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.

Casserole

I have no doubt that almost anyone reading this will have received a similar email to the one I've copied out below. I just think it's amazing and hilarious that anyone would consider paying $55 to receive the parcel. Not quite as illiterate as some of the tweets I read from young Man City fans (I'm no Michael Gove, but some of the spelling I see around is just atrocious, really) but still... Enjoy.
_______________________________________________________________________

On 29/08/2012, United Parcel Service LTD (UPS) wrote:


United Parcel Service LTD (UPS)

(Customer Service Department)

Gariki Abuja-Nigeria Branch

E-mail:upscourier_delivery@post.com

+2348072239089

INTERNATIONAL DELIVERY DEPARTMENT

Compliment of the day to you dear customer i must say that i am very surprise when i went through your file that you have still not receive your parcel.

I am Jude Abel the newly appointed Dispatch Officer for the UPS Courier Service, Gariki Branch. I wish to inform you that a shipment order will be placed on your parcel with Registration #: 392R-3TVD-CQF the parcel was tendered to us by Officials of the United Nations for onward delivery to you.

Your parcel which was placed on hold by the custom officers has been cleared Tariff Act of 1930 and Title 19 of the Code of Federal Regulations (CFRow). Under the Department of Homeland Security the parcel with Registration #: 392R-3TVD-CQF has been cleared and ready to be dispatch to you.

In regards to your mail yes your name is in the file of those who has not claim their parcel. As the newly appointed Dispatch Officer it is my duty to ensure that your parcel get to you without any delay just because of the bad name given to us by the past Director and complains from some of our customer claims that co-ordinators has been extorting money from customer and never send their parcel to them , As the new Dispatch Officer a meeting was held on the 27th of August 2012 to make sure that the files of all customer are being looked into and also check out for customers that have paid and never received their parcel that was when we actually found out that you have not redeemed.

To that effect we decided to help customers with this kind of issues who has not receive their parcel, Please to enable us dispatch this parcel to the right fully owner you are advise to reconfirm your current shipping details so that we can update your profile and your parcel delivery to you without any delay.

Note: You are only required to pay $55 for Security Keeping Fee of your parcel since you have paid for your shipment. Payment of this Security Keeping should be made directly to my officer details:

Receiver Name : Benson Osifo
Location: Nigeria
Text Question: Who is Good
Answer: God

On the confirmation of you payment your package will be set for delivery which you will receive within 36hours.

Your package contain the following information

I. AN ATM CARD (Issued by the GUARANTEE TRUST BANK)
II. ORIGINAL COPY OF INSURANCE BOND
III. UNITED NATIONS VTI INVITATION LETTER
IV. CERTIFICATE OF CLEAR SOURCE OF FUNDS ORIGIN (Issued by Internal Revenue Board)

PACKAGE WEIGHT: 41.52g
PACKAGE COLOUR: Brown
REG NUMBER: CVL/TW/US/254.

We sincerely hope the above information is helpful to you. Should you have any further queries do no hesitate to write to us.

I hope that you use the fund judiciously by serving humanity. Thanks for using our firm as i expect a copy of the receipt of mail soon.
Regards,
Jude Abel,
UPS DELIVERY
OFFICER.

I need somebody

Suitably refreshed (or completely knackered, whichever you prefer) after my trip to Oswestry, thoughts turn with dread to work once again. My last post was all about my first shift as a TA, and I will pick up the thread from there.

Firstly, there's been some discussion about the legacy the Games will leave behind. For me, it feels as if that - once the whole thing is over - reality will come crashing down on all our heads. It's bizarre that the BBC has wall to wall coverage, from 6am to 1am every day, and every single front page is about Team GB. Don't get me wrong, I have a great deal of respect for the sports people who have done so amazingly well for us, and I enjoy almost all of the sports I watch (I find the colour of the hockey pitch a bit dazzling, and I'm not huge on sailing or equestrianism, but the rest are all good) but it does create a rather surreal atmosphere, as though the events in the rest of the world are not actually happening. When it does come  to an end in a week's time, I think there will be a sense of flatness, and it will be necessary once again to confront the impossible conundrum of the European (and world) economic situation. People have also been continuing to die in Syria, and it doesn't seem as if the UN or anyone else has much of a solution  to that either.

Anyway, returning to my theme, the whole question of Olympic legacy was summed up for me when I went for my lunch break last Saturday. Wanting to take myself away a little from the madding crowds, I walked towards a chip shop I could see at the next junction. The man in there told me he was very disappointed because he had been told that the Olympics would make his area very busy, and he was clearly expecting a boost for his business. But it was not to be. Even though he could look out of his window and see the crowds streaming out of the tube station to get to the London Live site, the route there did not take them past his shop. After the Games are over, even those shops lucky enough to have been on an Olympic route will see things returning to their normal dismal routine. Oswestry - never perhaps the most vibrant area in the world - now seems to be in terminal decline, with most of the town centre comprised of empty shops, although the market was more lively than I have seen it for some years. Fundamentally, there just isn't the engine in the economy for things to turn around, and I believe we are set for some truly historic events in the coming months as we watch the disintegration of the Euro project. Sorry to be so depressing.

On my second shift, I have never known time to pass so slowly. The station I was at was designated as a possible Olympic route to the Lea Valley white water centre, but only one intrepid fan seemed to have chosen it on the day that I was there. There were two of us, along with three others from the Revenue Protection team, and we did bugger all the entire day. My colleague, keen to try out his new customer skills and bored out of his mind, asked an old man if he could help. The old man replied:

"Only if you've got a cure for cancer."

Cash in the bush

First of all, a small apology for slagging off City. A couple of good goals and a nice win rounded off the Austrian visit nicely. Now it's off to China and Arsenal, and I really do appreciate the updates from @MCFC, especially when I have no other means of keeping in contact with the boys. Now let's get the Van Persie thing over with, shall we? So, on to today's rant.

Reluctant as I am to fuel this specious 'debate' about the 'morality' of cash-in-hand payments, I do think the whole thing illustrates the way in which politism - or journalics if you prefer - operates today.

A junior minister is asked a question about cash payments (knowing that his bullshit will be picked up and propagated by what passes for the Press in this country) and responds in a way which will deflect attention from the meat and potatoes of the argument. Everyone then starts banging on and on about it as if it really mattered, while conveniently ignoring the truly egregious tax dodging of, for example, Vodafone. It all then ends up at the top, and Cleggeron are asked if they ever did it, while Boris of course can't keep his snooty snout out of anything with headlines in. The intriguing thing is how (I believe) these fuckers and their PR handlers will respond to such a question. They will not consider whether or not to answer truthfully, but will instead assess the risks of lying, and of being found out.

Morality - in the fiduciary sense - is the order of the day. Tax avoiders, benefit cheats, unworthy bank bonus collectors - everyone must somehow justify their earnings, and if they have been found wanting in this moral balance, then they must return their ill-gotten gains from whence they came. So, Cameron, Clegg, Boris and all must agree with the Rt. Hon. Mr Gauke in his assessment of paying plumbers (or whoever) in cash, and yet must admit to having done so themselves. Everyone, right and left, seems to share the view that the guy is talking pure, unadulterated bollocks.

Surely the real question of morality should be posed on the dusty plains of Afghanistan, where Mr Obama's secret agents bung dollar bills at local warlords, not in David Cameron's bathroom?

Turgid

Though not in the phallic sense, City's turgid pre-season performances in Austria, along with the incessant Twitter updates from the social network boys at Eastlands have not exactly enthused me with any football content just yet. Perhaps the hundreds of thousands of unsold Olympic football tickets are also testament to the fact that - like me - everyone just can't wait for the season proper to start. Funny though it will be having the Community Shield at Villa Park, at least it's comforting that the current incumbents of that ground share with us an element of the nomadic existence, relocating as they did from their original patch of grass in the early years.

So for now, it's all banks and Olympics. After the Barclays LIBOR scandal comes the Mexican drug lord money laundering and the jaws drop further with each new revelation. What next? Will we find out that the Royal Bank of Scotland have been using live babies to fuel the central heating at their Canary Wharf headquarters (if indeed, that is where their HQ is). Or perhaps Howard at the Halifax has been secretly moulding an army of super Orcs to plunge the world into everlasting night and enthrall the forces of good forever. I wouldn't be that surprised, really. But, there aren't many options, are there? The ring has been returned to the dark lord already, and we cannot escape. Countless trillions have to be thrown at the teetering edifice, no matter how pointless it all is, because the alternative is chaos. No more boring Sunday mornings, washing the car. No more nipping to the cashpoint or the supermarket. No more tubes. No more nothing (if you'll excuse the double negative) and let's see how long this little island can bump along without imported foodstuffs.

Much has been said also about the G4S/A4E situation, and the wider implications for the great god of outsourcing so beloved of our great and good leaders. Of course, this bullshit was being peddled long ago, championed as much by Blair and Brown as by Thatcher, Major and Cleggeron. Everyone always knew that private companies were not really more efficient than public ones, it's just that it's easier to pass the HR burden on to someone else, and HMG can hire and fire with alacrity if the workforce is employed by that someone else. Private companies, being what they are, and managed by people who are not better than they should be, have been concerned only with the bottom line. So we end up in the situation we're in now.

Ho hum.

Fix

Fixtures Day! And a visit from Mick Channon's old crew to kick the whole thing off. As it happens, I picked up a 1982 Shoot annual from the North London Hospice charity shop (75p!) over the weekend. I flicked through the entire thing before finally lighting on a picture of a City player - on the inside back cover. His name was Dave Bennett, holding off Martin Buchan, with neither player sporting a logo on their shirts.

In any case, other than who City will be playing when, who knows what the coming season will bring? Will the Abu Dhabi billions be sufficient insulation against Mervyn King's 'storms', and will King ever use a metaphor which isn't maritime related? How many more clubs - like Southampton's Solent neighbours - will go bankrupt this season? And while we're on the subject, how does it make any sense that Real Madrid and Barcelona (for example) can continue splurging millions and millions of Euros in transfer fees and wages while the mighty nation of Spain continues to circle slowly around the toilet bowl?

Though the passion for football doesn't surprise me, the ability of people to continue coughing up the season ticket dosh is a constant source of amazement.

Germany versus Greece becomes a more resonant fixture by the day.

Living is Easy

Well now that's out of the way, it's on to the summer, such as it is.

Euro 2012. No Euro in 2012. Who can tell?

A debate on 5 Live the other day focused on the lack of interest in England's tilt at the European Championships in Poland and the Ukraine this time around. As ever, all thoughtful comment was edited out, only to be replaced with the dimwitted foghorning of some idiot who was 100% sure that there was 'plenty of money about' and that the poor showing was all down to the incompetence of the FA. I'm no fan of the gentlemen from Lancaster Gate, don't get me wrong, and there are many things relating to the decline in the game in this country which I would squarely lay at their door. However, the fact that your average (insane, surely? I mean, where do they get their money from?) travelling England supporter is less likely to fork out thousands of pounds for a ticket to the latest circus is not one of them. More importantly, will there even be any sort of infrastructure left in Europe by the time the damn tournament comes round anyway?

That said, what are my thoughts on Roy's team selection? Ferdinand is no surprise - perhaps a mixture of pusillanimity over the racism issue (a disgrace) and pragmatism due to the fact that he's well and truly past it. Terry is also past it, and is - at the very least - a thug, so I find it hard to condone his inclusion in the squad. Richards' exclusion is difficult to fathom perhaps. Although he has been something of a second choice at City in the latter part of the season, he is still among the quickest and most powerful defenders in an admittedly strong field of defenders.

It's up front where I think we will struggle. Carroll. Defoe. Welbeck. Pube Head. Nuff said.

Ah well. This blog reaches its 5th birthday towards the end of June, and my avowed intent is still to reach 500 posts by then. I will need some help to do that, and am hopeful that there will be some guest bloggers on here in the coming days to help me out.

Tired

I'm afraid this is a theme I have often returned to, and I will hopefully balance the gloom with a nice piece about us getting through to the knockout stages of the Champions League on Wednesday. But you have to agree that - outside of the Etihad Stadium - things are pretty bloody dismal at the moment!

Christmas is a time for meeting old friends, for taking stock of the year just gone. A time for sentiment and happiness, celebration and indulgence. Is this the gloomiest Christmas there has ever been? Is it darker than the early 40s, when my ancestors huddled around radios, eking out the butter ration and piling coats on the bed as the bombs fell all around? Darker than December 1914, when the Tommies and Fritzes played football in no man's land?

Day after day, ever more dire financial news is poured down on our heads, unrelenting in its intensity. Politicians in Italy are crying as they announce their austerity budgets; the streets are still burning in Greece; the youth of Spain stare at empty, crumbling development sites; and the disabled in this country are (sometimes literally) having their wheelchairs pulled from beneath them as the homes in which we place our old folk are facing financial ruin.

Businesses - many of them well established, sometimes bastions of the world of retail - are going under at alarming rates. Millions strike to defend what little future security they have; and thousands of others, with no labour to withdraw in the first place, turn with blank eyes to the windows of sports and electronics shops - smashing and grabbing for a slice of the pie. There is no money left, and that is what we are told. If Rolls Royce et al can't sell their cars, then every other lamprey - in a sort of sad homage to natural selection - which sucks on the scaly sides of the Silver Ghosts will also go hungry. And very quickly extinct, preserved only in the fossil record of Companies House.

Let us be under no illusion that Miliband, or anyone, will provide a way out of this. As we have seen in Greece and Italy, the markets will have their way, regardless of the 'will of the people', and we can expect no white knight to be allowed to rein in the money men. Hopes pinned on a Chinese Marshall Plan seem futile indeed, and the only glimmer of stimulus comes from sabre rattling at the old Iranian foe. May the Ayatollahs quake at the avenging angel - William Hague - and his cavalry of Euro Fighters!

Super fast

Surprising thrashing of Wolves in the week, with the fixture (kind of) reversed for Saturday, and a harder fought battle. Tevez fully supported by his union (didn't Gordon Taylor sound like a geek on the radio the other day?) with his punishment reduced by their sterling efforts on his behalf. I'm all for unions (as I may have said before) but the modern footballer - certainly in the higher echelons - is surely one of the least deserving of all workers for union support? Maybe I'm wrong, and we would, by removing the protection from Carlos (why can't he just say sorry?) et al, be opening a can of worms which would spew their noxious guts all over the poor bastards who turn up for Wrexham week in week out? Who knows? Anyway, the sheikh has agreed to pay Mancini's legal bills out of his own pocket, and Bobby himself I believe has signed, or is about to sign, a new four year, £22million contract. Good for him, I suppose.

In the real world, the economy is worse than that bus at the end of The Italian Job, teetering over a precipitous drop while Merkel and Sarkozy do their Michael Caine impressions and tell Lord Snooty to shut up, piss off, die horribly, etc. As we watch the bullion swinging back and forth over the cliff, the pay of FTSE executives has increased by 49 fucking %!

And there really is surprise over the fact that people are putting up tents all over the place? For fuck's sake! There is no sanity. Linked to this crazy bullshit, almost the entire hierarchy of the Church of England has resigned over the tents outside St. Paul's cathedral. Looking towards the Archbishop of Canterbury for leadership has been - unsurprisingly - rather a waste of time, but this whole episode has started what could be an extremely interesting dialectic about the role of the church in political life, and could even forge a strange new alliance between the anarchists and the men of god. Let's see.

Anyway, it seems there's enough dosh in the Abu Dhabi kitty to finance a flight to Spain for the boys, and let's hope we can do something to stay in touch in Europe.

I think it will be a tough call, and fear a draw at best. At least it's on ITV1.

All you can eat data

My contribution to Blog Action Day this year (a day late, for which I apologise) is about knowledge.

Knowledge is food.

The picture above is a genuine poster display from the lift at Caledonian Road tube station. All You Can Eat Data right next to the DEC appeal for famine relief. There is surely no need to ask: 'what the fuck's wrong with this picture'?

Here in England, we are so stuffed with knowledge that the government of the day has had to take drastic action in order to combat the rising obesity epidemic. In an unsurprising act of callous abandonment of their responsibilities, the Con-Dem alliance has advised us to control our calorie intake and move around more. And, er, that's it. Once again, though it's a no-brainer, I find myself on Jamie Oliver's side when he describes Andrew Lansley's so-called plan as "patronising rubbish" which could have been outdone by an 8 year old child. Our hopes - as he says - can only rest on knowledge, on the chance that enough people will find out enough and care sufficiently to make a change. Those bastards in Westminster have no desire to take on their buddies in the big food companies. They have no desire to do anything which would jeopardise their bonanza paydays (although at least most of them used to have the decency to wait until they had left office before creaming a profit for themselves) whilst disgracefully smearing the people they were elected to govern as somehow deserving of their fate because they can't get off their sofas and cook a nice risotto.

What are the options facing us? From the women and children dragging themselves hundreds of miles across arid deserts in Somalia and Ethiopia to find a sip of water and a bowl of rice, while lump-headed hacks persist in their denial of climate change; to the demonised lower end of the 99% trying to bring their families through on a smaller and smaller pot of money; buying the 'value' range and seeking out some decent fresh fruit and veg that's affordable, while seeing the cost of food climbing weekly. To those who form part of the 74% increase in Type 2 diabetes since 1997. To those going to the Olympic Park at Stratford next year who will watch the athletes while eating Big Macs in the world's largest McDonalds. We're all well and truly fucked.

Cleared

At the risk of boring everyone - all those lovely people who post insightful comments about Louis Vuitton bags, designer watches and porn...

...While the world has been teetering on the edge of a total financial collapse, much much much has been said about Rupert and James Murdoch, Rebekah (that spelling says all it needs to say about the woman, if you ask me. And, BTW, whatever became of the lovely Ross Kemp? Tossed aside like some used rag, poor bloke...) Brooks, John Yates, David Cameron and of course Andy Coulson over the last few days.

Of note was a piece on CiF by the erstwhileTony Blair's communications chief, Jonathan Powell regarding the vexed issue of security vetting (or lack of it) for the NI man chosen to spread DC's message. It so happens that I have some personal experiences in the area of government vetting. Firstly, when I used to work for the boys at Nobel House, I was responsible for a particular function which required its administrators to receive 'SC' clearance. In the hierarchy of clearance - for those unaware - SC is the second highest, with the levels ranging from baseline, through CTC (counter-terrorism check) to SC and then DV - Developed Vetting - for the highest level.

Anyway, obtaining SC clearance for the team I was in charge of proved to be the devil of a job. As background, the original, cleared, staff had all left at the same time, taking the offer of voluntary early severance as part of the seemingly endless attempts to cull numbers in the civil service, leaving the area (which was required to operate 24/7, 365 days a year) effectively without staff. Now this was a relative backwater of Central Government, nothing to do with national security (though there was an oddity around radiation emissions reporting, which was a fairly serious matter. Looking at this link is a bit of a worry, I have to say) and yet the men from Security Branch took the whole thing very seriously indeed. One of the people we brought in had been shown to have some outstanding personal debt, and for this reason - as well as due to the fact that he had not declared it - he was turned down for SC and we had to let him go.

For the others, until the process was resolved, all Secret and Top Secret material was removed from the room, and a member of Security Branch had to stand in the room while any of them were processed. On this basis, given that the information was either home addresses of ministers or data relating to oil seed rape quotas in Northern Europe, it seems hardly credible that the Prime Minister's Director of Communications would not have had to undergo DV clearance. Isn't it? We shall see.

My second experience of vetting was as a referee for a friend - many years ago when I was still living in Oswestry - who was joining the Air Force 'on a secret mission in uncharted space'... Or Belize anyway. Well, he put me down as a referee and one morning the man from the Ministry came to see me. I remember I had had a party the night before, and wasn't particularly fastidious at the time (stop it!) so the place was still strewn with empty cans and torn Rizla papers as we sat at the table and he asked me questions about the probity of my friend. Had he any allegiances to political groups? Had he any propensity for excessive alcohol consumption (ha!) or did he take drugs? Did he owe money to anyone? With the exception of the political question (come to think of it, he wasn't much of a drug user, either) I of course lied about everything, whilst nervously looking at the piles of Bacchic left-overs on the floor. Clearly, I satisfied the spook, because my friend went on his secret mission, so it only goes to show what a load of crap it all is.

Can I help you?

I have a major-ish project in the pipeline, and it's taking rather longer than I intended, but is nonetheless holding my interest. More of that anon - if I ever get to finish it.

However, in order to put something up on here, I thought I'd fill the gap with a recount of my telephone conversation with a Centrica operative this morning.

This is the modern world, as Paul Weller once said, and this call to British Gas summed that up. I received an email telling me that my latest gas bill was ready to view, and promptly checked it, only to find that I appeared to owe the lovely people who heat my home and provide energy for cooking my food over £800 for two months' worth of gas consumption. This in a period (April to June, with mostly warm temperatures) when I have had the heating on twice - both times for less than an hour, and so as you can imagine I had to assume that there had shurely been shome mishtake. I called the 0800 number and pressed option 5 for 'Anything Else'. After a minute or two (not too long, not too short) of the violins and horns on that Blur track which so hideously infects Spotify every 3 seconds, a man came on the line. He did not sound as if he was talking to me from Mumbai, in between watching Eastenders on UK Gold, but I don't mind if he was.

"Can I take your name, please?..."
"Is it OK to call you Alan?..."
"And the first line of your address?..."
"Could you confirm your date of birth please?..."
"Your mobile number? Do you have a landline number? Is your email address still the same?..."
"Are you calling about your gas or electricity account?..."
"How can I help you today?"

Well, something is clearly wrong, Mr Man, said I. Eight hundred pounds is a very large sum of money indeed to pay for such a small period of time, etc. I was advised to do something called a burn test, involving turning all the gas on for a minute and watching to see if the dial was turning. This - I told him - I would do.

He then went on to say he was cancelling the bill (phew!) as it was clearly incorrect, and had I considered some of the different payment methods on offer, which would mean Nectar points flowing my way like water. I mumbled non-committally, feeling - though I have one - that Nectar cards are a total fucking waste of time. After that, he asked if I wouldn't mind awfully participating in a brief customer satisfaction survey, which should take under a minute, and which asked me to rate my experience on a scale of 0-10 using the keys on my telephone. I gave him a 9, even though he had annoyed the shit out of me.

Lopez Tevez

I did say that Clint Walker would be up next, but events have conspired to make me consider a change. I hope all will become clear as the post unfolds and I introduce you to Trini Lopez.



Rooney set the tone, and now it seems that there will be no way back for the precious few who can command the total control of their employers with their celebrity status. When SAF rolled over and showed his soft Glaswegian belly to the blood sucking scumbags who 'run' professional players, it was the end of the beginning. If even this famous boot throwing disciplinarian would cave in to the rapacious demands of his Scouse prima donna's handler (use of the word 'agent' in these matters should of course be studiously avoided) Paul Stretford, then everyone else is sure to follow suit.

'Oh, I miss my kids so much. It's really nothing to do with money...' Bullshit. Pure and simple.

It's always about money in the end, and everyone knows it. If Carlos was really pining for his little darlings so much, why did he piss off to Tenerife during his recent ban instead of back to BA for a paternal cuddle and distribution of expensive plushes? The highest paid player in an extremely highly paid squad, in the middle of a 5 year contract, and agitating - or at least the odious Joorabchian, with his well-known links to Cook, the Sheikh, et al, is doing so - for more at the point of a virtual gun. It stinks like Rooney's cock after a night out in Kirkby. And if anyone can make any sense of this in the middle of a global recession, I'd like to hear it. I know that loyalty counts for little these days. The mercenary element of modern football is well and truly established, and there's little that can be done to change that, but I feel sick just watching it. The average City or even Rag (yes, you heard me!) fan may as well be spat on from a great height by these fuckers as they fork out their hard-earned cash for overpriced tickets.

I said it (or at least reported someone else saying it) when the Rooney saga was in full swing, and I'll say it again about Captain Carlos:

'Get rid!'

Now, Trini Lopez. An international chart topping recording artist (If I Had A Hammer) Trini was not so successful in film. He left The Dirty Dozen early, and the script was hastily re-written to accommodate his departure. For that reason, I thought it appropriate that this post should be about him and not Clint Walker. Dirty.

Tiger fffuuuuuuu

Thanks to Masters of Photography for this one.

I was surprised to hear from Gideon on the radio this morning that we (the UK, that is) export more to Ireland than we do to Brazil, Greenland, Burkina Faso and New Caledonia (or something like that) put together. I still find it difficult to understand why nobody can foresee these crises until it’s too late. We’re clever people, with very fast computers, and yet we seem to fall prey to one financial disaster after another, stumbling forward like Stone Age men into a bog. Looks like it will be a fine festive season in the Emerald Isle this year. The Celtic Tiger will be chopped up and – somewhat fittingly in the land of poets – its rather mangy flesh and brittle bones will be used in place of peat to fuel the meagre cottage fires of the peasants.

And to James Joyce Biography for this one.

What this all means for the rest of us is really anyone’s guess, isn’t it? Across the sea, one of the old havens of emigrating Paddies is lurching from one cash injection to the next, while its counterpart down under is slowly but surely catching up with the rest of the world and realising that the boom won’t last forever. The Eurozone is staggering under the virtual weight of yet another sovereign debt crisis, fearful of the ‘contagion’ which is our modern day leprosy – a disease which disfigures those who catch it – marking them out as unclean, or downgraded several notches by Standard & Poor’s.



In the Far East, while the two Koreas begin to slug it out again, Japan somehow keeps going, perhaps saved by its proximity to the mighty Chinese kraken, stirring from its rice paddy (maybe China could be another emigration option?) slumber to emerge blinging into the car-owning light. Having just somehow squirmed my way into my first ‘permanent’ role in over 3 years, I can see it all crashing spectacularly down, if not before Christmas, then certainly in the 3 months after it. Here, with the correct number of letters (full version) is the 4Chan summary of the situation:

FFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUU

Rich

So, ended up in Regent's Park yesterday after shopping with the kids in Camden Town. Clearly, one wouldn't expect the same type of people to patronise this particular royal garden as you would see in say Paradise Park.  As the kids played, and I sat and waited, a middle aged woman next to me fired up her iPhone and began to talk.

"Hello darling. Are you well? Oh Caro, yes it was a lovely time.  The Ritz was fabulous, and the whole area around it, the Place Vendome, was really wonderful. Oh, and Caro... The shopping. Oh. My God. There are some of the big names there, but also a lot of lovely boutiques. And Neil bought me a ring from Boucheron. Emeralds. There were some fantastic restaurants, Caro. A friend recommended one and the concierge at the Ritz recommended another. It was all just so lovely and romantic. I think I'm falling in love with the city again... Caro, you can't go to Magnet for your kitchen - they're so naff. Yes. They're ultra naff.

"Oh, I must tell you Caro. We've won a holiday. With Boucheron, for being one of their best customers. It's a weekend in Morocco. Isn't that funny? No, I don't think we will go. The Algerian president will be there. I mean, what do these people do at these things? No, if I did get a free weekend, I'd sooner jump on a plane with Neil and go to New York."

I couldn't take any more.

Blues

I note with some disappointment that any dissenting voice is at best ignored among City fans online, with a sort of slavishness to the cause, no matter how farcical events are in the 'real world'. Why is this? To be a fan of a football club (even if it is Manchester City) does not mean that you have to have a voluntary lobotomy on Twitter, does it? While in the majority of cases, I enjoy the sense of humour (though I don’t think just calling Man United fans ‘Munichs’ is particularly witty) and the sense of camaraderie, I am a tad fucked off that there appears to be no healthy debate, just a sort of slavering ‘Aaah, we’re rich and we’re gonna fuck the lot of ya!’ attitude. The nearest anyone appears to approach any sort of sober analysis is ‘Ooh, I’d better not take the piss too much, because we might come a cropper in our next match.’ Anyway. I am a City fan, but I like to think I’m not seduced by the Abu Dhabi billions and fucking Garry Cook.

Among the best of the web - heartfelt thanks to Toxic Web for stupendous image use...

So. I’ve been looking at the team since the latest frenzy of pointless buying and horse trading, and I’m finding it difficult to see what the shape will be, and who would be best suited in what position. It strikes me that there is a massive overload in midfield and a serious dearth up front. People are talking about 4-2-1-2-1 formations and plenty of other nonsense, but I still can’t see where we’re going to get a lot of goals from – Tevez aside (although there is a danger in relying on the guy repeating the marvellous form of last season, which doesn’t always happen) – and that worries me. Perhaps Robinho will play for us again, and perhaps he will show some of his real footballing skill if he does so. I don’t hold out much hope for Adebayor. The unknown for me is Balotelli, and only time, and his performances, will be the judge of that.

Regarding the midfield, while I accept that some strength in depth is a good thing, I feel this depth has to be balanced. Surely Milner cancels out Adam Johnson to a large extent? Not to mention Michael Johnson, who I would dearly love to see come back into contention. I accept that SWP is at or around the busted flush level, and now that Ireland (sadly) has gone, we lack the penetrating threat from the middle of the pitch. Our showing against Spurs on Saturday didn’t incline me to believe that we have resolved our usual defensive frailties, and I do think we’re in danger of getting stuffed in the early part of the season by (say) a determined squad of Scousers.

She's Lost Control

On this the anniversary of the prosaic death of Ian Curtis (there is no good reason for mentioning this, but I feel it has to be done) I attended an HR briefing about mediation. It was held in a 4 star hotel in Victoria, and after a quick game of Pictionary (we won, btw) took the form of (I think I'm correct in saying) 'active theatre'. Jolly good it was too, though it is hard to deflect the criticism that it must have cost a fucking bomb, and as we are all too painfully aware in these Osborne and Cable times, that is not really excusable. Ah well, it's a false economy we're living in, as Jim said the other night, and it won't be long before we crash and burn. Can't say I didn't warn ya, but let's make hay while the sun shines.

We were presented with a scenario in which Lucy and Ben were squabbling over something or other (if you must know - Ben had been promoted, Lucy had the hump over it, and nobody - least of all Simon the boss - was paying the slightest bit of attention to her feelings) when Simon the boss came in and only succeeded in making everything worse with his cack-handed and overbearing managerial skills. Our task was to guide the scene towards a more satisfactory conclusion by - ostensibly - just butting in and making suggestions as to how Simon should really have handled it. The show was one constant heckle, re-written as it went along - at the prompting of us 30 or so dweebs.

And the actors were really rather superb, I have to say, displaying an admirable (and always humorous) ability to think on their feet. Simon, in particular, raised several hearty laughs with his in-character responses. Mine was a front row seat, so I could almost have touched the cast, and when I was able to drag my mind away from salacious thoughts about Lucy, I really enjoyed my quick interjections (no, no, titter ye not!) and was notably proud that one of my nuggets ended up verbatim leaving Simon's mouth. Shakespeare's got nothing on me.

Needless to say, we killed any faint hope of dramatic tension in the story by the end - I suppose that really wasn't the point of it after all - and I was somewhat disappointed if truth be told. Unfortunately, the ice-breaking sessions had left me paired with a humourless Scottish woman of large proportion (an earlier exercise had asked about the pressures which can cause strife in the workplace, and her best effort was to bemoan the inability to purchase a bottle of ink for her fountain pen. WTF???!!!) and I tried to make a lame-ish gag about writing an Eastenders style ending to the play (long lost brother, etc.) which fell like Jesus' seed upon the barren earth.

Inside my radio head, the pictures were forming.

The Only Living Team

We are in the middle of the bursting of the Southsea bubble. Sorry...



After what can only be described as a routine victory over the Trotters, what more is there to say about the state of the game? On a day when Portsmouth were thrown a temporary lifeline before what appears to be certain doom, I remember a commentator saying at the Pompey game recently that City could be described as perhaps the only club in the Premier League who are not facing financial crisis. One could have reasonably riposted the 'prudent' Arsenal, I suppose, but with mine own eyes I have seen the pitiful state of affairs at Stadium Developments. I will say no more.

Poor Chester City, as we have heard, are on their last legs, having been docked 25 points for going into administration, sitting rank bottom of the Blue Square, and now suffering their players refusing to get on the team coach for an away game because they haven't been paid for months. Casting aside the fact that they might possibly fare better without their players, it's sobering to think that things have come to this pass. Having been out of work myself for a while now, I can only begin to imagine how the lads at such an outfit could possibly survive for any period of time. Neither are they (Chester City, I mean) alone. Cardiff and Southend have both been up before the money beak, and both granted a short-term stay of execution. We are all painfully aware of the situation at Liverpool, and even the mighty Rags - with all their successes (and this is surely what all the money is about?) of recent years - are but a hop and a skip away from melt-down. City are cocooned for the nonce of course, shielded by the money of the only solvent sovereign state (China has a good credit rating, which is not quite the same thing) in the world, but - for how long?

On the pitch, there's not a huge amount to cheer about - Adam Johnson excepted - and a team less toothless than Bolton (say, Hull City, for example) would certainly have turned us over. His goal aside, Adebayor looked fairly ordinary. No touch, little understanding of space around him, and far too easily dispossessed. Toure is a liability, far too slow and poor distribution. Zabaleta looked OK (for once) and De Jong was as determined as ever. Tevez continues to win my respect, but got just a touch lucky with the penalty. Bridge - very poor; Kompany - solid but lumpen; Barry - disappointing (as always - solid enough, but woefully lacking in imagination); SWP - kicked off the park; Given (unusually) - shaky; Vieira - poor (as expected) and inexplicable as to why he has been signed. Sylvinho didn't get enough of the game to be able to judge (especially from my vantage point of Iraq Goals, which kept freezing every 10 minutes - most notably, just before Tevez took the penalty and about 5 minutes before the final whistle, from where I couldn't be arsed trying to restart the stream) and the overall performance was something of a disappointment. But, a win's a win for all that, and it looks as if we should just about avoid relegation.

So, as they say up at the Deva, could be worse, eh?

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.

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.