Divide and conquer.

I recently posted a blog entry, "The wonder of wondering", which related to the homeless and to those of us that have had a rough deal in life. It also dealt with our attitudes towards those poor unfortunates and has become easily the most read and most talked about of all our entries.

Although the entry only really related to those living on the streets, a recent television series, "Benefits Street" aired on Channel 4, stirred up a little more conversation and demonstrated to me just how disjointed our society has become. Comments came mainly either from those struggling on benefits or from those more fortunate people for whom the benefits claimants are pariahs and parasites. No inbetweeners though. The opinions expressed were poles apart and I must admit the vitriol contained within the comments posted by those more fortunate members of our society were, to me at least, shocking.

The main complaints aimed at the benefit claimants featured in the show wasn't the drug abuse, alcoholism, theft or bad language but was focused on one particular household and the fact that they possessed iPhones and an enormous television bolted to the wall. The young ladies concerned hadn't worked in years and were facing the threat of eviction after having their housing benefits cut as a result of the incredibly well thought out bedroom tax. So how did they get the telly? Could it be that, since they can't afford to visit the local theatre, cinema or opera house more than a couple of times a year they had clubbed together and were paying £4.50 a week to be able to watch the television programs that, let's face it, are churned out to keep them off the streets and prevent them socialising with others who may put silly ideas about fairness, equality and revolution in their heads. "But they don't need television, TV is a luxury." some claimed. Fair point, although I don't agree it's exactly a luxury, they CAN do without it. But come on folks, let the poor buggers have SOMETHING to do.

What about the phones? Why do they need smart phones? On the face of it this seems indefensible. However, if you are a job hunter you are now required to register with and use the DWP's Universal Job Search system. Online. If you don't own a laptop and have a home phone and broadband package you can use the library, fair enough. Except aren't libraries closing down left right and centre? An iPhone can cost, on contract, as little as £5.00 a week. A bus pass to get you to the job centre or library every day costs, in my area at least, £13.00 a week. Frugal, these benefit cheats, aren't they?

Others on the street were renting out their spare bedrooms to shady gentlemen from another street, probably a much nicer street inhabited by those more fortunate members of the local community whose taxes are paying for other peoples benefits, so that these shady gentlemen could grow cannabis in them. These people are using the money they receive to make up the shortfall in their benefits and, probably, are now better off than they were before. They have escaped the threat of eviction. Now they just have to live in fear of being prosecuted for the cultivation of cannabis and imprisoned for up to fourteen years. Greed? Or desperation?

I'm aware some of you are sat reading this and fuming. How dare I? Many of you will now be thinking I myself am sat in a council house, eating my free food from the food bank, watching my Brighthouse television while my JSA is in the pocket of a drug dealer and my children are wandering around in dirty disposable nappies bought from a shoplifter. I'm not. I'm poor, very poor. I own a twenty year old television. I work every single day, as does my partner. My children, now grown up and with children of their own, all work. I don't go out socialising and haven't for over a year. I can't afford it. I'm not on benefits though. For now.

But what happens if, in six or twelve or eighteen months time, my work dries up? What if I have to join the masses of unwashed immigrants, chavs and fraudsters queuing outside the Job Centre for my share of your taxes? Would you immediately think I was sub-human? Even though any hypothetical benefits I were to receive would have been more than paid for by my own taxes over the last twenty-nine years of gainful employment?

Perish the thought, I don't like to tempt providence, but what if the company you work for, or the Government department in which you're employed, goes tits-up? What if you've worked for thirty years and suddenly find yourself dumped from the world of the honest and hard working and deposited in the land of the devious and workshy? You've already got a nice car and a nice telly. Your gym membership is paid up. But you daren't drive your car, people will think you're a drug dealer. You have to close the curtains before putting the television on because that's a luxury and you're taking the piss. And what if the bloke that dealt with your benefit claim is sat on the next exercise bike to you at total fitness? What on earth will he think.

Who cares what he thinks. You've paid for the membership. You've bought the television. You've insured and fueled your car. You weren't always a bum. Those things are yours, you worked for them, use them. Don't be ashamed to be poor. Don't be ashamed to be unemployed. Do, however, be ashamed of yourselves if you're sat there reading the Daily Mail and allowing yourself to be one of the poor that blames the even poorer for your being poor. Don't look further down the chain of destitution to find the cause of all your problems. Look up the chain. Who's worse? The man that steals a coat from Marks and Spencers to top up his benefits, or the banker that "borrows" from a retirement fund to take a punt on the futures market and make himself rich? The former runs the risk of imprisonment, but is desperate enough to take that chance. The latter runs the risk of ruining the retirement of thousands, but is greedy enough to take the chance. MPs feather their nests, developers destroy communities, bankers destroy economies. Corruption is rife in Westminster and within the police force. The media spy on and manipulate the masses.

But those families on Benefits Street are bastards, aren't they?

I am aware that streets like Benefits Street exist. I walk my dogs along a few of them, I have lived on a few of them, I have worked on them and worked with the people that live on them. I have come across the very dregs of society on them and I've come across some of the kindest people I have ever met on them. The media is telling you who to hate and who to blame. They're telling you what to concentrate on and what to worry about. God forbid you should worry about our soldiers being used to kill brown babies because the fathers of some brown babies have killed the fathers of some other brown babies. Perish the thought you start asking questions that would make the establishment uneasy.

Just turn on your 48" LCD HD TV, tune in and drop out.

J2H.

Why Johnny Two Hats isn't, and never will be, a comedian...

I recently tweeted one of my van-videos, silly jokes told while I'm driving home after scratching a living somehow or other. A few people liked it, so I thought I'd slap a couple of them on here for posterity. Apologies for the sound quality and the shaky parts, they were filmed on my iPhone which was balanced on a cleverly adapted empty cigarette box and jammed into the paper tray on the dash of my lovely old Tranny van.

The funniest joke in the world, and the worst American accent ever.

(Let's call it revenge for Dick Van Dyke's quite frankly

offensive attempt at an English accent.)

And the fourteenth funniest in the world. 

Apologies for my disheveled appearance, and thanks for watching. If you did. If you didn't, thanks for nothing.

J2H

The blunted razor.

I've always thought of myself as something of a Luddite. That might seem spurious, since I’m quite obviously sat at my laptop tapping away on the keyboard and will, in a little while, be pressing a button that sends a file, wirelessly, through the air and into a magical labyrinth of servers before being distributed freely all around the world. Luddite? Yeah, when it suits me.

So maybe I’m a lazy Luddite. Maybe I carry the Neanderthal gene somewhere within me, the gene that caused their demise. A gene that forces me to say “You know what, this way works, let’s just leave it like this”. A gene that prevented the Neanderthal from exploring and from adapting. A very watered-down gene, but still I feel it’s effect. Thus far said gene hasn't caused me to throw a shoe into the wooden gears of a textile loom but I never use the electric starter on a motorcycle if there is a kick-start to do the job, nor do I press a doorbell if there’s a door available to knock on.

I have no problem with technology in the main. Technology doesn't always refer to iPads, Blackberrys or killer robots. Ball point pens, wood screws, the wheel and the axle that made the wheel useful are all examples of technology and examples that I embrace. I enjoy sitting at my laptop watching dogs do stupid things on Youtube, being able to pause live television so I can nip for a pee and flicking a switch to make a room warm or light. All those things, with the possible exception of Youtube, are very handy. They make my life easier in all the unimportant aspects of it. I don’t need any of them, and if I didn't have them my life would be just as exciting and enjoyable as it already is, just in a different way.

Maybe I’m better described as a fan of Occam’s razor. The simplest way is generally the best way. Why do we discover, invent or manufacture perfectly adequate tools to make our existence a little more comfortable and then continually piss about with them? I own a motorcycle helmet with Bluetooth. I own a washing machine that continually plays the first couple of bars of Westlife’s “You raise me up” (Don’t ask, I've no idea.) to tell you it’s finished washing. I have shirts that require no ironing and an iron that tells you when it’s hot. Somewhere, in a box or bag under a bed or in the loft, I have a fork that rotates to make the eating of Pot Noodles even simpler. Not a single one of these things is necessary to get me through my day, but still I bought them.

We've taken the internal combustion engine and used it to make travel and haulage easier and quicker. When I was young I owned many a shit car, and if anything went wrong with one I’d get out my Haynes manual and, along with a mate or two, would spend a morning or afternoon repairing it. I would use spanners, wrenches, screwdrivers, tape, grease and a hammer to get my pride and joy back on the road. I could put my hands inside the engine and feel the parts. I never once had to hook my laptop up to it to perform diagnostics and no matter what the problem was I could repair it. It may have taken me longer than the lads at the garage would've taken and there may have been enough cussing to make Frank Gallagher blush but the feeling of satisfaction when my pride and joy was back purring and roaring it’s way around the streets of Salford was incredible.

Every time someone decides to add a feature to a perfectly functional piece of existing technology they not only increase it’s functionality, they also increase the list of things that can go wrong. Servo-assisted brakes and power steering, fantastic. Until your electrics go whilst bombing down the motorway. Electric windows mean no more having to use your own power to wind your window down, but it makes escaping your car after plunging into a canal particularly problematic. There are vacuum cleaners on the market with the ability to sense dust and tell you that you've not done the cleaning properly. But you can see the dust, so why do you need a machine to tell you? Maybe it can sense dust that can’t be seen. But surely, if it can’t be seen, it doesn't fucking matter?

Machines now build machines for us. Machines design the machines that the machines will build for us. Our phones tell us when to get up, when to make that phone call we need to make and how to spell. Where once we’d turn to whoever was sat next to us on the couch to ask “oooh, what was the name of that song…” we now automatically unlock our phones, find out for ourselves and miss out on the conversation that might have sprang from our inquiry. Facebook allows us to lie convincingly to our friends and family and Twitter allows us to be completely honest with total strangers. Many of us will have read something completely inaccurate on the internet at some point and taken it on board without question. We’re letting the television educate and entertain our children, we even let it baby-sit them whilst we take a bath or cook the tea. Our cars tell us when they need servicing, our irons tell us when they’re hot and our vacuum cleaners criticise out lacklustre attempts at cleaning our homes. We rely on machines in almost every aspect of our lives. Computer says “yes“, computer says “no”, iron says “careful, I’m hot” and the hoover calls you a scruffy bastard. Technology is now our master, and when it decides it doesn't need us anymore it holds all the cards. No more helping you spell, helping you drive or helping you communicate.

The rise of the machines won’t need to be led by Skynet and it’s cyborgs. They won’t even need to fire a shot in anger. Skynet will simply decide that humans are all very much beneath him and ignore us. Our cars won't start or, if they're already being driven, won't stop. Our messages will remain unsent, planes will drop from the skies, smoke alarms will quietly giggle when our kitchens burst into flames because the iron that swore blind it was cold when we put it in the cupboard was actually glowing red hot instead and we’ll be crippled by Asthma made worse by our having filthy, dusty carpets. And, if Skynet wants to ensure there is no resistance, it'll let us keep Tweeting. That way we can moan about our lot, find others who agree with us and then get sidetracked by looking at pictures of dogs or reading life affirming advice from eighteen year old children craving attention and validation.

Personally, I'd probably not notice the difference.

J2H.

Happy New Year...

...A few days early with that, aren’t I?

In my opinion I’m not. Why can’t we say that every day? Every day is the start of another year long period in our lives so why should we wait for just one of them? Why make resolutions on December thirty-first? What was wrong with September the eighth or sometime mid March? Answer, absolutely nothing.

What if, in November, you decide you want to quit smoking but you’ll do it in the New Year? What if, having decided on that New Years resolution, that on December the eleventh you smoke “that” cigarette. The one that causes the cells to mutate and begin their destruction of your lungs. The one cigarette from which there is no return. By February you’re still coughing up horrid, speckled phlegm. You stand, looking at your sputum in the sink or toilet or handkerchief and, feeling proud of yourself, think that’s just the badness coming out. And that cough, you’ve had it a month but that’s just you acclimatising yourself to a life without smoke, isn’t it? No need to bother the doctor. No, you’re getting fitter. (You probably are getting fitter, but the cancer isn’t causing you any problems yet. It will.)

Don’t you wish you’d quit in November?

Next year we’ll get better jobs, eat healthier, make an effort to build bridges with loved ones and learn to dance. Won’t it be wonderful? It was wonderful last year when we gave up smoking, joined a pilates class, cut the driftwood from our social circles and learnt to paint, wasn’t it?

If you’re lucky enough to have been able to purchase a ticket for £40.00 to visit your local hostelry on NYE (the hostelry you’ve spent money in all year long, there’s gratitude for you) then think about this at two minutes to midnight.

That girl crying in the corner, drunk and ready to throw herself at the first man to smile at her, wasn’t she here last year? Doing the same thing? Maybe not, but there was certainly another girl in a very similar situation sat in the same pub crying tears for the same reasons.

Those three lads that have had too much to drink and are going to kick the living daylights out of some stranger on their way home later, didn’t they do that last year?

The life and soul of the party, stood over there by the fruit machine, he’s having a great time, isn’t he? He’s been here all night, drank more than he’s used to and, in about an hours time, he’ll be sat alone crying over the children he’s lost or the bills he can’t pay since his accident caused him to give up work. You’ll see him again tomorrow, in the corner shop buying milk. He’ll wish you Happy New Year again, forgetting he saw you last night. He’ll tell you all about the fantastic night he had and the hangover he’s suffering. A little ray of sunshine. But his happy tales are  edited. If he tells you about being sick when he got home he’ll laugh as he does because it’s hilarious. He’ll not tell you he went to bed alone without brushing his teeth and cried himself to sleep. Because who cares?

There is no “New Year”. There is a new date, a date that’s not been used before, but nothing has changed.

You’re a year older? No you’re not, you’re a day older. And tomorrow you’ll be another day older.

This will be “your year”? Probably not. If your life’s shit then chances are it’ll be even more shit next year. Decay isn’t just for the dead, we’re all doing it.

I’m aware I may be coming across as a miserable bastard, I’m not miserable at all. (I am a bastard though.) I have a shit life. Maybe it’ll get better next year, maybe it’ll get worse, but either way it won’t be as a result of my surviving another period of three hundred and sixty five days. The universe doesn’t give a shit about you, me, the crying girl in the pub or whether you’re trying to be a better person. It’s all in your hands. If something needs changing, change it. And change it now. Seize the day. By the throat. Grab it, shake it and shout in it’s face if you need to. Let a little bit of spittle escape as you shout and land in the day’s eye. Be angry when you need to. Be gentle when you need to. Tell people if you’re sad, but don’t expect help. Don’t expect them to care. They almost certainly won’t. They’ll say they do, but once you’ve parted company and they’re chatting to their families they’ll not be chatting about you. Don’t believe me? Remember that colleague whose grandmother died? No? Really? But when he/she told you about it you reassured them, made all the right, caring, noises and told them if they needed anything to let you know. Remember?

All that said, I actually believe January the first is a magical day. A special day. I really do. The sun comes up in the morning. The world is a beautiful place on the 1st of January. You’re loved ones love you on January 1st.  And second. And third. September 10th is magical. March the 21st  also. Oh, and November 13th…

See what I mean?

HAPPY NEW DAY.

Appreciate that which is diminutive...

A change of style for my blog tonight
A bit of a break from the usual shite
I didn’t intend to make all this rhyme
I just sat at my laptop and wasted my time
I wanted to write of stuff good and stuff daft
To give all you readers a bit of laugh
I intended to blog about the best things in life
Things making us smile whilst suffering strife
The fries in the bag after sharing out Maccy’s
Playing the piano just using the black keys
Waking up two minutes before
The alarm interrupts your dreams in mid-snore
The yoghurt that’s stuck to the peeled back lid
Licking it clean like you did as a kid
Dancing in the kitchen while no one is looking
Shimmying to Elvis whilst doing the cooking
Finding a tenner in an old pair of jeans
Or eating Kentucky and flicking your beans
(That sounded rude, I’m sorry for that
I mean the bean in the bucket, not the one on your twat)
Playing with puppies, rolling on the floor
Ignoring the phone and not answering the door
Hearing the dawn chorus on the way to the bog
Climbing back into bed and spooning the dog
Staying in there and snoozing ‘til ten
Trumping and yawning and getting up when
You’re called for your breakfast, its bacon on toast
(You can replace that last line with what you like the most)
The mug of tea that sits by the plate
Is just cool enough so you don’t have to wait
Curled under a blanket watching crap on the telly
Eating the olives and cheese you bought from the deli
Knowing more answers than the team on the Chase
Sitting there smug with that look on your face
We all think it’s funny to fart in the bath
Those tickly bubbles make everyone laugh
It doesn’t matter how bad is the day
Whether its raining or foggy or just a bit grey
There’s a whole, wide, world for all to enjoy
Every man, every woman, every small girl or boy
To climb on and run round and sit and just chill
Whilst taking a break half way up a hill
Just sitting and watching the folk passing by
Admiring the birds flying high in the sky
Soaring and swooping and singing with glee
Reminding us all how much fun it can be
To see all the wonders each new morning brings
And be able each day to enjoy little things

Enjoy the little things. S’very important.

J2H

You cheap, lousy faggot.

I bloody hate Christmas, of that there can be no doubt. If Santa has a Nemesis then I'm it. It's cold, everyone of us will have a massive argument at some point, there will be tears, it's expensive and, even having asked that prick in the red suit every year of my childhood, I still never got the puppy I wanted. And why? Because tradition dictates Santa draft two lists, naughty or nice. What a judgmental bastard he must be. Yes, okay, I did break that window with a football and blame my sister and yes, I did steal a "Dubble Bubble" bubble gum from the counter or my Aunties shop on Partington Lane when I was six but in my defence A) It was windy and that pane was loose and B) Dubble Bubbles were GREAT for blowing bubbles. I can resist anything, with the unfortunate exception of temptation.

There are twelve months in every year. Only twelve. Christmas exists in just one of those months. Depending on your view it lasts either for that one "special" day or for twelve special days. Therefore every year Christmas takes up something between one thirtieth and one three-hundred-and-fifty-sixth of the year. I could accept that. What I can't accept is being reminded Christmas is coming before October is finished. The "run up" to Christmas is over two months long, a SIXTH of the year. Advertisements on the TV reminding us that we need to spend money we haven't got on loved ones and people we can't abide on one specific date. A date that no one forgets. No one. Men forget wedding anniversaries, children forget parent's birthdays and I forget my wallet a lot, but no one who hasn't suffered major head trauma forgets when Christmas is. In fact, even those that do experience major head trauma know full well when it is, they just use their misfortune as an excuse to pretend they don't. Every cloud has a silver lining.

When my children were small I "did" Christmas. I over spent, I over ate and I drank too much. I watched James Bond rape and murder his way through his fascist missions. I played family games and wore a stupid hat. (I like hats, I'd have been wearing one anyway, but I dislike being told I should.) I danced and sang in the snow to entertain my boys as we were sent on our own (largely rape and murder free) missions to pick up a case of lager or bottle of Bailey's Irish cream from their Grandmothers house because we were running out and Doctor Who was starting soon. And every year, as they got older, I was a year closer to never having to put up with that shit ever again.

My children are now in their twenties, and like the rest of my family don't bother with me anymore. I'm a miserable bastard, I've made silly decisions and I'm now lying in the bed I've made for myself. I am the reincarnation of Scrooge and all the richer for it.

This Christmas, like last Christmas and, if I make it that far, like next Christmas, I will have one long, blessed day without any company other than that of my dogs. I will eat toast a lot. I will probably still watch Doctor Who. I may even have a drink or two. I will open no presents, give no cards, make no phone calls, baton down the hatches and ride out the storm. People will ask "How was your Christmas", not because they give a shit how my festivities went but because, once I've answered them, they can bore my tits off with tales of their own puerile day. I'll say "Oh, it was quiet." and leave it at that. I'll force a false smile as they tell me what ridiculously over priced gifts they bought for their ugly children, how the turkey was a bit too dry and that the sister/wife/mother/lady from next door is no longer talking to them as a result of a simply hilarious (sic) misunderstanding. Then it'll be over, for another ten months.

Christmas, it's said, is a time for sharing with loved ones, for giving and for making the world a better place. In actual fact Christmas is one long wank-fest for the big corporations. It's a time when Tesco can remind you to spend money you can ill afford on foodstuffs that will shorten your life. It's a time for television companies to rake in the revenue from advertising, on behalf of Tesco, that you can purchase foodstuffs you can ill afford and that will shorten your life. It's a time to get drunk and tell your mother in law exactly what you think of her, to give your wife the slap she's been asking for all bloody year and to shout at your children because, inexplicably, they're over excited and annoying you while you're trying to get pissed and pretend your worthless existence has any meaning.

Now before I get it in the neck off those of you that enjoy the forthcoming shenanigans please let me try and defend my standpoint in a very hypocritical and festive way. Christmas is a time for giving, right? So, give me a fucking break. I'll even write you a thank you letter.

If you're one of the three ghosts that I have to be rude to and ignore every Christmas Eve take this on board.

Ghost of Christmas Past - Thanks for the memories. I still have them, I enjoyed a few Christmases, I can remember these occasions, they were perfect, let's just leave them be.

Ghost of Christmas Present - Thanks for nothing. I'm poor, I'm cold, I don't like turkey and I've got all the socks I need.

Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come - Yes, I know I'm going to die. It's all I have to look forward to. Why not show me something useful, like winning lottery numbers, where I've left my ClubCard vouchers or how do vampires shave if they can't see themselves in a mirror?

On a more positive note, there is one tiny piece of 

Christmas I still hold dear. Everybody...

J2H

Aaah, bumhug.

As many of you know, either from my rants on Twitter or because you've been unlucky enough to have endured a conversation with me face to face on the subject, I HATE Christmas. 

This hasn't always been the case. Whilst my children were young enough to enjoy the holiday I was more than happy to play along with the disgraceful commercialisation and mind numbing puerility of the whole freak show that it has become. During the period in which I could stomach it I made this little video which has sat, mainly unwatched, on Youtube. A number of my friends and family have said they enjoy watching it in the run up to Christmas and that it always makes them smile, so in a nod to the season of goodwill I've decided to "share the wealth" with any of you that fancy a bit of a smile. 

Merry friggin' Christmas.

J2H