The Song Remains The Same

As we prepare to say hello to a new football season, it is time to say goodbye to this blog. The final post of this sprawling thing which has been a part of my life (as well as the lives of at least 3 other people) for some 5 or 6 years heralds another few months of footy related money, mayhem and madness across the land. Already, the almost indecent spectacle of Burnley taking on Blackpool, whilst at the same time the England cricket team watch the rain at Old Trafford, signals the 125th anniversary of the football league. Typically (in football as in everything else) we seem unable to learn even the most basic of lessons from the mistakes of the past. Doubtless, yet more clubs will suffer the fate of Coventry City, whose fans will have to make the trek to the Sixfields Stadium to watch their once mighty heroes slug it out in the dark web that is the bottom of League 2. At the same time, requiring an almost supernatural ability to deny empirical evidence, (Un)Real Madrid are reportedly offering to pay £100 million to sign Gareth Bale.

One hundred million pounds.

Take a second or two to think about that if you will. Madrid is the capital city of Spain, a country – we are told – with 50% plus youth unemployment and a debt crisis so massive it threatens to bring down the monetary system of the European Union, if not the entire world. Who can make sense of that? Where does the money come from? But then, it seems increasingly plain to me that making sense of anything in the world today is an impossibility. While those who tell us the real news are skulking in embassies or airport lounges, or are about to begin 130 year long prison sentences, we have ‘news’ items dedicated to telling us that Peter Capaldi is the next Doctor Who.

The real news must be: the disgraceful, shameful and worsening way in which asylum seekers are being treated. Truly desperate people, often escaping from situations created by the power-brokers in Washington, Moscow and Westminster, snubbed, abused and denigrated. As if laughing in the face of The Nazis – A Warning From History, the Home Office sends out ad vans telling people to ‘go home’ and then tweets pictures of those it has detained on suspicion of being ‘illegals’ by dint of the colour of their skin. We then find out that said Home Office has no idea of how many immigrants (illegal or otherwise) there are in the country, and it redacts an independent report into the situation, yet has been able to contribute £400,000 to the programme UK Border Force. I found this to be a quite astonishing piece of information.

The real news must be: that we as British citizens are not allowed to read the ‘black spider’ correspondence of HRH the Prince of Wales. We are not permitted to know the reasons why he has met with ministers on 36 occasions (including seven meetings with Herr Cameron himself) since the Coalition took office. The Attorney General, Dominic Grieve says this is because the spider correspondence might give the public the impression that Prince Charles is not scrupulously aloof from party politics. There is no reference to the huge tracts of land Charlie owns, the Civil List payment he receives, or his Duchy Originals fine food empire. Now, if anyone other than, say, Lewis Carroll can make any sense of that, I will eat my hat.

The real news must be: the value of wages in the UK has dropped by 5.5% (a sharper decline than in the virtually defunct state of Portugal) since 2010, which is coincidentally the same timeframe as Prince Charles’s 36 meetings mentioned above, and marks the beginning of the Coalition’s assumption of power. During this time, the pay of those (almost entirely male) business leaders who sit in boardrooms has risen thus: 2010 – a 55% increase; 2011 – a 49% increase; 2012 – a 10% increase; 2013 – a 14% increase. One news report I read said that boardroom pay is increasing seven times faster than average, but as the recent figures show a drop in the value of wages of 5 and a half per cent, this is hardly surprising. Despite all the current bluster about bankers’ bonuses, the median pay of a FTSE 100 business leader is still being reported as between £3.7 and £4.8 million pounds, with full remuneration for the top 10 bosses around the £9 million mark, right up to that old rogue Bob Diamond, who trousered £21 million not so long ago. And, with every Byron burger Gideon consumes, the chasm between these guys and the ordinary working man and woman yawns still bigger.

The real news must be: that the Trussell Trust (I don’t trust the Trussell Trust, but enough of that for now) has reported a huge increase in people using their food banks. They say that almost 350,000 people were given emergency food supplies in the twelve months up to May this year. Lord Freud, a suitably appointed millionaire to deal with the issue of poverty, stated that this increase is not related to cuts in benefit payments, but is down to the fact that folks just want free food, almost as if these places are victims of their own success. Iain Duncan Smith, another millionaire, then claimed that this rise in the use of food banks was down to ‘increased awareness’ among people, and could in no way be linked to the benefit cuts. He surpassed himself in this one, even managing to piss off the head of the Trussell Trust by saying that they agreed with him on this point, which they definitely do not.

The real news must be: that the Israeli government has just authorised over 1,000 new settlements on land which even it agrees belongs to the Palestinians. They have done this in total defiance of international law and overwhelming public opinion, but worse than that, they have done this while sitting at the table with the Palestinian Authority (although of course, this is not the elected government of the Palestinians) and Senator John Kerry, purporting to be conceiving a new nine month plan for peace. If the life of any baby were to be given a smaller chance of success, it would surely have to be one begun in sub-Saharan Africa. Barack Obama – funny guy – sits with his kill lists and his drone fleets, his intelligence on literally everything that we do, increasingly irrelevant as the next round of electioneering fundraising begins to kick off.

Goodnight. And may your god go with you.

Off We Go

Well, a quickie for you. My summary of how I see City’s season ahead, which will deliberately ignore any of the more complex issues and focus purely on the football.

Strange, (to start at the opposite end of the spectrum) seeing Moyes on the telly the other night, punditting for all his worth on the England match. An icon in the shape of Sir Alex has gone forever, and one can’t help feeling that United will not be the same again for some time. Last season they weren’t exactly superb, but managed to doggedly float to the top of a steaming pile of kak. This year, my feeling is that they will bob around 2nd or 3rd place, especially looking at the limited pool of talent they have assembled.

Chelsea I believe are by far the biggest threat to City retaking the title, and it will be a close thing. Mourinho’s return will have a significant impact, and they still have a good squad. So it’s Chelsea 2nd or 1st for me. Laughably, Mark – the dickhead Gooner at work – tips Arsenal for the top (based on their besting of us in the pre-season match in Scandawegia) and I can only treat that pathetic claim with the contempt it deserves. Arsenal, I would say 4th or 5th with their fortunes perhaps tied to the ludicrous Suarez nonsense.

That takes me neatly on to the Scousers, who have shown promise under Brendan Rodgers but are nonetheless looking a bit short. The Mad Biter can make a difference to any team, but even he can’t win the title on his own. Lucky to get 5th I would say. Then on to Spurs. You will see my views on the Gareth Bale situation in the final ever post to be published just before kick-off on Monday night, and again he is a player who can make a huge difference. A defender who scores loads of goals; a terror to any opposing team; should he stay, along with some other talented yet inconsistent team-mates, he could push Spurs up to 3rd or 4th if he’s up for it.

City? Good – even great – signings to the value of £90 million, and some exceptional talent in those I have actually seen play. Navas in particular looks incredibly quick, and promises to form an unstoppable partnership with Merlin, while Jovetic should have the power to brush aside the likes of Stoke City et al. Yet, some of our pre-season form was a little worrying, and that loss to Arsenal (dickhead Mark aside) in particular. Of course, none of it matters till the matches start in earnest, and... Brother, here we go again.

So, to take it all in the round, here’s my predictions:

1. City
2. Chelsea
3. Rags
4. Spurs
5. Arsenal
6. Liverpool
7. Everton
8. All the rest

Death and destruction

My friend Don Cake speaks of violence as the ultimate breakdown of communication, but my argument with him is that I feel physical violence to be perhaps the most eloquent form of communication available to us. Experts vary on the subject of how much of human communication is non-verbal, with some saying it comprises 66%, and others nearer 80%. One could argue that the subjugation of women worldwide ultimately rests on the fact of their physical weakness compared to men. Like a wife beating husband, the state demonstrates its power over us in the most graphic way. It cows us and stamps out the futility of resistance. Psychological control follows physical domination, and is a much more effective means of control.

For the pen-penultimate post on here, I have a question.

On another dark day for the ordinary person in Egypt, why does the state always default to the violent repression of its people? I cannot pretend to know anywhere near enough about the complex web that comprises politics in that part of the world, but (so we are told) the current terrible death toll is among pro Morsi supporters. Presumably, when Morsi was still in power just a few weeks ago, the same soldiers then as now were pulling the triggers, letting off the tear gas, and swinging the batons with gay abandon as they laid into a different set of people. Surely, these soldiers are all mothers’ sons; perhaps fathers, brothers, nephews, cousins, maybe even friends to some? And surely the chances of having to exercise extreme restraint on someone you know and love increase as your actions take in wider and more diverse groups?

JG Ballard says that police violence against protesters is directly correlated with their boredom levels. In that case, we must assume that the psychopathic officer who smashed Iain Tomlinson to death must have been in the grip of an intense ennui. I have pondered the conundrum of the thug on the ground before, trying to understand the mentality of someone who is capable of meting out the terrible ‘punishments’ (at the behest of their paymasters) that comprise torture and crowd control. Those who served in the death camps, lined up in firing squads, or herding terrified men, women and children (CHILDREN!) into the Zyklon B showers; the IDF soldier who puts a young boy in his cross hairs and fires; the American marines who patrol Guantanamo Bay. How far from humanity is it possible to stray whilst still being a human? Yet, the fact that these goons are capable of such atrocities is key to the control that the state exerts.

One other consideration is the question why the powerful machinery of the nation, with its trained hoodlums and mechanised death-dealing equipment, should be so frightened of a few people standing in the street? The handbook of crowd control, though perhaps moderated to suit the level of violence (I believe that scenes such as those we have recently seen in Egypt would not happen in the UK, at least not yet, for example – just as the almost routine use of water cannon in many European countries is a matter of great debate everywhere here except Northern Ireland) to which a populace are used, seems to say: ‘Go in hard, go in early, and break their spirit.’ At its root we assume government fear of the terrifying power of the mob, able through sheer weight of numbers to topple the structures which hold our society together. Then, how do we fight? What equivalent to a women’s refuge is there for the downtrodden of the world? I suppose we can only win with ideas, with knowledge, and with communication.

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...

Oligarchs

My thoughts on the Pistorius/Steenkamp case (as everyone seems to feel the need to express these) are that the whole tragic case has only been compounded by the astonishing way in which every detail of it is being broadcast - almost in real time. No good can come of this prurient desire to splash every morsel of information over every media outlet in the world, and it is depressing in the extreme. That's that.

So next up Chelsea again, shunted aside to a lunchtime kick-off by the ridiculous display of the Capital One cup final (seriously - and I am a football fan let me tell you - who but followers of Bradford and Swansea can be looking forward to that?) The boys from the Bridge are hardly an ideal team to face at such a critical juncture. A few seasons ago, I would have feared the worst; the season before and the one just gone, the tone would have been a good deal more optimistic; this time, it could go either way. They are still a good side, despite their recent minor fall from grace (which is actually only a part of the decline in English Premier League football in comparison to say Italian or German sides - in the Champions League, that is) and capable of giving any opponent a game. Amazingly, Torres continues to endure the purgatory of being Roman's golden boy, but I feel despite the seemingly endless toil and humiliation that he will always carry a threat. In Hazard and Oscar they have two fantastic players, and of course fabulous Frankie Lampard is banging them in to try and reach that record before he heads off to Kazakhstan, or China, or wherever the hell they send them these days. Cech looks a lot weaker than he has ever done, but is nonetheless big and strong with a scary hat on. For us, Tevez ought to be buoyed by some good performances and his goal against Leeds, Kun is hot hot hot, and Vinnie looks as if he may make it back from his calf (or is it foal?) injury. So, hard to predict the outcome of this one. I will say 2-1 City, though fear it could be a draw or even the reverse of that scoreline.

For some reason, I thought the Rags would be playing the second leg of their Madrid tie during the week, but of course they've changed the setup once more, and it's on next week. Zzzzz. They face the Hoops at Shepherd's Bush, most likely without pube head, but that shouldn't make much difference, and I fully expect them to run away with it there 1-0. All of which means we will probably have to pedal like hell just to stand still. But hey - there's pride if nothing else to play for.

Further to my last update, I've just finished Stephen King's On Writing (I also came across a review [well, sort of a review] of Pet Sematary today, and now I feel I must read that one. As my Isness said, it would almost be possible to read nothing but Stephen King) which I've been meaning to read for a while now. Worth the wait, and it's set me to thinking a little about 'the craft' and my place in it. I'm going to take on Stephen's challenge in the book, and aim to produce the fruits of my labour in the final post on this blog. I will say no more on that subject because the door must remain firmly shut.

No bovver

My cousin Steve would certainly not thank me for bringing up a case of divided loyalty. When we were kids (we used to spend a great deal of time together, almost more brothers than cousins) he was a Leeds fan. The little football table I had was customised to match our different allegiances, with one side all in Leeds white and the other in City blue. I even painted the 'City' left winger's head yellow to denote Peter Barnes' blond barnet. It was only later (I'm not sure exactly how old he would have been) that Steve switched allegiance to City in honour of his father, who was also responsible for my own dedication to the men of Maine Road.

In addtion to Barnes, Paul Power and Dave Watson were key players for me; Corrigan in goal, Donachie (for some reason, we used to deliberately make the 'ch' sound soft) at left back and Tueart up front. He had Lorimer, Norman Hunter, Gordon McQueen, Sniffer Clarke and Trevor Cherry, and what epic matches we had - occasionally - miraculously drafting in George Best, Pele or Clyde from the Harlem Globetrotters to cover for any injured regulars. Striking how many Scottish players there were among the elite in those days. Not the case now, is it? Not only the lack of Scots players, but the whole thing really does seem a world away. The summer of 1976, with its endless drought, images of rugged, mashed-up centre backs with flowing locks and floppy fringes clearing their nostrils stuck into my scrap book alongside cut out Hagar the Horrible strips, Sun Fun cartoons and Mercedes logos.

City were of course a formidable force in those days, and so were Leeds. Two behemoths of the game, slugging it out with Liverpool and Ipswich Town for dominance of the First Division. Yesterday's performance by the Yorkshiremen, if Steve had retained his original allegiance, would surely have made him very angry indeed. I really can't think of a meaningful attack from them in the whole match, and they couldn't have made it any easier for us to shrug off the disappointment of the St. Mary's debacle. Whether this stroll in the park will mean renewed hope in the title race is another point, and a moot one, it has to be said. Chelsea will not be so obliging, and neither will any of the teams we are yet to face - Rags included. The fact of drawing Barnsley in the next round though should at least mean that we progress further in the FA Cup, so things could be worse.

On another note, I am considering retiring this blog. Not long now till I reach a total of 555 posts, and it would seem to make some sort of sense to knock it on the head. My readership stats are very low, and since I implemented text recognition, I don't even get spam comments any more. Maybe I'll try a new venture, like Tumblr or something. I don't know. Will keep you informed.

Tainted or Sainted

It was coming. Nobody can deny that. Despite the entertainment value agin the Scousers, there was a lack of conviction - especially in front of goal - but also a worrying tendency for a return to the defensive errors which have so often historically proved our downfall. Saturday tea time, with the intensely annoying tones of Stan Collymore inflicting GBH on my ears, the chickens came home to roost. The Saints have looked a decent side on occasion, and I remember they gave us a few scares when we played them at the beginning of the season. They also ran the Rags close recently, so this was never going to be an easy trip down to the south coast. Yet, in truth, the loss was as much down to us shooting ourselves in the foot as to the blah-blah-blah philosophy of the new Argie Southampton manager (he must be good, because he can't speak English).

Naturally, to top things off, the Toffees caved in and made life easy for Sir Alex's boys in the run-up to their game against the Galacticos this week, and it really does look as if it's all over red rover now. Even if (which is looking increasingly unlikely) United do slip up, I can't see how we will have enough in us to win the games (i.e., all of them) that we need to in order to stay in it.

As for analysis of Saturday's fiasco, well where to start? There seem to be so many different issues conspiring to tip us into the shit heap at the moment. Barry obviously deserves criticism for having one of those games, and Nasri yet again simply failed to turn up, which is just so fucking infuriating and lazy of him. Hart as well (and again!) hardly covered himself in glory, and there was the now customary fiddling about with the defensive set-up as a result of Kompany's injury. This says so much about the latest recruits and the - let's say - limited impact they have made so far. Yaya hasn't been the force he was last season, and Saturday was just a reinforcement of that disappointing and depressing trend. Whatever the 'personal problem' Tevez had, it doesn't bode well for us, with only Dzeko and Kun to rely on up front. Once more, who could fathom replacing Silva with Maicon, when chasing the game like a Findus horse at 3-1 down?

Though of course it's impossible to know the detail behind much of what goes on at a big club, I feel heartily sick of Mancini sometimes when he starts flinging blame around. It comes across as lame and desperate: blaming the players, blaming Brian Marwood... Who to blame next? Now I hear that dodgy dealings with Barclays Bank are lapping around the Sheikh's ankles, threatening to leave a nasty tide mark on his Savile Row suit trousers, and things could start to go even more horribly wrong. Outside, snow is turning to sleet and a freezing wind blows.

No Telling

A couple of observations from Sunday's match.

It was a good game - for the neutral - and incident packed. The early stages (unfairly panned I thought by the 5 Live mob) were marked out by some dreadful officiating. I clearly saw Milner calling the assistant referee a wanker and telling him to fuck off, and I have to say I thought he was 100% right. This atmosphere was instrumental in setting the scene for Sturridge's goal, though in fairness we had scored against the run of play (if the run of play can include - which I think it can - incompetent officials) prior to that. This doesn't mean that we can be vindicated for switching off when Dzeko was 'injured', and I felt that it was criminal (as well as somehow inevitable) to allow the concentration to lapse so badly there.

Early signs, other than my own gut feeling beforehand that we might draw - or even lose - this one, of the problems we faced were the high lofted balls over the back four or three. Thanks to the way the game is played (or at least refereed) these days, there was a nervousness about the defence getting tight to Sturridge and Suarez and being penalised with a penalty or a card. More evidence of this nervousness about the ball over the top or round the back was seen with that heart-stopping mix-up between Zab and Joe. Almost one of those moments we as City fans know all too well, but mercifully the ball just trickled wide of the post. On top of that, Sturridge I thought had one of the best games I've ever seen him play. He's been quick and lethal at scoring in patches before, but the move to Liverpool is obviously a very positive one for him. Every time he got on the ball he looked a threat - more so even than Suarez - and without him Liverpool would have been a much reduced force.

It seems difficult to single out anyone in the City team as not playing well. Dzeko I often feel could really do more, but - his softness after that foul notwithstanding - he did score after all. Hart (I don't think, though there are some doubts) can be blamed for either goal. Lescott maybe a little shaky at times, but not massively so. Silva - as ever - truly sublime early on, but clearly tired by the second half. Bobby's substitutions were questioned and questionable, in my humble opinion. Maybe there was something wrong with Tevez, but I felt he was the natural choice for subbing when we were chasing the win. Maicon was a mystery to me, but then he has been since we signed him. Fitting somehow that there were two truly top class goals from Stevie G and Kun to even the match out, and of course we're still in the race, Bobby. Of course we are.

Now it's on to the Saints this Saturday tea time. This should be (perhaps has to be) a good win for us. Still, at times we were beautiful to watch, and even if we don't do the Rags 6-1 and win the title again this season, I'd still rather be a City fan.

Seeking refuge

I like Zoe Williams. Her pieces are always cogent, warm hearted and intelligent, and she isn't afraid of dipping BTL to engage with all manner of beasts who spout their mean-spirited anger at her words. A recent article on asylum seekers illustrates these points beautifully. In this piece, she writes about the insanity of those on Section 4 orders. Here is the opening  paragraph from the Home Office web page on the issue:

'This page explains how you may qualify for short-term support if your application for asylum was unsuccessful, but you temporarily cannot return to the country you came from and will otherwise be homeless or unable to afford food. (We call this 'destitute'.)'

Clear enough, I suppose. The madness of the order is that the Home Office is refusing the claim for asylum (or else the claimant is appealing an expulsion decision, which is clearly far worse) but admits that the countries to which these people would return is too dangerous for them to do so. The status of a Section 4 order bars them from doing any paid work, and means that they receive benefits only in voucher form - known, in strangely poetic terms, as an Azure Card, valued at the princely sum of £35.39 per person per week. It is difficult to imagine just how hard it must be to live under these conditions, and Zoe tells of mothers and pregnant women walking miles to get their shopping, unable to even use cash for a bus fare.

It's no surprise (although always slightly amazing that trolls manage to get in so early and stifle or divert the debate) that the foul creatures oozed all over it immediately, citing the usual claptrap about economic (rather than political) migration and refugees suspiciously not escaping to the nearest country to their own, because our benefits system is so generous - ha ha ha. All highly objectionable, and I'm sure I don't need to debunk any of this to my own intelligent readership. I will simply link to this piece of research from the Refugee Council and leave it at that. What I'm really interested in is what is at the heart of such attitudes. Racism, clearly, plays a major part. That's obvious, no matter how hotly some of them may deny it. But there is more. Underpinning it all is this English sense of fairness, a feeling that people shouldn't be getting something to which they are not entitled. Many (though by no means all) agree that political asylum is a necessary good; that we as a relatively rich nation should be prepared to help those who are genuinely in need as a result of oppressive regimes in the places where they live. Yet, they feel that the majority of those who come to our shores do so not because their lives are in danger, but because we are a soft touch. This shapes - and is shaped by - government policy. In other words, founded on pure unadulterated bullshit and nasty inhumanity.

So long Mario. It was a fun ride, but let's not do it again. I am a bit concerned about our strike force, with the Tuesday bore draw against the Hoops making life more difficult. Now we face the Scousers on Sunday, with them worryingly finding some kind of form at long last, and I fear the worst. Unless the gods smile and ignore yet another 'I've got a soft spot...' comment so carelessly made in the pub last night.

Flagging

Standing on Whitehall, waiting for the arrival of my bus into work, I glanced over towards the Houses of Parliament, and could see the Union flag fluttering atop them in the chilly, moderate breeze. My thoughts turned towards Northern Ireland, where the ongoing fights over changes to the demonstration of loyalty to the crown are again bringing pain and anger to the streets. It's very difficult to understand exactly what drives the loyalists in Ulster. What makes them so rabidly pro British, and what is the nature of this strange love for the mother country?

There is of course the cliche of Paisley and his picture of Brenda on the wall, so clearly it must have something to do with the symbolism of the English monarch which does it for them, rather than whichever crowd of thieves is inhabiting the grand buildings along this famous old street at any given time. It occurred to me that history can be a Very Big Thing, that many people see the invisible thread linking them to their distant past as clearly as the sun in the sky. Somewhere in the mind's eye of the bowler hatted sash wearer is the Battle of the Boyne, King Billy riding triumphantly to rout the Papist devils and burn their houses down.

It is difficult to fully comprehend all aspects of this long distant past, and it is often a mistake which we all make, assessing a historical past from the point of view of a modern sensibility. However, in common with much of current events reporting, things are rarely as they appear on first reading. Having read a (very) little about 17th Century politics, it does seem ironic that William of Orange was actually supported by Pope Alexander VIII for his own nefarious ends - the relative microcosm of Irish religio-political struggles overshadowed by those of the wider world. How little, one could say, cared the Holy Father for his Catholic flock; how little King Billy for his Protestant subjects. Now, as we stand staring at history in the making, do we see anything different? Old Ratzenberg may bring his funny car over to the Emerald Isle for a bit of a hand waving session, but that's about it. Never mind the paedophilia, eh Your Holiness? Similarly, I can't see Lizzie crying in her gilded cornflakes over the parlous state of the average estate dweller in the Ballybeen.

Now on to Loftus Road for... For what? Mario's swansong, hat-trick and a red card before he goes back over the sea for his pasta and future? Let's be honest, this has got a City win all over it. Or will it be a dour 0-0, 'Arry's buses parked firmly across the width of the pitch and Merlin fouled every time he starts one of his little darting runs? No Kompany to stem the threat of Sweep, declining though his power may be, and we run the risk of conceding. City humbled by the bottom team, who were knocked out of the Cup by MK Dons at the weekend. It could be any of those things.

Don't believe a word of it

Well no tonking, but a reasonably satisfying last minute incident at White Hart Lane, as well as Old Alex losing it (again!) over yet more officialdom incompetence. Five points the gap now, so keep it coming please. Now on to fucking Stoke again. How utterly boring. I bet at least if you dared to kick a ballboy at the Britannia stadium, you would be nursing a very nasty injury as a result. FWIW, and I still don't really like the FA Cup much, I think we will probably get a draw up there and then - perhaps - beat them in the return leg.

Last night to my daughter's parents' evening at the sponsored academy which is providing her with the ammunition for a tough life ahead. Very pleased I was too, with forecast A or even A* grades in almost all of her subjects (maths excluded, but that was never my strong point either. Not that that means I don't want her to succeed in the dark arts of number crunching, which is a subject I still don't understand, but now love in a sort of murky way) and very glowing reports from the teachers. My school days were certainly not peppered with such praise, and I only hope that a) the upward trajectory continues and b) that there are jobs of any kind for her to do when she reaches working age.

It seemed odd to be sitting there listening to the teachers saying all this good stuff while Michael fucking Gove continues to spew his regressive, reactionary bullshit (can one spew bullshit?) from his ivory tower at the Department for Education. Will her A* grades (should she get them) be arbitrarily downgraded to Bs? Will she then be assessed on her A Levels (subjects - Kings and Queens of England, Poetry Rote Recitation and Being English) only at the end of a two year study period? Will the cost of a university education be so prohibitive that only people like Captain Wales can afford it, and then after this gruelling struggle, will she end up executing innocent civilians through a space age monocle because the only jobs going will be to keep the natives' hands off their own fossil fuels?

Answers on a postcard please.

Minding my ps and qs

Funny how I don't swear in front of my father. I have sworn in my mother's presence, but not very often; hardly ever more than a bloody or two - perhaps the odd bugger - and almost always felt awkward once I did so. Especially that time I said 'cunt' as an experiment. Having been informed that there is a new audience for this drivel, I will ensure that I display more caution with my language in future writings.

Just returned from a very brief trip to Oswestry, cut short by a combination of snow (which could possibly have prevented us travelling, and which would certainly have meant staring out of a Morda window for a day. Not really recommended) and a rotten head cold (now thankfully on its way out) which has left me with a red raw nostril and a sore eye. The bracing walk to the top of the hill fort on Wednesday morning may not have helped much, even though I am skeptical about cold causing colds. Anyway, as often happens, Oswestry always brings home to me the true brutality of the current political dogma.

I pointed out in a Guardian CiF article once that the town (and I do realise it's not the only place in the country suffering) is an economic basket case. Certainly, recent unhappy events in the retail cursed earth cannot have helped the situation much. Some people I know are currently availing themselves of whatever they are deciding to call sickness benefit these days (DLA, ESA, NFI... Who knows?) and it is salutary indeed to hear them talk about the risk of being filmed by the DWP walking up a hill, which would mean instant loss of the payment because it doesn't meet the criteria of not being able to walk more than 50 metres. My Dad believes that certain pubs are full of the unemployed, who somehow manage to stay in them all day despite only bringing home £45 a week. He may be right, but I think I might end up that way myself if faced with the alternative of watching daytime telly and waiting for signing day to come around.

In addition to that disgraceful state of affairs, I hear that online activity on the new DWP Universal Jobmatch website is now monitored by staff. Failure to conduct enough job searches leads to sanctions of one sort or another, ultimately I suppose leading to the 156 week ban recently introduced. Now, I don't agree that this kind of thing is in any way defensible even in a vibrant job market. The way things are - especially in Oswestry - it is no less than inhuman. Surely there must be some human rights or privacy legislation which can prevent this? How little dignity do you want people to have? All in all it was a rather depressing return to the old haunts, and gave me much food for thought.

To cheer myself up, a routine and slightly disappointing easy win over Fulham after Stoke beat Palace to face us in the next round of the FA Cup. Then it's on to 'Arry's lads at Fortress Loftus Road. No disrespect, but I don't think we'll be feeling too much pressure in these matches. Let's just hope that (snow willing) Spurs give the Rags a good tonking to open things up a bit.

Sending it Back

An odd sort of weekend, really. Started Saturday morning with a 15 minute wait in a cafe, leading to us walking out just as the little woman deigned to come over and take our order. Later, to lunch at Spiazzo in Crouch End, which turned out to be an even bigger farrago. To begin with, we waited around 40 minutes between garlic bread and pizza, which was bad enough. However, when we asked the waitress how much longer she thought the order would take, the response was:

'Well, we're very busy - it's lunchtime you know. Anyway, we had to cook for people who came in before you...'

'Also,' said my Isness, 'There are people who came in after us who have received their food already.'

The waitress finally, begrudgingly, said she was on it - yeah, right. The pizzas arrived, served in 'artisan' fashion on bread boards, and I couldn't help noticing that my youngest wasn't eating with any gusto, which I put down to the large amount of garlic bread she had eaten (back in the distant past) and the length of time we had waited, which can often dull the heartiest of appetites. But I discovered that in actual fact the pizza had started to absorb some of the wood's aroma, giving it a rather unpleasant varnish taste. I tried one bite, and was instantly put off.

Then (it gets worse) my daughter asked for a glass of water, which the waitress brought over. In mid-pass between my daughter and the miserable woman with the apron on, the heavy pebbled bottom of the glass simply dropped off, and its entire contents spilled over the table and into the laps of both of my daughters. Luckily, there were no glass shards and no-one hurt, but this was still something of a calamity. Well, the waitress then proceeded to accuse my daughter of knocking the glass against the edge of the table, and for me this was the last straw. I shouted that this was not the case, and that I resented her saying it was. For this, an amount was deducted from the bill. Nonetheless, I will never set foot in the place again. 'kthxbai.

Later that evening, on the recommendation of one or two friends, we went to see Life of Pi. Though I have not read the book, which perhaps means that the comments to follow will do some injustice (as well as maybe displaying my own literary prejudices) to Ang Lee's effort, I absolutely hated it. That said, I believe that if you have seen this piece of nonsense, I feel sorry for you. If you haven't, please do not waste your time and money. There are so many things wrong with it that I almost don't know where to begin. Firstly, it is utterly pointless. After over two hours (though I admit that I walked out with 30 minutes still to go) the viewer is none the wiser as to what the thing is supposed to be about. There is almost no acknowledgement of the realities of life, with the story set in some fantastical hippy bubble of funny names and exotic fruits and flowers - a cosy world divorced from the poverty, racism, disease and struggle endured by so many in the world. The set-up of a ferocious tiger (whether it be a symbol or not) somehow stuck on a lifeboat while a young man builds a raft to float alongside for 7,000 days (or however long it is) and ultimately trains the feline is too ludicrous to countenance. Nonsense of the highest order, most egregiously demonstrated by the ridiculous flying fish/tuna scene. The whole thing, one feels, was purely put on to demonstrate the excellent CGI skills of the effects guys. In short - shite.

Finally, I was a little concerned about facing the Gooners on Sunday, and feared that we may have only just managed to scrape a draw. This fear proved totally unfounded, though a combination of their second half efforts, and a definite slow-down from our boys almost caused a few flutters in the second half. It was a surprisingly niggly match, with Arsenal setting the tone early on, culminating in Mr Dean losing control and making decisions based largely on crowd reaction. Vinnie's sending-off, though perhaps understandable with the way the game is going, was still absolutely ridiculous. I don't hold out much hope of the card being rescinded, with this - added to the list of absentees - causing some concern about the next few matches. And the Rags go marching on. Twats.

Stealth

I attended a health & safety briefing which was all about Fees For Intervention (FFI). This is a measure put in place by the Health & Safety Executive to charge companies for their inspectors' time (and other things, such as any expert reports, etc.) which are required after discovery of a material breach of health & safety legislation. As with many of the areas of modern life, this is part of the current agenda of everything having a price, while nothing has any value. Of course, there's the usual ill-thought out justification for gradually stripping away those areas of the state which are actually of any use, but precious little thought of how this might affect those who a) work at the HSE and will undoubtedly lose their jobs and b) ordinary workers in other businesses who are sure to see a decline in safety standards as a result of this privatisation.

We must all remember the bleating about red tape Britain, supposedly strangling those brave entrepreneurs who are pushing back the frontiers of trading and so on and so forth. My fear is that stealthily cutting away at the hugely important - and extremely hard-won - legislation erodes protection for the individual worker. We may hear about the probation service being contracted out; we are all too painfully aware of the commoditisation of the health service, but there are so many other things going on beneath the news radar which are steadily hacking at this country while it is already on its knees pleading for mercy.

However, lest anyone think: 'Hey, this is not a football blog!' I will update on the City situation. Bad news that Kun's injury comes at a time when Yaya is in Africa, and that it is more serious than first thought, as well as (I suppose) Nasri not being available. Bad news that these events coincide with a visit to the Library, but we must keep positive. I think the word is #believe, but I do struggle with some of that stuff. I fear at best a draw against the Gooners, and we could well end up losing it. Still, there's the FA Cup to look forward to, and if Palace can see off those pesky Potters, there might be a chance to go and see City again towards the end of the month. Only time will tell.