My Granddad, the mass murderer.

This house was cold this morning.

Today, as ever, I was awoken by the big dog sniffing my face and wagging his tail. Every morning it's the same. The big dog has his own armchair by the front door and underneath the window where he gets to lie and gaze outside, watching and waiting until he sees something worthy of a good, old, warning bark or two. He stands guard, ever vigilant against the cat that lives at the last house, the postman or the little girl from the first house that giggles, blows bubbles and decorates the paving stones with chalk. Once darkness falls we close the curtains and he re-positions himself under our feet, huffs, farts and falls asleep. Fierce when he has to be, but only when he has to be. Just like a big dog should be. But only when he has to be.

Each morning the birds that live in the bush outside our front door start their chattering and chirruping, signalling the approach of the morning sun and prompting the big dog to come and wake me so I can stumble, bleary eyed, downstairs. I open the curtains for him and he begins another session of guard duty. It's a pleasant way to be woken and I generally get to see the sun rise whilst I'm waiting for the chips and processors in the television and digi-box to go through their own waking up process and eventually, after what seems like an age, presenting me with the BBC news.

The house I live in is very similar to the house my Grandfather lived in with my Grandmother until his death in '78. A two up, two down with outside toilet, ridiculously steep staircase, a scullery and a small back yard. My Granddad smoked a pipe, a habit which I now share and, some nights, when I'm sat in a pungent cloud of Condor original I close my eyes and remember him. I was nine years old when he died, too young to have enough nice memories, but then however long he'd lived, for his Grandson, it wouldn't have been long enough.

Every Friday night my parents would take me and my little sister to Gran and Granddad's house, not a million miles from where I now find myself in a place called Radcliffe, and leave us there for a visit. I loved it.

Granddad had piloted bombers in World War II which meant he had boxes of photographs and a head full of stories to entertain me with. At tea time he and I would go to the fish and chip shop where I would get a meat pie and chips and a big bottle of "Strike Cola". We'd return home via the off licence, the "Bottle and Basket", where we would stock up on sweets (Spangles, Toffos and rainbow sherbert), pipe tobacco and a tall bottle or two of Guinness. The four of us would eat off the plates my Gran had warmed in the electric oven seated around the drop-leaf dining table in the scullery. Once fed, we'd retire to the living room to watch television. The picture on the big, old box would grow, slowly, from a small, white dot in the centre of the screen as the television warmed up. In those olden days you had to wait an age before being able to see the news, isn't modern technology brilliant?

I can remember much of my time with him in great detail. On Saturdays we would go out for a walk. On these walks he educated me on important things. The physics behind a parachute, how aircraft stay in the sky, what a keystone is and how to build a dam. One weekend he taught me to ride a bike without stabilisers in the time honoured way. "Don't worry, I'm holding the seat, off you go...." he said, before not holding the seat and lighting his pipe as I fell off at the end of the street.

On another memorable weekend we were in his loft, having a clear out. I was six and it was very exciting, balanced on the rafters holding a torch while cobwebs tickled my neck and Granddad rummaged around, passing box after box back through the little hatch to my Grandmother below.

The dusty boxes lay scattered around the bedroom floor. Granddad was tasked with going through every one of these boxes and throw away the tat while Gran Kath returned to the scullery and busied herself with whatever it is that Grandmothers do in the kitchen, wiping her hands on her pinny and waving a wooden spoon.

The sorting didn't go well. I opened the first box, it smelt old and interesting, kind of spicy, and from on top of other assorted memorabilia the faces of a group of uniformed men, stood in front of a WWII bomber, beamed smiles up at me. One of the group was much taller than the others, my Granddad, looking much younger but with the same slicked-back hairstyle and half-bent pipe in his hand.

"I haven't seen that for donkey's years." He said, as he picked the photograph up gently and smiled back at himself. Cue the best afternoon with him I think I ever had.

Having just re-read what I've thus far written I can see that it's starting to look a little self indulgent. Don't fret, I'm not going to go all "Hobson's Choice" or "Love on the Dole" on you.

A day or two ago I posted a picture of a letter that was published in, I think, the Northern Echo and referring to our problems over seas with Isis, IS, Isil or whichever moniker we're supposed to be using at the moment. It put me in mind of the Kenny Everett character, an American general with a chest full of medals and the catchphrase "Round 'em up, put 'em in a field and bomb the bastards!"

Under the heading, which should have carried a spoiler alert, of "Blanket bomb IS", the following opinion was printed.

"The only way to stop Islamic State (IS) is to strike back - hard. With each mission flown by the RAF costing thousands of pounds there is no alternative but to do as we did in the Second World War - pick out an area and blanket bomb it.  This type of operation was done in in (sic) 1944 WITHOUT ANY REGRETS.  Today there is far too much coverage of conflict on television. The members of IS are barbaric. They deserve no mercy."

This was what had started me thinking about that afternoon with Granddad, looking at old photographs of aircraft and dapper young men, photos of the view from the windows of cockpits of foreign lands and ships at sea. Then a picture of a scorched Earth. The remains of one of the most beautiful cities that Europe had ever seen, the Gothic masterpiece that was once Dresden, reduced to blackened rubble, twisted steel and ash.

My Granddad was tall, handsome and proud. Too proud to have cried the tear that fell past my ear and onto the glossy print that sat on my knee as I sat on his, so I wiped it away, ignored it and didn't look round at his face until I felt his breathing return to normal, rather than the short, sharp sobs he struggled to stifle.

I didn't want to upset Granddad by prying, but I was six years old and a six year old is an inquisitive creature. I didn't understand most of what he was telling me, I focused on the bangs and the exciting, zoomy bits. He mentioned a lot of people died and the six year old me chirruped up with "yeah, but they were the baddies, Granddad." The box got put away then, so I played with the Chinese Dragons made from straw that he kept in his display cabinet, nicking a little, red, plastic cocktail stick in the shape of a sword from the cup behind the mythical beasts and slaying them over and again, my heroics accompanied by a lot of "oosh, ha, urgh" noises for dramatic effect.

It was many years after his death that I read about Dresden, about the blanket bombing and the fireball created over those magnificent buildings that sucked the air and the people in the streets below up and into it's fiery tempest. It was a while longer before I connected these people with the "baddies" I'd imagined as a child. I remembered seeing the tear that Granddad surely hadn't shed and his face wearing an expression that wasn't his usual broad smile. A man of few expressions, smiling broadly was his favourite, and mine. I saw him angry once, he'd jumped out of his car to remonstrate with an acquaintance near the crossing on Long Causeway. I watched through the window, the words a little muffled by glass but clear enough. Impressive and scary at the same time, just like your Granddad should be, when he has to be. But only when he has to be.

There's a saying, "Lest we forget", that crops up on memorial days. We rightly remember our fallen heroes, the men that died so that we  may live...

...but there's more to remember than that.

J2H.

It's not just for drawing circles, you know?

I don't recall ever being bullied in school. I remember being stabbed with pairs of compasses, referred to as "big nose" and having the change knocked from my hands by a roaring buffoon in the dinner queue, but I also remember stabbing my mates with pairs of compasses, defining my peers by whatever made them different and acting like a buffoon in the dinner queue. So, was it that I was bullied or that I was a bully? I don't recall if I stabbed someone with a pair of compasses before having been stabbed with a pair myself, but I'm sure I was, so maybe I was an aspiring bully. I've no idea. I hope I never made anyone feel like they were being bullied,

On a connected note, if you're ever struggling with the plural of compass, type carefully into your google box. "Cumpie" gives some surprisingly unappetising results.

But back to my school days. As I remember it, I had a number of Nemesis' who "bullied" me and suffered "bullying" at my hands. I was, genetically, lucky I suppose. I was generally far taller than my peers and kids are cowards, the littler ones suffer a far worse time. As a result, they tend to be the toughest by the time they leave school. When it comes to using your fists, practice makes perfect. The "hardest" man I know has a cleft lip and palate. His appearence and speech made him the target of merciless name calling and dead legs from day one. His early school years would have been Hellish, I'm sure, but by the end of his education he emerged as a popular young man that no one dared mess with.

Others don't cope. A girl at my high school had what was described as a nervous breakdown just before our final exams. She'd been bullied for years because she was clever. She was a friend of mine and I'm ashamed to say I hadn't noticed. She always seemed happy in the company of her friends, but I suppose brief spells of normality when usually in Hell would probably put a wide smile on anyone's face. Kids are horrid. As an author of several children's books I should probably keep that opinion quiet, but I'm speaking from the point of view of an ex-child myself. My kids I love, but I doubt I'd have loved the child that was me or any of my horrible, snotty, wee-up-a-tree mates.

Like so many things, it's all a matter of personal perspective. For me, being stabbed in the arse hurt, made me momentarily angry and then became funny. Funnier still whenever I had an opportunity to wreak revenge. I pride myself of the advancement of classroom based tomfoolery with the introduction to my circle of the little, black, clicky bit and button from a disposable lighter. I used it to deliver several electric shocks to one of my best friends before he caught me. He was impressed, and he held me down to administer several filling-popping shocks to my cheeks when my uncontrollable laughter rendered me helpless.

DickFingers is very much like me. Many's the time I've receive a well aimed and light hearted punch to the kidney as I'm doing the washing up and I've lost count of the number of times I've wedgied her whilst she's been showing me her new underwear.

I've come across many definitions of "bullying". The oldest I've come across is "to use ones greater strength to intimidate". Later "or influence" was added alongside "ones greater strength". Both definitions are perfectly clear on the meaning and, to my relief, none of the definitions I've seen mention stabbing people in the arse with pairs of compasses.

Some definitions go into far more detail. I once had a conversation regarding what was construed as bullying with my high school teacher sister. I was surprised at some of the issues that could, and do, call for official complaints which, ultimately, can lead to the destruction of someones career. I'm paraphrasing slightly, but "talking behind someones back" seemed to me not only to be unworthy of punishment by financial ruin and loss of reputation but also to be a little, well, pathetic. Surely such a transgression would better be described as gossiping? We're all guilty of that. (Except for "you know who".)

Many, possibly all, of us have the capacity within to bully someone, but most of us don't. We have empathy, we know the rules, we know what's acceptable. Kidney punch while washing up? Fine. Leaving the tea bag on the side when the bin is there, right there, right fucking next to you? You're a bastard. (Yes, I mean you, DickFingers.)

Now I'm older and my days of being stabbed in the arse are, pardon the pun, all behind me. It's been a good thirty years since I acted up in a queue waiting for our dinner lady, Typhoid Trina, to stop coughing long enough to slop mashed potatoes onto my plate and I grew into my nose. A bit. In no section of my life do I ever feel I'm being bullied.

A lot of people disagree with me on a lot of subjects, I'm grateful for that. What boredom awaits us in a world where all agree? Fortunately, we'll never know.

I Tweet a lot. I Tweet random snippets formed by what are obviously misfiring synapses masquerading as "thoughts", sometimes silly pictures and often cheap attempts to manipulate followers into parting with their hard earned cash to buy a book or three. I try not to get too embroiled in the more controversial and polarising topics doing the rounds, unless someone asks my opinion. Even then, more often than not, I'll politely decline their invitation to debate further and wander off to trawl Twitter for cute kittens and tits instead.

Not so very long ago someone Tweeted me out of the blue and pointed out that I have "lots" of followers that "openly" believe Maddy Mcaan was murdered by her father. It was news to me, though statistically, with thirty thousand plus followers, it was probably a knocking bet I would have and that I would have other individuals, like the lady that contacted me, who believed the opposite. A good deal more probably don't give two shits. I, as you, fall into one of these three categories, I wasn't prepared to discuss my opinion on this very emotive topic with an anonymous box of text that had appeared on my screen demanding attention and so politely declined her invitation. This led to her assumption, whether right or wrong, that I was scared of arguing against her standpoint when, for all she knew, I may have been a kindred spirit. I was "threatened" with being reported as a troll (?) and, horror of horrors, being blocked. Regarding this situation, I don't mind admitting I fell into the "two shits" category and went searching for more kittens, some more tits and a picture of Wayne Rooney being compared to a Little Britain character.

So, kids, pop quiz. Your starter for ten....

Which particular news story has led to tonight's tirade?

Well done, that's ten points on the board. It's the whole Martin Brunt/Brenda Leyland debacle.

Just in case you've missed it (To be fair, it's been given really rather meager coverage by some news agencies for whatever reason.) Brenda Leyland was, until recently, a sixty three year old lady with a Twitter account and an opinion on the whereabouts/fate of Maddy McCann. The debate on what happened to Maddy has never been satisfied. Someone knows what happened, some people think they know what happened and most of those people are wrong. But someone knows and they're keeping it to themselves.

Mrs Leyland wasn't one of those that knew, but she believed she knew and she speculated on this via some very blunt statements on Twitter under the handle "@SweepyFace". Her opinion, to which she was entitled. was that the parents of the missing child were the people that actually know and that they were vile individuals. She used language that was at best passionate and at worst offensive. The Tweets weren't sent to either Gerry or Kate McCann, they wisely steer clear of Twitter and neither have accounts. The Tweets did, however, contain the hashtag "McCann", a trend avidly followed by those on either side of the debate. Of course, someone could have told the McCanns about the Tweets Mrs Leyland posted, but from what I see on a daily basis there are far worse things, death threats etc., actually aimed at the couple and, I should imagine, it would be these that any friends or acquaintances would take the time to point out. This wasn't the case though, we have it from the horse's mouth. Gerry McCann has since said, on camera, that neither he nor his wife had been aware of the Tweets.

He had the opportunity to say this on camera because of Mrs Leyland's sudden death. As yet there is no official cause of death, and the police say there are no suspicious circumstances. She was found dead in a cheap hotel room soon after being metaphorically stabbed in the arse while dicking about in the dinner queue, the victim of a real bully.

Brandishing a dossier and with film crew in tow, a "Sky News' Crime Corespondent" by the name of Mr Martin Brunt doorstepped Mrs Leyland as she was leaving her house. She wouldn't talk to him at that point, she was going our with her friend, but on her return she invited him into her home and spoke, off camera, to him. The earlier exchange, very much on camera, showed Mr Brunt claiming that the police were investigating her over her Tweets and that she could be in serious trouble. This was not true. Although the Tweets had been reported to the police and examined, they have since said Mrs Leyland wasn't being investigated. Now, you should never, it's said, let the truth get in the way of a good story, but that assumes you know the truth and choose to ignore it. Mr Brunt didn't know the truth and took it on himself to decide what the opinion of the CPS would be. Maybe he thought, after his filler-piece to be slotted in between stories on how we're all going to die of Ebola and how we're all going to die of terrorism was aired, that the police would have no option but to investigate further but, to be clear, at this point there was no story. The man was attempting to create news where no news existed.

In a statement, albeit a brief one, Sky News said: "We were saddened to hear of the death of Brenda Leyland. It would be inappropriate to speculate or comment further at this time."

To sum up so far;

• Mrs Leyland didn't know. Mrs Leyland decided she did know. Mrs Leyland told a load of Twitter users, the one hundred and eighty two that followed her and any others interested in the McCann hashtag, what she thought she knew.
• Mr Brunt didn't know. Mr Brunt decided he did know. Mr Brunt produced a piece of television to be shown to millions of people, the vast majority of who fell into the two-shits category.

Mr Brunt showed the lady's house on camera, lied about the situation, misrepresented himself and brought news of the content of Mrs Leyland's messages, content they would never have been exposed to if not for him, to the missing child's parents. Mrs Leyland, on camera, came across as pleasant, middle class, polite and level headed. She seemed to have no problem with the police looking into the case, although they weren't, and responded with "That's fine" when Mr Blunt told his fib. Mrs Leyland was found dead in hotel room soon after.

Whether or not her death is related to the treatment she suffered at the hands of a vigilante with a press pass is, at this point, unknown. In this case, unlike that of Madeleine McCann, there is the possibility that no one knows, that Mrs Leyland was the only one who did know and that, now she's gone, no one will ever know. We may never know what Maddy's fate was, but there is, without a doubt, at least one person on the face of this Earth that knows exactly what happened.

If it's eventually found that Mrs Leyland was driven to take her own life we still won't know if this was as a result of Martin Brunt's lazy, self serving "journalism". No one will. Some will think yes, some will think no and, unfortunately, most won't give two shits. What I do know, and knew before this tragic series of events, is that we have a police force and judicial system dedicated to, and pretty damn good at, sorting stuff like this out, we're all entitled to our opinion no matter how offensive someone else may find it and news should be news, not speculation. We have ITV's "Loose Women" for speculation.

Finally, I feel it would be rather cowardly of me to write this piece without throwing my hat into the ring on the topics covered and so, at the risk of some merciless trolling, here it is...

• Someone knows, but I'm not that someone so my opinion is invalid.
• I think some of the photofits of the suspect bear a striking resemblance to Gerry McCann. 
• I think leaving your young children in a villa while you bugger off out to eat, even if you do nip back occasionally to check on them, is, at best, a really stupid and irresponsible thing to do. Checking on them is great, except that if your child has been abducted then "checking on them" becomes "discovering their empty bed".
• I think, however vile and obnoxious the comments made by Mrs Leyland may have been, they are just that. Comments. In the words of my Sainted Grandmother when she found me staring at my massive conk in the mirror and crying, "Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all, except one, and fuck that bastard on Monday."
• Being stabbed in the arse really smarts.
• They're my opinions, I'm entitled to them. If you share them, fine. If you don't, fine. Either way, I'm still a nice bloke and you're probably pretty cool too.

Please remember, offence can only be taken, not given. If you choose to take it, maybe you need to make better choices. If you find a lot of people are taking offence at your utterances, maybe you should use the compass more for moral guidance and less for stabbing people in the arse. 

J2H.

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.