Ode to the Vanity of Youth

 Just a quick one.
Found this in an old notebook of mine the other day and thought, "Why not stick it in the blog?"

The hair grows thin upon my head,
"You're going bald" the barber said.
Not just the front but on the top
Of what was once a healthy mop.
Each morning as I go downstairs
The shower floods with all my hairs
They block the plughole in the bath
And I can hear my father laugh.
"I told you not to mock me son,
Or call me slaphead, having fun
At my expense, 'cause these things tend
To bite you back, so in the end
You'll turn out just as bald as me.
I told you to just wait and see.
Now clear the blockage from the plug
Before your mother sees that rug."
There has to be another way
To overcome my sheer dismay 
At what is happening to my hair.
 I might just play for Manchester,
Like Bobby Charlton with his strands
Arranged across by expert hands.
Or rather than just sit and cry
I'll audition for the King and I.

I think I wrote it when I was in my twenties. Didn't turn out too badly as the photo below shows, I've still got a decent head of hair.

See ya later


 

Comedy or Blasphemy

Did you know that there are some theories that suggest that Jesus was not an only child?

Jesus’ brothers are mentioned in several Bible verses. Matthew 12:46, Luke 8:19, and Mark 3:31 say that Jesus’ mother and brothers came to see Him. The Bible tells us that Jesus had four brothers: James, Joseph, Simon, and Judas (Matthew 13:55). The Bible also tells us that Jesus had sisters, but they are not named or numbered (Matthew 13:56). In John 7:1-10, His brothers "go on to the festival while Jesus stays behind". In Acts 1:14, His brothers and mother are described "as praying with the disciples". Galatians 1:19 mentions that "James was Jesus’ brother".

I'm not sure as to what the repercussions of this would be to the Christian faith but it clearly gives rise to the sort of sibling rivalry that might have existed if it was true.

Now I suspect that those of us with brothers or sisters know what I'm talking about when I refer to sibling rivalry. Yes, there's the morning that you get up for school and can't find a pair of socks or undies because someone else got to the drawer before you; or the familiar look across the table to see that your younger brother has 5 roast potatoes on his plate, whilst you've only got four; or the almighty scrap that can take place upon discovery that your favourite toy has gone missing and may well be broken.

So with that in mind how did the young Jesus cope?
Would he simply go barefoot if his brother had taken his sandals that morning, or would he just carry out a miracle to ensure that his glass of milk was at the same level as his his sister's.

How did he react when his younger brother snitched on him for wandering off to the wilderness to live on bread and honey for 28 days without letting his parents know? Would it have been like me with a sly kick to the ribs as he walked passed him en route to the bedroom having been grounded?

Then there's the stalking issues. Whilst recruiting his disciples did Jesus and Peter and the rest of them have to run up some dark alleyway and hide in a dark stable to shake off a younger sibling intent on following them wherever they went?
Or did they have to club together and hand over a few shekels to persuade him to go and play with someone his own age.

There clearly would have been jealousy at Christmas, because Jesus got twice as many presents as everybody else, having a birthday the same day.
Given all of these potential problems it's amazing that he ever got round to preaching salvation and love.
Then there's Michael Jackson and Amy Winehouse Syndrome, where the surviving siblings try to cash in on the death of their more famous relative.
Guided tours of the family home, media interviews, books and anecdotal presentations.
Imagine it; a Night With Judas Christ: Jesus' Younger Brother....

"...I remember one day our Jesus telling me that he was the son of God. 'Well if that's the case, then so am I', I told him. 'No you're not', he replied, 'there's only one son of God and that's me and I'm here to save mankind'.
'Well I am the son of God' I re-iterated 'and I'm going to take over the family business of answering people's prayers and running the world.'
'Don't be stupid', he said 'you can't even change water into wine yet. You'll never be able to run the world.'
Well here I am 20 years down the line with my own carpentry shop and wife and 3 kids, so I suppose that he was right. I never got round to running the world and despite trying to predict the lottery numbers for thousands of people I'm yet to succeed.That's what I always admired about our Jesus, he was infallible."

It's a shame that we didn't have a Kennedy or Bush type dynasty, with Jesus' siblings trying to carry on where he left off.

Oh well I supposed I've milked that one to death and perhaps caused a little bit of controversy. Hopefully I'll get a few death threats from right wing bible bashers if they ever get round to reading my blog.

Take it easy my friends, may the Lord be with you



  

Ten Pints of Guinness and a Crate of Red Rum

Here we go again...the culmination of the week that Liverpool swims in San Tropez false tan.
It's the Grand National Festival.
It's brilliant; thousands of orange women wearing their specially acquired frock and 'at, men walking around with bad suits and trilbies in the vain hope that everyone thinks they are  top racing pundits and 'hungry' taxi drivers circling like vultures waiting to fleece the next out of town drunk.
Oh and then there's the night life, dominated as ever by the elite few who continue to wear their racecourse pass throughout the night and order Pimms and lemonade as temperatures outside plummet to 0 degrees.
It's no wonder that this event takes place in Liverpool, no other city in the country would tolerate some of the antics that take place, or moreover, the publicity that it attracts. Even the racecourse owners have now banned 'unsavoury' photos which lend themselves to the sort of publicity that has dominated the event as of recent years.
Below I've posted (and commented) on some of them.
 
"I've lost my betting slip, can I just check to see if it's up your arse?"

"Make sure you check for broken glass before getting too intimate"

"...and Black Thong makes her way into the winner's enclosure, passed some amused punters.."

Now for those of you in the know, you'll realise that these photos are all historical from previous years. The reason is because if any dodgy photos are  published this year, then the photographer responsible will have his permit for this year and any future years, withdrawn. So much for free speech at Aintree.
My problem is that we don't see the same sort of publicity for Ascot, or the Derby at Epsom, or any of the other middle class piss-ups, which has to include Henley Regatta and the ultimate in all social occasions, the Tory Party Conference. These things do happen there you know.
Yes, even I can be critical of what goes on at Aintree this week and the reality is that the working class at play (particularly in Liverpool) sells newspapers. It's as Owen Jones quite rightly points out "Chav culture"; the demonisation of the working classes. From Benidorm to Bulgaria, young British kids have been labelled with this Chav tag. But we all know that it goes on in other cultures.
I've seen naked students doing press ups on the banks of the canals of Amsterdam; part of Freshers Week traditiion I was told. And we've all seen that Americans can party with the best of them.
So why do we like to highlight this as part of British culture when the truth is that it's part of all youth cultures? Likewise why single out the Grand National festival in Liverpool when we know that Glorious Goodwood and the other Southern middle class events are as bad (if not worse).

My take on it well it's simple.
The establishment owes nothing to Liverpool, history tells us that; the only mainland city to return an Irish republican MP to Parliament, the only city to experience a Police Strike, the city that disobeyed Thatcher and resulted in the disqualification of its Councillors and of course Hillsborough. For anyone in the States that hasn't heard of Hillsborough, just Google it to see how the British establishment closes ranks on the working classes. 
So anything that could present this city in a decent light has to be put back in its place and that includes The Grand National. Bookies love it, punters adore it and even the locals can make a few quid on the back of it. But, no, the press have to mock and denigrate it because that's what their owners want.
So to all those people out there who follow the press line and "diss" the National I say, "Get your tan on, order a pint of Guinness and back the horse with the most letters in its name."

Come on AP McCoy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
 

Mango's Nan

What a wonderful thing graffiti is. It's a form of cultural art that has existed throughout history.

Obviously it was the Romans who perfected it and even had professional graffiti artists who were paid to go around the various communities and daub the walls with slogans and comments about targeted individuals. Usually the comments were accompanied by explicit sketches of the individuals due to the high levels of illiteracy amongst the plebs who were meant to read them.

Nowadays we've got universal literacy amongst the masses (or certainly we should have in this country) but this still doesn't prevent the would be graffiti artists from providing amusing cartoons to go with the comments scribed.

On a late night walk recently I came across an interesting series of remarks publicised in marker pen on the walls of a subway running under the Huyton slip road of the M57. It's an major arterial route into a particularly creative area of Liverpool, so it should only follow that the artists' work is of the highest quality.

In order to engage the reader and provide prime examples of the sort of talent we have out there, I've uploaded excerpts from the said wall. For those of you who are not familiar with Scouse vernacular I will provide a translation of sorts.

So let's begin with the first picture.

This is a rather disparaging reference to Becky Ashworth. But the poetry is wonderful; a classic Shakespearean couplet,

"Becky ashworth major weed Bum!
 get on her but she's got a chewed up wine gum
 072301495702"

Becky clearly has a reputation for not purchasing her fair share of cannabis and as such she has obviously upset this particular detractor. The 'wine gum' analogy is a reference to her genitals, somewhat graphic and in my opinion, very original if it's drawn from the writer's own experience. Still it beggars the question whether we're talking about a Rowntree or Maynard wine gum.
Despite his hostility towards Becky, the author has obviously put some thought into what he's written (unlike some), although from a purist's point of view the wine gum metaphor may have been inserted solely for convenience give that 'gum' rhymes with 'bum'.

Next we have an exchange between two rival artists, who clearly have had an historical difference of opinion over some literary issue.

"ONLY TING YOU CARRY IS YE MARS COFFIN WHEN I LIGHT YE KEN UP!!

"NA BRO YE mistAken 4 ye nans"

Now as we all know, a person who is "carrying" is generally in possession of some sort of weapon, so I can only assume that a threat has been made by Artist 2 to Artist 1 which has alluded to the fact that he maybe "carrying" in future. That assertion has  provoked a threat to burn down Artist's 2's house (ken) and thereby killing his mother.

The response is equally menacing suggesting that Artist 1's "nan" is in imminent danger.

The passion of both the artists knows no boundaries and may well result in a fatality. Mind you such comments would surely assist any subsequent police investigation into a local arson attack.

Which brings us to examples 3 and 4; Mango's Nan.

This poor lady comes in for some very derogatory, almost defamatory remarks.

   

"MANGOS NAN NoNcen Rottys AND HIS GRANDAD TAKIN SNAP SHOTS"

[noncen= having illegal sex: Rottys= see below] 

"MANGO'S NAN TAKES IT DOGGY STYLE OFF ROTTYS"

You see Mango's nan appears to have sexual penchant for bestiality and not just a general form of bestiality, but a preference for a particular breed of dog; Rottys otherwise known as Rottweilers. One has to have a degree of admiration for Mango's nan, if this is true, because Rottweilers have a reputation for being quite aggressive. We all recall the devil dog in Damien: The Omen, which was a rather intimidating Rottweiler tasked with looking after the Anti Christ. However the film never really went into detail about the breed's sexual prowess. Only Mango's nan and possibly his grandad, who documented the liaison by taking snapshots, could possibly comment on this. It's interesting to see that the sexual encounter referred to seemed to cater more for the Rotty's needs, doing it "doggy style", than to Mango's nan's favoured position (whatever that may be).

The real issue is as to how the author of this comment learnt of this interaction. Did Mango's nan or Grandad actually publicise this. 

Example 5 is quite amusing and put a smile on my face when I saw it.

A vascular looking cock and balls with a smile on his face and apparently in the throes of ejaculation, with the comment next to it of Plod. My own opinion is that this is clearly a flattering image relating to the masculinity of Merseyside's finest. One can only echo the sentiment!

And finally the piece de resistance, a short video of  10 foot penis with the comment below,

"Were you get this pen from bro, 

Staplez lad"



A short but informative exchange between 2 artists which clearly has a smattering of product placement in it. Theo Paphitis will be pleased that his wares get such a resounding endorsement no doubt increasing the value of his children's inheritance. If you need  a pen to write graffiti go to Staples.

The video in my humble opinion sums up the whole genre of street graffiti. A 10 foot penis, big enough to impress but wholly unreal.

LEWD, RUDE AND HUMOROUS!!!!!!!!!

See you down the tunnel.



Working Class Shame

 

I've been researching the Peterloo Massacre recently and I became quite irate about it all.
You see here we have a landmark moment in British socio-political history and when you go to Manchester all there is to show for it is a red plaque on the side of the Radisson Hotel.
Don't you think that's a disgrace?

On 16th August 1819, four years after the Battle of Waterloo, in a time when people were still influenced by the American and French Revolutions, somewhere in the region of 80,000 people marched peacefully to the heart of Manchester. That number represented almost half the population of Greater Manchester at the time, a real show of working class strength. Their cause, well it was this; at the time voting rights were limited to male land and property owners ie the ruling elite. That represented less than 1% of the population. They were the ruling classes.The constituency borders were outdated. The whole of Lancashire with a population of over 1 million had just 2 MP's. In other parts of the country certain unpopulated areas had more MP's than the whole of the Northwest Industrial belt. More than half of MP's iin Parliament were voted in by just 154 votes.
It didn't matter that so many working men had laid down their lives for this country in the wars with France, nor that they had placed the UK (or Great Britain) in a position of global industrial superiority.
They were not eligible to vote.
In France they were and had done so since 1792.
But here any notion of one man one vote, regardless of class or property fell on deaf ears..
So in Manchester they marched. They marched in an orderly and peaceful fashion; men, women and children. They marched in their Sunday best from all the surrounding mill towns; Oldham, Rochdale, Bolton, Bury, Salford and beyond. They made there way to St Peter's Fields near to Deansgate and expected to hear a speech given by Henry Hunt a radical orator who lobbied for Parliamentary reform and the extension of democracy.
But it never happened.
Magistrates located in a nearby building, fearing unrest and disorder, read the Riot Act and then ordered in mounted Yeomanry made up of local land and mill owners. Some of these men were drunk and were clearly out of ontrol. They rode in amongst the massed crowd and began to slash indiscriminately at the men, women and children present.
By the end of the day 15 were dead and between 400-700 innocent people seriously injured. Many were children dressed in their best clothes, taken there by their parents to witness what should have been an historical moment.
The news of what happened spread quickly, not just locally but also globally. It was commented upon by journalists, academics and artists, amongs them the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, who wrote the poem Masque of Anarchy in commemoration of events that day.
The reaction of the establishment was typical; the magistrates were commended by the Prince Regent, there was only one (unsuccessful) attempt to prosecute any members of the yeomanry, new sedition laws were passed to prevent publication of the truth of that day, journalists were prosecuted and imprisoned as was Henry Hunt himself.
One of the victims killed was John Lees of Oldham. Lees was a mill worker and father who had fought as a soldier in the Battle of Waterloo. It beggars the question as to whether he was on the right side that day. Killed for his political beliefs expressed in an established and democratic fashion.

And all that we have to mark that occasion and the events of that day, all that we have to remember the innocents who were massacred on August 19 1819 is a fucking red plaque stuck on a wall.

We as working class people should be ashamed of ourselves. These were our forebears, these were working class heroes, nay martyrs for the cause and we remember them with a red plaque. There should be a lasting and impressive monument to those who died that day.
There was once but it's gone now. It should be re-installed and there for all to see and remember.

Consider this;
When Thatcher died we, the people, financed a State Funeral that cost millions. A statue had already been commissioned to commemorate her and further it was reported recently in the press that British Prime Minister David Cameron is supporting a £15 million project to honour Margaret Thatcher, an expensive statue of her in Westminster is to be replaced, a road in Grantham is to be named after Thatcher and there is an online petition to rename Heathrow.
I for one feel physically sick when I see this. Flying in to MTA, I'd rather crash on the runway than land there.

Let's get together and support a cmpaign to commemorate Peterloo; so called by the press of the time who likened it to the great battle of Waterloo.
Leave me a comment and let's do something about this. Take down the red plaque and replace it with something more fitting.

Surely that's a cause worth fighting for.

From the Gladstone to Seaforth

What is peculiar about the following piece of dialogue....

"Can I 'ave a can of coke and a packet of chicken crisps?"

Well if you didn't already know it is the one sentence in the English language that exaggerates the Scouse accent to such an extent it that makes sandpaper seem smooth. It creates more throaty retches and saliva than anything I know and lends itself to those who seek to mimic my own Liverpool twang. Stick a 'like' or two (probably just after the 'ave and at the end of the sentence) and you'll have sufficient spray flying around to force any shop assistant to reach for their brollie... 'like'.

I love Scousers; they are inherently funny, sometimes without knowing it. Like my dad's mate on the docks, Coco (so-called because he was deemed a clown for a variety of reasons), who suggested avoiding a visit to one particular dock cafe for the following reason;

"Ah, don't go in there," he said, "nobody ever goes in there cos it's always chocker!"

"Chocker" for those of you who aren't familiar with the Scouse vernacular means 'very busy, to almost busting point'.   
Likewise there was the the famous speech given by one particular Union Shop Steward, who urging the members to strike, gave the following impassioned plea;

"Comrades, I want you to use your ignition and vote for the industrial action recommended. And remember this, that an abstention is as bad as not voting at all."

God, it must have been a great place to work on the docks in Liverpool in its hay day or at least in the 60's and 70's. The pay was obviously shit, but what a laugh those guys had. The strange thing about it I suppose is that because of the class system that existed within education in this country at the time, there were so many men who were intellectually capable of far more challenging jobs. This was reflected in the politicisation of the  Liverpool Dockers. It just doesn't exist in working class industries like it used to. My dad, like so many dockers, I suppose, read Marx and Engels and had a copy of Chairman Mao's Little Red Book. How many workers today would study such radical political philosophies. We're lucky if manual workers even bother to vote these days.

Well I'm going to finish this post with my dad's favourite joke. It's a bit dated now but more than anything sums up the psyche of the Liverpool Docker. Southerners deemed them, militant, lazy and dishonest. But we all know that they were philanthropists in the way that Robert Tressell saw the working classes. Kind hearted men who used their hard graft and manual skills to keep the rich upper classes in the luxury they so enjoyed.

A cargo ship was sailing through the South China sea when it came across a junk full of refugees from Vietnam; so-called Boat People. Their boat was on the point of sinking and the Skipper of the cargo ship ordered his men to throw them a line and get everyone on board.
Once this had been done and having fed the Boat People, the cargo ship continued into Sydney. On arrival there the Australian dockers shouted up;
"What's your cargo Skipper?"
"I've got a load of Boat People here" the Captain replied.
"Oh crikey!" the shout came back, "Take 'em away we don't want any more ethnics here, the place is starting to crawl with them. We're full of Chinese and Abo's we don't want any more."
So taking the hint the Skipper set off and made his way to the USA. On arrival at New York harbour the Yankee dockers shouted up;
"What's your cargo Skipper?"
"I've got a load of Boat People on board," the Captain replied once more.
"Goddammit!" the dockers cursed, "Get them out of here we got race riots all over the city and don't want any more foreigners. We aint taking them off you."
So the forlorn Skipper headed off once more, this time crossing The Pond and making his way into the Mersey Bay, down the river to the Docks. Having tied up the Scouse dockers approached his ship and the shout came up;
"What's your cargo Skipper?"
"Well I've got a load of Boat People I picked up in the South China Sea," the Skipper replied expecting the worst. There was a slight pause and then the shout;
"Are they on pallets..."

Power to the People. Viva la Casa!!!