The Death of Christmas

You just can’t keep the man down eh? In this latest feeble offering of “The Death of. . . . . . . . . ” Dirrrrtyoldman whinges and moans like a prisoner on death row protests his innocence. This time it’s about how things aren’t quite how they used to be when he was a lad. Let’s hope that one day he has a premonition and writes his own name in the title.

Well it’s nearly here isn’t it? Not quite, at the point of writing this it’s a full week before Halloween let alone Christmas. Thankfully though at least the supermarkets have plenty of those scary masks and costumes left to dress up and celebrate our traditional 31st October revelry. I was expecting that they would have sold out already, having already been in the shops since the end of September.

Another self inflicted bastardisation from the good ol’ U.S. of A that denigrates our once proud nation. At least we’ve got Bonfire night. Although no-one has officially unveiled it as a month long celebration I’m sure it must be. Otherwise why would the fireworks be flying past my window every night from early October?

Anyway I digress. If you’re reading this before, or on the big day, may I wish you a merry Christmas. If it’s between Christmas and New Year I hope you had a lovely time. And if it’s already the New Year then don’t worry as you can make a head start on planning for Christmas, as it’s nearly here isn’t it? And that my dear friends is what gets right on my tits. For all intents and purposes Christmas might as well be all year round. The elongated build up and the never-ending guilt and pressure heaped onto Mums and Dads everywhere to buy their young Master Park-Bench Beckham the exact gifts he wants. Well it’s fucking intolerable!! What happened to an apple and an orange, a pack of playing cards, a pea-shooter and some marbles in a stocking?

Now I’m not saying I didn’t get anything for Christmas, but at least my Mum and Dad made me sweat a bit wondering if I would get what I wanted. Not only that, but up until the age of 11yrs old I thought it was Father Christmas who was judge and jury when it came to dishing out the presents. When my Mum told me, “Only good girls and boys get Santa’s toys” I fucking well believed her. I was even more afraid of making an arse of things when she told me, “he’s watching you, so behave”. It was bad enough having Catholic guilt about having the odd (well once a day) crafty wank. But to think that there was God and now Santa watching my every move and seeing me making my bald man cry (sometimes twice a day) was far too much to deal with.

Where was child-line when I needed it? In fact where was buck toothed child saver Esther Rantzen? Probably getting roasted by two elderly white bearded gentlemen knowing my luck. Another bonus about being a Catholic at Christmas was trying to remember and then repent for the sins of the last year. It’s funny how the confessionals were always packed in the weeks leading up to Christmas and every eye was reverently bone dry. I know all three of mine were.


Whilst on the subject of sweating (see paragraph 4, line 2, 3rd word in) at Christmas, my Dad sweated much more than me. He sweated like a pig at the best of times, but a lifetime on the booze does that to a man. I can always remember him nervously eyeing up the Christmas shop. Sat there, calculating if there was going to be enough change from the silverskin pickles and quality street to see him right for a few jars down the Earlestown Labour Club. It was no mean feat for a man whose eyes were like permanent piss holes in the snow and whose numerical skills ended at 3. Well he’d never had more than 3 pints when my Mum asked him how much he had drank, although I’ve never before or since seen a man in such a state off so little booze. The panic visibly drained from his face, and his demeanour dramatically improved, when he realised there was enough of his hard earned dole cheque left to see Christmas in, in style.

All of this reminiscing got me wondering though. What happened to Christmas? What happened to wide eyed innocence and excitement? What happened to the two bearded gentlemen and which one was the biological Father to Rantzen’s child? Oh for Jeremy Kyle back in 1981.

No-one believes anything anymore or is it that there is nothing left to believe in? God, the tooth fairy, the easter bunny and even Father Christmas himself. We don’t even believe in each other.

Last Christmas, as I do every Christmas, I helped my lad write a letter to tell Santa what he wanted for Christmas. With the letter tightly clutched in his tiny hand we skipped off down to the postbox and posted it, jobs a good un! Later as I picked him up from school I got talking to some of the other parents and asked them had their little Johnnies and Jane’s wrote to Santa. You’d have thought I had been speaking a foreign language the way some of them reacted. Whilst some gazed in amazement as If I’d discovered the world was round.

I bet these are the same set of miserable bastards who don’t even bother to take the time on Christmas Eve to chew the carrot up, drink the milk and Whiskey, and leave just the right amount of mess and crumbs to make the big mans arrival look complete. They just don’t bother at all. Too much like hard work and definitely too much effort in the imagination department. Even too much effort to be bothered to see their own offspring with that look on their face when they see the tell tale signs that “he’s been”. No matter what class you are or whether you’ve got two pennies to rub together, that look on a kids face can’t be bought at any price. And it costs fuck all to do.

This year my lad is holding on to the last remnants of his belief in the myth. To be honest I didn’t think we would get this far, he’s 9 next February. No doubt in the near future he’ll be telling me that I have lied to him and that he is filing for divorce from me and his Mum. He’ll cite a breach of his Human Rights and irreconcilable differences for the split. The lawyer that represents him will accuse me of causing mass feelings of indignity within the minorities, before holding me directly responsible for Lambeth Councils 2005 decision not to rename their Christmas lights, “winter lights”.

Well you know what? Fuck ‘em, because I’m sure there’s still enough of us about to enjoy it, no matter what the merchants of doom and gloom are prophesising.

Merry Christmas everyone.


Dedicated to me Mam who bought me a BSA Javelin bike for Christmas in 1981 and spent the next 24 months paying for it.


First Published in The Mudhutter No5, Christmas 2005

THIS is Wigan

Oh soulless town, oh dreary place,
bequeathed its charm and sold its face,
a chain-store culture with no grace,
enveloped you at such a pace.

Arcade so new, but not so grand,
you stole my home and raped the land,
snatching childhood from my hand,
replaced by all I cannot stand.

Blue fronts, green fronts, fronts the same,
same old culprits, same old names,
comfort lies to heal the lame,
conform their lives to fit the game.

A sinking place, ’neath waters drown,
a subjugated King, no crown,
it‘s with regret that this old town,
is void of culture, going down.

THIS is Wigan.

First published in The Mudhutter Christmas e-zine, December 2008

Fences

Horses run free across the open field,
galloping between the railings.
Jumping the fences that dictate the route
and distance of the afforded freedom.

Those that unseat the riders care not
for which way they turn.
Uninterested in the rules of the race
and the expectations of the crowd.

Some even go in the opposite direction,
because they can, because they want to.
Fun and games until the stable lad
reigns them in and ushers them back to the paddock.

P

Fragile body broke and bruised,
born to love but died abused.
Upon deaf ears fell silent screams,
you never had a chance to dream.

How ever could they treat you so,
raining in their violent blows?
The ones your were supposed to trust,
condemning your young life to dust.

Rest now sweet child dry those tears,
sleep in safety free from fears.
An end to suffering and pain,
rise once more to love again.

First published in the Mudhutter Football Express Fanzine 20, November 2008

An open letter to Paul McCartney

“Oh Paul oh Paul oh Paul
oh how the mighty fall.
Oh how the times have changed
from hero to deranged”

Ok, so it’s a stanza from a poem I wrote about Paul Jewell, but the same rules apply.

You’re a fucking joke McCartney, and have been for some considerable time. If I’m being brutally honest I never really did like you. Your mate, that Lennon lad, was much more my cup of tea. There’s just something about you that I find unsavoury. It’s a type of smugness about you that I normally associate with one of those pseudo middle class twats who have just arrived on the upwardly mobile express from workingclassville. I used to attribute it to a more softer characteristic in your personality, maybe a touch of shyness? I was wrong.

You see Paul, the public has forgiven you for a lot over the years. From your fucking awful collaborations with Stevie Wonder and Michael (anal bleaching) Jackson, to the musical abortion that was the Frog Chorus. In fact, aside from a couple of songs with Wings your post Beatle career has been painful. We even forgave you when you got hitched to the wooden legged pit pony that is Heather Mills. And we stood by you during the messy divorce even though we knew she wasn’t all to blame.

We stood by you because you were OUR Paul McCartney, a local lad made good. A local lad who shook the world with his music. However, you hammered the final nail in the coffin for me a few weeks ago.

What in the name of Hezbollah did you think you were doing playing in Tel Aviv? Let me remind you Paul, as you clearly have forgotten your history about the State of Israel. Israel is a country that is flaunting every UN resolution under the sun. A short while back you may remember a little publicised incident called Gulf War 2. In that war, we, the civilised counties in the west, invaded a little known country called Iraq. And why? Because they had weapons of mass destruction, which of course as we all know now didn’t exist. Israel has been carrying such weapons for years only they wont confirm or deny this. What do we do? Nothing.

Point 2. I seem to remember you being against the South African regime of apartheid in the 1980’s, but I don’t seem to remember you breaking ranks and playing Sun City. So how does this sit with the 1.5 million Palestinians that are being held siege in Gaza and your decision to play in the land of their oppressors? Of course you said of playing Tel Aviv;

“if I go to a place it becomes evident that my message is a peaceful one and I hope that the idea will spread”

So what reason did you have for not spreading yourself over the border and play a concert there? Could it be the $5m you got for it eh Paul? Because you really need it don’t you. It’s up there with one of the other natives of that region, Iscariot, in the fuck you I’m getting paid stakes of betrayal.

Not to worry though eh Paul as I see you’ve got bigger fish to fry. Those naughty boys and girls at McDonalds have been using Beatles images in their restaurants. I see your spokesman did your dirty work for you:

“What sort of morons do McDonalds think Beatles fans are? It's ridiculous and insulting to use images to peddle hamburgers. Fans should boycott McDonalds - and not just in Liverpool.”

I hope that crisp iceberg lettuce you’ll be eating for your salad lunch is noisy enough to drown out the screams of innocent, starving and dying. You’re a fucking disgrace McCartney. John must be turning in his fucking grave.

First published in the Mudhutter 17 e-zine, October 2008

At night

You come alive at night,
skulking in cerebral shadows,
moving ever closer,
primed to steal the soporific hours.

Softly without warning,
a flawless execution,
the entrance completed
never standing on ceremony.

Silence callously stolen,
alone with the nearby thud,
a life that races and rages
the sound-track to another night together.

For we are each others displeasure,
mutually repulsed by our existence,
connected by reciprocal loathing.
Teetering on the brink of something extraordinary.

I sit by the window and wait. . . . . .

Remembrance

Never has so much been owed
by so many to so few.
So why do you look blankly
like you haven’t got a clue?

Stood staring at this poppy
that I wear upon my chest.
You look like you’ve just spotted
last nights dinner on my vest.

Lost inside your console games,
nearly life and virtual war.
Ignorant to the history
of the ones that came before.

Gathered ‘round the Cenotaph
the last survivors are but few.
But all shall be remembered
every sunrise, every moon.

First published in the Mudhutter Football Express Fanzine 20, November 2008

A Winters Tale

Haven’t come here for forgiveness
in fact this visit wasn't planned.
Didn’t show my face for laughs,
not here for you to understand.

You see I’ve got some things unanswered,
a little question on my mind.
Tell me how to follow something,
when that something keeps me blind?

It may be years, it may be never,
‘til I pass this way again.
This could be the last forever,
will you leave me lost in vain?

On a chilly day in winter,
I took a step into your home.
Stained glass reflects a lack of virtue,
a frozen pathway to my soul.

Through unyielding doors of oak,
entered through not on a whim.
Looked to you to give me answers,
should have known the chance was slim.

I hadn’t come here for forgiveness,
now this visit's at an end.
And I still don’t recognise you,
I still don’t understand.

Yakum

Heaven scent, the smell of pines,
snake like ways our love entwines.
Acquiesce to shackles shed,
freedom chimed for silent heads.

Dusty sun scorched paths that lead,
a brief respite, sweet dreams to feed.
Across the slip road paradise,
searing heat that melts the ice.

A momentary time as one,
apart for life, a life undone.
The memories and might have beens,
of loss and unrequited dreams.

If I could place one last kiss,
upon the void of you I miss.
I’d place it were I know it’s felt,
for one last chance to see you melt.

One last chance to hold you near,
through older eyes that see it clear.
Heaven scent, the smell of pines,
too soon we both ran out of time.

Next stop : the grave

Bitter and old and waiting for death,
venomous bile spews from your breath.
Not content with the time you have left,
a life without triumph, unfilled and bereft.

Seething abhorrence and total distaste,
a futile existence, an absolute waste.
Unrealised dreams, a yesterdays man,
jealous of those who will and still can.

Next stop the grave, the end of your toil,
spitefulness buried, 'neath the cold soil.
Bitter and old and waiting for death,
no tears were shed as you took your last breath.

The Death of the Working Classes

It’s been a long time in the making but serial miserable bastard dirrrrtyoldman returns for part 6 in the elongated and largely unnecessary, “The Death of . . . . . . Series“. In this episode our anti-hero looks back in a melancholic fashion as to why he doesn’t still live in a bucket of shit back in his beloved Earlestown. Keep it under your hat, but we’ve sussed that the scruffy toe rag is a fraud.

We all know one don’t we? We probably know more than one, if we are able to face the shame of admitting it. The pseudo middle classes, champions of the working class, the bench mark of what we should all aspire to. The acceptance and the status that we crave. Not fucking I!

It’s not people doing well for themselves that I find offensive. After all who doesn’t want better for themselves or their nearest and dearest? And who could decry anyone for achieving it? No my friends it’s the “who the bally hell are you?” attitude and the convenient forgetting of where they came from and having some respect for it that gets on my tits. Some of these fuckers would sell their own kidneys to maintain their new found status. In fact scratch that, they’d sell their own children’s kidneys first. Too fucking selfish to sell their own. In fact ignore that too, they’d sell the kids.

It’s all well and good reminiscing about the good old days and how tough times were, and then in the next breath telling every fucker how they should be going organic when they should know fucking better.

The truth is your pseudo middle classes turn it on and off like a bastard tap depending on what company they’re in. They lord it over those of us who haven’t ticked the boxes of their [enunciate and punctuate with your fingers all you want dickhead] pseudo middle class blueprint. They can’t hide their glee can they, when it comes to indulging us in their favourite topic, themselves. There’s no holding ’em back from comparing themselves to the lad in the factory earning a fucking pittance. You see if you can stop them drawing the parallels of their successes against his. Not a chance, this is the pseudo’s chance to shine. And shine they will, basking in the warmth of the sun radiating from their own super shiny ring-pieces.

Of course it’s always been more difficult for them, they always had to work harder for their piece of the middle class pie. They did it against all odds and don’t we fucking know about it! It wasn’t like they has more opportunities than their 6-2, 2-10 counterparts was it? They just got on their bikes and made it happen.

So here they are, successful legends in their own lunchtimes and attempting to make you feel inadequate because you didn’t aspire to be a prick.

How very different the pseudo is when you stick him in the company of his adopted class. Suddenly the pseudo’s Mum wasn’t the pot cleaner at the local school who plated up left overs to bring home for the kids teas.

“How dare you, Mummy was helping out as a volunteer at the school in between charity events at the Woman’s Guild and took the food with the blessing of the school governors to give to the unfortunate kids on the council estate that their street wasn’t really a part of. A street that was at the bottom end of the estate and therefore wasn’t classed as council property”

Aye, that’d be right, draw for breath you selective memories prick.

What really happens is that they’re never really accepted by the genuine middle classes and then they end up forming a splinter group. A kind of hybrid of middle class meets working class, a cross breed or mongrel if you wish. A deformed Dolly the Sheep breed that has lumps and bumps in all the wrong places. Rejected from all sides and left to form a new identity that is adaptable to it’s surroundings. A social chameleon that shifts uncomfortably in it’s seat that it shouldn’t be really fucking sat in.

And that my dear friends is what is wrong with the our merry little country today. Nobody gives a fuck about anyone else and they are more than prepared to metamorphisize into whatever it takes to make them acceptable to their higher Gods.

The death of the working classes, orchestrated by that old fucker Thatcher. She employed the oldest trick in the book, conquer and divide, and we the clued up nation of idiots that we are fell for it. In a blinded haze we stood open mouthed and in awe of the prospect of owning our own homes and becoming middle class. Meanwhile Thatcher systematically disassembled the unions and privatised everything in sight. Worse still the moral fibre of the working class was irrevocably destroyed and consigned to history.

Thatcher, the woman responsible for beginning the unraveling of our tight knit communities. Miner against Miner, neighbour against neighbour, each person with one thing in mind. Me, me and me some more. Oh and one other thought, to stamp and shit over anyone else who gets in my way.

Some will say I’m looking at things through rose tinted glasses and I’ll concede they probably have a point. But consider these things:

Take a look in the street where you live. Do you know everyone in it? Do they know you? If you had to shoot off somewhere sharpish for an emergency is their anyone you could leave your kids with? Is everyone watching out for each other and making your street a safe place to live and your kids to play? Of course not, too self indulgent to give a fuck about anyone but themselves. Ask anyone of a certain age to name everyone in their road when they were growing up and they can. They can do it in Widescreen, Surround Sound, Sky-Plus , Touchstone Pictures Presents, Digital Quality accuracy. A true working class quality, community and togetherness.

When was the last time your street had a Bonfire Night were one family made the treacle toffee, one bought the potatoes for roasting and each family dragged a sofa out for the adults to sit on in-between taking turns in lighting the fireworks? There’s no sense of community and every sense of one-upmanship that leaves each one of us diametrically opposed.

Anyway I think I’ve made my point and I can feel myself getting increasingly pissed on the cheap wine that I bought from the local corner shop. A defiant but small gesture that reminds me of my roots. So I’ll sign off whilst I’m being quintessentially (put that word in your pipe pseudo) working class.

First published in The Mudhutter online e-zine, can't remember which one !!

I saw this kid with trainers that light up

I saw this kid with trainers that light up
like those you had when you were a little one.
As she stamped her feet down on the pavement
they lit up, and her face did too.

Her raucous laughter made the passers by smile
and the splashes from the puddles bathed my soul.
As I took another cigarette from the half empty packet
I lit up, and thinking of you, my face did too.

So I’m sending this text to you just in case
I don’t get the chance to see your angelic face again.
As my sodden feet trudge along life’s stormy highway
I’m soaked to the bone, but our skies are always blue.

גת שמנים

In the garden of Gethsemane
hiding ‘neath the Olive tree.
I waited there for you,
I waited there to see.

See my crucifixion’s imminent
whilst yours is in the past,
a space no one can fill
in a part no one is cast.

On a hillside in Judea,
at the bottom of the mount.
In the garden of Gethsemane
my truth did find you out.

But the sentiment was mutual,
for never did you show.
I’ll never waste my time again
waiting for my faith to grow.

In the garden of Gethsemane
beside the Olive tree.
I waited there for days
so why did you forsake me?

One more before I go

Late night drinking got me cornered,
I'm a hunters willing pray.
Shoot me down with beer and whiskey
on my back I'll surely lay.

Give me one last drink to heal me
and I'll settle up my bill.
One more drink before I'm homeward,
one before I seek my thrill.

One last dram to bid a farewell
and I'll doff my cap to you.
One more drink in these small hours,
one last drink to see me through.

Shoot me down with beer and whiskey
and I'll settle up my bill.
One more drink in these small hours
just to stop me feeling ill.

Shadows

Flickering streams of sun erupt
through the stained glass window,
here to illuminate the ashen outer casing
that shrouds the soul and inner workings.

Bathed in shimmering blues and glamorous greens,
a pale imitation of someone I once knew.
Like dust, dreams drift through rays of sunlight and
fall into everlasting shadows, cast asunder.

A moment in the spotlight, quickly is gone.
15 minutes of fame ended abruptly
and the camera’s hadn’t even started rolling.
You didn’t even hear the curtain call.

Cast in the lead role
without time to get ready in make-up
or get your costume and pout on.
No standing ovation, no encore.

It’s much too late to chase the colours
that fall away and disappear into the carpet,
vanishing into the past, forever gone.
Is this how you thought it would end?

Did you hope for something more?

Mongrel

Mongrels don’t give a shit ‘cause they’re happy
They roam around the estates and care for nothing,
and no-one. Never do you a bad turn like.

If one of ‘em wants to shag your leg they will,
and any leg will do. They eat anything you feed ‘em,
even curries and kebabs.

Not like your pedigrees, miserable as sin.
They don’t have any fun and they’re always fucking ill and angry.
So how does that make them superior?

They’re only allowed to shag their own breed
and definitely no legs. They only eat what they’re told they can
and certainly no foreign food.

I’m glad I’m a mongrel.

Excuse me, can I have two minutes of your time Sir?

Now as you may or may not know, I got married during the close season (that’s the bit in-between last season and this season). As a result of this I’ve made a pledge to my fellow writers/sellers/ne’er do wells at Mudhuts Towers. I’ve made the same promise to my close friends and family, and it’s this. It’s that I will spend less time getting bent out of shape about the activities of others. No more will I get hypertensive and tachycardic at fucking idiots whose mere existence is seemingly set to serve one purpose and one purpose alone. That being to make my life in-fucking-tolerable!

You can drop your chewing gum on the pavement, I care not a jot. Be my guest and slurp your coffee and chomp your food like a scruffy dick, not a problem. You can even let me hold the door open in the local chemist whilst putting the pram with my daughter in it to one side to allow you in with your pram. Then, as I expect a return of the compliment or even a simple thanks, you can just walk through, letting the door shut on me and my daughter as you saunter away, unaware of my kindness let alone my existence.

You know what? I’m okay with it all, I am unfazed by anything that life has to throw at me. Why would I be? I’m a newly wed and the new season is here, what more could I want?

However, whilst walking through town the other day this do-gooder felt the need to ask me a question. Now it wasn’t something offensive, or for that matter was it something that I hadn’t been asked before. In fact I’ve grown all too accustomed to being asked the same bastard question over and over.

“Excuse me, can I just have two minutes of your time please Sir?”

“No you fucking well can’t as it happens!” I retorted in my mind, as I deftly manoeuvred myself away with all the grace of a young Rudolf Nureyev to get to Wigan Wallgate and on my train.

The only two minutes you’ll be getting sunny jim will be the two minutes needed to put my fucking size 12’s on your head in Wigan baths and end your constant questioning. What is it with these people that they feel the need to assault me every time I try to get from A to B across my own town?

You see my friends I’m not a mean spirited man. Moi? Non! I’m all for charity but not when I get hassled to involve myself in it every fucking day. Not only that, but the whoppers who are trying to acquire my business are reason enough not to give to charity again. If it’s not some idiot being whacky in a fucking rubber suit, then it’s some scruffy student with fuck all better to do. Only maybe getting a job would be a good idea eh you work shy fop? But why would you bother to do that when you can get me to pay taxes to fund your fucking fees, whilst you sit up the student bar supping bitter that I have paid for whilst you slag me off for not signing up to the charity you’re representing in a piss poor manner!!
Standing there with your “MIND” t-shirt on with no fucking knowledge about what you’re talking about. I would fucking love to say “here pal, MIND this” as I throw your tub of natural yoghurt and cucumber in your scabby, bum fluffed bearded fucking face. THAT I’M FUCKING PAYING FOR!

And it doesn’t stop there. No my friends, that’s only the beginning, the real fun starts when you get to work. It’s “I’m collecting for this. . . .” or “I’m doing a sponsored shitathon for the fluoridisation of Zimbabwean political prisoners of conscience fucking teeth”. It never, ever, ends. . . and how enthused we all are that we can do our bit, whether we want to or not. Like I said I have nothing against charity. . . . . . . .

On the theme of work I must mention the fucking collection. Some bastards will collect for anything. You’ve hurt your leg playing football? Let’s start a collection. You’ve just become a parent? Let’s start a collection. You’ve trapped your cock in your zip? Let’s start a fucking collection! I’ve recently stopped collecting my wages and have asked for them to be divided equally between my colleagues, so they can pay for presents for the sufferers of broken nails and for a fresh water well in Leigh.

I shouldn’t complain though. The collection they got together at work for my wedding gift netted me £200 and I’m sat wearing most of it whilst I’m typing this. Well they do say charity begins at home.


Dirrrrty “the honeymoons over” Old Man

First published in the Mudhutter 17, August/September 2008 and MFE18 August 2008 2008

Pointless endings

You could talk about it
but you’d rather knife him first.
Is it due to ignorance,
or is it unquenched thirst?

To see his life’s blood spill away
and run into the drain,
another pointless slaughter,
another Mothers pain.

Another young life ended
before it had begun.
One more headline story,
soon forgotten and soon gone.

The miracle of life
so needlessly cut down,
because you chose to end it
and slash life to the ground.

Too late to talk about it
too late to put it right.
Another young soul lost,
to his final sleep of life.

In memory of all the young and the innocent dying on the streets of Britain today

The 08:15 to nowhere

Drink addled rats scurry aboard the mechanical
snake, that winds and slithers its way into the waiting
city. It’s welcoming hands, dripping with gold
and not so good intentions, beckons the unfulfilled
for another week of meaningless activity and false promises.

Stale and stagnant, the stench of a weekend of alcohol
silently drifts through it’s steel intestines to indulge us all.
A fake jovial exchange breaks the tension, as two
of the bloodshot protagonists regale the usual tales
of conquests and feats of extraordinary consumption.

Mine is a life less lived in so many different ways.
I never did become a rock legend or sporting icon,
I still haven’t found that place inside my head that will
tell me it's going to be ok. I still wake from my slumber,
sweating and afraid to die.

The weary and unclean are eliminated unceremoniously
onto the cold, grey and passionless platform. Ominously,
it will await their return and once again will make it’s greeting
in an uncompromising style.

Continuing the journey home,
the sun bursts through to warm my soul.

It’s good to know I backed the winner.

Hawes

Fern Britton - An open letter

Well you big fat lying lard arsed cow! We believed in you Fern and you shit up our backs, in fact you shat on the doorstep of all of your fans, fat and thin.

So you used surgery to shift your considerable bulk whilst hoodwinking us, your adoring public, into believing you shed the pounds with eating less, cycling and walking the family dog. It’s all well and good you giving it the big one by saying that you owed no cunt an explanation about your helping hand from under the knife. I spent a small fortune on those wafer biscuits you were advertising. The fuckers stuck in my throat every fucking day, once for breakfast, once for tea, and all because I thought you were with me. “If Fern can eat these, I can eat these,”- I thought to myself.

Meanwhile that effeminate wee husband of yours, Vickery, was filling your restricted heinous fucking gut with all manner of goodies.

The strange thing is I’d have rode the hole clean off you Fern when you were a big un. You had an air of confidence about you Fern, the air of a women who was at ease with herself physically, spiritually and sexually. I bet you put a great turn on as well. I can imagine you looking at me over your shoulder, eyes wide and innocent, with index finger seductively placed between your lips.

But no, that wasn’t enough for you was it Fern, you had to keep pushing it didn’t you? I blame that cunt John Leslie, a poisoned chalice that bastard. You play with fire and you’ll end up getting burnt and from where I’m sat I can smell the pork crackling away

Go on Fern, get to fuck away from me whilst I decide where we go from here.

First Published in The Mudhutter 16, July 2008

Let it fry

The planet’s over heating
and I couldn’t give a shit
I’m sick of "don’t do that",
fed up of "must do this".

I’m tired of recycling
and your different fucking bins
"Don’t put it in that one,
separate the glass from tins".

"Turn your heating down",
fuck you I’ve turned mine up
and I’ve left on all my lighting
just to piss you off.

So save your fucking preaching
cause I’ve bigger fish to fry
The planets fine and so am I
fuck off, curl up and die.

Time gentlemen please

I’m trying lord I really am
I’m giving it my all,
giving it the best I can
determined not to fall.

Don’t know if I will make it,
or if my best is good enough
I can’t see the way forward
but behind is looking rough.

So I’m gonna keep on moving
gonna keep on moving on
Lord, oh just believe me
this time I’m really done.

The dark days I’ve discarded
the misery I’ve stopped
no more my love will see me
at this lonely bar I prop.

I’m trying lord I really am
I’m giving it my all,
giving it the best I can
please catch me if I fall.

Richard Madeley - An Open Letter

I’ve always hated you Madeley, right from the fucking word go. You sit there with that smug fucking grin on your face don’t you? Sitting there as if you think you’re better than the rest of us, don’t you Madeley?

It was a black day on the 13th May 1956, wasn’t it Madeley? The day you entered the world. There was no need for forceps when you were delivered, I bet you fucking shot out you slimy wanker. I never could and never will be able to stomach Shakin’ Stevens, but how I applauded him when he had you in that headlock on the telly all those years ago. That was Shaky’s big chance if you ask me. If only he’d gone a step further and given you a proper fucking hiding he could have been a national treasure.

But he didn’t and you’re still here aren’t you Madeley? You and that gibbering wreck of a wife of yours, is it any wonder she shakes like a shitting dog living with you?

Fuck off Madeley, you make me fucking sick.

First Published in The Mudhutter 15, May 2008

7/7

Threw a lucky 7
and it blew you off your feet
who would have guessed two 7’s
wins a prize to God, to meet.

Such a fucking waste
such a fucking crime
such a pointless way to die
away ahead of time.

Just on the way to work
to earn an honest crust
now just a mere statistic
of politically spun dust.

Whatever happened to Johnny Look-Back?

Johnny paced the Earlestown streets
from the Vulcan to the Muckies,
through the Wargrave to the Common
never seen in pubs or bookies.

A long grey mac with shoulders slumped
and hands behind his back,
the kids he passed would scream his name
“Hey Johnny just look back!”

See Johnny Look-Back liked to look
he looked most everyday,
but poor old Johnny’s looking back
for his dog that ran away.

To all the kids it was a laugh
as Johnny crooked his neck,
a broken hearted lonely man
without his man’s best friend.

And then one day we realised
that Johnny had gone too,
but was old Johnny melted down
like his poor old dog for glue?

Parenting in the 21st Century : Volume I

Fat kids
fat prams
gormless dads
clueless mams
maladaptive coping plans
the future's looking bright.

First Published in The Mudhutter 15, May 2008

Ask your Grannie

Grannies are great aren’t they? Well maybe not. My Grannie, or Nan as she preferred to be called, was an absolute tyrant of a woman. A woman so evil in fact that she wouldn’t have looked out of place sat in the company of the worlds most feared dictators. If she wasn’t knitting me jumpers that were designed with one thing in mind, to strangle me, then she was making me eat her homemade cooking. The cracks around the head were also memorable as well, and reminiscing about the violence still fills my heart with joy on those balmy summer evenings of thoughtful meanderings.


In between her attempts at prematurely ending my young life she seemed intent on using me as a guinea pig for a variety of experiments. I have to admit to being
impressed with her in-depth knowledge of every non-medical remedy known under the sun, and quite possibly beyond.

Her vast knowledge and life experience also lent itself to beauty tips, gardening and plethora of handy hints. She was in fact a walking of Bella, Woman’s Own and Home & Garden rolled into one. So, with that in mind here are a few of Grannies, sorry Nan’s pointers for a wholesome and fulfilling life.

Bacon in a stocking - Placed around the neck for a sore throat (what a waste of food and lingerie)

Cabbage leaves in your bra - To keep breast’s cool in summer (I’ve got no tits, maybe she thought I was one)

Potatoes in your pockets - To help ease arthritis (Bag of crisp would be easier)

Bathing feet in a bucket of piss - A cure for athlete’s foot (Erotic pissing? Not for me Nan)

Butter - For a bang on the head (Where she had hit me AGAIN!)

Salt Bath - To clear infections (Fart and burn your ring piece)

Tea leaves - Good for plants (Even special herb gardens in the loft)

Spicy food - Induces labour (I’m just big boned)

Crusts - Curly hair (I don’t want a free Chris Waddle)

Buttercup under chin - To see if I liked butter (Just ask me Nan)

Tea bags - Used for fake tan when she’d used up all her wrinkled stockings to help cure my sore throat (See No 1)

Dry biscuits - Hangover cure (You drank too much anyway, didn’t you, GRANNIE)

First Published in The Mudhutter 3, February 2005

It's a question of taste

The beauty of being able to understand and appreciate the written word is an often underestimated art in our twin turbo, go faster stripes world we live in. Why take the time to develop an interpretation of something, when you can have it served up to you in a one size fits all fashion that requires little thought at all. Think Cheeky Girls and you'll understand where I'm coming from.

The prosecution will now provide evidence that flies in the face of the usual literary shite dished up. Thus proving categorically, that the written word is still King.

The Cure - Faith

catch me if i fall
i'm losing hold
i can't just carry on this way
and every time
i turn away
lose another blind game
the idea of perfection holds me...
suddenly i see you change
everything at once
the same
but the mountain never moves...

rape me like a child
christened in blood
painted like an unknown saint
there's nothing left but hope...
your voice is dead
and old
and always empty
trust in me through closing years
perfect moments wait...
if only we could stay
please
say the right words
or cry like the stone white clown
and stand
lost forever in a happy crowd...

no-one lifts their hands
no-one lifts their eyes
justified with empty words
the party just gets better and better...

i went away alone
with nothing left
but faith


As a written piece it's pure poetry. Set to it's music the words take on another dimension. Especially with Smith's voice gliding softly, but deliberately over the stark arrangement. 1989 seems a long time ago and my trip down to the Wembley Arena to see the last two nights of The Cure's European Tour seems a distant memory. The make-up that was painted onto my young drunken face never did seem to be completely rinsed away and the words remain embossed on my mind forever.

The prosecution rests.

Once upon a time in Spring

What’s the point
in looking back
at memories
and photographs.
When I can
sing
dance
and laugh,
making memories
with you.

April in Autumn

Ten little fingers
ten little toes,
an ocean spray
of love cascades,
to bathe my waiting soul.

May all of your hopes
and all of your dreams
flow endlessly,
relentlessly,
like the deepest
summer stream.

April in autumn,
my summer, winter, spring
fill my heart with love
with all the joy you bring.

The Salford Crescent Killer

Stepping off the train last week
in the merry month of June.
I felt a blow reign in so hard
from a saucer-pupiled loon.

I dragged myself up on my heels
and dusted off my jeans,
and felt the blood run from my eye
a steady crimson stream.

Not quick enough to make my move
the spineless twat ran free,
but the resonance
of our short embrace,
well it wasn’t lost on me.

I could have been a hero
if I’d only got one back.
One decent crashing blow
would’ve knocked him on his back.

I’m the self styled
Salford Crescent Killer,
and I’m here to put things straight.
No job too big,
no job too small,
no need to fucking wait.

I’m the self styled
Salford Crescent Killer,
against the Salford Crescent Crank
When the papers find out what I’ve done
it’ll be money in the bank.

I can see me there on Parky,
having dinner with the Queen
Telegrams from famous faces,
for the bravery they’ve seen.

1-800 SALF CRES KILL,
advertising shaving foam.
You’ll even get a ding ding ding
Crescent Killer mobile tone.

I’m the self styled
Salford Crescent Killer,
and I’m here to put things straight.
I’ll take on all the scum
for a monthly low cost rate.

I’m the self styled
Salford Crescent Killer,
against the Salford Crescent Crank.
When De Niro plays me on the screen
it’ll be money in the bank.

It is against the law to smoke on these premises

It’s against the law to joke
It’s against the law to breathe
It’s against the law to laugh
It’s against the law to seethe
It’s against the law to speak
It’s against the law to think
It’s against the law to loiter
It’s against the law to drink

It is against the law to smoke on these premises.

The Wigan bridge club swingers

I’ve been up Wigan bridge club
to have a game of bridge
It’s something that I longed to do
so that’s just what I did.
Just what goes on behind those doors
to secrecy I’m sworn
But playing cards is quite surreal
when set to hardcore porn.

Happy birthday Jimmy

He got steaming in the Bluebell,
he got steaming up the Oak
He managed to get steaming
when he was stony fucking broke
Scots Jimmy,
a name known for miles around
Before you’d picked your pint up
he’d put his empty down
A man so soaked in alcohol,
a man too stoned to think
A man who lost his heart and soul,
to the demon that is drink
Today you should have been 62
but it was never meant to be
Alone and drunk you froze to death
in the hills of Lockerbie

Happy birthday Jimmy

Well that's just fucking fine.

Fine me cause my dog shits
fine me cause I smoke
fine me for late payments
fine me ‘til I’m broke.

Fine me for my parking
fine me, if I stand still
fine me if I think it’s fine
to show my fucking will.

Go ahead and fine me
heap your fines on me
fine me ‘til I’ve fuck all left
that’s fucking fine by me.

I coulda been a contender

It’s Friday night and I’m sat alone in my house. Our lass is at her sisters trying on make-up. Not just any old make-up, but make-up for our upcoming wedding. A wedding that will be taking place in less than ???? weeks.

It’s not like we’ve met at the airport and I’ve paid her Mam enough money to feed the family rice for a lifetime, she’s not from Bolton. We’ve been together 11 years, and we’ve got a couple of sprogs into the bargain. Despite this I’m fucking shitting myself and I don’t mind telling you that I’m losing sleep over it.

All kinds of shit is floating through my brain. I keep waking up in the morning mid-dream/argument with people I’ve fallen out with in the past, or people I’m expecting to have disagreements with in the future. It’s supposed to be the happiest time in my life, but I’m struggling to see when the ‘happiest’ bit is going to kick in. I’m failing to see the sense of humour in any of it and quite frankly I’m getting disinterested in the whole gig.

If it aint broke don’t fix it, but I’m involved in fixing something that’s not even got superficial bruising.

In the midst of all this confusion and indefinable paranoia I’m sat here watching Later with Jools Holland, and it’s not helping. I’m sat here watching the young new things and the old were things and thinking to myself, I could have been a contender! That could be me in Jools studio giving it rock all, instead of sitting here bricking it.

Whenever I watch Jools my mind automatically drifts towards memories of New Years Eve or Summer festivals. Invariably my thoughts lean toward pop stardom and the conveyor belt of drugs and nubile women that should have adorned my black satin bed linen. Alas no more, and here I am alone with my worries and my doubts.

So Jools if you’re reading this, leave a comment on my blog to help soothe my troubled mind. Something along the lines of:

“Dirrrrtyoldman you’re doing the right thing. Your Polly is a top lass and you’d be daft to pass up the opportunity to shack yourself up with a top bird like her”

Otherwise get me a slot on your show and let me prove to everyone that I could have been a contender.

Patsy "Chip Butty" Dolan leaves home

There’s been an awful uproar
in the Chip Butty home,
for Patsy Dolan’s up and gone
to move just down the road
She’s gone and moved next door to me
at number thirty nine,
shacked up with Scots Tommy
to have a fine old time
Now Tommy runs a tight ship
in-between the pints,
he used to discipline his ex
almost every night
We never saw his ex that much,
now I come to think
She used to spend her days indoors
and send the kids for drink
As Patsy flashed a smile so sweet
she entered through the door
I hope I see that smile again,
I hope to see once more

The rise and rise of the pseudo middle classes

Pseudo middle class existence
pseudo middle class dreams
selective memories of the past
from the council house schemes.
Racing headlong to the future
no more time to reminisce
now your roots are firmly ripped out
from a past that you dismiss.

The Trouserless Clown

First published in the Mudhutter Football Express Issue 17, April 2008. Buy it now by visiting www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk

Roll up, roll up you boys and girls
The circus is in town
So let me introduce to you
The Trouserless Scouse Clown

More scary than a Lion
A skill-less acrobat
But this time son you have excelled
In looking like a tw@t

He goes under a pseudonym
You may know him as Paul
You’ll recognise his face from SKY
But have you seen his balls?

The gathered crowd, oh how they laughed
As Paul got out his Jewells
And showed us how to Please Please Me
Michelle and Love Me Do

He rode her on a bonnet
He rode her in a bed
It must have been a while ago
He had hair on his head

So thank you for the good times Paul
And thank you for the laughs
Now put away your meat and veg
And go and have a bath

Fashionless Fashion

First Published in the Mudhutter Football Express Issue 13 August 2007

No matter which way you carve it up fashion is important to all of us. Even the scruffiest bastard mincing around your local area has at the very least a slight interest in their own sartorial elegance. I mean, there are choices to be made aren’t there? And with those choices comes a common acceptance of how you’ll be perceived. I’m sure even the most vehement anti-fashionlists (yeah I know the word doesn’t exist) would concede that they would end up looking a tad foolish by denying that their selection of attire didn’t say something of how they wanted to be viewed.

Now years ago I would have been in the “I don’t strictly adhere to fashion” brigade, but that has definitely changed. A strange thing happened to me recently and I suddenly found myself spending an inordinate amount of time in High Street department stores. I even ended up with a store card and found myself getting over aroused at the thought of looking right smart in my new clobber. It’s a funny thing when you have kids, but you feel duty bound to look half presentable. If not for yourself then at least for the kids, you don’t want your little Johnnies pals telling him that his Dad looks like he hangs around the bus station bogs do you? In fact there’s a definite element of competitiveness between parents. What you used to wear for a night out you find yourself wearing to do the school run. The school pick up is the new night out, Monday at 3:30pm is Saturday evening on the tiles.

There’s been some cracking fashions over the years and by and large there is an ideology attached to them. Take the Nazi’s and their Nazi Chic. Now I’m in no way condoning the atrocities’ of the 2nd World War, but you have to doff your cap to these lads and lasses, they didn‘t half scrub up well.. Especially the SS dressed in black from head to toe, now that was a sexy fashion. Their actions, although not exactly everyone’s cup of tea, were at least pro-active in trying to achieve their Aryan race dream.

To be fair the Germans aren’t all bad, who can honestly say they didn’t want to go there to be a brickie or a chippie after the first series of Auf Wierdersehen Pet? God bless Pat Roach, aka Bomber, not a terrorist Bomber I hasten to add, Bomber was his nickname, although I bet he could have turned his hand to Bombing. After all he went from wrestling at teatime on World of Sport, to acting. There would have been some mess if Pat had been a Suicide Bomber, he was, shall we say, a big unit, blood and snot everywhere.

Anyway back to the article. The fashion of the Nazi period has never completely died, take the Punks. Now as anyone worth their salt knows the Punks weren’t exclusively or even in the majority a movement about Nazism, they were about freedom of thought, kicking against authority, anarchy and being an individual. They did however take on at least part of the Nazi fashion in the form of the swastika, and didn’t they wear it well! Along with the swastika, they dressed to shock with their dyed Mohicans, chains and safety pins. Every component of their ideology and presentation were again trying to move things forward, trying to say something, trying to affect a change.

Whilst we’re on the subject of Nazis and Punks, what about those Adolf Hitler European Tour t-shirts in the early eighties? Not very politically correct, but very very funny.

From the hippies who championed sexual liberation, peace and love, psychedelic drugs and Eastern Religions whilst wearing ill fitting and over elaborate clothing. To the baggie trousered devotees of the second summer of love standing on the terraces pilled off their tits. The fashion and ideologies behind those movements went hand in hand, and all of them believed that they could make things better. Some of course were misguided, some, like the Nazi’s were just plain evil, but all of them had beliefs and hopes for what they envisaged to be a better future.

And so to the crux of the matter, the Chavs. I’m not sure that’s what this set of scum are called nowadays, but they’re the ones you see dressed in black tracksuits. As much as I championed the youth of Wigan a while back in ‘Memories of a Teenage Disco Dancer’, I can only pour equal amounts of disdain on this set of trash.

First things first, the black tracksuits. What’s the fucking script with black tracksuits? I know they’re supposed to form part of their identity but please, is that the best they can do? They look awful, there’s nothing redeeming about a black fucking tracksuit. Is the hood up meant to instil fear and intimidation into the hearts and minds of us, the unsuspecting public? Oooooh I’m shitting myself! And what would one find under their hood? A cap! A cap under your fucking hood! Is the weather forecast so bad that you need two pieces of headwear to keep you dry if it pisses it down? Or is it the dick under the hood is so ugly that it’s face is double bagged and hidden? As if that part of the image isn’t bad enough what do these pillocks wear on their feet? Shoes! Shoes with a tracksuit! Who thought that one up, because someone obviously did and it doesn’t end there. Have you seen what they do with their tracksuit bottoms? They tuck them into their socks! Fuck me fucking furiously, tracksuit bottoms tucked into your socks and then finished off with a smashing pair of shoes!

Now you’re talking, now you’re ready to show us what master plan you and your ill educated white homies are going to foist upon us dried up old hippies, punks and baggies. Go on hit us with it whilst you stand their cupping your balls down the front of your black fucking tracksuit bottoms!

Silence. . . .. . . . . . . . . . .zilch, nothing, zero, nought, absolutely fuck all.

They don’t have an informed opinion about anything. They have no industry, no aspirations to define a change and no sense of accountability for their actions or the consequences to themselves or the world they live in. They just want to drive about in the cars (usually blue Citroën Saxo’s) that Mum and Dad are paying for on the drip, smoking psychosis inducing cannabis and then when it all goes wrong blame everyone else and let the rest of us pick up the bill.

They don’t seem to stand for anything except apathy, the occasional mugging and a complete lack of manners. All of which aren’t designed to send a resounding message of positive youthful defiance to us elder statesmen.

Why do they all think they’re black as well? A black dude being a black dude is unbeatable in the cool stakes, but when some brain dead, scrawny white lad who is so pale you could read him like a fucking road map with his veiny blue body, starts wearing a black tracksuit and flicking his wrist shouting “respec” then I can‘t help but become a little cynical. Ali G isn’t real you thick bastards.

But as bad as their lack of a philosophy is, in pushing forward their generation, it’s their lack of a decent fashion which is totally unforgivable. “Clothes maketh the man” they say. But for the subscribers of fashionless fashion “Clothes maketh the twat”, and empty headed ones at that!

At Play

Sat in bulrushes,
watching newts,
catching tadpoles in nets,
hazy sunshine, bathed in innocence
from a time I can’t forget.

We ran and ran and ran,
I don’t know the reasons why
Rolling down steep grassy slopes
that reached up into the sky.

Lay laughing in lush meadows,
girls making daisy chains
Scruffy lads caked in dirt
muddied up from summer rain.

Clothes without symbols,
friends without labels,
classless, without status,
just kids sharing fables.

‘neath street lights at dusk,
tall shadows on pavements
Book us one way tickets back
and I’ll make the arrangements.

Scenes don't live in a building.

Scenes don't live in a building
if you want to find the scene
you've got to live here
to become part of it
It's in the estates
and it’s in the living rooms
It's stood in the crowd at the football
or the rugby
You wont find it in a single weekend
you wont find it in a travel guide
They don’t sell it on eBay
or as a snide off a lorry
It’s not in the Observer
or the Evening Post
Geoffrey Shryhane doesn’t own it
he can’t control it
It doesn’t come with instructions
or with a map
It’s in all of us
and it’s in all of you
Scenes don't live in a building
if you want to find the scene
you've got to live here
to become part of it

The Magic of Yeast

You can keep your nuclear physics
You can split your own atom
There’s a secret I shall share
As I pass my kids the baton

I’ve no interest in the future
Threw my cap into the past
For the real meaning of life
My experience is vats

It’s the magic of yeast
It’s the wonder of the grape
It’s the happiness it brings
As my head falls in my plate

I have studied since a young boy
Focused all my skill and craft
Some say that I’m obsessed
But I’m having such a laugh?

You’re my best friend and a rock
You’re forever near and dear
Help anaesthetise my thoughts
When my thoughts become too clear

It’s the magic of yeast
It’s the wonder of the grape
It’s the happiness it brings
As my head falls in my plate

So lets raise a glass to yeast
As I shit my liver out
And another withdrawal seizure
Splits my head, I gasp and shout . . . . .

You’ll be mine to the end
And my end will be with you
And I know that you wont stop
‘til my body turns blue

It’s the tragedy of yeast
It’s the blunder of the grape
It’s the misery it brings
As I lie dead, face down in my plate

Choose today’s Britain

First Published in the Mudhutter Football Express Fanzine February 2008

Choose today’s Britain. Choose income tax, council tax, does anyone remember the poll tax? Choose value added tax, inheritance tax and every other fucking tax under the sun. Just when you think the whole thing is becoming too taxing, don’t worry, the bastards will invent a new one. Choose chocolate puddings from that advert that is on TV and buying into it’s shallow depiction. Choose congestion charges, toll roads and parking permits to park on the roads you’ve already paid for with your car tax. Choose fermented urine as a natural fungicide next time you’re having coffee at your organic java hut. Choose global warming and being duped that it really is the biggest threat to humanity whilst the waters in the Persian Gulf are boiling over. Choose to let yourself be distracted long enough so you wont see what their left hand is doing whilst they tickle you on the belly with their right. Choose inflated petrol prices, domestic fuel charges and every other charge that they can link to Black Gold, Texas T, as the powers that be rename and repackage the war on terror as a moral crusade. Choose to join the armed forces and go half way around the world to fight a war against an invisible enemy with boots on that melt in the sun. Choose faulty weaponry. Choose to have your family back in Britain living in a shit hole that is imaginatively called a barracks whilst your local mugger resides in a 5 star prison. Choose the tail wagging the dog. Choose to conform to everything that you’re told is fashionable without further question. Choose premiership football. Choose to free all people from oppressive regimes except the ones whose oppressors have economies to trade with and whose armies are too big to defeat. Choose to join the ranks of the pseudo middle classes and forget your roots. Choose the NHS and to pay into a system that promises to deliver treatment to you at the point of contact. Choose to wait in a hospital corridor lay in your own piss soaked bed to see a Doctor who isn’t even there. Choose to have fought in two world wars for the privilege. Choose to live in a lottery postcode culture and hope to receive the treatment. You didn’t choose to die before the ruling changed. Choose to subscribe to a variety of overseas charities that you can’t remember the name of, but always remember to casually bring up at dinner parties. Choose to show no charity to the men and women you went to school with who just want to be paid a fair wage in their local low paid sweat shop. Choose to pretend you didn’t hear. Choose purple, as labour red and conservative blue meet in the middle and melt into each others arms. Choose the centre of the fence to sit on. Choose an ASBO and choose to wear it like a badge of honour. Choose the glamour of a mid-morning weekday show to display your ineptitude. Choose 3 litres of 7.5% cheap cider a day to mask the pain. Choose a lack of respect for your elders and a passport to unnecessary oblivion. Choose today’s Britain, a nation full of self serving, inflated egoed, vacuous, pseudo middle class pompous prats. But why would you do that?

Christmas 2007: The Trilogy

First Published in the Mudhutter Football Express Fanzine February 2008

Happy New Year readers, I hope you had a good one, I wish you all the best, out with the old in with the new, look to the future, peace prosperity and happiness. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and every other tired cliché known to man.

26th December 2007 21:00

I should have been at work this evening but the cold has laid me low so I’m in the prone position on the couch. Feeling a bit peckish I ask our lass to knock me up some cheese and crackers to fill the gap left by a long day being sick as a parrot.

Now there’s several things that immediately get the alarm bells ringing. Firstly no spread on the fucking crackers, nothing, bone fucking dry.

"You always have ‘em like that"

"No I fucking don’t you lazy cow, get back in the kitchen and get it sorted or the weddings off"

So back they come fresh with a spread, Country Life butter. But what’s this before my eyes? Roulé cheese. Dirty, dirty French muck and she’s bought it from the European Market that visited Wigan just before Christmas, and that is supposed to somehow normalise this most distasteful experience.

Just as things couldn’t get any worse I clock the fact it’s those fucking stupid crackers with bits in and in all kinds of stupid fucking shapes. Crackers = Jacobs, simple as, no fucking fancy shit for me thanks. Oh and if you don’t mind I like the air bubbles in Jacobs that pop and crunch when I bite into the bastard. So when you do get me my Jacobs crackers make sure you don’t butter them on the wrong side and burst my fucking bubbles.

Finally though, the ultimate insult.

I love my pickles but I don’t want to choke to death on one. So why the fuck do you bring me my crackers topped off with a big pickle sliced into two???

It should always be two silver skin pickles cut into two (4 halves) and placed with equal spacing on top of my cracker. The fucking European Union eh? Bastards are even messing with my Cheese and Cracker Etiquette.


27th December 2007 16:30

Well I’ve just come back from the annual family ‘Christmas’ day out. I should be back in work but I’ve binned it for another day for the highlight of the social calendar. Fuck ‘em, it’s the time of the year for Britishness. And what could be more British than throwing a sickie. Especially as I’m a Public Sector worker.

Had a lovely day out today. Firstly the Uncle-in Law decides that it’s his turn to pick the location and then takes us through every back water to get there. It’s not even scenic.

This year he decided we would go to Formby Sands to see Antony Gormley's "Another Place", the statues looking out to sea. The same lad who did the “Angel of the North”. It’s Another Place alright, because this surely can’t be mainland Britain? The beach was fucking littered with empty bottles, used durex, etc. A fucking disgrace. The Scousers are living up to their self appointed title as “Every Scouser is a comedian la” as they’ve put Santa’s hats and beards on the statues.

To top it off we got back to the car park and the sister-in-laws car had been done. Luckily there was fuck all worth robbing as the boot was empty. Even the local AA man who turns up to repair the window tells us how he would never leave his family car parked here.

Still doesn’t stop me smiling gently at an American family who parks up as we’re leaving. Well, the fucking Yanks deserve it don’t they.


29th December 2007 14:00

Well Christmas just wouldn’t be Christmas if we didn’t waste a whole day in IKEA. The meatballs and sauce in the restaurant are alright though, and the refills of coffee just about balance things out. Nice drop of strawberry cheesecake too.

Can there possibly be a bigger collection of non-descript, follow-my-leader bunch of people than the crowd that visit Sweden’s biggest export?

It’s took us nearly an hour to get here. An hour to get all the way to Warrington. I never realised Warrington was so far. Maybe that’s why our fat friends don’t travel too well. I’m sure Warrington is quicker to get to normally! Must be the Christmas holidays AGAIN! Where do all these people come from? Do they import them? Is this the influx of Eastern Europeans that we keep hearing about?

It’s like when you do your Christmas shop. The shops are only shut for a day or two so why can’t I get a fucking loaf? Do they know something I don’t?

We leave with our usual purchase, two packs of tea lights.