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.

Polly

Well, maybe my last post did make all the difference in keeping Rooney [sic] out of the White House. Who knows? The Ajax match didn't exactly work out as one might have hoped however. As it happens, I was at the theatre, watching my eldest perform in a version of Hamlet while the match kicked off. Quite good (Hamlet, I mean) it was too, and I think may have further cemented the kid's love for the stage. Why not, eh? I realise, as much from my lover as anyone else, that acting is a tough profession, and a road as likely to lead to tears and fears as any in life - yet, there are a lot of good things to be said for it, and who am I to ruin a young girl's dream - if indeed that is what it will become? Maybe she will have her hopes dashed, and end up working in transportation or facilities management, but she will sure as hell have an interesting enough life if she sticks with it.

But, as often seems to happen, it was Twitter getting itself arse about face which caused me some confusion as I sat in the darkened theatre surreptitiously checking my phone. There was no mention of either of their opening goals until too late, and in a cruel twist, notification of the first (what a fucking joke of a goal that was) only came in after the match had finished, by which time I had managed to get home and watch the last infuriating 20 minutes or so. Blah blah, you can't blame the officials; blah blah, not good enough over the two matches; blah blah poor tactics. It all may well be true, but it doesn't half piss me off sometimes. Kun's third goal of the night, and his second disallowed one, should definitely have counted, and Mario was clearly fouled in the box at the end. Regardless of what those fucking idiots with the wands are supposed to be doing behind the goal line (and someone on Twitter pointed out that it was one of these dweebs who indicated this was not a penalty, though I haven't had chance to look closely at it again yet) the ref himself should have blown for that, and then we would have had another last gasp Balotelli pen to look forward to.

Alas, it was not to be. I'm also not going to change my view about the use of technology either, which is that it should not be used. Part of the whole emotional charge of footy is the argument in the pub after a match as to whether a decision was right or wrong, and in general things do balance out (unless you're a filthy cheating Rag with the ref in your back pocket) so to complain is churlish and a waste of time.

One of those teams of course who could have quite a few good reasons to complain are coming up agin us this weekend. The mighty Spurs no less, facing their own seemingly endless battle with the fates and struggling to come to terms with the overrated AVB. Personally, I don't think this will be an easy one either, although Defoe getting a hat trick midweek is not an indicator that he will play well - or even play at all - on Sunday. Cautiously, I would suggest a 2-1 win, but would not be too surprised at a draw. I desperately desperately desperately want Tevez to get a goal as recognition for all the hard shifts he has put in. Will little Silva come back into the side at last? Will I be at the theatre? No fucking chance! Come on City!

Away

So I will be heading to the airport in just a few hours to start my journey to Addis Ababa. I am a little apprehensive as it will be my first trip outside the 'western world' into the heart of the Dark Continent, but I am also excited, and hopeful of being able to see at least some of the vast country while I'm there.

Everything I've read seems to indicate that the internet is of inferior quality in Addis, but you can rest assured that if I am able to tweet/blog/post or poke then I will do so. But just in case, I have packed a notebook and a couple of pens to record my adventures.

The past few days I have spent trying to absorb the sights and sounds of London so that they will contrast more vividly with the African ones I am about to see. Girls on bikes, the chatter of a group of old ladies in the subway at Elephant & Castle, buses careering down the roads, and the milky translucence of the sky. Before I enter the other world of airports and aeroplanes, baggage checking and security scans, ears popping and tiny cans of drink.

I will stop off in Dubai for less than 2 hours, but am not expecting to see anything other than the interior of an airport lounge. So, farewell, and I will see you on my return if not before.

Wish me luck!

Marching

Time's relentless tattoo beats with no respite. Tick tick. Or tick tock. Whatever.

After two days in the desert sun my skin began to turn red. After a year (and a bit) at Defra, my brain began to turn frazzled. In a matter of days (tyrannical - you see?) I will be landing at Bole airport, hoping beyond hope that the bag (complete with its cargo of toothbrushes, chocolate eggs, jelly snakes and breakfast cereals. Among other things) will somehow managed to have followed me all the way via the hospitality and efficiency of our Gooner sponsoring air jockeys at the Emirates.

I will step into a country where there is very limited access to the internet, a nationalised mobile phone provider, and - of course - terrifying grinding poverty all around. I will be returning to basics. In the absence of internet, reverting to a pen and pad. Till I realised that I couldn't spell, I thought that there had been no reference to Shashamane, so harboured thoughts of placing a marker in the sand with a nice Wikipedia update. I was wrong, and in any case, for a variety of reasons, I may not be permitted to pay a visit to such a place.

That in mind, I hope to be able to take a trip to Lalibela at the very least to witness the startling stupidity and beauty of the rock carved churches. Of course, I may just end up sitting on the edge of a bed clutching my stomach and wishing for the rain to stop.



Cursed as I am with a brain (of sorts) I can see into the future, and the most pre-occupying thoughts I have at present are around what I will face when I return to this land of milk and bitter and the prospect of actually paying my way in the world somehow.

It may be that you should come look for me in a Shashamane shack. I will be the white man with the huge spliff.

I've got lots of mates

So here I am unleashed on the property for the next couple of weeks.



All alone, except for the monkee.

I have a nebulous plan to deal with the house room by room and turn it into a Frankenstinian aberration. The thoughts of any man left alone for a while naturally turn to those things of which we can only dare dream about in our Super Ego controlled moments of abject humdrum servitude, but I have found it all to be somewhat hollow at the end of the day.




Maybe I'm not happy to be a bachelor boy until my dying day (which would probably not be that far away in any case if I really did do what my imagination sometimes leads me to consider doing) after all, but actually seek the comfort of a pair of soft slippers and a sharp tongue.

Whatever the case, I have plundered my meagre resources to go on a crazy adventure to the Dark Continent, with nary a clue as to what will become of me when I return (let alone get there) so at least I can say I have lived a little.

And I have not wasted a red cent on Johnny Mathis albums. So there!

Flickr's probably better...

This evening, took a cycle ride with my daughters to a local park. Summer hasn't really happened yet, and the weather has been VERY wet, but this was a truly beautiful evening, and I got to feeling all arty.

The shots below are of a building near my house, all part of the property deal to develop the new Emirates Stadium, just around the corner.

It's a strange aluminium structure, but when the sun shines on it, it's quite striking. Easy to forget that it sits on top of a waste transfer station.





photos