SPENCER ROSE

Oh Stop Being Such a Girl

2011-03-04T22:22:00.000-08:00

The First Half.

During the recent sexism furore that engulfed the media (kicked off by Sky Sports presenters Andy 'Arrows' Gray and Richard 'Course-They-Don’t' Keys’ odious confab that was erroneously aired), I clicked on a related link from my feminist sister Lynsey that left me genuinely aghast. The link led to an article that was published on the MailOnline website, penned by a certain Giles Coren, (no, I'd never heard of him either) entitled:

‘So why is it all right for women to be sexist about MEN?’

And by all accounts, it is a frankly jaw-dropping piece of slanderous misogyny, brimming over with boiling hate. This bogus, scurrilous scribble is both indefensible and utterly pathetic in its entirety. But we'll return to Master Coren and his whining, insignificant, baseless-bellyacher opinions after the half-time oranges...

Firstly, let’s tackle Messrs. Keys and Gray and their witless assumption that the microphones were turned off before launching into a tirade of childish jibes directed at assistant referee Sian Massey, regarding the critical flaw in her character needed for accurately translating the footy rulebook into Premiership flag-waving reality...

She's female. A girl. With their stupid, befuddled XX chromosomes.

Evidently her male counterparts are currently doing something of a Sterling job; faultlessly executed week in, week out, as they like to say. Seriously, when was the last time you heard Alex Ferguson or Arsing Whinger beefing-on about bad refereeing decisions following a game? How often does the post-match analysis burble endlessly away about how the result hinged on a couple of controversial decisions made by the male officials? And how regularly does the topic of introducing video evidence into the sport ever crop up? Erm, well…

Lovely day isn’t it? Looks like the weather’s finally on the turn... Sorry, what were you saying?

The exchanges between this pair of old-fangled obsoletes occurred before Ms Massey had even trotted anywhere near the touchline at Molineux for the Wolves/Liverpool match. I expect it came as something of a shock that this hackneyed, meat-and-potato-brained double act were exposed, not as the impartial, philosophical philanthropists (with Zen enlightenment gleaned from their studies in the East) that you’d assumed they were?

Egad! They had me hornswoggled too. Just how naive are we? What with their mud-caked rearing on 1970s/‘80s footy, soccer, football, cabbage kicking, pigskin punting and um, Breakfast Television? Possibly not the ideal ingredients for engineering the 21st century Renaissance man, I accept. But never did I conceive of the intolerance concealed behind the wide-eyed grin of a soft-focus Andy Gray, mullet tossed resplendently over his Villa-striped shoulders, in Panini’s Football ‘86 sticker album. My horror was palpable as I discovered the bombshell of the bullheadedness, seated-deep that belied the steely-jawed yet insipid, expressionless gawk of Richard Keys - his matted hair sprouting coarsely, but proud from under his cuffs and into his coffee mug - as he jostled with the banalities of marmalade festivals or feminine hygiene products with Wincey Willis at dawn, like the hybrid of an Easter Island Moai statue and Teen Wolf's unsavoury uncle. (Although regular daily doses of Willis is possibly enough to make a very hairy man indeed take leave of his senses).

The scandal permeated an excited media for days on end as they always do and we were invited to stare, slack-jawed at the newly-exposed dark heart of institutionalised chauvinism that beats, bigotedly unabashed, just below the seedy, bloated underbelly of the Beautiful Game.

The disparaging remarks made by the pair were damning. Enrolling for evening classes entitled, ‘A Beginners Guide to Achieving Sexism in the Workplace,’ where the lessons are taught in a fusty old changing room with fluted circular-stud-indented, crusty chunks of earth under the rickety desks, the tutor would undoubtedly include the majority of Keys and Gray’s pearls of wisdom for the eager students. It was a veritable magic-marker, whiteboard-squeaking master class. Pure textbook:

Section 1

a) Always commence proceedings with arrogant superiority: 'Somebody better get down there and explain offside to her.’ Check.

b) Follow up with sweeping generalisations: 'Women don’t know the offside rule.’ Check.

c) It is imperative to demean the subject with dismissive aplomb: 'Of course they don’t.’ Check.

d) Insist that these tawdry inferiors will have all their frailties laid bare, paying absolutely no heed whatsoever to the actual subsequent events: 'There’ll be a big one today (bad line call). Kenny’ll go potty.’ Check

e) Always add a dash of derogatory terminology while referring to your quarry: 'Hear Karren Brady this morning, complaining about sexism? Do me a favour love.’ Cheeyeckk!

CLANG!

And so on, et cetera, et al, continued the, ‘To you, to me, to you,’ blah blah blah, toing and froing whatnots of this particular chucklesome exchange. And then things got worse for them. Much worse.

Further cringe-inducing episodes of boys' bravado batty-chunter from the hapless pair ensued and these were even more excruciating and potentially career-curtailing than the initial exposé. Their analysis of the 1998 Women’s FA Cup Final between Arsenal and Croydon emerged, which essentially involved the pair laughing their arses off throughout its duration. Now, ‘scuse my common turnstile parlance here, but to be fair, I defy any footy fan to watch the highlights of that game and not guffaw themselves giddy. It begs the question, just what was the quality like in the earlier rounds? Clearly Women’s (and Girls’) football have come a long way since those heady-days. And so followed further ‘exclusives’, including one piece of footage that showed Andy Gray suggestively urging the unimpressed Sky presenter Charlotte Jackson to:

‘Tuck this down here for me, love,’ as he lewdly gestures towards the microphone pack down the noticeably-roomy front of his trousers.

This proved to be Gray’s undoing and he was sent off for an early bath. Two yellow cards resulting in a red from Sky Sports.

Keys’ own personal public humiliation was about to be screened for the masses and will no doubt haunt him well into the next life. Pre-match footage unearthed from the Stamford Bridge studio saw our hirsute charmer probing the clearly-uncomfortable co-presenter Jamie Redknapp about his sexual exploits with an ex-girlfriend. In the most vulgar of terms:

‘Did you smash it? Mind you, that’s a stupid question. If you were anywhere near it, you definitely smashed it.’ He ain’t quite done yet:

‘You could go round there any night and find Redknapp hanging out of the back of it.’

It, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it…

I’ve been pondering as to whether a youthful Mr and ‘It’ Keys consummated their wedding night with him poetically thumbing-in a softy before hanging out of the back of it by romantic candlelight? Let’s hope so.

I say it’ll haunt him, if only for the number of times his daughter Jenny presumably has to put up with some jokester declaring, ‘I’d smash it,’ referring to her.

Keys unceremoniously punted himself into touch and resigned before being given the boot. So what next? Years of penance in the wilderness for the jingoistic jackasses you might presume?

Not a jot of it.

TalkSport announced it had scored a sensational coup by snapping up the two presenters just days after they had to start scrawling lies into their Job Seeker’s Looking For Work Diary. The radio station has emphatically, albeit tacitly declared, we don’t really give a shit what anyone thinks and we have no intention of justifying our position because it’s already been made pretty goddamn clear. Here are two gentlemen that fully comprehend all the nuances of multi-faceted pieces of football legislation such as the offside rule and also have a very clear acumen as to what has always made this hierarchy function. Now click the kettle on sugar lips, that bloody brew’s not going to make itself.

TalkSport may as well have released this as a viral video:

‘The camera pulls back to reveal the moment of elation as Keys and Gray are giving each other a high-ten, amid and above the sweaty Eiffel-Towering of a doubly-penetrated Gaby Logan. Camera switches to a slowly panning close-up of her glistening face just seconds before her head inexplicably splits in two and disturbingly reveals that her brain is actually fashioned from a six-wing carbon-latex bladder, encased in micro-textured, hand-stitched hexagonal panels of Thermoplastic Polyurethane.’
© 2011 TalkSport

It’s difficult to even criticise them for their controversial standpoint. I mean, if the woman who was recently caught on CCTV tossing a cat into a wheelie bin had actually replied to the repeated question from the press:

‘But why did you do it?’

And responded with, ‘Because it couldn’t open the bin lid itself,’ there would have been no further questions needed your honour. The sour-faced ogress is simply just a twat who really fucking hates cats. That’s fair enough in her world. You can’t really argue with a clarification of position like that. An unrepentant TalkSport are as bold as baboons and all set for the antiquated future.

Now…

(Sharp intake of breath).

Giles Coren. Just where the fuck do you start with this piec-?

PPPPHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

That’s the half time whistle folks - munchings ahoy. Go grab yourself a flaccid pie or something. Will be back with the second half instalment of this very soon if you’re interested. My arse is nearly in gear.

The Surprise

2010-09-25T11:39:00.000-07:00

1. Saturday evening.

First ay aw, this fellah I've bin workin' fae is nothing short ay a fuckin' superstar, nae doobt abit that. I've bin butlering fae this chiel fae a couple ay years noo and he's never bin anything less than an honourable fuckin' gentleman y'understand me?

It wis ma mam who put me ontae him (endorsed by a couple ay contacts that she'd made by way ay sweeping the grime off ay rich cunts' Persian rugs and the like) and he turned oot tae be a genuine fuckin' diamond. There's nae airs and graces or any ay that painful charade with him - he's simply an altruistic, eloquent and obscenely affluent Sassenach who was willing tae give a radge ne'er-do-well like myself a sporting chance. So ah stepped reet up tae the fuckin' plate. Ken what aam getting at?

He resides in a fuckin' colossal Georgian manor hoose atop a braeheid deep in the Hertfordshire countryside, far flung from the reeking tenements that aam mair accustomed tae north ay the border. It's remotely situated oot in the Styx, encircled by sprawling broadleaf woodland and it feels a trillion miles away from ma birthplace and aw the better fae it.

This proprietor and pal goes by the name ay Douglas Tempest-fuckin'-Sixsmith ay aw riddy things and he's deep doon a family blood-line that have bequeathed the prosperity frae generation tae generation before it landed squarely ontae his plate and ah say good luck tae him. He isnae anything like yee'd expect mind and tae tell ye the truth there isnae a great fuckin' deal that ah widnae dae fae this cunt. He's seen me safe reet from day one - be it letting me claim hoosin' benayfit from his employees' digs when ah first started working at the estate and poortith was still a foe, tae promoting me tae head valet or wha'-thae-fuck-ever ma title is within six months ay conscientious toil.

And ye ken what? There hasnae bin tae many people ay Dougie's calibre impacting oan ma story thus far. See, the kin' ay upbringing that I've bin accustomed tae has been largely contaminated by bad eegs caught in the loop ay thievin'-skag-jail-brutality, lick ay the rock, hoosebreakin'-savagery-bullpen-extinction. Ah think ye get the picture? It goes oan and oan but wis never fae me, ken?

Dougie's mair than just a boss though, he's a close mate. A true friend. He could easily hae told me tae sling ma fuckin' hook oan countless an eve and ah widnae have questioned the cunt, but he never did.

And he never has, reet from the off. Ah loved tae blether with him and invariably he urged me tae digress aboot the sort ay exploits that had occurred in ma life frae way before our paths ever crossed.

But noo they've fuckin' crossed.

Oh Jesus, ah prayed ye wasnae real so many times - and aam still no' sure - but if ye arnae, then it looks like we're fucked beyond belief chappie.

2. Saturday lunchtime.

Shite started fuckin' up royally this morn. Dougie's been planning and preparing tae host toneet's dinner party fae months noo. We've got a selection ay guests turning up fae some scran and some ay them are mair important than others, ken? Ye see there's this wee missy called Geraldine who's attending and the boss man's had his eye oan her fae as long as I've kent him. She's a pretty, petite sort and frae an aristocratic lineage which suites Dougie's family right doon tae the marble flooring but it isnae just abit that fae him - he truly loves this lassie. And aam pretty sure it's reciprocated. I've seen the way she looks at him, aw sparkley-eed and star-crossed. Or aw cross-eed and starkly - it's one ay the pair, anyhow.

So, early on this mairn we started tae get the meat, neeps and tatties searing, sizzling and steaming in the kitchen, whit - me, Dougie's heed chef Stewie and a couple ay cooks who've bin workin' fae him frae time-immemorial. Noo, due tae the relaxed working practices aroond this here gaff, the veggies hadnae bin stocked up sufficiently fae the collection ay guests arriving this eve, so ah scanned aboot fae the big man tae rectify the situation. Dougie was spraffing away tae the lazy gardening dude as usual so ah shooted through one ay the kitchen windaes that someone needed tae scoot doon tae the market fae Jerusalem artichokes, fennel and the suchlike. Dougie predictably sais nae bother, he'll dae it himself and so with an Aston Martin V8 Vantage growl and a wee clood ay gravel ma boss span doon the driveway and ontae Bovingdon Open Air Market.

3. Saturday. Early afternoon.

So we're dancin' aroond the kitchen tae Katy Perry's Teenage Dream an aam singin' obstreperously right intae Heed Chef (and lifelong Reds fan) Stewie's peeved, yet half-simpering, ruddy coupon. Aam changing the lyrics, freestyle-like, tae aspertions abit Liverpool Fitba Club as they've been laughably troonced by the fuckin' Cobblers frae Nurthampton Toon in the week. Oblivious tae this pish, the houghs ay lamb are roasting away happily in the ovens.

'Useless bastards,' I willnae let up, aw sing-song like, just as Dougie comes unexpectedly crashing through the double doors and slumps ontae one of the chopping surfaces lookin' nae too braw and greener than the mortared mint leaves.

He isnae fuckin' aboot.

'What the Hell?' yawps Stewie, dropping his tongs as he scampers ower tae the main man, 'Are you okay boss? What in God's name's happened?'

Douglas disnae answer. He just stares beyond the kitchen walls, his eyes nae blinking and his hands shaking violently.

'Dougie, chap - Dougie, whit the fuck's happened laddie?' ah plead as a sinking feeling starts tae consume me. It's that thoosain-yard stare plastered across his coupon, coupled with the unholy colour ay his cheeks that are starting tae unsettle me. He's clearly in a bad way and I get the feeling it could be bad news fae us aw.

'Dougie, it's me Leighton, yer auld mukker. Whit the fuck's gone oan chap..? You're okay noo, ah promise... You're okay noo, you're okay noo...' I try tae soond assured as ah say this, rubbing his back and shooders, but I've never seen a bodie look this scared and defeated. Not once.

4. Saturday. Late afternoon.

Douglas eventually breaks his silence and is relaying the events that occurred while he wis engaged in procuring Brussel sproots.

'Listen Leighton, I'm in big, big trouble,' he begins, as we sit consuming an exquisite (and much needed) Cognac in the refined and enduringly-dusty, antiquated study. He's pleading with me:

'You have to listen to me very carefully and I must insist that every single word that I relate, my good friend, is the gospel truth..

Please believe me?'

'Ay course ah fuckin' will Dougie - yee've been ay the bunemaist order tae me since I've knoon ye. Like a brair ma friend and ah'd never doobt yer word... Oan anything. What's occurred laddie, aam behauden tae ye..? Fuck, aam always here for ye, ken?'

Douglas closes his eyes for a juncture that seems tae go oan fae far tae long. And then he speaks:

'When I arrived at the market, everything seemed as charmingly agreeable as usual as I strolled past the jewellery rotunda and exchanged the obligatory jolly prattle with Derek - is it Derek? Oh you know the chap I mean - the portly fellow who runs the Frogmore Farm Shop stall? Him with the sideburns and the radio-mic thingy?'

'Ah, ye mean Barry,' ah laugh, 'huge ginger chops oan the side ay his heed?'

'Yes, indeed. That's the chap. Good fellow - supplies us with prime cuts of venison when the occasion demands. Well we swapped a few niceties and he teased me a little about this evenings events regarding Geraldine and on I pottered to the fruit and vegetable stall. And that's when things took, well, something of a turn -'

'Something of a turn?' ah offer, puzzled.

And then eh hits me with it:

'Leighton. As I turned the corner between the mobile phone stall and that curious New Age trinket stand, this tall, peculiar, shadowy figure of a man clattered straight into me with the most forceful of intent - I almost crumpled to the cobblestones. I promise you, it was nothing like an accident. This individual unsettled me of the like that I have simply never experienced before. There was just something wrong about him, very wrong. I couldn't really discern the features as his face was obscured; cloaked beneath this long, inky-black capuche. A rasping sound oozed from his mouth in my direction and my eyes were momentarily dazzled by the glint of what I was certain was some kind of blade glistening in the sunlight. I was overcome with nausea and my breathing fleetingly ceased. I was in shock Leighton - my field of vision became a swimming blur of colours. I realised that he must be one of these hoodies that one's been reading about, hell-bent on perpetrating their knife-crime and with nothing but the intent to ruin -'

'What?' ah interject, 'Dougie that isnae a reason tae freak oot. Chap, yee've bin workin' far tae har-'

'LISTEN TO ME LEIGHTON!' he bellows back, shocking me intae silence fae the rest ay his twisted tale:

'Please. Listen to me very carefully. You must take heed of what I'm saying, I beg of you... I immediately scurried away, veering and skewing, before taking a couple of disconcerted wrong turns in an attempt to regain some level of composure before finally arriving at the greens stall -

And there he was again.

This sinister malevolent hoodie was a mere foot or two away from where I'd just stumbled to a standstill. He was facing away from me, in profile against the waxing gibbous moon; his stature incredibly intimidating, towering above the red and white striped canopy.

Then, very slowly, he rolled the long hood back from that concealed face and at last his identity was revealed to me...

Death.

It was Death Leighton. Death himself,' Dougie avows, 'or at least the personification of death. I'm talking about the Grim Reaper.'

Ma eyes weeden.

Has this cunt actually lost his fuckin' mind? The Grim Reaper? I dinnae say shite though 'cos tears are rolling doon his cheeks and he's traversing precariously close tae the threshold ay hyperventilation. This gadge clearly isnae lying tae me.

He's fuckin' trembling:

'I stopped stone-cold in my tracks. I just couldn't move. Death was over seven feet tall and shrouded in a hooded cloak; scythe leaning against his shoulder, betwixt his upper left arm and ribcage as he rummaged through a tray of what looked like spoiled peaches with his spindly, skeletal fingers...

And then, spine-chillingly slowly, he turned to look at me.'

Dougie pauses briefly and pleadingly fixes his eyes directly intae mine. Then he leans in at such blurry, close proximity that ah can literally smell the fear emanating from his very being.

He continues:

'Leighton, Death bestowed upon me the most threatening and peril-filled glare that I have ever met with. I have no doubt that this icy stare will be the most poignant vision I ever have on this beautiful spinning sphere. And very, very soon, I'm certain, the last. This is my end Leighton, this is my demise, and so terrifying it is. My God, that look was so full of menace.

So grave and full of menace.'

With this, ma dearest friend begins tae weep ay the like that I've never heard anyone dae before, be they man, woman or snared animal.

He coughs hard, 'I ran and ran and ran,' sobbing uncontrollably and waveringly stutters, 'I didn't even think I was going to make it to the car.'

Then after a couple ay minutes, finally, almost inaudibly, Dougie croaks:

'Tell Geraldine that I love her. I always have.'

5. Saturday. Early evening.

Ah have tae concoct a plan. Ah simply willnae accept this kin' ay fuckin' shite. Not oaf ay any cunt. Jesus Chri -

Almost immediately a scheme is devising itself in ma heed.

Ah shake Douglas intae some sort ay sense that all isnae lost. Yet:

'Noo, listen tae me Dougie,' ah implore, 'ye take ma Corsa and ye drive tae ma mam's hoose up in Edinburgh. An' ye fuckin' joyride it swift-style ye hear? Now ah ken it isnae an Aston Martin but it will fuckin' shift if ye hammer yer foot tae the floor. Ye wear ma claithes, drive ma cair and get as far away from this latent ambush conspiracy as is humanly possible. Ah'll call ahead and forewarn the aul' dear that ye are on yer way and tae ready the spare room. Just get oot ay Hertfordshire, get oot ay England and get oot ay this fuckin' grisly, culling Mictlantecuhti anathema's way. If he's still doon at Bovingdon market noo ah'll go and stall the cunt fae as long as possible so's ye can skedaddle -

FUCKIN' QUICK TIME. MOVE YE DAFT CUNT!'

We briefly embrace and the plan is in action.

Noo it wis just doon tae me tae try and stonewall this hoodied Spectre ay Deeth type from sculling his way ower tae the fuckin' Styx oot here. And if possible, avoid getting intae a swedge.

6. Saturday evening.

Ah turn the key in the V8 Vantage and despite the bleakness ay the situation, must admit, ah have a wee moment ay satisfaction before barrelling it doon towards this bony, atrophied Angel ay Abolishment amid his asparagus, apricots and annihilation.

On arrival at the market, ah hotfoot it past Barry's customary jocular abuse, amplified from the butcher's stall with a holler ay, 'Ginger cunt!', then ah skid roond the New Age bullshite stand, tearin' dreamcatchers and medicine wheels with me as ah belt towards the fruit and ve-

Crunch!

He wasnae sifting through the oranges any more. Or the onions.

Ah smashed reet intae the Demon ay Doom's emaciated frame in front ay the mobile phone stall. In a bedeviled effort, he'd been prodding his distal phalanges unavailingly at one ay the latest BlackBerry Torch phones' unforgiving keypads before ah almost upended the bastard.

Beneath an ominously-purple, crepuscular sky, Deeth glowered at me, scythe raised high above his cowled cranium and hissed:

'Just what the Hell is your boggle little man?'

An' then ah got brave. Ah whispered:

'Noo ye listen tae me Mr Reaper 'cos aam no' gonnae take shite oaf ay any cunt - ye got that? Especially not oaf ay gadges that fuck with ma friends. Be they human or sentient entities.'

This wicked and Godless Santa Muerte hunched doon taewards me, then belched a blasé yawn intae ma face an' sneered:

'I'm afraid I don't really follow, Leighton, and frankly, as uninterested as I already am, I happen to be doing my shopping and would prefer not to be disturbed. So if you would just kindly shuffle off this...'

Danse Macabre's choreographer gestured vaguely intae the direction from which ah'd arrived, whilst surreptitiously slipping the phone he'd been casting an empty eye socket ower intae his Sainsbury's Bag for Life, before attempting tae glide away.

'FUCK YER SHOPPING,' ah roared belligerently, ma voice splinterin':

'Ma best friend wis doon at this here market this afternoon daein' his shopping and ye took it upon yourself tae ruin his life - whae with shooting ill-boding, menacing glares at him. He's terror-stricken! Convinced that his life is ower noo!'

A look ay confusion briefly blackened Deeth's barren grimace. Then he raised his left supraorbital foramen and scorned:

'Meh..? Menacing..?' A shake ay the skull, 'Cretins...

That wasn't a menacing look you pair of simpletons. It was a look of surprise.'

'Surprise?' ah shuddered.

'Surprise indeed,' he breathed back at me.

Noo ah wis confused, 'But.. Why? Why were ye, surprised?'

It wis abit aw ah had left.

'I was surprised, my dear Leighton,' the Grim Reaper retorted:

'Because the last person I was expecting to see at a Hertfordshire marketplace this afternoon was your snivelling friend Mr Tempest-Sixsmith, as I have an imperative meeting booked with him later tonight...

Three hundred miles away in an Edinburgh tenement.'

And with that he wis gone.

In the Future When all’s Well

2009-12-01T10:26:00.000-08:00

An overly contrived, complex and confusing scrawling pertaining to the mysteries of the universe, time-travel, mathematics, folk legends and why my life is getting shiter by the day.

Nuclear physicists are trying to unlock the origins of the universe and the Big Bang Theory by smashing together proton beams in the monstrous structure known as the Large Hadron Collider in the world’s biggest ever science experiment. Not sure it really needs that pre-fix with its 17 mile tunnel buried 300 feet beneath the surface on the borders of

Switzerland

and

France.

The biggest mystery lies in the origin of mass in the universe. Our current best theory includes a mechanism for generating the masses for all the particles in the universe called the Higgs mechanism. The holy-grail of these experiments is the search for the predicted existence of the Higgs Boson particle.

This is where things get weird. Some scientists have gone on record as saying that this enigmatic particle will never be found because it will come back to sabotage the past to keep itself from being discovered – it will literally usher space gremlins into the LHC’s mechanisms for a spanner-throwing bonanza and bring this beast to a grinding, shuddering halt. The machine has already spluttered into inaction once taking 14 months to get it up and running again.

A similar thing has been occurring in my own life. I’m not sure the perfect future that I envisaged from an early age can ever be achieved either. A strange intangible force has been busy sabotaging my own destiny as the Higgs Boson particle could be sabotaging the past for reasons as yet beyond our understanding.

As a young kid (of 9 or 10 years old), when I wasn’t poring over copies of 2000 AD or playing Uridium on my ZX Spectrum I was prophesizing about the future. I could see it all mapped out before me in inexplicable but vivid visions that were accurate to the point of blinking at the flickering shadows of my future actress wife’s form playfully dancing across the plaster of our boudoir’s candle-lit walls…

…She is correcting the slant of an incredibly detailed landscape painting (probably one of mine, although she’s wonderfully talented too) before slipping off her lacey white neglige as she slides between the satin sheets of our four-poster bed. The Rocky XIII soundtrack plays in the background. Posters of Winona Ryder and Yoda are somehow acceptably pinned to the surrounding walls. This is the future, the year 2000 and we are adults. Why would she be anywhere other than here in this beautifully secluded detached house of a movie writer/director who had even put in a few critically acclaimed cameos in his own films that had left the Hollywood establishment puzzling as to why he didn’t play the lead roles too? She is beautiful, blonde…

…for a while. Then her hair became sleek, black and she stopped being an actress and became a singer/songwriter who played guitar.

Although this metamorphosing girl undoubtedly loved me unrequitedly for some reason she never really uttered ‘owt. This didn’t seem to be a problem. She was effortlessly graceful as she flounced about the place.

Bear with me a second, this is getting slightly confusing. I’m now talking in the past tense about a perceived future that was dreamt up long ago but is apparently now a history that never occurred. Sheesh.

Er, anyway, I guess then we made love (or I fumbled under the Star Wars duvet cover with a copy of the Freeman's catalogue and a torch or something).

Of course, the futuristic year 2000 came, went and is now so passé that we can guffaw at its ludicrous video games, plod–rock nonsense, stupid candles and sleek black-haired, guitar-strumming nimbies with the knowledge that this would have been an awful future for all concerned. Albeit, mainly because of the atrocious music.

And this is where my own physics and mathematical equations come into things:

The thing is, there’s a point I believe according to my extensive deductions, where ‘the amazing possibilities for the future become outweighed by the stupid see-saw of time-passed, plus self-preservation instincts, divided by crushingly random unfair disappointment, multiplied by thoughtful wishes about tomorrow, divided by being abjectly realistic finally, that equals the dreamt-of perfect destiny impossible’.

Or, more clearly:

(S.S.S.O.T.P. + S-P.I /

[C.R.U.D. * T.W.A.T. / B.A.R.F.]

~(P.F.T.F)

= 0.0000%

How awful.

I wonder if this is true for everyone. There’s probably not even a particularly memorable incident that pushes you beyond the point of never achieving your dreams. It might just be as humdrum as an instance where both of the local shops within slipper-venturing distance have run out of Wispas. It doesn’t seem a big deal as you trudge back home (cursing the laughing kids in the playground near to your house) but you’ve just tipped the scales beyond recuperation. Because of this minor disappointment you can’t be bothered to stop and answer that random questionnaire thrust into your face that would have seen you invited onto Gok Wan’s How To Look Good Naked. Subsequently, you’ll never meet that camera operator from the show who thought your bravery was second only to the amount of weight you’d lost in four weeks and proposed marriage live-on-air.

And you’ll never skid on that discarded lottery-winning ticket, breaking your nose in the process - it can’t all be good, c’mon. You can afford to get that shit fixed.

Oh, and you’ll pile those pounds (that you never lost) back on.

I think I might have tipped the scales. I hope not. I just kicked the same drink over for the second time. The signs aren’t good. And I had a dream last night…

...The candles fizz out. The painting on the wall looks like Munch’s The Scream but I’m sure it’s me standing on the bridge. The windows are open and in the moonlight this actress/singer wife girl thingy appears to have started to turn gingery-grey and grow fangs. There are strange pointed knobbles protruding down her exposed spine as she clambers over the fag-burnt bed covers drooling. I’m sure I can see horns in the shadows, and a tail. I think she’s the hag from a myth that we were told as children that stalked Eastfield Park - the Grey Lady who could be summoned from the stone statue in the circle of trees. And she’s waited all these years just for me. Shit...

Higgs Boson? What a rubbish name for a potential god particle with time-travelling abilities and a mischievous sense of the saboteur.

What do you mean this is a ridiculously tenuous analogy?

Here’s to the future when all’s well.

Halloween and Why God ain't all That

2009-11-15T12:38:00.001-08:00

“Are we right to encourage our children to gamble with evil?”

shrieked the headline of a double page article in the Chronicle & Echo on October 31, “even in a light-hearted event?”

Intriguing fodder for thought from the clergy you might muse? But frankly it isn't. It's just stupid.

Included within this spurious diatribe festered some of the most fascinating yet risible statements, I’ve had both the joy and misfortune of spluttering my way through for, ooh, at least two days, (the astonishing autocratic and misleading untruths peddled by Alan Johnson and Gordon Brown regarding the reasons for sacking Bristol University's head of Psychopharmacology, Professor David Nutt, exemplified a complete knee-jerk contempt for scientific reasoning and the notion of soberly weighing-up evidence).

Try this for size.

The Chronicle confidently claims that this is the burning question of the week. Said metaphysical quandary has apparently been giving Moulton Parish Church’s Reverend Peter Breckwoldt sleepless nights clutching his crucifix white-knuckled or cuddling a furry hot water bottle glugging away inside with steaming hot holy water right up to its rubbery screw-top, poor fellow.

EVIL

Gamble... Hmm... With evi-

Sorry, did he just say gamble with evil? Regarding Halloween?

I’d never considered this before for some reason. It had never once occurred, even for a fleeting moment, the myriad of demons or wraiths that could be involuntarily summoned because of a humble game of apple bobbing. Can you dare to envisage the armies of warlocks or shape-shifters that might use the simple carving of a pumpkin as some kind of gateway into our world before unleashing their pernicious fury? How about those beasts and behemoths that could manifest their physical being into our reality just because some devil-may-care teenager decides to buy a Dracula cape from Toys ‘R’ Us?

This is terrifying stuff.

Although, having said that, with a nanosecond of consideration, I’m not sure I quite understand where either the gambling or the evil enter into the equation? It appears our plucky Reverend is precisely the kind of jamfool who believes that the tumbler's erratic waddling movement across a Ouija board isn’t down to your hilarious prankster mate Jeremy.

Or me.

SHAMELESS TWADDLE

The church has apparently been busily distributing leaflets to parishioners asking them to consider their responsibilities as parents when it comes to Halloween. Or roughly translated, trying to emotionally play on the vulnerabilities of people who have already been so indoctrinated that they struggle to peer beyond this shameless twaddle. What a waste of precious pamphlet material - they could have been pizza menus.

According to the leaflet: “Concentrating on evil brings fear to the impressionable young minds. For some it is upsetting and causes nightmares. This is often underestimated.”

Er, (snort), kind of, (cough), 'scuse me - PTOOEY! - a little like teaching children that if they don’t live a God-fearing, altruistic, guilt-free existence then unfortunately it’s an eternity stretched agonisingly across the lake of fire while a particular horned Prince of Darkness gores excruciatingly at their nether-regions until the end of time. Which incidentally, never, ever, ever, ever ends.

WoAhAhAhAhAhAaHaAhAaHaA - cue flash of lightning...

~~Ziigzlash!~~

I remember thinking that I was going to burn in infinite torment shortly after discovering the wicked art of whacking-off. And by God, if as an adolescent you started to harbour any uncouth feelings of attraction towards persons of the same sex as yourself then forget the good deeds my son, it’s eternal damnation no matter what. Even if you saved forty-nine piping priests from a burning bazaar and perished rescuing the fiftieth.

This painful drivel continues: “Christians believe that evil is a real but defeated power. Halloween, however, is about evil triumphant, where it is in the ascendant and is given too much importance. For Christians, Halloween is a distortion of reality. It may also give children a false sense of the power of evil.”

Holy shit. Cough.

BRASS BOLLOCKED BUFFOON

Forgive me for taking the liberty of informing this feckless outmoded dunderhead that evil is not a hairy, fanged, four-legged phantom; neither is it an unmentionable, stench-ridden monstrosity kept shackled in the attic; and it ain't a bloodcurdling, shadowy miscreation that descends upon unsuspecting wretches who indulge in the odd seasonal pumpkin soup-slurping session, engulfing them in a tornado of cannibalistic zombie dust.

And it most certainly is not defeated.

Here’s what evil is:

Evil is the Islamic extremist who screeches, ‘Allahu Akbar' seconds before detonating his/her bomb-vest, indiscriminately slaughtering whichever innocent victims happen to be standing nearby. Evil is the calculating fiend who swipes a young girl off the street at a bus stop and bundles her into the back of his transit van, only for her to surface again years later as a pile of bones next to a motorway. Evil is the priest who abuses the children left in his trust and destroys their innocence and subsequently their lives. Evil is a former Hitler Youth Pope who staunchly opposes poverty-stricken Africans or Brazilians or Filipinos from using condoms in the midst of an apocalyptic AIDS pandemic.

Evil is a stealthy Shaolin wasp lurking in your trackie b’s.

Ultimately, evil is human.

It is homo sapien – a man or a woman. It is a bipedal, walking, talking, thinking, conscious and sadistic being with no empathy, no sympathy and no remorse. Evil is a person, or persons.

Kids know full well that witches and vampires and ogres and werewolves don't exist because this is regularly pointed out to them. What confuses things is when a bunch of adults tell them with stony-faced sincerity that there is a place called Hell where the landlord is a cloven-hoofed, horned sadist who doesn’t scrimp on the heating.

If you really want to see what strange forms evil can take then you need look no further than the Reverend Peter Breckwoldt himself and his ridiculous superstitious, hypocritical, baseless, mystical, humourless bunkum. I’d cast a horrible spell on this boneheaded, blithering bumblespanner if only such a thing existed. And he’s got a stupid nefarious name with letters that shouldn’t go together. I say don your cape and witches hat and cast this aberration asunder.

Praise the fucking lord for Satan.

666

666.

A Tiny Shift of Perspective

2009-07-02T18:22:00.000-07:00

Okay, so earlier while idly trying to think of a puntastical pearl of gibberishness to leave on a friend's Facebook wall, Sky News droned away in the background and I vaguely caught the tail-end of a bulletin reporting that the highest ranking member of the British millitary so far had been killed in the war in Afghanistan. For some reason this caught my attention.

I half-consciously waited for it to roll round again as I struggled with too many verbs playing online Scrabble.

Now I say for some reason this caught my attention, not because I don't care and certainly not because I'm yet another shallow, self-centered SpaceBooker tweeting in the breeze. I mean fuck, I've followed world news and (our) current affairs relatively closely since 9/11, (Beeb, Al-J, Sky, Indie, Sun, P.Eye, Viz etc).

And for two reasons. The first being that when I watched the footage unfolding of the people jumping from the burning towers it occurred to me that I had no idea what could possibly drive anyone to want to cause that much pain and suffering and I had to find out. The second being that I'd realised that the only thing I'd ever been any good at was writing (apart from wasting time) and with life going nowhere, maybe I should think about a career in journalism. And follow the news.

I don't have a career in journalism - so merely a thruppence-worth.

Oh, and partly because of my philanthropic love of all god's children, as long as they don't just stop suddenly, brandishing a shopping trolley in supermarket aisles (apparently death by frozen chicken-bludgeoning is still an illegal on-the-spot punishment).

I've just realised that my momentary genuine pangs of heartfelt sorrow are becoming increasingly more and more fleeting. They are diminishing in their momentariness.

Yes, I think I delved deeply into the motives behind the 9/11 atrocity and felt that although I was an ill-educated oik, I had a vaguely even-handed understanding of how the situation unfolded - the whys, whats, wheres and yawns etc. We're talking pissed-up politcal pub-chat authority here not a professor standard philosophical lecture. We're talking breeze.

Still, I felt that I should face the realities of what was actually going on.

From the comfort of my sitting room.

When Bush and Blair invaded Iraq I knew this was a bad idea as did hundreds of thousands of others for obvious reasons and the aftermath proved to be more horrific than we could have ever imagined. Worse than that bad microdot trip locked in a beehive -we've been through too much together.

But this soldier's death bothered me. I mean, I watched the Baghdad skyline bombed into obliteration on BBC News (eating Brie probably). I watched Daniel Pearl with a gun held to his head (as I picked the pepperoni off someone else's cold pizza at 4am). I watched Saddam Hussein hang (with Daft Punk playing in one ear whilst texting some cretin). I saw the online beheading of Ken Bigley. It was one of the most terrible things I've ever seen, especially following such depraved and harrowing abuse.

The beheading of American businessman Nick Berg was somehow worse.

How can it be possible to try and quantify distinctions between such terrible acts? I found that I could. And so could most of my friends. We're not sickos or deviants or vouyeurs or stalkers - most of them are well-educated, successful, well-rounded human beings (myself excluded). So what has become of us?

These things affected me deeply I'd thought. I'd surely considered all the implications (imaginable) of what this meant to the families involved. I'd thought about the longevity of their lives and how they'd wake up every morning for eternity knowing that their true love was slowly slaughtered with the worst fear already in their heart. I'd thought how they could never be happy again. I'd felt the same watching documentaries about serial killers and their victims or the families and survivors of natural tragedies or homelessness or ill-treatment of the elderly or the disabled or prostitution or Brookside.

My god, to know your child was raped and killed by some deranged, toothless zero with one eye on dip, the other on dazzle. I'd commit suicide, wouldn't you? To watch your brother slowly eaten to death by Motor Neurone Disease? To find the cadavar of the daughter who frequently stole from you, slumped, with needle still in hand in her bedroom (and to realise the last thing she saw on Earth was Big Brother 2009 Live Streaming).

I've thought about the pain these people have suffered and got to the point where my sympathy has become, er, robotic? On September 11 I lay awake for most of the night turning events over in my mind. On 7/7 I already felt that this was coming our way and was ready to be appalled and furious. I was also phoning round friends in London to check they weren't in a zillion pieces. In no particular order, I took on board the London/Madrid bombings, the Beslan school-siege, the Mumbai attacks, the war in Lebanon, Cho Seung-Hui's shooting-up of a high school, the invasion of Gaza, the death of Michael Jackson, the genocide in Darfur, the Bus Stalker Killer, the grisly assassination of Neda.

And the sad news that Margaret Thatcher had broken her arm.

And each time I swear I've truly felt it. And each time the encapsulation of all of the implications into emotion has got smaller, the time dwelt on them shorter. It's all there. Just micro-registered these days. Again not because I don't care but because I think I know all there is to know about these things and my brain has found a more efficient way to deal with them.

So this soldier...

The highest ranking British soldier to be killed in action since 1982's Falklands War. I did the obligatory gulp and cursory heartfelt ache - still half thinking about some stupid pun to daub on my mate's virtual wall and then realised that for the Taliban this was a major coup. I've read of the killing of so many Taliban leaders and thought nothing of it other than that the army are partially succeeding in their mission. For the Taliban this a major scalp that will envigour their troops. This is the most complicated strategy game imaginable and with the most appalling of consequences. And it appears to still be in its spawning stages. The strategy is all we really hear about in the news but this overlooks the realities.

For the first time ever I saw things from their side (things they consider to be positive), not because I sympathised with them but because I was angry. Like watching the German fans celebrate when they've beaten England on penalties. You kind of want to get into their heads just for a nanosecond to try and understand their inexplicable joy. Like looking through the ski-mask eyeholes of a horror-movie serial killer armed with a nailgun, stalking through the incubater ward in a hospital. Or the alien race that invades our planet and wants to exterminate us all. Hmm, how would I do it? I thought I'd applied this empathetic logic to our real life war and understood its implications - I certainly had regarding the 9/11 jumpers. I've simply forgotten. With just a tiny shift of perspective I realise I don't know everything at all. In fact I don't really know anything. My emotions have logged-off. This is so complex and motley that there are angles I've never even considered.

I actually know nothing.

I am just another shallow SpaceBooker twatting utter breeze. The empathy that I thought was sincere is merely mechanical. Nearly everyone I know has watched at least one of the beheading videos or has an opinion on Gaza or Somalia or Hollyoaks. Far too many appear to have an encyclopeadic knowledge of serial killers. They all probably watched these atrocities for the same reasons as me. An interest in the unjustly morbid or a feeling of self-righteousness. And we've all become immune.

There, I've said it.

We've watched so many horrors unfolding live-on-air that we think we know all there is to know about human suffering and tragedy so we deal with it as we would a lack of any donut peaches in Morrisons' fruit aisle.

I can't remember the last time I actually read an article in a newspaper about a soldier being killed in Afghanistan. I've registered each and every headline but I haven't actually read them. What was I going to read? Soldier killed on foot patrol? Roadside bomb? Family informed? Cue momentary sorrow. I knew it all already.

My god. We are the automaton generation. We function with C3P0-like esoteric, robotic emotion. This is scary.

So anyway, Lieutenant Colonel Rupert Thorneloe was commanding officer of the 1st Battalion Welsh Guards. The 1,000 troops under his command are deployed in Lashkar Gah and the surrounding areas in Helmand province. He was 39 years old and married with two daughters. He was also a keen polo player. An improvised explosive device exploded under his BvS 10 Viking armoured vehicle. He was killed instantly and his murder will rank highly on the Taliban's hit-list. Killed alongside him was Trooper Joshua Hammond of 2nd Royal Tank Regiment. Joshua was 18 years old and his death will be seen as a tactical success by the Taliban. So which one ranks more importantly? Well obviously neither, because both, when you actually look closely and don't flip the pages, are encircled by an incredibly complicated spiral of sorrow. The tactical strategies no longer come into the equation.

Just some young dad dude or a funny teenager that leave everything empty for those closest to them when they're not there any more. Hey, I forgot to care too.

Click. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Interview with Robert John Godfrey of The Enid

2009-05-28T15:44:00.000-07:00

Having been assigned the job of interviewing Robert John Godfrey, I was filled with a sense of excitement and anticipation. I knew that The Lodge Recording Studio was his baby and I also knew that he was the founding member and keyboard maestro behind legendary eclectic prog-rockers The Enid, but not a great deal about the man himself. I had vague visions of a reclusive Syd Barrett type - mysterious, aloof, wizard-like. I was looking forward to hearing what he had to say about the town, tunes and trends. He did not disappoint.

On arrival, I was lead to a studio room upstairs above The Lodge where I found Robert playing a beautiful ebony grand piano that looked like it had been fashioned from Kubrick's monolith. It was the perfect start.

He indicated for me to sit down, and before I'd really finished asking my first question about his upbringing, he very succinctly summed up twenty years or so in about twenty seconds:

'I was born in a castle and brought up by Indian servants. I came from a rich, aristocratic background of the late 40s/early 50s. I er, went to boarding school. Fucked up there. Was put into care. Learnt to play the piano. Went to the Royal College Of Music to learn to be a concert pianist... I then discovered acid and The Beatles.' Phew.

By the age of fifteen he had already performed the Brahms concerto. At RCOM he went on to establish a close relationship with German composer Hans Werner Henze, Michael Tippett and Benjamin Britten, whilst studying under concert pianist Malcolm Binns. Next, he worked with Barclay James Harvest after hearing them at the Roundhouse in London:

'I was with them for two years and that's where I learnt everything about recording (which is still relevant today) at Abbey Road Studios, where I did two albums with Pink Floyd producer Norman Smith - with whom I went on to have a long association with.'

The Enid was born in June 1973 and they released their debut album 'In The Region Of Summer Stars' on EMI in 1976. They've been described as the biggest cult band in Europe; banned by Glastonbury; investigated by MI5; and dubbed leftists and anarchists.

More recently, Time Out described them as 'The Orb meets Pink Floyd meets The Berlin Philarmonic.' The fatty-boombatty fraternity are twitching with exitement. These are the kind of comments that you yearn for as a group. A mythology that eventually writes itself. The band have notched up several albums and line-up changes since, but throughout their entire history Robert John Godfrey has remained the focal point:

'I formed The Enid in '73, which was the ragtag of the remnants of my care-home. When it closed I thought right, I'm a musician, let's have a band. So I formed the band with the lads there. We hadn't got homes to go to and had to do something with our lives. And I've been doing that one way or another ever since.' They intend to get back out onto the concert platform very soon.

The Enid currently features Robert, original drummer David Storey and a crop of younger musicians. They have a record deal with the Gerald Palmer Organisation (responsible for Spiritualized).

One of Robert's other passions is The Lodge Recording Studio on Abington Square in Northampton, which he runs with Chief Engineer Max Read. It offers excellent facilities, with the latest technology and digital recording techniques sat neatly beside classic equipment. The studio was moved to Northampton in 1993 after being relocated from the outskirts of the town. It was originally established in the Suffolk countryside in 1979 and seen artists ranging from Kim Wilde to New Model Army to Paradise Lost pass through its soundproof doors (plus local bands including The Departure, Orwell Music, Cave, et al).

Current residents in the living quarters of The Lodge are upcoming local band The Operatives, and they're causing more than a ripple of excitement in the local music scene at the moment. Robert's praise for the recent Seen Magazine feature band couldn't be higher:

'They came into our lives about five years ago, really as unmanageables. They were chaotic but brilliantly gifted. They have the spirit of Frank Zappa, but from a punky-indie background, with all the imaginative stuff. They need the freedom to develop. They've almost finished recording their first album... They will be massive.'

Robert inspires confidence. t was good to hear such a candid and articulate speaker on issues ranging from his own fascinating past to his in-depth knowledge of the town's history (just not enough room to print it all here), but he speaks most passionately about music and the scene in Northampton:

'I've got to the point now where I believe that this town is bloody brimming with talent but there's absolutely no interfacing whatsoever with the music industry. The town needs a place like The Square in Harlow, which is council-run. They've got a video suite, a recording studio and can stage high profile bands. We've got nothing like that in this town and it's a great pity. I want to do something about it... I would like to send a message to the musical community of Northampton to have more self-belief. There's a cracking potential in this town and it's really happening now.'

I insist you check out more @ http://www.theenid.com/ and http://www.lodgerecording.co.uk/

A Valentine's Day Tale

2009-02-15T01:37:00.000-08:00

"Last night...

I swiftly had to apply my instinctive twinkle-toed tailstop braking system almost immediately after settling into the rhythmic hippety-hop style of walk that I'd naturally adopted following the first near-fatal slip on the treacherous, lumpy ice. I was almost certain that there used to be a semblance of pavement underfoot here somewhere. Seriously, where the fuckin' hell were the gritters during (yawn) yet another predicted 'coldest winter flap for several zillion aeons?' I mean, did Monsieur Nostradamus not foretell this shit centuries ago?

Er, anyway, I was apprehensive and keyed up, and for good reason. I was on my way to meet my new flame Fiona you see, and pretty damn fine she was too, my friend - all ash-blonde ringlets and a feisty aura of mystery.

I contemplated getting a bus into town and then decided it would probably be quicker to watch a slow-motion replay of the sedated three-toed sloths' sports day sack race. Fuck it, it was only a couple of miles, and a damn site warmer on the move. It's. All. Good.

I mean, Jesus, why does the entire country have to grind to a halt because of a bit of stupid snow? Put on some decent footwear. Simple.

Actually, I was glad I'd rung work earlier to say that I couldn't make it into the office because the 'car's going nowhere.' Fuck it man, loads of people did and I live four miles away at least.

I needed to stop at an Offie to grab a couple of bottles of wine on the way to her house. I hadn't been there before and we'd only been out two or three times so far - you know the kind of thing: got off with each other at Sombrero-Steve's house party on the stairs (lush); went for a Mexican (horrifically hot); quaffed a few ciders, Sambucas and wound up fucking awkwardly in my hallway. And the kitchen.

I think I passed out in the bedroom. I can't quite remember the last bit.

Anyhow, I s'pose potentially, you could have said that rather a lot was riding on last night, if you know what I mean?

For starters, it just happened to be Valentine's Day evening. Friendly Fires were frenetically cow-belling their way into my eardrums like a jittery jackhammer, courtesy of my fancy new Skullcandy G.I. headphones, and hey, were these not the moments to be cherished if you own anything resembling a fully-functioning soul?

So I bimbled and then I skidded my way down the Kettering Road towards a nervy but nevertheless intoxicating, frost-thawing feast. I couldn't quite remember her surname, to my shame, something like Atherton or Addlestone (or was that the sweet cider we were drinking last week?) Didn't matter, I was sure there'd be some old letters or a card lying around somewhere to scan so I could indelibly etch it on my brain forever. She seemed to be really fucking cool and beautiful, so fuck minor points. I'd seen her bounding energetically around the tired-old haunts for a while now, spraffing to loads of cool people I knew, so it was always only a matter of time before our paths properly crossed - she was obviously into the same things as me.

Shit, she's gorgeous, intelligent (I see her writing sometimes), into music (I think she sings or plays something), vegetarian, into holistic remedies (okay, slight alarm-bells ringing) but undoubtedly up for the right royal rumpus and maybe, most importantly of all, at that moment was cooking some kind of moussaka with ricotta topping(?) Just for us.

'Tings be lookin' sweet ma frien', y'understand me? 'Ear 'dis now. Spin out 'Trampton Town. B-B-buzzin'. C-comin' at'cha. Trillion mile a nanosecond, get me? All da way from da Birchfield Ruff-up, right up to er, whatever that road's called next to the Bradders. You know the one I mean?

Following a brief, but harrowing, labyrinthine platform game-style conga round Mickey's to the Blossom Hill section (situated somehow impenetrably close to the front door) I stepped back outside into the Siberian slush. And then -

A snowball shattered in my face, with a generous proportion of it ending up in my mouth. The momentary shock and flash of pain was enough to make me want to cry like a girl, without the added surprise of an assault on my sensitive-teeth's sensibilities, just for that ferociously unexpected aftershock. Cunt.

Was a fucking good shot too - I kinda saw him out my peripheries I think, but hey, I might be lying. Anyway he fuckin' ran away laughing. And somehow clung to the ice like a sticky-toed winter gecko.

Fuck him. I couldn't chase him. I was struggling to walk.

But walk on I did, using my scarf to wipe my frozen fizzog. And then just before I got to cleaning my steamed-up glasses, hoopla, I slipped - almost flipping upside-down temporarily - before landing with a splash on my coccyx. I managed to smash one of the bottles of red during this whole sorry episode and the carpet of slush was starting to look like a murder scene from Fargo. I was partially lying in some strewn bin-bags, thankfully head-end to the good, i.e., on them and a little bit in some weird shit that I wasn't sure I could ascertain the origin of.

I hadn't worn decent shoes.

Naturally, I scrambled to my feet with an expression of utter indifference to any agonising pain I may or may not have been enduring and scanned the horizon to see if anyone witnessed my fumblings. Lots did. But more importantly did anyone I actually know observe this shit? Don't think so. So, small mercies.

Then I briefly mused outrageously about compensation.

I was pretty much sopping all over my arse from Claret which was seeping into the snow and facing an unavoidable buttock-inspection from the girl I really felt for - when she'd said a full-bodied red, I ain't particularly sure that's what she'd meant. Oh, fuck it, I thought - focus on my batty and laugh. Might as well get it over and done with.

All was by no means totally lost. It's surely in my unpredictable and exciting rock n' roll nature to turn the fuck up, late, with a tale, even if I do look like a twat.

So I did.

After punching the head off a snowman in a stranger's front garden and hurting my wrist.

I was starting to like the way Fiona and I were getting along in those first, sweet, tentative steps of our (ok, my imagined) relationship, and when I arrived...

Obviously, I lied about everything that had happened on the way - some big geezers, dunno, kind of just walked into it, weren't bothered about me, was lucky really, etc, and the evening unraveled thus.

She was listening to Razorlight? Maybe she'd just put something kind of neutral on that she thought wouldn't offend my ears before fervently questioning me about what I was into - I mean, I don't want to admit this shit, but I do own the first two Coldplay albums. I know.

I'd also brought along the DVD of The Wrestler to watch. I hadn't recommended it, she had. Apparently she knows the names of lots of wrestling holds or something. Might be interesting I thought?

Anyway, the DVD wouldn't play for some reason (probably me fucking things up when I'd burnt it earlier) and so we settled for watching M. Night Shyamalan's Signs from her collection. She served munch about an hour or so into the film, and shortly after crunching my way through the sixth or seventh arduous forkfull of lord-fuckin'-knows-what (I'm certain it should have been tender and not like Joan of Arc's charred chinbone) it dawned on me that the film we were watching was complete toss. The main flaw in the technologically-advanced, galaxy-vaulting, world-conquering aliens' plans was to somehow overlook their significant achillies' heel - instantaneous death on exposure to water, so er, probably best to avoid this type of planet then? They're probably not that common. Anyway, they chose Earth to invade.

At almost that exact second she turned to me, laughed, and said:

'This food's disgusting isn't it?'

She was not wrong.

'Hey, I'm a crap cook too,'

I offered, pushing away the offensive plate.

And then it was funny.

She slapped her forehead and then properly laughed:

'This film's fucking shite as well isn't it?'

She zapped the TV. And then, despite my freezing, rouge-drenched jeans, grazed hands, nauseated palatte and assaulted artistic senses we had a moment of perfection.

Pure laughter.

She kissed me, then she hugged me and then she said:

'Shall we split-up before we even begin?'

'Yeah,'

I replied.

And on my merry way I jolly well trotted."

The G8 Summit: A Success Story?

2009-02-04T17:28:00.000-08:00

As the inspiring We're Not Afraid* campaign gathers more and more subscribers at an amazing rate in response to the July 7 atrocities, and July 21 bungled attacks in London, it is clear that al-Qa'ida haven't succeeded in their objectives. What they did achieve though, was to divert attention away from the issues up for discussion at the G8 Summit in Gleneagles, Scotland.
The bombs were timed to coincide with the gathering of arguably the most powerful men in the world, including President Bush, UN Secretary Kofi Annan and Tony Blair. The results of the summit were overshadowed by the aftermath of the London terrorist strikes.

So what was the outcome of these discussions?

The G8, (no, it's not text-speak for gate), comprises of Canada, France, Germany, Italy, Japan, the UK and the US, with the heads of state or government meeting annually to tackle major economic and political issues facing domestic societies and the international community. They deal with macroeconomic management (obviously), international trade and the relationships between developing countries. Member states act as host on a rotational basis, and 2005 has seen the United Kingdom at the helm, with Mr Blair chairing proceedings.

Top of the agenda at Gleneagles were Africa and climate change. These two issues represent the most serious problems facing the international community, presently and for the foreseeable future. The other pressing issue being peace in the Middle East.

As things currently stand, Africa will not meet any of the Millennium Development Goals. In a continent where 3,000 children die every single day from malaria, action is long overdue.

Concerning global-warming, ice in the Arctic has shrunk by 1,000,000 square kilometres and with sea-levels rising, we have lived through the hottest 10 years currently on record. All occurring since 1991.

So what was achieved? These are some of main promises:

Africa:

The 18 poorest countries have had their national debt cancelled. There are more than 40 still waiting.
Annual development aid will be increased by $25 billion by 2010 (as part of an overall increase of $50 billion for all developing countries) - more than doubling the 2004 level.
There will be universal access to anti-HIV/Aids drugs by 2010.
Funding to eradicate Polio.
To reach 85% of people vulnerable to malaria with drugs and bed-nets, with a view to saving 600,000 children's lives each year.
75,000 African Union troops (including the 20,000-strong AU Stand-By Force) will be trained and equipped to help prevent and resolve conflict and war.

Climate-Change:

To promote energy efficiency and to finance clean technologies - coal, diesel and methane, renewable energy, bioenergy and more efficient power grids.
To promote the research and development of hydrogen-powered vehicles that emit water rather than harmful fumes.
Not much else.

Peace In The Middle East:

Support for the Quartet Special Envoy for Gaza Disengagement, James Wolfensohn, regarding the Israeli withdrawal from Gaza and parts of the West Bank.
$3 billion agreed for the Palestinian Authority for investment in infrastructure with contributions over the next 3 years to help build the economy.
A pledge of support for the newly-elected democratic government of Lebanon and urging the withdrawal of Syrian forces there.

So, some promising results have come out of last month's summit, but behind the posturing pop stars and their politician pals' spiel, we need to see some real results. There is certainly a lot more that could have been done.
This year alone, we have seen genocide in Darfur, western Sudan, where the civil-war is ongoing. We have watched all-too-familiar images of famine in Niger which the west knew was coming - there were appeals for food as far back as last November. We have witnessed the demolition of shantytowns in Zimbabwe, rendering 700,000 people homeless, under the orders of dictator Robert Mugabe.
This is while Africa is top of the G8 agenda.

We are now seeing progress in Israel with the dismantling of Jewish settlements, which must be incredibly difficult for all concerned - with Israeli removing Israeli - but this is a huge step forward for the Middle East and they should be commended for their actions.

As for global warming, Mr Bush has refused to budge, having been handed the Kyoto Agreement and blowing his nose with it. He has finally conceded that climate change does exist, and is a genuine problem caused by human activity though, so there is hope for further progress when the G8 meet again in November...

We shall see.

Is it hot in here or is it me? Sneeze.

* http://www.werenotafraid.com/ is essential viewing.

The Roadmender: Beyond Repair?

2009-02-03T16:25:00.000-08:00

On the evening of November 10, more than 150 people congregated at The Roadmender for a public meeting to discuss the venue's future. Tellingly, not one single member of the Conservative County Council cabinet, those responsible for the outcome, could be bothered to turn up.

Despite having the clout of showbiz radio-types Jo Whiley and Andrew Collins, who put their names to the Save Our Roadmender petition, alongside six and a half thousand other of us more lowly music fans (and regular venue users), on Monday, November 14, the cabinet voted to withdraw its funding from early next year.

The Roadmender was receiving around £140,000 from local council grants - £58,230 of which came from Northampton County Council annually. In April this year, the East Midlands Arts Council announced that it was withdrawing its funding which accounted for %40 of the venue's grant income. This becomes effective as of April 2006, which means that The Roadmender will probably have to close its doors for the last time before Christmas. Seasons' greetings to the town's youth from a contemptuous council.

A recommendation was made to cabinet for the council to end its financial commitment to the venue and work alongside trustees to help secure grants and sponsorship from other organisations.

Does this strike anyone else as being a little like stealing a kid's BMX and then offering him/her to hop onto their own stunt-pegs for a trundle down to the local Halfords? Sheesh.

Cabinet member for Community Services, Councillor Rosemary Bromwich has stated that, '..all our investigations and debates come back to the same point - this money would be better invested in other cultural activities and projects for young people.'

As for which ones? Hmm?

A beach at Sixfields? Maybe a simulated lunar surface in Jimmy's End? Well, you try and find out. She also cites other problems with the venue: poor pedestrian access, lack of parking availability, safety issues due to its location next to a dual-carriageway, etc. Now I genuinally don't want to be a pedant but these objections just don't stand up to close scrutiny.

Since when did a 5 minute walk from the town centre constitute poor pedestrian access or is there a pool of quicksand somewhere along the journey that I've somehow overlooked? Are there wild beasts to be dodged - lions, crocodiles, maybe even velociraptors?

A lack of parking availability? Forgive me, but is there not a council-owned, multi-storey carpark directly opposite the venue? It's the big, grey, oblong-shaped, tiered structure. You know, some kind of garagey, parking-lot type of affair.

I think it's called the Mayorhold. I assume there's no way that council departments can work together to solve this tricky strategic problem? Besides, the kids who attend the alcohol-free nights at The Roadmender don't drive there. They get dropped off by their parents.

The venue is also located next to a duel-carriageway. By sheer coincidence it is also sited directly adjacent to a pedestrian-crossing that traverses said dragster-alley. This 'duel-carriageway' is in the middle of the town centre and with the sheer profusion of traffic lights, the labyrinthine one-way system and spawning speed cameras every 100 metres it seems unlikely that Doc Emmet Brown and Marty McFly would have selected it to pick up the required speed of 88mph needed to coincide with a bolt of lightning due to strike the wonky weather vane atop of Northampton's Best Kebab House at the bottom of Gold Street on the morning of Friday, October 25, 1985.

1.21 Gigawatts? Great Scott!

Jon Gloerson, interim Chief Executive of The Roadmender says they are repaying their debts on time and that the balance is rapidly decreasing. They are in the middle of a turn-around operation where trading deficits have been reduced by £60,000 from 2002/03 to 2003/04. He goes on to say that in 2004/05, The Roadmender broke even and the financial projections for 2005/06 point to the accumulation of a surplus which would help to alleviate the Arts Council funding shortfall.

The council isn't interested.

Mr Gloerson also says that they have been approached by a number of possible new partners. Let's hope so.

There's a venue in Harlow, Essex called The Square which is funded by Essex County Council and managed by Essex Youth Service through its Harlow Locality. They have seen the likes of Blur and The Beta Band put on performances there, just as we have at The Roadmender. The Square has an extensive programme of live-performances, video and recording facilities, and a Rock School among many other ongoing projects. They receive funding from the Arts Council (East), the regional Arts Lottery Programme and the European Social Fund.

Sadly, what's good enough for the youth of Harlow isn't good enough for the youth of Northampton.

Do you know how much 45 minutes of Mr Droning Keating cost our council at this year's Balloon Festival?

Trust me, you don't want to.

Why there's No Excuse for not Voting

2009-01-15T16:04:00.000-08:00

So, once again the time to decide is almost upon us. No, not who you want to win Strictly Dance Fever (although it is hotting up quite nicely I must confess), but which political party we will entrust with the reins of power in the forthcoming General Election. I'll forgive you for thinking, 'Who cares? They're all the same,' but it is this general apathy that helps politicians to get away with bungling their way through their tenures without a large proportion of the population even realising how inept some of them really are. They bore people (particularly young eligible voters) to the point of distraction with confusing, mind-numbing facts, figures and (yawn) statistics. The Labour government was voted in at the last General Election by just 24% of the public, so their policies, by no means, represent the wants and needs of every person in society.

It is extremely important that the younger members of society get to the ballot boxes with pen in hand, as the 18-35ish age group are precisely the people who are not represented in the Houses of Parliament.

How can they be acting on our behalf when they they don't live as we live? The youngest Member of Parliament is Liberal Democrat Sarah Teather, MP for Brent East, who weighs in at a veritable spring-chickenlike 30 years old. So it's not surprising if you feel like you can't really identify with them. If the grey-vote provide the majority turnout then it is because they feel that the politicians share their vision of how this country should be. If a party wants to govern this country as though it was still the 1950s and that's just how you wished things still were, then you will go out and tick their box.

But hey, these are the noughties, this country has changed a great deal for the better, and for the worse, but to not vote in the election is to relinquish your right to complain about change not happening quickly enough.

On May 5, both County Council and Parliamentary elections will take place to select councillors and MPs. Tony Blair, who visited Northamptonshire back in February, cited the county as one of the major battlegrounds in the country because it contains some of the most marginal Labour-held seats.

So, who gets your vote?

I know, I'm as confused as most people. I suppose it comes down to policies, as none of the party leaders are particularly good-looking.

Here are some of the proposals about topical issues: Tax:

Labour has pledged to not raise income tax and promises tax-cuts for families. They haven't ruled out a rise in national insurance though.
The Conservatives promise £4bn worth of cuts, while the Lib Dems say that they won't have to cut taxes, but will create a 50% rate for earners of more than £100,000 per year.
The Green Party will make it a 60% rate for these earners. The rate currently stands at 40%.

Education:

Labour will cap university top-up fees, which they promised they wouldn't bring in at the last General Election, at £3,000.
The Conservatives will scrap university fees and instead charge interest on student loans. Lib Dem will cut class sizes to 20 and do away with uni tuition fees.

Health:

Labour offer more choice over hospitals, with waiting times at an 18-week maximum.
The Tories say they will crack down on MRSA, while the Lib Dems are offering free prescriptions and eye-tests.
The Green Party want to increase the NHS funding to around £90bn per year.

The Environment:

Is climate-change a bigger threat to us than international terrorism? With Labour currently chairing the G8, they will apply more pressure, internationally, on reducing CO2 emissions by 60% by 2050.
The Lib Dems will put a freeze on GM crops and want 20% of energy to come from renewable sources.
The Greens will replace VAT with eco-taxes, including a carbon tax, to penalise environmentally-unfriendly products like fossil fuels.

Civil Liberties:

Labour are in favour of bringing in ID cards to help combat international terrorism. Feel a little Orwellian? The Spanish have had ID cards for years but they didn't stop the Madrid bombers from slipping through the net. The Lib Dems will spend the ID card money on 10,000 more police officers.
The Conservatives want a reform of the asylum system and have certainly been trying to tap into this controversial issue. Are they trying to link asylum-seekers to terrorism? It's up to you to decide. None of the major parties have done anywhere near enough to clarify the difference between migrants and asylum-seekers, perhaps with the exception of Charles Kennedy, Lib Dems, who said that the country was 'richer and more vibrant,' precisely because it was a 'multi-racial, multi-ethnic society.'

Iraq:

One of the most emotive issues in this General Election. Do we trust Blair who has been proven to have taken our country to war, (the most extreme action that a government can take in your name, leading to the deaths of tens of thousands of Iraqi civilians and 87 British soldiers so far, plus thousands of others), under false pretences?
The Tories backed the war and the Lib Dems strongly opposed it.

There aren't just three choices either.

If you think the Green Party have got their priorities right, then vote for them. No vote is a wasted vote. Each one sends a message to Westminster - every vote counts.

Even ones for the strangely-orange xenophobe Robert Kilroy-Silk's Veritas party.
Er, actually, that might be a wasted vote. But the important thing is that on May 5, you get out and vote. It is worth keeping in mind, the men and women of Iraq, who braved the reality of suicide-bombers, and stood in queues for hours to make their voices heard in a democracy that we imposed on them. For us not to go to the polls would be criminal. The world has changed a great deal in the last four years.

Time to get off our arses.

The Operatives - 'Wait No More'

2009-01-07T18:15:00.000-08:00

Innovative and wildy-original new young band hailing from Kingsthorpe announce details of debut album Wait No More and live show. If anyone's going to put Northampton on the musical map, it's these sketchy fruits - they're a bit special.

The Operatives have been making ripples on the music scene in Northampton for a few months now, but up until recently had remained something of an enigma. There was the odd magazine article about them and every now and again a song would surface on one band/music website or another, offering a real tempting-taster for anyone who was lucky enough to stumble across them, but they weren't playing all the usual pubs and venues on the live-circuit, so this elusiveness only added to the mystique. This, apparently, is all about to change. They are ready to make a belly-splash landing with the release of their debut album Wait No More and have just announced details of their first(ish) live gig at the refurbished Rockinghorse (back room of The Racehorse) on Abington Square in early February.

The Operatives are the twisted brainchild of Matt White and Ali Hart, two abundantly talented multi-instrumentalists from the 'orpe - I'll resist emphasising the 'mentalists part... Shit, I just did. They are both in their early 20s and have been been writing and playing together in various bands for over 6 years before settling into their current guise. Their prolific writing style has seen them pen over 200 songs, 14 of which make the final cut of the album. The live-incarnation of The Operatives features Jason Ducker on bass, Max Read on keyboards and David Storey on drums.

At the tail-end of last year, The Operatives were nominated in 2 categories at the BBC Weekender Awards for Best New Act and Best Song (for Giro Day); they were inventively described as being unpigeonholeable - hey it's a new genre.

Album tracks Vuman, Giro Day and Vultures have all been aired on BBC Radio Northampton's Weekender show in recent months and can be listened to again online at
www.bbc.co.uk/northamptonshire.

You can also check them out on the highly-respected www.garageband.com, where rising musicians get feedback and exposure for their material. Songs posted on the site are given a star-rating out of 5 by empowered, independent musicians/music lovers, and Giro Day gained an impressive 4-stars from a notoriously-tough, anonymous reviewing-rabble. The band can also be found online at www.myspace.com/operatives where you can listen to, and comment on songs, or make a friend request to be on their buddy list.

Working under the wing of BandTherapy Management, The Operatives have recently finished recording their eagerly-awaited debut 14-track long-player called Wait No More and it's bursting with joy.

It was produced and engineered at The Lodge Recording Studio by Max Read and the band themselves, and is an outrageously, infectious trip through Matt and Ali's warped musical minds - with the blackest of humour skipping happily throughout its 45-minute duration. At times sounding unhinged, the vocal-harmonising ranges from bright and brash falsetto to the darkest, most satisfying of growls. There are sweet-mangled melodies, killer chainsaw-riffs and pulsating drums that drive the songs precariously along a cliff-edge, occasionally veering off, only to land on a lower ledge (platform-game style) with a trail snaking back to the top again.

And higher.

There are laugh-out-loud lyrical exchanges between Matt and Ali that are always the right side of novelty and their versatility and technical skills seem effortless; the tempo-changes deliciously unexpected.

The songwriting is incredibly accomplished, beautifully contorted and peppered with the most addictive of ingredients.

At this moment in time, The Operatives are the most exciting band in town and are surely destined for bigger things...

It's time to put the vibrant Northampton scene on the melodious map and no other band are more obvious pioneers.

The Operatives have also announced that they will be playing their 'debut' gig on the opening night of BandTherapy's brand new live-music extravaganza, Operation Thursday on February 2, at the newly-renovated Rockinghorse. The line-up also includes, The Retro Spankees, The Phil Collins 3 and Faye Gibson. Doors open at 8pm. Admission £4. It will at last give music fans the chance to check out BandTherapy's Robert John Godfrey and Max Reads' interior-decorating skills, but more importantly, the brand new, state-of-the-art PA and lighting facilities. The Rockinghorse has been transformed into one of Northampton's premier music venues that will be to the benefit of all who play there in the future.
http://www.myspace.com/operatives

Up in Smoke?

2009-01-02T19:55:00.000-08:00

From Puff the Magic Dragon to Puff Daddy, it seems that smoking, despite the clear health risks, is as popular today as it's ever been. Whether your tabs are just something to draw shapes in the air with when you're shakin' your stuff on the dancefloor or a device to add extra emphasis to your gesticulations and dramatic pauses, it seems that smoking is here to stay. But should we have to inhale other people's second-hand Richmond Superkings' smog whenever we go out for a drink or some grub? According to Liberal Democrat Lord Avebury, around 4,800 people die each year as a result of passive smoking.

The goverment's recent White Paper on Public Health plans to make most enclosed public areas, including offices and factories, smoke-free zones. The Department of Health received an unprecedented one thousand submissions from individuals regarding the paper. It will only be private members' clubs (where votes will decide) and pubs (which do not serve prepared food) that will not have to adhere to the new laws. This means up to 90% of bars will become smoke-free within the next few years. The restrictions will come into force in NHS and goverment buildings by 2006, with public places following suit in 2007, and licensed premises the year after that. Whether the government will eventually be willing to follow their Irish counterparts by enforcing an outright nationwide ban on smoking in all pubs, restaurants and workplaces, as the British Medical Association would like, remains to be seen. As the law currently stands in Ireland, pub and restaurant owners face fines of up to £2,000 if punters are caught puffing on the premises. It seems that due to the pragmatic nature of the Irish, the ban has been declared a success, even leading to a fall in the sale of cigarettes. But can it work here?

JD Wetherspoon has announced plans to ban smoking in all of its 650 pubs by May 2006; two years before government laws come into action. The company, which pioneered no-smoking areas, has said that 60 of its pubs will become smoke-free zones in May of this year, amid worries that smoky pubs are deterring customers.

Smoking in public places isn't just a concern for us Brits. Bans have been introduced in a wide range of different countries across the world, from Australia to Tanzania.

In Oz, sparking up a fag after surfing on Manly Beach, one of the most picturesque stretches of coastline down under, will result in a hefty fine.

Sound harsh? Then try lighting up in the remote Himalayan kingdom of Bhutan, where they have introduced a total ban on tobacco sales. The penalties imposed on hotels, bars and restaurants is the loss of their business licenses and heavy fines. Could Bhutan become the world's first smoke-free nation?

In Cuba, the home of the cigar, their chuffing dictator Fidel Castro can't even blaze-up in a restaurant in his own capital without having to cough up some pesos for the fine he'd be subsequently slapped with. You're Havana laugh, (apologies).

So smokers are being marginalised the world over: some say demonised. Pro-smoking campaigners have suggested that businesses should be allowed to choose their own policy to suit customers and staff, for what is a perfectly legal habit that brings in millions of pounds to the treasury each year. Are smokers being treated like snoutcasts? Fag lepers? Should they ring bells to warn of their coming? Well, maybe not quite yet.

It seems things aren't as cut and dried as they first appear with regards to people's tolerance of smoking bans. Caterer & Hotelkeeper magazine recently reported that a pub landlord had lifted a smoking ban at The Junction Inn in Groombridge, Kent after sales plummeted by 'thousands of pints' during the 6 months of fume-free fun. Although food sales improved during the ban, they met only half of the loss in beer sales, which, over a 3-month period was equivalent to 100 barrels. The landlord said that said that the village regulars had felt alienated by the ban and had voted with their feet, but were now coming back and pushing sales up drastically.

So it can be difficult to gauge public opinion on this divisive issue. Ultimately, there is no way that non-smokers should be forced to breathe in other people's smoke against their wishes. No-smoking areas are not satisfactory - smoke is a feral beast, seemingly oblivious or ignorant to No Smoking signs, rendering them almost pointless.

Smoking is without doubt a killer. However, on the flip-side, the pro-smoking lobby isn't just made up of hardliners who think that Nicorette patches are for people who are too scared to smoke proper tabs. A great proportion of them would love to kick the habit, but you know, smokes just go so well with beer.

So we need a climate of tolerance and choice. If you don't want to breathe in smoke, you shouldn't have to. If you do, then you should be able to.

Why not smoking pubs and non-smoking pubs? Then we can make our own choice of where we work, eat or drink. Not all non-smokers object to the evil vapour. Not all smokers insist on sucking the twisted mist constantly. In a democracy, where minorities are supposed to be represented, we should all have the choice...

Er, anyone got a light?

Do we need Trident?

2009-01-01T17:24:00.000-08:00

"We don't need dangerous and costly Trident and cruise missiles," he stated back in 1983. The following year he called them,"...unacceptable, expensive, economically wasteful and militarily unsound."

Who did, you might be asking yourself?

Well surprisingly, these were the words of Tony Blair twenty three years before his decision to rush plans through parliament to update Britain's Trident missile-carrying nuclear submarines at an initial cost of £20 billion before he finally leaves office. The fleet will take an estimated seventeen years to develop and build and its shelf-life will run only until 2050. The final cost to the tax-payer looks set to run to over £70 billion. This is a programme that is fully supported by Prime Minister in-waiting Gordon Brown. The 160 warheads will have the combined power of 1,280 Hiroshimas - just one warhead that killed over 80,000 people in a single Japanese city in 1945. More than 90 Labour MPs voted against the proposed upgrade and the vote only succeeded with the support of the Conservative Party.

In 1968 the Non-Proliferation Treaty was opened for signature with the object of preventing the the spread of nuclear weapons technology, and to promote the peaceful use of nuclear energy; its ongoing goal being complete nuclear disarmament. The Treaty entered into force in 1970 and 188 parties have now joined, including five nuclear powers - United States, United Kingdom, France, Russia and China. The Treaty is legally binding on all states that are parties to it. Pakistan, India and Israel (all nuclear powers) have neither signed nor ratified the Treaty while North Korea withdrew in 2003.

Prime Minister Blair has said that Trident is the country's "ultimate insurance" against the return of a threat from a major nuclear power or against the new threat from rogue states such as Iran or North Korea who might support nuclear terrorism. He went on to say that Trident would only be used in self-defence.

So are the government behaving illegally? Well this is a matter that is still up for debate. Critics argue that the agreement between the UK and the US is a contravention of NPT rules as the transfer of nuclear weapons between states is not permitted. The goverment claims that only technology is being transferred and therefore the NPT is not being broken. It is illegal under the NPT to use a weapon which cannot discriminate between civilians and militants. Does this mean Trident breaches humanitarian law?

It seems that the only way to make a decision on which side of the debate to stand depends on a moral and ethical judgement as to whether you think that the money is being spent wisely in a post-Cold War world where the threats facing the UK as a nation have transformed dramatically.

Protestors involved with Faslane 365 calling themselves No Nukes Northants know exactly which side of the divide they fall. Evoking the spirit of the Women For Life On Earth, who, in September 1981, marched from Cardiff to RAF Greenham Common Airbase in Berkshire to challenge, through debate, the decision to site 96 cruise missiles there. On arrival, their request for a debate was ignored and they set up the Women's Peace Camp and so began a most audacious and lengthy protest that lasted for 19 years.

On October 1, 2006, Faslane 365 began what is to be a one year continuous blockade of the Faslane Naval Base. The blockade will run until September 30 this year and Faslane 365 are asking a wide range of local, national and even international people from all sections of civil society to assemble at the base with a commitment to staying for at least two days to make their concept for a peaceful future visible, and to aid the idea to demonstrate/block the base all year round. Faslane 365 staunchly promote non-violent protest and absolute respect for the opponent and everyone invovled. They undergo preparation and training to make sure they meet these ends.

On April 2, a number of No Nukes Northants protestors from across the county joined the '365 protestors and held their first in a number of peaceful demonstrations at Faslane Naval Base, situated on the Gare Loch; extending northwards from the Firth of Clyde in Scotland. The NNN protestors ranged in age from 14-50 and took the marathon journey to the base to convene with other protestors (including Northampton Action For Peace) armed with banners, scripts and musical instruments.

First day festivities from the Northants party included a performance of their play, 'Anti-Nuclear Monologues' which was written especially for the occasion. It follows the personal history of four of the protestors from the Aldermaston marches in the 1950s via Greenham Common to the present-day remonstrations. They also read poems about peace, held a Ceilidh (Gaelic gathering) and sang peace songs while sporting a rather fetching array of slogan-splashed pants. As in Y-fronts.

According to NNN's Chris Lowe:

"I think one of the major problems with this government is that they think they can do as they please without the consent of the people of this country. Now is the time to say no, this is not what we want. We don't want to send out a message of war against other nations, we want to send a message of peace, this is how we can best assure a safe and stable future for everyone."

For further reading:

Trident On Trial by Angie Zelter, or visit:

www.myspace.com/nonukesnorthants
http://www.faslane365.org/
http://www.actionforpeace.org.uk/

The Bombs and the Backlash 07/05

2008-12-29T00:41:00.000-08:00

And so the inevitable happened. On the morning of July 7, as rush-hour commuters headed to work in the sunshine, London was hit by a series of simultaneous bomb blasts on the underground (and another shortly afterwards on a bus), killing 55 and injuring hundreds more, with the death-toll looking likely to rise. Al-Qa'ida had brought their bloody terrorist campaign to the heart of the nation's capital. The murder was indiscriminate, the victims arbitrary - colour or religion unimportant.

London had been in euphoric mood before the attacks, having staged the impressive Live8 concert, and just the day before, having been awarded the 2012 Olympics. This had no bearing on the timing of the bombings though. With Tony Blair currently chairing the G8 summit in Scotland, world-leaders including Bush, Chirac and Putin all on British soil, the eyes of the world were already watching us. This is what makes it hard to understand why the security-alert level wasn't at its highest - with so many powerful politicians here and countless police officers north of the border in Gleneagles.

So why are we a target?

We had been told it was not if but when we would be hit and apparently there is absolutely nothing we can do to stop this. Blair has also claimed that the attacks have nothing to do with the war in Iraq. This is a display of breathtaking arrogance. When you declare an unprecedented pre-emptive war on an Islamic nation there are surely going to be factions that fight back. This is the nature of war. It is a two or more-sided grisly affair. After the London bombs, Blair has said that the killing of innocent civilians is 'totally unacceptable', yet under his (and Bush's) orders, nearly 100,000 innocent civilians have been killed in Iraq. Over there they are regarded as 'collateral damage'.

Iraq is the new breeding ground for 'Islamic' extremists and Mr Bush and Mr Blair have given them their cause. The continued killing of Muslim civilians (not only in Iraq) gives al-Qa'ida the potential, which is rising exponentially, for the recruitment of operatives. The extremists are of course completely un-Islamic and to give them a title pertaining to Islam is unfair to Muslims everywhere.

The backlash has already begun with mosques in Leeds, Birkenhead and Bristol being subjected to arson attacks by right-wing groups. The Muslim community should no more be under suspicion for the atrocities in London than the indiginous-white, heterosexual population were in 1999 when right-wing extremist David Copeland was placing nail-bombs in Soho, Brixton and Brick Lane, targeting ethnic minorities and homosexuals. The Muslim community at large have no more influence over the radical extremists than I do over the activities of Combat 18 and their political wing The British National Party. These attacks were an attempt to cause suspicion and mistrust - to divide people. They have sectarian violence in their plans. It is wrong to say that to be critical of the war in Iraq is to legitimise al-Qa'ida's agenda. It has gone beyond that now. We have seen bloodshed on the streets of London, suicide-bombers committing cold-blooded murder that was previously confined to places like Jerusalem, Grozny, Bali or Beslan.

Clearly the War on Terror isn't working. We need to look at our alignment with US foreign policy. We need to address the issue of the withdrawal of Israeli settlements in Gaza with more veracity.

The problems are multi-faceted. They need to be tackled at the root-causes. These suicide-bombers were homegrown. We need to address the poverty and social deprivation of a large majority of the young British Muslim population - the disaffected youth who are vulnerable to being coerced into committing atrocities in the name of a twisted version of the Koran by nihilistic criminals with promises of being martyred for the worldwide jihad, thereby cementing their place in history.

Londoners have of course reacted with bravery and dignity.

Did the cowards of al-Qa'ida really expect anything else?

Northern Ireland: A Very Concise History

2008-12-28T22:15:00.000-08:00

Following Northern Ireland's shock 1-0 victory over a lacklustre England side in a World Cup qualifier at Windsor Park on September 7 (their first against the old enemy since 1972) it was easy to imagine a jubilant mood that would sweep through the province uniting people, regardless of religion.

This of course did not transpire, when on Saturday 10, the people of Belfast witnessed rioting, involving gun and grenade attacks, that went on until the following Tuesday. During this time, more than sixty police officers and several dozens of civilians were wounded. The trouble began when the British authorities refused to allow a Protestant march to walk along the edge of west Belfast, a Catholic area.

There are still deep divisions among the people of Northern Ireland, but where did it all begin?

During the reign of Henry VIII (1509-1549) Catholic Ireland was brought under the rule of Protestant England and so began the tensions that have existed to this day. Some fifty years later, with James I (1603-1625) perched on the throne, a Protestant majority was created in the north of the country, which still exists today.

Another fifty or so years later, Catholic James II (1685-1688) was to only briefly sport the shiny hat before being defeated at the Battle of the Boyne by Protestant William of Orange (1689-1702) and the Protestants again took control.

In 1920, The Government of Ireland Act decided to split the country in two due to the religious divisions, creating a predominantly Catholic south and a predominantly Protestant north.

In 1949, the south cut all ties with Britain and became the Republic of Ireland. The six counties that make up Northern Ireland - Antrim, Armagh, Down, Fermanagh, Londonderry and Tyrone - remained part of the United Kingdom. Unsurprisingly, not everyone was happy with this political and religious division, with the minority Catholic population in the north preferring to be part of a united Ireland, while the Protestants are staunchly determined to stay part of the UK.

This eventually led to the forming of paramilitary groups on both sides of the sectarian divide.

The period known as The Troubles refers to the last thirty-five years or so, beginning with the Civil Rights marches of the late 1960s up until 1998's Good Friday Agreement, which created a 108-member Assembly and 14-member executive body which represented both Catholics and Protestants.

Three months after the signing of the agreement, the worst single atrocity of The Troubles took place with the Omagh bombing which claimed the lives of 29 people.

With the IRA now deciding to lay down their arms and choose dialogue over bombs and bullets there is much more hope for the future of Northern Ireland, but these ceasefires are always uneasy.

Following the rioting in Belfast this September, which left police vehicles riddled with bullet-holes, the British Governer, Peter Hain has said that the outlawed Protestant group, 'The Ulster Volunteer Force' had effectively broken its ceasefire and that Britain no longer accepted it as valid.

So the undoing of centuries of animosity is not going to happen overnight, when not all paramilitary groups have laid down their weapons, murders and punishment beatings are still commonplace and there is a frightening rate of suicide by victimized teenagers. Since 1966 more than 3,500 people have been killed and over 36,000 injured.

When Mr Bush and Mr Blair have finished sorting out the sectarian violence, power-sharing issues and religious mistrust between the Sunnis and the Shias 2,500 miles away in Iraq, perhaps they could tidy things up here too?

Heaven For The Half-Pipes?

2008-12-28T18:56:00.000-08:00

On Sunday, October 10, twelve years of grinds, ollies, kick-flips and tail-slides were brought to an end with the closure of Radlands Skateboard Park, leaving hundreds of local extreme sport fanatics to find somewhere else to pull off their tricks. No easy stunt when you consider the legality of skateboarding, inline skating and BMXing in Northampton town centre.

Radlands was opened in November 1992 on Studland Road, Kingsthorpe Industrial Estate in a 10,000 square ft warehouse just a short bus ride or swift skate from town. It was at the heart of the British underground skateboarding scene and was the country's first indoor skate park to host internationally renowned events. Since its opening, more than a quarter of a million people have scaled the ramps, pipes, grind-boxes and wall rides.

Two weeks ago over a thousand of the baggy-jeaned brigade signed a petition that was presented to the council, showing their support for the reopening of the park. How many more people can we make room for outside Spinadisc? Radlands regular Will Marshall echoed the thoughts of many:

'Why close the skate park? Where else are we supposed to go? Skating's a way of life.'

All local political parties support the sentiments of the petition but cannot buy or manage the park under a council-run program. Councillor Anthony Wood, St David's Ward called for volunteers to form a committee to campaign for reopening and around twenty people put themselves forward, including Damien Ince (former centre manager whose dad originally opened the park twelve years ago). The group has now been properly established into key members (professionals of the Radlands community) to form a legitimate business plan.
They're calling themselves The Radlands Action Plan Comittee and are trying to find support, sponsorship and exposure from individuals and/or organisations to help get their community project up and running. We think that they deserve all the help they can get. They've shown a great enthusiasm and passion for their sport and provided a constructive and enjoyable refuge for people of all ages, but particularly for the kids who saw the park as a second home.

Speaking in The Herald & Post recently, Cllr Wood said:

'Things are definitely moving forward, we have got the guys from Enterprise Northamptonshire, who help with social projects, to help us,' adding, 'If it opens as a social enterprise we can make it so it becomes the centre of activity for young people in the town.'

The owners of the premises, WG Grose, who have been approached by a businessman expressing an interest in the building have put the sale on hold temporarily and the committee are currently holding disussions about the plans for a possible reopening. It is going to cost a vast amount of money to renovate the site into a warehouse (somewhere in the region of 50k) so the owners would like to see it reopened as a skate park.

I spoke to Jamie Brown, aka Crazylegs, a commitee member and former employee of Radlands to try and find out what progress was being made with the community members' scheme. He told me:

'Things are going okay but it can be difficult when we've all got full-time jobs to hold down as well. We need people to add comments to our online petition - particularly parents, so we've got hard copy evidence of thoughts and opinions. We are also looking for local donations to get the ball rolling in attracting corporate interest. We've got a very good business plan but it's just going to take some time and a bit of support.'

As skateboarding continues to grow in popularity and becomes a sport that is taken seriously by the British public, we are going to want to see homegrown world-class talent. It's moved on from the narrow, plastic boards with rusty wheels of the 80s you know? Check how we are currently represented in the world of tennis. This is surely due to a lack of free courts for the keen young tennis enthusiasts of the last few years who couldn't afford to pay high hourly rates and wear the appropriate footwear/whites/yawn to practise as much as they needed to. All sports should be available to the youth of our town to encourage kids to spend their time constructively and hone their talents and skills (and I don't mean on Tony Hawke's Underground - their thumbs are adept enough already).

So we need to provide a place for the skaters to go because they're not just going to pack their decks away and give up. They're going to use carparks and graveyards and Abington Street on Saturday afternoons. They need somewhere safe, supervised and appropriate to go. Somewhere designed for this purpose. Hmm? Now where could that be? They need your help.

Crazylegs:

'Radlands has played a huge part in the last decade for so many underprivileged kids and had a real positive effect on them. I wouldn't be where I am today without it.'

If you would like to find out more or have any ideas for sponsorship or fundraising then go to:

http://www.radlands.com/ or http://www.norfampton.com/.

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Unit's in the House: Twinfest, The Racehorse

2008-06-01T06:57:00.000-07:00

Occasionally an album lands on the desk in my office that changes everything… An album that substantiates my standing in this inexplicable universe - a soundtrack to the ups, the downs, the… er… middles? Songs that make you laugh, make you mosh, make you gurn. Songs that even make you weep with unbridled, euphoric joy. Sadly, there’s not really enough room for a desk in my office/bedroom, and Toploader haven’t released an album for a couple of years now, but I have just been handed (yeah thanks) the debut long-player by Northampton’s don’ttakeourselvestooseriouslybutthemusickicksarsemetalwarriors, PIG UNIT. It’s called ‘Unified’, and it’s a bit special.The guilty parties are: Benny “The Voice” Toledo – Lead Vocals; Boabus – Bass; Fist Of Legend – Drums; Floyd L Scaramanga – Guitars/Vocals; Man Wid Mission – Percussion; Professor Bustyaleep – Lead Vocals; Stedman Cool – Guitars. The artwork on the CD (executed by The Hand @ http://www.gadsby.demon.co.uk/) is sublime, but can the music live up to the drama of the Transformers-style, robot-primate being encircled by helicopters depicted on the front cover? Well…?

DIFFERENT WAYS OF SAYING 'AYE'

How many different ways are there of saying ‘aye’? From the opening wah-wah funk-rock riff of Unit’s In Da House, with its shout-along chorus, you’re in for fifty minutes of pure rock bliss - think Faith No More/Tenacious D, if they’d come from a proper town like Northampton, (which incidentally is a constant source of reference throughout their music). It’s really difficult to describe just how good this album is in such a short space. It’s obviously been lovingly crafted with impeccable attention to detail. The songs all stand out individually, with fantastic raps, riffs, harmonising and themes you’ve always wanted to hear put down on record. Just check Northampton Rocks or Beaver’s Mountain - civic pride has never felt so good, or so metal.

UGLY BEHIND

The CD was also accompanied by a flyer advertising ‘Twinfest 2005’, the town’s biggest free music festival, at which the ‘Unit were playing an evening slot on Saturday night in The Racehorse garden. The Northampton/Marburg musical venture has been a real cultural, artistic spectacle for the last two or three years and at around 7pm, I sat on a wall with St Michael’s car park looming, ugly behind me. The clouds were gathering above, the sky was foreboding, and a washout was looking like a possibility. Then the intro music began (something dodgy by Ozzy), the heavens brightened and the scene was set…

The band drop-kicked proceedings into action with a booty-beating rendition of Ape Shit, and there was a shift forward towards the stage from the partially inebriated punters. The timing was just right, with most of the audience not so spangled that they wouldn’t remember the gig, but squiffy enough to want the party atmosphere to begin. It most certainly did.

The band ripped it up. They were parading new drummer, Gumtree ‘From The Country’ van Drumtree, who provided a real fluidity to the rhythm section, (oh and some quality drum-faces to boot), along with Boabus’ hair-swinging, funk-driven bass lines. Floyd I and Stedmans' twin-guitar assault, was like watching two chainsaw maestros, bound wrist to wrist in combat, standing on a plank of worn wood, precariously balanced over a pool of quicksand. New lead-singer Rocky ‘Rock’ Rockwell’s performance was both energetic and powerful, and rapper Prof. Bustyaleep’s authentic Canadian/NN1 drawl, came across as authoritatively as one of Jose Maurinho’s half-time team talks, as he prowled the stage.

IRONIC FACIAL MASTURBATION

While radioactive-orange cider was quaffed from the Notorious B.E.Z.’s alfresco bar, and munchies chomped from Burgermeister, Mike Hogan’s tantalisingly, frikadellan-fumed Bavarian barbecue, (for the first time Subway felt the pinch), Pig Unit powered through a punchy, frenetic forty-five minutes of quality music. The between-song banter was hilarious and the crowd interaction was something to behold, with Rocky handing his mic to a member of the audience for a bit of free-styling that made Big Brother’s ‘Science’ seem like he’s got skills. Y’get me? They may be a local band, but they’re certainly not just for local people. The website is well worth checking out – it’s interactive and everything, (you can even download the album, play games and stuff).

Just go to http://www.pigunit.co.uk/. What else you got to do at school or work? They will also be playing at The Rockinghorse on July 15, along with Chimpanman, Orwell Music and Sheep Thieves. If I don’t see you there, you’d better have a pretty good excuse.

Interview with Gemma Hatfield - Guitarist With Punk Band Rotten Agenda

2008-05-31T13:17:00.000-07:00

With this issue being dedicated to the oft-cited (though rather questionably) deadlier of the species it seemed fitting to pogo into the testosterone-laced throngs of punk rock for an insight from one of its leading local female figures. Rotten Agenda, possibly Northampton’s most prolific gigging combo, are fronted by Jason, the wild-eyed personification of punk itself, whose bilious vocals are spat over the buzz-saw chops of guitarist Gemma Hatfield. Jim and newest recruit Amy Edwards take responsibility for the rhythm section.

The band formed over three years ago and having gone through a couple of line-up changes they’ve now got more than eighty gigs under their collective studded belt. Their first EP I Reject surfaced back in February ‘06 and was followed up in June ‘07 with long-player Everyday Insanity and Gemma has been at the epicentre of the storm since its raucous conception.

I asked her whether she finds the scene to be slightly, er, bloke-heavy:

‘I think the punk scene is very male-dominated but not because females are excluded, in fact I know a lot of male punk rockers that would welcome more females!’ This doesn’t hit me exactly like a bombshell but I do speculate about the primal instinctive elitism of man with tool in hand (as in guitar).

‘I’ve hardly had any bad comments about being a female guitarist, in fact I would say they’ve been way more positive than not. I don't aim to be a good female guitarist, I just aim to be a good guitarist. There have been females in the punk scene since the very beginning and it’s quite non-discriminatory. It just matters whether you’re into it for the right reasons.’

So what might those reasons be? Rotten Agenda have clear political overtones to the songs so is this something that you passionately subscribe to?

‘It’s all about the punk. I’ve been into it since I was 13, and I’m 23 this year, although my tastes have changed slightly from skater punk like NOFX and The Vandals to the more hardcore and political like The Varukers and Conflict. I have pretty strong political views, but at the moment I don't think any of the parties are better than the others. I think it’s important to keep racist parties like the BNP from controlling anything though. I love the music, but also the punk ethos, and sometimes I wonder why punk is in such a minority, it just makes so much sense to me. My views have got stronger and I have converted to vegetarianism in the last few years and love playing benefit gigs for good causes.’

Rotten Agenda have a new track Armed Response Unit which features on a compilation album to raise money for animal rights group SPEAK – details can be found at

www.myspace.com/compilationbenefitcd

So you’re a band with a conscience then?

‘Well, there are gigs like the one at Epic skate park in Birmingham - when we got there we realised it was a beer festival with 50 kegs of real ale and cider and they let us drink as much as we liked for free. We were there from 3pm until 4am!’

What have been the high points so far on the road apart from that one?

‘The great thing is being able to play benefit gigs to help raise a bit of money for some good causes. We have played gigs for the Hunt Sabs, Anti-Fascism, Vegan Prisoners, Sue Ryder, Childline, Oxfam, B*llox to Poverty and also played at a CND protest rally outside Aldermaston nuclear facility. Also, we’ve had the honour of playing with most of my favourite bands including Sick On The Bus, Subhumans, Contempt, GBH, Active Slaughter, Drongos For Europe, Police Bastard, Anti-Nowhere league, The Beat and many more.’

Did the recent closing of the Soundhaus fill you with inconsolable sadness after some great gigs/nights there, or are you happy to see it stand empty like a monolithic tombstone to the death of a scene that wasn’t really needed with the New Roadmender’s re-emergence from the ashes?

‘I was actually quite gutted to see it close down – it’s the end of an era. Although it wasn't somewhere I’d go to that often recently, I did when I was at college, and have also seen quite a lot of good bands there including Subhumans, Drongos For Europe, Anti-nowhere League, Therapy? and many more. It’s just another part of the alternative scene that’s now lost forever, and all to make room for luxury flats for the rich! I'm also not a massive fan of the Roadmender, I have seen a few good bands there including Hawkwind and Stiff Little Fingers but I do find the place quite expensive.’

Rotten Agenda’s new album is in the can as they say and should be snarling its way into your consciousness in the next month or two?

‘Hopefully, it’s actually all ready to go and we’ve had a friend hand-draw the artwork for us, so we just need a bit more cash in the band fund and we will be getting it printed. We also have the track Election Time on the Birmingham based compilation Angry Scenes which we should have copies to sell any time soon.’

Check

www.myspace/rottenagenda for more details.

Grrrl power.