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Friday 16 May 2008

Nice Weather........


We had three visitors to Pither Towers this afternoon who were most welcome and I hope will become regulars.

Ok, so the Towers don't really resemble the Serengeti and I don't anticipate the World Wildlife Fund declaring my back garden a world natural heritage site but the arrival of a brace of mallard ducks amid the torrential rain certainly brightened up the old homestead.

I say "brace" because two was all I spotted at first - a female and a rather nervous and watchful male. The reason for his wariness became apparent when, after a short while,
another male came waddling down the lawn towards the happy couple's pond refuge. Ah, nature in action! A duckage-a-trois.

The scene was further improved when, at one point, the three ducks were joined by the pair of blackbirds who are nesting by my back window. They took a dip to get cleaned up in the top pond while two squirrels chased each other across the lawn, three dunnocks hopped around under the bird feeders and a couple of collared doves sat on the greenhouse. Not a bad show for one moment in time in an urban garden.


Anyway, the girlie duck all-but cleaned me out of pondweed and young plants before
taking off after a couple of hours with both her suitors in tow - but the three of them returned shortly afterwards. The love-struck pair appear to have settled in for the night and are fast asleep on the lawn. The would-be cuckold er is busy pacing around, no doubt biding his time and waiting to steal the girl away.

Then the phone rang late this afternoon. The vet said Henry had come through his operation well, despite evidence of a serious heart murmur which at one point looked like making surgery impossible, and three hours later he was back home, being fussed and pampered like an Arabian Sheikh. The results of the histology carried out on the lump removed are expected through by the middle of next week.

Not a bad day in all. Where is Grantham, anyway?

It Never Rains........


I took Henry to the vet's yesterday because he has.........a lump.

My three-legged mate has had this lump virtually ever since we first teamed up together about seven years ago but it always used to be fairly small, soft and pliable.

That led all who checked him over to conclude that it was just harmless, fatty tissue but over the last fortnight said lump has grown considerably, become hard and now resembles a submerged golf ball. The vet took one look at it yesterday, noted the change and said Hen would have to have it cut out.

As a result, the little man and I are going back to the vet's this morning to check him in for the operation. Once the nastiness is carved out it will be sent away for tests and we will see where we go from there.

It could just be benign. It could be some kind of blocked duct. Then again, it could be.....................No! Best not to even think about it. Having lost my beloved Padfoot in February to the Big C I dare not ponder what might be in store.

So, fingers and paws crossed everyone. I'll keep you posted.

Thursday 15 May 2008

On SATS.

I've just watched Question Time and heard one young, spotty woman in the audience tell the world how she took her Key Stage 2 SATS (??? Is that right?) test years ago at the age of 11 and found it crippling.

Tough titty fish face, is what I say.

It took me back to when I was alive and we had what was known as the 11-Plus. If you passed it you got the chance to go to grammar school and apparently make something of yourself and rise above the herd.

I took the 11-Plus and passed, as it happens. Trouble was, I never went on to grammar school. I've no idea why. I think it was my dismount.

As to stress and crippling worry during the exam? All I can remember is that it was summer and outside there was the sound of sports pitches being mown, birds singing and people having fun. Inside the examination room, I was sitting next to Sian Fellows, my first ever girlfriend, and I spent more time than I should have done trying to look up her skirt as it rode up her thighs as she fidgeted in her seat.

Sian went on to become a shipping lawyer earning obscene amounts of money - and I'm stuck here with three dogs and the body of a 90-year-old man. Ah, happy days!!!

On Doctors' Waiting Rooms


I had to go to the doctor's this morning for some routine tests - apparently, my blood pressure is high enough to power a small central heating system and if my cholesterol goes two points higher they will be able to stick a wick in my head use me as a candle!

The visit started off on an almost surreal note as I walked in to find Dave Hill from Slade sitting there. I did the old hand-over-one-eye look around test and no, I wasn't hallucinating. There he was.

Dave (I like to think we are mates now) was accompanied by a simply beautiful woman
who was evidently no more than 30 which, bearing in mind he is about 85, wizened, balding and with the complexion of a lizard, I suppose is one of the almost cliched perks of being a rock star, past or present. Still, he really cheered me up. Pither is not in good shape and has never been a style god, it's true, but not only was Dave much, much worse, his clothes outdated mine by about 15 years.

Anyway, I had not been to see my doc (a fantastic bloke) for quite a while and I had almost forgotten what his and, I assume, all other doctors' waiting rooms are like.

The first thing of note is the magazines. Ninety five per cent of them are down-market women's magazines of the Chat or Me genre.
For the blokes there are just two offerings - one on caravans and the other on boating! Finally, there are Bibles. Together, I think they say a lot about the health mandarins' view of us plebs. They assume we are all either brain dead, too boring to care or cramming for our finals and so not in need of any life-saving help.

Secondly, doctor's waiting rooms make you acutely aware of just how ill society is. The bloody place was packed!

Next, if you manage to avoid the temptation to gen up on Posh Spice's latest vaginal lift or the genius which is the SaniFlush 950 chemical toilet for caravaners, there is only one thing left to do - play the "what's the matter with them" game.



Some patients spoil the game, like the little lad sitting there with a saucepan stuck on his head, the woman with her leg in plaster and the dribbling coffin dodgers. The work shy malingerers who pretend to whistle and spend their time nervously glancing out of the window and looking guilty as they wait patiently for their sick notes are also a bit of a give-away. Others are more fun. The jolly looking chap who tries to engage others in conversation and is apparently fit as a flea, for instance. Does that surface happiness hide a cripplingly embarrassing bowel condition, perhaps? The very good looking and snappily dressed young woman who looks around serenely at the notices on the walls. A barely suppressed bunny boiler doped up to her tits, maybe? Then there's the bank manager-type, immaculately dressed, not overweight or with evident signs of injury. Is he just one personal performance review away from going on a gun-toting rampage down his leafy cul-de-sac?

Finally, there is the "which one of these bastards is immediately ahead of me in the queue and how long will they take" game. I never win that one. I was desperately trying to catch of glimpse of the numbered little plaques everyone was holding to work out who was seeing my doc and who had Number 13 - I had 14. No joy. So I sat, and I waited, and I sat, and I waited. Eventually, the little illuminated number board on the wall buzzed and started flashing 13.
Then, to my horror, a great big fat piece in a spray-on tent stood up with the help of a walking stick and shambled towards the door. Shit!! It would take about half an hour to get her up on the ramps alone, I thought, let alone start diagnosing what was wrong with her!!! I was praying that she was a member of Exit and had decided to throw in the towel and just be put down - but no such luck. She was in there for ages, and ages, and ages, and ages. The whole bloody waiting room emptied as patients were called to see the other doctors and I was left sitting there until five minutes before the surgery was due to close for staff training. Eventually, Lavinia Lardarse waddled out with a clutch of prescriptions like Chamberlain returning from Munich.

I was only in with my doc for about five minutes and it was the usual. "Your blood pressure is ridiculously high, you're overweight and you smoke too much," he told me. "Get a grip, Reg. You'll be on the slab in six months if you don't," he added chirpily. So the diet has begun and I'm going to a smoking cessation clinic. Hurrah!

Doctors' waiting rooms can actually be quite entertaining so there's nothing for Grantham.

Wednesday 14 May 2008

Take Me To Your Leader - Your Council Leader


A few days ago strange lights in the sky led me to believe that the Martians had landed. I was disabused of the notion by a kindly weatherman...........but now I'm not so sure.

Further evidence has come to the fore which does indeed lead me to believe that
aliens HAVE landed - and they have taken up residence at Oldham Town Hall. What leads me to this conclusion? Well, only some form of inhuman life form could have dreamt up "individual care" budgets!

What are they? Well, in days of yore, when councils were there to provide services to residents, if you were disabled in any way or had special needs you used to contact social services and ask for help. The council would then set about assessing your needs and provide services accordingly - eg. home helps for the elderly, transport for the disabled, nurses to bath you or help you use the toilet if you were incapacitated etc. The system involved residents paying their council tax and the council then allocating some of that money to provide the services to the less fortunate.

Not any more! No, the newly-installed Martians running Oldham (and no doubt others
have followed suit but I have not heard about them) now assess their social services users/disabled residents and then hand each person a wad of money for the year. It is then up to the person involved to ring round service providers, arrange a contract and then pay for what they want themselves. In Blairspeak it's called "empowerment". Strangely enough, this new system saves the council millions of pounds each year. Get away! You think? Of course it fucking does!!!

The poor recipients of this latest Blairite bung have to sort out Criminal Records Bureau checks themselves on anyone they need to employ, sort out the PAYE arrangements and arrange insurance cover while the council just sits there, scratching its corporate arse and counting the cash. It's the Blair way. There are no longer "people", there are just glycogenic, mini-businesses. Everyone and everything HAS to be a business.

There's just one tiny snag, however, with this new wundersystem. Like, how in the holy name of Fuck can a blind person, a paraplegic or a
severely physically disabled pensioner be expected to sort out all this paperwork and make all these arrangements? That's right - THEY CAN'T! This really is Blairism gone fucking mad!

Councils are there to provide services! If they no longer provide them of course they save shedloads of fucking cash. What is the fucking point of a council which exists merely to receive your council tax payment and then give it back to you with a note attached saying "sort it out yourself"?

Well, two can play at that fucking game. I have no kids, right? I do not use social services, right? I do not rely on the council for housing, right? So, I'm going to draw up an "individual council tax budget". I shall assess what proportion of my council tax is taken up by contributions towards education, social services and housing. I shall then deduct that from what I pay and give the council the paltry balance to keep the libraries and parks and open spaces going - oh, and to get my bins emptied and the street lights kept on in the dark.

Think of all the administrative costs it will save the council. Ok, the whole system will cave in but it is the Blair way.

Trouble is, I happen to believe I should pay for services to help others, regardless of whether I use those services myself. You see, I am not just in this thing called life for ME.

Fuck 'em. The Martians at Oldham City Council can go to Grantham.

Monday 12 May 2008

ZZZZZzzzzzzzzz


In response to some drivel written by Vicus, and for those who didn't manage to stay awake over the weekend during the climax to the English football Premiership, here is how it all turned out:

1. Manchester United - annual turnover £245 million.
2. Chelsea - annual turnover £200 million.
3. Arsenal - annual turnover £190 million.
4. Liverpool - annual turnover £122.4 million.

18. (Relegated) Birmingham City - annual turnover £25 million.
19. (Relegated) Reading - annual turnover £17.6 million.
20. (Relegated) Derby County - annual turnover £50 million.


(N.B. Following an investigation by the Audit Commission into why Derby County was relegated when it was richer than some teams not relegated (against Premiership rules), it was discovered that Derby had, in fact, resigned itself to relegation early in the year and so decided to spend its parachute payment THIS YEAR, hence boosting its turnover disproportionately.)

Accountants at Deloitte are now hard at work pouring over balance sheets and are confident they will be able to announce the result of the 2008/2009 season before the season kicks off this autumn.
Will it be United again? Will it be Chelsea? Will it be Arsenal? Which one of the three? Who knows. I can't wait! Exciting stuff!!

Saturday 10 May 2008

On The Saving Of Bacon


I've finally got a job! I've finally got a full-time, permanent job and my house is safe!! Hurrah!!!

With just two weeks to go before the building society said it would repossess Pither Towers, I have at last found someone who is prepared to employ a "47-YEAR-OLD", who is "A MAN", "WHITE", "ABLE-BODIED" (sort of) and "NOT EASILY BULLIED"! Double hurrah!

Who, I don't hear you ask, has taken this leap of faith and decided that there is life in the old dog yet? Well, it's no-one in the sexist, vacuous, ageist, immoral, talentless, back-stabbing, chip-on-the-shoulder world of PR, that's for sure. I have battled valiantly for two years to make ends meet in that stupid, corporate world and, try as I might, I realised the time had come when I just couldn't overcome the obstacles to employment (glass security doors, I think they are called) - hence my last two months of inactivity.

That's when it dawned on me. Over this last fortnight I redoubled my efforts to find ANY kind of work, ANYWHERE and a wise old owl said to me:

"What is it you actually do, Pither?"

"Well, I was a journalist," said I. "Now I don't really know what I am."

"I don't think you can really stop being a journalist," said he. "It's like stopping being a serial killer. It's kinda in your blood."

"Nice analogy, but I take your point."


So, realising that I should carry on doing what it is that I always used to do, I put in a few phone calls and - da, daaa! - the second daily paper I made contact with said "Come on in Piths, we'd be glad to have you aboard."

I start a week on Monday and will be a newsdesk assistant and head office senior responsible for taking the baby Biro brandishers under my wing. Hurrah! The money isn't brill - that's journalism for you - but I'm back on the pension trail again, working in a lovely part of the country, for a non-Nazi organisation and........well.......doing what I do.

The feeling is good. The feeling is very good. It's almost as good as that feeling you get inside when you see the stony face of some grasping, geriatric, Home Counties type when they are told the chest of drawers they have taken along to the Antiques Roadshow is just tat and only worth about £10.

Grantham shall not have journalism. The people will just have to make do with BBC Breakfast, The Sun and the Daily Mail.

P.S. I am so heartened by this news I shall post a gratuitous, sexist photo, just to cheer me up (and because I can, and because I'm old, and because I still have dreams) - and to remind me about my ultimate career goal and the publication at which I think all of my talents will finally be fully utilised.

Friday 9 May 2008

In Which Pither Contacts the Met. Office.


Who says there's nothing to do round here of a night? Not me, that's for sure!

I was treated to some random and intense excitement this evening after the Very Soon To Be Ex-Mrs Pither wandered in from the garden, tab on and empty wine bottle in hand, and said: "Something's flashing."

She promptly jettisoned her bottle, reached for a fresh one from the fridge, switched on the telly and sat down to watch Newsnight. Not another word.

That turned out to be a typical example of Mrs P's lack of enthusiasm/total indifference over matters I consider to be of burning import - like the day I asked her to marry me. We were on a paddle steamer going down the Nile. It was sunset and we were alone on the top deck. I had ordered champagne. I popped the bottle......and then the question. "Will you marry me?" I asked, staring deep into her bloodshot eyes. She squinted, trying hard to focus on me, took a swig of her fizz, considered the enormity of the situation and replied................"S'pose". Ah, the passion, the magic, the romance! Celia Johnson, wring yer knickers out!!

"Something's flashing" could have meant anything. Some vagrant in the garden exposing himself by the fish pond? A scale model of the Hindenburg tethering up by the rockery, perhaps? I had to go out to investigate and, plonking myself down on the rotting garden furniture, I waited to see what or who was flashing.
Just then, half of the sky lit up momentarily. It was so fleeting that I thought my eyes had deceived me but, a minute or so later, there it was again. A dull flash, admittedly, but definitely there, far, far away, low down and stretching across the horizon. Then another, and another, and another, each about three or four minutes apart. Totally silent but menacing all the same.

What the Hell was happening? I stood up and was about to feverishly share my excitement and incredulity with STB EW when, glancing through the patio window, I noticed she was trying to build a pyramid out of used fag packets and had reached a critical point so it was best not to disturb her.

I ran instead to my computer, Googled "Meteorological Office/Contact Us" and was on the phone quicker than you could say "I'm not a loony but I think the Martians are landing". It was a bit ambitious, I thought, expecting some weather drone to be at the office night and day, but to my surprise a little man took the call. In truth, I have no idea how tall he was. I use the word "little" in a condescending way, not an empirical one. "Hello, can I help," came the voice. I instantly pictured my little man sitting on top of the Met Office roof, surrounded by jam jars half full of rain water, home-made, knitted windsocks and piles of charts detailing average precipitation across Britain since the Crimean War.

"Hello, I'm not a loony but I think the Martians are landing," I said.

"Oh yes. And why would that be?"

"Well, there's these lights," I explained breathlessly. "They're right across the sky and they keep flashing."

"Well, they would, wouldn't they," he said mysteriously.

"Come again."

"There is a severe weather situation across South Wales at the moment. There are intense lightning storms and that's what you can see."

"Oh," I said, somewhat disappointed. "So, no landings then?"

"Sorry."

"...or global nuclear conflict?"

"Nope."

"...or time-to-build-a-boat-style atmospheric conflagration?"

"Not according to the currently available data, no."

"Oh. Well, just thought I'd ask. Nice talking to you. What's your name by the way."

"I'm not allowed to give out sensitive, personal information over the phone. Goodbye."

Phew! Well it was fun while it lasted. Ok, turns out we're not all doomed - everyone outside South Wales at any rate - but it got the old ticker racing, I can tell you.
Who says there's nothing for kids to do these days? I woke Mrs Pither from her slumbers in the armchair and put her mind at rest before retiring for the evening. She seemed relieved.

Monday 5 May 2008

In Me 'Ead, Son!


I don't think I'm very well. I need help. It's dawn and I'm writing this while it is fresh in my mind in the hope that one of you amateur psychiatrists out there can offer an explanation. You see, and I might just be sharing a little too much here, last night I dreamt about Mick Channon! What the fuck's that all about?




I was down at Mick's stables just outside Southampton - I've no bleedin' idea where his stables really are, but last night they were there - and I was riding shotgun for the very-soon-to-be ex-Mrs Pither. She had been called in by the grinning, cheeky former Southampton and England striker-turned top horse racing trainer to tie up the loose ends over a deal to buy some thoroughbreds. Quite why STB EW should have been asked for help in matters equine is a mystery to me - the only horse she has any knowledge of is me (fnaar, fnaar!)

Anyway, Mrs P disappeared immediately to do her thang which left me seemingly alone in Channon Towers, wandering around like a spare part until I bumped into Mick. Despite this being "in the now" (whatever that is in dreams) he did not look as he does these days but instead was exactly as I remember him at the height of his playing career in the '70s. Not surprisingly, Mick asked what the fuck I was doing in his house and, once I had explained, I followed him on a long walk out into the countryside to see some of his horses. Along the way we passed a herd of sheep (these definitely weren't in a flock, but a herd), all of which had been spray-painted with some sort of colourful Cubist designs, which Mick simply dismissed with the words "cute, ain't they?"

His horses - about a dozen of them - were kept in a hole dug in the side of a hill on the South Hams and they were all about the size of Labrador dogs. When I queried whether they might not be too small to ride, even given the diminutive stature of normal jockeys, young Michael merely laughed and looked knowingly at another bloke who had mysteriously appeared from somewhere.

Suddenly - that happens in dreams - I was back at Channon Towers, all alone. I was desperate to take a leak and while searching for the toilet I saw Mrs Channon coming out of a room, to the sound of a cistern flushing. "Ah, a toilet! Thank God," I thought and duly went into the room to discover about 25 different appliances, all of which looked vaguely like toilets - only weren't! I wandered (I did a lot of wandering last night) through this maze of bogus bogs until I found one that looked more like a loo than the others and, as I unzipped and prepared to pull the beast from its lair, I caught sight of a well dressed woman out of the corner of my eye.

She hadn't seen me, so my blushes were saved, and I decided to ask her where the loo was but as I walked towards her I realised she was some sort of sales assistant. Then, looking around again, I realised I was, in fact, in a large and very plush department store!

The next thing I knew a small dog was licking my face. That turned out not to be part of the dream. A small dog REALLY WAS licking my face. It was my Tilly, asking to be let out, strangely enough so she could go for a pee (spooky).

I am, unsurprisingly, somewhat perturbed by last night's visions and so would welcome any possible interpretations.

Yours,

Confused,

Outside Grantham.

Saturday 3 May 2008

L'armee Rouge!


Life is good! Life is, in fact, excellent. Why? Well, examine the evidence:

I am totally skint - booh!

I have beeen without a contract for two months now - booh!

The building society has threatened to repossess Pither Towers at the end of next month if I do not land a contract by then - booh!

My marriage has gone down the toilet - booh!

I am 47, almost completely spherical and in danger of losing all my hair and teeth - booh!

I last had sex (with another sentient being) in the year 3BC (and then with a frog) - booh!

............BUT............

Even though I am, at heart, a rugby union fan I can't get all those years of football completely
out of my blood and my beloved Nottingham Forest this afternoon won automatic promotion to The Championship - HURRAH! DOUBLE HURRAH!! THRICE HURRAH!!! Couple with that the bonuses that the despised Derby County (as in "We 'ate Derby 'n' we 'ate Derby, we 'ate Derby 'n' we 'ate Derby, we 'ate Derby 'n' we 'ate Derby, we are the Derby...'aters!") have been relegated and the loathed Leicester City (as in - to the tune of the Addams Family - "Your father is your brother, your sister is your mother, you all fuck one another, the Leicester family") are in danger of being relegated as well.

Right now, nothing else seems to matter. My boys in red (cherry variety) shall not go to Grantham.

P.S. Football quote of the day:
Birmingham City manager Alex McLeish, desperately attempting to explain away the lacklustre performance of some of his key players today as they lost 2-0 to Fulham and now look favourites for relegation:

"Well, James McFadden's wife has just given birth to a baby and that kind of trauma gets to a player."

Obviously considerably more traumatic than having your fanny stretched from the size of a small glove to that of an Arctic explorer's rucksack in an effort to bring McFadden Jnr into the world!

A Dissertation On Politics (Yawn!!). Best Read Someone Else's Blog - I've Got One On Me!

Make your mind up you dick!!


We get the politicians we deserve, it is said. Well, Thursday's local council elections did nothing to disabuse us of that notion.

When I was alive - about 25 years ago - politics used to be a matter of principle.
Politicians stood for something. Ok, they were still largely the same bunch of greedy, fornicating, self-obsessed wankers who would sell their grannies (interestingly enough, in 1978 I bought Norman Tebbit's grandma at a car boot sale and had her knocked down and turned into a car park) but at least they stood in line under certain principles.

The vast majority of them used to stand in one of three queues, as I recall. Those
who lined up in the Labour queue (the one on the Left) did so because they BELIEVED IN public ownership of utilities, such as gas, water and electricity, and of major industries and public services, such as coal mining, steel making, health, the Post Office and the railways.
They also BELIEVED IN the principle that the rich should help to support the poor and so endeavoured to redistribute wealth through the tax system. They also BELIEVED IN public services and, because they cost money, invariably increased everyone's taxes to pay for them. They also BELIEVED IN the National Health Service dreamed up by Bevan and in the welfare state.
They BELIEVED IN equality of opportunity and hence state education, they BELIEVED IN trade unions and the rights of workers (it WAS the unions which formed the Party after all) and they BELIEVED IN nuclear disarmament and the rule of the United Nations.
There was much more they BELIEVED IN but those were their very core principles.

Then you had the Conservatives (the queue on the Right).
I find it very hard to be balanced and objective about the Tories but basically they disagreed with all of the above. They believed in the privatisation of industries and services, arguing that "the market" was the most efficient regulator of the system and so would bring maximum benefit to all. They BELIEVED that everyone was born with an equal chance in life, be they from a Glasgow slum or the Home Counties, and so hard work would be its own reward (I told you I find it difficult to be objective). They BELIEVED, as a result, that people should keep as much of their money as possible and not be forced to help others, hence low taxes and no redistribution of wealth. They BELIEVED that people should look after themselves and that only a handful were incapable of doing so, hence they BELIEVED that the welfare state should only be an updated version of the Workhouse.
They BELIEVED in spending heavily on the military and on nuclear weapons because that would deter other powers from attacking Britain, the underlying principle being that the then Soviet Union would invade nations which did not have The Bomb and would invade them a lot if they did not have lots of Bombs. They also BELIEVED IN the United States. The United States was, and still is, the wealthiest nation on earth (despite owing more money than all the other nations on earth put together) and so it HAD to be right. They also BELIEVED that the United States was the champion of freedom and democracy and so Washington was best placed to decide how other nations should be run.

The middle queue was made up of Liberals (or Liberal Democrats, as they restyled themselves). These people basically BELIEVED IN some of the Labour principles and some of the Tory principles and were sufficiently unallied to either Party to deserve their own queue.

Of no value to this system, thank God, was a small minority of what were, and still are, known euphemistically as "floating voters". These were basically people who had no fucking principles at all other than "what's in it for me?", little intelligence and so voted for whomever they thought looked nicest. I shall return to these wankers later.

Anyway, got it so far? Phew! Thank God for that! So, what happened and where are we today? Well, to cut a very long and complicated story short, Thatcher happened, that's what!
She came to power in 1979 and began a dramatic haul of all that Britain had been over to the Right/Far-Right. The unions had got out of hand but she seized the opportunity to crack a nut with a sledgehammer and all-but demolished them. She then fostered and tapped into that rich vein of greed which underlies every nation and suddenly it was a free for all. Grab what you can! Fuck off! This is mine!! She sold off everything in the nation's metaphorical China cabinet, telling voters that it was their chance to join the "share-owning democracy". In the stampede to snap up Gas, Telecom, electricity and water shares etc, greed blinded the herd to the fact not only that they already owned the fucking industries and were merely buying them off themselves but also that, amazingly, not everyone was in a position to afford the luxury of buying something they already owned. All the live-for-today, unprincipled greed merchants wanted was to flog off their 200 or something shares immediately after and make a quick £100, or whatever. While they were busy spending this windfall, a windfall they had ostensibly scammed of people who couldn't afford to buy the shares they had previously owned, big business - largely in the form of major insurance firms and global "players" - moved in to buy their quick sell-offs and so seize control of what were public utilities.

The "greed is good" and "there is no such thing as society" ideals were steamrollered out across Britain and the police and military were drafted in to quell resistance (witness the poll tax riots, the Toxteth riots, the miners' dispute etc, etc).

Eventually, and cutting a curtailed story even shorter, Britain became a Right-wing nation and the notion that people used to support each other was forgotten. That's when the politicians really woke up.
Labour, under Blair, took a monumental decision. Blair decided that the only thing that mattered was power, no matter how you got it. If people wanted greed and Right-wing policies then they could have them. He consequently aped Thatcher and set about converting Labour into a more extreme version of the Tories, paving the way by getting the abolition of Clause 4 through Conference. "Ah, but once he gets into power he'll revert to Labour principles," the naive Party faithful whispered, no matter that such an approach was immoral. Well, when he inevitably got into power, did he revert to tradition and begin steering the country back to the centre/Left-of-centre? You bet your arse he didn't! He hijacked more and more Right-wing policies which Thatcher's regime had dreamed up but dared not introduce and the lurch to the Right went on at an unrelenting pace. Blair's only nod to decency and morals was when, no doubt fearing prosecution under the Trade Descriptions Act, he changed the name of the Party from "Labour" to "New Labour". Job done!

When Britain was politically on a par with the United States and the "what's in it for me?" doctrine was made not only acceptable but de rigeur, Blair then decided to adopt US campaigning methods to match. Politics was not and would no longer be about principles. There were, after all, no principles left, other than those of the Right and far-Right. When there are no opposing doctrines the word "principle" is redundant as it implies that it is just one of many ways. It is replaced instead by the phrase "THE way". Anyone who still believed in anything else was branded "a dinosaur" so as to belittle and ostracise them. History was also rewritten to prove that Old Labourites belonged to the land that time forgot and make it seem as if New Labour had always been right. Notably, the phrase most associated with the welfare state, namely "from cradle to grave", was reinterpreted to read "nanny state". Seeing as how politicians became indistinguishable in their beliefs, politics became about style, presentation, who looked best in a suit, who had nice hair, who did the best "photo opportunities" (goddamn, I fucking HATE that phrase), who loved God, who drank beer for the cameras, who kissed the most babies, who was seen with the most actors/actresses/yob musicians etc, etc.

Can you see it coming? You must be able to? Well, this state of affairs is tailored precisely to fit the "floating voter" mentioned earlier. As principles were crushed, floating voters increased in number, more and more people began ignoring others, the screams of "what's in it for me?" grew louder and so we got to the position we are in today where they form the majority in most areas.

So, cut to last Thursday and what did it illustrate? Well, we saw final proof that the vicious circle has completed yet another revolution and the Tories have adopted Blair's American-inspired smoke-and-mirrors/spin doctored substitute for principles to snare the mindless floating voters. The Tories have a new cunt in charge - David Cameron.
No-one knows where the fuck he came from, no-one knows where the fuck he wants to go, apart from to Number 10 Downing Street. There is a simple explanation for this. It's because, like Blair/Brown/New Labour, he doesn't BELIEVE in fucking anything, only in seizing power. He will say and has said absolutely ANYTHING he thinks will get him elected - and that's ANYTHING. I mean, what exactly are his policies? He hasn't fucking got any and yet the spin system and a Right-wing media have conned a gullible public into thinking that he is the man to lead this country. How? By relentlessly publicising his attacks on New Labour. Does he ever offer alternative policies. No!

The floaters (an apposite name), being thick, swallowed everything hook, line and sinker and so swapped their Labour votes for ticks in the Tory boxes. National politics should have little bearing on local council elections (as an ardent Socialist I have to admit that four of the six best local councillors I have ever met/worked with were Tories. They were the best because they worked hardest for their constituents) but if the floaters can be spun into believing that the now aborted abolition of the 10p tax band was an outrageous, new Brown policy - it was announced at a previous fucking budget but only hit the headlines when the media machine began working for Cameron - then they can be spun into thinking that Cameron will be personally emptying their bins on Monday if they vote Conservative. (N.B. As an aside, the extent to which we have disappeared down the political toilet is illustrated vividly by the fact that it took Tory pressure to overturn a Labour plan - yes, that's right, A LABOUR PLAN - to abolish tax help for the poorest in our society!!!)

Labour had not vowed immediately prior to Thursday's election to have children under the age of 12 sold into slavery. The Tories had not promised to give everyone £1 million if they voted for them. No-one had vowed to do anything - that would have constitued having a policy - yet the floating voters spoke again and Labour suffered its biggest local council losses for 40 years. More than that, affable and, dare I say, lovable Tory idiot Boris Johnson ousted Labour man Ken Livingstone to become London Mayor. Not because of policies, God knows not because of principles, but simply because the media had said Cameron was good, Labour was bad and that was all the floaters needed to hear.

What then does the future hold? Will the Conservatives go on to win the General Election? Well, the last time things were this bad for Labour at the locals Blair actually went on to win nationally. The floaters spoke then, having been intellecutally wowed by him subsequently playing the guitar and kicking a football, and they will speak again in the months to come. Brown might confess that he has been battling pancreatic mange for five years and hearts will go out to him, along with votes. The Cameron machine, on the other hand, might give their man a new hairdo and that will wow Middle England. Who knows? You see, politics is now, and has been for the last 20 years, in the hands of those people who do not deserve a vote. No, I'm not talking about Milwall fans, I'm talking about the unprincipled floating voters. They're the people who brought about unprincipled politicians. I hope they're all happy together. Fuck 'em.

Floating voters can go to Grantham.

Friday 2 May 2008

A Treatise On the Viability of the Blogger System


I've just spent a fucking hour writing a fucking piece about the fucking elections and fucking Blogger has just fucking chewed the fucking lot up and fucking digested it and so I've fucking wasted my fucking time on this fucking machine!!!!!!!!!!!!

It doesn't matter if you keep fucking saving it as you fucking go on, the fucking save button at the bottom doesn't fucking work anyway and there is no fucking way of retrieving what you've fucking written once it decides that it's fucking had enough. This is fucking happening more and fucking more and I hope that everyone involved in devising the fucking system dies a horrible, lonely and painful fucking death.

I FUCKING HATE FUCKING BLOGGER!!!

Blogger can fuck off to fucking Grantham!!!!!

WEDNESDAY, 21 NOVEMBER 2007

SHORTS DON'T MATTER! 1. From the greatest programme ever made about association football, Barnstoneworth United FC manager Mr Dainty delivers one of the finest English soliloqiues of all time.......and afterwards, spare a thought for the club steward's wife Vera (YOU ONLY HAVE TO WATCH HALF OF THE CLIP!!).

Monday, 12 November 2007

Not everyone who agonises over their life is a painter. Some of us agonise because we're NOT painters.

....And On the Subject of Great Public Services

I know most of you have heard this marvellous song by those doctors who are the Amateur Transplants......but I think the video is a nice addition. P.S. If there are kids in the room I'd shuffle them out before hitting play.

...There's More

On the subject of those great doctors, here is their version of More Than Words which presents their challenging views on women outside Watford. The very-soon-to-be ex-Mrs Pither, coming from Cumbria, is a huge fan. Again, get those kids out of the room!

Leave Britney Alone, Ok!!!

Oh...........my............God!!!!! My heartfelt thanks go to BGT for this. I won't say much more, I don't need to. Mr Loony of Loonytown, USA (I think it's a bloke, anyway), says it all. I fear he may be wound too tight for.....well.....well for everywhere, really!

Tuesday, 18 September 2007.

I wish I'd sung this! For non-Americans, and with apologies to all the smart arses out there who already knew, the FCC is the Federal Communications Commission and it monitors TV and radio output in the States - a sort of broadcast police - while the EPA is the Yanks' so-called Environmental Protection Agency, a body which does exactly the opposite of what it says on the can. (P.S. We went to the same school, you know? Eric and me, that is, not George, Martha, Dick and Condoleeza and me. I don't think they went to school.) P.P.S. Please see below if you are I Like The View, Malc or Doris.

To Make You Laugh and Cry

I was listening to this on a Sunday, the very-soon-to-be ex-Mrs Pither is a Catholic, Tom Lehrer is one of my all-time heroes and this is one of his best.............no other reasons. On a more sombre note (and with thanks to Fish for coming up with this Woman's-Own-passes-the-time-in-the-dentist's-waiting-room nonsense), why not get a computer to tell you that you are a waste of space and your life is a sham of a mockery of a farce? Ok, it's from one of those poxy dating sites but...go on, take the test. You ain't got much to beat!!
This Is My Life, Rated
Life: 4.2
Mind: 4.1
Body: 2.7
Spirit: 8
Friends/Family: 1.6
Love: 0
Finance: 5.9
Take the Rate My Life Quiz
Apparently, in my case, "computer say 'no!'"

I First Saw This When I Was Little - And Loved It! I Hope That Explains a Few Things

Fuck, Fuckety, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck

It has been pointed out to me that, particularly for one whose profession is supposedly literary, my language is getting worse. My use of the "F" word is, I am told, far too prevalent and hence loses impact. To those who share this view I suggest you watch the following:

Tony Blair Isn't a Burglar - But If He Was.........

In the spirit of Gustav Holst's Jupiter and Manfred Mann's Earth Band, I feel like raising a smile today. The Big Green Thing alerted me to this and, for no other reason than to raise a smile on an otherwise crap Wednesday, I think it has to be shared. Grantham shall not have him - when he gets out of prison.

Life On The Edge - No Net.

I was wrong when I feared it might be a dull weekend, what with my pals being away, my soon-to-be ex-wife in rehab and only the dogs to play with. How wrong can a man be? This much fun must surely be illegal? Just click to see the japes and hoots I am having! Click again to see how things got REALLy exciting! Tomorrow we're going to chase pigeons.

The Good Old U.S. of A. - Guardians of Freedom and Democracy. Nothing to Be Scared of, Then?

Be honest........

IT'S THE QUIZ OF THE WEEK! JUST SCROLL DOWN AND HIT "FULL QUIZ".