Water under the bridge.

I saw a story on this morning's local television news. A bit of a non-story, it told how the National Trust planned to put a metal safety rail on a cottage in Ambleside (Pictured) and reported that the Parish Council had dubbed the notion "sacrilege". 

It is, unarguably, a beautiful cottage, but a sympathetically designed, black, metal handrail would probably blend in okay and most visitors would simply imagine such a treacherous staircase would always have had this, most basic, safety feature. The addition of the handrail will mean the Trust can open the first floor up to the public and visitors will have a less hazardous ascent. The argument seems a little bit pointless since we all know that the dreaded Health and Safety Executive will ensure that the handrail is in place. Then, elderly Americans wearing rainhoods, plastic ponchos, sandals, white socks and khaki shorts will be able to climb the staircase, coo over the quaint, old, interior and make their way, safely, back down to the street below. Perhaps they'll have a cream tea at the local tea rooms, or buy a slab of tooth-dissolving mint cake from Ye Olde Shoppe before clambering back aboard their coach and heading to Stonehenge. Local folk will tut when they occasionally notice the modern addition to the aging property and, all the while, the river will keep on flowing, as uninterested as the rest of us, beneath the feet of the tourists. A pointless debate to most.

The story interested me in that it holds within it two of my favourite pet hates. Firstly, our pathetic reliance on others to ensure our journey through this universe and into our graves is free from danger and, secondly, our penchant for petty moaning. Moaning about nothing. Selfish moaning. "This is how I like it/would like it to be, so this is the way it must remain/become".


I'm at a loss as to which side of the argument I fall in situations such as these. On the one hand I can't see the point of the addition. The place has been there since at least 1845, but if it's suddenly a problem then why not just put a sign up for strangers to the staircase that reads "Please don't fall off". In this litigious age it would probably be a good idea to add, beneath this earnest entreaty and in smaller lettering, the words "By accessing this staircase you agree to be bound by the terms and conditions of this staircase. You agree that there is no hand rail, you've seen there's no handrail, you're aware that the drop from the top step is considerably higher than the drop from the step you're stood on and that the ground below is stony." If the worst happens and someone falls off, breaking a fragile, octogenarian, pelvis in the process, then phone an ambulance, wish them luck and laugh at their stupidity once they've gone. No one likes to admit it but we all find it funny when an old person falls over.

On the other hand, it's only a handrail. Yes, it's not a pretty addition to the property but, in my opinion, beauty isn't true beauty without imperfection somewhere, the contrast is necessary or the beauty is bland. The ancient and the modern can co-exist in the same view with some dramatic and beautiful results, as I think the picture [Right] of a church in New York demonstrates.


A petty argument, brought about by the Trust having to apply for permission and announce their intention. People see an announcement and look for some reason to disagree. I'm not saying we shouldn't be informed when a new bypass is going to run through our town centre or a maximum security prison is to be built on the local school playing fields, but in this case it was a bloody hand rail. Just a hand rail. Who really gives a shit? Just put the hand rail up and take it back down again if it proves to be a bad idea.

Rules are like farts and farts are like children, we love our own and hate everyone else's. People see a sign and, like the young lady in the picture [Left], obey without question. Nimbyism is rife. Those that don't agree with, or care about, the campaign to prevent the wind farm being built on the side of the hill remain silent for fear of retribution and venom aimed at them by some of their more militant neighbours.

People may complain that the instructions given on the sign are ridiculous or offensive but they'll obey because, by doing so, they'll ensure that they have the right to complain. I sometimes find myself ordering a double-cheeseburger from the pound-saver menu in Maccy D's just because I'm a little bit bored and fancy a moan. There's always something to moan about beneath the Golden Tits of America. Especially at the drive through.

Moaning is wonderful. I moan almost constantly. Sometimes tongue in cheek. Sometimes I go over the top for dramatic effect. Sometimes I'm just in a grumpy mood. Very rarely am I actually angry though. Not about the petty stuff anyway.

My blog entries are generally moaning about something. My most entertaining Twitter exchanges have come about after a follower or I had moaned about some shit or other. I know it's pointless moaning, I know I'm not going to experience a positive outcome once my tirade is over, but it feels so good doing it.

We all want to be safe and we all have a right to expect to be safe from the actions of others. We aren't safe though. Any of us. We are idiots and we cannot be trusted. We do silly things, like turning the light switch on with wet hands, releasing the trapped toast from the toaster mechanism with a knife or bending over naked to spit toothpaste into the sink whilst a cat preens itself behind you. 

Then, almost as soon as we've ceased ouch-ing and cussing, we look for someone to blame. Stood on a piece of Lego in bare feet? It's the kid's fault for leaving it there. Dad stands on a piece of your Lego in bare feet? It's dad's fault for not wearing shoes. Hand crushed because you were given the wrong ladder to use at work, or hand crushed because you used the wrong ladder at work? "Ah," you may say, "But it's my bosses job to make sure I'm using the right ladder." Yes, it is. But does your hand hurt any less because it wasn't your fault?

I move a lot of furniture in my day job. Just over a fortnight ago I helped a friend move a three piece suite. It was raining and dark when we arrived to unload so we were eager to get the job finished. After wrestling the sofa in through the front door, with lots of Chuckle Brothers' style "To me, to you..."-ing, we were left with an armchair each to shift. Now, I'm by no means a little fella, so I grabbed an armchair on my own and hoisted it into the air and above my head to carry it to the house. As the armchair reached chest height I discovered that the chair I was holding was a recliner, this being brought to my attention when the intricate and robust mechanical action within decided to adjust the seat into a reclined position. The mechanism scissored shut, hard, on my right pinky finger. It hurt, I screamed and the little bone snapped. My friend was mortified and automatically assumed I would blame him. I didn't. I was rushing and as my dad used to say, with a cheeky wink, "You get nowt good from rushing, son, 'cept babies." Rather than complain, get angry and seek the assistance of some shyster "no win no fee" solicitor I strapped it up, took some pain killers and am currently waiting for it to heal. It is now no more than a funny story and a slight inconvenience when wiping my backside or doing the washing up. Water under the bridge.

I learned a long time ago to laugh rather than to moan. I don't mean we should allow the negligence of others to go unpunished when a catastrophe occurs. Just be big enough to consider your own part in the story.

No hand rail? Stay away from the edge.

No fire extinguisher? Don't play with matches.

Raining and dark and an armchair to move? Take your time, you get nowt good from rushing.

Moan about the bad things, but remember no one cares. Not really. If you've done something stupid be the first to laugh about it, then others will laugh with you instead of making all the right, sympathetic, noises until you've left and then taking the piss behind your back. If you really need sympathy check the dictionary. It lies somewhere between "Shit" and "Syphilis".

J2H.

Through the balustrade.

I find it hard to understand how any of us "own" anything. But we do. We own homes, cars, Xboxes and underpants. They're ours. We worked and paid for them. We cherish them. We don't (for the most part) help ourselves to our neighbour's silverware and most of us would never dream of rubbing another man's rhubarb.

But how are they ours? When it comes down to it someone, at some point, laid claim to a bit of the Earth on which we all dwell. He put a fence up and kept others out. He didn't pay for it, he took it. Later he, or a descendant of his, sold it. Or found the fossilised remains of prehistoric great lizards beneath it. Or used it to manufacture consumables using ingredients purchased from another man who had laid claim to his own piece of this Earth and on which he had found some valuable commodity or other. "Property is theft". But we've pretty much evolved a status quo from which there is no return. And even if it were all to be undone, we'd just start killing each other to put our own fences up. Let's not rock the boat, eh?

There is, however, one exception to this rule. Us. We own us. You own you and I own me. If I want to force a ring through my ear or use hot, steel, needles to deliver ink deep into my skin I can. I don't need planning permission, a licence or a note from my mother and I can't be taxed on it. Yet. (Details correct at time of going to press.) It's all mine. And yours is all yours.

I don't drink often these days, but if I like I can purchase a bottle of poison, or "alcohol", and pour it into my body, allowing it to destroy brain cells as it diminishes my inhibitions and dishevels my dignity. It could lead to bad decision making and a delusion that convinces me I am invincible, witty and charming. I have a bit of a blow out now and again. Why not? It's my body and my money and perfectly legal. 

You can have sex with anyone you choose, the one caveat being they have to choose to have sex with you, no matter how ill judged. We can even get pissed and have sex, with ANYONE. It's ours, we can do what we like with it.

You're not allowed to kill yourself. Fair enough. Generally this is one of those rules that have very little impact on us. If I want to do it, I'll just do it. Sue me, incarcerate my corpse, give me fifty lashes. Bring it on. 

Whether or not we choose to inhale tobacco smoke, all the while knowing it's killing us, is our choice to make. Swimming with sharks, hang gliding or putting your tongue on a 9v battery are all fine, though potentially lethal. Even bungee jumping. No problem. 

(On a personal note, you'd never catch me bungee jumping. It was a dodgy piece of rubber brought me into this world, I'll be damned if I let one send me back out again.)

So, to sum up this first section, we don't really own our shit, but it's ours, leave it alone. If I want to get pissed and have a tattoo I can and we've all done the 9v battery thing.

Drugs are bad. We don't do drugs. We just say "no" to drugs. We understand they'd feel good, that's the whole point, but we're not allowed to put them into our bodies. We might die. We might become criminals to feed our habit. So we don't do it. Drugs are bad. We don't do drugs. Well, most drugs. 

I was, as some of you are aware, brought up in a back street pub in Salford. Surrounded by inebriated miscreants and ne'er do wells I managed to navigate my way from being a small child to having a small child of my own. As a child I saw and experienced things a child shouldn't see or experience. Sat at the top of the sweeping staircase that led from private to public house I would peep through the balustrade and watch. I saw policemen, bankers, vicars and gangsters all under the influence of the legal drug alcohol. People I should have been learning to respect, or fear, behaving in ways that made respect, or fear, very difficult. The local vicar swearing whilst attempting to ride his squeaky bike along the pavements and home. The policeman that visited our school regularly, to warn us about the illegalities of riding your bike on the pavement or hanging around the precinct, stripped to his waist and blindfolded whilst his fortieth birthday surprise, a kiss-a-gram, caressed his pasty flesh with a bull whip. One of my teachers being punched in the teeth by an irate parent who'd just learned he'd been having an affair with his sixteen year old daughter, an ex-pupil. 

All these things and more played out on the rich tapestry my upbringing wove before me. Night after night people would pay my mother and father for a drug which occasionally would turn one or more of them into a completely different individual. The meek became mouthy, the strong became sensitive. Respectable women would flash their knickers on the car-park and happily married husbands would experience an epiphany which temporarily revealed to them the delusion that there was no real harm in what they wanted to do with the barmaid/local bike/woman from the supermarket before acting on their most primitive of urges. 

Occasionally the effects of the alcohol would be positive on those imbibing it. Wall-flowers would find the confidence to get up on Karaoke night and reveal to their peers the beautiful singing voice they'd kept hidden for fear of the attention it would bring. Sometimes the lonely, old, man in the corner would get up and dance like no one was watching, raising good spirited laughter around him and engaging with more people in one evening than visited his dingy flat in a year. Most people would leave my dad's pub with a smile, some cheekily attempting to hide a pint pot, still three quarters full, inside their coat and away from his beady eye. Occasionally two people, strangers at the beginning of the night, would leave hand in hand with the person they would one day marry.

My dad's pub was a nice pub. Mostly. Of course there was the occasional fight, but these were almost exclusively on the car-park rather than inside (unless you'd discovered your daughter's paedophile lover) and always "fair". The customers liked their local and policed it accordingly. Anyone could visit and enjoy their evening. Strangers would be smiled at, talked to and included. Arguments were few and far between, and those that couldn't take their ale would be gently persuaded to leave, or thrown through the doors if the gentle persuasion proved unsuccessful. 

I ran a few pubs and bars myself when I was young. I even briefly ran the pub I'd grown up in after my fathers departure and the brewery's lengthy period of failing to find anyone daft enough to take on a pub in Salford in the late 1990s. It wasn't the same. Our attitude toward alcohol and licensed establishments had changed significantly. People entered the pub with their partners or a few friends, spent the evening in the company of the people they'd arrived with, complained about the people they hadn't arrived with and left in a taxi with the same circle. There are still good, friendly, inclusive pubs all over Manchester and Salford, but they're becoming rarer by the day.

I once, and in hindsight regrettably, became involved with a woman who worked as a bouncer on student venues in Manchester during the heady days of Madchester. She would work at a variety of places, sometimes a band would be playing, or just a DJ. Sometimes there would be a bar selling under-priced alcohol, sometimes the venue would be dry. On the nights the students of Manchester were consuming copious amounts of Stella Artois, WKD or Dry Blackthorn the lady in question would return with tales of blood and gore, shock and awe, police involvement, missing teeth, crying girls and vomit. Of arguments with revelers as they were stubbornly refusing to leave. Then there were the dry nights.

Dry nights meant no alcohol. The bar would serve only water and soft drinks. Students being students, and Manchester being Manchester, other, less legal, drugs would be consumed instead. Some smoked, some sniffed and some swallowed. The tales that followed these nights were far less exciting, but far more pleasant. Dancing and singing, no boys in blue, toothy smiles, laughing girls and vomit. Revelers filing happily past the door staff into the dawn chorus, telling said door staff they loved them and giving them their phone numbers before wandering home, via the cafe.

Of course, this example doesn't give a true picture of drug users. It's very one sided. Certainly, the results of drug usage can be stomach churning. I know two brothers who became addicted to heroin whilst still at school. Before either were twenty, one had wandered onto a train track after shooting up by the line. He had then been unfortunate enough to touch the live rail and now resembles a pork scratching. His older brother injected whilst sat against a big, old fashioned, radiator in a school he had broken into. Whilst unconscious the timer had turned the boiler on and the radiator became hot. His neck was against the lip of one of the super heated, cast iron, edges. The edge burnt through his flesh and into his spinal chord. He is now, and will always be, paralysed from the neck down.

Both those examples should be enough to win the argument against the legalisation of drugs. And if you need more, how about the brother of these two unfortunates. Hacked to death in the street by drug dealers after having run up a massive debt. 

What if heroin hadn't been illegal? Why would the first brother be hiding in a cold, dank, shed by a dangerous railway line if he could've been sat at home, smoking his drug of choice as his father sipped a whiskey and mum did the ironing off her tits on Ecstacy? The second wouldn't have felt the need to break into a school. Lastly, Tesco, for all it's faults and to the best of my knowledge, doesn't give it's security guards machetes and doesn't execute anyone at the till without a valid method of payment for the basket full of tasty narcotics they've popped in for.

But what about the prostitutes, hooked on drugs and selling their favours to scrape together enough money for their next hit?

Aren't there also alcoholic prostitutes? Believe it or not, some prostitutes aren't even addicts. Some are, but some addicts are also working in your local sun-bed shop, bakery and police station. Sometimes alongside an alcoholic or two.

So why is it okay for us to be drunk but not to be high? To ingest one poisonous substance but not another? It's not a safety concern, or booze would've been banned long ago. People get addicted. So why do we allow tobacco sales? 

It destroys families. As does alcohol, debt, illness and war. 

It encourages crime. After all, one hundred percent of the users of illegal drugs are, by definition, criminals. But this figure quite obviously drops significantly if you remove from the crime statistics those that wouldn't be criminals if their drug of choice was alcohol.

By this point in time, unless you're blind, you should have realised the war on drugs isn't winnable. A huge folly. It's like King Canute and the waves. (For those that can't remember, King Canute and the waves was the original line up of Katrina and the Waves, Katrina later replacing lead singer King Canute after he choked to death on a peanut. Dangerous things, those peanuts. Someone should do something about that.) A huge waste of money. Money that the country could certainly spend on many, more useful, projects. Tying up our police officers with the issuing of tickets to kids with gormless grins and pockets full of ganja while Mr Hudson from round the corner is driving home, pissed, from the pub. Allowing the vilest members of society to get rich on feeding drugs to children instead of having street cafes with a strict under-18s policy providing a pleasant environment where friends can get high. Wasting the opportunity to tax a massively popular industry whilst allowing shady individuals to earn a tax-free and very lucrative living. 

We allow people to be drunk, but throw a load of rules into the right. Don't drive, don't do it in the street, don't operate machinery, don't cause a nuisance. Surely laws like these, when applied to other intoxicants, are easier, and therefore cheaper, to police than fighting a war? A war we cannot win? 

I can be trusted to make the right decisions in a world of decriminalisation and I'd put money on it that you can be trusted too. Almost all of us will be able to handle it. Not all, but almost all. There would still, unfortunately, be those that struggled. Those weak individuals that fester at the arse of society. But we've got those now. They've always been there, and they will always remain there. They're as much as a part of our universe as we are, an integral ingredient in the rich soup of life.

People will overdose now and again. Some will die. People die. It's a fact of life. The single, largest, direct cause of death in the world is being born. One hundred percent of sufferers of this condition go on to die. We're all going to die of something and for some of us that something will be avoidable, heartbreaking, selfish or stupid. People are currently dying because of the necnomination craze. Completely legal and even celebrated by certain sectors of society. Stupidity in the extreme. Moronic and pointless, even if you win you're still a loser and yet the craze has swept throughout the Western world. As I've mentioned in some of my previous posts, we're all fucking idiots.

But is our predilection toward foolishness reason enough to need legislation protecting us from the evils of drug use? I use "use" rather than "abuse" intentionally to make another point, drug use is not necessarily bad. Drug ABUSE is different. Any abuse is bad, quite plainly, whether it physical, sexual, racist, homophobic, alcoholic or narcotic. 

Another exception to prove a rule, self abuse is lovely.

We own our own bodies in the true sense. Our parents had a hand in getting the whole project off the ground, but from that point on that impressive, chiseled, rock hard body of yours that the world admires so much and that cutting wit of yours is all your own work. Advice may have been given, some good and some bad, and that advice might have been followed but, for whatever reason, you and you alone decided to follow it. The results, good or bad, are all your own work. 

Congratulations, by the way, you're GREAT.

But still, even knowing deep down that our friends, family members and neighbours are probably just as good at being human as ourselves and can therefore be trusted to look after themselves, we insist on telling our fellow man what he can and can't do with his one and only possession. It honestly confuses me. I can see no winner in the war on drugs. Surely the money saved if we waved the white flag would be so much better spent on education. Education in the truth about drugs with the aim of each child making the right, informed, decision and then trusting them to do so. I'm sure there would be a few quid left over after bringing this onto the syllabus to spend on a couple of physics teachers and a new, indoor, 5-a-side football pitch or two as well. Oh, and some books. I like books.

Then, decisions made and adult life underway, we could go about our business and enjoy our spare time however we desired. Just enjoying ourselves without upsetting anyone else. If you're a prick when you drink you could smoke weed instead. If you're a bore on weed try an E. Different strokes for different folks, folks. 

And all the while paying taxes. 

Some people will abuse the alcohol/THC/MDMA et al and cause problems, but most won't. Most drinkers/smokers/sniffers/swallowers will dislike the actions of the minority in their ranks just as much as those that abstain will. It's happening anyway, struggling against it just demonstrates the ultimate impotence of the system in this matter.

Give us drugs, let us use or not use them. Punish us if we abuse them or if we abuse others as a result of our intoxication. Tell us honestly what they do and what to expect. Tax them fairly. Spend the proceeds wisely. Get a bit of perspective. 

A good rule of thumb to follow when deciding what is and what isn't acceptable behaviour in life is to wonder how you would look to an eight year old child, peeping through a balustrade and learning how to be a grown up. If you saw him looking, how would you feel? Embarrassed? Stop doing it. But if the kid is smiling and you laughed and winked at him then get on with it, you're doing no harm. 

If you yourself don't want to take drugs then you yourself must, under no circumstances, take drugs. Don't allow myself, or others, to influence you. I'm not condoning or encouraging drug use or criminality in any way. 

After all, It's great when you're straight, yeah? 

I'm just rambling. 

Probably stoned.

J2H.

Mount Pleasant Street.

A day in my life to demonstrate
The benefits of being late
Whether missing your bus or losing your keys
Or needing a wee before you can leave
It makes life fun and thrilling and fast
Today's vexation is soon in the past

On Friday just gone I needed to be
In town for a meeting at a quarter past three
Alarm set early, I mustn't be late
To start on the tasks that just couldn't wait
And had to be done before I could meet
A man about a dog on Mount Pleasant street

The worst invention, beside French loos
Has to be the button marked snooze
I pressed and pressed and stayed in bed
Too late for breakfast I left unfed
To freeze off my balls whilst walking the dog
Through rain and sleet and freezing fog

The dog whined at the door and started to wag
His tail as his master searched for a bag
To pick up his shit from the frosty grass
After waiting for him to empty his arse
Its not that bad even when blowing a gale
It keeps your hands warm, stops you biting your nails

See there's always a plus side to any grim chore
Just think and you'll find it, of that I am sure
Not matter how hard or how big or how tough
There's satisfaction in there if you look hard enough
Cleaning the filter on the drier's not funny
But look at that lovely, soft, massive dust bunny

But back to my day, I hate to digress
I get my flow in a terrible mess
Although actually, no, to wander is fine
To mentally meander just feels divine
It's never a race to finish a chat
Just hold tight and enjoy whilst chewing the fat

Dog now walked I got back home
And saw the display upon my phone
Two missed calls and the battery was flat
It blinked and it flashed and it made me say "twat"
I'd be needing my phone throughout the day
So there was nothing for it, at home I must stay

The voice mails were both just informing me
That I need now not do stuff, more time I had free
I smiled and I sat down with tea and hot toast
And a bowl of the cereal that I like the most
To sit with my feet up whilst watching the box
And using the fire to warm up my socks

If I'd not over slept I'd have been on my way
Already beginning to curse the damn day
Crawling in traffic, unable to see
The flashing messages informing me
That I'd be disappointed when I eventually arrived
At the house of the first man after that horrid drive

But hang on now, even that's not so bad
There's a cafe nearby and I'd have my iPad
To sit and to write this stupid, long, post
Whilst eating a breakfast with two extra toast
And sipping a coffee and watching the telly
And hearing the noises from my now happy belly

But back home I was sat almost all morning long
Enjoying some peace because plans had gone wrong
Reading the paper right through while just sitting
On the loo while I enjoyed an extra shitting
That only came about when I
Received a voice mail from a guy

That afternoon I took the bus
To drive to town seemed too much fuss
So earphones in and podcast playing
I smiled and listened whilst stood there swaying
Hung on a strap beside a bloke
That smelled of things that made me choke

When no longer I could hold my breathe
I decided there wasn't too far left
To have to walk to Mount Pleasant Street
So opted now to use my feet
I pressed the bell and jumped of quick
And stepped right in a pool of sick

Some dirty bastard from last night
Had drank too much and didn't feel right
And so he had then left for me
A sample of his lovely tea
Of kebab and chips and cheese and sauce
And lots and lots of beer, of course

I had the newspaper rolled up in my hand
And sat on a bench because it's hard to stand
Whilst using the Metro in such a role
To wipe the sick off your slippery sole
I sat beside a bin and saw
A crumpled fiver on the floor

I found myself with an hour to kill
So went to the cafe at the top of the hill
I sat with my latte, watched the world go past
And nibbled a pastry just making it last
Until the watch on my wrist said "Let's get to our feet,
And meet that man on Mount Pleasant Street".

On time were we both with our bags and our files
Our business conducted, we parted with smiles
I walked the long route now with my day all done
And nothing to do but live in the sun
That wouldn't be here in an hour or three
To waste it now, a sin that would be

So I smiled as I passed the statues and stores
At shoppers and policemen and babies and more
Then I hopped on the bus, over the pool
Left behind by the drunken fool
That I'd stepped in when I was here last
But which this time I skillfully passed

The guy behind, he wasn't so lucky
So he too managed to get his shoe mucky
I heard the groan, I'm afraid to say
I found it funny in a quite horrid way
So earplugs in and settled down
I rode the bus back out of town

The traffic was bad, the bus crept along,
The rumbling engine drowned out by the song
Of whichever band my phone wanted to play
To ease me home and through this day
Later than I would usually be
I wan't first home, so she had cooked tea

She'd wanted to wait but hadn't been able
So I sat down to food piled high on the table
The dogs by my side as I slump in the chair
Once the bread was all gone and my plate was bare
I settle down, the curtains shut
And fart so loud it brings a "tut"

Not a day for a history book
So little done and hours it took
A waste of time in so many ways
Not one of my better days
But done and dusted and no worries had
A day like that can never be bad

And so we curled up like two spoons
And watched a show about the moon
And how pretty it was and how far and how we
Could just open the curtains and look up and see
The big silver ball on a black velvet sky
And think for a moment "How damn small am I?"

That moon in the night is same one that you
Will look up and see when you notice it too
And your neighbour, and mother, loved ones near and far
Can see its reflection of our nearest star
That it scoops up and sends back so that we don't miss
It's beauty and splendour, it's cold goodnight kiss

It's not a bad world if you roll with the blows
Just throw it up in the air and see where it goes
You'll generally get through your day alright
And be home with your family by the end of the night
To rest your head and close your eyes
And wake up when the alarm clock cries
It's siren call, it's urgent plea
To open your eyes so that you might see
The beautiful day and all it's new news
And, of course, that button marked "snooze"

J2H

In the ghetto part II.

Following on from my last entry, "In the ghetto", and in the interest of balance I thought I'd write about another chap I came across.

Many years ago I worked as a meter reader, or "data collector" as they are now known, and travelled around the North West collecting data. The data was gleaned from reading people's electricity and gas meters.

Part of the data that is collected is whether or not a household is stealing their fuel. It's not as widespread as people believe, but it does happen. Since the power companies know that there would be a danger of physical violence perpetrated upon their data collectors if they were thought by the residents of such Hellish communities to be "grasses" they pay you danger money for each household that you report and that is subsequently found to be guilty. The payment comes in the form of a £25.00 shopping voucher, which means you don't have to pay tax on it. Very generous and public spirited.

The vast majority of areas I covered were inner city estates, many of them similar to the Chatsworth estate made famous in the Channel 4 television drama "Shameless". Estates like that, with so many people on benefits, so much criminality, were bound to be full of sub-human leachers stealing their electricity and costing the rest of us law abiding British subjects extra through our own bills.

Right?

I did that job a total of four years, and in those four years take a wild guess at how many of those people I found to be stealing their fuel. Answer, not a single one. That doesn't mean that none of them are doing it, it just means none of the customers of any of the three, major, power companies I read for were doing it. Not a one.

Occasionally I would do a round in a pleasant, or even wealthy, area. It's far harder to hit your targets in areas such as these since people are generally out at work. In those cases you leave a card and rely on the home owner to fill in their own reading and leave it in the window for you to read. Some houses just refuse to let you in, for whatever reason. Maybe they don't trust you, maybe they don't realise it's a legal requirement to have your meters read, maybe they're just too busy. It's never a cause for suspicion, unless you're never allowed access. In those cases, eventually, the power company has to apply for a warrant to gain access. The warrant is always granted since to refuse the warrant would mean forcing the power company to fail to follow the legislation. But I digress.

There was a nice street in Lancashire. Not a posh street, just a nice street. A Cul-de-sac with a big, round turning circle at the bottom, wide, tree lined, pavements and a mixture of semi-detached houses and detached bungalows, about thirty of them. It's what estate agents call a "well established" area and the residents are almost exclusively elderly. Their houses are nice, but in need of minor repair. Doors stick, window sills need painting, the drives could do with a jet wash and the lawns need a little bit of a trim, but all in all very pleasant.

At the bottom of the street is a larger, detached house. It has a large extension, a huge conservatory, two block paving drives and a magnificent porch. The drives contained mum's BMW, daughter's Vauxhall Corsa, and dad's van. Dad's van bore dad's name followed by the words "Joiners and Building Contractors". It was a long wheel base Mercedes and was immaculate. I visited this house every three months for three years and never gained access.

Then came my thirteenth visit. I knocked on the door and it was immediately opened by large chap in a sheepskin coat and with a lovely, warm smile. I asked to read the meter and he allowed me in, saying "I think it's in that cupboard under the stairs." He was quite plainly a visitor to the house and not an inhabitant.

Torch in hand I knelt, opened the cupboard door and crawled inside. I heard the gentleman that had allowed me access open a door off the hallway and call through to the kitchen.

"It's only the meter reader, I've let him in."

There was a shriek, a shriek of panic, almost terror. "Noooo." I heard someone come rushing through.

Now at this point I had read the meter and was backing away, but the reaction of the lady in the kitchen gave me pause for thought. I looked at the meter again and sure enough, underneath the black, bakelite box a tiny hole had been drilled and into this had been inserted a.... hang on, I'd better stop there before I get my arse kicked from the power companies. Basically, the meter had been fiddled, and fiddled in such a way that it could not be un-fiddled. I believe the term that fits this situation is "bang to rights".

I pressed the button on my handheld device to report and photograph the meter then backed out of the cupboard on all fours. The lady of the house was stood over me, an attractive and well dressed lady in her mid-to-late forties. She knew she was caught, that there was no way out, so what did she do?

Did she hang her head in shame?

Nope.

Did she panic, become flustered, mumble or stutter an apology?

Nope.

Did she offer me a bribe to prevent me reporting her criminality to the authorities?

Nope.

She glared. She sneered at me. Her face was a mask of anger.

"Finished?" she spat.

I nodded. I stood and made my way out. As I reached the front door she pushed me hard from behind and I stumbled out. When I turned to look at her the vicious glare was still in place. She hissed "You fucking dare grass me up you little bastard, my husband will fucking KILL you."

Even if I hadn't already "grassed" her up this threat wouldn't have prevented me. I looked around at the other houses on the street, the peeling paint and the washed out milk bottles on the steps, the elderly ladies tending their pansies and the small cars, paid for by the pensions of the residents who had worked hard to ensure a reasonably comfortable retirement. They had very little, this lady had everything. They paid for their electricity and, between them, they paid for her electricity too.

The household was prosecuted. They were found to have been fiddling their meter for almost a decade. They were heavily fined and joiner and building contractor dad had to put his contracts on hold for four months whilst he served his sentence.

But they're not on benefits.

What a lovely couple.

J2H.

In the ghetto.

There's a guy living near me, I can see his living room window right now if I crane my neck, who I have a nodding acquaintance with. Some of you out there in the virtual world know me and know my neighbours and so I shall give him a pseudonym. He's a nice guy so I'll give him a cool name, let's say it's Elvis.

Elvis is a nice bloke. Salt of the earth some would say. Pleasant, quietly spoken, educated to a reasonable degree. Elvis lives alone with his dog. This hasn't always been the case.

Until a couple of years back Elvis was married. In the 1970s and '80s Elvis was in a band. Not a hugely successful band, but a proper, jobbing, musical band who even managed a couple of television appearances, had regular bookings across the country and had a single which briefly popped it's head into the hit parade. Elvis is by no means stupid and knew that his chances of making a fortune writing and performing were slim. He dreamt, as we all do, but he was realistic. Elvis had a back up career.

Elvis' back up career became his main job as the toll of aging and responsibilities began to take hold. Elvis put his dreams in a box and placed them on a shelf somewhere at the back of his ego and knuckled down.

Through hard work, mixed with a small amount of good fortune (if the inheritance received from the loss of a loved one can be described in such a way), Elvis bought his own home. Nothing grand, but cosy and comfortable and one hundred percent his. Without a mortgage Elvis was able to enjoy a very comfortable lifestyle. Elvis drove a second hand, though relatively new, Jaguar. Elvis took foreign holidays and ate well. He would spend the occasional evening in the local pub, never causing trouble or offence, quietly enjoying the company of his friends and acquaintances before wandering home via the chippy where he would buy his beloved dog a jumbo sausage (I'm not sure if I agree with the slaughter of elephants for sausages, but to each his own.) and himself a bag of chips for his supper.

Elvis met a woman. She was lovely. They were well suited looks and attitude wise. After a time Elvis married his Priscilla, and he'd won. His life was good. Not perfect, nothing especially exciting, but good.

One day Elvis returned home from his lovely little job to find his lovely little house empty and his lovely little dog alone. Initially Elvis thought his lovely wife was out with friends, or shopping, or maybe visiting a family member and had lost track of time. Elvis tried to phone her but the phone went straight to answer machine. Still, it was only early. Elvis made his evening meal, walked his lovely dog and settled in front of the television. By 9.00pm Elvis had started to worry.

At first Elvis thought something bad had happened to her. He thought she may have been involved in an accident and was lay in a hospital bed somewhere. He rang the hospital. She wasn't there. Elvis then rang the police who couldn't help. He rang them again after the required twenty four hours and reported her as missing person. He looked everywhere for her, sad and scared, but to no avail.

The police came to see him. Elvis feared the worst. Had she been murdered? Was she the victim of a terrible accident?

No. She was fine. Safe and well. Elvis felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, but only for a moment or two. She was fine, she was safe, and she was somewhere that the police weren't able to divulge. Priscilla had left him. Elvis had no idea why, had had no idea there was anything wrong, and Elvis felt sick to his stomach.

The next day Elvis didn't go to work. Nor did he the day after. Or the day after that. The weekend arrived and Elvis went to the pub. Elvis got drunk and cried. His friends put their arms around his shuddering shoulders and told him everything would be okay, that Priscilla was a bitch and that there were plenty more fish in the sea. Elvis went home, sans sausage and chips, and went to bed.

On Monday morning Elvis went to work. He didn't want to go, but he had bills to pay and dignity to regain. Elvis worked until dinnertime and was then called into his managers office. His manager was sorry, but his manager had to let some staff go. The business was in danger of collapse, it was unavoidable and, being a reasonable man, Elvis understood. He left work and went home. It was okay, Elvis wasn't rich but by now (His mid-fifties) Elvis had managed to accumulate a nice little nest egg and, as I mentioned, his home was mortgage free.

Except now it wasn't.

Later that week Elvis discovered that his beloved Priscilla had re-mortgaged their home and pocketed the money for herself. Also, the joint account in which his lovely little nest egg resided (about £20,000) was now empty. Elvis cried, this time without having to be drunk.

No job, no insurance to cover the mortgage and no wife to console him Elvis began to get poorly. The police investigated the theft and prosecuted Priscilla. Priscilla went to prison. Priscilla had no money though. It was somewhere, but not anywhere that anyone could retrieve it from. Elvis was ruined.

First to go was his Jag, replaced by an aging Vauxhall. The house, of course, was repossessed. Elvis was lucky enough to get a two bed roomed flat in a dirty old town on the other side of Manchester. Elvis wasn't a proud man, he was happy enough so long as his dog and he had a roof over their heads and food in their tummies.

Elvis became more poorly. Even before Priscilla had left he had, unbeknown to anyone, begun to develop a small, black tumour in his stomach. It was operated on, removed and a course of chemotherapy began.The doctors told him he was in remission and had a reasonable prognosis.

Elvis wasn't a big man, but had withered significantly during his treatment.

Elvis was unable to work, but because he lived in this great nation of ours he was looked after. His treatment was free, his rent was paid and he had enough benefits to pay for electricity, gas and food. He would be okay, wouldn't need to cook crack to make ends meet and wouldn't starve. He filled his days by driving up to Rivington with his lovely dog and walking for hours on end, coming home tired but content.

I'd met Elvis at about this point in his life. At the time I would spend my Sunday mornings on a car boot sale and he would occasionally turn up, lovely dog by his side, and chat a while. One Sunday he asked if I'd like to buy a tropical fish tank and all the equipment off him, the lot for £20.00. Dirt cheap. I bought it.

When I went to collect it his flat was cold. He was wearing his coat indoors. His flat was well decorated and well furnished. He even had a large, flat-screen, television. He himself looked a little dirty though, with greasy hair and a patchy beard. I paid him his money, a ten pound note, a five pound note and a scottish five pound note, and took my items home.

I saw Elvis later, in the local shop. He was putting £5.00 on his gas card, a further fiver on his electricity and buying dog food, milk and tobacco. He was smiling as he paid the chap behind the counter with a ten pound note, a five pound note and a scottish five pound note.

Later that week he asked if I wanted to buy, or knew anyone who wanted to buy, his car. He "didn't need it anymore". I didn't want it but I put him in touch with a man who was looking for a cheap runabout for his daughter and he sold it for a couple of hundred pounds. Now he filled his days by walking his lovely dog to Rivington and back again, retuning exhausted but content each evening.

Several weeks ago Elvis stopped me in the street. He looked awful. His hair was visibly dirty, his face now adorned with an unkempt beard and with the sweet, sickly smell of B.O. that is so rare in these days of shower gels and anti-perspirants. He smiled, coughed a bit, smiled again and asked if I wanted to buy a bed and matching bedside cabinets. I said no, but I knew a man that dealt in furniture and would bring him round later that day.

When we arrived it was beginning to go dark. There were no lights on in his flat and no heating on. He was wearing two coats and his lovely dog was curled up under a blanket in the corner of his living room, besides the one remaining chair and the small, portable television that sat, lifeless, on the coffee table in the corner. The walls when last I'd visited had contained framed paintings and mirrors. Now there was just one photograph, in a frame, hung on the chimney breast. A photo of Elvis and his band in the 1980s, five young men with huge smiles and a cocky air about them.

We went into the bedroom to look at the furniture. The bed and cabinets were the only things in there. It was too dark to see, so Elvis got a torch as he "hadn't had time to go to the shop for electric yet". The furniture dealer offered Elvis ten pounds, a disgustingly small amount of money for a lovely bit of furniture. Elvis accepted immediately, but said he needed to keep the mattress so that he had somewhere to sleep until his new bed was delivered. I wanted to cry. The furniture dealer paid him, a five pound note and five one pound coins.

I saw Elvis later, in the shop, buying dog food and electricity and paying with a fiver and five ones.

Elvis smokes, has a dog, had a huge television, isn't dying of cancer and, until recently, drove a car.

But he's on benefits.

What a fucking scumbag.

J2H

From tiny acorn to tiny acorn.

I write a lot. On iPhone, on tablet, on laptop, wherever there's a QWERTY keyboard I'll sit, stand or lie and tap away at it. Sometimes it makes sense, sometimes it doesn't. More often the latter in all honesty, as, I'm sure, my Twitter feed and the inane ramblings contained within this blog demonstrates. It's almost an O.C.D. and isn't restricted to the buttons on my keyboards either. Any button will do. I can't resist feeling the satisfying click beneath my fingertip, even if it does nothing. If you put a button on the coffee table that was connected to nothing I would sit happily click-click-clicking away until the cows came home. In fact, if that button was connected to a battery and, in turn, that battery was connected to my nipple causing, on random occasions, me to suffer a mild to medium electric shock that rattled my fillings I would still click it, over and over again.

This, of course, is the one and only reason that I've distanced myself from politics and am not in charge of our fair nation. All it would take to cause the devastation of an atomic war would be for me to close my laptop after checking my emails from the other world leaders, all keen for me to solve the problems of their own nations, and realise I had nothing to do. I would look around, huffing and suddenly bored, notice the big red button on the desk in front of me and that would be that. Click, whoosh, BOOM. Bye bye Soviets, take that Korea, have at you Frenchies. Before the end of my first day in office the Earth would be reduced to a smoldering, toxic lump of iron and deceased biological matter.

But, as is usual during these entries, I digress. Back to the clicking of buttons.

With the advent of the internet I found an easy vent for my addiction. At first there were the chat rooms on Yahoo. Suddenly able to speak to people, near and far, free and easily I became addicted. I would spend hour after hour in those chat rooms, wasting time that wasn't wasted since I enjoyed it. After a while my life changed significantly (See my blog entry "Just do it" for details) and I spent a while away from my keyboard. Once my adventures were complete and I had settled back into my old life I discovered the world wide web had changed significantly. Myspace and Facebook were, at that point, fighting it out for who would destroy Bebo. I chose to continue my mundane meanderings on Myspace and later, having realised I had backed the loser, Facebook. I would spend hours now throwing virtual farm stock at random people, flicking through photographs of folk I'd never meet and updating my status as regularly as I was able.

Along came smart phones and I was able to remain connected to the matrix 24/7. Facebook became filled with inanity as more and more people swelled the ranks of Zuckerberg's disciples and I discovered Twitter. My keystrokes now filled boxes of limited size with silly jokes and meaningless chit chat and I developed an ever increasing lust for followers.

My followers list swelled over the years, bringing me into contact with people that, in an earlier age, I would never had been able to connect with. People that shared my opinions and values and, more importantly in some ways, people with whom I had absolutely nothing in common. Even people whose opinions I disagreed with or detested, all were (and remain) welcome and every interaction, whether positive or negative, was a pleasure.







Then came the blogs. One hundred and forty characters is all well and good but sometimes, rather than interaction, I just like to rant. Uninterrupted and without the restrictions of the character limit I began writing full words, using punctuation and losing myself for hours, mesmerised by the blinking cursor on the clean, white, back-lit screen. Soon, though, that wasn't enough either.






At about the same time that I began blogging one of my Twitter followers (I love being able to say this...) Mr Stephen Fry  began promoting a new website, Jottify.com,  described as "A new space for writers to share, read and distribute". I signed up and began writing silly stories. The stories on Jottify are provided free of charge and so, after a short while, I had amassed a number of highly flattering comments on my small collection of witterings. Ego boosted I began to write a longer piece, which evolved as I wrote it into a short story and, later, a long story. It was aimed at entertaining my new Granddaughter and before I realised it I had written a children's book, a tale of a little girl, her friend and their magical adventures, "The Ballad of Kissy Sizzle". People read it, people liked it and people told me I should make it available on a wider platform. A friend of mine then pointed out that this was actually a very easy thing to do. Sign up to Amazon, upload your work as an ebook and hey presto, you're technically a published author. Self published, but published nonetheless. The sad part was that Amazon is only there to make money and so I would have to put a price on my work. I thought long and hard and decided on ninety eight pence.

I didn't for one minute believe that anyone would pay to read my jibber-jabber but vanity persuaded me to have a go and so I did it. It cost me nothing to list it on there so the fact it would remain unsold and unloved made not an ounce of difference. I was incredibly excited when I saw my book appear in the Amazon listings and I bought a copy for myself. The one and only copy I thought I would ever sell.

A week or two later I got an email notification from Amazon telling me someone had left feedback. Someone had bought my book! With trepidation I logged in to my account to see what they had said. As it turned out they had liked it and had left a lovely little review. Whilst still logged in I took a look at my sales figures. I had expected to see two sales but there, in black and white, was a little box telling me that eighty-six people had actually bought it. Eighty six random, anonymous people had taken the time to download something that I had created. I didn't get any money for the sales, the way Amazon works doesn't make it easy to earn anything, but the creation of wealth hadn't been a motivating factor in my writing the book and so this wasn't much of a disappointment. I'm more than happy that people, both in the UK and overseas, have paid for, downloaded and (hopefully) read my words. I'll never be rich from it, but I've now been able to add and immediately cross out an entry on my bucket list.

One thing that is a small disappointment to me is that I used a pen-name. Given that the book is aimed at children it wouldn't have been a good idea to have "by Johnny Bastard" plastered across the front cover. But I know I wrote it, my children and granddaughter (To whom it's dedicated) know I wrote it and now, dear reader, so do you.

And so my internet evolution is complete. From "pinging" random strangers around the world on yahoo, through checking out new bands on Myspace, past hurling virtual sheep on Facebook, following miscreants on Twitter and blogging inanity on here I have reached a point where I can say that I have actually done something worthwhile. Nothing important, nothing Earth-shattering, but one day, after I'm gone, maybe my Granddaughter will have a daughter or son of her own and will sit down with her or him one night to read a story that was written by her not-so-great Grandfather. Maybe she'll like it, maybe she wont. But I did it for her, and that makes me happy.

The book is a small acorn that will never become a majestic oak. This acorn wasn't meant to be planted, it was intended to fit snugly into a little girl's pocket and, hopefully, make her smile whenever she sees it. Oak trees are massive and acorns are little things, but you know what I always say about the little things.

J2H.

Who's afraid of the big, bad, wolf?

When I was a small boy my father would tell me stories. Grim tales by the brothers Grimm, fairy tales and silly jokes. These were in the heady days of the early nineteen-seventies, before he'd bought his first pub and while he was still working at Parker Rosser's timber yard on Salford docks. I'd rarely see my father from Monday to Friday as he would leave for work, duffle bag and flask slung over his shoulder, before I awoke, not returning until after I was in the land of Nod, so the stories would generally be recounted on a Saturday morning before we settled down to watch the adventures of Flash Gordon, Champion the Wonder Horse and the Lone Ranger on the black and white television in the front parlour.

I'd sit upon his knee with my six shooters resting on my own knee, stetson hung from my neck and my little sheriffs badge pinned to my pyjamas whilst listening to the adventures of children stupid enough to wander into the forest alone or girls with a penchant for crimson cowls.

The stories were frightening, especially given the dramatic slant my father would put on them. He would intersperse the stories with raspy voices, wicked witch cackles and the occasional menacing whisper. The stories were designed to teach a child a lesson. Don't go in the woods alone, don't go near strange animals, don't trust strangers, don't steal and don't tell lies.

 (The latter lesson being delivered via a story about a little boy crying wolf. When my dad told me this story the little boy would get away with the lie twice and be killed the third time. What this actually taught me was that it was okay to tell a lie, just don't push it.)

One of my favourite tales, mainly because the voices he would put on were the funniest and the scariest, recounted the adventures of three goats and their decision that the grass was greener on the other side of the river. They would clip-clop, in order of size, across a rickety, wooden bridge. Each goat would encounter a vicious monster, a troll, who wanted to eat them. Each of the first two goats, the kid and the nanny, would promise the troll that the next goat to cross would be larger and tastier and so, being a slave to his gluttony, the troll would allow them to pass. When the third goat, the big old Billy, encountered the monster he would, being the largest and strongest of the trio, batter the troll, tossing him into the river below never to be seen again.

This tale didn't seem to teach a child any lesson. In fact it contradicted another lesson I'd already been taught, that of the grass not really being greener on the other side. Still, I enjoyed it.

I knew there were no such things as wicked witches, cross-dressing wolves or geese with gilt edged reproductive systems. Occasionally, as I was slipping into sleep and the landing light was extinguished I might imagine a monster or two under the bed but, on Saturday mornings when armed with two, fully loaded, cap guns and my father acting as my trusty sidekick, nothing could harm me.

Little was I to know that, just forty or so years later, the world would discover that trolls really do exist. Thanks to the anonymity of the internet these vile creatures have once again found a bridge under which to hide, ever vigilant and awaiting the clip-clop of the innocent goats passing overhead.

The trolls have heard the story of the three billy goats gruff, and they've learnt a valuable lesson from it. They don't wait for the big, stout-horned, goat, they know they'd be on a hiding to nothing. So they leap upon the first goat, the smallest and weakest. They don't listen to the kid's earnest entreaty, they don't wait for the larger and more succulent nanny, they just pounce. The kid is devoured.

Shrek

Fiona

This week two such modern day trolls have been imprisoned for their actions. Twenty three year old alcoholic Isabella Sorley and twenty five year old loner John Nimmo (who I'm sure most will agree actually look like the trolls from the fairy tales) were jailed for twelve weeks and eight weeks, respectively.

The despicable duo "jumped on the band wagon" (Their mitigation for their actions) and sent abusive and threatening messages through Twitter to banknote campaigner Criado Perez and Labour MP Stella Creasy.

The messages in question were, unquestionably, vile. Threats of rape, murder and references to the women's appearances were sent by the two members of the brains-trust via many, anonymous, fake accounts. The pair obviously had the wherewithal to try and hide but weren't bright enough to have heard about IP addresses. Their victims complained, the police asked Twitter who they were and that was that. They had laid an evidence trail from which there was no escape. A virtual trail of breadcrumbs through a forest of social networking.

Their victims distress is, I'm sure, very real. Both ladies report that their lives have been changed by the incident. They say they live, or at least lived, in fear.

As abhorrent as the actions of Tyneside's answer to Shrek and Fiona were, I find it hard to understand why two such obviously intelligent women as Ms Perez and Ms Creasy were frightened. I believe they were, I just can't understand it. I have, as regular visitors to my inane ramblings will by now know, had my own Twitter account for many years. I'm something of an old timer.

I have been trolled mercilessly throughout my years of screaming nonsense into the ether, but not once has it affected me in any way. In fact, perversely, I kind of enjoy it. I've never been trolled by anyone with any real wit or menace. I have had threats of violence and of death, I've been ridiculed for my beliefs and attacked because my chosen football team are better than most other football teams. I have been told I am a benefit cheat, although I'm not on benefits, that I am ugly, though this is plainly not true (Sic) and that I am stupid. I can't argue with that last one. My significant other, Ms Patty Dick Fingers, is, at twenty eight years of age, sixteen years younger than myself. This fact has led to spurious claims that I am a paedophile. (The first time this happened almost spoiled our fifteenth anniversary meal.)

The threats are nothing more than little boxes of up to one hundred and forty characters. The people that send them are losers. Just last week a chap informed me, after failing to upset me and having been ridiculed by some of my own followers about his dull wit and appearance, that he wasn't "borthered" (sic) what I thought of him, that he was sitting "in the gym" and that all his real life mates were laughing at me. The moron had his locations turned on on his Tweets. A quick look at these nuggets of unintentionally imparted information revealed the chap was either on a train heading south from Huddersfield or that his gymnasium was travelling south next to the train tracks at an average of sixty miles per hour. Shortly after I pointed this out to him, my followers and his followers I began receiving messages backing his point of view from one of his friends. His friend had no followers, was following no one but him and, up until that point, had never before Tweeted. His first Tweet included the words "...just stop borthering (sic) him you cunt." A typical tactic of the troll, parthenogenesis.

Without exception, every last troll that I have come across has been a socially inept, unattractive, loner of sub-human intelligence. Every one of them. People occasionally advise me to just ignore them rather than keep responding. I don't want to ignore them. I enjoy it. It's like a battle of wits with an exponent of the art of unarmed combat. Whilst they're trying, and failing, to upset or intimidate me they are leaving others, who may not be as confident and self assured as myself, alone. At the same time they are being shown up to be exactly what they really are, feeble minded individuals whose lives are so without meaning or purpose that the only way they can feel better about their pointless existence is by attempting to make others feel as worthless as they have proven to be.

Nowadays the trolls don't eat their prey, they play with it like a cat plays with a mouse. They scare it, getting it's heart to pump all that tasty blood harder through the body and making the meat it is about to taste all the more succulent. Except they never taste the flesh. They just enjoy the game.

I really hope none of you have been upset by a troll. I hope your own experience of social networking is pleasant and that you get a great deal of enjoyment out of it. If not, the next time you're clip-clopping your way across the virtual bridge en route to feast upon the luscious, green, grass of the neighbouring field and the troll comes crawling out from the shadows just remember...

...he's a prick.

J2H.