The Death of Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas everyone.


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


First Published in The Mudhutter No5, Christmas 2005

THIS is Wigan

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

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

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

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

THIS is Wigan.

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

Fences

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

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

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

P

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

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

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

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

An open letter to Paul McCartney

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At night

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

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

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

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

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

Remembrance

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

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

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

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

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

A Winters Tale

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yakum

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

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

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

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

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

Next stop : the grave

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

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

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

The Death of the Working Classes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I saw this kid with trainers that light up

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

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

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