Panic on the streets of London. . . .

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 ?

Amy Winehouse - The Death of Dignity

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?

An open letter to the School Reunionists

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.

A Year in Provence

(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

Friends (not so) Reunited

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

An open letter to Paul McCartney

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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