehow linked to oil and drugs and guns. Be that as it may be. On and on we go. Squaddies in their inferior gear getting picked off one by one in Helmand Province, car bombs exploding in Baghdad and Karachi - although at least the latter is still considered newsworthy - and yet more pointless security enhancements at airports following attempted 'terrorist' acts involving trousers, yet no end in sight to the insanity of it all.

Old St. Pete would surely think twice about opening the gates to Fred the Shred and others of his ilk who have contributed so much to human endeavour over the past year or more. The fall of Lehman Brothers back in 08 precipitated the fall of FW Woolworth (until they re-started as a net business in a hut in Hull) and the quake's aftershocks are still rumbling, so that there is now not a proper bookshop for miles from here. Maybe there will be a sign on the Euston Road, just past the British Library, saying 'Last Book Shop for 400 Miles'.

It would hardly have been thought possible, but Oswestry has sunk even further into dereliction and despair, despite featuring on Bargain Hunt (though it must be noted that this was not the Rolls Royce, David Dickinson affair, but the new, cheaper version) especially as Wollies was comfortably its biggest non-food retailing outlet. It now sells home & garden items, a la Wilko's.

I somehow doubt that Khaldoon Al-Mubarak will be granted a seat among the hosts, pre-occupied as he will no doubt be by the houris in his fragrant garden beyond this earthly toil, and I am convinced that Garry Cook will also not be ascending after he (doubtless) pops his clogs on the 14th hole. The soul of football will be down there with him, suffering the eternal torment it so richly deserves, while Sparky will I'm sure be smiling his beatific grin downwards, enjoying the last laugh. There has to be universal agreement, however, that the lovely Bobby is definitely already there in the celestial dugout.

Is the legendary Jacko also already there, his alleged dalliances with infants forgiven or forgotten? Compare and contrast reactions to Jackson's death with those to 'Steo' Gately's demise if you will, for a snapshot of the modern world.



But enough of this celebrity obsession. I try to pride myself on not being a victim of all this meeja hype bullshit, but am of course snared by it all too often.

Personally speaking, it has been an interesting year. Like a millennial rocket, I spurted high into the sky (this is all relative, you understand. It's not as if I won the Nobel Peace Prize or anything) and then sputtered out, only able to watch my own vapour trail as it fizzled out of my rectum. In all honesty, I feel as if I have let myself and others down in the way that I dealt with the (admittedly difficult) situation I found myself in. But there's no point in crying over spilt milk. I must listen to those around me - and the voices in my head - and strike out for 2010.

Hell, there's always the internet!!!1! A slow but sure increase in my online presence this year has still not seen 10,000 hits on this blog, although joining the MCFC pool on Flickr did wondrous things for my stats on there.

A Happy New Year (and decade) to everyone who reads this. See you in the Arthur C Clarke sequel.

Damned good? Or Saint Thaddeus

Only two Apostles left, and only two posts before the end of 2009. My final post will be so good that it will need to be named twice, and will include the obligatory round-up of the year. Best wishes to Mancini. I love his music.

Podcast Episode 4 is now up. I thank yew.



St. Thaddeus is not the most tedious of all the Apostles, although very little seems to be known about him, and even his name is shrouded in the usual confusion. In common with many Jews (it seems) around the turn of the BC/AD thing, he may have been called Jude. Most interestingly, he is the patron saint of lost causes, and as such has no doubt been called on by many a football fan in moments of extremis. He is also the patron saint of Flamengo in Brazil.

One footballing icon who definitely would not have invoked this (or any other, given that the only thing he believed in was himself) saint, as I am currently finding out, is Brian Howard Clough. I was fortunate enough to receive both the book and the DVD of The Damned Utd over the festive season, and am rattling through the book at a fair lick right now. The blurb makes claims that the book is among the best ever written about sport.

I haven't finished it yet, but would struggle to contest this claim, marvellously enjoyable as I am finding it to read. It is a riveting subject, and pretty well written, though repetition is perhaps, er, over-used as a literary device. Additionally, repetition is perhaps, er, over-used as a literary device. However, there are few others I can think of which would compete, especially in the realm of fiction. I have enjoyed various biographies and autobiographies (Maradonna's stands out particularly) and many good books ON football, but this is right up there with fictional/historical sports writing. I can only hope that the movie matches it and is an improvement on Goal! although that would not be difficult. Middlesbrough??!! I ask you. That there is a Goal! 2 is something of a surprise.

Best wishes to all for the New Year, though I will return before the end of 09.

Jesusland or St Andrew

St. Andrew (BTW, some of the ads in that link are pretty egregious. Two paragraphs of text and then it's straight into the 'St. Andrew charms and bracelets for sale' schtick. Jeez Louise!) lived in Jesus Land.



The shape of the famous Scottish saltire is said to be derived from the fact that Andrew elected to be crucified on a cross designed in the shape of an 'X' as opposed to the traditional Jesus hook. This was done because - it is said - Andrew did not feel worthy to die on the same type cross as the saviour. Which is of course very admirable, and no doubt illustrates clearly his character as a highly principled and devoted follower of the Lord. That the jockos should have chosen him as their patron saint is I suppose slightly ironic - and I'm being no more racist than Frankie Boyle when I say that, thank you very much.

Thanks to my Jocko friend - Toppski - for the image!

Well, by the time this post goes live, we will be in the white heat of the Christmas cauldron. What could be termed the climax of the day, with the Queen's Speech and all that jazz. It hasn't been a bad one so far for me, with one bottle of port sunk already and another warming up. Only two mince pies have been consumed (up to now) and one cracker has been pulled. I will have my mother for additional company, and that should be good, and will be scratching my head trying to work out how to set up the new XBox.

I actually prefer the period between Christmas and New Year, because the footy is on (and we have a pretty crazy fixture calendar this year, thank fuck) and there's a feeling of the country waking up from some torpor, shaking itself a bit and getting back to business again. How much business, in these times of financial crisis, remains to be seen. But we must always be optimistic, for life goes on, and those of with children have an innate duty to say that the future's bright, the future's not shite. So on with the show.

Bring on 2010 and the World Cup.

Boiling Oil or Saint John

St John the Apostle is the patron saint of writers (as well as theologians, publishers, booksellers, editors, friendships, painters, burns and poisoning [?]) for perhaps obvious reasons, being as he was probably the most literary of the 12 (ish) followers of JC. Despite being dipped in boiling oil, he seemingly survived and died peacefully in his old age at Ephesus. Although disputed, there is a school of thought that the same John what wrote the Gospel and the Epistles also wrote the insane ramblings of the Book of Revelation. One could say of course that all of this is merely more of the church attempting to create historical echoes later on by contriving connections with Old Testament figures (comparisons are made between John and Daniel) and thus provide gravitas for the fairy tales and political machinations of the Christian faith.

Which brings me nicely on to the subject of the hour, which is of course the parting of the ways between Mr Hughes and Manchester City FC plc.com or whatever the fuck it is. You might assume from previous vitriolic outpourings that I would have been happy with the departure of the boy from Ruabon. After all, my picture clearly illustrates where the true roots of the man lay (and still lie, I'll warrant) and although I am of course not so naive as to think that I can possibly change the tide in the world of football by demanding or expecting that ex-United players are not involved with City, it does still rankle. I know that some of the decisions made over the past few months have not been made by Sparky, and I have to admit that there have been some fantastic matches (the recent display against Spurs aside) and even grudgingly accede that we are indeed still the 'same old City'.

I have warmed a little towards Hughes I suppose, though it would never have been a true love affair, even if he had taken us to the title and the Champions League final. However, evil, as President Obama told us recently, really does exist. Evil is always relative, and there is a far bigger pantomime villain than Hughes currently stalking the corridors of the CoMS. I speak of course of Mr Garry Cook. A first class twat who makes Peter Kenyon seem like a nice bloke to have a pint with. And that takes some doing. We've all been here before of course, with Spurs leading the way over the ridiculous Jol/Ramos situation, but it doesn't get any better with the watching - knowing that it will end with a massive cash payout and a nasty taste in the mouth.

As for Mancini, in common with the few people I've spoken to, I know very little about him, and the game against Stoke on Boxing Day will not be an easy one. Let's hope the pathetic dressing room rifts can be healed and we can get on with the football for a change.

Merry Christmas. Happy Yule. To one and all.

Brahmin Spear or Saint Thomas

You can now listen to my latest podcast. Which is a philosophical treatise on the state of the universe. The first of many chats with mates. I just have to advise you that the whole Rentaghost section at the end is somehow gone forever. Between Audacity and PodOMatic is a mighty digital chasm into which the nuggets have disappeared for good.

This is a shame, but please click on the link below and enjoy the first 8 minutes or so.

LINK BELOW

One of the more interesting Apostles seems to have been Thomas - famous for his doubt of course - and known as Didymus (meaning 'twin') he is reputed to have been the only Apostle to preach outside the Roman Empire. He is said to have been killed by stoning and then piercing by spear at the hand of an angry (at Christian poaching of believers) Brahmin on a mountain-top near Mylapore in Kerala, Southern India. To this day, there is still a significant Christian community in this part of India.

Some have postulated that Thomas (as above, the English name Thomas derives from the Aramaic word for 'twin') was in fact Jude, brother of Jesus, though whether he was his twin brother is not stated. I think it unlikely, given the whole immaculate conception thing, which would mean that a twin brother in the mix would somewhat muddy the waters, I'm sure you will agree.

Thomas is patron saint of the blind, thanks to his own occasional spiritual blindness, most clearly illustrated by his unwillingness to believe in the resurrection until he actually saw the marks of crucifixion on the Messiah's body. Many Christians really believe that his actual remains reside in Italy.

Seeking Inspiration, or Saint Philip

I do appreciate the imagination of those who compile the Catholic Encyclopedia, as well as those in general who have made up stories based on a few inconclusive lines from inconclusive books. Get this (from the Catholic Encyclopedia) for example:

• Before the miraculous feeding of the multitude, Christ turns towards Philip with the question: "Whence shall we buy bread, that these may eat?" to which the Apostle answers: "Two hundred penny-worth of bread is not sufficient for them, that every one may take a little" (vi, 5-7).
• When some heathens in Jerusalem came to Philip and expressed their desire to see Jesus, Philipreported the fact to Andrew and then both brought the news to the Saviour (xii, 21-23).
• When Philip, after Christ had spoken to His Apostles of knowing and seeing the Father, said to Him: "Lord, shew us the Father, and it is enough for us", he received the answer: "He that seeth me, seeth the Father also" (xiv, 8-9).

These three episodes furnish a consistent character-sketch of Philip as a naïve, somewhat shy, sober-minded man.

How the hell could those three episodes furnish a consistent character sketch of anyone? Let alone of a shy, sober-minded man? Yet it is accepted as part of 'doctrine'. They're all mad I tells ya. Mad as boxes of frogs.

With the increasing likelihood of my not finding employment (gainful or otherwise) in the near future, I need some inspiration. I have been afflicted with some dreaded lergy or other over the past week or so, and feel a shadow of my former self. Simply because I can, I will go into some detail, which may be repulsive to some and entertaining to others.

Whilst in Oswestry a couple of weeks back I developed a sore spot (looking back, I blame it on the Turkish Cypriot barber who gave me a trim before I left. Probably didn't sterilise his cutthroat properly) on the back of my neck, and a few days after returning to London, it had developed into a monstrous carbuncle of Charles Windsorian proportions. I'm not unusual I think in avoiding visiting the doctor, so things had degenerated pretty badly by the time I did finally make an appointment, the thing had grown to almost an inch across and was dominating my body. The doc took one very brief look (he didn't even come close to me, let alone touch the damned thing) and prescribed a sackful of flucloxacyllin and penicillin to be taken 4 times daily for a period of one week plus, the which I am still forcing down my neck.

These medicaments in themselves had a negative effect on my system, and contributed to the general feeling of malaise and enervation I was suffering. Then, finally, on Wednesday evening, just after enduring the pathetic City display, things came to a head. Enough detail for you, I reckon. Save to say that I doubt I will ever be able to eat toffee sauce again. Two days later, and still the goo was draining out, and still my guts were troubled by the fungal antibiotic activity.

One could hardly say the weather has been perfect, but there have been some days when I could feasibly have taken the bike out for a bracing spin, but I have not felt in any shape to do so. I am therefore reduced to Twitter and Facebook, along with regular flips into my Gmail to see if any of the numerous applications I've sent are going anywhere. Nada, if you want to know.

It is imperative, now that I am at last starting to feel almost normal again, that I find a couple of activities to occupy mind and body. I will aim to write a book, and resolve to get out on two wheels on the mean streets before I lose my sanity. I will have to ignore the countdown to Christmas, difficult as that will be.

Fair play or Saint Bartholomew

I was thinking of taking in a match tomorrow. My kids said the other day:

"Why do you never take us to football matches, Daddy?"

I could have answered that a) I never go myself anymore and b) that they would undoubtedly be bored after about 10 minutes, being as they are totally uninterested in the beautiful game.

It would have to be a lower league match, you understand. I'm just disappointed that Orient are playing at Walsall, as that would have been my match of choice. You can forget the Premier League for a walk-up ticket, especially as Fulham are hosting the Rags. Championship games in the capital (QPR v Sheffield Utd and Palace v Barnsley) don't look particularly attractive, due to the fact that I don't like either Loftus Road (a soulless ground) or Selhurst Park (a nightmare to get to and from, not improved by the sight of the world's largest kebab spinning in one of the many shops on the interminable walk to the ground from the station, which of course is NOT Selhurst Park, and a horrible ground to watch a game in) so I've been looking at a potentially spicy affair.

Charlton/Millwall.

Although not West Ham grade, this is a fixture often notable for the wrong reasons, and which for those reasons will mean that getting a ticket in the Jimmy Seed stand will be nigh on impossible.

Maybe my high flying dreams of going to watch some football tomorrow will not be realised after all. Ah well. Saint Bartholomew would have understood.

A Load of Bollocks, or James Son of Zebedee

I was going to let the tags for this post speak for the whole thing. They are: City, football, fuck, shit, Spurs, wanker. And that pretty much sums up my feelings about last night's game, endured in some piss-pot of a Gooner pub on the Cally, accompanied (for some inexplicable reason) by a garrulous Irish lawyer and a Chinese woman, after traipsing round in the sleet trying to find a pub which wasn't (illegally, of course) showing the Arsenal/Burnley game via Albanian satellite. In the immortal song-smithery of Jake Burns - 'there are no words to say, just what it is you mean'.

However, I was somewhat buoyed by my perusal of the Star this morning, noticing that Jerry Dammers may be returning to The Specials, in a deal being brokered by the mighty Suggs. Suggs is of course doing this for the purest of motives.

Be that as it might be, as of course it might be, and then again (name that Ian Dury song) again, this news did put a little spring in my step, a bit like James' dad up above. So I will allow the chorus of the Coventry boys' hit, Pearl's Cafe, to be the epitaph to a dismal night at the Lane.

Bust or Matthew the Tax Collector

Update - 15/12/09. Check out a podcast of this post at the following URL:

http://myeralan.podOmatic.com/entry/2009-12-16T02_14_43-08_00

How exciting!

Preaching as far afield as Ethiopia, or so it is said, the Apostle Matthew (Christians insist that the Gospel writer and the companion of Jesus are the same person, although some dispute this, based on the likelihood of languages a typical tax collector might have been familiar with, and the language in which the Gospel was written. Whatever) has been adopted as the patron saint of the money men.



I thought it appropriate then to base this post on him, what with the continuing brouhaha around the economy, and especially in light of the alarming news about Greece and Ireland. As far as the green republic, everyone seems aghast that the once mighty Celtic Tiger economy has fallen so far so fast, but an interesting point was made on the Today Programme this morning, to the effect that things weren't exactly a bed of roses for the Irish poor during the great boom time of Dublin stag parties, luxury golf courses, and whatever the hell else fed the beast. Something along the lines of double the amount of people losing their homes and double the number falling below the poverty line. Jaysus himself knows what kind of unholy mess the place is in now. Those who work the hardest, and deliver the most value, are of course the ones most at threat, facing further job cuts and reductions in salary, while the Taoiseach and his cronies (I think we all know that Irish politics has long led the way in delivering graft to the people) continue to have the craic with abandon.

And the first republic (I do like those 'how much can I borrow?' ads embedded in the Grauniad stories - they display real sensitivity, don't you think?) as I guess it could be called, they say is suffering as a result of EU membership, forcing harsh decisions on the ministers as they skulk around Athens in their Mercedes, dodging the barricades and braziers. The dire warnings are of course that the suffering endured and about to be endured in these two places (not to mention Iceland and Dubai) will soon be heading our way. Dire days indeed.

Swing Low or Judas Iscariot

I've already spoken of one Judas (known as NOT Iscariot) and now move on to arguably (some might say that Simon Peter holds that crown) the most famous of all the 12 - Judas Iscariot. My thoughts naturally turn towards the turncoats of the football world, and I thought I would proffer a little essay on them. Tiresome Tevez has of course been cited as a recent convert to the blue half of Manchester, what with all that stupid poster rubbish, but I don't think he can really count as a true football Judas.

We have had our own of course, in the past. Denis Law is famed for the bitter way in which he (felt he had) contributed to United's relegation with his back heeled goal to give us a 1-0 lead. Similar to the way in which we were convinced we were safe from relegation with a draw under Joe Royle, only to find out that we actually needed to win, however, the fact was that United would have been relegated even if they had managed to draw with us. To be fair to the Lawman, he could not have known this at that time. Law was a City man before signing for the Rags though, and his stellar career was already in decline when he came back to us, so not a top rank Judas. Marks out of 10 (with a healthy bonus for the back-heel) I would say 6 or maybe 7.


These days you would have to say that there is a great deal less store set by loyalty in the football world, and it is a sad fact that upping sticks for the most lucrative offer is now the norm. I'm not sure how much truth there is in the story about Robinho thinking he had signed for United when he came to us, but it is certainly believable. There have been (and are) a couple of hate figures on the scene, but mostly the entirely mercenary nature of players and managers in the game seems to have been accepted with a resigned shrug by the average fan.

Of course, the lovely Ashley gets a bit of a rough ride just off the Holloway Road (and I'm not making a cheap reference to Joe Orton here, I promise) but then, although perhaps not a football Judas in the strictest sense, he is a pretty odious person in general - not just on the pitch - and pretty much deserving of the opprobrium heaped upon him, I say, what with his moral indignation at Arsenal selling him short on 5 grand and all. Marks out of 10, I think - 7. Though without the Cheryl factor, he would only have rated a 6.

Proper venom, a result of the years of bitter herbs and under-achievement, can only be spat out by the other half of North London of course. The mighty Lilywhites and their adoring fans hold a special place in their hearts for Big Sol, guilty of crossing the great divide, and of course going on to bigger and better things with the Gooners than he ever managed with Spurs. Though of course one cannot condone the atrocious chants hurled at him, neither is it acceptable that his brother should have attacked somebody for suggesting that Campbell might be gay. The whole thing smacks of terrible homophobia and racism if you ask me. Elements which are all too prevalent in modern society, despite the constant bemoaning shrieks of the anti-PC brigade. But I digress. On the Judas scale, I would have to give Sol an 8, though of course Spurs/Arsenal crossovers (whether of players or managers, and in either direction) is not entirely without precedent.

So I could go on and on, as I find this an interesting little topic, but I fear it may already have been done to death, so I will conclude with the player I consider (based on around 2 hours of internet study and a quick chat in the pub with a few blokes last night) to be the biggest Judas of all time. In a city where football rivalry has always and will always transcend mere sporting considerations, the story of Mo Johnston's signing for (yes, it's that man again!) Souness at Rangers is a remarkable one. Whatever the real reasons behind the sudden and highly dramatic change of heart to play at Ibrox, it was an act which is still a hot topic for Old Firm fans, and anyone who has a heartbeat (I mean, anyone who calls themselves a footy fan). Given the backdrop of Glasgow rivalry, the last minute decision, and Johnston's record at Rangers, he surely must be awarded a 10 on the Judas scale.

I would welcome any thoughts you may have.

Taking Stock or Simon The Zealot

Simon the Zealot (variously also associated with St. Jude, or, could have been Thaddeus AND/OR Lebbeaus, aka Judas NOT Iscariot - which I would have thought was a fairly important distinction to make in later years of the flourishing Christian faith - as well as possible confusion with Thomas) was a very obscure Apostle, as may perhaps be divined from the blather above.

He is big in the saw canon, with one legend speaking of his martyrdom resulting from a magic trick gone badly wrong, resulting in two halves of an early Christian Jew. One would have assumed that the bottom half would have been the Jewish half, but this was a spectacular trick, because old Simon/Thaddeus/Lebbaeus/Judas/Thomas was sawn in two longitudinally! Now that must have been something to see in the days before band saws. He is said to have visited Glastonbury, as so many of that crowd seem to have done, though how this can possibly be verified is clearly beyond the wit of any but religious scholars.



The more I read about JC's crowd, the more I realise that he may well have had 12 men with him in the same way that David M0yes has 12 men. As in Zulu, they move about a lot to create the illusion that the garrison is well defended, snatching parity from certain defeat only because of the sheer bloody-mindedness of the marauding hordes and their 'buffalo horn' tactics, mercilessly hurling pointless ball after pointless ball over the top and into the path of the stalwart Enfields (I am definitely mixing my metaphors here, so help me) until the last ditch fierce final stand by the Yank in the hospital.

At the finish, Moyes stands bloodied, like some latter-day Michael Caine, surveying the carnage before him.

Tidied Out or James the Less

A stonking weekend in Oswestry has illustrated most clearly the pleasure-pain principle. Or - as Laurence Fishburne said in the dreadful remake of Assault On Precinct 13 which was shown on TV last night - the Greeks called it Eros and Thanatos.

I forgot about my worries for a while and just plain old enjoyed myself. Whether to do with the moon or other pagan attributes associated with this time of year (admittedly, it is just a little early) rather than of the month, a remarkably upbeat atmosphere was evident in the sleepy little market town, with a free 'festival' (a few fairground rides and a stage, but I'm not complaining) on Friday night, and much carousing till late into the night most nights. Even the winter weather did not seem to dampen anyone's ardour, and I laughed a good deal. It was, in short, tidy.



I will confess to no more or less than some of our elected leaders (past and present) when I say that I may have tried some illegal (though, as we know, this definition is a fluid one, in both a temporal and geographical sense) substances in the past, and I was shocked to find, whilst out on a country ramble, a viable crop of psilocybin flourishing atop Hen Dinas' venerable crown. Whether I picked any must remain open to conjecture, as must the burning question of ingestion - in that will I be able to? Notwithstanding the practical difficulties of a decent 5 hour window, there is also the terror of gazing into my now matured (I use the word advisedly, let me assure you) psyche with its attendant baggage of responsibility and paranoia.

But for now, it's back to reality. I have already crashed and will soon start to burn, faced as I am with the ongoing quest for avoiding switching on the TV, and desperately trying to get motivated to do something other than play Super Mario Brothers on the DS.