New Job

I have started a new job, working for my University (Salford). It is only part-time but it is a dream come true for me. I have adored the last three and a half years (now doing MA creative writing), and I'm really happy to be able to put something back, and yes, before someone says it, they pay me a small amount - which is nice.
My point is that I have met some people that I never knew existed at the uni, and they are quite frankly fuckin amazing - they have blown me away, with their energy and commitment to the uni, the people of Salford, and students everywhere - doing things they don't have to, that they don't get paid for, and completely under their own initiative.
I won't name them, but they know who they are.
It has inspired me, and if I can help a fraction of how they help, then I'll be very happy. I know I will, using them as an example.
These wonderful people are never in the press or media, they are silent and invisible, fighting against many obstacles to try to achieve something of worth - well I'm going to try and see to it that they are recognised.
It has been a surprise to find and meet these people and I'm sure I will meet many more like them along the way. I also know I will meet their opposites, and I will have to try to find a way to deal with that - I have some ideas already!
Not a long blog but, I think, a very important one.
SORRY - MY NEW JOB IS 'PROJECT ASSISTANT'

Two Hundred and Forty Bangers to the Pound

'Two Hundred and Forty Bangers to the Pound’

I can’t really say at what age I grew out of the excitement and anticipation of ‘remember, remember, the fifth of November’, if indeed I ever have, as I still yearn for those carefree, yet dangerous, days. It was the biggest day of the year for me and one I would look forward to, and plan for as soon as the last one was over. How could we make the Bonfire bigger? What did we do wrong? What could we do better? Those were the questions I obsessed about. I think it may have something to do with the ‘boys and fire’ thing. The fascination never leaves us. Maybe that’s why men always have to do the barbecuing; ‘burnt and raw’ at the same time is my speciality. The planning would begin months in advance, almost as soon as we broke up from school for the summer holidays.

 Holidays always started at the end of the third week in July for Manchester Wakes fortnight, the last in July and the first in August; everybody had the same holidays. We usually went away for a week, or two if we were lucky; sunny Blackpool, or North Wales if we were going ‘abroad’. Gran always came too, much to Dad’s chagrin. Gran and Grandad played a big part in our young lives as we would go to their old terraced house from school till Mum got home. Mum, Dad and ourkid, Pauline, lived there for six years, and me for nine months, before we moved. My favourite tea at Gran’s was a tin plate full of sterilised milk and ‘cooking’ cheese with an egg in the middle and grilled. I’ve tried many times but have never been able to replicate the wonderful smell and taste of that dish: warm, moist, cheesy and with a lovely runny egg for dipping with ‘soldiers’. It was heavenly. There was an outside toilet and a tin bath. I thought it was great fun to have a hot bath in front of the coal fire watching telly.

There was no such luxury at Mrs Barnsley’s boarding house in Blackpool, and the same bloody rooms year after year. She was like the Gestapo! Kicked out after breakfast and not allowed back in until teatime, no matter what the weather. I loved the holidays away and was remorselessly active, which drove Mum and Dad crazy. I used to get a comic every day, The Beano, The Dandy, Beezer, Roy of the Rovers, and Marvel comics including Captain Marvel and Captain Fantastic. Unbelievable extravagance as I only normally got one a month if I was lucky. I loved them all and I lived in their fantasy world. Anyhow, that’s when the scheming for Bonfire Night started. As I was feeding the slot machines with pennies, flying a kite, or chucking stones at seagulls, I would be secretly planning the expeditions to acquire more wood for November 5th than is in the Amazon rain forest.

Towards the end of the school holidays and once all the summer stuff had been done – you know, running, jumping, climbing trees, picnics of sugar butties and bottles of corporation pop, or playing doctors and nurses in a tent outside our front door (oh how I wish I knew then what I know now), yes, the usual stuff – we would make the ‘Guy’. This was indeed very important and to be taken very seriously as it was the main profit stream for fireworks, so no effort was spared in making it as much like Mr Fawkes as possible.

A collection of old clothes, and some not so old from washing lines, would be gathered. “You found that bloody thing before it was lost,” Ma would accuse. A conference to decide which to use would be held and then the clothes stuffed with newspapers and leaves, and tied together. The Guy would be transported by either a pram or a bogie which was a plank on two sets of old pram wheels normally used for racing down our hill with no brakes or steering. My hero, Mr Fawkes (I still wish he’d finished the job) would then be stored until it was deemed close enough to 5^th November to beg for money, either door to door or outside pubs, without us getting a ‘clip round the ear for our bleedin cheek.’ “Penny for the guy, mister,” was our usual call and we made a bloody fortune. One old shilling (five new pence) in 1960 is worth over two quid today. There were twelve old pence to the shilling, two hundred and forty bangers to the pound, and the pennies were bloody big coins too. There were also half-pennies and all our pockets would bulge and rattle as we ran about. We would amass countless pennies which translated into thousands of bangers! Dad, who liked to watch his ‘coppers’ (Mum called him a ‘careful Christian’ amongst other things behind his back), could never believe how much money we collected and always suspected me of raiding his pockets, which was not beyond the realms of possibility!

Dad was a ‘coal-bagger’ and worked long arduous hours delivering coal. He was always knackered and usually asleep in the chair with his Woodbines, his teeth, and his glasses on the arm. He was a Royalist, a Tory voter all his life, and a compulsive reader of the Daily Express and he believed, without question, all he read in that esteemed tome. He would, irritatingly, stand to attention any time he heard the National Anthem. As I got older I always refused to stand, just to wind him up and it never failed to cause trouble. His character, work ethic, and beliefs gradually led to a breakdown of any relationship we had. We would argue constantly until eventually we stopped ‘talking’ and just communicated about day to day necessities. He died in his late fifties when I was in my early thirties, after a long illness and several heart attacks. I know his job killed him, and even now I feel sadness and anger at his life and our lack of any real relationship. I can’t listen to the Mike and the Mechanics song In the Living Years without a lump in my throat. His life and my mother’s, and indeed my maternal grandparents’, had a profound effect on my personal beliefs and politics. Everything Dad was, I am not.

Back to school in September and the main work of wood collecting would begin in earnest. We would start by raiding gardens on the estate, sometimes asking ‘nicely’ as we were told to do, but sometimes not. Wood was like gold to us. We would need a centre pole for the bonfire against which all the wood would lean and this meant a trip to the woods with the relevant tools, an axe, a saw, a rope, and enough of us to pull it up the steep hill. Can you imagine this happening today? A small band of ragarsed kids off to the woods with those weapons, in the dark evenings!

Much care was taken selecting the tree. Tall, straight, and thick were our requirements and it would take hours to hack it down and pull it home. Our hands would bleed from burst blisters and giant splinters as we took turns to chop and saw, often late into the night, begetting another bollocking. One time I stayed very late on my own chopping a tree down and by the time I got home, well after dark, all the neighbours were out looking for me and a Police Panda car was parked outside our front door with the blue lights flashing. As I walked up the hill, bewildered, knackered, filthy, and carrying an axe over my shoulder, Mum came screaming towards me followed very quickly by one of the coppers. I was made to stand in front of the Panda facing the headlights and this huge copper in frightening silhouette, with Dad holding my collar roughly, smoking a Woodbine and all the neighbours surrounding us, watching and tutting. “I’ve missed my tea ‘cause of you, my lad, and I’m not best pleased. Where the bloody hell have you been?” the ‘rozzer’ roared. They scared the shit out of me. Yet another bloody bollocking and a ‘belter’ too this time.

We’d moved into this new three bedroom semi-detached house on a Manchester council estate when I was nine months old, and no, I don’t remember that! We had gardens back and front and very quickly everybody knew each other and all the kids had shedloads of new aunties and uncles. Time went excruciatingly slowly at that age (I wish it did now). The bonfire was built on a field and visible from my bedroom window. I would stare at the wood pile each night as it grew, with the pain and joy of severe heart thumping expectation, but also with the constant worry of our bloody wood getting nicked. After a few weeks we would organise ‘watches’ from dawn till dusk to keep an eye out for rival bonfire gangs from the estate. The bastards would have our wood away as soon as we blinked, but then we would do the same to them. ‘Wood Wars’ broke out through October every year. We would send out robbing parties to visit the competition, and sometimes set fire to theirs just for fun. We even built ‘dens’ deep inside the bonfire which we would sleep in to guard it, WITH our stash of fireworks too! Jesus, they were bloody long cold nights. No sleeping bags then, just a couple of rough hairy woollen blankets and wood to lie on. Amazingly we would think nothing of lighting a small fire inside the bonfire to keep warm. Crazy, I know. Me and my mates saw ourselves as soldiers in the trenches, Wilfred Owen style. What the bloody hell was Ma thinking letting me do that? Dad didn’t seem to give a shit, but Grandad thought it was hilarious as only he could.

            Grandad was my hero, much more of a Dad to me. I adored him, he was nearly always drunk and frequently in trouble with the ‘bluebottles’. The archetypal loveable rogue with thin swept back Brylcreemed hair, a big red boozer’s nose, and several missing teeth. He was always ‘up to somat’, from running bets for illegal local backstreet bookies to dealing in ‘knock-off’ to one and all, and he wasn’t averse to using his fists to make his point. He was never out of the pub and I remember him coming home drunk and having a furious row with Gran about his tea not being ready and he finished up putting his foot through the telly.

Mum told me of an occasion when he, pissed of course, stabbed Mum’s hand with a fork and pinned it to the kitchen table, and also several times introducing her as his little sister when meeting strange women on the street. Mum discovered when I was in my early teens that she had a half-sister from a long affair he had with a woman just a few miles away. She came to our house one night but that was the last I saw of her. It was a taboo subject after that.

Grandad was certainly a ladies’ man, and no angel, but I loved him all the more. He drank and smoked all his life and lived to his late eighties – I found him dead one New Year’s Day morning in his chair with the telly still on and the fire burnt out and cold. ‘Just like him,’ I thought as I touched his bald head. I was thirty when he died and the week before on Christmas Day we were all in the pub at lunchtime, as was tradition. I had a new girlfriend and we were standing at the bar when suddenly, looking at Grandad, I burst into tears. She thought I’d gone mad and she asked me ‘what’s up?’ with great concern. I told her that somehow I knew this was the last Christmas I would spend with my hero. One week later he was dead.

As the money started rolling in for fireworks I would visit the shop daily to add to my collection. Penny Bangers were the favourite but you could also buy threppenny Cannons which were louder. ‘Ripraps’ were also good as they had a series of bangs, but they were about a ‘tanner’ (six old pence). Rockets were best for aiming at people’s windows and then ‘leggin it.’ All stored in an old biscuit tin with an ill-fitting lid held on with shoelaces. Of course, a few had to be tried each day, lit by matches nicked from the shop when he wasn’t looking – well you didn’t want to waste hard earned money on bloody matches. We would light them in our hand and throw them at the last minute. We all knew how long you could hold ‘em for but you would get called ‘mardarse’ if you threw them too early – a crazy game of ‘dare.’ One year, I think I was about ten, I threw one up the skirt of a girl I fancied called Elaine Collier as we walked along the street after school. Luckily she wasn’t hurt but she reported me to the Headmaster, Mr Musker, and it cost me a week’s suspension and the biggest bollocking in the history of the world. We met a few years ago and laughed about it and she told me she fancied me then too – another bloody chance missed! I was oblivious to the danger even though we sort of knew about it. A kid over the road from us, Rob Taylor, actually made his own firework by ramming weedkiller and other stuff into a pair of racing bike handlebars. As he got them nearly full he took to hitting the mixture with a hammer. Not surprisingly the hammer hit the end of the handlebars, sparked and exploded, blowing his right hand clean off. Nonetheless we carried on much as before but you mustn’t let your Ma catch you or you’d get another bollocking!

Mum ruled the roost in our house. She could turn you to stone with fear just by lifting one eyebrow and on seeing it go up the best policy was to run away rather quickly or ‘geron yer toes’ as we used to say, usually when the coppers were knocking about! However, Mum thought the sun shone out of my arse and was big on education. We would have spelling lessons from a giant dictionary, after ‘jarmas’ were on in the evenings, and although at the time the lessons were a pain in the backside (I always got harder and longer words than my sister and she still can’t spell today), they were also a way of conning Mum to allow ‘another five minutes’ of staying up and sneakily watching the black & white telly out of the corner of an eye.

            Telly was the last thing on my mind when the big day arrived during half-term break. That doesn’t happen now as the authorities (always known to us as ‘they’ or ‘them’ or ‘those bastards’ and not much has changed) thought it would cut down on accidents. Well Bonfire Night has all changed now and probably for the best. Last minute flurries of legal, and illegal, collecting of wood and fireworks took place. All the parents would get together to sort the food and drink. It was mainly ‘parkin’ cake with butter spread thickly, slabs of sticky home-made treacle toffee, and huge spuds for baking in the edges of the bonfire. Dad had to do these and once they were cooked you scraped the ash off and smothered them with butter (a luxury just for Bonfire Night). The taste was truly scrumptious and all banger throwing would cease while the feast was had. We also got bottles of Corona pop, either Lemonade or American Cream Soda, or Ben Shaw’s Dandelion & Burdock. There was no Coke back then. I know, it’s hard to imagine a world without Coke! But we thought we were the richest and luckiest kids alive on the planet.

The lighting ceremony was always a nervous time for me, especially if the wood was a bit wet. We never used petrol but sometimes we had a bit of paraffin. We would ram newspaper into all the little spaces. It was hilarious to watch the Dads trying to light this enormous edifice with matches in the wind; they were bloody hopeless. I would flit in and out of the light of the fire slinging bangers at everyone, scaring them half to death, especially ourkid and her mates. They really were the best of times. Joyous occasions with lots of laughing and singing.

The Bonfire was magnificent when it caught. The flames chased upwards roaring and sparking into the dark sky, casting a wonderful warm glowing light on everyone’s smiling faces, the blaze mirrored in their eyes. It fascinated me how each person had a bright lit side and a dark unlit side, creating an eerie and surreal experience. A huge crowd would come to our bonfire, everyone from our part of the estate. To a small boy, the bonfires we built were massive. My over-excitement was palpable (it’s lit!). I remember forever having to go out of the warm halo of light from the fire to pee in the cold and dark, but I never realised it was caused by the exhilaration of the event.

We usually had a smaller ‘back-up’ pile of wood to keep the thing going for as long as possible into the night. The next day (it’s gone out!) the real Bonfire aficionados amongst us would be up the next day well before dawn to see if the fire was still alight and let off a few saved fireworks too. This never failed to end in another bollocking. Mum was always like a cat on a hot tin roof, especially after the Robert Taylor incident. All I could hear was ‘where’s our Raymond’, ‘our Raymond put that down yer little bugger’, and ‘our Raymond come here and tell yer bloody Father what yer just did’. I was always ‘our Raymond’ and not Ray when I was in trouble, another sign to geron my toes! She had a wonderful word, ‘gobbin’, which she used to describe someone being stupid or daft. God knows where it came from? I think I was nine before I realised my name wasn’t ‘yer bloody gobbin’.

I hated it when the night ended and I heard the familiar call, “come on our Raymond, time for bed.” My heart would sink and I would be inconsolable on the short walk home, with all of us filthy and stinking of smoke. Dad would shout “stop bloody skriking” as the tears ran down my dirty face cleaning little streams as they went. A retort from Grandad would be “oh ler‘im skrike, he’ll pee less.” Mum, compassionately, would usually say something stupid like “never mind son, it’ll soon be next year” but at least she knew how much it meant to me. But, of course, as we all knew at that age, next year never comes.

URBAN CONTRASTS

URBAN CONTRASTS

“They said it changes when the sun goes down. Around here”.

I love the city mid-morning, rush hour over, and a sense of calm before the lunch-time chaos. It’s the time when you can see the ‘place’, my ‘place’, getting a wipe, getting tidied after the ‘night before’, my ‘night before’.

The feeling of money being spent, lost, made, earned – it makes the city spin like the big wheel. Mid-day and the people come out to play, hungry, social and awake – different to what they looked like in the morning on the way to work. Queuing, laughing, chatting, or quiet, they make up streams of fluid humanity, a ‘right old’ mix of characters, all with their own problems.

Class is visible. The better, more expensive restaurants housing the designer clothed professionals and business entrepreneurs, the bourgeoisie; the sandwich bars and cafes playing host to the ‘rest’ – your average man/woman of the street, the proletariat.

The posh hotels are great places to see how the other half live – well it’s not actually the other ‘half’ more like the other 8.3% who own 94.7% of the wealth, and it’s nice to see them looking happy – I wish they would say thank you every so often.

‘Whose streets, our streets’ We wish But many times we’ve tried And failed To take them To make them Our streets

There’s a distortion after dark, a corruption, a fluorescent falsity, a time when the nocturnal come out to scavenge, to scrape and irritate, to spoil and annoy, to hurt and destroy – and there are many willing victims to feed upon.

            “A pint of lager please” I request.

I have done this a million times. I know what’s coming after: more of the same, my own distortion, my own sense of being somewhere, a place ‘close’ to mine, nearby, adjacent, juxtaposed.

           “Same again, and a large scotch please”.

Happier now and because I’ve been round the block a few times, I’m ok, not in danger, I’ll be ok, but someone might not be.

There’s a few arseholes in here I don’t like, staring, whispering – you know, they’re all paranoid.

The sound is jumbled. The sight is blurred. The pavement is closer to my head. I’m still ok. Still know what I’m doing. Where I’m going... I’m going to vomit

“And they wanted to be men
And do some fighting in the street
(They said) no surrender
No chance of retreat”.


It’s mid-morning, pissing down in this shithole, god save me from another fuckin day feeling crap all day, clock-watching till it’s time for a drink.

THIS       PLACE        SUCKS.

How much ya got? Not enough pal... now fuck off.

Does it really? Yeah, it’s all about fuckin money... property... the haves and have-nots.

d it glows all night”

If you have ever been in the city at dawn, I mean a really early summer dawn with a clear sky and fresh cool air, you will have smelt the newness, seen the clarity. It always seems to me that there is forgiveness in the air, an understanding of our weaknesses, and a reasoning of our mistakes. If you walk in and out of the long early morning shadows that are cast across our streets you will go cold and warm as you go; dark to light, like some sort of epiphany, but only if you’re listening and aware of the possibilities, you’ll know that life can be good with a clear head. It isn’t just the city’s fault; some of the fault is ours.

  Why can’t I get out of my city?

Can you, or you, maybe you?

Why don’t I like the countryside?

Thatched roofs and picket fences?

Others do, do you, or you?

Can my city get out of me?

Does it ever try? Oh my?

Am I a prisoner? Another number six?

Or am I the warden?

Would I escape if I could?

Would you, or you, all of you?

Modernity has changed this place. Yeah, you have to be this old to know it. Well actually, it’s America mainly that has changed this place... and others... most others... thanks yanks... but no thanks.

Stick your ‘have a nice day’ where it don’t shine... nostalgia eh? You have to don’t ya... but, as Billy said “the good old days weren’t always good, and tomorrow aint as bad as it seems.”

Divine materialism rules ok. Every place looks the same... the MacDonalds ideal, but you could say dogma... dictating to you, what you NEED... oh yes, you will need it, because THEY  won’t stop till you do need it, as and when and where they say you will.

Well, if you ask me, it makes you wanna rage against IT...

STRUCTURE, you say... you want STRUCTURE in this poetry, you wanna see what ‘structures’ they’ve built out there... they’re a bit more important... fuckin hideous...’town & country planning’ my arse... you couldn’t make some of that shit up... you should be out on the streets letting the bastards know... shouting ‘STOP PUTTING US IN BOXES THAT CAUSE MORE TROUBLE THAN THEY SOLVE’

Mortality?

So, I have pleurisy. Not really sure what it is, something to do with the outer lining of the lungs rubbing on the inner because of faulty/infected fluid between the two? Now I know that;s probably wrong and someone will put me straight - I hope they do.
I'd been telling my Mrs something was wrong but I didn't know what. It didn't just feel like 'man-flu' this time but she still thought I was 'swinging the lead' (where does that come from?).
It reminded me about the old joke about the hypochondriac who had etched onto his grave stone 'There you go, I told you I was ill' - well he was bound to be right one day eh?
This made me think about my mortality - I know, I know, not a particularly cheerful subject. Somebody, somewhere died today completely unexpectedly. Well actually several I suspect did that. You never know when it's your last day, but despite how the saying goes, you can't live each day as thought it's your last - some days you're just not in the bloody mood for that, and wish it was your last day anyway.
A friend of mine used to say when he was fed up (usually after hitting yet another golf ball into a lake) that 'it will be a blessing when the good lord takes me' - and I always knew, and still do, what he meant.
Furthermore, if we all 'lived each day as tho...' there would be humans rutting on the streets like bloody dogs, and whilst it would be funny for a while, we'd soon get fed up of it, especially when we realised it actually wasn't our last day today and how stupid that would make us feel, together with the stranger we had coupled with - and anyway, what would we all do for the other 23 hours and 45 minutes of our last day? Suggestions please, because I've no idea!
These seem strange thoughts with so much killing going on as I write, around the globe - it makes my heart ache, it truly does. Simple question, why does mankind make weapons anyway? shouldn't we have stopped at really sharp swords (man cuts finger on sword "ouch... hey blacksmith, you wanna stop making these dangerous sharp things, somebody is gonna get hurt"). So where do we all think it went so wrong that we want to kill each other? nationalism? greed? vested interest? racism? I think the list could go on and on... oh religion, how could I forget religion ffs?. I know, it makes it all sound so bloody stupid, but even I cannot become a complete pacifist, because sometimes you just have to hit the other guy (Adolf Hitler and Saddam Hussein et al).
We are all gonna die, and trust me because I know, there is nothing after that split second it takes to stop breathing - nothing! No matter what anyone says, ignore them because have absolutely no proof whatsoever of it, or God, or anything - not one shred of evidence anywhere from anytime.
This makes you realise how 'small' we are as individuals, inconsequential little specks - and we'll all be dead in around 5 billion years when our sun expires, so why does any of it matter? Once I realised this fact I found it easier to cope without the constructed god/religion that most of us use as a crutch in life. You don't need it honestly.
What we should focus on, don't you think, is being nice to each other, helping each other, in other words doing/being good.
'Goodness' has got naff all to do with God.
See ya on the other side y'all.
(why have I gone all deep south?... worrying to say the least)

scum??

I wish I had a tenner for everytime I've heard or read the word 'scum' over the last few days. Of course it will mean different things to different people, especially when put in context of the current 'riots'. It seems the people using the word as a descriptive exclamation think that the word is enough to describe or even explain the 'troubles' (yes, that is what they are). What they are doing is to use the strategy of "they're just scum"
"why?"
"because they are..."
(one can persevere here if you have the patience)
"what do you mean?"
"they're just scum"
- and there we go in ever decreasing frustrating circles.
To ask these questions against these banal comments is not condoning anything that has happened, but that certainly, is what is happening, as those with intelligence and a voice in the puclic sphere face unprecedented attacks for being 'sympathetic' with the rioters. Of course, this is ridiculous.
This society, and this is not party political as the Labour government of Blair is just as responsible as the Tories, has bread, through rampant consumerism and the ideology of greed (thank you Mrs Thatcher) a specific 'underclass'. By that I mean a class that is 'beneath' the working class, and by definition, has less hope than 'no hope'. We all know it's there, laughingly called the 'chav' class, and sneered at by the rest of us, lucky enough to not be a member. A friend recently commented that 'there has to be shit at the bottom, so leave it there and batter it to control it' (paraphrased I'm afraid). Not only is this view narrow minded and stupid, it is also deeply uncaring, and furthermore, very dangerous.
These troubles are not happening accidentally, they are not spontaneous. What has shocked me is the scale and the numbers involved... how big is this 'underclass' that we have created? At this moment in the 'eye of the storm' it seems massive, and incredibly powerful, so that those dismissing them as 'scum... 'cause they are' had better be aware that to dismiss these troubles as opportunistic looting is to fuel the fires of discontent and expect more of the same.
The governement are now on the front foot (eventually after their jollies) to demonstrate that they are the party of 'law and order' because they see the 'opportunity' for vote catching after listening to the knee-jerk rhetoric of the masses. This is a 'heads in the sand' position, of course, and as Seumas Milne states in yesterdays Gaurdian, this is:
"a nonsensical position. If this week's eruption is an expression of pure criminality and has nothing to do with police harassment or youth unemployment or rampant inequality or deepening economic crisis, why is it happening now and not a decade ago? The criminal classes, as the Victorians branded those at the margins of society, are always with us, after all. And if it has no connection with Britain's savage social divide and ghettoes of deprivation, why did it kick off in Haringey and not Henley?... To refuse to recognise the causes of the unrest is to make it more likely to recur - and ministers won't be making that mistake behind closed doors if they care about their own political futures."
There has been many warnings that these troubles are imminent - from the police, Nick Clegg no less, and, more importantly, the youths themselves - as the cuts and economic disparity bites deep. The bankers have legally looted our society and got away with it - there is a paralell analogy here that is so very obvious, that it doesn't need explaining!
In my lifetime I have seen (and this only occured to me recently after the expenses and hacking scandals) the professions (doctors, clergy, lawyers, ect.), and organs of the state (police, military, politicians etc.), which were automatically revered and respected by all and sundry, decline in this aspect - our society is slowly (but quicker now due to the technological revolution) being discovered as corrupt and immoral, through individual greed, celebrity, ambition, envy, and status (social climbing). I hear all too often, indignantly said, 'I'm not working class now, I'm middle class because I own my own house, have two cars, and holiday abroad' - a delusion and misconception allowed and fostered by our rulers through the concept of hegemony.
I hope our society wakes up and recognises these very dangerous times (all deep recessions have ended in major wars - fact!), and these troubles in particular, as an opportunity (buzz word here me thinks) to take stock, re-evaluate, and change course towards a fairer and more equal society.

Someone I Met in Manchester

Someone I Met in Manchester

My nose is running when I see him

squatting in Oxford Road.
His nose is running too,
but he doesn’t seem to know.

I wonder where he’s from.
What’s his name?
How did he get to this?
He looks very hard.

I wonder who he is.
How long has he been there?
He must be very cold.
Where does he get his clothes?

I wonder about his dog.
It must have a name.
How does he feed it?
Does he know I don’t know?

I wonder how much he gets.
Should I give him something?
Will he speak to me
apart from begging?

You hope he doesn’t.
But you know he will.
They always do, they have to.
“Any change mate?”

“Errr...no...errr sorry”
And you really are.
But you have some really.
You think he’s got a cheek.

You pass him by
with a sideways look,
and the niggling doubt
that he knows you have.

On Oxford Road in Manchester.

viva la difference?????

Sometimes I recognise, only occasionally mind you, that someone says something better than I can (in academic circles it's called 'quoting', but really it's an underhand and lazy way of getting to wordcount and still 'sound good'), so with that in mind I would like you all (12 followers now - hitting the bigtime, but I need help with this so please share and spread the word) to read the following as I believe it affects us all and it's something that we, as adults, should be very aware of. It comes from a column written by Erica Wagner in The Times Saturday Review on 16 July 2011:
On the one side it's impossible for little girls to escape the sexualised images of womanhood that are presented to them day and night; on the other, boys lag behind girls in reading skills and age and are equally limited by the macho culture that's meant to define them... So here's a little poem, for your summer entertainment. I learnt it decades ago when I heard Dick Cavett recite it, in his wry, dry tones, on a wonderful album, 'Free To Be You And Me'. Look it up-and in the meantine here goes:

My dog is a plumber. He must be a boy;
although I must tell you his favourite toy
is a little play stove with pans and with pots;
he really must like it, he plays with it lots.
So perhaps he's a girl, which kind of makes sense,
since he can't throw a ball and he can't climb a fence.
But neither can Dad, and I know he's a man:
and Mom is a woman, and she drives a van.
perhaps the problem is in trying to tell
just what someone is by what he does well.

You see, well I hope you do, this makes sense to me. I've got five kids, six grandchildren and another on the way, and I've been as guilty as the next person. These types of issues are much more important in the long run than the credit crunch, or wars, or anything else; because if we address these types of problems, we will make the world a much better, much more tolerant, and much wiser place - so then, just maybe, all the other shit may not happen quite as much! Worth  a try I think.

Well off to seaside with my two beautiful grandaughters (Morecambe would you believe?) to play with their dollies in the sand whilst the women get the picnic ready, and us men look all macho diggind holes and building sandcastles! 'Oh I do like to be beside the seaside.........

a poem 'Simply Manchester' by Ray Eckersley

SIMPLY MANCHESTER

You’ve gotta be born here

to know the difference.

Some come and stay and get it

then they show some deference.

They are very welcome.

But please don’t come and not try

cos it don’t work like that.

The place’ll just make you cry.

The shit’ll get in your eye

and you’ll just wonder why.

But you’re welcome to fuck off.

It’s changed since Fred and Karl,

no more street urchins.

Just drunks beggin on the street

And multi coloured fuckin bins!

What’s all that about?

Like anywhere really.

But that’s not the point.

It all started here

and we know it and wear it like a badge.

Shame and pride – that’s clear.

And we know we’re up our own,

before you tell us.

So don’t bother.

Just get on a bus

cos you’re welcome to fuck off

We’ve got it all really.

Socialism, tribalism, egotism.

Some good stuff to look at,

some very clever sods.

Even a man who drew a matchstalk cat

and made a mint – cool that.

We’ve got lots of proletariat.

But not much bourgeoisie,

that’s all in London that.

But I don’t care, me.

Two cities within a city.

Someone told me once

I’d lost my perspicacity.

But I love this place

with all its severe duplicity.

I never want leave

so I’ll join its complicity,

contest its veracity.

We’ll make you feel shitty

 with a bit of nitty-gritty,

living in this inner-city.

And if it’s not for you

take the Inter-City.

And you’re welcome to fuck off.

We built some docks

and a big fuck off canal.

A big fuck off airport

and we sang L’Internationale

which Unites the human race

We tried to get Paine back to our city

and give him is due space.

They told us to fuck off.

They didn’t like it up the East Lancs Road.

Them with their slavery,

their elemental spivvery,

habitual thievery and skullduggary.

But we get their big á la mode.

Just a different postcode

We’d be welcome to fuck off.

Congestion charge my arse.

Don’t copy London Town.

Let’s get really radical,

stop acting the fuckin clown.

Let’s get a Mayor – I’ll do it

Put up the tax

and stop the axe.

Declare unilateral independence,

create some discordance,

some disturbance,

some dissidence.

Revel in our arrogance.

You’re welcome to fuck off.

Our Cities are organic:

we’ll grow and get better.

You can come with us if you want

be an aid and abetter.

Fuck the Magna Carta

and the godbotherers’Stigmata.

Cos united we’ll stand,

divided we’re fucked.

Give me your hand

in this promised land

So you’re welcome to fuck off.

But you really are very very welcome to stay.

on a roll

WOW - eight members now - this thing is rolling baby - today, eight... tomorrow a million?More feckin DIY today but I won't bore you with it except to say I'm just waiting to hear the crash of the newly glued mirrors to our wardrobe doors - silence so far is feckin golden.
Just been struck by a Facebook post wishing it was Thursday and how we all wish large parts of our life away - just let me say there is some poor sod lying on a slab somewhere that wishes it was just Tuesday for her/him - get a grip and enjoy everyday, the best you can, because one day it will be your feckin last.
Sorry for lapsing into the venacular occasionally - believe me I am trying to calm it down, but it's feckin hard (the Irish version, 'feckin', doesn't feel like swearing so I feel better - cool eh?) because I do like to swear as an expression of myself - and besides, unlike bullets, swear words never killed anyone.
Great joke came to me about Robert Murdoch being touched by messages left on Amy Winehouse phone - I know it's sad but I do like 'sick' jokes - and that's a cracker!
I am currently reading Doris Lessing's The Golden Notebook, and it's brilliant - not too easy to read, but not bad - she mixes forms and switches narrative voice without the reader noticing sometimes - very special - and her messages are wonderful and timeless, with depth and consciousness. James Frey's The Final Testament of the Holy Bible is a must read for eveybody - just finished it and I think it's one of the best books I've ever read.
Please share/spread/prompt the word about my blog because I need to get on the 'monetising' bandwagon (if they advertise on your blog they pay you but I need a few more than 'eight') - I know, I know, it's against my socialist priciples to engage in this corruption, but hey, don't blame the player, blame the feckin game!!

DIY

Now don't go away!

I've been DIYing today and there is something therapeutic about it - it takes ones mind off things that are shit but I'm sure they happen to everybody. I've been putting up shelves whilst watching/listening to the test match and enjoyed it.
Tomorrow, well today actually, I'm going to glue some mirrors to some doors (hopefully) and, probably, blow my f**king head off whilst trying to put up and connect a ceiling fan/light fitting, so this might be my last blog - someones gotta do it.
Just seen the leader of English Defence League (EDL) on Newsnight - if, and it's a big if I grant you, he is representative of mainstream thought (AKA bigotry) in this country, or even wider afield, then we are all in it up to our necks. Multi-culturalism is a fact of life and one that enriches us all - end of! Gordon Brown was right, that woman WAS a bigot, and sadly it seems, there are quite a few.
I met a married couple recently at my daughters wedding in Felixstowe (a great and proud occasion for me, but more of that another time) whilst queuing for the buffet. They couldn't wait to tell me (why, I have no idea, but it was worrying to me that maybe I looked like a racist sympathiser - does anyone know what 'they' look like?) how everything wrong with this country was down to immigrants - this happened within seconds of our first words together - amazing. However, I told them they were wrong and immigrants to this country enriched us, and as far as I was concerned, they were all welcome, because we have lots of room still, and loads of money. Needless to say, they were shocked by my response, and before they could retort I told them that they should stay in the south because their sort wouldn't be welcome in the enlightened north. That did the trick, they shut the f**k up with an embarrassed look on their faces. They clearly were deluded enough to think that everyone, including perfect strangers, thought the way they did - racist arrogance or what?

The point is that, whenever we are faced with racism of any sort (and for that matter, sexism, ageism, or any other bloody 'ism' - oh and homophobia too) we should try to challenge it the best we can - and I know that's not easy because confrontation is not nice - and as we all know it's nice to be nice!! But please do your best.

strange day

Welcome to second day in blogdom. It's been a bit strange because it felt like almost like an old fashioned Sunday, which were cool - without the god bit of course. Hung our new electric fire to the wall in our new flat whilst trying to watch the test match (two great cricket teams slogging it out at the home of cricket, with England coming out on top - cricket is the only sport I get really nationalistic about). I hope our spending is over now and she has everything she wants - sexist? me? - if you know me you know I aint in anyway.

Thoughts can't get far away from the Norway massacre and the kids starving in Africa - when juxtaposed with the hacking/blagging scandal, it makes the whole world seem proper screwed. And then Amy Winehouse dies and I thought what a waste, what stupidity, and what a shame for her parents and family. It made me realise that WE, the people, need to rethink things. Democracy as we know it isn't working, ANYWHERE.

Took at look at my BAhons degree certificate today (had it since Thursday) and realised what I'd done, but more importantly, what we all should try to do - EDUCATE ourselves, even if it is against all the odds, then maybe, just maybe, the human race might just change a little for the better. BUT, and there is always a cynical 'but', our sun will burn itself out in round about 5 billion years, and thus, it won't matter what any of us do. Sorry about that and I promise not to leave every blog on such a downer (even tho it is quite funny).

First blog

This is my first blog, so be patient. Blogs will be about anything and everything. The last few days have been a bit hectic personally, as I graduated with a 1st in English and Creative Writing, from University of Salford, so thank you for all good wishes and presents. The world is currently going crazy - Norway, the Murdochs, Amy, and of course countless kids starving to death in Africa - are we getting used to this crap... I wonder... do you think we should be doing something about it? I DO.
Short one for first attempt and not much ranting but be warned it's coming soon in a 'blog near you'.