Lance Armstrong: A Fan's Perspective

So he’s cheated. Lance has been caught – the big fish, the shark. All because the other sharks, pointed at him and said ‘he’s a shark.’ No matter the method, the truth is out, but why does it matter?

Why does it matter than a guy on a bike took some drugs? I have a friend who rides a bike and he takes drugs all the time. Doesn’t bother anybody, expect the neighbours sometimes, but that’s just the smell.

In the grand scheme of this whole sordid affair, my take might not mean anything, but I think with journalists salivating at an easy feast, it’s important to have some human perspective, so here goes.

In December 2004 my Dad told me he had cancer. Simple as that. I was in the middle of my University final year. This isn’t a sob story. We were the lucky ones; my Dad survived and I graduated. Just getting a chance to go to University means I’m privileged.

But cancer kills context as well as people, and at the time I felt like shit. Dads don’t get sick. They laugh at illness. I know most people have a ‘my Dad is hard’ story, but cancer was his first day off sick. Ever. Pretty remarkable considering he was just about to turn 50. Happy birthday – have cancer.

That’s where Lance came in. Here I was bitching about exams; he won the Tour De France. He stamped on cancer, dusted it up and threw it in the rubbish. When my Dad had his operation we both wore LiveStrong bands. We cried when we put them on. Well I did, he’s an old Yorkshireman – he nodded and said ‘thanks Son.’ His version of crying.

A year later I sat in a Doctors room hearing the words, “if you don’t have an orchiectomy I can pretty much guarantee you’ll have testicular cancer within 24 months.” I had the surgery; I got the nickname ‘The Russian.’ Bolokov. The piss taking helped. So did Lance.

Lance flipped the bird to cancer, and told everybody else to do the same. Just because he cheated afterwards, that will never change. An ESPN article had the following sentence. “The amoral celebrity who ‘beat’ cancer.”  

He did beat it. And suggesting otherwise to further a story is a lie deliberately told. Ironically enough that’s just what Lance did.  

Armstrong gave people strength and hope. I’m glad people haven’t stopped supporting LiveStrong. It might have been started by a cheat. No matter. Hilter built the autobahn; do we rip it up and make people walk?

I’m not writing to defend Armstrong though, he let me down. But do I regret defending him before? Not for one second. If I could go back to when people were saying he was a cheat before any evidence had come out, then I’d defend him all over again. Every person, no matter how abhorrent their actions, deserves the chance to be proven guilty. Otherwise, that way lynchmobs lie.

Every person who has used Armstrong as beacon will have their own reactions. Mine is disappointment. Disappointment that such a force as Armstrong’s will could have been used to fight cheating in cycling; instead he embraced it and made it more effective. Bradley Wiggins summed it up best ‘it’s like being told Santa isn’t real.’

Before I wrote this I had it in my head that he didn’t need to cheat, that cancer sufferers will have used him getting back to riding professionally as inspiration enough. But as the words come up on screen, is that really the case? No. Other people have fought back from where Lance was to get back to sport. John Hartson showed incredible spirit to beat cancer. Do we tweet #ShowHart? No, he’s a football pundit now, a good one and I’m very glad that he is. His story will inspire football fans, but has it travelled round the world and inspired billions?

That’s no excuse for Lance, just the sad reality. Reality is something that journalists need to keep in their heads right now. As they clamour for their pound of flesh, whilst also lecturing from moral high ground, they’ll do well to remember that this has given them enough copy for a lifetime. Even the journalists writing books like ‘LA Confidential’ have a made a mint they wouldn’t have if Lance was clean.

Somehow Floyd Landis, Tyler Hamilton et al are heroes. They stand to benefit financially for this whole affair. Some journalists speak of them in glowing terms, of showing ‘courage.’ Bullshit. They’re cheats, just like Lance, and manipulating the story to show them in any other light is lying. Lying to benefit the narrative. Just like Lance did.

People have suffered because of the actions of Lance, but that’s for the courts to deal with. Not journalists. Not the baying mob all saying ‘it’s not enough.’ You’re right; it isn’t enough, what would be?

For those of us duped by Armstrong, remember, just like a cheating partner, ultimately this is his sin, not our stupidity. We need to learn from this, move on and leave a cheat like Armstrong as a character in history.

I’ve moved on from Armstrong the man, a cheat, bully, liar … the list goes on. He joins a long list of people fallen from grace that I have no reason to waste my energy on.

Armstrong the myth though? He helped my Dad beat cancer, and that I will never forget.

It's the end of the world as we know it

One last blog before the end of the world. I bet you want an end of the world blog don’t you? You greedy bugger. I’ve not blogged in a year and you’re telling me what to blog; unbelievable. Well just to spite you I’m not going to, and also because there’s nothing to blog about. It’s the end of the world; does it help if you knew?

Look at these guys. They know the end of the world is coming and they’re spending their time planning for it. Time that could be spent getting laid … well in their case, maybe thinking about it, or making a friend or two.

I’m not sure the Mayan calendar says anything about it being the end of the world for only the disorganised, but then I can’t read Mayan. Can anybody but Mel Gibson? We should ask him what to do.

I digress and I nearly stumbled into an end of world blog. I like what you did there, very sneaky.

No I must plough on, so here goes: It’s been a while, and the world has changed in the last year. This is my first blog post-Saville; the first Christmas post-Saville; the one where Santa has to have a criminal records check. Turns out white haired men in weird outfits offering goodies to kids aren't to be trusted with unrestricted access to children.

If you’re one of my non UK readers and are at this point wondering who Saville is; do some research. No point doing work, it’s the end of the world and I’m too busy blogging to help with links.

When the Saville announcements came out the general response was akin to hearing the answer to a pub quiz question that you couldn't quite remember the answer to ‘ahhh yes, now that makes sense.’ Like Saville, the signs that Christmas is not to be trusted is all in the music.

Let’s take ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town.’ 

“He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake.”

Voyeur. Turns out the best place to hide a tree is in the forest. Because we’re told Santa watches us in our sleep through the medium of jolly Christmas songs we accept it, like Beyonce singing ‘if you liked it then you should have put a ring on it’ whilst claiming to be an independent woman.

Would you let your boss record your sleeping patterns? So why do we let a random fatso in a red velour onesie?

Some of the messages about Christmas are subliminal  Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer is clearly functionalist propaganda. Nobody speaks to Rudolph until he gets a job, a purpose in life. Then, and only then, “all the reindeers loved him.”

It’s hardly a surprise to know that the song was written in DDR Germany. ‘Rudolph, reindeer of the people. He didn't mope about with his disability, his ‘red and shiny nose,’ he turned it into a tool for productivity. Heed the message slacker.’

There’s even racism pedalled through the fog of Christmas.

“You must never do a tango with an eskimo,” sang Alma Cogan in 1955. The promotion of racial segregation there for all to see. The B side ‘Never duke a gook’ confirms the argument. It gives ‘White Christmas’ a whole new angle.

Even the great Bing Crosby took liberties with his songs.
“Don’t get worse, grab your nurse and come to the Holiday Inn.” Which if it wasn't a song, would be the worst tagline for a co-operation in history.

Please don’t’ follow that advice, grabbing a nurse, or a person of any profession for that matter, will most likely end with a charge. Taking them to a cheap hotel won’t have any medical benefits; it’ll just add to the problems you’d be in from grabbing them in the first place.

The worst song of all though has been sung by many great duets, and also Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey. In ‘Baby it’s Cold Outside’ the male protagonist is keeping a woman at his house clearly against her will. She couldn't make it clearer when she sings “the answer is no.”

Despite such a verbal rebuttal he stays persistent, taking a sinister tone.
“Listen to that fireplace roar.”

Being a song there’s no stage direction, but if there was, for that line it’d be, ‘walks towards woman brandishing a poker menacingly.’

The conversation goes on:
“Maybe just a half a glass more.”
“Put some music on whilst I pour.”

Ignoring the presumption, getting her to look elsewhere and giving her an aural distraction as he pours is a manipulative trick and leaves the situation open to all sorts of misdemeanors.

“Say what’s in this drink?”

A whole Christmas song celebrating date rape, but society lets it go because ...

“Baby it’s cold outside.”

So if you think it’s shocking that the BBC ran a tribute show to Saville last Christmas despite knowing him to be multiple sex offender, remember it’s just the tip of a sexually twisted Christmas iceberg.  

IKEA

Twice a year I have to sacrifice an afternoon of my life to the God of Interior Design, IKEA.


It usually happens when my girlfriend is unhappy with one element of the house. It might be that we need a bookcase, a bin needs to change location or the curtains are too white. It doesn’t take much to open the gates into a land of complete house renovation. The table isn’t wooden enough, the backdoor doesn’t creek enough when it opens, the stairs are too steep.

It all builds up, the pressure increases until neither of us can take anymore and the situation explodes with a calm statement of ‘can we go to IKEA this Sunday?’

IKEA attracts 3 kinds of people:

- Couples who spend their time arguing about what to buy. It picks up briefly in the children’s section as one makes an effort to lighten the mood by picking up a soft toy, before it descends back into screaming fits in the market place over whether to buy the Jole or Jule cabinet.

- Students who look around the store for cheap furnishings that will stand their abodes out from every other student hovel in the country, but realise that the only things that they can afford are the same pieces of MDF self assembly junk that every other undergraduate has.

- Parents trying to measure up curtains whilst desperately trying to keep track of their children, who seem intent on hiding in each and every available nook and cranny within the store.

You could drop your kids off at the play area, but to do this involves filling out endless forms that remove IKEA from any liability should your child lose a body part or get lost in time in a wormhole. It also means leaving your beloved in a ball filled maze with the children of parents who will quite happily blindly fill in details for an hour or so as long as they can get rid of their little mites for a time.

I’ve not been to every IKEA store in the world, but I think I can take an educated guess that their layout doesn’t change too much. An endless queue of depressed grown ups who don’t earn enough to shop at John Lewis, follow arrows on the floor from section to section trying to find items that they hope will make their lives as happy as they were before they entered the store. What kind of a store needs arrows to help you through? Might as well put a conveyor belt in.

There are short cuts at various points, but these just leave their users disorientated, and often lost. One man I spoke to had been going from Kitchen to Storage and back for 3 days straight.

The store weaves around and back on itself like an intestine. Fold the whole thing out and you’d see to get from one end to another would be 7 miles. It could be used as a running venue. The Great IKEA run, raising money for those who have lost their children in wardrobes, somewhere in the bedroom department.

Should all this be something you wish to repeat at a regular interval you can join the IKEA family; it’s presumably some sort of cult where people use the polished bones of their victims to assemble their newly bought birch wood hat stand, purchased with a 10% discount.

That all said, they do have some pretty funny adverts.

Heron's Reach

Another new housing development has appeared in my fair village, this time going by the name of Heron’s Reach. I’ve no idea how large a heron’s reach is, or for that matter what it has to do with affordable housing for professional couples. I would have thought Heron’s wingspan would be more correct biologically speaking. However, I’ve recently wondered if the reach is, in fact, referring to the social reach of the lone bird. Perhaps the ‘lovingly designed cul-de-sac’ is actually a collection of safe houses and gambling dens for those lucky enough to be covered by the connections of the heron.

Either way we’re only one word away from Heron’s Reach Around, which adds a whole new slant on proceedings. The next street to be built is to be named, I believe, Badger’s Felch, which will be next to Mole’s Docking, with the end street to be called Toad of Toad Hall’s gay sex orgy.

So mafia influence or homosexual euphemism, both with the subject being a 3 foot wading bird; one of them is the reason for a street’s name. Take your pick, either way you’re paying £200K for a house on a street with a shit name.

Did You Hear The One About The Sexist Sky Sports Presenter?

I have a real and deep rooted fear that my child will grow up into a sexist / homophobic / racist bigot and get a job writing for the Daily Mail. It’s a hypothetical fear; because it assumes that I’ll have children and also that I won’t launch an online and real world Guerrilla war to rid the planet of all filth peddling publications that make their money from generating controversy by spouting hatred. They’re two fairly big assumptions because the idea of devoting my life to appeasing something that does nothing but shit and scream for 2 years haunts me, and also because, wouldn’t the world be better off without a paper that runs a story like this?

If you can’t be bothered clicking on the link, then to summarise: a woman was in a house fire that left her under sedation for smoke inhalation. All 4 of her children died in the fire. She doesn’t know this at the time of writing as she’s still unconscious. Thanks to the Daily Mail though, we all know and she’ll be able to find out from a newspaper. How considerate.

Should I have children and decide not to embark on a crusade against middle class tabloids, then my fear will be a very real one. It seems some people simply love to hate. Just as we make strides towards finally accepting that racism is wrong (reforms in the police, BNP being refused a platform during the election) another hatred or two comes up to replace it.

This week it’s been sexism. Andy Gray and Richard Keys have been sacked and resigned Sky Sports for asking a female colleague to tuck a mike into pants (Gray), referring to a female colleague thus ‘you’d smash it, you’d hang out of the back of it’ (Keys) and for suggesting a fully trained female official would need the offside rule explaining to her, simply because she is a she.

They’ve both since left, but it’s the reaction that’s worrying. I have a friend who’s certain it’s all just a ‘big joke’ and we should just ‘move on.’ Just as I wonder if he’ll ever understand that his attitudes are offensive and outdated at best, I also wonder what Andy Gray’s wife will have said to him?

“You’re right love, just a joke love. In no way is it a sack able offense to judge an official’s ability on her gender alone and treat a female colleague as a sex object by asking her to put her hands down your pants in front of a full work room. Cup of tea?”

My friend’s attitude is that it happened off mike so it shouldn’t matter. He’s a smart lad, degree educated with a good job. Yet to him sexism is completely acceptable as long as no one finds out. As if beating a wife would be fine as long as bruises aren’t left. That refusing to give a job to a black man on grounds of his race would be fine and dandy as long as you tell him it’s due to his pants being too short.  

It shouldn’t matter than Andy Gray has been in broadcasting long enough that he should know if in broadcast journalism, you’re near a mike, treat it as if it’s recording; only that these are his views. My friend also claimed “these views are expressed in the stands every game.” That’s no defence of Gray, but a damning indictment of what we deem to be acceptable in this country.

But what do I do about my friend? I tried showing him the error of his ways through logical debate, but he thinks sexual harassment is just a bit of a jolly, so I fear the logic might have gone over his head.

I could hit him with a spanner and stand over his leaky head whilst saying to a colleague “somebody better get down there and explain the sexism in the work place laws, if his manager finds out about the mess on the carpet she’s going to go potty.”

Or I could do what most people will do in this very same situation, clear my conscience by expressing that sexism is unacceptable, but when he shows no signs of assessing whether his views are right or wrong, just carry on as normal, sharing a beer, watching the football.  

This is the worrying part. For every office discussion about how abhorrent the actions of Gray and Keys were, there’s somebody lurking about sneering ‘it’s just a laugh, come here sugar tits and put your head down my pants, just a laugh, ha ha!’

Hopefully, in the future we’ll look at sexism in the way we now look at racism; fuelled not just by racists, but by otherwise decent people who have no idea of the damage that their ignorance does. Failing that we could just hit them all with spanners. 

An Open Letter to Elwyn Watkins and the Liberal Democrats

Dear Elwyn,

I received a letter in the post recently.

Firstly I’m writing this assuming you’re a decent man. Your record certainly indicates so, and I appreciate the work you’ve put in for the local community.

However, you won’t be receiving my vote this election.

I write this as an ex Liberal Democrat voter, believer and in a better world, soon to be member.

Sadly I saw the pictures of you campaigning with Nick Clegg and in an instant all your credibility vanished.

It’s interesting that you would base a large part of your campaign on the lies told by Phil Woolas and Labour. You’re right of course, he did lie and I, for one of many was glad to see him go. It’s even more interesting that you would associate their new candidate with the old lies, when The Labour Party clearly condemned Mr Woolas.

However, just last year Nick Clegg signed an NUS pledge to vote against any rise in University tuition fees. Just 2 months ago he voted to increase tuition fees.

Whether you agree with rises in fees or not, there is no doubting that this is a lie told by Nick Clegg. The very same Nick Clegg you haven’t condemned. The very same Nick Clegg you have campaigned with.

I trust you can see the hypocrisy?

The cuts your party are supporting will cripple this town and send it back 20 years in education terms.

I work for The Junior University Project. In my role as a Maths and English mentor I’ve been part of a team that has seen a year on year increase in the numbers of students gaining C or above in Maths and English, and therefore the number of students progressing onto Further Education.

On April 1^st, thanks to cuts supported by Nick Clegg and your party, The Junior University will cease to exist. I will be unemployed.

So when you say you’ll fight for this town’s future I’m sure you can see why I might think the dishonest one isn’t just Mr Woolas; It’s also you?

Before the election at least 50% of teachers and education workers I’ve spoken to, at a guess, would have voted Lib Dem.

Now, thanks to Nick Clegg, the man you preach about dishonesty with, thanks to his lies, at least 90% of the people I speak to will vote anybody but Lib Dem.

It’s a bitter irony that the lies of one man gave you this second chance, yet the lies of another man, a man in your party, a man you campaigned with, could well end up costing it you.

Should you feel the need to respond you can do it here or email me at wrightlewis@hotmail.com

There are a lot of people who have read this that would like you to.

Just so you don’t forget, the main charges are:

<!--[if !supportLists]-->-          <!--[endif]-->You knowingly and happily campaigned with Nick Clegg, a man who lied on record to the public.

<!--[if !supportLists]-->-          <!--[endif]-->You knowingly and happily campaigned as a Liberal Democrat, a party that supported cuts that will destroy the educational foundations of our town. Cuts that will see no new buildings that are desperately needed for Saddleworth School, Our Lady’s and Saint Augustine’s, and no essential maintenance for North Chadderton, Bluecoat, Hathershaw and Royton and Crompton.

I do hope you think I’m important enough to respond to.

                Yours rapidly losing faith,

Lewis Wright  

Goodbye Cruel World, Hello Mega Stardom

I wrote this blog on my birthday. My birthday. Did you write a blog on your birthday? Probably not. What were you doing on your birthday? Enjoying yourself or something equally selfish. More to the point, what were you doing on my birthday? Waiting for my blog is the answer you should give, but you were probably thinking of things to do on your birthday; bastard.


I’m only angry because my birthday is so close to Christmas, and New Year. Two celebrations in a row people can handle. They’re used to it, ready for it. ‘Christmas is done, I’m ready for NYE BRING IT ON!!’ Ask for them to join in a 3rd and the excuses start to come out. ‘Night out for your birthday Lewis? I would but my capacity for joy has reached its limit, plus my hair needs a wash and I’m not certain, but I think I have an in growing toe nail. Sorry, but what else can I do?’

If you have a birthday in the summer you can crank it up. ‘Come to my party – what else is there to do? Buy me presents, give your time selflessly, the sun is out.’

Have a birthday near Christmas and presents become an afterthought. ‘But I got you stuff last week, hmm, have these potatoes I didn’t eat.’ Whatever else he did, Jesus will always be known to me as the world’s greatest thunder stealer.

But that’s OK, I have a plan. A plan to make me more famous than any other blog writer ever. I’m going to die. End it. Kaput. Goodbye cruel world.

Before the tears flow like Babylon you should know there’s logic behind this. Paul McCartney has produced an almost endless body of work since leaving The Beatles. He can even play a mandolin. Yet in the BBC poll of 100 Greatest Britons he came 11 places below John Lennon. All Lennon did was lie in bed and get shot. (I should point out those were mutually exclusive events.)



There’s an airport named after John Lennon. He even managed to leave the parenting of his son to McCartney, cheat on his wife Yoko Ono, all with no reduction in his popularity. What he did do was die, and so Lennon became legend.

River Phoenix appeared in a small handful of films and his name is known world over as a great acting talent. He’s dead too, same as Jeff Buckley, a man who released just one album, yet has had documentaries made about him and been referred to as a musical genius. Before Nick Drake died he was playing to pub audiences and selling a handful of albums, now he’s dead he’s a must have in any cool music collection.

The problem comes with the blogs. If I’m dead how will I write them? Thought of that too. Michael Jackson is dead and he’s had albums released, so has Jimi Hendrix, Biggie Smalls, Tupac. All prolific. All dead.

Elvis even performs concerts through a holographic image, and he’s been dead for ages. Soon they’ll be resurrecting his corpse, polishing it up and dancing it around the stage like a demonic muppet. Watch closely and you might see a finger drop off as he jigs about to All Shook Up.

If you read next week’s blog and see my 13 followers increased to 13,000 you know what will have happened. The blog might look real, it might even make you laugh, but it won’t be mine, it’ll be hashed together from some notes I left on the back of a Sainsbury’s receipt. Don’t feel too bad though, rest assured my estate will get all the website hits.

This blog may break down due to snow.

There’s a true menace at work; something that is bringing our once proud nation to its knees.
Planes grounded, cars left stranded strewn across motorways, people staggering across roads shouting deliriously ‘BUS, BUS.’

Before you leave your home after reading this, best sneak a look out of the curtains. Don’t linger too long. It could blind you. Just one look and you’ll know. Know if you're safe from the dreaded ... SNOW.

If you dare step outside, beware. There beasties lie. Cars skid down ungritted roads, crashing into everything they come even remotely close to; other cars, garden walls, pensioners. Buildings explode in the distance and wolves appear and start to howl.

Despite all the snow teenagers can only find ice and rubble to make ball shapes from. Icy brick balls that break teeth, windows, skulls.

When snow scatters over the UK it’s like a haze of LSD over the country. Mania ensues. People talk about the weather as if Armageddon is on the way.
“Have you heard? Snow is coming tonight?”
“SNOW, SNOW? We’d best get to Tesco, fill up with petrol, get food in.”

Radio broadcasts are interrupted every half an hour, special snow TV shows are made and websites are plastered with flash banners warning us of the impending danger of the slightly frozen water falling from the sky.

Yet we’re hardly a snowy nation. We only have 9 natural ski fields. France, Germany, Norway, Sweden, South Korea, Canada and New Zealand are just some of the nations that have far more annual snowfall than we do. All of them have snowfall every year, just like we do. Yet we seem to be the only nation that have trouble predicting that after over 200 years of records and snow in near enough every year, that it might happen again next year.

In 200 years time global warming will shift the Gulf Stream and mean Britain will have similar weather to other countries on the same latitude; Canada, Denmark and Russia. That means 4 month winters that start cold, get colder, drop lots of snow, freeze the snow, drop more on top of it and then snow just a little more.

Schools will have winters off, people will start to hibernate and cars will have to be fitted with padded bumpers.

Snow hung around on roads for days last year because we, an island nation surrounded by salty sea water, ran out of salt. Next year we there’ll be a mass culling of sheep because we run out of grass. Plans for solar power will be scrapped because we run out of sunlight.

Having said all that. I get to go home early from work, so can't complain.

Next week’s blog may be cancelled due to the weather.

I'll Put You Through To The Right Blog; Please Stay On The Line

Building the Great Wall of China, Putting Man on the Moon, Eating 59 Hot Dogs in 12 minutes; all incredible achievements, but all outshone by my efforts this week to close my bank account.

Banks are phenomenally efficient when it comes to taking money from customers. I missed a payment on my credit card once. Within a week I’d been emailed, called, received a letter, a carrier pigeon, a visit from a knife wielding ninja who threatened that my ‘time would come’ if I didn’t clear my monthly minimum repayment of £2.41; anything to get the cash.

It seems strange then that when I tried to contact my bank because I was owed cash and wished to dispense with their services, they were nowhere to be found. Every link on the website just lead to ways to pay them cash. The FAQs were listed like so:

How do I pay you cash?

Where do I click to pay you money?

I owe you a fortune due to your ludicrous and unethical interest rates, where do I go to pay an amount that will be dwarfed by the monthly fee you'll put on top?

And so on. I scrolled down but with no luck. There were no answers relating to anything other than paying in money, borrowing more money or setting up new accounts. At the end it read:

“If your question has not been answered please ring this number:” All in big font, all easy enough to follow. What I didn’t see was the font that read “your calls will be charged at our premium rate, unless you call from a mobile, in which case we’ll just roll a handful of dice and that’s how many pounds you’ll owe us.”
I’ve been kind enough to enlarge it for you: “your calls will be charged at our premium rate, unless you call from a mobile, in which case we’ll just roll a handful of dice and that’s how many pounds you’ll owe us.”

Had I known that it would cost more than the funds in my account to withdraw, then perhaps I wouldn’t have bothered, but I picked up my mobile, dialled the numbers and entered a numerical labyrinth of Minotaurian proportions. The phone rang twice before switching to an automated response. I’m not entirely sure why they leave in the two rings. Are we supposed to believe the responder is a real person?

The toneless robot on the other end barked orders at me far too quickly for me to remember what I should do. FOR ISSUES WITH CARDS PRESS ONE NOW BUT FOR BALANCE INQUIRIES IT’S TWO AND NUMBER INFORMATION PRESS FOUR BUT NOT IF YOU WANT TO SPEAK TO ANOTHER MACHINE THEN PRESS FIFTY THREE GO GO GO.

I panicked and just pressed numbers at random. It must have done something because there was a long beeeeeeep and then it rang twice before being answered by another robot.
“You’re in a queue, but your custom and money is very important to us, so please do stay on the line.”
Greensleeves played. “You’re in a queue, but your custom and money is very important to us, so please do stay on the line.”
Greensleeves played some more. This ordeal was repeated for 10 minutes before I was finally put through to Jim.

“Hi, I’m Jim, you’re through to accounts.”
“I’d like to close my account please.”
“Ah, you’re in the wrong department, you need payments. I’ll put you through.”

I went through greensleeves again, but this time Miriam greeted me.

“Hi, I’m Miriam, you’re through to payments.”
“I’d like to close my account please.”
“Ah, you’re in the wrong department, you need ‘give us cash’. I’ll put you through.”

This went on for hours, weeks even, until my phone switched off because there wouldn’t be enough money in the world to pay my bill.

I’m thinking of opening a restaurant in the same manner. You pay on arrival. You’re seated and told your food will be with you shortly. You wait an hour to the sound of greensleeves before going to complain. There you have pay £5 to join a queue to tell a staff member called Mick you’re unhappy. He’ll charge you another fiver to tell you you’re in the wrong queue and you need to speak to Alice in accounts. All the while I’ll sit in my office and eat all the food myself before deciding at the end of business hours I’ve not had quite enough food so I’ll award myself a food ‘bonus.’

Sounds unrealistic yes, but if all the restaurants in England did it, then we might be onto something.

Lest We Forget

A poppy can lay dormant for years in soil, only for it to flourish when the earth is churned over. That’s why fields upon fields of poppies could be seen in France and Belgium after the World Wars. That’s why it stands for the memories of those who laid down their lives for us; those who churned the soil of fascism so freedom could bloom.

Jon Snow, the channel 4 newsreader has once again refused to wear one on air this year, saying he refuses to bow to ‘poppy fascism.’ A tragicomic image comes to mind of poppies marching on gardens, refusing to allow other flowers to bloom and shooting on sight all bees that work for any other plants.

He says that he doesn’t wear any symbol on air, pointing out that he doesn’t wear charity bands or black ties to mourn even those related to him. He is only interested in his journalistic impartiality. It’s a brave stance. However, it’s a stance he’s only able to take because of those who laid down their lives in such numbers so many years ago.

I wear pink on pink days, black for funerals and I wore a yellow band when my father was fighting cancer. There are more causes to support than colours. Wristbands have gone from plain, to multicoloured to pin badges. There’s even a Livestrong clothing range. Soon you’ll able to drive an animal rights car and live in an apartment that supports the fight against MS.

They’re all valuable causes, and Jon Snow is right when he says supporting one opens the floodgates to all. It conjures up the image of the news being presented by a giant slinky of multi coloured bands with a voice emerging from the top; ‘and the NASDAQ came down 3 points today.’

But a poppy means more. It means that we have the right to support any cause we choose to without reproach. It means I can write this blog, you can read this blog and people can write comments underneath; all without fear of being dragged away in the night.

In fairness to Snow, he has a job that does require impartiality, and he wears a poppy off air. For Abercrombie and Fitch and Bodycare UK there’s no excuse. Both companies banned their employees from wearing poppies simply because it isn’t part of their uniform. Do employees have to wear company approved underpants, socks, hair?

Why is it that some people seem so averse to celebrate their ancestors? Maybe it’s because we don’t make a big deal of it. Korea, USA, Australia and New Zealand all have national holidays to celebrate those who have died defending their nation. We just have bank holidays, and banks steal all our money.

A national holiday would give people the proper time to reflect on the bravery of those who have walked the extra mile for the most constructive or destructive of things, of that which is the hardest to sell; an ideal.

Over the next two days, if you walk past a poppy stall and debate whether to buy one, do you have time? Just remember 70 years ago, people just like you had no debate. 1,700,000 Brits laid down their lives over 9 brutal years. That number is too big to comprehend. Put simply, somebody British died every 3 minutes over both wars. That’s about the time it’ll take for you to buy and put on your poppy.

Christmas Is Coming, The Goose Is Not Yet Born

It’s November today, unless you’re reading this in the published form Lewis’ greatest blogs in the middle of July. Then it’s not November, but chances are the issue will be the same whatever the time: Christmas.

I should love Christmas. What’s not to like? People buy you stuff, you buy them things you’d like in return, maybe in the hope they won’t like it and just leave it hanging around for you to take home. There’s good TV. You can eat too much, drink too much and any inappropriate comments towards family will blamed on the rum content in the Christmas pudding and forgotten by the time the New Year comes in.

I get carried away by the excitement of it all and end up splurging vast quantities of cash on incredibly wasteful pre Christmas presents for myself. ‘Tis the season; I deserve an ivory carved back stretcher to go with my gold plated truffle chocolates.’ That’s fine when there’s 3 weeks of build up. My bank account can just about survive the onslaught.

When I walked through the local shopping centre last Monday (25^th October) my heart sank. Christmas lights already. I couldn’t help it. A manic smile slowly started to form. Jingle bells began to be whistled. My hand reached for my wallet. Only 60 shopping days until Christmas, must ... buy ... crap.

Now I’m open and exposed. Everywhere is decorated; there’s no escape. Even the websites have festive trims. I’m like a heroin addict walking a world full of giant smack filled needles that I can just drop onto any time I like. I kid myself, that by using a card and not money it doesn’t count. But of course it does and I always end up spending the first week after New Year’s sobbing at my overdraft and eating Tesco value baked beans for every meal.

The Americans have thought this through. They have thanksgiving at the end of November. A nationwide family gathering where presents aren’t exchanged and cards aren’t bought. Everybody wins but the turkey. A staggering 46 millions turkeys get eaten in the USA each year at Thanksgiving. It’s a feathered genocide; 2 words I can’t imagine putting next to each other in many other contexts. It’s also the biggest evidence so far against evolution. Surely if the birds could evolve they’d have started migrating in October by now?

This mass consumption of gobblers means that people only start to think of Christmas when December arrives, and so none of the joy is lost.

By the time Christmas arrives here I’m all Christmassed out. Cracking and eating nuts has lost its novelty value, can’t stand the sight of tinsel, I’ll punch you in the face if you offer me another mince pie.

Each year Christmas seems to creep further and further back. Soon I’ll be eating Stollen in June, next year putting the tree up in March, to the point where I’ll be out buying things in December for the Christmas the year after.

Anyway, I must dash, there’s only 75,318 minutes left until the big day.

Can Being Right Ever Be Wrong?

If I offered to pay a young member of your family all their tuition fees, but only if I could drown their cat, would you take it? It’s only a moggie. Got him from a rescue centre didn’t you? He’d have been put down if you hadn’t stepped in. He owes you; time for him to pay back his dues –help little Sarah through her BA at Lancaster. And he’s 4 years old – that’s 193 in cat years. He’s had a good life.

There’s a chance you’d take it. Especially now Universities are allowed to charge what they want for admission. Next open day you attend there’ll be a price list handed out at the start:

1 year before quitting £4,500
2:2 £22,000
2:1 £35,000
First class £1,000,000 or suck off the Dean

It might seem a strange offer, but the world is full of people hiding bad things in good offers. Take Operation Christmas Child. On the surface they look great. They send presents out to poor children. Like modern day Robin Hoods, but the rich are consenting because they feel terribly guilty.

What’s not to love? Well the service is provided by Samaritan’s Purse, an evangelical Christian group, whose leader, Franklin Graham has said that Islam is an evil and wicked religion. They’re also rather homophobic with their ex leader, and current leader’s father Billy Graham saying that all homosexuals should be castrated. Not sure what happens to lesbians. Maybe he doesn’t mind them as long as they film it.

The shoe boxes are targeted at Muslim countries, and are asked to not be sealed as they are checked before sending out. There have been a number of reports of evangelical literature being put in the boxes, and children being made to hold prayer groups before being given their gifts.

The majority of receiving children don’t celebrate Christmas. I wonder if the poverty stricken children of Aboriginal Australians will be receiving toy trucks and a card saying ‘Happy Hanukkah’ any time soon.

Does it even matter? When I was a child if somebody told me I could have a box of toys, but I had to renounce Satan first I’d be up dancing his evil spirit out of my soul. I’d say anything you like.
‘Monkeys and carrots are evil and must be stoned to death with marmite pebbles. Now give me the Xbox.’
Doesn’t mean I’ll be picketing abortion centres any time soon.

I can’t help thinking they’re targeting the wrong audience. Going to the furthest flung parts of the world to tell impoverished children who don’t speak English and don’t celebrate Christmas that homosexuality is a sin seems a lot of effort for little reward. It’s hardly as if they can donate back to Samaritan’s Purse.

People across Europe despise Franklin Graham and reject his views. That’s the target audience. European students. You can convince a student of anything, and they’re suckers for free gifts. Go to a University, start offering free toasters and novelty underpants and within minutes you’ll have an army marching round chanting ISLAM SUCKS, DOWN WITH GAYS.

Now if you'll excuse me. I'm volunteering for a charity that puts hand grenades in Easter Eggs.

If you would like to make a donation to Lewis’ angry students campaign, just leave a comment at the end of your article with your bank details.

Chugg Off

On the occasional sunny days that Oldham offers me I like to wander into town to take my lunch. Despite walking through Oldham, it’s generally a pleasurable experience. I get to poke about in the market stall, ask the people in the pound stores how much everything is and if all that gets too much, I can sit on the one bench not covered in gum and bird shit just outside the court house and watch the comers and goers; this helps me feel smug and self satisfied about my middle class place in the world.

The main reason I cherish these days of splendour so much is that they’re so few and far between, so it was with joy in my heart when I trotted out of the office yesterday to spend 60 minutes of avoiding vomit, drunken maniacs and potty mouthed youths.

I walked up the high street not caring about the man with the lopsided beard asking me if I’d like to see his smelly bishop.

Then it happened. It loomed into view like a teacher coming into the class room as you’re mid white board graffiti. I froze. Mistake. They pounced on my weakness. It was a chugger. A charity mugger. They show no mercy.

For my American readers a chugger is one of those folks with a clip board full of pictures of puppies looking sad or children quietly sobbing. They wear a t-shirt for the charity they work for and generally some kooky accessories that make them look cool and worth talking to. They’re not, so don’t.

The conversation with a chugger usually goes like this.

“Hello Sir. You look like a generous kind of guy. My kind of guy. Your shoes are cooooool. Mind if I stop you for a minute to have a quick chat about my charity that helps middle aged women in Nantwich that have limited access to good Rioja?”
“Yes I do mind. Fuck off!”

Or rather I want to say that, but instead I just crumble like Cheshire cheese into a serving of meekness; ready for them to take advantage of. I mutter something along the lines of ‘no thank you, I don’t have time, please, I want to buy my lunch.’ But then they show me a picture of dying baby seals.

“See what happens when this 50 year old accountant’s assistant doesn’t have a nice glass of Bordeaux to help her through her meaningless existence? SEE WHAT HAPPENS?”
“YES, yes, I see. Please sobbing, please no more, take my money.”

And so I sign up and promptly cancel the direct debit. Promptly in this case meaning 4 months later, just in case they notice and send somebody round to my house with pictures of a shop selling kittens for drowning.

They’re masters at making you feel horribly guilty and that your life won’t be worth living unless you sign up to give £2 a month. Yet that feeling should be the other way round. Chuggers make £7 an hour for their part in this spreading of depression. That means that if you donate for a full year you’ll pay for a chugger to be on the streets for a full 3 ½ hours until a penny of your money goes to the charity.

This scam is just a transfer of money from your account to the account of another so they can stand about persuading people to keep the cycle going.

At this rate more people will be chuggers than aren’t and they’ll start fighting each other for your cash. Chuggers will climb down your chimney, claw at your windows. All the while saying could I just show you this?

So next time a chugger shows you their guilt book tell them you’ll consider their offer, and if, after consideration, you still want to donate, then you’ll access their website and donate there.

With enough of us doing it, maybe they’ll get the picture and chugg off.

Meta blogging

In China 4 in 5 people have written a blog. That’s 7 trillion blogs. Is there really that much to write about? Is life in the People’s Republic so eventful that even when the blog count reached 10 figures a marketing assistant in Xi-an still thought I love Chairman Mao very much, the world must know of this?

As more and more blogs get put out, fewer and fewer people ever actually get read. It’s like trying to tell a great anecdote at a party. The more people turn up, the more people chip in with their own stories, trying to steal the limelight away from you. As you reach the danger point of the story; the part where it’s horribly boring, but essential to the crafting of the tale, people start to lose focus. There are so many other people to listen to. People with short stories; stories told using just 3 words; stories that are just a look. But you can’t do that. You need to take your listeners on a journey of facts, context and characterisation. It all needs to be just right, but nobody listens, so you take a gun and point it at the ceiling.

BANG. I have a story, it’s really funny and you’re all going to listen.

Soon blogs will attack other blogs. You’ll be reading that piece about conceptual art involving cheese and armpit hair, when another blog throws a grenade in and kills it. You’re left with an article from Marc, from Ebbsfleet, telling you how he just like, so doesn’t get why parents drive estate cars. When I’m older I’m going to be a cool dad, drive a 2 seater and strap my kid to the roof. You don’t want to read on, but you know he’s still armed. Who knows what kind of viruses he could send your way. I heard about a computer that can bite your fingers if you type things it doesn’t like.

What’s the solution? How can a good blog find an audience? A friend of mine has experimented with his blogging. He’s blogging about blogging. Now I’ve mentioned him, I’m blogging about somebody blogging about blogging. Technically this blog is about blogging too. Blogging about blogging about blogging about blogging. I’ll have to stop; my computer has started to grow teeth.

Everybody tries to outdo each other with their topics. Blogs about travel, but travel with a fish strapped to their face. Food, but only food that can be snorted. Political inside information written by the Downing Street rat.

Maybe the way forward is boring blogging. Bogging. I have a chair. It’s wooden and made from pine. My USB is blue and I’ve lost the lid. I went to Spain on holiday. It was hot.

Bored? Write about a blog about it. This one is finished; blog done.

Dentists

I’m thinking of refusing to pay part of my National Insurance. Before you judge me, it’s not in the same way that old people occasionally refuse to pay their council tax because they’ve not come to terms with the fact rationing has ended and bread costs more than a handful of cocoa beans. My reason is true and just, ironically, quite the opposite of the target of my ire: dentists.

If dentists take on NHS patients, then they get paid by the NHS, which is funded by National Insurance. An easy enough system; you might even go so far as to call it fair. Doctors, kind, caring, ever patient Doctors are paid by National Insurance donations, so we can live safe in the knowledge that next time we suffer from tennis elbow, jogger’s knee or footballer’s penis, we will be treated without judgement and for free. Not a penny. The Doctor will already have been paid.
That’s the case if the Doctor treats your leg, arm, or wherever you injured in that tragic fishing incident. They don’t discriminate.

Dentists, however, are a different breed. Despite only ever studying teeth, they manage to wrangle 7 years of study out of university. There are only 32 teeth, yet dentists study for the same amount of time as a Doctor who has to know every vein, muscle, bone and hair in the whole human body.

My last dentist appointment consisted of an angry looking man wielding a rather sharp object in the vague direction of the chair I was to sit in. He shone what seemed to a football stadium floodlight in my eye before beginning wrenching my jaw open, poking inside my mouth with a small sickle and muttering random letters and number.

“A 3, 47 K, QZ 8,962 and p -0.314.” His assistant wrote all this down, and then he poked a couple of my teeth with his finger, whilst sounding as if my mouth was some sort of construction site. “Hmmmmm, yes, mmmm. Interesting. I’ll just do a little scrape here, and lay some tarmac there.”
The scrape involved pricking my gums with the sickle until they started to bleed profusely. He barked at me, “your teeth are fine get out!” and I was sent on my way with nothing to stop the flood of blood, but a gargling of florescent green fluid that looked suspiciously like engine coolant.

For this quarter of an hour I was charged £15; a pound a minute. All of this despite the fact I was an ‘NHS patient.’ I protested that I’d already paid through national insurance, but then the dentist walked into the office wielding some sort of drill asking ‘is there a problem?’ It was like some sort of Russian nightclub charging me to leave.

The worst part of this is, if you’re only an NHS patient you get the equivalent of Tesco Value toothcare; braces made of corrugated iron and caps from papier-mâché. If you want your teeth fixed so they don’t fall out when you sneeze then you have to go private.

All that’s ignoring dental hygienists. Regular cleaners break their back to make sure entire hospitals are germ free and make £5 an hour. A dental hygienist has their subject sat in a chair at a comfortable height and takes 20 minutes to make £60.

Now if you’ll excuse me I have a class. When they leave I’m going to charge £20 each and tell them if they want a grade A they’ll have to go private.

Stealing your soul, everyday

Supermarkets are shit. Travel to anyplace, at any time, speaking in any language and you’ll come to the same conclusion.

Ask an assistant in your local Asda what in season vegetables they have that will complement your black bream fillets, and they’ll most likely just point in the way of the fruit and veg section, whilst muttering to themselves ‘complement a bream? Vegetables can’t talk ... idiot.’

Ask the butcher in Tesco the best way to cook a brisket joint and watch them follow your lips moving, whilst starting vacantly, before moving onto the next customer and starting the whole procedure again. Rejoin the queue, ask them again and repeat the process continuously. After an hour or so you’ll be witness to a full mental breakdown.

On a side note. A butcher butchers. A market trader trades. Following this train of thought, a fishmonger mongs. What is monging? And why are the only two things you can mong, for a living at least, fish and iron?

Supermarkets specialise in food, and yet their entire staffs seem to consist of people who know absolutely nothing about food. Having worked in a supermarket myself, I’m aware that the requirements for the job are rather low. Surely asking a little knowledge about the store’s specialisation wouldn’t hurt?

Imagine going to a car showroom to ask an assistant how many miles to the gallon a Fiesta does, only for them to respond, ‘don’t know mate, I don’t like driving myself.’

Where possible I buy from markets. The food is cheaper, better quality and sold by people who actually know what they’re talking about, mainly because they care. If they don’t please then they don’t make money.

The other day I drove to Oldham market on my lunch break. Once a thriving community hub, now it resembles the scene of a local environmental disaster with everybody relocated. There were 4 stalls open, a stray dog and a hoard of giant mutant ants.

Even with such a sparse environment there was a charge to park. 80p for up to half an hour! I wanted to walk 20 yards to buy some fruit before walking back, and for the pleasure I had to pay 80p. The reason for Tesco’s domination of the grocery market revealed: free parking.

I was tempted to not pay, but an officer patrolled round patting a bat into his open palm. I was going to wonder how many people have to park before his wage is paid, but he didn’t look happy that I would even dare to think on his territory, so I just put the sticker in my window and hurried to the stalls.

I avoided the ants and a few stray tumbleweeds, but the dodging was worth it. Standing alone in the centre of the now deserted, once proud, country famous Tommyfield market was an oasis of edible delights.

The market stall was everything a food stall should be; rammed full of seasonal, locally grown produce, mixed with a selection of imports to choose from. The stall holder was a friendly bearded man, who took great pleasure in recommending various herbs that would go well with my vegetables. The food was well labelled and was a representation of the man selling it; a British Asian with a clear love for hot food, judging by the 7 varieties of chillies on offer in a multitude of difference shapes and sizes.

Proof that you shouldn't play with your food.

I was in my element, surrounded by great foods and somebody who could help me utilise them. It was a place that would be one of many in days gone by, and yet this champion of quality produce is facing a real struggle. His customer base was low before, but now the council, in their infinite wisdom, have charged people to park next to the market, reducing his income still further. People are expected to pay 80p just for the right to give him trade.

As so often in these cases the answers are infuriatingly simple. Scrap car park charges for people parking for under half an hour, and reduce rental rates on the market for food stall holders. The market is dead. It makes no money anyway, probably loses it considering they pay for somebody to ensure that nobody shops at their stalls. Slashing rental rates and removing parking fees will get people into the market, attracting shoppers and traders.

I can’t see it happening though. I reckon most of the councillors were trained by Tesco.

Anything I can do, my Dad can do better

My dad, much like most dads, can do anything. A call often comes from my mum along the lines of:

“Nick, the car won’t start.”
“Don’t worry love I’ll have a look.” Twenty minutes later it’s running like new.

“Nick, the fridge is leaking a green fluid.”
“OK my dear, I’ll see what I can do.” A day later the fluid will be gone.

“Nick, there’s a massive international diplomatic crisis in Somalia.”
“Give me 5 minutes and I’ll be right with you.” A week later, the eastern African state will be conducting democratic elections that see a victory for a progressive liberal party that oversee the transformation to a major world economic power with low crime.

Sadly I’m lagging behind in that department. I recently went to buy a car, and was shown up terribly for my lack of knowledge:

“This car has only done 54,000 miles. Just has a broken stereo.”
“Only 54,000 miles? That’s the same as going round the world. Twice! You say the stereo is broken?”
“It’s easy to fix, just take this Allen key and ...”
“Who’s Alan?”
“Just take it and turn it in your gersabulator.”
“I’m sorry I don’t speak Spanish.”

He charged me £200 extra, added a few long words and I walked out feeling rather flummoxed. I rang my Dad to ask his opinion about matters, but he was busy rewiring the whole house so he could control each appliance with his mind.

“They quoted me £3,000,000 and I’d have to wait 1000 years for the research to be done, but I got this book from the library and thought I’d give it a go. I’ll be able to have a couple of pints with the money I save.”

Needing music for my drive to and from work, I decided to have a go at replacing the broken stereo in my car. Shouldn’t be too hard I thought. The back of my shiny, new CD player looked friendly enough for an electrical appliance. Big plug holes for wires to connect to. No tricky instructions and it even had pictures. Perhaps I’d been giving my father too much credit.

I pulled out the old stereo, expecting to see easy to replace wires, no tricky instructions and even pictures, but all I saw were my shattered dreams. It looked like a Jackson Pollack painting; all colours visible to man, all seemingly merging into the same tiny hole in the back of the unit. To make sure I couldn’t check where they were going, the ends of the wires were bound together with black tape.

The back of my car stereo

With this came the realisation that I’m part of a generation that relies far too heavily on others. So many of us have just one skill, usually the one we have to learn for work, but don’t have a clue when it comes to something that requires knowledge outside of our forced studies.

Having said that, to cheer myself up I logged on to my laptop, checked my email, ordered a new book and bought some gig tickets. By the time my old man manages to figure out how to do that, they will have invented a car stereo that replaces itself.

Not much has changed since the last blog

Music these days is a constant source of frustration to me. It just seems to me as if no effort goes into the production of songs anymore. Take this lyrical creation by the once omnipresent Busted.

“I’ve been to the year 3000, not much has changed, but they lived underwater.
And your great, great, great granddaughter is pretty fine.”

Ignoring the grammatical horrorshow that is the writer’s inability to decide if the whole thing has happened in the past, future, or present tense, and looking at the factual data makes for puzzling reading.

Apparently not much has changed in the future. Not beyond the realms of possibility. Has life really changed so much between 1000 and 2000? We all live in houses and work, the rest are just improvements. In the future however, they live underwater. Stop and think about for a second. They exist in a whole new environment, a realm where up to now, humans can’t breathe in. A world, in which it took millions of years of evolution to create fishes that could breathe out of water. Yet now the singer from Busted would have us believe that humans will be able to make the evolutionary switch to living underwater, in a period of just 1,000 years. On top of that, he states that’s not a big deal, nothing special, "not much has changed." I would suggest that’s a pretty enormous change, something that really won’t happen. It might be pretty fun to think about, but it simply won’t take place; like the banning of all boy bands like Busted.

He also saw, presumably underwater, the audience’s great, great, great, granddaughter. That’s 5 generations on from now, over 1,000 years. That means each baby is born when the parent is 200 years old. 200. Years. Old. That’s Des O’Conner territory. Imagine being a teenager with a 200 year old parent. You score your first ever goal at football and look to the side, swollen with pride, desperate for your father’s adulation, only to see a rotting corpse. Busted and their contemporaries McNuggets, just aren't thinking these things through.

In their defence, crap whilst their songs may be, at least, they’re their crap. The second day of the Bingley music festival introduced me to Professor Green, although he prefers to be called Pro Green. It struck me as a little strange that somebody would go to all the effort of changing their name, only to then have to tell people to change it still further. A bit like changing from John to Arthur, only to tell people ‘actually, it’s Reginald.’

Either way I spent an hour on a sunny Sunday listening to the Pr G, as I think he’s going to be next week. The first two songs that were played I thought I recognised. I held Shazam up on my iPod, and it came up with I Need You Tonight by INXS. No mention of Doctor Blue. The next song was somebody else’s and so was the next after that. Through his entire 40 minute set Colonel Mustard played 9 songs, of those, 5 came up on Shazam as being songs by other artists. He was basically playing a song carefully written by somebody else, and talking over it. I can do that, in fact I do sometimes and my Girlfriend shouts at me.

The set was just other people’s hard work being exploited, and all this by a man referred to as The British Eminem by the NME.

That’s part of the problem; he’s British. He didn’t grow up in America, or indeed live there at any stage, yet he introduced a song by saying I’m gonna tell you about my streets, the bad streets of Clapton. They might not be the best place to grow up, but Clapton is hardly Compton.
In 2005 Compton suffered 75 murders in a population of 90,000, more than one a week in an area the size of Huddersfield.

In contrast, this year there has been 90 murders in the whole of London. London that is home to 8,000,000 people.

Is it so surprising that young people continue to look towards to America to provide their hip-hop needs when British rappers like Professor Green aren’t original, just poor versions of people like Eminem.

Maybe it’ll all be different in the year 3,000, after all it’s hard to rap underwater.

This Blog is live from Bingley

There’s something wonderfully British about festivals. Whether it’s a simple village fete, a cider pressing party, a scarecrow festival, a bonfire parade, or even something grand like Notting Hill or Glastonbury; the variety of gatherings is only matched by the range of nutters, crazy folk and general wierdos that you can find at them.

Plenty of other countries have festivals, but I doubt many countries can manage the range of oddities prevalent in the UK. There’s always somebody dancing to no music, wearing clothes that look like they’re still growing or possessing a collection of badges that has taken decades to amass.

How these people afford it is a mystery. Take Glastonbury for example. Tickets are now £180 for the weekend, that’s before you take in costs for food, drink and most of all, transport. I’ve been to the village of Glastonbury and I remember distinctly trains that only ran when the driver woke up, and the nearest highway of any sort being 311 miles away. Yet it has hundreds of nutters, all of them seemingly working away in various offices, schools, fields, zoos near you.

I went to a couple of festivals in Korea. They were fun, and they even had people in costumes, but those people were laughing and joking with friends. There were no true mentalists. The costume was exactly that. A real crazy man wears a suit made from dandelions not for a laugh, but because that’s just the clothes he wears. That home done piercing filled with a bent fork is that way because that’s what he had handy at the time. Nutters don’t try, they just are.

So when a friend of mine asked me to a music festival over the weekend just gone, my ears pricked. When he said it was in Bingley and only cost £30 I bought a ticket straight away. Cheap and in Bingley, a more fertile breeding ground for nutters there surely never has been.

The festival started on the Friday night and passed mainly without incident. The beers were of festival standard, overpriced and underflavoured, but there was an added bonus. One could earn 10p for every cup given back. In theory this was an excellent idea; it promoted recycling and reducing litter. In practise it led to hoards of children scurrying around feet collecting dropped cups. They swarmed like rats throughout the crowd; some were even urinating to mark their cup collecting territories. I escaped the crowds to order a pint, only to see it swiped from my grasp by a chalice hungry minion.

The Saturday was basked in sun, weather which added to the middle class feel of the whole festival. Most people were sat down with picnics they’d brought. It made crowd surfing tough, and a few people weren’t happy to have me jump on them as they tucked into their kettle chips. However it all kicked into gear with the last two bands. The penultimate act was John Lydon’s band Public Image Limited to be followed by James. On the face of it they were similar, two bands coming back after breaks and both promoting new material. Sadly that’s where the comparisons end.

PIL walked out, and after putting on their instruments they set up their music books to read from as they played. That didn’t bode well. They used them constantly during the performance, meaning no connection with the audience. John Lydon, in his true punk ways, spent the money he earned for doing a country life butter commercial, reforming PIL. He obviously overlooked time learning songs when planning his budget.

A member of the crowd, obviously angered by such an appalling lack of effort, threw his plastic pint at John. It hit him on the shoulder and spilled beer over him. His response was ‘wankers, beers is for drinking, not throwing.’ And so it began.

John was pelted throughout his reading of lyrics, and each time he responded by abusing the audience. According to one NME review, his famous on stage tirades are straight off the cuff and come from within. When John started with ‘We don’t want your government Blair,’ I began to have my doubts. Towards the end he lent his face to the crowd and asked repeatedly ‘can you smell the onions? Can you smell them fucking onions?’ He stopped when a burger was thrown at him. It just added to an image of an old desperate man looking to be part of a world where he is longer relevant. I felt sorry for him.

James, on the other hand, needed no sympathy. I can’t claim to be a loyal fan. I’ve never seen them live and my listening to them is limited to the radio and bars, but from the first bar of their first song Sit Down the whole audience, including me, were hooked. Tim Booth sang and danced with the passion of a man who has been playing gigs for a year and still in love with his music, not a music veteran who’s been touring for 18 years. For recognising how lucky they are and how important the connection with your audience is, I’ll raise my glass to James. At least I would if some kid hadn’t stolen it to sell.