the thoughts of a dirrrrtyoldman

Gadaffi

2011-08-28T00:55:00.003+01:00

Where is Gaddafi
it seems he is lost?
Is he in Aviemore
amongst the frost?

Maybe in Surrey
down by the Thames?
Salty sea dog,
with seafaring friends.

Lost on the beach
in Blackpool town.
A kiss me quick hat,
& red painted frown.

Soho is calling,
fetish & sex.
Premium rate
subscription & text.

Where is Muammar
to take the blame?
Redundant pawn
in the Congress game.

Roads paved with gum

2011-08-25T21:52:00.005+01:00

Roads that are paved with gum
stuck your dreams to concrete scum,
is this all you can become
living in this soulless slum?

All that’s glistening is fake
every chancer’s on the make,
so you better stay awake
for it’s you they’ll split & break.

Meagre basis for their question,
clueless fools without direction,
cast aside their interjection,
disregard the loose connection.

Weary faces broke & numb
pray to see your hopes succumb,
to their dreary life of scum
stick your dreams to worthless gum.

Citric & Filters

2011-08-19T00:00:00.004+01:00

Citric & filters,
like coffee & cream,
china for you,
a dani for me.

Digging the groin,
is bore out of love,
a fit of perfection,
like feet in a glove.

Barrels & pins,
spoon overloaded,
shake coffee beans,
my life has imploded.

I’ll dream,
I'll eternally dream.

Regret

2011-08-17T22:46:00.008+01:00

Her soft gentle kisses
seeking love & union,
delicate, expectant,
yearning to be found.

Met with abrasive lust,
coarse, callous & cold,
dispassionately bestowed
without her requisition.

Unacquainted he falters,
her anguish a familiar fate,
aching to be kissed gently
longing for him to hold her.

Panic on the streets of London. . . .

2011-08-08T22:21:00.002+01:00

You have to question it all really. From a football supporters view the highly respectable people from the area of Tottenham arrived in Wigan last year chanting “ Wigan’s a shithole I want to go home”. Well maybe it is a shithole, but it’s our shithole & we’re not burning it down & looting it as a protest. Ditto West Ham, Aston Villa, Birmingham etc and this from people who call us Northern Monkeys !!

It’s indicative of the countries inability to apply a swathe of social pressure on the government without making an arse of it. Take the French for example; when they dig their heals in they dig them in deep & the responsible authorities listen. Is that the underlying reason though really? There are 12yr old kids throwing bricks at Policemen. I wouldn’t have thrown a dirty look at a Copper when I was a kid, such was the fear of what might happen. There’s no respect for anything, no respect for each other & don’t believe that a lack of respect is a disease of the youth. Who do they learn from? Us, their elders & parents.

So what happens when we the voting public become unhappy with our lot? No-one does anything, we walk around disgruntled & make a noise slightly above a whisper in protest. Enter the thugs; unopposed they smash any rational argument with violence, damage & looting. How the fuck can shitting on your own doorstep & robbing off your own achieve anything?

Gang tags including North9 and NPK sprayed all over the place, are the Police prepared for it? Of course not, but don’t worry because Boris Johnson is cutting short his holiday to come back & deal with it. And what is David “holiday boy” Cameron doing about it? He’s still on holiday.

Is it the disenfranchised using violence as a way to be heard? I don’t know, I ran out of answers a long time ago. My mate has text me to say the riots have kicked off in Walton-on-Thames! Apparently they’re throwing their Moët & Chandon in the Thames!!!

The gap is widening & the opportunities for the disaffected (& self appointed disaffected) to use socioeconomic disadvantages as a means to destroy are on the rise. I can only imagine how the EDF & BNP must be rubbing their hands in anticipation.

I’m no sociological, psychological or political analyst. But I know one thing, it aint looking good & those charged with providing the answers; the elected representatives, don’t seem to know either.

Or maybe it’s a divide & conquer strategy ?

Growing old disgracefully.

2011-08-05T23:56:00.004+01:00

Everyday in every way
got a bigger face to wash,
I aint got Rooney’s money
for a follicle new bush.

Should I beg of Gordon Ramsay
for a crater face to heal?
Should I twitter Ryan Giggs
how to KOP a fresh meat feel?

So I emailed Barry Bethel,
I can empathise with him.
Just a roly poly fat cunt
with a lust for chips & gin.

Everyday in every way
got an older face to scrub,
growing old disgracefully
least I’m dying with your love.

Amy Winehouse - The Death of Dignity

2011-07-25T00:11:00.003+01:00

Before you get the wrong impression of the title let me set the record straight. The death of Amy Winehouse is an absolute tragedy. A young woman who Tony Bennett described as a woman with a true expression of Jazz.......

The lack of dignity that troubles me is that which has been expressed on Twitter. Kelly Osbourne stated that she was so devastated by the news of Amy’s death so much that she was struggling to breathe; not struggling enough however that she couldn’t post on twitter. Where did personal grief disappear to? When was it the norm that the first reaction of a close friend was to post on a social network? I am being too cynical to conclude that Kelly et al unconsciously/consciously saw a chance to catapult their selves into the spotlight on the back of a pseudo friend’s death?

Why couldn’t Kelly & her ilk make their announcements of grief privately to the family of Amy? I’m not sure about you but the last time someone close to me died my actions in the immediate aftermath was to consider if & when I should contact them. The furthest thing from my mind was to outpour my grief to an inordinate amount of people that barely know me or the recently deceased on a social network.

What a photo opportunity it was for the likes of Ailsyene from Big Brother to turn up bawling her eyes out for the cameras in front of the deceased’s house? Let alone all the other heartbroken yesterday celebs, who have aligned themselves to Amy’s untimely death.

Of course the majority of you reading this will be screaming “filthy smackhead” & will be reassuring yourselves with your ignorance that “she could have stopped”. Alas my ignorant friends you have next to nothing of an understanding of addiction & how it grips a person. How many of you smoke & can’t stop? How many of you are clinically obese & blame it on your glands. The old fail safe excuse eh, my fat friend?

When you cut through the smoke & mirrors Amy Winehouse was as fucked up as most of us are, relying on an unhealthy crutch to make it through the rain. Unfortunately for her, the crutch she chose to support her had immediately devastating effects. As for the rest of us, we’ll have to wait for coronary heart failure due to hypertension, hypercholesterolemia & diabetes to seal our fate.

Choose your poison. Was Amy really that bad?

Within

2011-06-19T21:58:00.007+01:00

I see beauty in life
beauty within you
despite what you said
& sins that I do...

I see beauty in you

Shadows wont disguise it
nor hidden in the shade
bathed with warmest love
bold & unafraid

beauty lives within you

Nurture what's within
let it grow & bloom
bursting to be found
illuminate the room...

beauty radiates from you

I see beauty in you
your beauty lights my life
eternally yours
my trouble and my strife...

you are beauty

An open letter to the School Reunionists

2011-06-15T23:49:00.002+01:00

Recently I was invited to a school reunion. A chance, to meet all those dear dear friends that I haven’t seen since I was 16. But you see there’s a reason I haven’t met all those dear dear friends since I was 16.

It’s not because time passed so quickly. It’s not even because life’s events overtook those oh so precious relationships, and here I am, 40yrs old with time to catch up and see what life has thrown at my oldest dearest friends.

You see my dear friends, it’s none of the above or anything else you can think of. It’s because of this; I couldn’t stand the fucking sight of you set of cunts for all the unfortunate years I was incarcerated with you during the happiest days of our lives. In the interim I moved away from the shit hole that is Earlestown & I travelled the world!! That’s right readers; I actually have spent more that a two week annual holiday to the Costa Wanka away from the place I was born. And to boot I didn’t marry my best friends sister.

You see, all you School Re-unionists I don’t hate you, it’s with a heavy heart that I write this sorry tale. It’s a sorry tale because of this simple fact. Deep down you feel the same too. As you look at the photographs of this momentous occasion ask yourself this. Did the prick to the right of you actually constitute as a friend? What were those glorious childhood memories that have been so perfectly encapsulated on your reunion photos all these years on?

In a one stop, fits all moment of crazy sale madness I’ve saved a little bit for you.

I’m not full of bile, but then again I’m not full of shit either.

Anyway, I’m off upstairs to kiss my kids goodnight before snuggling up to the woman I love. Tomorrow I’ll speak, text, e-mail my friends. All of it in the present and I wont think of you for a single. . . fucking. . . .second.

Simplicty

2011-06-15T00:48:00.003+01:00

Beyond life’s complexities
simplicity exists,
love, truth & confluence,
to hope & to cherish…

and the many gathered here
will be as your witness
that the simple things in life
are the realisation. . .

of your dreams

The Second Coming

2011-05-02T21:30:00.004+01:00

Christ has got a Facebook page,
a new account on Twitter.
He’s taken latest photographs,
to publish them on Flikr.

JesusChrist.com
will alert yer first by text.
Send a message to yer e-mail,
dates of where he’s touring next.

Put yer name down for subscription,
to “Jesus Christ events”.
Signed exclusively to SKY
ITV & Beeb are vexed.

Both Oprah & Jay Leno,
battle for him as star guest.
Turin Shrouds exclusively,
to be autographed & blessed.

Christ sponsored by Coke Zero,
the sugar free Coke drink.
Underwritten by Lloyds Bank,
all the cooperates are in sync.

So pull up yer front row seats,
pour yerself an ice cool beer.
The show starts in 5 minutes,
for the second coming’s here.

The futility of grief

2011-04-22T22:11:00.007+01:00

I shan't shed a tear for you
nor shall I shed a tear for them.
For if these tears were so easily shed
I would shed them for a lifetime.

Meanwhile in local news. . .

2011-04-20T23:45:00.004+01:00

Today the 364th British Soldier was killed
in Afghanistan.
Meanwhile in local news. . . . .

Broken promises – No 23

2011-04-16T23:45:00.003+01:00

Purple handed,
a badge
of honour
for a lifetime
on the burn.

“I’m stopping soon”
Fake smiles
with yellow teeth,
to pacify you
once again.

You recognise
the lie
and when
they cut me open
the last laugh

wont be mine.

Another night on the streets

2011-03-31T22:42:00.008+01:00

Drunks, drop-outs & junkies,
low-life scum & flunkies.
Understanding little but stories,
socialists, moderates, tories.

Young, in-betweens & the old,
rejected, ignored & sold.
Can you feel my freezing pain?
Another night on the streets again.

Judged, decided, condemned,
broken, abused ‘til the end.
We’d never met, I never spoke,
you spat in my face, battered & broke.

Doorways, alley’s & skips,
huddled, frozen, in bits.
Can you imagine this pain?
Another night on the streets again.

Eyes that are pleading in vain,
for a chance to be off these streets again.

Dedicated to the wonderful people at The Brick Homeless Project in Wigan

The Valentine Day Massacre

2011-02-17T22:51:00.005Z

The heads fell off yer flowers,
an’ I didn’t kop a feel.
Yer battered all the wine
an’ I burnt the fucking meal.

Yer chose this day to say,
that yer always hated me.
Yer could ‘ave at least waited,
‘til I’d sat down for me tea.

All me dreams are shattered,
they've gone right up the pole.
Although you say yer hate me,
can I ‘ave just one last hole?

Valentines day massacre,
me heart is smashed to bits.
Yer should ‘ave told me sooner,
I was getting on yer tits.

Tea for two

2011-02-06T22:08:00.004Z

His old flask sits upon the windowsill,
like a lost dog looking for it’s owner.
Tartan skin reflected in broken glass,
painted steel glistening in the sunshine.

Foolhardy in all that you ever were,
sanctified with a gift for a poor choice.
Walking the frost laden Lockerbie hills,
your final, irreversible mistake.

So I’ll fill this withered tartan old flask,
pour us both a drink, cups of tea for two.
Toast the memories that you left behind,
scorn the choices of a life you squandered.

A Year in Provence

2011-01-26T22:43:00.010Z

(Well a Weekend Day in the Life of Swinley Resident Dominic Oldman)

Swinley (WN1) is lovingly described around the Mudhuts Towers as “The Bohemian Quarter” of Wigan. The idea for this appraisal has been hanging around for quite some time now, but in large its materialization is in response to the over elaborate musings about all things WN5 in the Christmas edition of The Mudhutter.

Like people outside of WN1, I too remember what it was like to be destitute, smelly,
unskilled and unemployable. Thankfully my life has taken an upturn in fortunes and here I am in Swinley, the Golden Belt district of Wigan, right on Yah?

Such a journey from the doldrums of a working class upbringing in Earlestown to middle class utopia was not just about sacrificing my Socialist/Marxist beliefs. As our illustrious ex right of the middle PM Tony Blair stated when he drew up his vision of a better Britain, “Education, education, education”, and this I did. Unfortunately the scruffs of WN5 thought he said “Eggs and Bacon, Eggs and Bacon, Eggs and Bacon”, and hence they are all clinically obese with high cholesterol and an average mortality of 42. Not to worry though as this article is not for them anyway. So without further ado here is a diary of a typical day at the weekend in the life of me, Dominic Oldman, and my precious family. Think of it as a little bit of a target to aim toward. In the zone Yah?

7am- Get up with my beautiful wife Brigitte, and our adorable children, Tarquin and Honeysuckle. Before “breckie” we all make our way out to our modest three acre garden to partake in the morning ritual of Tai Chi. Our 16 year old daughter, Honeysuckle, loves to bend and stretch her taut body, she really has become one of the more popular girls at School. Mr Whittle, her sports teacher, is a particular fan and always raves on about her gymnastic prowess and suppleness at our regular dinner parties. Spiffing!

9am- Breakfast. We do not believe in eating mass produced food, so we buy organic products from local traders. People say that it is more expensive than the supermarkets, but gosh, we only get one Earth to live on, Yah? You just cannot put a figure on doing the right thing and I am quite sure even the poor could manage to go organic if they would stop boozing, smoking and gambling their minimum wages away. I have even considered getting our own allotment so I can get back to basics. Earthy Yah! Croissants or wholemeal pancakes with maple syrup and a cup of decaffeinated coffee are always the starters for Brigitte and moiré; Honey and Tarquin have purified water and blueberry muffins. This is followed by a fruit salad of WN1 grown strawberries, melon, grapefruit, kiwi fruit, orange, lemon and lime. The sun always shines in Swinley. Toppo!

11am- After relaxing in our natural hot water springs pool we all trot off down to the Wigan Lourdes Charity Shop on Wigan Lane in Swinley to spend some time helping out behind the counter. It is a tight squeeze fitting all four of us behind there, but as I tell Honey and Tarquin, it was a much tighter squeeze that Moses had fitting all those animals two by two onto the Ark. Besides it is only right that we give a little something back to the world and in particular the poor people of Wigan. Normally we take a bag of our month old clothes to give away in-case there is a day trip of in-bred quadrupeds from Norley Hall. It breaks my brittle heart! High expressed emotion indeed!

12:30am- Lunchtime. We just love to go to the Brocket Arms at the weekend. In the summertime you can see us all sat outside in our ¾ length pants, open toed sandals, peach t-shirts and trendy haircuts. It is great to bask in the glory of our success and quite often you will hear one of us shocking the others with the precise details of how much in value the price of our house has gone up. Equity!

3pm- When they are playing at home we go and lend our support to the Wigan Rugby Union Club. The whole family love Rugger, especially Tarquin and I. Tarquers is a whiz down the wing for the under 15’s team at the Bolton School. If kick-off clashes with Honeys ballet and she cannot attend then Brigitte drives her to class. Honey attends the Wardhaugh Academy of Dance in Poolstock. Usually we do not venture over to that side of town but Janet Wardhaugh really is excellent, and she is accredited to teach the RAD syllabus. That is the Royal Academy of Dance for those of you not ITK.

5:30pm- Evening Meal. The Bel Air Hotel and Restaurant, again on Wigan Lane Swinley, has superb French Cuisine. The French onion soup, frogs legs and snails are to die for and the aroma of garlic really makes you feel like you are in Provence. Which of course you are, the English and more sophisticated version anyway. We usually alternate weekends between Bel Air and Papa Luigi’s. If any of you have ever been to Little Italy in New York then I think you will agree when I say a meal in Papa Luigi’s is just like being in the Big Apple. I sometimes refer to Swinley as being “Little Swinley” which is always met with terrific laughter.

8pm- The highlight of our family day is the Alpha Course. After a day of some giving, but mostly taking, it is important to focus oneself on why we are here. Due to our high flying careers we have rather neglected the church, and what better way than an Alpha Course to get the principles of Jesus nailed down. It is nice to see some of our peers in there too. Not that we do it because it is trendy you understand!

10pm- By this juncture in the day Tarquers and Honey are bushed and slope off to bed for a well deserved rest, hopefully with the words of God firmly embossed on their young minds.

10:01pm- Mr Whittle, whom you may recall as being our delightful daughters sports teacher arrives with his wife for one of our dinner parties. We just love having dinner parties at the weekend and with another three couples, whom we regularly alternate the venue arriving shortly afterwards, it always lives up to its usual high standards. I simply adore watching Brigitte getting it banged out of her like it is going out of fashion. The expression on her face is an absolute picture as she resembles some kind of Hellmans mayonnaise catastrophe that has exploded in her hair, on her face and on the small of her back. She is a real trooper my Briggers as well as being a damn good Mother to our wonderful children. I myself enjoy a spot of playful indulgence, although I draw the line at anal, as after the last dinner party my ringpiece ending up like a fresh bullet wound. I literally could not sit down to chair the last MD meeting the following week. Watersports and scat are also a definite no due to Pemberton “Fat Bird” Flu and the lack of strict border controls at the junction at TESCO.

1am – Everyone goes home rather contented. Brigitte and I have a cup of hot choccy made with goats milk and gluten free biscuits before bed. So there you have it, a typical weekend day in the life of me Dominic Oldman and my family. It could be any family in the Swinley area as we all have such spectacular lifestyles. WN1 Suburbia
Yah!! WN5 Nah!!

Dominic Oldman

Mudhutter No6 June 2006

Follically challenged

2010-12-11T23:42:00.006Z

I’m follically challenged,
but I couldn’t give a shit.
When I look into the mirror,
what looks back at me is fit.

Crows feet enhance my charm,
and fit this face of beauty
Define these dark, deep eyes,
to be striking is my duty.

So tell me what's the problem,
that I have several chins?
When just above my first one,
lies the cheekiest of grins.

My age is not my challenge,
can’t you see I’m wrote for luck.
So take me as you find me,
because I don’t give a fuck

Penance

2010-10-30T22:23:00.004+01:00

Well I don’t have much to give,
but take it with my blessing.
Strangle love I need to live,
choke the lies that I’m confessing.

I’m a sinner, please forgive me,
for I know what I have done.
Vent your fury as it should be,
I am history and gone.

Futile reasons don’t exist,
I wont hide ‘neath pointless lies.
Nor the truth will I resist,
that’s reflected in your eyes.

This is my eternity,
a fitting lifetime sentence.
Purgatory the prize,
repenting as my penance.

All roads have lead to here.

2010-10-21T22:32:00.008+01:00

Those without life’s earnest pain,
love eludes their barren lives,
every path we ever trod;
our fate, conclusion nears.

Hollow months spent to fix,
precious love never lost.
a paradox of truth;
lamentable futility.

Neath shimmering winter scene
the Forest of Bowland awaits
bearing reverent testimony,
to sincerity and love.

Fulfilment to embrace
realisation of dreams,
beginning of a journey,
all roads have lead to here.

Published in the Mudhutter Football Express October 2010

The sexual awakening of fatty

2010-10-16T01:29:00.010+01:00

Two big fatties
shagging in the park,
is it any wonder
the kids all laugh and bark?

Eat more cake
and scoff that pie,
"it's my glands you know"
well that's a lie.

One bowed bench
groans beneath the weight,
what a crushing end
for you my wooden mate.

All of our taxes
paying for the fact,
you'll eat yourself to death
'cause you're too fucking fat.

Published in the Mudhutter Football Express October 2010

End game

2010-07-20T11:56:00.008+01:00

The beginning of the end,
or the end of the beginning?
Are my sins to absolved,
can I ever be forgiven?

Peter’s gates await me,
on that day I will be judged.
I’ll drag my weary body,
one last time through mortal sludge.

Of a lifetime of mistakes,
am I really so hard bitten?
Am I cold and old and sold,
from the pages I have written?

The start of the end,
or the end of the start?
Tell me who is going to save me,
keep me safe within their heart?

Alone

2010-06-29T00:14:00.014+01:00

Fair weather friends will fade,
as sun sets for the final time.
Distancing themselves,
as pain bleeds onto cold earth.

Remembered with warmth,
regaling times of stunning colour.
Cut adrift in your hour of need,
asphyxiated with false hope.

Deserted, abandoned,
to chain stoke alone

I wanna play for Latics.

2010-05-06T15:46:00.013+01:00

Scharner's off to Fulham
to play Europa League.
N'Zogbia to Arsenal
and Beckford plays for Leeds.

I just wanna play for Latics.

Henrik Larsson,
Mark Viduka,
Lindsay's a Queen,
a pooper scooper.

But I just wanna play for Latics.

Whelan broke his leg,
Cup Final 1960.
Brenda rubs it nightly,
the thought it makes me sickly.

Could I have played for Latics?

A room full of dreamers
in the Bellingham tonight.
Dreaming the same dream,
guided by the sight.

We all want to play for Latics.

Performed at the Nostalgia Night 2, March 16th 2010. Dedicated to the 110 dreamers who attended the evening and to all at Mudhutsmedia

Saint Georges Day Lament

2010-04-20T21:56:00.010+01:00

Not a kindly word,
or phrase of celebration.
Choking on the lies,
abandoning the nation.

Flags unfurled wave free,
shackled by false hate and fear.
Burying our souls,
in prescription drugs and beer.

Saint George has been slain
and no-one stopped to blink.
A nation with no pride,
as if recruited not to think.

Not a single word,
was heard in protestation.
Can you hear the sound?
The dying of a nation.

First Published in the Mudhutter Football Express Issue 28, April 2010

An Open Letter to Ashley Cole

2010-04-18T11:26:00.005+01:00

What the fuck is up with you son? You’re shacked up with one of the most beautiful women in the world and still you can’t get it right! It’s symptomatic of you and your ilk. Pampered footballers, who want it all and care not a jot who they shit on to get it.

How the fuck could you do this to sweet, sweet Cheryl? If I had a bird like Cheryl I’d do everything to keep her. If Cheryl said “cook me Lobster Risotto, I’d cook it”, if Cheryl said “I want romancing in a bath sprinkled with roses” I’d chew the fucking petals off to provide it. Are you getting the idea Ashley?

Surely it can’t be a lack of action in the bedroom Ashley? If Cheryl was mine I’d ride the hole clean off of her. I’d throw her petite and highly sexed body all over my mansion. I can see her now with a kitchen apron on and as she turns her back to me she has nothing on underneath except her stockings and suspenders. Her taught arse delicately covered with see through black panties. She’d bend over all seductively, placing her index finger naughtily by the corner of her bright red lip-sticked lips. Her eyes wide open and helpless like a fox cornered in a woodland glade, begging to be taken in manly fashion.

Do you like the thought of another individual being bent over Ashley? Do you like the smell of the sweat and testosterone in the shower after a particularly arduous training session son? Rumour has it that you and a certain ray of sunshine were very close during your time at Arsenal? The boy has done good since returning to the heart of the North London clubs defence eh? Not that is a defence for you fella.

Don’t even get me started on your “hurt” at only being offered a pittance of 55k a week contract at Arsenal you selfish little cunt. What motivates you Ashley? Is it an unquenchable need for acceptance? Or is it a tangerine in the mouth and wearing your Mam’s tan tights that keeps you cheating on sweet, sweet Cheryl?

Sometimes when a bird looks dirty you can bet your bottom Euro that they are anything but experimental. But Cheryl? Nah, I bet she’s a dirty wee fuck, the type of lass that spreads her arse cheeks and begs to be anally violated. A right filthy ride!

Of course it could be the fall out from an unwanted but necessary alliance. Let’s face it, you were being closely monitored for your post-match bath antics and allegedly Cheryl twatted a non-white skinned girl in the bogs, which I may add I don’t believe. Talk about killing two birds with one stone.

My advice to you son is this. Let Cheryl go and let her find a REAL man, someone like me.

If Cheryl was mine. . . . . .. . . . . .you know the fucking rest.

Dirrrrty (give me 5mins alone with Mrs Cole) Oldman

First published in the Mudhutter Football Express Issue 28 April 2010

Absolution

2010-04-15T00:59:00.008+01:00

Forgive me oh my Lord,
for I know not what I do.
Mother turned her back,
whilst Daddy thrashed me blue.

So I kick and punch
and hit and slap,
each one in my wake.

I laugh and sneer
and spit and crack,
the fear in every face.

I'm a sensitive wee soul,
buried deep within this hate.
Full of anger, love and fear,
from a childhood that was raped.

Forgive me oh my Lord,
I despise what I've become.
Save me from myself,
please let me feel your love.

The Vicar to the Actress

2010-03-25T10:55:00.008Z

Watched you take on all the men,
saw you conquer them and tame.
The strange old boards you tread,
in a bid for love and fame.

I felt strangely un-aroused,
as arousals grew and grew.
For the end to this here flick,
a conclusion we all knew.

So pick up your dress and pride,
exit stage there o’er the left.
From a life that stops the heart,
void of meaning and bereft.

For I never will exploit
your good nature once again.
I’m the Vicar to your Actress,
you’re the pleasure to my pain.

Realise my mortal fear,
a vision of the wraith.
I walked away alone,
with nothing left but faith.

Orwell

2010-03-24T20:45:00.007Z

Orwell had it right,
got it to a tee.
Scanners at the airports
captive to ID.

Everyone is watched,
everyone is safe.
All correct and present,
each one knows their place.

Living life in fear,
paranoia rules.
Doctrine that’s prescribed,
birth to death we fools.

Listen can you hear
the hatching of their plan?
They f*cked it up in Iraq,
watch them smash Iran.

Are we all too blinkered,
blinded by the dread?
Orwell had it right,
and we're the living dead.

Blogger Buzz: Blogger integrates with Amazon Associates

2010-03-24T20:38:00.000Z

Blogger Buzz: Blogger integrates with Amazon Associates

Dad

2010-03-11T23:08:00.004Z

He smelt of booze and tabs,
but still he was my Dad.
He raped and beat my Mum,
but still I was his son.

He broke my heart and soul,
without him there’s a hole.
I’m feeling lost and sad,
still missing my old Dad.

First published in The MFE 27 February 2010

Sunbeams & Rainbows

2010-03-03T00:17:00.003Z

You were so complex.
Whether to hold you close
or decipher you?

Truth and fear.
So perfectly encapsulated,
within your Goddess being.

And I was yours.
Unachievable dreams,
false promises of new dawns.

You are my sunbeam and rainbow.
Beautiful break of colour,
on the rainiest of days.

First published in The MFE 27 February 2010

The Sinner

2010-01-17T00:24:00.005Z

God loves a sinner,
so he's backed me to the hilt.
He only places money
on the ones consumed with guilt.

I know I'm hung and drawn
if it goes to public vote,
so I'm hanging on for Jesus
and the scriptures that were wrote.

For God loves all the sinners
and I know that he loves me.
I hope that I don't lose,
place your bets and watch me freeze.

A Christmas Tale

2009-12-29T22:38:00.003Z

Kids in snow, the rosie glow,
that spring could never bring.
A slice of ice that feels so nice,
cold wind it sings and stings.

Summers sun is long but gone,
the heat that warmed their feet.
So give me snow my love doth grow,
'neath sleet waits Santa's treat.

War heroes lament

2009-12-28T22:55:00.002Z

Springtime and the living is easy.
Not for them, war veterans and the needy.
Fill my senses; sweet flowers and stale sick,
bile it slides, at your shoes it gently licks.

Summertime and the drink is a flowing.
All around is a violence that's growing.
This my Britain; no more I want to feel,
'fraid to walk, down the streets they long to steal.

Autumn time, in a life that you devoted.
Sacrifice you made, that goes un-noted.
And to think you gave your life for this,
handshake thanks, from an insincere wrist.

Wintertime, choking on your final breath.
Freeze your way, to an unbecoming death.
War hero, there’s no brandy and cigars,
they’re too drunk in the nearby parks and bars

First published in the Mudhutter 26, December 2009

A Moralistic Choice

2009-11-26T23:41:00.001Z

It’s with a heavy heart and great disappointment that I write this, but something has to be said. I originally sent this letter to the local press but unsurprisingly it wasn’t published. Anyone daring to say anything negative about Dave Whelan in Wigan is refused a public forum to express their thoughts, even when their grievance has validity. I know it’s a little late to be sending this but I hope Mirror readers have some empathy with the story I’m about to tell.

I was fortunate enough to be in attendance at the Wigan Athletic v Manchester City game on Sunday 18th October, which was a fantastic spectacle. Well done to all those inside the DW stadium for making an electric atmosphere. The banter between both sets of fans was good humoured and far removed from the bad old days of 1980’s crowd violence.

However, one thing troubled me. Whilst making my way over the River Douglas and toward the stadium I stopped dead in my tracks. What I witnessed next shocked and dismayed me. At the end of bridge I could see two Cancer Research volunteers who were collecting for their charity. They were being asked to move on by two of the DW Stadium stewards. Apparently they were on private property and didn’t have a license to be there.

As I moved on I got talking to a couple of lads who were selling a Wigan Athletic fanzine. Apparently they had been told to move too. It comes to light that a new “Official Programme” kiosk had been implemented at the end of the bridge and “others” were getting in the way of selling the programme. It’s not like you can get it in the stadium is it??

Is this really what football has become? Is it nothing more than an excuse to suffocate charity workers and independent writers?

I’m a rare breed, a season ticket holder at both the towns clubs, and I love them equally. I’m a big fan of what Dave Whelan has done for this town and its sporting heritage, but come on Mr Whelan have a heart.

Can it really be the right thing to do when people are being harassed off a bridge that was there long before the JJB Stadium was built? Premiership football is awash with money and anyone who wants a programme will get one regardless of a moped size kiosk.

Leave the volunteers and writers alone eh Dave, what threat to the millions that is poured into football can a couple of people on a bridge be to you?

Dominic Oldman

Lucky Heather

2009-11-10T00:59:00.005Z

Heather was so lucky,
a hit with all the boys.
“They all just want to fuck me
and I never make a noise”

Now she’s on her own,
don’t you think that it’s a shame?
But she won’t take the bullets,
too vain to take the blame.

Feeding off the scraps,
impervious to guilt.
Dead behind the eyes,
to fuck she’s custom built.

Heather was so lucky,
adored in her own mind.
Rather than feel love,
she's fucking herself blind.

Acumen

2009-10-30T23:10:00.002Z

Walk like a champion,
don’t let them grind you down.
The World is full of fuckers,
who’ll beat you to the ground.

Move on, and rise above them,
leave them trailing in your wake.
The last laugh will be yours friend,
as you watch them crack and break.

So keep walking like a Champion,
for a Champion you are.
The World is full of love,
when you’ve worked out where you are.

The Coppers Revenge

2009-03-23T23:36:00.003Z

Outline in chalk,
senescence overtaken;
white noise,
shallow breath.

Probing eyes peer
into the blood curdling scene.
Peaceful;
sacrosanct you.

Mimicking rest,
static eyes open and late.
Annulled;
forever gone.

Body bag set,
residue hidden within.
Tonight
you wont go cold;

but you’ll probably
go unsolved.

First published in the Mudhutter Football Express Issue 22, March 2009

Beatles Day - A Celebration

2009-03-13T23:04:00.003Z

Article by special guest writer Roy "Carpenter" Smythe

Well it had to happen didn’t it? A day dedicated to the four young lads who shook the world. So on the morning of the inaugural day to celebrate the genius of The Beatles I awoke determined to embrace the concept of Scouseness and Beatleness in it’s entirety.

To start with I imagined how I would feel if I was suffering intolerable heroin withdrawal symptoms. What better way to understand a Scouser? I reasoned that I would be tremulous, experiencing terrible gastro intestinal disturbances, my nose would be running like a bastard tap, my levels of irritability would be intense and that my pupils would be pinned to fuck. Scouse as you like eh?

This didn’t really feel authentic enough though, so I got dressed and left the house and headed into Liverpool on the train. Fortunately I had forward planned the attire part of the day to perfection. So it was on with the Lacoste shell suit and sovereign rings and away I went. All was going well as I hid in the train bogs drinking my white lightening cider from a polystyrene cup and avoiding paying my fare. That was until I got to Lime Street that is, and then the stewards got me. Luckily I said that “I ownleee gorron a Edgggge Hkkkkill whaccckkkk” and so only had to pay a single. As I swaggered off the station pleased as punch with myself I headed to the Liverpool Echo head office in Old Hall Street to buy my “mop top wig” which was retailing for just £5. How could anyone doubt my belonging to the town now the mop top wig was in tow?

It was at this point that I realised that I needed to up the stakes if I was really going to get down with the Scousers and the Beatle fans, to celebrate. So I took the last swig of cider from my cup and then placed it on the ground. Within 30 minutes I’d collected over £6 and I’d made contact with a local unemployed smack head who assured me that he could cut me in on a £10 bag. So, full of smack I wandered the Liverpool streets looking for Beatles devotees whilst feeling like a proper Scouser.

So much so that I initiated the next ingredient of my assimilation plan, I mugged an old lady. That’s right, I slapped the old duffer across the face and snatched her purse, well when in Rome eh? Would you believe it, another £10 bag in the old dears purse and the works to complete the mission. No fucking money in it though, just a bus pass and a love letter from 1945 that I used to dab the blood up after I’d dug for a vein. I never knew being a Scouser could be such fun.

As I staggered further into the city, onto Williamson Square, I came across a mass of people. Surely these are the devotees that I travelled so far to be with. Alas no, and I ended up spending the rest of the afternoon sat with the members of the Williamson Square Jobcentre Plus crew in the Beluga Bar. Not exactly Beatles, but very Scouse, and seeing Ricky Tomlinson on the telly with the same wig at least validated my decision. There was no need for the tribute band on the ferry though, fucking gash.

Shortly after I blacked out and sometime later I woke up being dragged into the back of a Police van naked and with come running down the back of my legs. Internally I didn’t feel too uncomfortable and the flashbacks since would suggest I was complicit.

So there you go, being a Scouser and a Beatles fan is indeed “boss” and I look forward to celebrating the day again next year.

Words hand crafted by adopted Scouser,

Roy “Carpenter” Smythe

Damascus

2009-03-13T00:16:00.006Z

This road to Damascus
paved with ambivalence and doubt.
Left me staring at the ceiling
and the walls that moves in time.

Throw a shekel in your dead sea,
do I float or I do I drown?
Sirens calling me to prayer,
but I'm waiting to be found.

The Wailing Wall heaved and sagged and groaned,
leaving me unmoved, moving on alone

and Damascus is a long way from home.

Friends (not so) Reunited

2009-02-14T12:09:00.005Z

Yes. . . I know.

I’m aware I said in the first MFE of the 2008/09 season that I would be much more serene since my summer wedding. However, something happened the other week that ended all that. The wife has lost her wedding ring! Since the big day she’s been leaving it lying at her arse and I’ve been picking it up at the back of her and scolding her. “You’ll fucking lose this”, I kept telling her, and alas she did. Worst of all is that she hasn’t got a fucking clue how.

Of course I’ve had the piss ripped out of me, with friends and colleagues telling me she must have left it on someone’s bedside table. Or that it must have slipped off her finger and slid between the grills, as Bobby from Vision World scuttled her over the bonnet of his Cortina. By and large I’ve laughed these suggestions off. To be honest if you had seen the wife you’d laugh it off too. People that have witnessed her say she’s got a lovely personality, you know, proper bubbly.

Anyway, seeing as the fat jolly bastard had stuck a wedge the size of China between our new-found happy marriage I found myself spending an inordinate amount of time on-line. There’s a few things on the wonderful world of the web I’ve always wondered about, mainly because I can’t get my head around them. They’re the Friends Reunited, Facebook, etc shite. The whole idea behind them flummoxes me.

If these so called friends that you profess to want to be reunited with meant so much then why did you lose contact in the first place? I’ve never lost contact with anyone I didn’t want to, friend or no friend. Anyway, for the purpose of research I centred my efforts on Facebook and what an inspired choice that was.

What a set of fucking prize whoppers who post on this old pile of bollocks. First of all you get an “invite” to be a friend of whoever has wasted precious seconds of their life looking for you. This is in the form of a little message when you log on to Facebook or via your e-mail. Now there’s two ways they could have found you. Number 1 - Type the name of the person you’re looking for and plough through the hundreds of wankers who share the same name as you. Fine if your name is Cecil Pillsbury, but you’re up shit creak if it’s John Smith. Or, Number 2 - Tap in the name of your friend complete with e-mail address of said friend and invite them to join you.

What the fuck are you doing inviting someone to be your friend online if you have their e-mail address? Surely if you have this amount of information you could e-mail them and ask for their mobile number to invite them to meet you in the real world for a pint? Come to think about it, if you have their e-mail address you probably got it off them when you spoke to them on the phone or in person. In fact you’re probably already their friend. It makes no sense at all??

The fun doesn’t stop there though readers. There’s so much fun that can be had as a Facebooker! You can join loads of exciting groups like “Boycott X Factor until the judges get a grip” or “Viva Ash Vegas”, oh the fucking mirth. These groups don’t actually do anything other than give a platform for shit houses everywhere to say how great it is to get absolutely hammered in their local town. That leads me onto the photo section were our eccentric Kings and Queens of comedy post picture upon picture of themselves in various states of pose with hilarious captions like “u go girl” or “I didn’t realise I was so small”.

Invariably most of the photos are in the pub and are dreadfully unflattering. Even worse though are the photos that people put up of their holidays or their kids birthdays. If you’re reading this and have been guilty of the aforementioned crime then let me spell it out for you. NO-ONE GIVES A SHIT and because you’re not forcing it into their faces, like you would if you actually sat in the same room as them, then no-one is looking at them. Be honest, how fucking dull and inconvenient is it having to feign interest in some other bastards snaps? It’s beyond tedious and the thrill factor doesn’t increase because it’s on-line.

Then there’s the friends suggestion facility. I’m thirty bastard one, why the fuck would I need someone to suggest who I could be friends with? My personal favourite is the “Status Update” were our quirky cyber heroes can share spleen rupturing moments like “I’m growing a beard and thinking of God”. PLEASE FUCKING DIE or at least get disconnected.

A final mention to the Facebooker über alles. The sad wanker who you never liked, you were never friends with because they were in the lunchtime chess club and you wouldn’t even piss on if they were on fire. The ones whom only reason for being on Facebook, Friends Reunited etc is to tell you how well they are doing for themselves. The type of sad bastard who writes comments in their “Status Update” like “Mike is thinking 2 long haul trips in a week may be a bit excessive after all.”

Oh do fuck off , if life was so great you would have no need to post a message to Facebook via your mobile telling all of your 792 friends who don’t fucking care that you’ve been on a aeroplane.

Facebook and it‘s inhabitants. . . . . . . I’ve shit ‘em.

Dirrrrty “I’m just off to post pictures of myself and my family via my blackberry in a bar on Bondi beach whilst getting horribly pissed” Oldman

First published in the Mudhutter Football Express Issue 21. February 2009

High life.

2009-02-07T22:27:00.006Z

Living the high life,
self-appointed King in a vertical concrete ghetto.
It’s there that all the decisions are made
undisturbed by the street level drifters.
Entry; strictly verboten to the outside world.

Peering through cigarette stained fingers
at the inhabitants below. Insignificant;
neither subjects nor enemies.
Creations of a repugnant existence,
urchins of the lowland terrain.

But you forget old friend,
I know you far too well, having stood
on the 22nd floor of your inner sanctum.
Paranoia breeds amongst the empty beer cans,
discarded spoons and magazine cuttings.

Leaving your shopping at the door
I catch a glimpse of you through the letterbox.
How did it come to this?
A shell of a man I once loved and knew,
sweet brother John, are you ever coming back?

Skinny girl

2009-02-04T01:30:00.003Z

Ginger spice hair,
tight fitting Rupert pants .
Mesmerising hips,
held me lusting in a trance.

Trance laid asunder,
wait to make my move.
Saunter to your dance floor,
hit you with my groove.

Groove young skinny girl,
le début, la fin.
Everybody’s story
written on their skin.

Skin is beauty deep,
six feet down and terse.
Dance with me a rumba
before I book my hearse

Hello I love you wont you tell me your name (again)

2009-01-31T01:40:00.002Z

I say again, but I never really forgot it in the first place, it’s just we lost each other along life’s busy highway. So it’s with great pleasure I have been able to announce to anyone bored enough to listen “this month (well since the 30th May) I have been mostly listening to The Doors.”

Our re-acquaintance has come at a particularly happy time in my life as I, Mr Dirrrrtyoldman have recently taken our lass the bird now known as Mrs Dirrrrtyoldwoman to be my lawful wedded wife. It was during the wedding night haze of an evening fueled by merriment and alcohol that I found my former musical love, The Doors.

The wife’s sister and husband, now my sister and brother in law had brought their iPod to the party to liven up an otherwise dull selection of my CD’s. Now our family do’s invariably wind up with the lot of us taking turns on the microphone and amplifier. These are always generously brought along by the wife’s aunty and uncle, now my aunt and uncle in law. Anyway I’m pestering the sister-in-law to find me something on the iPod that I can get up and give plenty, when low and behold a selection of The Doors tracks come up.

It was like getting married all over again only without me tripping over my words and getting something in my eye. So I gave it what for and belted out Light My Fire and Hello I Love You. This was all too quickly followed, in everyone else’s opinion, by L.A Woman and Alabama Song (Whiskey Bar). Well, fuck ’em, it’s my, sorry, our wedding.

An hour or so later, and with the bravery of far too many glasses of cheap Champagne I launched into Roadhouse Blues and Riders On The Storm. By the time I woefully belted out the oral sex metaphor, Love Me Times the gig had gone on far far too long. I didn’t even get the first bar out for Back Door Man before a bemused Mrs Dirrrrtyoldwoman reminded me there were children present and that singing “the men don’t know but the little girls understand” wasn’t exactly the behaviour of a newly married man.

In the aftermath of a disastrous night it was with a chuckle to myself that I remembered a couple of other Doors related stories. The first being at my mates, Dad’s funeral when I was about 19. The Church was a Catholic one in Burtonwood and the place was packed to the rafters. Now apart from serving on the alter as an alter boy, I’d never been to the funeral of anyone I knew. So all of us mates are sat at the back as nervous as could be when the organist starts up, Ray Manzarek style. Quick as a flash one of the lads whispers, “Jim Morrison’s gonna jump out that coffin and Eddies Dad’s going to walk in the back any minute now laughing his fucking nuts off.” Well we just creased up laughing, but thankfully no-one really noticed as they were all to consumed by their own personal grief. I’ve laughed at every funeral since.

Another one involved a mate of mine insisting he was the reincarnation of Jim Morrison as he was born on the day he died, 7/3/71. It transpired that Morrison died on 3/7/71 and the poor bastard got it ripped out of him for years.

So I’m sat here typing this and listening to The Doors in the background. A quick glance at the sleeve notes reminds me that this is a band that recorded six albums in just four years. It takes most bands that amount of time to record one album nowadays, and that’s with all the technology that is meant to make it easier and sound better.

As the final few bars of When The Music Is Over fade out I can’t help but think what a waste it was that Jim Morrison checked out at just 27yrs old. It’s a true tragedy that Morrison, a man who had the looks, charisma, voice and writing skills left this mortal coil so soon into his young life. Who knows what else this wordsmith could have produced?

My guess is that he would adhere to the old cliché about burning out, not fading away.

If you’re up their Jim it’s a pleasure to have made you acquaintance again. Now make sure you keep a Whiskey Bar open for my arrival.

First Published in The Mudhutter 16, June 2008

Lamp post tribute

2009-01-21T11:07:00.003Z

Floral words at the foot
of a lamp-post memorial.
Paltry monument ruse
to the unknown drifter.

Disparaging all success,
amnesic convenience.
Rejoice the passing
with out-of-date flowers.

Celebrating death,
scorn anonymous life.
Presumptuous petals fall
from fickle fingers of fate.

The Death of Christmas

2008-12-23T22:08:00.005Z

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

2008-12-16T23:08:00.003Z

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

2008-12-03T23:34:00.010Z

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

2008-12-01T00:05:00.004Z

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

2008-11-28T02:25:00.003Z

“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

2008-11-24T02:04:00.014Z

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

2008-11-11T15:18:00.003Z

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

2008-11-10T01:55:00.014Z

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

2008-11-05T00:07:00.006Z

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

2008-10-12T12:24:00.002+01:00

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

2008-10-08T20:29:00.004+01:00

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

2008-10-03T00:49:00.004+01:00

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

2008-09-17T01:06:00.013+01:00

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

2008-09-16T19:20:00.003+01:00

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

2008-09-10T14:38:00.003+01:00

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

2008-09-07T19:29:00.005+01:00

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?

2008-08-28T00:20:00.008+01:00

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

2008-08-28T00:10:00.002+01:00

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

2008-08-17T23:27:00.009+01:00

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

2008-08-09T15:33:00.004+01:00

Fern Britton - An open letter

2008-07-29T23:43:00.004+01:00

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

2008-07-20T23:09:00.004+01:00

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

2008-07-15T23:04:00.010+01:00

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

2008-07-10T19:32:00.004+01:00

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

2008-07-07T01:43:00.006+01:00

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?

2008-07-06T23:30:00.003+01:00

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

2008-06-25T13:30:00.007+01:00

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

2008-06-23T22:03:00.009+01:00

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

2008-06-19T00:07:00.019+01:00

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

2008-06-12T22:52:00.009+01:00

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

2008-06-08T23:38:00.004+01:00

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

2008-05-24T21:57:00.004+01:00

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

2008-05-20T20:59:00.003+01:00

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

2008-05-15T20:58:00.002+01:00

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

2008-05-13T20:07:00.000+01:00

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.

2008-05-08T23:44:00.001+01:00

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

2008-05-04T00:36:00.000+01:00

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

2008-05-02T21:41:00.000+01:00

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

2008-04-26T18:23:00.001+01:00

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

2008-04-24T19:22:00.000+01:00

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

2008-04-22T19:22:00.000+01:00

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

2008-04-19T10:48:00.000+01:00

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.

2008-04-11T19:08:00.000+01:00

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

2008-04-10T11:10:00.000+01:00

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

2008-04-10T10:51:00.000+01:00

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

2008-04-10T10:39:00.000+01:00

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.