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!

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.

I love Tony!

Education has been a burning subject lately, both nationally, and in the close confines of my own family circle. My eldest has just been through the GCSE selection process, and the whole evening was quite an eye-opener for me. Apparently, and perhaps I should have been - but wasn't - aware, the Coalition has introduced something called the 'E-Bac', or English Baccalaureate. It is (according to the DfE) not a qualification in itself; rather, it seeks to ensure grade 'C' or higher passes in subjects which are perceived as having more value than others. Namely: English; maths; history or geography; the sciences; and a modern language. The E-Bac was introduced to counter the steep rise in the take-up of vocational subjects (one assumes woodwork, hairdressing and such) especially among the lower income sections of society, which means that poor CT kids are not getting a fair crack of the whip when it comes to the Russell Group or a spell as an intern at Conservative Central Office. As a result, they become neets or stack shelves for benefit plus expenses for the rest of their worthless existence.

My daughter's school is one of the shiny new Academies, and as such embraces wholeheartedly any bilge the current crop of fuckwitted Ministers spew out. It is, additionally, a faith school. Nuff said. I have been impressed and surprised by the obvious wealth of resources in the place, and by the enthusiasm of the staff, even if they do seem a bit like drones, all power dressing and watches. My own references for teachers have always been along the lines of frayed cord jackets smelling of pipe smoke, tired cynicism a la Mrs Krabappel, and (with some notable exceptions - I'm looking at you, Mr and Mrs Waites) a strong leaning towards the Left. A bit like The History Man without the sex. Anyway, before nostalgia carries me too far away from the point of this ramble, I find the earnestness and sheer corporate feel of the school somehat overwhelming. Apparently, Business Studies is one of the most popular optional GCSE choices, and the fear of many parents is palpable as they strive to give their kids some kind of toehold on the future.

Worst of all, amidst this desperate grasping for a life, is the cold hearted cynicism of people like Michael Gove. In a tough field, he is a close contender for the vilest man in Westminster. His track record of a warehouse full of bibles and his refusal to include homophobic religious ranting aimed at schoolkids as discriminatory is bad enough. Now, we see just how cosy he has been with the Dirty Digger, seemingly lunching with the old goat and Rebekah Wade on an almost daily basis while Murdoch was laying his plans for a money spinning private education business. Given the most recent Leveson stuff, surely a thorough examination of just how close the Secretary of State for Education and Rupert and his boys were (are...) would be in order? Just the one quote (October, 2004) from Gove, referenced in the title of this post, is enough for me:

"I can't hold it back anymore. I love Tony!"

Although we mustn't forget that he is a millionaire who paid his mother-in-law thousands of pounds of expenses cash while flipping his homes. This is the kind of twat that is setting educational policy for fuck's sake. It has to stop.

So, on to the important lesson doled out to a thoroughly abject Blackburn Rovers, who were turned over easily after a slightly obdurate opening half hour. The team is looking good, with our attacking options as fluid and exciting as I think they have ever been. Bolton to come, and I'm always reluctant to tempt fate, but that should be another 3 points in the bag. Bloody United old boys staying the pace with another last minute clincher against the Canaries. Still looks as if the title's going all the way to the wire.

Coming soon

Now that the season's (all but - I've been looking at the giant UEFA balls in Trafalgar Square on my way to work every morning) over, my own very limited and short-lived purple patch is also drawing to a close. Let me explain. This blog has been chugging along with an audience of very few for the past three or four years, and I have been happy enough with that. Most of the time, I am like Rachel, the voice of one crying in the wilderness, although with the odd (very odd) amusing exchange here and there. Like most people though, I'm fairly vain and check the counter every day to see how many views I have had, before proceeding to my Clustr Map page to see where in the world people are reading it (this is usually followed by a check on my Flickr stats). I was getting an average of about 10-12 hits per day until around 6 weeks ago, when suddenly there was an explosion (relatively speaking, of course) and I was getting nearly 30 per day. This went on for about a month, and I have no idea what caused the sudden bubble, but it has now burst again. The previous 24 hours saw a measly three hits. And one of those was me!

So, as I said, with the football season at an end, it's time to get off topic. This blog is no stranger to guest writers, and I am planning a little something for the month of June, which will I hope blow some fresh air through here. I have no idea what may be written about, or in what style, but I am sure it will be an enlightening journey for all of us. I will say no more for now, knowing as I do how to create a sense of tension and draw you all - Dickens-like - into my web.

Johnny & Benny

Thanks to blogUT for the image

Quite amusing to read that the Pope is softening on condoms. I suspect there are quite a few blokes who know exactly what he means. Well, it's progress of a sort, I guess one could say. Now all we need is an acceptance that homosexuality is not the work of the devil; that there is in fact no such thing as the devil at all; that women can participate in the ludicrous mumbo-jumbo of the religious rituals; that there is in fact no need for the silly nonsense of those rituals at all, and that it would be far better to spend a couple of hours every Sunday teaching people about science, economics, politics, literature, anything; that abortion is a valid choice for women; that paedophilia should not be hidden.

I envision a huge mass of previously downtrodden people, suddenly rising up - Pink Floyd's Sheep style - to smash their oppressors and wrest back what is rightly theirs.

Greene King

Is Graham Greene’s The Honorary Consul nothing more than an extended exploration of Pascal’s Wager? It is very well written, as naturally goes without saying, and as always strikes to the core of some of the great dilemmas faced by thinking men.


It is, one might say, a plea for hope; the voice of one crying in the wilderness. Simply because we cannot face the truly dreadful prospect that at the end all there is is darkness and a pile of ashes or a rotting corpse beneath the sod, we have come up with the construct of the reward known as Heaven. Perhaps the ultimate definition of Hell (as somebody rightly pointed out on CiF Belief the other day – there seems to be little mention of ‘down there’ in religious discourse these days. Intriguing in itself I think) is not ‘other people’, but rather the absence of others all together.

In The Honorary Consul, yet another of Greene’s superbly drawn fallen priests – Father Rivas – embodies the struggle between faith and evidence; hope and hopelessness; good and evil, perfectly. He is neatly balanced against the left-leaning, cynical and cold-hearted Dr Plarr, with his quest for an absent father (in this case without the capital ‘F’) and the revolutionary Aquino, who carries his mutilated hand as a visual symbol of his political struggle – the torture he has suffered at the hands of the authorities turning him towards Marxism. These great questions of faith and humanity are not discussed in some dusty drawing room as abstract ideas, but – in the style of a great John Ford Western – are given vibrancy against a backdrop of global politics and the local expression of these forces at work, as the kidnapping drama plays itself out around the almost pathetic protagonists. These men, faced with the reality of the evil which is everywhere – in government, in the media, in us all – turn away from God and strive to find their answers elsewhere. Yet none of this is simple, as I hope is clear from the brief synopsis above. Rivas cannot – despite his best efforts – truly deny his holiness, because those around him simply will not let him, dependant as they are on the comfort a priest provides them.

Greene was famously a Catholic of course, and I always struggle to understand why those who are clearly intelligent enough to produce great works of art are seduced by the surplices and the sacristy. He even converted, while still quite young, persuaded by a priest named Father Trollope to change his atheist ways. Maybe it's that the power of the myths behind the stories of the Bible are so resonant. Or maybe (and Greene clearly had quite a life, travelling to distant places and watching – as well as occasionally participating in – moments of great historical import. So what do I know by comparison?) he did take Blaise’s bet, figuring that he had (literally) nothing to lose. We cannot really know the answer, and it is a measure of the man that he never flinched from exposing the failures of the established church while recognising the virtue of true belief. God, goes the argument towards the gripping climax of the novel, is evolving in the same way we are (not in terms of scientific evolution, but more in the sense of evolving towards a more humane and humanist society) and ultimately his ‘night side’ will wither away, leaving only the ‘day side’ as a symbol of hope for us all. Through our own spiritual redemption, we also redeem God.

Well, I’m not sure about that, but it’s a damn fine book anyway.

Holy shit father

Thanks to We Goats for the image

Fascinating.  A comment on a Metafilter thread about the latest reports of paedophilia in the Catholic Church (as is often the case) really really made me think:
 
“I'm in agreement with those who see the Catholic orders as a refuge for homosexuals in cultures that were hostile to them. In fact, I suspect that "the calling" was, for the most part, a metaphor for homosexuality. Priests would take confession from boys who admitted to homosexual desires and recruit them into the secret brotherhood. This was a structure that worked well at perpetuating itself up until homosexuality became socially acceptable.

" One of the side effects of adult priests recruiting teen-aged boys into the fold was that it also provided a safe place for paedophiles to operate. I suspect that they formed a deeper secret cabal within or parallel to the homosexual secret society that was the backbone of the priesthood. With the reduction of the stigma against homosexuality, paedophiles became the major source of "the called," and the evidence of how the church's hierarchy has not just protected paedophiles but facilitated them leads to the conclusion that there is a strong, perhaps even dominant, paedophilic presence within that hierarchy. Benedict's homophobic pronouncements are natural from the leader of an organization that depended on homophobia in order to perpetuate itself. He is fighting the tide, but I doubt that he can see any other path. The only population that is really suited to the overt life of a priest are asexuals, and they are not common, nor are they likely to reveal themselves in confession. Neither are they likely to be racked with the guilt that is such a central component of Catholic life, and so they are entirely unsuitable.

" It strikes me that the whole structure built on concealed sexuality and secret corruption is no longer tenable in the modern world. The only possible way to rebuild the Catholic Church would be for it to honestly become what it has portrayed itself as, a spiritual cloister in a sinful world. But that is the kind of thing that will take generations to achieve, and the church probably does not have generations left to it.”

The gist of the comment, as you can see, is that the Catholic Church – historically – was at least partly a haven for homosexuals.  The celibacy provided adequate cover for the frowned-upon (to say the least!) behaviours of gay love and enabled (through the Confessional) the recruitment of younger men into its ranks.  As homosexuality has gradually become less stigmatised (though not necessarily in Oswestry) the new secret society is all about paedophilia, with the same secret structures being used to cover up this new perversion.  Now, I am a little uncomfortable with the homophobic undertones of some of the argument – especially when the Church itself has used the defence that paedos are in some ways analogous to homos – and would like to distance myself from that.

I am however, intrigued by the Derridean (no such word, I’m sure, but I like the cut of its jib) element that the evil (of the sexual abuse of children) is somehow contained within the good (of the belief in Christ) and that the one is entirely dependent on the other.  See my bold highlight of ‘Jimmy Havok’s’ comment above for clarification.

Dripping

It's like God (I do realise that precipitation is not a divine phenomenon, ta very much. Do you mind if we go with it?) is a repressed fucker standing at the urinal in the local after a couple of Fosters, praying (can He do that?) that the bloke next to Him will not have a bladder the size of Canada and will finish sometime soon so that he can have a little privacy. He could of course unleash a thunderbolt, or - if the Zeus thing is a bit crass for Him - just be omnipresent and move (simultaneously and instantaneously) to a time when He is pissing. Like a Horse. At the same time, He could be having sex with a virgin I suppose, which does throw up some interesting (if not already well explored - even hackneyed - via internet pr0n) ideas

But He doesn't. The dark clouds loom above and I left my bike in the underground garage at work for no good reason (apart from a nagging pain in the small of my back) in anticipation of a Noah-esque deluge. Then it was down the park with the kids for a kick about, and the odd spot made a pathetic attempt to douse the scorched earth, but never produced that Peter North moment. I settled down to watch a decent bit of 5 a side in the court, but didn't get anything there either. Blacks v whites and it was shite - largely because of some really annoying fans sitting close by me.

As I write, the sky is still lowering and the only dampness in the house (and even outside) is down to my sweat glands.

Ann the Pan

So much blather in the world, don't you agree? I've seen it on Twitter, on the news, and at the last on Facebook, but the original telly viewing was where it counted. And I'm not talking 4OD or iPlayer or ITV Player or Demand Five or any of that shit. No, this was viewed as God intended, when it was scheduled to be broadcast, and I was sitting in a chair with toast when I watched it. I felt positively vintage.

What I watched was part of a strand, as I believe the TV pros call it, on the history of the Bible. Perfect Sunday evening viewing, because it fits in with those Natural World type docs and Lost Kingdoms of Africa - you know the shit I'm talking about - and I had certain expectations of such a programme. Howard Jacobson has been heavily trailed as part of it, and I have always liked his style - erudite and impassioned - with a sense of humour to boot. I had not really seen any, planning as I was to catch up at some point, and was rather disappointed to find that the Right Honourable Ann Widdecombe MP was fronting (and that, dear readers, is very much the cromulent word here) the episode I was due to watch, which was to be on the theme of the Ten Commandments.

After a minute or two, I realised that I have met people like Ms Widdecombe in my life. Presented with an argument she doesn't like and/or cannot respond to, she chooses to ignore it and carry on regardless, and such was the case in this hardly exhaustive and utterly pointless quest to discover the origins and lasting appeal of the Mosaic Law. Seeking to find out more about this Moses character, she pushed her enormous (presumably) un-sucked knockers up the steps of a university somewhere so that she could pick the large brain of a rather foxy professor and find out a little more. Oh, and find out more she did; to the effect that most Biblical scholars these days do not think that the great man ever existed, largely because there is no archaeological evidence whatsoever to substantiate any of the stuff probably written several hundred years after the event by a number of chiselers in order to make capital on it. The numbers in the Bible, we were told by the foxy (Mediterranean looking, as it happens) prof, would certainly have left some mark on the land, as we would expect several million people to have been involved. There was no proof of Moses' existence. Ann was having none of this. She became very frosty very quickly, and her tone grew brusque - almost peremptory.

"But you cannot prove he didn't exist!" she said at last, with a tone of empty triumph in her voice, before heaving her vast (never milked) mammaries towards an unsuspecting Rabbi, who (with his wife present, of course) showed Ann the two of everything (sink, cooker, fridge - you name it) he had in his kitchen. He had only one wife, but he followed some 613 religious laws.

She then went on to canvas various other interested parties, all the while extolling the virtues of some kind of puritanical golden age, exemplified by a pastor in the South West of England in the 17th Century who saved the sinners with his strict adherence to the Ten Commandments, postulating that somehow by following these edicts today, we would be able to eliminate the hoody threat and turn around the awful broken families/rampant alcoholism/nihilism which blights our great country today. None of this - needless to say - took into account any historical considerations around poverty, disease, abuse and inequality which were even worse back then, although you could get a bottle of gin for a ha'penny, so it can't have been all bad.

Her humongous diddies at last came up against Christopher Hitchens, looking splendidly dissolute, and a slightly rabid Stephen Fry (and this is where the blather comes in. Twitter was almost as excited as it was about the Paperchase scandal) who flecked her with his spittle at an Intelligence Squared debate on the virtues or otherwise of Catholicism. Vociferous was, I think, the correct term to describe Stephen, and I was (and am) wholeheartedly behind him - oo-er Missus. Ann's response, in the best Parliamentary tradition, was (effectively) to tell him to stop shouting.

Silly cow.

Stormont in a tea cup?

The other night I managed to watch Ken Loach's The Wind That Shakes The Barley, which concerns early 20th Century Republicans and highlights the brutality of the Black & Tans. This is a period of history not taught in schools (well, not in my day. Though admittedly I may have been sketching colonies on Jupiter [I know now of course that Saturn is the only planet which can sustain human life] in my notebook, if not playing flea racing with Mike Pike, I'm sure I don't remember anything about Irish history, yet I can clearly recall the Bessemer burner and the Corn Law Repeal Act of 1777) but which I believe definitely should be. It has informed, and continues to inform, so much of the political landscape in the UK.
The following day, I watched some of Simon Schama's History of Britain, which was concerned with the Great Potato Famine, and the re-enacted scenes of the landlords wreaking havoc on the small communities in the West of Ireland in the aftermath of the famine echoed strongly for me as I watched the Black & Tans exacting their reprisals on the people.

Brown and Cowen (sorry, but - jeez, what a toad!) suddenly at Stormont. Stones at Altamont. Peter Robinson and Mrs Robinson, milf wife, though nobody's talking about that now, which indicates how seriously everyone is taking it. Ian Paisley, Bob Paisley (of an era, strangely, though of course the wrong Paisley is dead) Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness keeping those dissidents in check for the time-being. Well, it must be pretty boring going back to watching daytime TV and popping to the shops when you've been used to organising mass bombings and ambushes of the British Army, so the balaclava boys are no doubt itching to get out there again.

Did they use a fish-eye lens?

Mark Simpson reminds me of Patrick Kielty and his glasses are just the wrong side of fashion-conscious to be very annoying. He tells us - and we have to believe every word he says because he is wearing a nice black coat - that there is no prospect of a return to full-scale violence. The sticking points, according to the lovely Mark, are around policing and justice and those bloody awful parades those weirdos in the bowler hats seem to love so much. Personally speaking, I have always leaned towards the Republican cause, mostly because I never liked parades. Apart from the Rio and Notting Hill carnivals.

Walthamstow

Due to a very minor ironic twist, I ended up in Walthamstow on Friday, but I did not get there by bike. Rather I was on the bus. On the way to a little job - little being the operative word, and I think it unlikely to cause the taxman too many concerns - with a good friend and one-time business associate. The interminable ride on the 230 did not exactly inspire me to follow up with a cycle, although I have never been to the market before, and it might be worth seeing that.

We were feeding some CAT6 cables to the head end of the sound system within a church; one of those massively popular places that seem to be able to deny the realities of credit crunch Britain as if protected by some divine power... No, wait...

Anyway, it was good to be doing something which did not result in a net outpouring of funds for a change. Although introduced as 'one of our top technicians' I betrayed my woeful lack of knowledge about all things jumpered and patched, and although we wasted about 13 metres of good cable, the job was done to the client's satisfaction, meaning that we were at last rewarded with the IP address displayed on the command line. I assure you that I was not conducting some kind of anti-religious dirty protest, but I managed to spread copious amounts of dog shit from the bottom of my shoe around most of the establishment. I sincerely hope that this will not mean that no further business will be done.

And there's the thing. Further business. Much needed at present, so if you want something done, why not consider Solar Organic? We are in the business of solutions, and always provide value by design, so give us a go. I will check my shoe thoroughly before entering your home or place of work, I promise. Even though it might mean that I'm reverting to my blue collar roots, and eschewing the protection of Messrs Brown and Cameron by quitting the middle class (I never really fitted in anyway. Monthly payments are far too infrequent for me) you could make me feel like a viable human being again, so it would be well worth your while.

The Man With Two Names or Simon Peter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

Damned good? Or Saint Thaddeus

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

Podcast Episode 4 is now up. I thank yew.



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

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

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

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

Jesusland or St Andrew

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



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

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

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

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

Bring on 2010 and the World Cup.

Boiling Oil or Saint John

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas. Happy Yule. To one and all.

Brahmin Spear or Saint Thomas

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

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

LINK BELOW

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

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

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

Seeking Inspiration, or Saint Philip

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fair play or Saint Bartholomew

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

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

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

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

Charlton/Millwall.

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

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

Bust or Matthew the Tax Collector

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

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

How exciting!

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



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

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

Swing Low or Judas Iscariot

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

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


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

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

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

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

I would welcome any thoughts you may have.