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.

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.

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?

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...

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.

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.

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.

In Review

Rape? Not a lot!

Everybody's doing it, so why not me? The year in review now follows.

In the UK, it was a year defined most starkly by Savile and the Olympics, with the former being much more of a marathon than the latter. Quite staggering, with the recent de-classification of the correspondence with Thatcher, and the unbelievable access granted to the white haired tracksuit man to so many organisations. So much more is yet to come in this story, I think we can safely say, and it beggars belief at every new revelation. For me, the Olympics had a personal touch, thanks to my duties on the front line of customer services for the travelling public. It was a good couple of weeks in all.

Huge amounts of revelations up to and through the Leveson inquiry, with no discernible outcome other than mild embarrassment for Cameron because he thought LOL meant lots of love. Nothing was done to remedy the sickness at the heart of the relationship between HMG and Rupert Murdoch; nothing will be done to regulate the worst excesses of press intrusion. And we'll all sing along like before.

The fiscal cliff atop which we are all apparently standing has never been very far away. Greece burning, Spain floundering, France posturing, Italy imploding, Germany dictating and Japan stagnating. Obama's victory over the lunatic Romney - though only 7 weeks ago - now seems lost in the distant past, overshadowed by the apparently endless (and pointless) gerrymandering of the US political machine. I've been reading about deficits, public debt relative to GDP, etc., and I have to say that I can't really understand a bloody word of it. I'm not the cleverest man alive, but I'm not completely illiterate, and can struggle through most subjects given time, but this is all a mystery to me. If somebody could explain it in clear terms, then I would be very grateful. It seems to boil down to the basic fact that we are all fucked, but that it is not possible to levy higher taxes on the wealthy in our societies.


It was a year when City's billions finally clinched the champions' spot, in truly stunning fashion. A fantastic way to end the season, followed by a largely very enjoyable European Championships (England's dire displays notwithstanding) as a welcome antidote to the depressing spread of receivership and collapse among clubs large and small. A bit like United this season, Fabrice Muamba died, refused to roll over, and came back to life. Racism has been everywhere, infusing everything, and again I'm not sure if we have really made any progress in sorting it out.

Do I feel, as Mr Cameron says I should, optimistic about 2013? In short, no.

I can see nothing in my (admittedly somewhat confused) view of the economic situation to make me think that there will be any way out of the morass we're in. We seem paralysed and unable to do anything about even the most egregious examples of political graft and downright criminality. The environment continues to deteriorate at a truly terrifying rate, and nobody even wants to talk about it. Floods and misery descend on the poor benighted folk of this strange land with alarming regularity; farmers - their livestock pumped full of hormones, anti-biotics and god knows what chemicals - are struggling to survive like everyone else. Children are living in increasing numbers in B&B accommodation while luxury hotels sprout up and the value of houses continues to rise.

As far as the beautiful game goes, I think there is cause for some springing forth of Pandora's greatest gift. It has been an enjoyable season, with some great matches already played, and a lot more to come. The Norwich match was thrilling right up to the 7th minute (!) of added time, although we do have the bloody Potters up next. Now, at the halfway point in the current season, it could still go any way. Spurs are putting together some good play with some encouraging results, and Arsenal are doing all right. Liverpool looked set to tumble down a mediocrity hole, but have scrabbled back to the lip again, led firmly by the marauding Suarez. Not to mention Everton, who of course couldn't quite do Chelsea when it mattered most. At the moment, I would definitely say that the top 3 will be: City, United and Chelsea - though not necessarily in that order.

That concludes my review. I wish all my readers a happy new year, and hope that 2013 at least treats them a little better than 2012 did. I will be back with my meanderings to cheer you all along.

The Eve of Whatever

Like Stephen Fry, I have to say of course that the US election is really none of my business, even if Matt Johnson's rant on the 51st state is ringing in my ears. Mr Fry however has the advantage on me in having met Romney. I suppose that's one of the benefits of being a celebrity: getting to meet other famous people. Anyway, what I'm coming around to is that this piece is intended to persuade anyone who does have the vote in the Land of the Free to put their X next to the name of the incumbent. If just one undecided person (though how anyone could even consider voting for Romney/Ryan is actually incomprehensible to me) reads this and makes up their mind to vote Obama then I suppose I will be happy. Ish.

It didn't feel like a Barry McGuire sort of day when I struggled out of bed this morning, but in many ways it is. I realise that Mr Obama is far from perfect - the constant references to the 'middle class' (whatever that means to an American. It certainly is not the same thing we refer to in this country. Can you imagine trades unions being allied with the middle class here?) are particularly grating; the horrendous record of killing, whether by drone or Navy SEAL, is hard to stomach; the shocking fact that not only have the living standards of black Americans declined since he came to power, but also that the poverty gap between white and black people has actually increased. And yet... unbelievably there is a worse option. Mitt Romney emerging from his cave (don't be fooled by the smart suits) with his club swinging will take the world even further and even more quickly down the road to hell. Perhaps he's comfortable with that, believing as he does in the Mormon faith, undoubtedly also 'sealed' with his family, coming from the upper echelons of Joseph Smith's particular happy band, and so does not feel the need to worry about this earthly pile. I think (N.B., that is not 'I believe') that - in the words of Bob Marley - 'if you knew what life was worth, you would look for yours on earth'.

I faced a similar dilemma during the recent mayoral and local elections, when the presence of Boris encouraged me to vote for Ken Livingstone. A fat lot of good it did in the end, but I felt that it had to be done. Again, come the next general election in this country, though I know that Miliband and Labour will not really offer anything much better, I will once more go out and vote against the Tory/Lib Dem monsters. These are small strips of land we are fighting over in modern politics, and though it hurts, though it feels like a monumentally impotent and idiotic thing to do, we have to do something. Don't we?

The exit polls in the USA will be getting the Jon Snow treatment when City face Ajax tomorrow night, and the omens - though still in the balance for Barack and Mitt - are not good for us. Watching (some of) the West Ham match on Saturday, I really felt for Carlos. He ran his heart out, did everything he possibly could, and yet still could not buy a goal. Nasri had one of those games where he actually looked like he gave a shit and if only Mario had been a little less Mario... Ah, what's the point? A 0-0 draw is often more disappointing than a loss, and that's how Saturday felt, despite the fact that we (at least for large parts of the match) dominated play and West Ham were clearly intent (that early 'offside' escape notwithstanding) only on shutting us out, with the predictable massive boots upfield to the waiting Andy Carroll. Big Sam's grand slam comes to town again. A travesty at the Academy, and all that jazz.

Ajax were surprisingly good when we played them at the Amsterdam Arena, and we can only hope that our formidable home record, along with (please, please please!) the return of Silva will make the difference. However, even Thursday night football is now hanging by a thread for us, and the fucking Rags are sitting on top of the league. Fuck. Shit. Wanker. Good night.

We had joy, we had fun

Quite an interesting week in all. I'm struggling through the seemingly endless The Shape of Things to Come and really wishing it would end, although the ideas are very interesting. The problem I've found is that the stuff which speaks about the current and future worlds is far less interesting than the historical chapters - those concerning the First World War and the inter-war years. Having said that, the whole concept of a World Government is something which seems particularly resonant at the present time, where it's clear that the structures of capitalism and the legendary democracy we're supposed to be so proud of are crumbling before our eyes.

The weekend's TUC march would have been a must-attend for me a few years ago, especially in the current climate of fear and suffering inflicted on so many people. For personal reasons (I'm too old, and too worried about the potential impact on my work life... I am as scared as everyone else, I suppose) and as a result of my thoughts on where we are headed, I did not go, did not feel the need to go. Protest itself (at least as it's done these days) seems somehow unsatisfactory. Like so much of modern life, it all feels so corporate and hollow. What will Ed Miliband contribute from the stump at Hyde Park? What will he say that is going to make a blind bit of difference? A dead horse is a dead horse, whether it's wearing blue or red livery, I say. So the pleasure of seeing Andrew Mitchell resign, as well as Osborne and the first class fiasco, delicious as it was, still had the edge taken off it slightly by the fact that there really isn't any alternative.

How utterly insane is it that there are now articles in newspapers stating that the slump is over, and that we're on the road to recovery? How does that mean anything to the mother who has to borrow money for her Lidl shopping, or the family living in a dingy B&B, trying to get their kids through school? Where is the sense in the opening of a vast new restaurant, actually an old warehouse, specialising in meat in EC2 when huge numbers of people are either starving or morbidly obese?

Anyway, to stop another of my directionless, depressive rants, I will console myself with the fact that I got the result right at the Hawthorns, even if there was a very late goal from the fabulous Dzeko (Oh-ohhhh, Edin Dzeko, oh-ohhhh, Edin Dzeko!) to clinch it.

   

 Now, I hope that my prediction for Ajax tomorrow will be wrong, because a draw will really not be good enough for us in the Champions League. I don't know enough about the Dutch side at the moment, only that they are not playing terribly well, so I can't really say whether I think we can win it. Let's see.

Overall, the performances have been just about good enough, and we're only a couple of goals adrift of the Rags, with Chelsea maintaining good form and looking very hard to beat. I am struck by the fact that journalists base so many of their assumptions on a single match: City are showing the form of champions; Dzeko is a super sub; all the other guff that gets spouted. When I went to Fulham a few weeks ago, I thought they were a pretty terrible side, largely bereft of attacking ideas at home for at least the second half, and yet they are 6th in the table. It all points - yet again - to a dearth of really good teams in the Premier League.

Overwhelming

'I turned my face away, and dreamed about you.'

It must be approaching the festive season again, as Shane and Kirsty have started to seep into the consciousness. Overwhelmed as I am with the sheer weight of news at the moment, I feel the need to stick my head in the sand and hope it all just goes away. I was not a big fan of Jimmy Savile, but I did like Jim'll Fix It when I was about 10 years old (though probably not as much as he would have liked me, by all accounts) and besides that could not - even in the context of the wild and woolly 70s - really understand why he was such a prominent figure on the BBC. Still, even though I had heard nodding, winking, paedo gags about him for many years, which I assumed were just of the vindictive/silly type, it has been increasingly shocking to watch the truth slowly come out; astounding to see his ostentatious gravestone torn up and smashed to pieces, so that even death is no refuge for him. Hearing some of the horrific, almost unbelievable stories, neither should it be, I suppose.

Then there's Hillsborough, still (rightly of course) rumbling on, the forthcoming US presidential election, the Syrian war and Turkey's involvement, the never-ending Eurozone crisis, Lance Armstrong's reign of terror, Conservative and coalition cuts, John Terry, Ashley Cole, Juilan Assange, Andrew Mitchell, Gary McKinnon, Abu Hamza...

It's all too much for me, and in those circumstances, a bit of footy usually does the trick. So, a review of City past and City yet to come, with some words on England sandwiched in between.

My trip to Craven Cottage was a delight, in a very Fulham sort of way. Not for them the standard pie or burger on the way to the ground, oh no. Instead, a slice of artisan goat's cheese and spinach pizza (at a very reasonable £4 for a large slice. Recommended) was the pre-match choice. Seats were excellent, just on the edge of the City support, who were in fine voice and happy to see a good win over a poor side. Then it was off to South Wales for a few days' break, where the Dortmund match was played out in a pub called The Corvus in St Clears. Nice little place, tiny snug bar with a Calor gas heater and a few sardonic Taffs at the bar. How we survived that torrid but entertaining night is purely down to Joe Hart, and they looked a frighteningly good side, full of vim and vigour, passing the ball well and closing us down at every turn. Some slight encouragement in the chances we made, but I don't hold out much hope for the return leg. What with that and a visit from Jose's men to come, the result against Ajax might make all the difference in the world, though if I'm honest, I think we'll be looking at Thursday night football again at the end of the group stages.

By contrast, Sunderland was all too easy, despite (if you listen to Bobby) being played at the crack of dawn after 2 hours' kip. A strolling romp at home (yet again) and a bit of a disappointment from O'Neill's boys, who I thought might have tried a bit harder. Having Richards back is a good thing, though it does raise more questions about the recent acquisitions. Ironic perhaps that these players were brought in in preparation for the Champions League campaign...

As far as England go, I'm in agreement with most sane people, who question the logic of having San Marino in competition at this level. What is the sense in it? Five nil was just about a satisfactory result for England, and that surely makes a mockery of them playing each other at all. Now we eagerly await the re-scheduled kick-off in Poland and... Oh, fuck it, I can't be bothered to write any more about the England football team. I just hope that something is done about the racism levelled at the Under 21 side in Serbia, but I'm not holding my breath.

Something should also be done about the bloody French, causing damage to Silva before our crucial matches at West Brom and against the Dam united. I'm hopeful of a 2-1 win at the Hawthorns and perhaps a draw with Ajax. Let's see.

The Power of We

For this year's Blog Action Day, the theme is 'The Power of We'. Being set this title reminded me of my schooldays, when O Levels were out the first time, and I would rattle a pen around my teeth while contemplating what to write about. Clearly, there could be something inspirational about this subject, some clarion call to our modern political modus operandi - along the lines of Occupy or Twitterstorms and such. For me, however, nothing jumped out more than the shameful hypocrisy of our current and recent leaders, and their desperate and craven dog whistling to our basest characteristics in order to maintain and further their own causes.

The most egregious example of course is the 'We're all in this together' mantra touted by our cabinet of millionaires. Thanks to the train wreck that is George Osborne, the phrase has become so laughable that it has become a cliché: like the Big Society, a policy which dare not speak its name. For that reason, I'm going to mention it again.

We're all in this together. It's part of a wider discourse which uses 'we' as a marginalising tool. Everybody works hard, don't they? A fair day's wage for a fair day's pay and all that. Benefit fraud is something everyone can get behind: don't let the scroungers get away with it. That's why disabled people are increasingly targets for vicious attacks, because they're obviously scrounging. Never mind that the actual level of fraudulent disability claims is estimated at 0.5%. We all think that a proper education is important, so we should model our schools on Eton and Harrow, regardless of the fact that there just aren't enough nice little earners around - even if every one of us benefitted from a public school upbringing. Health provision ought to be private, and care non-existent - unless you can afford it. Stand on your own two feet. Get two minutes break if you finish your factory task early. Sign away your rights as a worker for a share in the company. On and on it goes.

The clearest demonstration of where we're heading comes not from the usual suspects in Birmingham, Manchester, Westminster, or wherever else they choose to peddle their lies, but from across the pond. Mitt Romney, with his comments about 47% of his own potential electorate, is the beast unclothed. A man of (an admittedly even more dubious than the standard ones) religion, he really believes that people should not be given ANY KIND of state support, he really does; and - as if things weren't already bad enough in the Land of the Free - his ideas are this close to becoming official US policy. Not long before, under the cloak of the lates austerity crisis, these all-but eugenicist ideas drift over here in a noxious cloud.

So. Where are WE? That WE who put in 12 hour shifts day after day for minimum wage; that WE who cry at night because we can't feed our kids properly or maintain a roof over our heads; that WE who are scared to become sick because no-one will care for us; that WE who are dispossessed of the pitiful belongings we have somehow guarded in all the adversity; that WE who can only dream of a clean water supply, and not have to walk miles to get it; that WE for whom any kind of education for our kids will never happen. How can WE make any of this better, while THEY set us against each other?

WE must rise up, must take back the pride which is rightfully OURS, must stand against the hatred and divisiveness of THEM - the evil men (and women) who seek to push our faces in the midden, calling US lazy or undeserving, telling US that WE must work harder to line THEIR pockets with more filthy lucre. Stand for each other and demand the right to a decent home, food for OUR bellies, clothes for OUR backs, education for OUR children, doctors to cure OUR ills, and respect for US as human beings. WE deserve nothing less.

Wells Wells Wells

It started with The Time Machine, which I downloaded as an iBook. Shamefully, I realised that I hadn't really read any of HG Wells' prodigious and tremendous output, fixed firmly as they are in the imagination of Great Britain and the world, along with Gulliver, Robinson Crusoe and a Bear of Very Little Brain. So I thought I would give The Time Machine a go, expecting perhaps a boy's own adventure story. Sort of familiar with the Morlocks and Eloi and (truthfully) very little else in the tale, I was pleasantly surprised by the poetic, metaphysical course chosen by Wells in his imagining of our Restaurant at the End of the Universe, and - like all good books - it sparked off more questions than answers when I had finished it.

So it was on to War of The Worlds. Yet another story we believe we know so well, but which again I had never read, though of course it lurks in the memory from the days of BBC2 horror movies, the recent (I'm sure) dreadful film with Tom Cruise, and the Orson Welles radio thing. This book is a thrilling, rollicking romp, sweeping from Crawley on through the entire universe and taking in politics and philosophy along with the requisite adventure and science. I found the soldier particularly fascinating, with his revolutionary ideas and his expositions on the frailty of the human character, while the poignant isolation of the narrator after the affair struck a chord for a man like myself about to enter his sixth decade. Great stuff.

By now I had been bitten by the Wells bug, and moved swiftly on to The Invisible Man - another tale so deeply ingrained in our consciousness that there was even a TV series made out of it with David McCallum, and yet the original tale was unknown to me. It is a remarkable read, betraying perhaps its embryonic episodic release in pamphlet form with noticeably abrupt (though ultimately, this adds to the power of the work, rather than diminishing it, as if the very shock of the changes deepens the experience) switches of style: from slapstick humour to shocking violence, to melancholy philosophical treatise. The laughs are real laughs, the violence truly violent, and the philosophy deep and meaningful. All of this told in short, breathless chapters which drive the action relentlessly on, page by page by page. The ending intensely evokes a sense of sombre thoughtfulness - musings on our place in a cold, lonely and infinite universe. Not to mention of course the place of the Invisible Man in City's pantheon of fabulous chants.


The Invisible Man led me to read a little about the author himself, and I was then even more intrigued. It's worth looking up his Wikipedia page to find out more, but he led an extraordinary private life alongside his enormous written output, and was a visionary socialist thinker (I know, I know. Everyone was racist then. And a eugenicist) in tandem with his visionary scientific explorations. So it was that I visited the library, and there took out The Island of Dr Moreau, maybe not quite as fixed in the imagination as the Time Machine, War of The Worlds or The Invisible Man, yet still famous enough I guess, and certainly very well known by fans of science fiction. This was a venture even deeper into the mysteries of human existence, a treatise on god and man and civilisation set - in the best Defoe/Stephenson tradition - on a remote Pacific island. A superb work, where the reader feels transformed almost as much as the narrator by the end, and where surely Maurice Sendak took much of his inspiration for Where The Wild Things Are. The creatures and themes of the book still echo in my mind, some two weeks after finishing it.

My next (and current) book of Wells is The Shape Of Things to Come, which is so far the least familiar of any I've yet read, though it is not obscure, and I remember some pastiches or adverts from years ago. It is, up to the point I've reached so far, a real exploration of history, of the insanity of the economic model, clearly influenced strongly by the horrors of the Great War, and the need to create something meaningful and optimistic out of the carnage of 1914-18. There is a telling swipe at Winston Churchill:

"He displays a vigorous naive puerility that still gives his story an atoning charm. He has the insensitiveness of a child of thirteen. His soldiers are toy soldiers and he loves to knock over a whole row of them."

But, more than this, his critique of the Great War, and of the economic circumstances which brought it into being, which nurtured it through the terrible years of conflict and beyond, is searing. There are many parallels with the insanity of our current situation, a lesson from the past pretending to be from the future, which feels as prophetic as if it actually were written many years hence:

"With difficulty will the student let down his mind into the fantastic world of extinct imaginations in which these strange personifications, as monstrous and incredible as the ancient gods of India, were treated as real and morally responsible individuals, hated, trusted, feared and loved. The war was, in immediate fact, an aimless and fruitless slaughter upon the altars of these stupendous deities, the wounding and mutilation of perhaps twenty million human beings, and a vast burning-up of material wealth. In the crazy fancy of our ancestors it was a noble and significant struggle."

Power

Well that'll teach me, eh? Depressing night against fucking Villa, and we got no more than we deserved out of it. The struggle goes on, and I will never again be tempted to tempt fate.

Reading the endless screeds of print about David Mitchell and (may god forgive me) Plebgate, I am intrigued by the concepts of leadership as revealed in the details of this latest pathetic little story. Mr Mitchell is, we are told, the enforcer for the government (or at least the Tories - as if there's any difference) and ensures that MPs toe the party line. This may include - wait for it - losing his temper with them.
This concept of leadership is all too familiar in the football world of course, its greatest contemporary exponent being old Bacon Face himself, with his tea cups and flying boots and legendary Pifco treatments for those who dare to cross him. Unless you actually think about it, it could be seen as quite surprising that such tactics are used in the environment of the Houses of Parliament or Portcullis House. Verbal and psychological abuse is only to be expected, but actual physical violence - or at least the threat of it - seems a little beyond the pail. Yet, dipping guiltily as always into the Daily Mail over the weekend, I read a précis of some of Jack Straw's memoirs. Our Jack was talking quite candidly about a formidable Labour Deputy Chief Whip named Walter Harrison, around the time that he started out, and I was quite surprised to hear that Jack actually had his bollocks squeezed by this chap while standing in a corridor at the Palace of Westminster. Squeezed that is until the pips squeaked and Jack backed down (no sign of Jill) and changed his mind on the subjet du jour.

Grabbing someone's nuts and giving them a good squeeze is hardly the apogee of the art of rhetoric, I know, but is I'm sure quite an effective means of persuasion. Does it happen now, and are the (admittedly quite small number of) women treated in the same way? Doubtful, I would guess, in terms of the latter question, though perhaps not the first, which might be one of the reasons for there being so few women in Parliament. If you can't crush their knackers, what can you do to keep 'em in line, eh?

Shameful

There can only be one subject for football fans at the moment: the Hillsborough disaster.

Watching events unfold yesterday sent cold shivers down the spine, and only reinforces the utter contempt one feels for the politicians, the police and the press. It's difficult to know which of those three to feel the most hatred for in actual fact, and I sincerely hope that as many senior people as possible are brought to book for what they did.

I have memories of football matches in the days of terraces, and - though coloured by the fact that I was quite young and small, as well as living in a small town all my life - the lasting impression is one of fear. Herded along city streets while stony faced coppers sit astride massive horses, into the ground through impossibly tight turnstiles and up into the stands, full of people shouting, laughing, smoking, high and nervous in anticipation of the match.

Some of it was brought back by the images of Hillsborough on the news, with people (the lucky ones) being hoisted out of the crush to the level above; knowing now that ambulances were denied entry to the ground while people lay on the grass, receiving futile CPR; watching the police in their normal demeanour, pointing at people, arguing, wasting time; fans ripping up the advertising hoardings to make stretchers.

And then the senior officers, the Tory MP, colluding to cover up their incompetence, changing witness statements, feeding that shit to Kelvin fucking MacKenzie. How wonderful it would be if that bastard was taken down as far as he can go. Then using the Police Computer to find out information with which to smear the dead. The innocent dead.

It wouldn't happen now, said some Labour MP. Can you imagine 96 people dying at the Olympic Games? There would be a massive outcry, he said. Maybe he's right, but I do see some very disturbing parallels in the Tomlinson case, to name just one. If it weren't for the internet, we can be sure that there would have been an even more monumental struggle to get to the bottom of that particular piece of police mismanagement and thuggery.

Twenty three years of fighting this repulsive machine, forcing the truth out like blood from a stone, and at last the families of the 96 have something to hold on to. Let's hope they don't let go.

Shuffle

Now that the natural order in Westminster has been restored, the Coalition can really get down to business. I'm hearing figures of between 80 and 94 (!) % of cuts still to come, so there will be some tears before bedtime, is all I can say. The silence of Miliband and crew is testament enough to the fact that the established order has no answer to this mire we're in, and we look set to follow Greece down the road to abject poverty, 6 day weeks and foraging in the woods.

Yet I fail to see how promoting that little turd Jeremy Hunt can be defended by anybody, even (especially) the deranged kleptocrats currently in charge. Finding out that he supports homeopathy was just another reason to despise him. Not to mention his vote on shortening the abortion time to 12 weeks. Chris Grayling, he of the unpaid youth work thanks to buying a drink from an Aussie barman, is another fucking cunt. That's all the incisive political comment I can muster at this point. Only the brief joy of Osborne getting booed at the Paralympics leavened the recent dark mood.

Said Paralympics on C4 is almost unwatchable, sad to say. Frigging adverts every two or three minutes mean that it's just so stuttering, and you lose the thread of the events. There have been (and are) some good presenters and pundits - Clare Balding is excellent as ever, and I like Ade Adepitan - so it's a shame I think that it's ended up like that, but they (like everyone else in this bright future of ours) have to make money, dont they? Also disappointing is that C4 don't have that cool moving yellow world record bar in the swimming, which marks it down from the superb BBC coverage. I'll be at the Olympic Park myself tomorrow, so perhaps first hand experience will help to change my perception.

Football is football, and City are more like the City we know and love. Defensively, we've been terrible, and clearly needed quite a few of those deadline day signings to bolster us up. I won't comment on any of them till I've seen them play, but will say a few words about the performances I have seen. Tevez has been great - full of energy and desire - and if Kun hadn't been injured, I believe more end product would have been forthcoming. We should have put 5 past QPR in the first 20 minutes, but almost paid dearly for switching off and letting them come at us. Dzeko had loads of the ball on Saturday and worked hard, but his touch and finishing let him down too many times. Silva was tired and ordinary looking at first, but showed a good deal more after half time. Lescott has regressed to the player he was before last season, and the rest of the back line (even including Vinny to a point) appear nervous, slow and out of touch with each other. Hart (with the exception of a good save from Andy Johnson) hasn't been excellent...

I could go on, but I won't. Seven points in the bag and some potentially exciting new players, as well as Agüero hopefully back soon (don't let him play for Argentina please!) and we've got to be optimistic. In any case, we've had some cracking games, and you can't ask for more than that.

Please please

The devil makes work for idle hands, so they say. I’ve been struggling with inspiration (and occasionally technology) over the last few weeks, and have 6 posts on draft, none of which have really gone anywhere. Sometimes I’ve felt that I’ve been over sharing, and others that I didn’t really have enough of a point to make (’That’s never stopped you before!’ come the voices of Statler and Waldorf) so have dropped the thread. I also feel recently as if I have no time to myself, no time to think and prepare for a piece of writing.

I am intrigued by the issues of rape currently in the news, with yet another dangerous US Republican religious nut coming out with just such terribly depressing nonsense, and the unconnected issue of Julian Assange’s alleged infractions. I watched closely as a group of businessmen discussed these stories in the park today, wondering if any of them had ever sexually assaulted a woman. Then it was all capped off with the story of a 14 year old boy being raped in a department store in Manchester! Jesus.

I’ve been listening to the Tories tell us that we’re all idle, and thinking about those people who work 12 hour shifts as security guards or 'cooking' in McDonald’s; those who work as carers (obviously not the ones who beat old people up) or cleaners; all of those who struggle into a long day’s work at minimum wage day in and day out, just to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. Not for most the luxury of two weeks in Tuscany, a nice new car or some lovely new clothes. Yet, the problem clearly is that people are not prepared to work harder.

The (fairly) excellent series Toughest Place to Be A… has returned, with this week’s programme showing us the horrors of unregulated mining in Mongolia, and this is surely what those shiny faced little twats from Central Office want – British industrial practices on a par with those of the developing world. Rather than fighting to raise the standards of those less fortunate than us, thanks to many years of hard-won labour rights, they would have us all race to the bottom and a life of struggle and penury followed by an almost certain early death.

And then of course, the football's started again. Come on you Toffees!