Why did the chicken cross the road?

 A man should know his weaknesses.

Some of us have weaknesses that are hard to find. Fortunately for me, mine stick out like sore thumbs. In fact, I have Raynaud's disease which affects my fingers and toes, so for much of the year one of my weaknesses is, literally, sore thumbs. A particularly cruel weakness that brought a premature end to my dreams of being a homicidal hitchhiker.

There is a road running right through the town I live in. It's a busy road and ours is a small town. Someone decided it would be a great idea to build an enormous retail park that could only be accessed from one direction right next to a football stadium, train station and motorway slip road at the end of this road, a road that was already the main route into Bolton. This very morning, on my dog walk, I managed to get from the far end of town, walking along the aforementioned road, faster than the cars, vans and trucks containing red faced, panicky commuters that crawled and stalled along beside me.

Nothing calls for a smug strut quite like overtaking a frustrated ponce in a Mercedes, even if you did have to pause to pick up some dog-shit.

For those, like myself, that frequently have to cross this road, rush hour provides us with the carriageway equivalent of a ford, crawling traffic that we can pick out way through while struggling up hill with arms full of groceries. If events dictate that we miss one of these windows of opportunity then, rather than paddling through a relatively safe, tarmac ford we need to engage in a game of Frogger, our fear of being struck enabling us to unconsciously solve a number of ridiculously complex, mathematical equations in order to time our first step and angle our direction of travel in such a way that, if we rush, we might make it to the far side. I've yet to be knocked down, but I get to have some great arguments with drivers who choose to pull away from the kerb into the same narrow gap between vehicles that I've just stepped into.

This road wasn't designed for the amount of traffic, a lot of it very heavy, that it now has to contend with. As a result, the surface crumbles with unnerving regularity. Almost as soon as one section is fixed another needs work. The drivers hate the roadworks, having never entertained the concept of setting off a bit earlier, but, for the same reason we love rush hour, we wayfarers selfishly love the gridlock the cones bring with them.

In the eyes of some, our roads are there for the cars. Pedestrians can wait, "they pay no road tax" comes the cacophony of cries. True, but then neither do the motorists. They pay Vehicle Excise Duty, the proceeds of which go directly into the general Treasury fund and has done since the 1930's when road tax was abolished. That's how out of date that nugget of nonsense it. If the charge was for the upkeep of the roads that the car damages then ecologically friendlier cars couldn't be exempt.

We all pay for the roads.

Some drivers have argued that roads "...are built for cars". Really? How many Roman roads are there and how many Centurions drove cars? The car came along, closely followed by the tarmacking, much later than the roads.

There was a time, when cars were rarer, that horses, carriages, hand carts, children, shoppers and motor vehicles swarmed along the same stretches of cobbled streets. The car had to weave and honk and squeak and rattle along until free of the areas that we all live in, whereupon the driver could open up that throttle and career at breakneck speeds along the lanes until reaching the next populated area. In many places on the continent this is still the case, at least in heavily populated residential districts and shopping areas. I read, a few years ago, about a traffic calming plan that planted trees and positioned benches in the carriageway, replaced the surface with block paviers, did away with pavements and road markings and left the residents to reclaim control of road safety. There would have been some really quite horrific collisions if the cars had continued to race along the streets at thirty miles an hour, but they couldn't. And the fact that they were surrounded by people on foot that they couldn't stick two fingers up to as they cowardly sped away after nearly killing them brought with it a much more reasonable and courteous breed of driver. It cost a few bob though, perhaps all that was needed was some roadworks?

It sounds more dangerous, fleshy people and metally cars in such close proximity, the borders and safety barriers removed. But, as we've ascertained, the drivers aren't paying for the roads so why should they have been allowed to hijack them in such a way. To get places quicker? Remember I mentioned the concept of setting off a little bit earlier? Sorted.

So, could danger be the key to safety?

How much safer would it be if, rather than an enormous, cloud like pillow of airbag erupting from the centre of the steering wheel after a driver had gone up the arse of the car in front, a spike, coil of razor wire or pointed stick appeared? There'd certainly be a lot more careful drivers and everyone would wear a seat belt.

Every summer we hear of children who, whilst enjoying the lovely weather, drown in reservoirs when the icy waters bring on the cramps that they'd heard might happen but that they have no idea can be so paralysing. They sink to the bottom thinking "so that's what a cramp is, I had absolutely no idea it would be so debilitating". They've heard the warnings but, living in the relative safety of this modern age, they don't understand the danger. They can't imagine a cramp would cause them to become so helpless and so they drown. They've seen Jaws though. Pop a couple of great whites into every reservoir and pond in Britain. Sorted.

Smaller ponds could use piranha fish.

People get lost on the moors. People that have spent their lives in the city where there's always a doorway to shelter in or a cafe if they get hungry. They've heard the moors are desolate and bleak, but they got stuck for three hours in Stockport once, how much more desolate and bleak could it be? So they wander off the beaten track with their shiny, waxy waterproofs and stout walking boots on and experience the power of nature for the first time. The rain and the wind aren't covered by bylaws, they fear no health and safety executive and they care not a jot for us. The council hasn't ensured it won't get dark before the novice, and not so novice, hikers find their way back to the road that they left an hour ago and in the opposite direction to the one in which they are walking. Solution : Wolves. And bears. People don't always know how spiteful nature can be, but they know a pack of wolves could tear them apart. The reintroduction of these two once-native breeds would not only ensure people stick to the path (and beware the moon) but could also police the forests in which bad men bury bodies. Win win.

At Manchester City's magnificent Etihad Statium there are blue squares painted on the floor at every emergency exit. If you stand in one of these areas you will be asked to move along because you're "blocking the fire exit". Now, I don't know about you, but if a fire erupts and I'm stood by a fire exit I won't be blocking it for long, I'll be the first through. So, rather than barring people from standing there, encourage them. Just in case.

Knowing some of our weaknesses can be easy enough. We can't out-swim a shark, a bear will generally win in a fight with a man, fire burns and if we knock over a child while driving through a shared-street we'll be pulled from our carriages and kicked half to death.

Danger doesn't only make us safer either. It can be a lot of fun. Put a sprinkling of peril into your everyday life and you'll have a ball.

Fear can, in fact, prove rather productive. Need to get somewhere quickly on foot? Seek out that bloke that lives in that flat, you know the one, him with the facial tattoo and the Staffy. Now, make eye contact, lower your voice and ask him "What the fuck are you looking at?" before getting on your toes. Don't look back, that's when he'll catch you, just keep your head down and go for it. You'll be there before you know it.

(On a connected note, do you ever wonder if the people you meet from day to day think you're a twat? Get yourself a facial tattoo and you'll never need wonder again. You're welcome.)

Our nation has a record of waging illegal war, of going into a foreign land, all guns blazing, and securing vast wealth for those that are already vastly wealthy. If you want peace, find a way to reintroduce dinosaurs to the Earth. We'll be too busy shitting ourselves and battling those bitey bastards to bomb brown people in the pursuit of oil.

Oil, of course, was once a dinosaur itself, so the reintroduction of the long dead lizards would replenish the stock for whichever race evolves once we've finished killing each other.

If a dolphin gets injured he tells no one. He adapts his behaviour in such a way as to disguise his disability so that a passing shark won't cotton on and have him for dinner. In a similar fashion we too hide our weaknesses. We pretend we're not hurt when we are, that we don't care when we do or that it doesn't matter when it plainly does. We don't need worry about a shark since they're banned from the ponds and reservoirs in which we swim, we hide our weaknesses from those around us instead. Self preservation, tucking our metaphorical wound under our metaphorical flipper and whistling nonchalantly as we smile at the metaphorical shark passing by. But, like the dolphin knows that he picked up a nasty wound when he swam a bit too fast past a crowd of queuing cod and caught his cock on a coral reef, we know our own shortcomings are tucked away inside. 

Don't ignore them, embrace them, turn those negatives into positives.

We're scared of people knowing the real "we". We hate, we hold grudges, we bite our lips when we should be speaking and we back down when we should be more forthright. But think about it, yin needs yang, Tom needs Jerry and bravery needs fear. Without the other side of the coin we'd have no coin.

No potential for hatred leaves no potential for love. Being able to forgive is reliant on us having the need to do so. Biting your lip is sexy and backing down doesn't mean turning around, running away and losing out. A boxer backs off, sometimes because he's losing but more often to give him room to swing a haymaker. Tom would be fat if all he had to do was sleep and yin would be a quotation mark without yang. 

Fear is a strength in itself. We all need fear to keep us safe. Fear isn't a problem, it's cowardice that's a problem. As often as it reveals cowardice, fear reveals bravery.

There is a line that I used in one of the books in the Kissy Sizzle trilogy that I plagerised from my father. I had impressed my drama teacher with my performances in front of my friends and classmates in her lessons and had been chosen to play the lead in a short production she'd written. It was to be performed on the last day of term and in front of the whole school, the staff and a selection of elderly, local residents. At that stage in my life I still gave a shit what people thought of me and this led to an awkward shyness when the potential to make a bit of a fool of myself reared it's head. Shyness and that business we call show make an for an uneasy partnership and so, on the morning of the performance, I was terrified, so scared of what I was about to do that I was being sick. I didn't want to go to school and I told my dad why. I told him about my shaky hands, the panic inside and the churning in my stomach.

"Butterflies, son, just butterflies. They're there for a reason." he explained. "They're getting you ready. It's not fear, son, or you'd be shitting yourself instead of puking." He was never an overly eloquent man, unless it mattered. 

But when it mattered my father always had the right words.

"How do I get rid of them, dad?" 

"You don't, You can't. Just let the butterflies flutter by." He smiled. "Now brush your fucking teeth."

Incidentally, ignoring the praise of my drama teacher, who I was sure must be lying to save my feelings, and even though I absolutely loved it once I stepped into the spotlight, I never acted again. Recently a classmate got in touch via Facebook and one of the first things he mentioned as we reminisced was "That play you were in, you were brilliant". I reckon, if I'd had the confidence I have nowadays back when I was a spotty kid, I could've been the new James Bond. Especially with my dashing good looks.

We're not brave if there's nothing to fear and if there's no danger then we're not safe from anything. Being scared of the wolf not only keeps us from being torn apart amid a frenzy of tooth and claw, but also prevents us from dying of exposure on the side of a mountain as we frantically rub two sticks together because we saw it on a Bear Gryll's documentary once. Fearing the shark prevents losing a leg while also ensuring that we don't drown just because we ate a bag of chips on our way to the reservoir. 

And finally, to answer the question I posed in the title of this shambolic ramble;

I wasn't a chicken, I was just scared of being run over. And I needed to go to Asda.

J2H.

That's me in the corner.

I've never been a superstitious man. Not in the least little bit, and, touch wood, it's never done me any harm.

I can remember a time I believed in God, and I can remember the time I began to doubt. I was about seven years old and my routine, after school, was to play out, eat, play out some more and then come in when the streetlamps came on. If I'd been good I was allowed out until they were fully on, if I'd transgressed I'd only be allowed to continue playing "kerby" until they changed from red to orange and if I'd been a "little bastard" (My mother had the loveliest pet names for me) then as soon as they began to turn red I had to be in. It was the perfect system, in those days the only Apple or Blackberry we seven year old street urchins had were pulled off the trees or bushes meaning, once outside, we were off the grid and uncontactable. I can recall charging headlong through the streets as the glow of the lamps cycled through like a countdown, crashing through our back door in the nick of time.

The streetlamps had a sensor on them telling them when darkness was approaching, which meant that curfew time varied greatly throughout the year. For one period of my eighth year on this planet this meant I would be in just before the evening news came on the television. I'd sit on the floor using my Action Men to act out some heroic battle, thwarting the Nazi onslaught or slaying a giant (from their perspective) clockwork robot as I made "pew-pew" noses.

One evening a story caught my eye as my Action Man lay dying on the battlefield.

The photograph on the screen showed a smiling, cheeky, seven year old boy with dark, wavy hair and wearing a tee-shirt just like the one my mother had bought me the week before. Action Man's injuries forgotten (He later died but was restored, miraculously, to life by a magical orb that looked suspiciously like a marble,) I watched the proper news for the first time. Grown-up news rather than the very excellent "John Craven's Newsround".

The little boy's name escapes me now, but he was missing. There was a massive search taking place in the area he was last seen, a wooded area with streams and ponds and bushes to build dens in. A similar place to the woods in which I spent a lot of that year, splashing in the streams and swimming in the ponds and building dens in the bushes. I loved it there.

To my childish mind the little boy was outwitting those that were looking for him, hiding in increasingly ingenious places and stifling his giggles as the boots of the searchers fell inches from his cheeky, dirty face.

And it was going dark, how much more exciting would the woods be at nighttime? He was a lucky boy.

I followed the story, every night, for almost a fortnight. I was becoming more and more impressed with his achievement, outsmarting dozens of police men and many more volunteers.

Then a man was arrested. Had he been helping the boy? Was he a kindly grown-up that had been taking him food to assist in his adventure? The police had him now though, would this lead to the boy slipping up and being captured, driven home by the Rozzers to the arm's of his ecstatic parents who I'd seen on the television begging him to come home and telling him he wasn't in any trouble?

"Ha", I'd thought, "he won't see that, you can't watch telly in a treehouse."

The night after the arrest the adventure was over, the little boy had been found. Dead.

Not the kind of dead that could be cured by a marble-like orb either, but actual, proper dead. Dead and buried in a shallow grave on waste ground. He'd been dead since before I'd first seen his photograph. The man that had been, in my childish imagination, providing him with packets of Wagon Wheels and bottles of pop was charged with killing him. I continued following the story, even coming home whilst the streetlamps were still red as the winter nights drew in.

Eventually, the whole truth was out. I struggled to make sense of it all. A grown up had killed a little boy, but why? Didn't that man know about God? Even if he'd gotten away with it, God would know, and you don't fuck about with a Deity.

This man knew he would go to Hell. He was a grown up, he must have known, and Hell was awful. Terrifying. Why would someone kill someone in the sure and certain knowledge that this would bring eternal damnation? Tortured, for ever and ever. Why would he do that? Did he know something I didn't know? Was there a technicality that enabled murderers to avoid eternal damnation in fiery pits? I needed the sage like wisdom of my father.

"Because it's all bollocks, son."

"FRANK." Shouted my mum, for that was his name. "It is not all bollocks."

I asked why, if it was all bollocks, we'd had to go to church last week. After a bollocking for my use of the word "bollocks" my father went on to explain...

"Because your sister wants to go to Brownies." I don't know if it's the same nowadays, but back then church attendance was a requirement of membership.

My Granddad's response was slightly more ambiguous. "I hope not son," He'd said from within his cloud of Condor, "or I'm in deep shit." He smiled.

"JACK." Shouted Gran Kath, for that was his name. "Stop bleeding swearing."

Having had worse than useless advice from both the major role models in my life, and with Google several decades away, I had no choice but to think for myself. 

The literature available in the school library was a little one-sided, Richard Dawkins was yet to be published, so I joined the local library, the most grown up thing I'd done up until that point. I now had a proper, official looking card to go in the plastic wallet I'd got from the cover of a comic, alongside my Dennis The Menace Fan Club membership card.

The space race was still very recent history, the Americans having landed on the moon the year I was born and the world already having tired of this miracle, and in it's wake it had left a large section of the library's floor space dedicated to the subject. I quickly forgot about my research into God and began reading about Gagarin, Shepherd and Armstrong instead. About rockets and satellites and other planets. About beautiful stars and complex galaxies that twinkled and of the mysterious, velvety darkness that stretched on into infinity in the skies. I saw colour photographs of the Earth taken from the Heavens above.

Once I'd had my fill of the heavens I turned my attention to monsters. Dinosaurs. I looked at colourful pictures of long dead creatures, creatures that no man had ever seen. I wondered how the artist knew the great lizards were green or brown if no one had ever seen them and discovered artistic license.

The bones of the beasts had been found beneath ground trapped in rocks. I read about rocks, about volcanoes and molten cores filling the space below our feet, grinding and drifting and bubbling and boiling away. Hell below us.

Over the years, as I learnt more, I became less and less confident in an afterlife until I reached a point where I was able to make up my own mind. I decided I was an Atheist. I'm not here to preach to anyone about my beliefs, if whatever you believe makes your journey more pleasant for you then I'm very happy you have it, enjoy it. For what it's worth, I think it'd be nice if you were right, but I also think my way's nice. Oblivion, blessed oblivion. The sleep that even my big dog's wet nose couldn't disturb.

The little boy's murder had started me on a path of questioning everything. Why? What if? Where does that go? What does that do? I was hungry for knowledge. Not on any one subject, on every subject. I'd take apart toys and electrical devices just to see how they worked, I watched television shows intended for those far beyond my years. I read books and newspapers and, once my parents had moved us from my childhood home and into a pub, I got the chance to meet people that I'd never normally have met and learn first hand from those that knew. I sit here with a head filled with some of the most useless information you can possible imagine, though occasionally even the most trivial snippet can come in handy.

I never deny my faith in the impending oblivion, but I tend to keep my mouth shut unless asked. I may "tut" when DickFingers greets a magpie with a salute, sometimes I'll do things that I know people regard as unlucky to prove a, very satisfying, point to myself. Those that believe are just like me, they believe in something. It may not be the same something that I believe in, but it makes absolutely no difference.

A good friend of mine was a believer in just about everything. From copper bracelets for rheumatism to fairies, she was as nutty as a fruitcake and absolutely lovely.

She had managed to befriend a local celebrity in the form of a professional psychic medium. He would go from pub to pub charging people fifteen pounds each to sit in a room with him while he channeled the spirits of the dead to answer the questions of the living.

I don't know if I could be described as a sceptic, since I have no reservations, I was sure he wasn't really talking to the dead. I've been a big fan of Derren Brown for quite some time. Mr Brown, who is at pains to point out he is not psychic, is far better at pretending to be psychic than this particular, "bona fide" psychic,

I've no intention of naming this particular chap. In these litigious days I'd be a fool to, although I own one pair of shoes with no bloody sole in the right one so the chances of him getting a penny from me would be slim. Still, I need these shoes, so I'll keep my mouth shut, just in case.

My friend became something of a groupie, as indeed did several of the other regular visitors to his show. Some of them, my friend included, would put his posters in their windows, sell tickets in the pub and get there early to help him set up. My friend was disabled and, on the evening of one of these shows, needed someone to push her to the venue as her boyfriend was working overtime. I pushed her, the smoke from the cigarettes she chain-smoked trailing behind us like a steam train, through the ginnels and back entries of Salford.

She was busily texting as we rolled along. Texting her friends, the ones that would be going to the show. If I have one vice, it's nosiness. I just couldn't help myself, I read them all.

"RU comng to [psychic's name] shw 2nite? xxx" was sent to a number of names in her contact list. The responses came thick and fast.

Many responded, some didn't. Those that did reply said a number of things. The exact words escape me, but each answer was along the lines of;

"Ye luv, me n sis hoping [insert relation here] comes thru again xx"

"CU there chick, been dreaming about [dead husband/child/grandfather's name] all week x

"Might be l8, [living husband's name] cant drive me, his foots bad agen, get me a g&t in xxx"

And after each message had been read, it was forwarded. Guess who to?

I didn't tell her what I'd seen. I didn't really care, It was none of my business. Those in the audience must be aware it's a trick, I thought. No one really believes in this stuff. Harmless fun.

Except it wasn't. These people were almost evangelical about it. There were a couple of non-believers in the audience, more vocal than I, but these were shushed and tutted at by the faithful, their pointing out of the errors in his performance falling on deaf ears. There's none so deaf as those that won't listen.

I watched the crowd from my seat in the corner. Some laughed, some cried, some promised to go to the doctors or to find that policy they'd lost. And some of the words he spoke to them I recognised from the texts my friend had received.

Until this point I'd sort of imagined that he must be a really skilled psychologist using his skills to manipulate the audience and appear to be channeling the dead. I thought there might even be a chance he was doing this unconsciously and actually believed he was "magic". Now it was obvious that he was just cheating. He wasn't magic and knew it, he wasn't even any good at pretending to be magic. He just suffered from the same vice as I, nosiness, but he'd made a rather lucrative career from it.

Still, the old and the bereaved had enjoyed themselves and at the end of the evening, many of them having nursed one drink all night since the fifteen quid entrance fee had cleaned out the last of their pensions or bingo winnings, they shook his hand and kissed his cheek then filed out into the cold night air. My friend had sat by the door collecting the money and handing out little prayer cards to be filled in and put in the box used during the floorshow. Just under fifty people had paid to come in. There were a few more there that, like my friend, hadn't paid and had greeted the star of the show with a kiss. They tended not to have any messages intended for them come through, but they oohed and ahhed when others received messages from their own loved ones. They were the last to leave, having had a drink with their idol after the hoi polloi had departed, and giggled like school girls as they massaged his ego. It was like a scene from Peter Kay's "Phoenix Nights".

Of course, my own sure and certain knowledge that this particular medium is a shyster in no way proves any of the others are. I believe they're all shysters, to a man/woman, but I can't prove it and why should I have to? My disbelief in other's beliefs doesn't spoil their enjoyment, nor does their disbelief in my disbelief cause me any distress. If anything, I find the "trolling" I'm subjected to from the fans of such shysters amusing, especially the death threats.

A death threat from someone that believes in an afterlife, like the threat of a damn good thrashing from a masochist, seems ironic.

These death threats appear to me as little boxes of text that I can, and generally do, choose to ignore, to giggle at or show DickFingers before clicking the little "x" and forgetting all about it. I've no doubt that some of those people who feel so passionately about their belief in a movement that sprang from a practical joke that got out of hand would indeed, if they could get their hands on me, slap me, punch me, rape my grandmother (That particular threat came from the host of a little watched television show, a professional ghost-hunter) or pull my pigtails, but they can't, and their impotence gives me a great deal of satisfaction.

The husband of a television medium was recently caught on camera abusing a chap in the street. A chap that was handing out leaflets to people visiting his wife's show. The leaflets urged people to think about what they would be experiencing, to question if the lady on the stage was actually speaking with the spirits of lost loved ones and providing a valuable service, or if they were witnessing a slick stage show designed to entertain. The husband threatened physical violence, called the man a "poof", inquired as to whether or not his pallid complexion was as a result of one of his boyfriends penetrating his anus recently, then informed the chap that they knew "all about" his life and had done a full check on his background.

Something I'm sure he's never done to any of the people that have bought tickets to his wife's shows, having provided him with their own names, email addresses (and therefore Facebook profiles) and billing addresses during the booking process. That would be cheating. 

This oaf really did believe that using the man's sexuality as an insult would upset him. He also seemed convinced he was some sort of gangster, at one point threatening the leaflet distributor would be "lifted" and disappear. I've met gangsters. I've never heard a gangster threaten anyone. Those that talk instead of fighting, my father always said, were "shitbags, son". His advice, which came from a simpler age, was that if someone was telling you what they were going to do to you then, at some point before they finished giving you a run down of their intentions, you should "slap them in the fucking throat, son. Bullies always talk when they could be fighting."

The husband's defence of his wife's art was self preservation. His wife's social media presence was, until recently, huge. Photographs of her family, her pets, her home and her lifestyle gave her fans an insight into her happy and successful life. A life paid for by her fans and a life she and her husband enjoy greatly. A life he is determined to protect. A serious deficit in the social-skills and anger-management departments, his approach has proven to be potentially career-destroying and almost universally unacceptable.

But only almost.

The video is there for the world to see, the abuse and the threats are undeniable and haven't been denied. There was a pathetic attempt to sully the reputation of the man with the leaflets and a list of extenuating, and spurious, circumstances that led to an otherwise pleasant, level headed chap turning into a cross between Bernard Manning and Joe Pesci, but the lack of any apology just leapt from the page. And still people defend him.

It's a form of Stockholm Syndrome. The fans of the wife have invested money and time in her, have been fooled by her and, deep down, know it, but no one wants to look a fool. Do you remember when your friend told you there was no Father Christmas? Did you swear blind they were wrong? Or that they were lying? Did you tell them that you knew for certain there was a Father Christmas and you'd seen his footprints? And not only his footprints but you'd seen him really, really, standing there and he smiled at you and anyway your granddad has met him when he was in the war and who else would've eaten that carrot if not a reindeer?

Yes, okay, your friends controversial theory seemed plausible. Your mum and dad really might have been hiding your Action Man or Big Trak in the wardrobe for weeks before putting them out on Christmas Eve, but which is more likely? That people you admire are lying to you, or that an immortal, fat man keeps mythical creatures as slaves and forces them to build toys, unnecessarily since the shops sell those self same toys, then once a year performs a miracle, bending the laws of space and time and delivering a gift to any child that has managed to go a whole year without being a little bastard.

Actually, now I come to think of it, I reckon he could manage that last feat. There can't be a single kid on Earth that doesn't engage in a smidgen of little-bastardness from time to time.

We all exaggerate, every one of us. When describing a card trick that has amazed us we want our peers to be equally amazed, so we'll swear blind we never took our eyes of the card, and that he never moved his hands, even though we did, and so did he. We know we've been tricked but we've enjoyed being tricked and we want to share it. It's harmless enough.

When someone says "oh, yes, I've seen that. He palms a card/forces a card/has a trick deck" we say no, they're wrong, it's cleverer than that, but it's not. It's just a trick. And we enjoy it even though the delightful Ms Debbie McGee hasn't put a horses head in our beds.

Ms McGee isn't given to idle threats anyway, she goes from naught to psycho "just like that".

All the man with the leaflets wants is for people to think. People enjoying an entertaining sideshow is fine. A perfectly ordinary woman pretending to speak with your dead loved ones is a little bit creepy but, with the suspension of disbelief, as harmless as a scary movie.

Most of the fans they've already accrued would've probably paid little or no attention to the leaflets, but even if they had all the man being shouted at outside the venue was asking was that they should just think, then decide. They might even remain convinced, or choose to continue enjoying the show...

...and all without him having to murder a schoolboy.

J2H.

Click image to view video.
____________________

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.