The Secret Policeman’s Ball

Anybody know how the police enquiry is going into the death of Ian Tomlinson? no, me neither.

In a fine example of Independent Police Complaints Commission (IPCC) ‘kettling’, the story has dropped off the face of the newsdesk to be replaced by this months middle-class outrage – the MP’s expenses claims song and dance.

In short and for those unaware Ian Tomlinson is a high profile case of police brutality, and it’s what most of us don’t know that says as much about this story as what we know. Millwall fan, a shirt wearing one so OK so he’s not starting off on the best of terms. Back from the match then? on his way home from his job selling newspapers actually. Pissed, allegedly…well that bits unconfirmed but I’ve always wondered how they had the bollocks to stand there and bellow “Eeeevenyyyinngsnandddddard” to the passing world. Now I know. Anyway, where were we… pissed, Millwall, oh yeah, cops.

Not any old cops it would turn out, but London’s Territorial Support Group (TSG). The TSG are the ones wheeled out to prevent football hooliganism, terrorism and public disorder, such as that at the G20 event (that honestly, probably didn’t contain any plain clothes police acting as agent provocateurs encouraging conflict at all – leave that to the real nutcase conspiracy theorists). They also, in alot of recorded cases, have their faces covered and swap their ID numbers around. (It’s also carry weapons and it’s technically illegal to photograph them, yet they stand there snapping anything that moves at a political gathering looking for ‘hooligans’).

Like filthy rich problem children, they run around giving it the larg one and when the shit hits the fan it’s down to well-connected Daddy to bail them out, in this case the IPCC to come in with it’s hand wringing and genuine, genuine anger, and nobody’s coming out of his room until they are very very sorry for what they have done… you leave it to me Officer, I’ll make sure he get’s the thrashing of his life, you mark my word…

So are the TSG all hooligans? Only if everybody on the G20 Demo was, so no. I don’t have a calculator to hand (fuck it, it’s nearby lets see how this works out). Well the TSG is made up of 720 officers. 6 of them, in 2003, kicked the shit out of a terrorism suspect Babar Ahmed. Percentages aren’t my strong point so I’ll let it lie but it’s less than 1%, and on top of that I don’t know where the statistics thing is heading. The same 6 cops were thought to be the subject of at least 60 complaints, The IPCC found all of them either non substantiated or had lost them (seriously) in the post. In 2009, Babar Ahmed was awarded £60,000 by the High Court for what was considered a “serious, gratitious and prolonged” attack on a suspect. 5 out of 6 of them still work for the TSG. Back to Ian: he was pushed to the ground, he certainly wasn’t fucking hurrying off to be fair, I’ve seen the video – the copper looked like he got pissed off with having to walk behind him and gave him a push… of which it is claimed by outraged civil rights defenders that he had some kind of heart malarkey and died. Prior to the video being released, several stories in the press
revealed how ‘police were pelted with cans and bottles which prevented them rushing to the aid of an onlooker, who then died of a suspected heart attack. Part of this is down to todays ‘Press Release’ style ‘journalism’ – the first police statement after the assault was:

A member of the public went to a police officer on a cordon in Birchin Lane, junction with Cornhill to say that there was a man who had collapsed round the corner.

That officer sent two police medics through the cordon line and into St Michaels Alley where they found a man who had stopped breathing. They called for LAS support at about 1930.

The officers gave him an initial check and cleared his airway before moving him back behind the cordon line to a clear area outside the Royal Exchange Building where they gave him CPR.

The officers took the decision to move him as during this time a number of missiles – believed to be bottles – were being thrown at them.

LAS took the man to hospital where he was pronounced dead. The Directorate of Professional Standards at both the MPS and City of London Police have been informed. The IPCC has been informed.

OK, so these get released by Authorities as 24 hour hot off the press ‘facts’ and some disappear into the ether with the other 165,000 new reports aired that day, some bits fly around the psyche of the 9 to 5 brain… (it looks fucking horrendous in America – I’d say I mean whichever bit you actually think I mean here, switch it off). So – bottles flying, brave police, the IPCC release a statement saying there is no CCTV footage… which it later turns out there is. Lets hope it turns out to be as conclusive as the video bedded in here,
given that we might get to see it in 5-8 years time after the enquiry has finished, the appeal has been made and the High Court end up lobbing some cash at the Tomlinson Family. This video is the same one the IPCC tried to get the Guardian to take off their website because it could ‘hinder their enquiries’, and in effect it was only due to the shit that this video caused was the City of London Police removed from managing what was basically their own enquiry.

Now, the incident above – imagining the same sort of thing happening to him five minutes earlier, with two baton stikes to the torso and leg. That’s the first incident eye witnesses are alleging. Was this the same officer? who knows. Either way the one who has been interviewed voluntarily on suspicion of manslaughter was signed off work sick the day after, while we await the outcome of the third post-mortem. Well I say we ‘await’ the outcome, I don’t, I’ve got a mile of MP’s expense claim forms to scan through and take the piss out of).

There’s people I know who aren’t worried about the police behaviour at all and actually support it – after all, why should they be worried? they don’t go around aggravating coppers, looking for fights or angrily shouting and protesting pointlessly about events that concern other people. This attitude, it’s comforting for them to know is probably right. This is from an interview here with an ex-officer:

I am not surprised at all by the tragic events that precipitated Ian Tomlinson’s death. If the officer who struck and then pushed Tomlinson is a member of the Territorial Support Group, he spends his days waiting for action, and far too many officers join seeking excitement and physical confrontation. Ex-forces officers are the worst bullies – the laws of the battlefield are not appropriate to the streets of our capital.

I most loathed the habit police officers have of dividing people up into scroats (those who have been in trouble before and anyone who associates with them) and those who deserve good manners. This is often a matter of postcodes, and certainly income-determined. My inspector once told a member of the public to “piss off”, then told me not to worry, as he would never be sober long enough to find a pen and a piece of paper. Innocent until proven guilty does not exist. I am certain that if Ian Tomlinson had been wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase, he would be alive today.

Though there have been more than 400 such deaths as Ian Tomlinson in the past ten years, no policeman has ever been convicted of murder or manslaughter for a death during or following police contact.

Fuck the calculator, I need a dictionary…

Five Alive

Our Lad

So the Jedi is now 5.

How things have changed from that April Saturday afternoon in Portsmouth 2004, the traffic clogged up to shite with me in the middle of it, the geezers and mushes in their motors click-clack wibbly-wobbly-lahhhvly-delerious after beating Man United 1-0 and seemingly being the only team that ever could, me behind the wheel puzzled as to who it was back in the hospital with our lass and as lovely as he was, was he meant to look like a baby turtle? what about the flaky skin, do newborns get flaky skin? Jesus, worse than that what if I drop him? I’ll never hear the end of that one. Shit, who is he? if he’s coming home with us he’ll need a name… Aisha is out of the window now (it always was said Tracy, it’s a black kid’s name, even though I was down with that). Nathan, Christ almighty that don’t fit; Leo? oh aye and have him opening my post and stuff, though I suppose I could open his… I needed to think fast before one of our lasses poncy English ones started taking root and if he want’s to be the county’s best badminton player fine but I aren’t going to make it easy for him. This is serious shit, there was also the call of 3 generations of Billy’s on Tracy’s side but luckily we weren’t in for 4. So ‘Beautiful Boy’ by John Lennon pops into my head on the drive home, the song ending with the words ‘darling Sean’ and the rest is history.

Fucking double ace, Aston Villa’s second best centre half of the 90’s and a personal hero of mine was Shaun Teale. Paul McGrath was technically the more gifted by far, an unbelieveable first touch and such a graceful leap but Teale was the one that could pull nails out of a wall with his teeth, and on the odd occasion McGrath struggled you got a John Wayne last-ditch match saving tackle. And he was a genuine fan and player’s player, having signed from non-League Weymouth late on in his career he enjoyed his footy like you or I would if we were fit enough and got to have a go at that level. So it was a yes from me – and luckily it needed no sell to Tracy, no talk of Lennon or the FA Cup 5th round – it was who he was and our Sean was home.

And as well as being a great Mum to him I thank her for letting him take my surname as well even though we weren’t married. That is a big thing and no matter what we go through that’s the real for richer-for-poorer till death do us part bond, we have a kid now. And no matter what happens we both got him and we love him the same, and looking at it now, having split up we’ll never really get on, but we’ll never really fall out either – all our best bits got sucked into the middle and we have to share. So Sean, for all your Jedi ways, for picking up the word ‘Dickhead’ at football at getting me a parenting ASBO off your Mum, for having a shit on the back of a boiling hot bus in Central China and getting us thrown off, for asking what we were getting Santa for Christmas when you were two, for chatting to two good looking lasses on a packed train over the seats behind us, asking them their names, where they were from and what jobs they had (honest to god), then turning around and saying ‘Hey Dad,come here. This is my Dad, Leo’ and making me look massively like I trained him in the black art of helping me hit on women, for crying when the Uncle killed the Dad on Lion King and saying it was because you were so happy you had me…

Happy 5th Birthday Little Man, and thanks for keeping me young, all my bollockings and lectures come with honesty, humour and lots of love. xxx

Vampire Weekend

Our Dah and an old mate Dave Pearce came up to see us a bit ago and it was the best weekend I’ve had for a long while. It’s not right that you have to fit seeing your mates in such a small window of money and time off restrictions, though they might say otherwise. Darren’s Friday 2am arrival left me ’slightly tired’ for work the next day after catching up for a ‘while’, and since he told me at 8pm that night he was avoiding the morning traffic and coming up early, the haggling with Jamal left me with a ‘do what you think is fit’ conscience card and an agreed upon 10am start. Overnight some bastard had the office relocated to the bow of a fishing trawler, but thankfully if nothing else it was unusually quiet. Andy was surprised to see me in full stop as I think Jamal didn’t actually expect me in, but I could have misheard. As for my vision, after trying to read e-mails all morning in a hungover state I’m guessing that dyslexia is a bit like ecstasy without the wanting to hug everything…

After two hours of watching sentences on a flatscreen shag eachother silly I was a free man for the weekend and I got home to find that Our Dah appeciated his lie-in all the more for me having to get out of bed. He’s a nice lad but can be an annoying ponce, especially when you have a mashed head. Ten minutes of his theatrical ‘oh no you dooooon’t’ as I try to roll back into bed, reminding me of made-up shit from down South about having to get up while I didn’t rahrahrah and it was time to pick up Dave from the train station after his trip over from Nottingham.

Dave, or ‘Drac’ as he was then (due to teeth that with age and less imagination have lost their vampirical edge) and I have not seen each other for the best part of 20 years. He still had the same amount of hair (which is far more than can be said for me), though in fairness a massive pile of it had slipped onto his chin. It’s funny how time makes you wider but doesn’t change that bond with old friends, and for me it was great to be sat with two friends who knew so much about me, but different bits…and Phat Ant was yet to come. It was time to start sorting the evenings out, and knowing that Dave has a rich rock n’roll heritage (his band can be found here, clicky clicky) I thought it may be fair if we have a night at my favourite gig shack the Brudenell, after a nice meal at a Tone-recommended Red Chilli at the bottom end of Leeds. I suppose if I was to review it it’s the best Chinese in Leeds, and with four of you eating you can steal a bit of everything which makes it even better, so Tone: another gold star for Potato Boy.

The Brudenell was a top night out, by coincidence Dave had played there previously and knew the sound guy, who was; the best band of the night by general consensus (that ol’ fooker who knows everything and nothing), was the uke-rock acoustic happy-catchy jive boys Killing Fields of Ontario. The night kicked off with a two piece who looked all of twelve called Alt Track, and despite the upturned noses from my peers I really liked them. They’re young, got a bit of Lydon-Leftfield in them and it’s not easy to do politics without being condescending especially at 12, so fair play. It was mentioned (Our Dah I think) that they had a bit too much going on bouncing from style-to-style mid-track which I agreed with but they reminded me of Senser from back in the day. Arthur Rigby and the Baskervilles were for me like a stage school Smiths, not really my mug o’wesh but the General liked ‘em. For me, you can write big words down all you like but I get unnerved when I hear them being sung, especially with such marvellous clarity. Especially when I am very pissed, which is maybe why I cant remember much of the last act Yonderboy. They were alright but I’m sure there are plenty of bands just like them, I just don’t get out enough.

Saturday night saw us at the O2 Academy in Leeds; we went out late, and stayed out late, and Leeds is the kind of place to do it in. The Academy was about as good a compromise between rock and minimal techno as we were going to find, and it allowed me to bounce around looking at lasers without straying too far, which given my last episode when Anna and Lisa were in town is no bad thing.

My head has just about freed itself of a Drac-delivered tune and having stripped his i-pod bare I now have a fine rock catalogue old and new, but the official ‘only tune in the world’ for a full 4 days was ‘Roscoe’ by Midlake. When payday comes I think I’m going to upgrade this blog and whack it on a Teenage Kicks type autoplay back to back.

Have a listen, see what you think – and while you are at it watch some big shit being built.

Judging by it’s cover, it’s Fred and Rose

I’ve spent the last handful of blog opportunities I’ve had doing something else and I’m determined not to let this one slip though the net even though I can’t find much motivation to write. In essence the subjects are there, but I’m not too sure that writing about some of them is a good idea – my job for one should really be kept off the front pages. Posting stuff that happens weekdays 9 to 5 isn’t going to count as continuous professional development.

I could try writing about politics, but it is something I have taken a mental battering with lately, my political confidence is shot to bits for some reason and I have retreated from activity with the Socialist Workers Party more or less fully at the moment. I think in order to give my thoughts a fair crack at laying themselves on paper I’ll dedicate a full post to the topic another time.

I could slot a post in about Darren and Dave’s visit, which was totally great but I want to do it proper justice. I’ll do that with a photo tomorrow (ish) as I’m tired now. So I guess it’s just a quick round-up of the latest news headlines:

er, the new Lee Martin

Aston Villa played well but still lost against Manchester United 3-2 would you believe it to some young kid who you just knew was going to score. Any Villa fan knows that if there’s a script to be had we won’t spoil your party. 6th place is looking very likely to me the way we’re going.

The G20 Summit came to London, one or two coppers lost it, which I’m sure we’ll hear much more of up to a point/celebrity death/cocaine confession/whichever the greater, and no-one from the ruling class has a clue on what to do next regarding the financial crisis. As far as I can understand, they met for photos for three hours, chatted for one and a half and released a piss poor statement that no-one is going to give a flying fuck about in a few weeks time.

OK hands up, it might be I say that because I haven’t thoroughly read it – there was something about trebling the IMF kitty to £750bn and doing all they can to ‘restore credit’ (like its absolutely fuck all to do with the credit system as to why we’re in this mess). Besides, they should find their own fucking money to lend instead of borrowing it off normal people, so they can lend it to businesses, so they can afford to employ people who earn the money to pay it back to the fuckers who borrowed it off them in the first place; the best swindles are the simple ones.

I’m really busy reading at the moment. They are all good books but I can’t get into two of them as much as I would like at the moment – ‘Teacher Man’ by Frank McCourt and one on Lenin by Tony Cliff; The promising one is ‘The Kite Runner’ by Khaled Hosseini.

The HSBC have sold a £6k loan I owe to a firm of sharks even though I am currently paying this off through another firm already. Unsurprisingly no-one from HSBC has a fucking scooby and I’m sure, being the conspiracy theorist that I am, that it is all deliberate, especially when I went into the bank and they made some barbed comment about my old business owing them some coin. I just hate the amount of paperwork this shit generates, or more accurately is going to generate once I acknowledge my existence in writing and the said forwarding address…banks, bastards the lot of them. I had loads of money once, now I don’t and unlike them I don’t go bullying people into giving me little bits here and there from three years ago, frankly it’s childish and pointless. HSBC – see my finger.

Are you sure?

I’ve just realised how much I love ‘nice’ books, having just finished reading ‘Salmon Fishing in the Yemen’ by Paul Torday. It was like one of those whizzy TV-show moments of realisation as the titles came flooding back – Shadow of the Wind, The Book Thief, The Lovely Bones, White Teeth, the Jane Austen Book Club, Digging to America…they might all have pretty looking calligraphy and nice watercolour covers, but these innocent-looking paperbacks are the heinous bastards that keep me up all hours. It’s not the informative, the thrilling or fascinating, it’s all the fancy-stickered stuff pushed by the cerebral crack den that is Richard and Judy’s book club. They might wear loads of make up, say inappropriate things and secretly hate each other but fook me can they spot a book. Richard and Judy: 5/5

When Saturday comes pt. II

It’s my first ‘day’ post – a Saturday, and for the first time for a long time (which given the state of my memory might not be that long) I don’t have anything of consequence to do.

That’s not to demean the backlog of housework that has turned my house into a fucking bombsite, it’s just that I am sat up in bed, text-moaning to various about whether to go to Whitby later (as a journey I know it costs from Leeds a good £1 a mile, excluding petrol/including vodka).

It’s Mothers Day on Sunday which would be a good reason to go I suppose. Being a father means double the shit I’m in for forgetting a card for Sean’s Mum as well, who has retained Sean this weekend in order for him to perform his duties. Just for the record, and now my Mam’s got the t’interweb (she will find this eventually), my Mam never gives me shit – I get the double off the other one.

It’s not only my first day post but it’s my first post for a while, having had my web connections cut off for dodging the various warnings flying around. It also made me realise that there’s plenty of shit I can’t write about. This is nothing to do with freedom of speech laws, more a freedom not to be a total fucking idiot personal bye-law (which is only applicable in certain states). So I guess rightly or otherwise at least I’m skint for a good reason. So, barring this one late night epiphany which has meant eight days of me not being me and wearing suits and 8.30 to 8.45am starts at work (the me kept Fridays as a concession) we’ll call the last two weeks a bit of a non-entity and move on. That should stop me rambling on, it’s light outside and I’m far less likely to sprinkle useless diatribe (fucking hell apart from that) when the weathers good, the phone keeps going off, I have a DJ software package to install, a Mam to potentially visit and my stairs and lounge are a total mess. The absolute ideal time for me is 1.45 am, my world is dead silent, my politics and work occupy the same space and quietly they try and push each other off the cliff. I guess this blog is that shoe found on the beach the morning after, so if anyone knows who it belongs to let me know.

“I ain’t gonna diss you on the internet, ‘cos my Momma taught me better than that”

Beyonce Knowles, Philosopher 1981 – present

And as the morning has now morphed into the afternoon, I spare my last online thought for Darren, who is coming from Portsmouth to see me next weekend – I appreciate the reply to the post ‘Hunger’, I left your text completely unmoderated as I would like people to see what happens when you fuck with food. On the basis of what you have written I don’t know you, possibly have never known you, that’s not to say I don’t like you it’s just maybe I need to take a step back and really try and look at the wiring under your board. This weekend will be good, and it will give me the chance to catch up and try to help nuture back to full health a man who is scarred by the chemical irregularities of food experimentation. The first step is naturally my forgiveness, which he has in bundles. The second is my empathy, for which I need to figure out how to get into the mindset, frankly, of the human equivalent of a car covered with that chameleon paint stuff – generally speaking it’s usually only used on cars in good nick but it’s not everybody’s cup of tea; there’s a glorious uncultured beauty to it and, catch enough of a glimpse while it bombs noisily down the High Street 25mph over the limit – you can be looking at five different vehicles depending which day it is, and not see the same one for weeks.

Whichever Darren does turn up will be treated to a massive 48 hour having-it-large therapy session in Leeds which should I hope leave him feeling alot better. Get well soon mate.

Oh aye. Every little helps alright…

So, work being work, I visited a company (one of many recently) experiencing tough times. It’s my job to get them to use our security guards, make sure they are happy and from their point of view, provide a better service and value for money than what they are getting/paying for at the moment.

I’ve noticed the same thing with the companies we are targeting – they are losing workers and fast. Business has just dried up for alot of them. But worryingly it’s the same people who face immediate peril – those who probably need the money the most.

As part of our services we offer cleaners, and a few places, big fuckers with offices here there and everywhere – are cancelling their contracts with the facilities companies they’ve had scrubbing their offices and factories for years and giving the work to their own staff. Part of this is a drive to keep their own workforce employed, part of this is a drive to save money. I’ve seen firms who usually operate with a team of five in a department carry on doing the same work with a team of three and take on cleaning duties, I’ve seen people who’ve told me that they are on the same or more output/production in factories with 60% of the workforce. Another company makes components for the construction industry and are down to a three day week – basically, things are fucked.

On an appointment this week I was speaking to this nice bloke who (I’m guessing had the right political outlook, though as a salesman it’s not wise to try and find out), put his employers’ problems like this:

‘As a Company we are having a really hard time, some of these bigger ones are so aggresive. The people we do alot of work for recently got a call from [evil global supermarket chain] who basically said that they were getting £1.04 a pizza, all packed, finished, ready to go, no negotiations or anything. Take it or we will take all our business out of the door. Given the volume you can’t do anything but give in. Up until that phone call the price they paid was £1.89. What can you do?

We actually pay them to do some work. The way it’s structured, is that our raw material comes with a tarriff attached and the more material you use, the lower the tarriff. So if we don’t use certain amounts it can mean that we are faced with say a £60k loss instead of a £15k loss, so we just do it.

one of our competitors has just gone bust because they asked for more money from the bank, it basically had a full order book but because the bank didn’t like the risk involved in lending more money, it refused and called in the outstanding loan. This is a company going bust with a full order book! We picked up alot of work, as did a few of the other bigger firms, but now we are cutting prices in order to get the work and we all end up undercutting eachother to sell the product, it’s a vicious circle.

As a company we would have been far more profitable by being a quarter of the size we have become’.

Karl Marx

It’s amazing to think that Karl Marx explained and understood this cycle of production and destruction in 1848 through the Communist Manifesto. It’s a book that still resonates today. One of the points the Manifesto calls for is “Centralisation of credit in the hands of the State, by means of a national bank with State capital and an exclusive monopoly.”

The Communist Manifesto: A great book, enlightening views, and happy ending (eventually). 5/5

When Saturday comes

It’s been a busy weekend, having spent it with our lad. It dawned on me recently that I’ll be spending about 26 weekends this year at home and I don’t really give a shit, I can save money (or rather not spend it, there is a difference), catch up on Match of the Day and do some blog stuff. Catch up on sleep isn’t an option, for a few weekends now I’ve found myself in the strange position of waking up to the strange sensation of his forehead pressed against mine, silently staring down. I’m never sure how long he’s been there but it always makes me smile.

He got a right fucking bollocking this morning though, my insistence on drifting off back to sleep was met with some sinister mutterings about needing to practice his football, shortly before him standing over me and attempting a 40-yard crossfield pass with my head. He’s my son, it’s my blog and I’ll call him a dickhead if I want to. It was a good time to explain the yellow/red card system to him, by my estimation he was lucky for a yellow as a red would have seen the next 85 minutes with him watching proceedings from the stairs.

Naturally with it being a head injury I settled for a 20 minute lie-in treatment, which I deservedly achieved in peace.

His Saturday football session was cancelled so a Jedi expedition consisting of me, Sean and Imaginary Aidan (who gets the blame for quite alot of stuff, including initiating football training in my bedroom) did the park thing near my house. It was a decent but cold Saturday morning and its a massive park but not one kid in sight. It’s no Disneyland but you’d think someone would have been playing in there, it’s always the same when we go. Imaginary Aidan was in his element this time, given that the swing frame housed imaginary swings for him to play on which I imagine might have been left by Leeds City Council to satisfy all the other imaginary kids running amok.

After the park session we went and bummed around in the National Film and Media Museum in Bradford. We get to see a Dalek, an Oscar, watch an episode of Captain Scarlet in a mini-cinema, see televisions through the ages 60’s bubble ones, round mahogany wood cased ones – Seans favourite by far being a 36″ Samsung LCD flat screen; see the Playschool and Rainbow bunch and watch Sean piss about on a blue background CGI screen ‘doing’ the weather and invading Tubbyland and stuff.

Its all entertaining enough for free, as usual in these places they serve bland, inoffensive cod and chips and the like and whack the price on there but for £15 quid it kept us warm, I fancy going to a Bradford City game sometime but Sean says no way. Bradford looks like it’s got quite a few attractions and stuff but we’ll see, I have another 22 weekends of the year to fill with local knowledge, if anybody has any good ideas let me know, that one was a Phat Tony recommendation and it wasn’t bad at all…

Thinking about it that fits in nicely Tone, I’m reading a great book about a prickly and miserable 35 year old music freak with a love of records called High Fidelity by Nick Hornby; it’s not a new one, the film stars John Cusack and Jack Black and so far it’s a top read. I admit I twisted the synopsis a bit to fit my wit there Tone, he’s also quite likeable and can mix…

Geert Wilders’ head – half full or half empty?

I watched ‘Fitna’ over the weekend, just to see what all the fuss is with this Dutch Tory-boy Geert Wilders. There’s plenty of conclusions to draw from it, one of them being that there’s plenty of dislike in the world. Understatement of the fucking year I’m sure, but I’m similarly sure that there is dislike and resentment on all sides of any racial and religious arguments. But exactly how big are these sides? Geert Wilders dislikes Islam for his own, well documented reasons, with it being such a fascist faith and so on and the fact that all Islamists are out to take over our way of life and destroy freedom of speech.

A dirty animal, according to some

Well I think that Geert is a fucking prick, a big fucking prick with a death-wish and a bit of a drain on the Dutch taxpayers resources myself. Without wishing to be discriminatory here, anybody who wants to take over ‘our’ way of life (which I can only describe as making what ‘we’ have now shitter) and destroy our freedom of speech is a big fucking prick too. But it’s not simple at all in reality – for instance my main freedom of speech is this free blog, and the terrorists will sure make sure they use the tool of free speech, the internet, to plan their terrorist attacks. But you can bet your life it will be those other bastards who hold office (in collusion with AOL and the rest of them) who will start charging us extortionate fees in the future to host anything worth knowing or to find any information online that might help normal people improve their lives on the cheap and monitoring our thoughts online in the name of ‘terrorism prevention’.

I don’t know much about Islam, but give it it’s due it’s one religion, or set of laws that has stood true to it’s belief that lending money at excessive interest (usury) is really not a good idea at all in god’s eyes. Given that alot of the other main religions abandoned this principle around the time when capitalism was starting to take a grip on the world, I kind of think 1-0 to Islam. As for the changing peoples way of life bit, I just get pictures in my head of us imperialists sending blokes in white summer suits and specs off to the Congo with a bagful of Bibles for the past however many hundreds of years… all religions need to spread or they run out of believers, but there seems to me to be a majority in every religion who believe what they believe because it is personal to them, they know it to be their truth and interpret their teachings in a way that allows them to live in harmony with others.

Here’s the link to Fitna, if you really can be arsed to watch it (it’s depressing) and if that isn’t a piece of anti-Islamic propaganda then I don’t know what is. Basically you have what I imagine as being the same line taken by hardline Islamic terrorists projected as the mainstream view of all Muslims. What a complete fucking joke. None of the contents of the film are agreeable – indoctrination and hatred are exactly that, but it’s a minority view and I can’t believe someone from our House of Lords wanted to bring this dickhead over in the first place to attend a parliamentary screening. Some of these fuckers should hand their titles back immediately and be given a full refund.

Here’s one movie that I do think should be broadcast in Parliament – http://www.zeitgeistmovie.com.

It’s estimated that there are 1.6m Muslims in Britain, or roughly 2.8%. To chuck a few other figures about Germany has 3.6% and almost twice as many in numbers as the UK, France has about 5.5m (roughly 8.5%), Sweden has 3%, Switzerland has numerically few but relatively they make up 4.2% of the population. Many Muslims, regardless of whether they make up 5.5% of Holland’s population or elsewhere suffer discrimination and bias and are often blamed for society’s ills.

On the flipside: in the Middle East between 2.7 and 3.5% of Iraqis are of Christian faith; 12% (or 7.5m) of Egyptians, almost half of the Lebanon (1.6m), 3% in Jordan and Syria has somewhere between 6 and 8%. Iran is the lowest country with somewhere between 0.1 and 0.6% of Christian denomination. Iran’s traditional Christian populations, though low, are recognised in the constitution, guaranteed freedom to worship and allocated seats in the parliament, but face some discrimination in employment and political rights.

I don’t know what any of the above proves, but I guess people just want to be left the fuck alone, no matter who they are or what they believe. It’s also, I guess, like the David Brent saying goes: ’statistics are like a lamp post to a drunken man – more for leaning on than illumination’.

It’s about time the government earmarked billions of pounds for the war on fatal peanut allergies and a campaign of free caffiene injections for every tired motorist…

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A little time…

Mad Tone loves his giant hotdogs

It’s taken Tony ‘The Chemist’ Adams, owner of a pair of Floydian wild-staring-eyes, just five of my posts to go from object of light-hearted ridicule in a fairly safe job to being out on his ear. No footy fan would be surprised, not because of his inability to get a bunch of footballers to beat the opposition but because the modern game has turned into one of high expectations and even higher stakes. Still, the ever-impatient Chelsea owner Roman Abramovich has really outdone himself with todays sacking of Phil Scolari.

In the days before billionaire owners, 24/7 TV coverage and the Premier League was created the game had a different base; it was in part a game where men were men, where honesty still counted, players did it for the love and the obligatory pub ownership that came when you hit 40, and as a working man you could take your 2 kids to watch their heroes every week for less than 5% of your weekly wage. According to others it was a game where the ball moved as fast as my Nan having a hobble out to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, there was as much skill staying alive on the pitch as there was on the terraces and the stadiums were full of National Front idiots handing out membership forms.

In truth it was a bit of both; football reflected the times then as they do now. It was only the other day it dawned in me that the early 90’s culture of big foam hands and inflatable bananas on the terraces was less the work of professionals in anger management classes but more to do with some factory in the middle of Holland booting out millions of these little new fangled tablets that made everything go wobbly and Norwich versus Derby County bearable.

Hillsbrough happened, the coverage in the red tops showed what they, maybe reflecting general public opinion thought of footy fans in general. It was all their fault, this getting crushed thing, and the Scousers, according to that bible of shite the Sun spent half of the afternoon rifling through their fellow fans pockets and worse while the life was being squeezed out of them. All complete lies, mind, proven so and it has left them in a situation where some North West newsagents to this day still refuse to have it in their shop and many Liverpudlians and their families won’t have the fucking thing anywhere near their house. I never read it anymore; I took up smoking at 15, and one filthy habit is bad enough. At a time when the jugs and hairdos interested me they were forever kissing the arse of anything scouse. Maybe they still do but it was only ever in an effort to get themselves back in the homes of a new generation that might have forgotten their lies. This link and this link were ones I found on Google in 30 seconds. Not saying it’s all true, that would be unfair on the unnamed policemen who alot of the quotes and reports were attributed to at the time.

Anyway, after that official enquiries were held, reports summoned and recommendations made; the construction companies thanked their lucky stars as football stadiums were judged to be unsafe unless everyone was sat nicely on their arses, peasants couldn’t afford to go anymore but the age of the dish was nigh – the Premier League was born, and any self-respecting peasant might be skint but he should always have enough money to spunk £30 a month on a sports package.

It reminds me of a George Orwell quote in ‘The Road to Wigan Pier’: “And the peculiar evil is this, that the less money you have, the less inclined you feel to spend it on wholesome food. A millionaire may enjoy breakfasting off orange juice and Ryvita biscuits; an unemployed man doesn’t… When you are unemployed, which is to say when you are underfed, harassed, bored, and miserable, you don’t want to eat dull wholesome food. You want something a little bit ‘tasty’.”

Back to the present, and football is what it is, and maybe it’s not so much the winning of the big prizes but having the illusion you can win them that people want; for instance, ‘the big 4′ of Man United, Liverpool, Arsenal and Chelsea (done in my order of preference) have been there or thereabouts for the 16 years of the Premier League. Only 4 clubs have won it, yet in the last 16 years of the old football league only 6 teams won it. The teams that finished 2nd to 4th varied wildly, allowing teams like Watford and Southampton their moment in the spotlight. Those days have gone, at least for now – money’s involved to a far greater degree and those clubs at the top have it, the rest don’t… and it won’t be long before the new generation of fan copies their heroes and fucks off to a bigger and better club. Increased competition equals greater expenditure for less results, Manchester City offered £100m for one player in a transfer window where roughly £170m was spent in the end? now I love the game, but fuck me do I hope that Manchester City get relegated and their owner locked up. Whether he does, like their previous owner Thaksin should have been, is irrelevant.

Chelsea have already shown us how to rip the soul out of a football club.

Genius...hands up who got the cash?

Their Manager, Luiz ‘Big Phil’ Scolari has been shown the door after 7 months in charge. Tony Adams he isn’t, this is a guy who has managed a World Cup winning Brazil, and showed an astute knowledge of the game over here early on by turning down the opportunity to manage the England team. His crime is to have Chelsea in fourth place, still in 2 out of 3 cup competitions but unacceptably held to a 0-0 draw at home to Hull. Their previous Manager, replacing the seemingly irreplaceable (unless you are a Russian billionaire) Jose Mourinho was the likeable nobody Avram Grant. He was 1 (OK, scientifically 2) kicks away from winning the biggest prize in European football and as much as I liked Avram I laughed when John Terry went to take his penalty and slipped on his arse like a knob. No amount of money could have bought that bit of slippy mud, and to me there’s something comforting about Roman Abramovich’s stare into nowhere when his team gets dicked on. It might only ever be a 0-0 dicking but when you don’t get what you want and you are prepared to chuck so much cash at it it’s being dicked on in anybody’s book.

So reaping what you sow, a Manager at both ends of the table sacked for fear of failiure; Pompey’s wanting to sell the club and financially needing the club in the Premier League, Chelsea’s needing them in the Champions League. Both sets of fans will see team performances rise no doubt, maybe long enough for the Chairmen to achieve what they want to achieve; but the respite will only last while the 11 fit little cookies on the pitch give 110% in order to please their Manager, and they only do that when they think the Manager is going to be there long after they are. There is that fine a line between how long a top player can run for, how fast and for how long – sometimes it just boils down to how much you want it and most fans know that.

That’s why I’ve got nothing against Manchester United winning all the time really, I know it’s different times but Alex Ferguson was in charge for 7 years before he won the title and he’s worked incredibly hard for the 9 after that. There’s alot in the new, improved Aston Villa that reminds me of Manchester United, it’s whether our fans can be patient enough when the time comes and the media starts kicking off like hysterical little babies because they have ‘news’ to write.

Hunger

I didn’t get my run in this morning, surprisingly.

What I did get was the lightest of wake-ups courtesy of a text message on my work phone. 9:21am: If you’re in this morning Rob fancies some biscuits. If not no problem. Maegan.

Maegan and Rob are good work buds, monsters who like a proper night out. Either I’m higher up the company ladder than I think I am, where I can come in when I like, or Rob really wasn’t that bothered about his biscuits after all. Only one way to find out.

Jamal is a sound boss and I get in at 9:41am and to be honest I’ve let him down more times than is healthy, both for his sanity and mine. My inability to go to bed early and a shit sleep pattern are my biggest downfalls in life and they love each other. I go and do what I do in these situations, avoid the problem and walk in like nothing’s wrong. Of course it is wrong, Titanically fucking wrong, I was aware that it was wrong but I was (OK, this is with hindsight) sure that everything would be alright if I go and shut myself away in the backroom with a phone and a massive list of client contact numbers and just pile through them until I got some business or 6:00pm arrived.

There’s 8 of us working in a small, close-knit office, so given that Rob had gone past biscuit stage and Jamal was in his office presumably fuming it may have come across a bit rude. There’s only so many times you can walk in and use ’sleeping’ as an excuse for not working. It’s very, very, poor. I’m angry with myself because I let Jamal down. So I get the biggest bollocking of my 10 month career, and he sorts me a sub till payday cos I’m broke.

How much fairer can you ask than that? I live 500 metres away from the office, it could be construed as taking the piss. People react differently to different ways of management, and when a boss is that fair to you all you can do is try to make it up to them, so as of tomorrow,a new leaf. I’m going to bed at 11.30pm every night to get there for 8.30am. I’m gonna start doing the sleeping pills that I’ve had in my drawer for ages, the problem in the past has been I’ve gone to bed too late I to take them. Kind of writes tonight off as it is 12.25am, so it ties in nicely for a Monday challenge.

I went to see the film Hunger tonight. It’s ‘challenging’. I’ve always believed in the Irish cause but the film strips away the so-called ‘glamour’ of republicanism in my opinion. I’ve heard it argued the opposite but I think that completely dismisses the powerful nature of the film. There’s little dialogue, occasional but brutal violence, and a powerful story – regardless of the rights or wrongs, I think it says alot about what love is. Love of freedom, love of your relatives, your fellow man – Bobby Sands had a young son and the course he took was agonisingly painful and caused shockwaves throughout the world at the time; at the same time there were families devastated by what happened when he and 9 others chose to die. He sacrificed his life for what he thought was the good of his country, and that is the classic definition of a soldier at war.

Margeret Thatcher and the government at the time refused to recognise them as anything more than criminals until after Sands chose to die. When he was elected by the people of NI to the British parliament after his death, his success legitimised the Irish cause in the eyes of many and influenced Sinn Fein to concentrate on a political path. Whether his actions were right or wrong, he died for his beliefs and I think that is the overriding message of the film.