The fairness paradox.

One upon a time, a bloody long time ago in fact, men wore tights.

Some still do. I have, when working on building sites in the winter. Come the summer months I would swap my choice of undergarment for the far lighter, cooler and more hygienic stockings and suspenders. But I digress.

These tighted men of whom I write would wander into the forest, because we had proper forests we could wander into back then, and fire an arrow through the shoulder of a wild boar, because we had wild boars and you were allowed to shoot them with bows and arrows back then, before clubbing said posh-pig to death and carrying it home to the village. A posh-pig is far too much for one man alone to eat and there was a distinct lack of refrigerators in the villages of the time so, rather than let three quarters of a pig go to waste, the man with the arrows would share it. In return he'd get a share of the nuts another man, probably a man with one arm who couldn't fire an arrow at an animal, had collected. Some vegetables that another villager had planted, tended and harvested, maybe a slice of bread provided by the woman from the end shack that could bake and, if he snagged them, he got the ladders in his tights repaired by the woman with the bent back who was too old to do anything else.

The posh-pig would be roasted, I imagine by someone that had no nuts, carrots or darning needles to offer, and the village would eat. A sociable bunch, the diners would remain together throughout the meal, eat together, then someone would get out the lute and someone else would sing a ditty or a ballad while those that could dance threw some shapes. Much merriment was had by all in merry olde England.

Occasionally the King's men would turn up to collect the taxes of his subjects to pay for a war or a castle or a really nice feather. If you couldn't pay they'd cut an arm off instead, thus condemning you to a life of nut foraging and rendering those lute lessons you'd been taking pointless.

Eventually some people, quite rightly, got a bit pissed off with continually losing their arms and, long story short, we had a civil war. In a nutshell, blah blah blah, yada yada yada, lots of people died, lots more didn't and a King got killed.

It was the time of the puritan. Among many other things, puritans were exceptionally miserable bastards.

"Stop pissing about," One of Oliver's army would shout, "you're dancing when you could be making money."

"Fuck off, we don't need money." Came the retort.

"Well, no, ok, but we do. Wars don't pay for themselves, you know. We need taxes and all we've got in the treasury is a big pile of rotting arms. You can't kill a Frenchman with a rotting arm."

"No Frenchman ever hurt me," the villagers responded, "I'm not working harder so you can hurt them."

"Yes, well, fair enough, but there's this really lovely feather on yeBay that the king-who's-not-really-a-king-we-promise want's to bid on. There's only three days left and it's not reached it's reserve yet."

"Fuck you and fuck your feather." They were an eloquent bunch back then.

The miserable ones were unhappy. This, paradoxically, made them feel better. "Ah-ha!" thought one, "that gives me an idea. Scribe, take down a proclamation."

And so it was that the news spread from village to village. They were doing it all wrong. Yes, they were having a nice time, living and laughing and losing limbs, but forsooth, they were in for a shock.

Someone noticed, in a big old book that most couldn't read, a passage or two that, once lifted from the surrounding text and removed completely from context, basically said "Work hard and go to Heaven or do just enough and burn in a fire pit. FOREVER!"

"Shit," said the subjects with no King, "what a bunch of idiots we've been. Quick, pass me that last piece of pig, I'll take it with me for lunch. I've a field to plough."

So the people worked, and worked bloody hard. Then, after a bit, they got a proper King back. He'd been keeping his head down in France for a while, but he had returned. And there was peace throughout the land. Everything had gone back to how it was before, except it was no longer merry olde England because they all had far too much work to do. It was a new England. Similar to the old one but without all the "E"'s and the fun. A new, old England.

After a while, as a result of the free education paid for by their own taxes, one or two or the hard working members of the hard working families learnt to read. "Hang about," they said, "this book doesn't say anything of the bloody kind. I'm going to smoke a pipe and finish this ploughing tomorrow."

"No," the King's advisors screamed, "no, honestly, you need to work hard."

"Balls to that," education hadn't improved their eloquence, "Do you have a light?"

"Shit." Thought those that had always known the truth about the book and who worked in palaces, "If they don't keep making us rich we'll not be as rich. I mean, we'll still be rich, we're set for life really, but who doesn't want to be richer? AH HAH!" Another bright idea.

"Now listen, chaps, how about this. Work hard for us and we'll build a house for you to buy off us."

"You must think we were born yesterday, chum. We'll build our own houses."

"But don't you want a bigger house, a house so big and so lovely that you could never dream of being able to save enough to afford to buy?"

"Well, yes, I suppose, but I can't afford it."

"Then let us help you out. Have you ever heard of a mortgage?" The King and his men were fond of the odd Frenchism when not busy killing the French.

So the parties stopped again. Occasionally, someone would wonder why they were bothering building a big house that they couldn't afford and staying in on a Friday night just so they could survive until they died. These people became known as the "lazy". Later they would become hippies, then new age travelers and, finally, I.T. consultants.

Those villagers that worked even harder were given the opportunity to borrow even more money in order to buy an even bigger and even less affordable house and therefore prevent them from being able to save enough filthy cash to escape the village and sully the gene pool of those more worthy. These fastidious and hard working individuals had nicer houses with prettier stuff inside to stay in in on a Friday night.

Of course, people aren't stupid. They know that they're condemning themselves to a life of toil, taxes and tyranny, so they need to be encouraged. The coin only has it's power to bind you whilst it's a necessary evil, if you were to squirrel enough of it away you're free. This must  be prevented, there's no point in them being rich if the rest of us are too. You must consume, you must spend, the wealth must trickle skyward.

Finished your grocery shopping? Managed to buy only what is on your carefully prepared, money saving list? Feeling happy with yourself? Good, while you're waiting to pay, and wait you must since only one of the forty-seven check-outs are open, why not treat yourself to a piece of lovely confectionery? Don't worry, you won't lose your place in the queue, they've put loads of the stuff right there where you can't miss it. You walked past the aisle that contains those self same snacks earlier and you weren't even tempted but now you can treat yourself to one. Just one piece of chocolate, four times the price it would've been if you'd bought it in a multi-pack from that aisle you ignored,

Look at that television of yours. It's shit. It really is. It was a good one, when it was new. You were the envy of your friends but then, one by one, they too replaced their aging sets until they all had better tellies than you. They laugh at you. You never catch them laughing at you, with your grainy, crackly, hi-def LCD piece of shit telly, but laugh at you they do. You must replace your telly. You must. You simply must.

You could save up for it, but by then you'd be the laughing stock of the village. No, you need to make this purchase and make it NOW.

Maybe your bank manager will lend you a few bob but then, shit, you had that Velux window fitted in the loft three years ago and you've not finished paying for that yet. If only there was some way of getting an unsecured loan of some kind, preferably without having to prove you can repay it because, let's face it, you can't really. But who to choose? What kind of company is so trustworthy that you can rely on it to play fair and so trusting that it would lend money to someone without the means to repay it? It's okay, the TV will tell you. The shitty, crackly, archaic box of lights and magic that is so in need of replacing. You can rely on the telly.

No time for research or to read the Ts&Cs, the match is on tonight. (It's not on the channel you have a licence for, nor on one of those other ones that fund themselves with advertising, it's on that channel that only costs you fifty quid a month and that the children never watch.) No, you need it now. Right now. If only there were some way you could get the funds released to your bank account within the next two hours.

So you plump for the one with the slickest or cutest advert. That one with the old biddies, if you can't trust old biddies who can you trust?

Don't people read Grimm anymore? The old biddy is always the baddy. There was an old biddy by the name of "Naggy" Harris when I was a cheeky little street urchin. She chased us with sticks for playing football and (unconnected) the council found a pile of dead cats in her bin cupboard. But generally, old biddies are nice.

Not these ones though. These ones are sinister, twisted, evil old ladies. They're friendly at first, and it's all so easy, so informal. The Ts&Cs? Well, they're perfectly in order, you're  ninety-nine percent sure of that. You could be a hundred percent sure and read the ninety pages of legalese they've provided, but the match is looming and that shop that let's you have a telly on the never-never without any credit checks closes at five. If you get the telly from them you can get something else with the money the old biddies are lending you. A sofa maybe, or a dishwasher. The world's your lobster. You'll decide when you get there, the salesman will be able to tell you what you should buy. He wears a tie and a name badge. His name is Frank, with a name like that how could he possible be anything less than trustworthy?

Every which way we turn we're tempted, told what to want and offered the means to get it. And why shouldn't we? The King's men have big tellies. Alright, they didn't have to borrow money to buy theirs, but it's probably a human right, or something, that you have nice things. Why shouldn't you? The biddies said it was fine.

But now you're in debt and you don't know how you're going to pay it off. Maybe you could get a second job? Maybe you could win the lottery? Yes, that's it, the lottery, that's your way out. Two quid for a ticket? That's nothing, you can borrow it out of the money you put aside to pay for the new telly,  then if you win you'll be able to put it back and, anyway, it's only two quid.

By now any one reading this will surely know that I'm leading up to a comment on the news that Wonga, a non-traditional source of finance, has dropped a huge bollock. They let people borrow money knowing that many of those people were in no position to pay the money back in time to prevent the crippling interest multiplying the amount owed to increasingly "optimistic" [extortionate] sums. The people weren't ever going to get out of the debt they cleverly manipulated their customers into, a steady trickle of income for every more. There would, of course, be legal costs involved in chasing the money and these would eat into their profits. Or would they?

The answer is, as we now all know, no. Why bother selling the debt on to a company for them to send out threatening, but legal, letters. Just mock up a letterhead on Word and write bogus versions, use big words and red ink until, at the bottom, offering them a way out. All they have to do is... stop paying their council tax and pay the biddies instead. Worry about the council tax later, just pay this one off. You must, the outstanding amount is written in RED. It's probably ink made from the blood of babies sacrificed on an altar somewhere, No one ignores red writing, they'll pay. Mwahahahaaa.

Then a man killed himself. And another. A couple of others died of natural causes in homes as cold as the moor because the red writing had demanded the gas money. People suffered and other people noticed.

Most had no sympathy. "They should have read the Ts&Cs" they said, having never in their own life read the Ts&Cs on anything they'd signed. "They owe the money, they should pay it back". Fair enough. Except, actually, no. Now I come to think about it it's not fair, not at all. The people borrowed money for things the corporate world, our new rulers, told them they needed. They were allowed to borrow money they couldn't afford to repay. The biddies weren't SURE they couldn't pay back, but they didn't care.

Actually, they could afford to repay both the sum borrowed and probably a reasonable amount in interest, but there was nothing reasonable about the deal. So they failed to make their greedy, parasitic saviours as rich as they would have liked to be. They couldn't, that's what it boils down to. Right or wrong, they couldn't afford it, the money just doesn't exist and Wonga knew this before lending them the money. It was their game plan all along, a brilliant plan of Machiavellian concept. Clever bastards. Cleverer than the hoi polloi.

But you can't get blood from a stone and so, ultimately, the plotters plan flunked. People were angry, enough people to make them impossible to ignore. The biddies were the baddies, not those scruffy oiks with their benefits and part time jobs, their council houses and food parcels. The scruffy oiks were victims.

Today many of those victims woke up to the news that Wonga have written off their debts. Three hundred and thirty three thousand people woke up and received a piece of news that has had them smiling all day. Tonight they'll get a good nights sleep, maybe for the first time in months because, whatever you think of them, they've been worried about it. They've sat on their couches, couches only a few months old, approximately one-eighth paid and already going threadbare on the arms, watching one of the free channels on their flat screen televisions because Sky have cut them off and all the while wishing they'd never clapped eyes on those wicked grandmothers. The bitches.

They've made a mistake, struggled, suffered and now had a bit of good luck. It's not far off Christmas either, and they'd been worried they'd not be able to afford their traditional family sized tin of Cadbury's Roses that are on offer near the tills in Tesco.

Most of us haven't taken out loans with Wonga. I certainly haven't, with my credit rating even the biddies would laugh at my application. Others among us may have used a similar company with a less cuddly advert but with the same [lack of] principles. Many of us will say "Wait, what? That's not fair. You're teaching them the wrong lesson. You're letting them get away with it." But what is it they're getting away with?

Poverty. That's what. They're getting away with being poor, of having less than fuck all and dreaming of more. Not much more, not a mansion or a Jag, not a swimming pool or gold bath taps, just a better telly than their mate has got. They've had a bit of good luck. Maybe they've learnt their lesson, maybe not. Maybe they'll do it all over again with the next shyster company that rears it's ugly head and end up in a similar amount of debt and a similar situation. In that case we can all shake our heads at them and point out that they are, without a doubt, fucking idiots.

But for now, why not give them the benefit of the doubt? The only reason we have to complain is that it's unfair, that we haven't had a share in the windfall. And we're right, it is indeed very unfair. But, in my opinion, the more unfair life is the better. One day maybe it'll be unfair for all of us, whether villager or King's man. Then, at that moment and in the most beautifully paradoxical fashion, everything will be fair.

J2H.

We know, you know?

I don't read a daily newspaper. I used to but, truth be told, the only reason I chose that one particular paper to purchase was because it contained a crossword that I enjoyed. It was a broadsheet and, for a good chunk of the time that I read it regularly, I worked on building sites. My peers would ask me why I was reading such a publication and would point out that there weren't even any pictures in it. They were, of course, referring to the lack of naked breasts and cheap titillation that they themselves enjoyed. I would point out that my colleagues, to a man, read the Sporting Pink and that there were even fewer images of airbrushed and air-headed models in that particular publication. But still, every lunchtime, I was branded as a posh, boring and somewhat pretentious prick whilst sat munching upon my corned beef and brown sauce butty as my tea stewed in my mug and my mucky boots resting upon a spare seat.

Nowadays I use the newspapers as nothing more than a source of reference, an anchor, somewhere to go when I want to know more about a particular piece of news that may have caught my attention. I glean most of my news from the World Wide Web and, shamefully, I've found that Twitter provides me with breaking news long before the warm papers arrive at the newsagents or that particular nugget is spotted scrolling across the bottom of the screen on one of the many dedicated news channels that populate our digi-boxes.

And there are boobs on it. #Winwin.

I don't think I'm unique in the way I select and gather my news from the world around me and, in these times, I don't think there's any shame in it. We're evolving through technology, fumbling our way out of the darkness and becoming, in our own small way, part of the bigger picture. We can choose to investigate further, to learn the true truth, from countless sources. Reputable sources line up alongside eye witnesses. If we're lucky and quick enough sometimes we can learn the true truth before the establishment have managed to put their own spin on the tale, before the mucky smudges of inconvenient truth have been polished away to reveal the glossy glister of the official version, before we are told what to believe.

All of us that use our iPhones as our window on the world will have come across any number of fellow Twitterers who are only really there for the boobs. Others are there to converse with like minded people, to persuade un-like minded people that they are wrong, to spread hatred or lies, truths or kindness, or to find a damaged and miserable individual with low self esteem who is prepared to share intimate photographs in a desperate attempt to find a reason to believe that they may be able to find someone to rescue them from the Hellish existence in which they've found themselves. It takes all sorts.

Last week a story broke. Unless you've spent the time since an unnamed individual employed by a hospital trust made an emergency call to report a missing patient buried beneath a rockfall in the Trossachs, you will be very aware of the details. I refer, of course, to the Ashya King fiasco.

The patient in question was a child. Obviously, although any missing person is a matter for concern, a missing child, helpless and vulnerable, is of particular concern. An international manhunt was launched. But wait... ah, we see, it was the child's parents that took him. Phew.

"Ah, but, look..." screamed the media, "...This kid is ill. He's dying and the parents that have taken him are Jehovah's Witnesses." Immediately almost all of us made a connection. Don't those people deny themselves treatment on religious grounds? The baying mob chasing the fugitives across the channel got the bit between their teeth. 

"No, look..." Said the father of the missing child via Youtube and associated social networks, "...here is my son. Look, he's fine, we brought all the equipment with us."

"Noooo..." Lied someone at the trust, "The batteries for his equipment will be spent in a few hours, the child will starve to death."

"Actually," Said daddy, "we've fled to Europe, not the depths of the Peruvian jungle, we can just plug it in and recharge it." We were all so relieved.

So, he's safe, still receiving the care he was receiving in the hospital and in the loving arms of his religious, and not at all fanatical, parents. To all intents and purposes the little boy, though very poorly, is simply on a road trip. Not only that, but the road trip will be via Spain to collect a large amount of money before travelling to the eastern side of the continent to receive a treatment that, although used by the NHS in England, was deemed by the NHS in England to be unsuitable in this particular case.  What could he be doing right now that'd be more exciting than that? And all paid for out of the pocket of the family. Not costing you or I a penny.

Until the call to the emergency services to report the missing child. That's cost us all a pretty penny.

The family are guilty of nothing but, possibly, throwing their own hard earned money away on a futile attempt to help their gravely sick child. But what if that waste of money buys the child just one more day? If the treatment, as apparently expected, doesn't cure the child and he passes away then we won't know if that wouldn't have happened a day or two earlier. We'll just never know. But maybe it did help, just a little. Let's face it, if a doctor tells you you have a week to live and then adds "...but take this pill and you might live one extra day" you'd take it, wouldn't you? A day is nothing, until it's your last.

We were being told what to believe. Not so very long ago we'd have had no way of knowing the Kings were acting in the best interests of their son, but this time, and for possibly the first time, real public opinion was based on both sides of the story. In this case there was a clear right and a clear wrong. For a short while, at the beginning of the whole, sorry debacle, the authorities panicked. Someone told lies, pointless pieces of propaganda were pedaled, the trust blamed the police, the media rubbed their hands and the politicians didn't want to know. And all the while a little boy with a terminal condition and his family were punished for nothing more than simply reminding the state that, in some things, they are, quite rightly, impotent. They could, or would, do no more for the child. The parents both could and would. Embarrassing as it is for the authorities, sometimes the parents are better parents than the state. Some people can be trusted. Most people, in fact. Almost all of us.

This post is nothing to do with the case I just highlighted. Nothing at all. I'm prone to rambling, as I'm sure most of you are aware, but hopefully what preceded this section will help make sense of the ramblings that follow.

North of our border a battle is taking place. A very twenty-first century battle. A political battle. A battle over the oldest question in the world... "Yes or no?".

Fortunes are being spent on convincing those people lucky enough to live in the prettiest portion of our island to leave the Union, while a similar amount is being spent on convincing those same people to stay with us. They, and those of us Sassenachs who are interested, have been treated to television debates, news reports, polls and posters. Lies and half truths from both sides muddying the waters. Both sides, through self interest, trying to paint a picture of a gloomier future should the other side prevail. The Scots will be bankrupt, businesses will flee, there'll be no where to keep the nuclear deterrent, troops will man the borders, yah-de-yah-de-yah. It's all, every bit of it, bullshit.

Maybe the Scots will be allowed to keep the pound, maybe not. Someone, somewhere, actually knows the answer to this, but that someone is neither of the someones that are telling you what they want you to hear. One side is right, one side is wrong, or maybe both are right or even both wrong. That's the thing with sides. In this case, even time wont tell. Whichever way the vote goes and whichever side was wrong or right, in the words of Mr Marley, everything's going to be alright. Most of us, those that don't live in mansions or employ drivers at any rate, won't even notice. Things are shit already.

Maybe troops will line Hadrian's wall, turning back Glaswegian hen nights en route to spend all their money in, and partially destroy, the hot spots of Blackpool, maybe they wont. The don't line the south coast to turn back those that threaten our nation or try to illegally breach out borders, why would they bother 'oop north? I'm pretty sure that, given separation, our two nations would still hate each other as much as they ever did, and that they will still manage to keep a lid on their simmering hostilities enough to avoid an invasion. And, either way, it'll be alright.

Why would the rest of the world refuse to trade with Scotland? There's an easy answer to that, they wouldn't. That's just ridiculous.

We have plenty of places to park our Trident wielding submarines south of the border. If it's a dockyard near you and you would like to complain about this then please note, complaints on this matter should only be accepted from those that didn't want them in the Clyde either. 

As for Scotland suddenly being without the nuclear deterrent, they wouldn't be. Do you think that any situation that led to someone, somewhere, launching nukes at Scotland would be none of England's business? Messy stuff, nuclear war. Devastate Scotland, devastate England. The Scots voting for independence are ensuring that they remain as safe as they ever were whilst no longer paying for the privilege.

So, it's all as clear as mud. Maybe Scotland will be better off without us, maybe they'll be worse off. Maybe England will suffer, maybe it will flourish. You won't even know after the votes are counted. Whichever way the cards fall there will be negatives. There has to be. When those negatives become apparent then those that had voted in the minority will shout "we told you so" and take great glee in their own suffering safe in the knowledge that they were right.

But they won't be right, and neither will you. 

In war, the victor is the one that was right, however wrong he was. In a referendum, it's those that lose that are "proved" right, the shortcomings in their own plans are never revealed simply because they weren't given a chance to.

Don't vote for what you're told you'll get, you will not get it. Don't vote for the man that speaks the slickest or the man that stands the proudest. You know what you want. Vote for that. Know that the future holds dark hours, whichever future is decided upon, then lower your expectations. Don't believe staying or leaving will make things better, it wont. Either option will make things worse, at least for a while, just choose which worse would you'd prefer. 

The Devil you don't know might be a lot nicer than the Devil you do.

J2H.

Postscript : For what it's worth, I'd vote "yes", I never give no for an answer.

Post-postscript : If you lot do go it alone, take me with you, please. 

Iconoclasm in the UK.

I've just cried. Proper tears.

Alone. All on my own, unless you count the dogs who, of course, cleaned my tears straight from my cheeks. They just like the salt, I know this, but for now I'm happy to be under the delusion that they love me and wanted to help.

I cried with frustration. A sudden, overwhelming surge of rage and of disgust crashed over me and, I, fear, has dragged me under.

I came home, gamboling up the little walk I live on with a spring in my step and a smile on my face. I don't have a great deal to smile about these days, but there's always someone worse off and, even when at my lowest point, I pride myself on being able to focus on that. Others survive, I should too, so I just get on with it as best I can.

My neighbour was stood in his front garden. He was staring at his flowers and looking quite disheveled. I noticed him and said hello but I was carrying a sack of dog food on my shoulder and didn't stop.

My neighbour is by no means a friend of mine, I don't dislike him but I don't really know him. Last year, though, I helped him pick up some furniture and deliver it to a lady he knew who had lost her home and was starting afresh with nothing. He paid for the furniture and he paid for the fuel to move it. He enlisted my help and, without her having to do a thing, he ensured that she had chairs to sit on, a bed to lie on, a cooker to cook with, curtains at the window, a fridge and a freezer and even a television. All second hand, even the mattress, but she was so grateful.

When we'd finished he kissed her on the cheek and said goodbye. She didn't see us out, she was having to use her oxygen at that point and the pipe wasn't long enough to reach the door. On the way home he told me a bit of back story.

Thirty years ago he had left the army. As many ex-servicemen will testify this can be a difficult transition for some. My neighbour had found himself drinking too much, had become violent, had destroyed his marriage and had ended up homeless. Not "But I have a right to a council house and I won't leave the office until you get me one" homeless but living in the street and eating from bins homeless.

The lady that we'd just left had known him before he joined the forces and they bumped into each other, quite by chance, in the street one afternoon. By now she had a good job working for the council, a nice little house and a car. Between her husband and herself they had a nice little life. The odd night out, foreign holidays and enough expendable income to be able to smoke sixty cigarettes a day each. Oh, and Sky television.

Her husband knew my neighbour as well. In fact they had been at the same school, never friends but never enemies, and so when she returned home that night and told him, with tears in her eyes, how low he had sunk he went out alone to find him.

They put him up, only for a week or two, just while they helped him claim some benefits and find a bedsit that the council would pay for. By the time he moved out of their little home he had been elevated through the social classes from "beggar" to "dosser". From pond life to drift wood. From filthy scum to scrounging scum. Things were good.

And things got better, at least for my neighbour. He found work, relatively well paid it was too, and he bought a house. His ex-wife forgave him a while before she died. They became closer, and when she eventually passed away after a period of illness his daughter came to live with him. From the very lowest point in his life he had risen to the heady heights of home-ownership, a respectable father to a polite daughter but who sometimes got a little too pissed on Friday night. Things went from "good" to "bloody good".

Recently, though, I get the impression things haven't been quite so good, again. I know he's now unemployed and that he knocked on my door recently to ask if we had a spare TV as his was broken.

Once in my own kitchen I dumped the sack on my counter and gave the giddy dogs a tickle, as is obligatory so far as they're concerned. Then I popped the kettle on and put some toast under the grill. My plans for this afternoon were to sit down to re-write a chapter of my next book with which I have decided I'm unhappy.

Tea and toast in hand I slumped on the settee and switched on the laptop, glancing out the window as I did. There, at the bottom of the pane and, fortunately, on the outside, was an arse. A derriere, bottom, pair of buttocks, just staring at me. Toast still dangling from my mouth I stood back up to investigate.

Outside, doubled over, was my neighbour. In one hand he had a plastic carrier bag and he was using his other hand to rummage through the plants (Ok, weeds) in my front garden. I watched for a moment, not quite sure what to do, then went outside expecting to have to remonstrate with him.

He was collecting cigarette butts. Our little walk is like a wind tunnel and a good chunk of the litter and general detritus from the dirty streets of Horwich blows along it, becoming caught in the bushes to the right or the gardens to the left. His bag was almost half full with stinking, discarded cigarettes.

I asked if he was ok. He asked if I had any Rizla. I did, so I gave them him. I also had two cigarettes, my last two cigarettes. I offered him one, but he declined and looked ready to cry. He was desperate enough to crawl along dirty streets, in full view of his neighbours, picking up dimps, but he didn't want charity.

He was wearing a tee-shirt and I saw, on the crook of his left elbow, a dressing. It was hanging off and I could see the puncture marks beneath. On his wrist was a hospital wristband with his details on. I asked if he was okay, if he needed a doctor, if he wanted a hand with anything? He shook his head. Then he cried.

My neighbour is a big man. Ex-squaddy, ex-footballer, heavily tattooed and more than capable of looking after himself. But here he was, crying. Blubbering like a schoolgirl, right there in the street.

I didn't understand much of what else he said. He mentioned his mother, I think, and I'm sure a lot of it was reassurances, swearing he was alright and that he was sorry. He turned and went back home.

I don't like to interfere in anyone else's life, but I felt I had to tell someone. I didn't feel qualified to help myself and so I looked up the appropriate telephone number and made a call. I hope he's okay.

My tears were brief. They weren't for my neighbour, for his predicament, for his suffering. They weren't for mine either. Poverty has bitten hard in my household, but we're surviving much better than some, as my neighbour today proved.

My tears were anger, frustration and hatred of me and of us. All of us. We, the English, are pathetic. Weak. A waste of the Earth's natural resources. A wealthy country, with people starving. Not "oooh I am hungry" starving, not even having to make do with beans on toast AGAIN starving, properly starving. Their bodies panicking and attempting to digest their own internal organs starving. Here, in Britain. For that I'm ashamed.

It's not just dossers and layabouts either. I'm sure my neighbour has been no angel, but neither have I and neither have you (Unless you ARE an angel, in which case let me know so I can renounce my Atheistic beliefs.) but he worked, paid taxes and was comfortable. He did a fine job of raising a daughter, too. Then a bit of a hiccup, not his fault this time, just a downturn in the economy. Oh, and changes to benefits. Rising prices. That kind of thing. The things that we allow, all of us. Selfishly thinking balls to them, we're okay. Siding with the top, hating the bottom. Blaming those below for our little problems. We don't think it'll ever happen to us. If we're struggling we believe it'll be temporary, that at some point the rot will stop, reverse and then our futures will be brighter. Don't bet on it. Statistically you're probably going to be one of the many that die without leaving a lasting legacy. Maybe a few grand in a policy, a couple of ISAs, oh and any remaining debt against your name. But other than that you and I will almost certainly amount to nothing. We'll pay some taxes, die and leave behind a new generation to pay their taxes and die.

We can't afford the full Sky HD package, so that's the fault of the immigrants because without them we'd all be better paid.

If we can't afford to go to Florida and have to settle for Disneyland Paris it's probably because of those millions of workshy bastards claiming benefits paid for with our taxes. And they're all on the fiddle, you know?

We're apathetic with a capital "A", and even without the "a" it's still a fitting description. You and I (I'm now assuming my readers to be English) are all, to a man, responsible for what we have allowed to happen. It's not the fault of the bankers, it's ours. We let them off.

Cue the bleeding hearts... "No, the government let them off, the Tory bastards, it's their fault". Fair point, I suppose, except they're OUR government. Ours. We, the fucking morons we are, put them there. And anyway, the other lot had a big hand to play in all this shit we've stepped in.

All the while we let them. We even pay them. We're the customer and, just like all big corporations, they shit all over the us. All of us. For the wealth of the privileged to have any tangible value they need a huge, stinking pile of poor people below them. People to clean up their shit, to make their consumables and to teach their children. They daren't allow us to become more than we are, what if we become more than they are? Then who'll clean up their shit, spit in their steak tartare and despise their vile children.

But the cleaner uppers must then have people to hate, to blame for their temporary positions among the ranks of the perfectly ordinary and to ensure they don't pay too much attention to the lives of the powerful. They might stop cleaning up their shit. So, lets make sure there are even poorer people for the poor to Lord over.

It's okay though, because as we all know the wealth will trickle down. Rejoice, people, and give them bigger portions so that there might be more scraps for us. That will work. As long as they aren't greedy people, that they don't stuff their faces and makes pigs of themselves. Or put the leftovers in the fridge. Or bank.

They have a monopoly on power and we've given it to them. Our Grandparents would be disgusted with us. I'm proud to say that I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. I'm ashamed of all of us.

And now, just like you, I'm going to go away, check my Twitter or my Facebook account and put the telly on. Tonight I'll probably, at least for a while, forget all about my neighbour and his hellish existence. Even if I think about him I'll do nothing to help. I may offer him a cigarette whenever I see him, I may make more of an effort to stop and speak to him, but that's it. Nothing more. I'm in no position to help anyone. I'll not fight for him, I'll not fight for myself or for my children. I'll just bend over and take it.

Just like you.

J2H.

Footnote:
This post was written while the sorrow I felt for my neighbour was fresh in my mind. As I type, our encounter was three hours ago. I feel I may have wasted your time, caused you to read all this in the hope there would be some deep and insightful comment, or maybe a rallying call for all to rise up and overthrow the establishment. It's neither. It's a demonstration of my own shortcomings and a description of the shortcomings I see in my fellow man. The same shortcomings in either case. I'm going to take some time to think about my life and the lives of those around me. Hopefully, I'll have an epiphany, jump from my lethargy and share the answer with you all. But would you listen? And anyway, we all already know the answers. We just can't be arsed asking the questions.

Cheerful, cheery, merry, jolly, light-hearted, mirthful, jovial, glad,happy, bright, in good spirits, in high spirits, joyful, elated,exuberant, animated, lively, sprightly, vivacious, buoyant, bouncy,bubbly, perky, effervescent, playful and frolicsome.

I'm feeling really rather light hearted and care free today. It's a pleasant state to be in, all smiley, laid back and devil may care. It gives you a bit of a swagger, and a happy face is a far more attractive visage than any other. Yes, young ladies, even more attractive than a duck pout.

Light hearted and care free, how lovely. If only there was a shorter word for it so I didn't have to keep typing "light hearted and care free".

But hang on, there is. It's good to be light hearted and care free. It's good to be gay. I'm gay, as gay as a gay thing and then some. I'm not always gay, sometimes I'm a right miserable bastard, but today, sun in the sky and snoozy dogs at my feet, I'm maxing out the gaydar.

As mature as most of my peers are, I am very aware that if I walked into the pub declaring "I'm feeling really rather gay today" at least one person would mime lifting a purse to their chest and make a "woooooooo" sound. And I'd probably laugh. I like a good pun. I'd probably blow them a kiss and, at that point, as liberal and inoffensive as I generally am in real life, I would be transformed, in the eye's of some, from gay to homophobe in the blink of one of those aforementioned eyes.

Gay doesn't generally mean light hearted or care free anymore. As with many other words in the English language it has evolved. At some point in the mid twentieth century "gay" became an insult, a derogatory term for a homosexual. Then it evolved further. The homosexuals "reclaimed" it. I'm not sure "reclaimed" fits, since it didn't describe homosexuality in the first place, but that's the standard word used to describe the phenomenon and so that's the one I'll stick with.

So gay lost it's potency. Suddenly (over a period of many years) the statement "you're gay" came to be met with "yes, I am", so some other perfectly innocent words, which I'll not list, were hijacked by the small minded and hurled with venom instead. Languages, along with attitudes, are evolving in a similar way all the time. Now, if you're homosexual, you don't need describe yourself as such. Homosexual is a very clinical phrase, cumbersome on the tongue. Gay is so much nicer.

Nope, this isn't a rant about gay rights.

This is appreciation for the skillful and highly successful way in which the homosexual community won a, admittedly small, battle. Maybe not even a battle, just a skirmish. But it was won, and with panache. At the risk of pandering to stereotypes, panache, flair and probably a good deal of jazz hands to finish.

A successful campaign, and one that is being mirrored with other stolen words used by those that hate. However, I would argue, not with anything like the same level of success.

As many of you are aware there has been a right brouhaha in the media this week regarding a popular BBC television presenter and journalist, Jeremy Clarkson. Mr. Clarkson is no stranger to le grande faux pas. A northerner made good in the land of the privileged, that being "that London", he has accumulated great wealth and popularity (some may say notoriety) by portraying himself as, or by actually being, a no nonsense, down to earth, common sense kind of chap. He is now a parody of himself, and very good at it he is too.

Footage was acquired by the Daily Mirror newspaper of a piece to camera JC did two years ago in which he recited a nursery rhyme, "Eenie Meenie Minie Mo" (If I've spelled that wrong, please forgive me, I've never written it down before) when having to decide which was the better of two cars featured on his show. If you're my age, or even a little younger, you will be aware that in the 1970's playground's of Britain children would use this rhyme to decide on teams for lunchtime football, which sweet they were going to eat next or whether they were playing soldiers or cowboys and Indians. You will be further aware that, at that time, a particularly offensive word to describe a black person was included. The infamous "N" word.

The "dropped bollock" and the apology.

I've actually struggled to decide whether it would be acceptable for me to include the word itself or refer to it as the "N" word. I'm blogging about a real life situation to which this word is central, so it should be okay, but I'm also a bit of a shitbag. "N" word it is then.

This footage was never included in the show for which it was recorded, that being the BBC's incredibly popular "Top Gear", which JC presents. In the footage that has now come to light JC is heard reciting the rhyme almost in it's entirety, however when he reached the "N" word he mumbles almost incoherently. Unfortunately for Mr Clarkson, since syllables of the original word had to be emphasised so as to keep time with the rest of the rhyme and since the sound he makes to begin it is either an "N" sound or an "M" sound, it still appeared he said it. Sort of. A little bit. He didn't say it, but, as he mentions in his apology, it sounds like he might have. And what are words if not just sounds anyway? Yep, JC dropped a big bollock.

The footage was then edited, ultimately pointlessly since it was never aired anyway, to say "teacher" instead. This word chosen rather than the word "tinker", a word which itself is racist, (Goodness we were awful children) and which replaced the "N" word in some schoolyard versions.

I'm now wishing I'd been braver and used the actual word instead of the shitbag version for which I opted, using the shift key for the capital "N" and the speech marks is spoiling my typing rhythm. Goodness me, one day I'll get through one of these entries without digressing. Anyway...

Now I don't want to get bogged down in the whole debate about whether or not Mr Clarkson is an idiot, a racist, completely innocent or has been fitted up by Piers Morgan, disgraced one time editor of the Daily Mirror, after a series of petty spats in which JC has come off better. For what it's worth, I think he's been a bit of a dick, he's apologised and, in an ideal world, no one would give a toss about it all anyway. We have servicemen killing and dying abroad, we have no money, our NHS is being destroyed and the council only collect our bins once a fortnight, we have far bigger issues we should be addressing.

Debate, or what passes for debate in this age of social media, on these shenanigans is rife. Everyone has an opinion. The problem with opinions, like farts and children, is that everyone loves their own and hates everyone else's.

One debate that I've seen a lot of, but that I haven't become embroiled in, is that of whether or not the "N" word is ever acceptable, whoever says it. This is why I mention the transformation of  "gay" from common usage to homophobic slur and then to perfectly acceptable descriptive term.

With the gay example, everyone can use it to describe a homosexual. Gay, straight or with a little bit of curvature it doesn't matter. Gay means gay and nothing more. Brilliant.

Now, the "N" word. Some folk lean toward the word being totally unacceptable, whatever the circumstances and whatever the colour of the speaker, whereas (from my limited experience) a good majority of folk think it's ok, so long as the speaker is black. A few think it's ok whoever says it.

For the record, I think it's totally unacceptable, in any situation and by anyone, with the possible exception of drama and comedy. Proper comedy though, not Jim Davidson.

You see, this battle/skirmish began in similar fashion to that of the "G" word, but the tactics changed at some point, meaning the battle rages on. The "N" word was reclaimed (again, the word reclaimed doesn't fit, but it's the word we all use) but was then locked away and not everyone is allowed the key to the cabinet in which it's stored.

But if it's to lose it's potency everyone should be. We should either all be able to use it, or none should be able. Rap music and culture is littered with the word, but it hasn't become a description in the way gay did. It's sound and the formation of the lips around it lend themselves to anger and abuse. It's hard to say "gay" and sound aggressive, but the "N" word can be spat out of a face contorted with anger all too easily.

Maybe reclaiming that word was a poor idea, but reclaimed it was. In my social circles I never hear the word and I don't use it, but I hear it constantly on the television and radio. Whilst this is still the case the word will never die. Children, along with you and I, are hearing the "N" word constantly and by the time they're old enough to realise they're only hearing it from black mouths it's too late, they know what it means but they don't know the history of it, the offense it causes or that, if they're white, they must never use it. To a child, wouldn't that seem unfair? Like they were being discriminated against? A word only their black friends can use? Surely that's racist.

The word needs forgetting. The occasional slip by an aging buffoon, born and raised in a more racist period of our racist country's racist history, should raise an eyebrow, maybe summon a tut and a shake of the head, but surely nothing more than that. After all, they'll all be dead one day so we'll be free of the word forever. Thrusting the debate into the media, especially in the age of Twitter and Facebook, only leads to animosity and gives the true racists their moment in the sun. A word can't fade from use if we're constantly bombarded with it.

And to think, all this palaver could've been averted if he'd just tossed a coin. Strange behaviour indeed, but then...

...there's nowt so queer as folk.

J2H.

Waiting to inhale?

I have been inspired by a thread on the web. One which has given hope to many, and given meaning to one. I don't want to mention the thread in question. Indeed, it isn't even just a thread, that's just a clever ruse on my part to throw you off the scent. The story to which I refer is a a touching and inspirational story which belongs to a very special young man and to go into too much detail would feel like I was piggy-backing his incredible story to promote my own puerile rambling here. Some of you know the story, some of you don't and some of you will think you know but you won't.

What good is a good life without a good death? None of us have the experience of our own death from our own perspective. Most of us think we know what awaits us, but none of us actually know. We believe. All of us. For the most part that's enough.

Now read on, and don't worry, it get's less dark from here on in...

It was the early 1980's, I would have been twelve or thirteen years of age, and it was a glorious summer. This was one of the frequent, transitional, periods of my existence. I was toward the tail end of my transformation from snotty nosed, scabby kneed, street urchin to hormone driven, moody, teenager and I would either be hidden away in my bedroom, tapping away on a Sinclair Spectrum and dreaming of hacking the FBI's computers, inadvertently starting WWIII, or ham-fistedly attempting to remix a hip-hop track using my ghetto-blaster and an old, 1970's, Decca turntable. Or, as on this day, in the park. Smoking and drinking cider.

We had a choice of two parks in the area that I grew up in. One was a big and picturesque expanse of greenery with a petting zoo, a pitch-and-putt golf course, a museum and a boating lake which was, by this time, just a very muddy hole in the ground. The other, the one my mates and I would frequent, was a little less grand. It had climbing frames, twisted and snapped from years of neglect and wanton vandalism, a derelict park keeper's cottage, boarded up and spooky, and an over-grown football pitch dotted with dandelions, daisies and dog shit. It also had a clear view of both gates wherever you were stood, which meant we could get on our toes whenever the local council parks and gardens warden came puttering through on his pedal-and-pop motorcycle to admonish us for whatever misdemeanor we were currently committing.

This particular morning I, along with two of my friends, had wandered up to our favourite park with a football. It was already a hot day even before nine a.m. and our arms and necks were burnt, red and freckly, from the previous day's shenanigans, pissing about in the big, water filled hole in the ground on what is now the Manchester bound carriageway of the M602 but was, at that time, nothing more than a trench dug alongside the railway. 

Once in the confines of the park, and having met up with two of our other friends that had arrived even earlier, four of us began kicking the ball about whilst the fifth went looking for an adult prepared to give him a light for one of the eight cigarettes he had stolen from his mother on his way out of the door. As was the norm, this being the only half-decent pitch not festooned with used rubber Johnnies, discarded "glue bags", hypodermic needles and sex criminals in a very populous area, other kids came along with other balls and other sun-burnt arms and we got a chance for a proper kick around with lads we'd never met. 

I can play football. But I'm shit at it. 

As shit at the beautiful game as I was, I was also a good deal bigger than my peers and, playing in defence, had mastered my own, relatively successful, unique technique. It comprised of dropping my shoulder, screwing my eyes shut and angling myself with my hip toward the oncoming striker, foot slightly off the ground and body braced for impact.

On this particularly sunny morning my tried and tested tactic was proving ineffectual against a tank of a boy. Easily as tall as me but with the body density of a chimpanzee he scored three times in as many minutes, putting me on my arse each time. Encumbered as I was by a distinct lack of any discernible talent and without an ounce of skill there was only one thing for it. Straight from the restart the ball was sent wide to the tank who began his thunderous advance down the left wing. This time I ran to meet him with a hurriedly adapted new move clear in my head. I screwed my eyes shut and launched myself into a career halting, two-footed, tackle. I opened my eyes to see the tank somersault over me and land, hard, on the ground. He wasn't happy, but halfheartedly accepted my apology and off we went again.

Two more ridiculously dangerous tackles later and he was no longer prepared to accept my increasingly incredible apologies, and I could tell by the snarl and the look in his eyes that he was harbouring a number of petty minded notions of retribution. The game was on.

Shins, elbows and knees became bruised and battered as the first half wore on and both of us had both our own and each others nose-blood spattered on our shirts as a result of one particularly spectacular aerial challenge. Both of us had our eyes screwed shut that time and my nose and teeth had collided with his corresponding facial features bringing my participation in the match to a temporary halt while I smoked a cigarette and had a glug of Olde English. Like a pro. 

I came back on just as the first half was about to end. We had a girl with us, "Spunky Fingers" Simone, and she was what passed for a referee. Sat on her coat on the touchline with someone else's Casio digital watch, cupping her hand over it to occasionally check the sunlight-unfriendly red LED display. She didn't possess a whistle, so half time was signalled by her shouting "Eee-yarr".

I began to gently jog over to the kid with the cigarettes and alcohol who couldn't play because he had Asthma and had forgotten his inhaler. He kept himself busy by chain smoking the cigarettes, lighting each new cigarette with the dying embers of the last since we didn't have any matches.

Suddenly, from behind, struck the tank. He clipped my heel as I walked, causing me to stumble forward, and to aid me on my way Earthward he pushed me hard in my back. I landed chest first on the ball I'd been lazily dribbling before me and every last puff of wind was knocked from my chest. 

The tank sat on me and wrapped his fat fingers around my throat from behind, squeezing and pulling backwards. I found myself lay on my own hands, no air in my lungs and no prospect of getting any whilst tank was holding my airways shut. I panicked, unable to make a sound, take a breath or move an inch my brain began to become starved of oxygen.

I couldn't even move my head, and my eyes bulged. From where I lay I could see the metal railing around the park, the gently wafting branches of a big, old, sycamore tree, the roof and apex of a house and a single cloud in a bright blue sky. Silently screaming inside my own head, I realised I was about to die and there wasn't a single thing I could do about it.

Then "POP".

Just that, a pop, and everything changed. 

I didn't need to breath, it didn't hurt anymore. I was so excited. I couldn't wait to tell everyone they were wasting their time. That it was some kind of conspiracy, the powers that be were tricking us into thinking we needed to breath. But we didn't. I was elated.

And the sky, so blue. A blue so bright and deep, a blue I'd never seen before or since, but that I can still picture. A new blue, I'd discovered a new COLOUR. People were going to be so excited when I showed it them.

I could see the leaves on the sycamore tree, a good fifty metres away, in exquisite detail. Each leaf it's own particular shade of green, the veins along their backs in fine, high-definition detail. A ladybird on one.

The dorma-window on the roof I could see had a spider's web in the corner. A woman stood in the room, only her head and shoulders, in profile, were visible from that angle. She was smiling, and very beautiful. I decided I'd tell her about the new blue first.

Then the grey speckles, moving in from the periphery of my vision, fizzling and crackling and causing the image before me to fade. Except for the blue. The blue remained. And now came the memory.

A nothing memory. Two years old, sat on the back of the horse that was my baby walker in the middle of the living room in the house my sister was born in. I was looking out of the big, bay window as a bus, in the old Mancunian orange livery, coughed and spluttered by. I was waiting for my dad, due home from another hard day at Parker Rosser's timber yard, duffle bag on shoulder and smelling of sawdust. We had no carpet down, so the hard, plastic wheels on my horse made a harsh noise against the uneven floorboards. The black and white television was in the corner, turned off, and in it's dark tube I could see the reflection of myself and, behind me, my mother, stood framed in the doorway to the kitchen and drying a bowl with a checkered towel.

I was happy. Happier than I'd ever been before. The world was awesome, really awesome. If I'd died at that moment I would have died happy. But it wasn't time. A sudden explosion of noise from all around, children playing, birds singing, air brakes on buses "pississsing" in the distance. Until then I'd not realised how silent the world had become, but now the noise came back. Tank had let go, and my face fell against the cool grass below. Along with the noise came the fire.

My chest filled with air. Hot, thick, air, burning my throat and chest as it reinflated my lungs. I coughed and coughed, small chunks of what looked like croutons spraying from my throat and onto the football pitch. I looked up.

No more new blue. The sky was still crystal clear and beautiful, but it was back to being the old blue. It had been, and remained, a glorious summer's day, but in comparison to the world I'd just seen fizzle out of existence this was just another, ordinary day. Also, every inch of me hurt.

I'm an Atheist, not in the least spiritual and suffer from no superstition. I believe my brain was starved of oxygen and was playing tricks on me. Nothing more. A more pious individual may have believed it was a little glimpse of Heaven. Maybe a spiritualist would see it as proof of life after death.

For me, it was my ebbing consciousness giving me a reward for having put me through the pain of existing in the first place. A life of struggle, fear, loss, love and hope, and of spells of happiness found in the face of it all, complete, now a brief moment of sheer bliss. But that moment would have been my last, and so for me would have stretched off into eternity. A violent and painful demise, but a pleasant and everlasting death.

So who cares who's right and who's wrong? This is one instance in which there can be no argument, no debate, it just doesn't matter. Whatever will be, will be. Whether it's pleasant because your God made it so or pleasant because our brain just works that way, it's still pleasant. A rose, by any other name.

No one need fear death, no matter how it rears it's hooded head. 

Remember, when the inevitable happens and it's time to say goodbye to a loved one, they've already lived an eternity of happiness while you've been stood sniffling at the grave side. At the point we change states we won't have a care in the world, no matter what we leave behind us. Everything will be beautiful, you can check out that new blue I told you about, and like I said...

...you don't need to breathe.

J2H.

Rats, traps and two smoking barrels.

I dream a lot. I love dreams. Especially nightmares. A free and exclusive, personalised horror film, what's not to like?

Last night wasn't a nightmare night. Last night I dreamt I was young again. I visited places from my formative years in a weird, psychedelic way, flying on the back of a giant, pink moth. It was a good dream and a small section of it reminded me of a man I've not seen in well over a decade, a job I loved and a Tuesday morning in the pub.

I've changed the name of the man to protect the innocent. Or to prevent him from being charged. You'll see.

One of the many jobs that I have had throughout my pointless, meandering journey from cradle to grave was as a postman. When I look back on it, it was the perfect job for me. Early starts, early finishes, a good deal of eye-hand coordination when sorting, a friendly environment, a little bit of heavy lifting, chatting to people on my round and riding a push bike. I loved it. The only thing that prevents it being the "good" job that it always was is the management that came along after part-privatisation. No longer run by postmen that have worked their way up but now almost exclusively people that have been to university to learn how to juggle figures, blue sky think and wear cheap shoes. (A postman never wears cheap shoes, check it out.) These are the people that decided to rebrand the Royal Mail as "Consignia". I bet most of you didn't know that. It was Consignia for a good while, then they changed their minds and spent double the initial outlay changing it all back again. The Royal Mail made obscene amounts of money for the Crown. Then the Government took over (part privatisation, they were the only shareholder), put a load of post-graduates in management positions and wondered why overnight it began making ridiculously huge losses. It's not rocket-science.

But back to the story. Hopefully that mini-rant will be my only digression.

One particular morning I had to deliver to a back street pub on the border of Salford and Manchester. The area between our two great cities is akin to a no-man's land, a mile or so wide strip of derelict mills, unused car parks, a canal and some prostitutes. The pub in question belonged to Manny, a chap I'd known well since childhood, and I left his post until last so I could enjoy the pint he always offered me.

It was about nine a.m. when I arrived so officially the pub was still "closed", but business being so scarce in those days of pre-regeneration Manny ran a twenty four-seven operation. Thick, heavy black-out curtains covered the windows and were actually stapled shut so that no one could accidentally allow a chink of light to spill on to the street at three a.m. as there weren't even any street lights in the area back then, so the local constabulary (at least the ones that weren't in the pub getting pissed for free) would be able to spot it a mile off. Everyone knew to go around the back of the pub and come in through the kitchen, so in I went.

The pub was gloomy, dust motes dancing in the light from the open kitchen door, musty scented and deathly quite. Unusually, Manny wasn't behind the bar as he usually was, still in his slippers, cigarette in hand, perched on a wobbly bar stool and coughing into the sports section of the Daily Mirror while studying the form of the nags running that day. Slightly unnerved at this, I don't like change, I put my bag on the floor and crept through, up to the counter.

There, squatting on the floor and aiming a shotgun (unnecessarily since it had had the barrel sawed off) at a box of crisps on the bottom shelf was Manny, wearing one slipper, a bandage on the other foot and with trademark cigarette tucked behind his ear.

"Shhhh."

I shhhhhed.

"I've got a rat somewhere in the pub, and he's been nicking the crisps." Manny was lying in wait to ambush the rodent.

Manny's pub had always had rats. They would stream across the car park whenever the dray wagon arrived with his casks and kegs, and he didn't mind that. But now they were stealing from him. Manny didn't like that at all.

"Where'd you get THAT?" I whispered.

"Get what?" Manny remained staring at the crisp box.

"The fucking shotgun." Stupidly, I'd thought he'd know to what I was referring.

"Oh, some lads left it in the pool room." Manny was so "matter of fact" about it that I let it drop.

"Serve yourself, mate, if I move I just m..." There was a rustle from the box.


BADOOM!

The shotgun went off and Manny leapt to his feet. I shat myself.

"YESSS! Dirty little bastards." He walked toward the bar, completely unconcerned that his specially adapted firearm had just destroyed the crisps, a good eighty percent of the glasses on the shelves, the shelves themselves and his glass washer.

I shook my head and began to fill my glass.

"Awww fuck." Manny exclaimed eloquently.

Blood, fur, teeth and skull fragments, together with perforated crisp packets, cardboard and what looked like a little, blue collar, created a macabre Murial on the back of the bar. (That's right, "Murial", not "mural". There was an eye in the middle.)

Now as it transpired, Manny had been hunting this rat for a week or two. First he tried baited poison traps. The poison had been eaten but no dead rats had been found. Then he tried vicious rat traps, of the over-sized mouse trap variety, but had elected to remove these after treading on one while wearing his slippers.

Next, before resorting to heavy artillery, he had borrowed a Jack Russell Terrier from a customer which he had allowed free run of the pub for a few days. Still no dead rat, the crisps were now disappearing at an alarming rate.

It turned out that the very misleadingly named Jack Russell, "Lucky", like the prey on which he failed to prey, had a liking for crisps. He'd spent his nights eating Manny's stock and then sleeping with a full tummy behind the boxes of crisps on the bottom shelf

I wanted to recount this tale for no particular reason, and thought I might be able to tie it in with some deep, meaningful ending. Something clever, you know. A moral. I'm struggling, but I've tried my best. If you take one piece of advice from this entry, let it be this;

Never lend Manny your dog.

J2H

We're all doomed.

I saw another of those tweets that annoy me today. Not because of it's content so much, but because of it's presentation. It was a picture of Karl Marx alongside a list of reasons he was "wrong". Politics aside, there was one statement in the list that claimed he'd never had a job. This was factually incorrect, one-hundred per-cent untrue, and was the only "fact" in the list, all the other points being opinions on the man's character and his beliefs.

At this point I'd just like to say that I am not a Marxist. I don't class myself as anything in a political sense and, through the medium of Twitter, I've been described as both a Communist AND a Fascist. Hows that for a wide spread? I see some good in the left and some good in the right but the pigheadedness of both camps, their stubbornness and inability to ever allow themselves to see that an idea from the "opposing team", no matter how clever or righteous, has any validity, reminds me of the schoolyard and I have no intention in getting embroiled in a row which will only result in me getting my dad, who is considerably bigger than their dads, to beat them all up.

The thing I dislike about Tweets such as the one I began this post by mentioning is that they portray an air of validity due to the clever use of photo-shop (other photo editing software packages are available) and, when viewed by weaker minded individuals, are taken as fact. Verbatim. Twitter says so, so so it is. Twitter also says God exists and that he doesn't and that Manchester City are the greatest team in the world but Manchester United are too. When we see a badly speld (sic) argument espousing the rights of the left, the wrongs of the right or the innocence of the guilty we disregard it. He can't spell, he's thick, ignore it. But slap a pretty picture on it and use a spell checker then even the pimpliest, socially inept and awkward fourteen year old can make a spurious statement sound like it was spilled from the lips of JFK, Churchill or Stephen Fry. But it's still bollocks.

After pointing out the factual error in what was otherwise, I'm sure, a very pertinent and even sided argument I was taken to task by someone that saw what they believed to be my defence of, in their opinion, a dangerous and subversive ideology. I'd made no statement for or against Marxism, nor put forward an opinion on the other, more subjective, points made. Just that Mr Marx had, at times in his life, worked. After being told I was wrong I had to wait a short while until the chap returned from a Google search to admit that okay, I was right, but Marx was lazy and had had to rely on the cash of others to survive when he had very little himself so his notions were invalid. Invalid they may be, I offer no argument either way, but this chap, who was perfectly eloquent throughout the conversation and quite plainly educated to a decent standard, had taken that "fact" that had been slipped into a list of opinions, opinions that he already clearly believed in, as being evidence. It took a moment or two for him to find out it wasn't the complete truth, but had someone not attempted to point out the error/misinformation he wouldn't have checked and would have believed it.

All this got me thinking, what if we really SHOULD be taking more notice of made up words set to pretty pictures. What if the answers are all around us? I'm not talking about Tweets, that would be silly. Enough monkeys banging away at enough typewriters would give us the complete works of William Shakespeare, along with a ridiculous amount of gibberish. It's the same problem with Twitter. Some really great, life affirming, advice or insightful political thinking will be in there, but they remain hidden from view under a huge pile of banana skins and monkey shit.

No, Twitter is useless. What we need is a more concise collection of pictures with made up words added. A more organised library of lazy literature. What we need is...

...HOLLYWOOD.

(Or Pinewood, or Bollywood, or any of those other, wonderful, dream factories.)

Think about it, everything that could possibly go wrong has already been tackled, and overcome, on the big screen.

Russia bullying the world? British? Send for Bond, James Bond. If they invade the USA call for the Wolverines. (The '80s Wolverines, not the weak, flabby, 2012 team.) Dead but don't yet know it? Find a troubled pre-teen and damage him psychologically for life. The Nazis are attempting to steal your Arc of the Covenant? Call Indy.

Actually, no, don't call Indy. Indy does nothing.

In fact, why wait for disaster or war before we ask the Producers for an appropriately heroic and successful ending? Why not just take it on ourselves to live our lives like movies? Just imagine...

The good guy always winning (yes, yes, I know, but Hannibal Lecter is pretty cool).

After losing him/her briefly to a despicable cad, crying in the rain and spoiling the puppy you bought together and who now you secretly despise, you will end up living happily ever after with the man/woman (Oooh, you realise you just said "man stroke woman" in your head? That's rude.) of your dreams.

The local naughty boys home would be transformed from a grey, dark, lonely place of desperation to a technicolour sing-a-long with impromptu dancing and jolly old food fights.

If you're being chased by a murderous psycopath and you're a female, with hymen intact, you'll know you're going to be okay. Your boyfriend will save you in the end, after being thought dead and forgotten about for a good half hour.

Evil genius has captured you? It's ok, he's bound to leave you in a room with a single, incompetent, armed guard while he goes to prepares his killer-piranha-fish-death-ray-o-matic-tron for use. But not until after he's told you about his plans and revealed the one weak spot in his metallic, island fortress.

We know it all. What is, was and what will always be. We know God is a kindly chap with a sense of humour and who looks very much like Morgan Freeman. We know if we want to be a champion free-runner all we need to do is locate a radioactive spider and let it bite us. No means of escape from a perilous situation in an office block? Jump out of the window screaming, there'll be a massive pile of boxes in a skip to break our fall.

By the way, America, don't you watch your own movies. Armageddon? Deep Impact? If Hollywood's taught us anything it's that as soon as you elect a president that looks anything like Morgan Freeman then we're all doomed!

As ever, I'm both rambling and digressing wildly. Flailing my literary arms frantically attempting to get my point across while sinking below the foamy waves of coherence. I apologise. Hopefully you already do your research and refuse to believe something just because it was attached to a picture of a dead dolphin or a despotic leader. If you don't, hopefully you now will. If you won't, then let me show you a little picture I've been working on.

Now available in paperback and eBook.

Thank you all ever so much for taking the time to read my mental meanderings. And don't worry, folks, life isn't like the movies.


It's better than that.

J2H